by John Brady
Minogue ruminated again on Shag's declaration that Combs was homosexual. Bad enough that Combs had called the IRA "heroes" in a tone that even the Mulvaneys could detect was sarcastic, but to be a nancy-boy. He looked up to find Eilis by his desk. Behind her were three of the Gardai Minogue had met that morning.
"Well lads, four o'clock is it? Will ye go with Eilis here and I'll be in, in a minute?" spacebarthing
By five o'clock Minogue understood that the murder of Mr Combs would stay an enigma for some time today and tonight and tomorrow. And probably the day after that, too. He wished Murtagh would stop talking. Murtagh had very bad breath indeed. Murphy's Law had Murtagh unconsciously edging closer to Minogue as Minogue drew back from the rancid smell. Minogue had to give up before being trapped against the wall. He was now breathing through his mouth.
"Malone says it has to be new boys," Murtagh was saying. Malone had an alibi. He had been in bed with his brother's wife in Inchicore. His brother was doing time for car theft.
"Malone's all right for Saturday and Sunday. He's of the opinion that only lunatics would do a house on a Saturday night. He says drugs."
"Very helpful of him," said Minogue wearily. "He means city thugs, I suppose."
"That's the gist of it, I think-"
"Local though," Minogue interrupted. "Someone local had to hear about or know about Combs. Knew he lived alone, might have a few shillings around the house. Has to be local."
"There's the Mulvaneys, sir. Their stories might leak yet," Murtagh tried to inject some enthusiasm. "And some fellas in or around Sandyford used to do houses. Stepaside are doing them now. I have the names here…"
Minogue copied four names.
"Wait a minute, sir. Sorry. Driscoll says the last one, that Molloy, he's in England since Christmas. Nix him…"
"And was it yourself that got the statements off the neighbours?"
"Yes, sir. Me and Driscoll. Driscoll and I, yes."
"There's the matter of Mr Combs' sexual orientation we can't be ignoring," said Minogue.
He saw weary curiosity in all the faces save Keating's. Keating was chewing the end of his pencil. The lead didn't seem to be affecting his brain yet. He stretched one arm out in search of additional comfort to prolong his slouch. Minogue addressed Murtagh.
"Sean. We need photos of Mr Combs; get personnel to go to various pubs with them. I mean pubs where gay people go."
Murtagh rubbed at his nose.
"Do you know which ones I'm talking about?"
Keating couldn't contain his smile any longer.
"Like the back of your hand, Seanie, am I right?" he said. One of the district detectives laughed aloud.
"Fuck you and all belonging to you, Pat Keating," said a blushing Murtagh. "I'll put money that it's your name and number I'll find on the wall of the jacks in that class of pub. And the price listed, too."
More laughter.
"We may be looking for a young lad who turned turk on Mr Combs after a pick-up, don't you know," said Minogue. Murtagh nodded solemnly. Minogue saw Hoey look at his watch again. Taking the hint, he delegated to Hoey the task of going to Stepaside station the next morning to co-ordinate the second interviews both in Kilternan and in Glencullen.
"I'll hear from ye during the day," Minogue said.
Minogue nodded toward the district detectives from Stepaside. He visualised them returning home later and enlarging upon their meeting with members of the Murder Squad. Excitement. Drama. Tall tales.
"I'm obliged to ye for coming in, all of ye. It's no small matter to be running around and taking statements like ye did today. Ye've laid great foundations, I'm sure," Minogue said above the screech of scraping chair-legs on the linoleum.
He remained seated, watching the policemen leave the room. He had been more embarrassed by his little morale speech than by the plain fact that they still knew next to nothing about Combs' life. It was almost two full days since the man had been murdered. He looked at the card which Eilis had left on his desk.
Along with a long telephone number, the card also had Inspector Newman's address-down to his room number-with the London Metropolitan Police. The card mutely informed Minogue that Newman was the head of a section called C11 in C Department, the office which travelled under the agreeable name of International Liaison. Would this crowd be working after five o'clock, though?
It took Minogue but a half minute to hear a man's voice announce himself as Inspector Newman. The accent made a funny "r" at the end of his rank, not an accent that Minogue expected. Not like Alec Guinness in The Bridge on the River Kwai, for example.
"Detective Sergeant Minogue calling from Dublin, Inspector. I'm in the Investigation Section of the Gardai here. The Murder Squad, that is. I'm calling on behalf of Inspector Kilmartin. He's indisposed at the moment…" Minogue paused to allow Newman to digest his intro. Should he tell him that Jimmy had his arse in a sling?
"Yes, I know Inspector Kilmartin. And you're…?"
Minogue repeated his name.
"We're looking to a murder here, Inspector. A citizen of the United Kingdom. He last lived in London. A place called Wood Green. Am I making sense?"
Newman said that he was.
"Mr Combs. Mr Arthur Combs. Will I spell it?"
"Honey — C-O-M-B?"
"The very thing. Do you want a date of birth and the like?"
Newman said "righto" each time he recorded details. Recounting those details, Minogue wondered at what meagre things these accoutrements of a life were. A middle name, a height, a weight, a job. All pegs to keep you rooted while life buffeted you, its gusts and lulls alternately testing the pegs. Finally to have a lid closed over you, cold in the earth.
Minogue told him that the Gardai had not assigned a motive for the murder. He did not tell him that the other two of the policeman's morbid trinity-opportunity and resources-were as wide as a barn door with the wind whistling through. Mr Combs had been strangled rather expertly by a person or persons who had been waiting for him as he entered the kitchen door of his house. The Gardai would be glad of Newman's help in furnishing information about Mr Combs before he came to live in Ireland, and after too, if that was to be had. Newman said that he would do what he could. Minogue liked the sound of that. Inland Revenue, army service, would that be a start? Minogue said that would be a great start. Would the Inspector be needing written requests to get it going? He would not. Then he surprised Minogue.
"What kind of weather have you in Dublin?"
Newman pronounced the name of the capital city as if there were a hyphen in the middle, much as a respectful traveller might try to say "Zambesi" without offending the sensibilities of tribesmen leaning on their spears nearby.
"Oh, it's very nice, you'd love it," Minogue said. He had guessed right from the accent. Newman was no sooty Londoner but one of God's chosen, a countryman like himself.
Newman paused.
"Well, that's very nice," he said finally.
"It certainly is. We get buckets of rain here by times, summer or winter. The bit of dry weather does wonders for the morale," Minogue enthused.
"Ay, ay. I'll have an officer start a file on it, and you can call on that when you need it, too," Newman said.
"That'd be great. Yes."
Minogue replaced the receiver and clapped his hands. They weren't bad lads over there at all. Maybe Kilmartin had him over here on a golfing holiday or something, that Newman was so helpful. He glanced at his watch. Holy God: twenty after five. Hoey and Keating could hold the fort and show off all they'd learned off Jimmy Kilmartin. Damn: forgot to phone the same Jimmy…
C had completed the requisite number of patrols, mixed in with the odd full circuit of the room, to whatever end he alone knew, Kenyon guessed. Now he was seated with his legs crossed at the knee. He had taken but a few drags at a second cigarette before leaving it to smoulder. The smell of the burning filter was distasteful to Kenyon. He stole another glance at the balding, basilisk C. Some of the senior staff
called him F. Hand-in-hand with his eccentricities, the current Director had the reputation of being a vengeful bully.
"So: find if this Combs committed any gripes to writing," C declared as a question.
"Writing or perhaps tape," replied Kenyon.
"Tape, file, dossier," C murmured. "Would this Combs have secreted material with someone else?"
"There's a possibility, sir," Kenyon answered quickly. "But it just doesn't make sense that Combs' grievances dried up when Ball became his handler. I strongly believe that Combs was at the end of his tether. He may have felt that he had nothing to lose."
"But Combs didn't issue any threats this last while," C stated.
"True, sir. But at the very least, Combs may have made some record. Named names."
"Low-level intelligence work," C murmured. "You don't say. Do we call it that because it was done in Ireland?"
Kenyon mustered a polite smile.
"Bloody burkes," added C. Neither Kenyon nor Robertson needed to wonder if it was the Foreign Office his remark addressed.
"And we have to pick up the bits after these brainwaves… Yes. Tape, file dossier," C murmured again. "It's altogether too like a bloody sordid little treasure hunt or something."
He turned to Kenyon.
"You know now that Hugh and I have had this pot heating before we looked to you for a fresh appraisal?"
Kenyon nodded.
"The most problematic part will be that bloody miserable island of nutters next door to us. Murphy's Law, home of. How do you plan to do business in Dublin with this? You're willing to act on the theory that Combs put something by locally, right?"
"Yes, sir. He may have believed that we had his post screened, too…"
"Was this Combs' thing picked as a complete fiction then? How much cardboard is behind this character? Will it hold up?"
"I think it will," Kenyon took up the question. "As long as there's no leak from our level. We held the death certificate _when Arthur Combs died, so the Irish police will get the goods from the Met here and it'll be bona fide. I have an alert with them if anyone inquires after Combs. Nothing from the Irish police yet. Combs was sixty-seven when he died, six years ago. Not married, no family either. Retired Customs Inspector. One of Six's better fits, I have to admit," Kenyon said.
"No one there in Ireland he'd pour out his heart to?" C persisted. He seemed to Kenyon to be talking to himself.
"Seems not, sir. He had a more general or, shall I say, abstract attachment."
"Meaning?"
"The business about local history there. Old artefacts, ruins, things like that."
"Bit of an old ruin himself, come to think of it," a mirthlessly sarcastic C murmured.
"You're relying on D notices and the Secrets Acts to tame our journalistic friends should they receive anonymous parcels of notes from Ireland?" C challenged.
"Yes, sir. They'd cough up, I'm sure," Kenyon tried to sound confident. Robertson cleared his throat, a cue for Kenyon to get to the main course.
"I believe that we can best get out of the Irish, er, bog, sir, if we insert a man who can legitimately go over Combs' place, his effects. A good sweeper."
Kenyon returned Robertson's glance before dropping the log.
"And with our man there straight away, the need for a joint op with anybody, even Six and the Foreign Office, would obviously be close to nil."
"Obviously," C intoned, again close to sarcasm. "We're not discussing something like the Immaculate Conception here, are we now, chaps? The Micks are hardly going to fall for a long-lost-relative-showing-up routine."
Kenyon sidestepped the leaden mirth.
"Combs' estate is a problem, sir. To be disposed of, the estate needs an agent. Has to be probated."
C snorted faintly.
"Somebody say agent, eh, Hugh?" He looked to Robertson and graced him with a rare grin. Kenyon continued.
"A lawyer. Combs has no will, I believe. Foreign Office worked up a pension for him years ago, and the bank source it as a pension from Customs and Excise.
He also had an annuity. That part of his income comes through a small merchant bank here in the city. They list it as income from stocks. We can surely work up a lawyer to represent either bank involved," Kenyon flourished with a rhetorical lilt.
C was nodding his head lightly.
"Rather elegant solution, James. You'd want to cull some legal type from our own fold here, I take it."
"Ideally, sir. Should have had some field training."
"Find someone, then. Cite my authorisation to hive off this person from what he's doing at the moment. I'll give it priority. Put the fear of a Presbyterian God in the fellow to keep his cards close to his chest. Someone who can get around the police there, maybe listen in on their investigation?"
"That would be quite a coup, sir," Kenyon said.
Kenyon made a mental note of the inquiry which had come through to Newman in the Metropolitan Police. The Garda's name was Minogue, a sergeant. He thought the name looked familiar, but the more he tried to recall where he had seen or head it before, the less he was sure of ever having known it.
Returning to his office after the meeting, Kenyon had felt his elation being swallowed in the maw of anxiety. He had graduated to despondency within the last few minutes. As Kenyon was stepping out of Robertson's car, the door still ajar, Robertson had looked out under the roof at him. Kenyon crouched by the open door. Why did he still feel that Robertson was leaving him out on a limb?
"Keep me posted, James?"
Bowers was propped in front of the terminal.
"Find me somebody, would you? Two people, actually. I need a man in the Service, someone with a legal background and some field training. Let me think, was there somebody a few years back that…"
Kenyon realised that it was six o'clock and that was why he wasn't firing on all cylinders. He'd phone home before going out for supper.
"… Knows something about Ireland, if you can. Get me a list of eligibles. I need this fast. I'm staying on duty for the evening. Can you?"
Bowers detected the tension in Kenyon. He said he could.
"The second chap, sir?"
"Oh, that's a different matter. It's by the way. I seem to remember his name a few years ago, too. An Irish copper, Minogue. Forget it until we've found our own man."
Bowers' face took on a puzzled expression. Kenyon noticed his bewilderment as he was elbowing off the door-frame.
"Some incident a few years back. More than three, let's say, if my memory is sound. We'll be working near him, so I'd like to size him up." spacebarthing
Iseult's wooer, Pat Muldoon, was over six feet tall. His clothes were black again today, save for a dark grey shirt which was not ironed and not meant to be ironed. A long face on him and a bony nose, missing two days' shaving but with lively eyes atop. The eyes were blessed-virgin blue, with a touch of mockery not far behind them. During the tea, Minogue felt he was sitting next to a priest. Pat never laughed outright but smiled enough and gave considered nods of his head. Minogue was a little nervous. Iseult was very animated. She was on guard against lulls in the talk, filling in details which Pat sometimes forgot. What Pat really means, what Pat is getting at…
"He got first in his class last year, so he did. Didn't you, Pat?" Iseult enthused. Kathleen's eyes widened in approval. Pat looked up under his eyebrows as he worked the rind off a rasher, as though to remonstrate with her. Iseult beamed. Kathleen made herself busy with her knife and fork. Was her subconscious leading her to toy with the cutlery, the better to drive away a suitor to her overloved daughter? Minogue wondered.
"Da worships the sun, don't you, Da?" Iseult said guilelessly.
"And the moon and the stars," he said, feeling his cheeks redden. "A bit of everything."
"More luck to you," said Pat. "Nice sermons, I'd say."
Everyone laughed. Pat was studying psychology. When Kathleen had asked before, he allowed that it was very interesting. Was there anything in part
icular? He liked experimental psychology. Minogue thought about rats with wires attached to their heads.
Kathleen stabbed the Bewley's cake and apportioned slices to the plates stacked by her side. The sun was peeping around the back of the house now. It was Minogue's time of day. He could almost feel his planet turning. Daithi plugged the kettle in and remained leaning on the edge of the sink. No one spoke. The chairs had been pushed back from the table. Birds called out to one another from the garden. Minogue stole a look at the faces around the table. Kathleen was smoothing an imaginary fold in the tablecloth. As his gaze swept by Iseult, she winked at him. Her face seemed bigger. It was entirely possible that his faculties were declining with age, he thought. Damn it, he thought then, her face was glowing. She must have fallen for this lad. The kettle whispered. Minogue looked over to Daithi. He was fidgeting, restless. No doubt he'd want to go out tonight and have a few jars with his cronies. Kathleen had now joined her hands under her chin, elbows on the table.
"Here, Da. Tell us a bit about Paris," Iseult said. She turned to Pat.
"The pair of them are like love-birds so they are, Pat. They up and went to Paris a few years ago."
"To see the sights," Kathleen insisted.
"Some sights you'd see there, too, I'm sure," Iseult taunted. "And they wouldn't take their only daughter to give her a bit of culture. The meanness of it."
"Do you know, Pat," Kathleen countered by turning to the one who might well steal her daughter, "maybe you know something from your studies, but why is it that children turn contrary and get to being punishments for their parents?"
"I don't know, Mrs Minogue," from a diplomatic Pat.
"Here now," Minogue rose from the table, "if ye are really interested in talking about Paris, there's only one proper way to do that."
"And how's that, may I ask?" Kathleen inquired.
"With a bottle of anise and a few tumblers. You bring up the tea if you want, and we'll lay waste the rest of that cake, too," Minogue said, rubbing his hands. "We'll away up to the end of the garden and catch the last of the sun. Now, where's the tape-recorder? We'll bring up your man Offenbach and a bit of Chopin. Who in their right minds wants to be indoors on a summer's evening?"
