by John Brady
Kenyon nodded. He could not banish the image of Murray from his mind. The sharp cut to the suit, the Rolex watch which he had fingered during their discussion.
"I asked you to look in on the business about Combs so that you'll support my conclusions. Can you live with that? Good."
Kenyon's breathing had quickened. He felt the beginnings of anger.
"You are quite right," Robertson continued, "to believe that there is a lot in the balance. I needn't lecture as to the arithmetic. It's our troops and police being shot at. I too tend to the conclusion that our Mr Combs was not a man to bluff. I'm old enough to remember what a war is. Mr Murray and his acolytes wouldn't know their arses from their elbows about men who have been through a war. Nuffink. Even if I did suspect it was a lot of hot air, I'd still want a complete re-evaluation on Combs now."
Kenyon could not resist any longer.
"So why are we treading water?" he asked. "Why are we still at arm's length?"
"Come on now, James, no righteousness please. Jurisdiction. I made representations about it when I saw that memo about Combs' death."
Robertson leaned back in his chair and smiled an unsmile at Kenyon. At least he's on the defensive for once, Kenyon thought.
"And you are quite right," Robertson added. "Let's face it. They were under pressure; they placed Combs in there quickly. Inertia takes over pretty quickly. Combs was left in place. Now they realise they may have cause to regret their haste. To hear you now, it seems I chose the right person to go for the neck."
Kenyon felt his own excitement edge his anger aside.
"Now let me ask you: what was it that tipped the scales for you with Combs?" Robertson asked. "Was it his record during the war?"
Kenyon paused. He'd have to stay out on a limb and tell the truth.
"No," he said finally.
Robertson sat up and placed his elbows on his desk.
"Ah, what a relief. Trumps, James, trumps. I thought you'd lecture me by telling me how abominably we treated him after the war."
It was Kenyon who felt defensive now.
"I shan't do that, today anyway. But selling out another operative, that Vogel chap. That stank to high heaven."
"The case-officer was a highly decorated and effective intelligence officer. Since deceased, James. Honourable service. We were fighting for our lives against Hitler, man."
Kenyon read Robertson's raised eyebrows as roadblocks to further rhetoric.
"What really persuaded me was reading the last reports he sent in," Kenyon went on warily. "I think I'd better explain that, and I'm not sure if I can give you a rational picture for what is a hunch. They started out precisely and in the last year I noticed a… well, it's that vagueness. Like I said, it's that drop-off in real information, I mean, it's quite noticeable. Distinct even."
"You mention here his use of place names," Robertson said.
Kenyon winced. Robertson was pushing him while letting him stew in his own suppositions.
"An impression that he was getting used to the place there. Yes, but-"
"Stale, you mean?"
"No. The tone was as if he were guiding us around a spot he knew well. And we were rather like, well, ignorant tourists."
Robertson smiled.
"Redundant stuff, about some place being near an archaeological site."
Robertson's eyebrows still held onto a trace of amusement.
"Gone native, James? Kurtz in Ireland, something like that?"
That was enough to provoke Kenyon.
"Look, Hugh. It's difficult enough to defend it if one takes a stony empiricist approach, for Christ's sake. I never met the man. I admit that my impressions come from the windy side with these sources. But I look at what he sent out this last year and it's nothing really. And then Murray: 'What we have heeere is an aul poof-dah on the bottle, a dispirited and cynical man, James.'"
Robertson smiled.
"You do that rather well, James. Combs has been on the books for more than forty years. There are none of his contemporaries left in the Service. As for those memos about Combs' being less than satisfied about what he was expected to do in Ireland-"
"Murray kept on telling me how Ball's predecessor as Second Sec was a softie, someone Combs could push around," Kenyon interrupted.
"— they did dry up, those complaints. That's not to suggest that Combs' grudges simply disappeared, is it?"
"Tell that to Murray, Hugh. Let me just reiterate that Combs had two levers if he ever really wanted to strong-arm us for concessions. I don't know if he understood that he wouldn't get much mileage out of his wartime mess. If he realised that, he might have opted to tell anyone that he was doing jobs for us."
"But if he spilled the beans, James, he'd have no more arrows in his quiver."
Kenyon made no reply. It wasn't a question. This was the Hugh Robertson he knew best, a man who kept his own conclusions to himself until he had heard his staff out.
"The stakes are high here," Kenyon murmured. "I think we should be as thorough as we can on this."
"Thank you, James," said Robertson without sarcasm. "Let's just do our job, seal it as tight as we can."
Robertson's face brightened.
"Don't take my caution too seriously. I have to meet with C at four. Now I can confidently tell him that my most able officer has independently reached the same conclusions as I have. Your conclusions will become his conclusions, James, after I air them with him. I have just stolen your ideas. Feel flattered."
Kenyon managed a smile.
"Now. As to the field men. Where again?"
"Spain and Greece. Malaga and Athens. There's that friend of Combs in Britain. One to Ireland of course."
"Indeed. They aren't bound by an Official Secrets Act, our Irish neighbours," Robertson said wryly as he stood up.
"You'll be by about a quarter before four then?"
"For…?" asked a puzzled Kenyon.
"A briefing with C? God!"
Kenyon nodded. Robertson enjoyed his surprise.
CHAPTER 6
Bustle greeted Minogue in Bewley's restaurant. To be indoors was a relief from having to negotiate the crowded footpaths outside. Masses of people flowed from Grafton Street around by College Green, spilling out into the street. The crowds thickened further as they massed in Westmoreland Street, unwilling to test the reactions of drivers speeding down the quays by O'Connell Bridge. Double-decker busses wheeled across five traffic lanes in front of the entrance to Bewley's and screeched to a halt at their stops along the street. Lunatics on bicycles hurtled through the traffic and diesel fumes.
Safe inside the door, Minogue wondered where all the people came from. A huge proportion of the population was between eighteen and thirty-five-a fact unprecedented in Irish history-Minogue remembered from an otherwise dull and farcical debate on the telly.
Bewley's always smelled of burned coffee beans. The cafe had been gutted by fire several years back due to an over-zealous employee roasting beans in a hurry. So used to the smell of burnt coffee beans were the patrons, passers-by and employees, that a delay in alerting the fire-brigade ensued. Much of the restaurant had been destroyed as a result of this habituation.
Minogue eyed the self-serve section before slotting himself into the queue which was waiting for coffee. He spent little time on non-essentials, choosing an almondy-looking bun of irregular shape so that the coffee wouldn't lack for company as it hit his belly. The room was full of cigarette smoke, talk, dishes clashing, young people. Minogue glanced from the table, half-expecting to see an Iseult or a Daithi there. If Kathleen were with him now, she'd probably mutter darkly that it's in pubs he should look for Daithi, not Bewley's Oriental Cafe. Minogue's turn at the coffee came.
"A large white, if you please," he said to the girl.
She was working behind a brace of bulbous boilers which served to heat water and to build up steam for scalding the milk-which in turn became a constituent of white coffee. The whole apparatus reminded Min
ogue of a submarine, but he didn't know why.
The afternoon sun cast broad beams of coloured light through the stained-glass windows, dividing the room into several realms. Along with the wreaths of smoke, the effect of the light entranced Minogue. Here a blond heat! of hair afire with light from behind, there a group softly adumbrated. The patrons seemed to take their cues from the light which their placements afforded them. Those outside the direct light looked subdued. They smiled ruefully, distracted perhaps by the sight of the blazing angels who laughed and gestured in the full light nearby. Newspapers were up like flags at many tables. There were racehorses to second-guess, letters-to-the-editor to compose, births, deaths and bankruptcies to savour.
The girl doling out the coffees had a compact, determined face. Her expression suggested detachment from the din about her. The steam scalding the milk for Minogue's coffee burbled and hissed in the cup. He stole another glance at her profile. Maybe her ancestors were the Vikings that helped settle this shambles of a city and she had one of their axes ready behind the counter for the likes of a bogman interloper like Minogue. Irish: kings and queens all, lost entitlement. Did Combs, with the dry sense of humour, cotton onto that trait? Queenly? The woman was tired, Minogue's common sense reprimanded. She probably had to wait a half hour for the bus home.
"If you went on at the steam yoke for a bit long, you'd have the makings of a cappuccino" Minogue observed.
"A what?"
"It's a style of coffee that they favour in Italy. Oh, but you'd want to have strong coffee to start with. Espresso. Black stuff. Like tar, for all the world. There's the stuff that'd keep you up all night, I'm telling you."
"Jases, mister, I wouldn't want that," the girl intoned slowly. Minogue recognised a Dublin accent all right, along with the carnal import. Sleep was a very underrated form of birth control, he thought.
"The French are very partial to espresso on its own, I don't mind telling you," Minogue went on. "Yes, indeed. Myself and the wife were over there for a holiday and you'd see fellas standing by a counter knocking back an espresso. Out of a cup a bit bigger than a good-sized inkwell. In an instant, bang, down it goes. Then they leap out the door, back to whatever they were doing. High as kites, I'm thinking."
"Go way," said the girl, turning off the valve.
"It's a fact. You get used to it, I suppose, like anything. Am I right?"
She threw a damp cloth on the counter to wipe up a spray of milk.
"You're right there," she said.
"Thing is," Minogue went on, heartened by her approval, "I'd say there are people that are so used to it that they might wake up in the middle of the night squealing and bawling like a goose caught under the gate looking for a hit of espresso. Caffeine's a very powerful drug. Do you know what I'm saying?"
Minogue had not noticed the queue gathering behind him. He was relieved that yet again he could count on someone from the real world to unwittingly help dispel the gloom which had unexpectedly settled on him as he had walked to Bewley's. Thinking about Combs again. Had Combs ever patronised Bewley's? She left him the trace of a smile as she looked to the next in the queue.
The coffee did indeed perk Minogue up. Still, it took him only a few seconds of thinking to dismiss those three topers, the Mulvaney brothers, as distractions. The drink led them to their choleric behaviour and brought out an innate need to be disputatious. The only people they'd be killing, singularly or collectively, would be one another. The weapons used would be drink and pique and time and bitter memory.
Minogue sipped at his coffee again. He congratulated himself for keeping out of the way of vexatious interviews with the troglodyte Mulvaneys. Mulholland and Murtagh had interviewed two men with lengthy records for burglary. One, Malone, had a record of assaults to match. Neither of the two was a suspect yet. They were unconcerned that their alibis were being checked.
His thoughts let go of the Mulvaneys abruptly and ran to Daithi and Iseult. Then he sat up with a start: he was to bring home a cake this evening and he had nearly forgotten. Iseult's fella was coming for tea. As for Daithi, Minogue was more anxious. If Daithi couldn't get his exams this time… well, that wasn't the end of the world. But to persuade Kathleen of that…? Have a word with him, Matt. Bring him back to the fold. Like the other sheep?
Minogue had felt Kathleen's anxiety and anger keenly this last year. She wondered aloud if every parent saw their children grow into strangers. He wondered if life was the business that ensued when you were busy worrying about your irretrievably adult children going to pot. Kathleen probably remembered these two vaguely familiar adults as infants, those small snoring bodies that had kicked the bedclothes off and lay in battlefield poses in their beds. Have a word. Minogue almost smiled then: Kathleen asking the fox to mind the chickens.
Minogue did not feel despondent as he drained the cup. Daithi floundering, not sure of a future? Maybe the boy needed something tangible to kick against still. Minogue imagined a horse in a stall, the clear thud of a hoof on the planks, patient eyes: can't I get out and gallop in the field, master? So why couldn't Minogue be a parent like any other, a grit for his children to spin a pearl about? What practical use was a father who loved Daithi almost unbearably but who abjured too much of the dogma that their society had prepared a father to enact? Would Daithi and Kathleen be driven to wringing their hands, telling him that he was supposed to be doing something else, that he was supposed to be somebody else? Abstractions. Rubbish. It was Daithi's life. Minogue felt almost happy with his elbows on Bewley's marble table-top. Dublin: decay, scattered, alive.
He bought a cake with icing and a wafery thing on top. He was cautioned, as he took his change, to carry it upright. He took the Garda notice off the dash, returned the glares of two skinheads with a grin and drove down the quays toward Islandbridge.
Hoey was back from the wilds of Stepaside, waiting for him. He drew up a chair and sat by Minogue's desk.
"Keep your eyes off a the cake, Shea. It's spoken for," he murmured as he brought out the file from his drawer. "Now, aside from entertainment value, what of those three clowns, the Mulvaneys?" Minogue began.
"Pat Keating's on his way into town. He had an hour and a half with them. They have two people to vouch for them that night and nearly into Sunday morning, too. Playing cards and drinking. It's well for them that don't have to work for a living."
"Saturday night. They claim that Combs was provoking them with a remarks about the North and stuff like that. 'He called the lads cornerboys and scum,' " Hoey quoted from his notes.
"More luck to him for saying it," said Minogue without rancour. "Any of the three strike you as capable of doing something like a murder?"
Hoey shrugged.
"We interviewed them separately, sir. I suppose that Shag could be belligerent. But if the chips were down, though, they'd be mice, the whole pack of them. Shag was the one who went on about the homo bit. The other two didn't mention it."
"Homo?"
"Said it was common knowledge that Mr Combs was homosexual."
Minogue wondered if this devious Mulvaney was leading policemen down the garden path. Shag
Mulvaney wasn't one to care a whit about a man's reputation if it could be turned to advantage in making ujits out of the Gardai.
"They stayed in the pub after Combs left. All of them. Around nine, Combs left. The Mulvaneys were drinking goodo until closing time."
"Hmm. Say ten minutes for Mr Combs to get the car started and get back to his house. Nine fifteen," Minogue murmured. "Consistent with the pathology estimate…"
Hoey nodded.
"And you checked out their bona fides that night?" Minogue asked.
"Yes, sir. They were in a house the Sandyford end of Barnacullia. House owned and occupied by one Eoin Reilly and family. Reilly goes by the name of Chop. He is well known in the area. He's not a criminal. Reilly gives Shag and The Bronc occasional work as labourers at quarrying or as mason's helpers."
Hoey went on to give M
inogue the gist of his own interview with Shag. Minogue half-listened. He hoped that Keating had more than this. Each of the brothers had signed statements accounting for themselves on the Saturday evening.
"What about that mountain of junk around their house? The shed?"
"We had over three hours while they were at the station, sir. Nothing. The boys went through the place good and thorough," Hoey said, not bothering to conceal his weariness.
Curly, Byronic Keating shambled in by Bills' desk. He saw Hoey and Minogue. He looked at his watch as if to stave off the four o'clock meeting. Minogue read the gesture to mean that Keating had nothing better than Hoey. Chasing after straws. As he passed the smoking Eilis, Keating confided what Minogue guessed was a remark with amorous overtones to her. With the expression of a tired croupier who was used to impoverished amateurs, Eilis batted her eyes but once at Keating before smiting him.
"Come back when you're grown up, Pat Keating."
Minogue held up his hand. Hoey stopped reciting.
"Lads. Get yourselves tea or something. There'll be a briefing in ten minutes," Minogue said sharply.
He watched the two detectives leave. Jimmy would have been proud of me, he thought, laying down the law. He had admitted to himself that the first stages of the investigation and the concomitant up-down of the detectives' hopes were played out now. Hoey, more experienced than Keating, had been more circumspect, knowing not to raise false hopes. It was now necessary to make a break with expectations of a quick and ready resolution and get down to slogging over details.
