Evil for evil bbwim-4

by James R Benn

  "Billy," he said, "have you dropped by for an afternoon pint?"

  "No, still on the job. Can you tell me where Adrian Simms lives? Have you seen him?"

  "Not today. You can check with his missus, though. Go up the side road here, past the castle ruins, and you'll see a line of cottages. The constable lives in the first one. The wife's name is Julia, but I doubt you'll be on a first-name basis."

  "Not the friendly type?"

  "Not until she knows you attend Presbyterian services regularly."

  "It'll be Mrs. Simms then. Tell me, is that anywhere near where they found Eddie Mahoney?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "You didn't hear any gunshots that night?"

  "No, and I wouldn't have, even if they'd gone off outside my door. It was raining something fierce, the wind blowing and howling, enough to make today look like a spring shower."

  "Does Grady live in one of those cottages?"

  "Ach, no. There's a boreen about a hundred yards before them, it takes you to Grady's place."

  "A what?"

  "Oh, sorry. A boreen, you mean? It's a dirt track, a cart path at best. Grady lives in the house he was born in, dirt floor and a hearth for heat. Nothing like the line of cottages; they're proper modern houses. Indoor plumbing and all. But he keeps his roof in good repair, and there's plenty of peat for him to burn. It's no grand palace, but it's home for Grady. And not far from the pub," he added with a wink.

  "Do you think Julia Simms would be impressed that I was at Brownlow House, headquarters of the Royal Black Knights?"

  "Oh, don't mention those words, atallatall, Billy. Oh no," Tom said, shaking his head and laughing, "if you don't want to cause Adrian to miss his supper."

  "Why?" Tom looked around and leaned in close, whispering, even though we were a good ten feet from the old fellow at the bar, who hadn't moved since I came in.

  "Because Adrian applied to join them at the urging of his wife. To get ahead, you know, make the right contacts. The Royal Black Knights are Unionists through and through, but they spend their time giving money to the church, not rabble-rousing. It's for the well-to-do or those who want-to-do, if you understand."

  "Sure. Like the Knights of Columbus back home."

  "Well, aptly named, but I don't know them. Anyway, Adrian applies, and he gets past the first few hurdles. He's a member of the Orange Society, all fine and good. But the Black Knights are even stricter than the Orangemen about who they let in. All of a sudden, he's out, and Julia Simms, who is not too proud to boast of something that has not yet come to pass, has to hang her head at Sunday services and for the rest of the week. I think she's still not forgiven poor Adrian."

  "For getting blackballed?"

  "For not telling her about his background. As far as I know, Adrian met all their requirements-including being born in wedlock and of Protestant parents-all but one."

  "What was that?"

  "From what I understand, an applicant has to swear that his parents were never connected in any way with the Roman Catholic Church. He did but was called out on it, and that was that. No marching in the July 13 parade every year, under their black banner with the red cross, celebrating our defeat at the Battle of the Boyne. No social gatherings, in suit and tie, so he and Julia can hobnob with their betters. Oh, it was hard times in that cottage for a while, I'll say."

  "What was his connection with Catholics?"

  "Mrs. Simms made it clear that question was not to be asked of her, nor ever answered by Adrian. Hard times, as I said."

  "Are you married, Tom?" I asked.

  "Yes, I am. Nearly twenty years now."

  "Worth it?"

  "It is. Most days." Then he laughed, perhaps to let me know today was a good day, and slapped me on the shoulder. I left wondering how I might answer that question someday. Would I wistfully think back to that English girl and our wartime whirlwind of emotions before I'd settled on a wife, a good Catholic Boston lass? Would "most days" be good enough?

  I started the jeep, drove down the road, and passed by what must have been the spot where Eddie Mahoney's body had been left. I stopped and looked back. It wasn't far but I doubted pistol shots could have been heard from inside the stone building. I did wonder why the killer had picked this spot. He wanted the body found, that was certain. The pound note was a message to any would-be informant so the corpse had to be where people passed by, to guarantee it would be discovered. It was the perfect place.

  A little farther on, I saw the boreen on the left. Muddy tracks between two stone walls curved behind a small rise, and a wisp of smoke rose beyond it, probably from Grady's peat fire. I pulled in front of the first of three whitewashed cottages, all with thickly thatched roofs and black varnished doors with small windows on either side. I dashed from the jeep and knocked, holding my hat against the growing wind.

  "Yes?" A thin, black-haired woman held the door open with one hand and clutched at her shawl with the other as rain blew against her. She didn't invite me to enter.

  "Mrs. Simms? I'm looking for Adrian. Is he in?"

  "No," she said, shaking her head. "Away on police business, he is."

  "Do you know where I can find him?" I had to raise my voice to be heard over the wind.

  "No, I don't know where he is or when he'll be back. Your name?"

  "Billy Boyle, Mrs. Simms. Pleased to meet you," I said, trying to be friendly.

  "I'll tell him you called, Mr. Boyle," she said, and the door shut.

  "Lieutenant Boyle," I said to the black varnish.

  I decided there wasn't much else I could do that day, other than head back to the pub and start on some afternoon pints, unless I caught up with Brennan before he left. I couldn't find it in myself to blame him for the decisions he'd made. The first was the right one, reporting the fraud he'd encountered while on kitchen duty. But then he was stymied by his own senior officer, who was in on the deal, and found himself threatened if he talked. He had been transferred to the Ordnance Depot only to end up a suspect in an arms theft. Take the money and run, Pete, is what I wanted to tell him. But I wasn't his drinking buddy, I was an investigator sent by General Eisenhower, so it would be better all around if I shook hands with him and told him to stay low.

  The wind was up but the rain slackened as I drove up the slight rise leading to the Ballykinler base. Dundrum Bay to my south looked choppy, and the Mournes were invisible behind low, leaden clouds. By the time I got to the main gate, the rain had stopped, and to the west a thin slant of blue promised better weather. As I negotiated the security around the Ordnance Depot, the wind was chasing cloud cover out over the Irish Sea, and the Mournes began to reveal themselves. Sunlight sparkled over the landscape, reflected in the dripping wetness over everything. The transformation was sudden, magical; the world had changed from sullen gray to vibrant green in seconds. Diana was still on my mind, and thinking about her was exactly like that. I could feel angry and hurt, and images of her face would be frozen in dark shadow. Then I'd remember something else, and she'd be smiling, lifting her head to the sunny sky, pulling her hair back behind her ear, her laughter like music on a summer night.

  I paused before I opened the door, looking one more time at the clearing sky. Was it possible? Would the anger and disappointment between us clear away, fresh winds dispelling whatever wounds we'd inflicted on each other? I wasn't certain it was possible. I wasn't sure we'd both be alive to find out.

  "Billy, what brings you here?" Saul Jacobson was in an unusually relaxed position, his feet up on his desk, his clipboards all neatly hung on the wall behind him.

  "I'm looking for Sergeant Brennan," I said. "Is he back in the shop?"

  "No. I thought you knew that he's got himself a transfer out of here."

  "I wanted to stop by and wish him luck. Where is he?"

  "I don't know. He finished up a few things here this morning and asked if he could take care of some personal business. He's shipping out tomorrow, so I figured, what's the harm?"

>   "What kind of personal business?"

  "No idea. It seemed that giving him a free afternoon was the least I could do before he heads back to the shooting war. He isn't in any kind of trouble, is he? I thought that was all cleared up."

  "He's not in trouble with me. When did he leave?"

  "About 1100 hours. He signed out a jeep."

  "Damn, sorry I missed him. You don't look too busy. Pretty quiet around here?"

  "Every unit has been ordered to get its gear together, weapons cleaned and ready. No one's on the rifle range, and they canceled maneuvers, so there's not much for us to do. Rumor is the division might be shipping out."

  "Where to, and when?"

  "Some say back to Iceland, others think it's to England. Maybe Italy. Looks like something's up, though. Hey, did you hear about Thornton?"

  "No, what?"

  "Heck had him hauled away. The MPs handcuffed him and took him to Belfast. They say he'll be court-martialed for taking bribes."

  "Well, well," I said, trying to sound surprised.

  "You have anything to do with that?"

  "No, I'm looking for BARs, remember?"

  "If you find them, you can give them to the next guy who inherits this place," he said, gesturing with his hands to encompass the splendor of his plywood-enclosed office.

  "OK, Saul. Good luck if I don't see you again. Keep your head down." We shook hands, and I left, glad to have imparted that bit of military wisdom to someone. I hadn't known how low I could stay until I'd felt the air vibrate from machine-gun bullets flying inches above my head. I could feel the thrumming again as I sat in the jeep, as if hornets were buzzing my neck. I watched the comings and goings, GIs on errands, marching, loafing, standing guard. How long before they felt it, and found out what the Bonesaw could do to infantry out in the open? Stay low, boys, I wanted to tell each and every one of them. They'd been told, I knew, a hundred times, but it wasn't the same as feeling it, knowing in your gut that nothing was as important as hugging the ground, digging deep, staying off the ridgeline, keeping your eyes open, not bunching up, using every fold of ground for cover.

  …

  I gasped, realizing I'd forgotten to breathe. I'd felt the hot Sicilian sun on me for that moment. The ground had been brown and broken, not green and smooth. I clutched the steering wheel, relaxing my white-knuckled hands. Never mind, I told myself. They'll have to find out for themselves. In their place I wouldn't have listened to anyone else either. I hadn't, and I knew how Brennan felt, seeing all these faces and knowing so many would die, stunned at the rapid violence of combat, unfired rifles in their hands, calling out for their mothers, as they always did. Mama, mutti, madre.

  I started the engine and gazed straight ahead, driving through the base, avoiding looking at each face I passed along the way.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  At 5:00 A.M.-OR 0500, as I was informed-someone thumped at the door to my Quonset hut with a message. Too early for me. I'd stopped at the the Lug o' the Tub and stayed longer than I should have, watching GIs drink their beer while trying to sound manly and brave in the face of the unknown. I'd listened to Grady tell stories of the Anglo-Irish War without mentioning the Lewis gun. In turn I had told him about Diana but never mentioned Jerusalem. We each kept our wounds hidden.

  The message had been from Hugh Carrick: Come to Clough immediately. I retraced my route of not so long ago, watching for some sign of the RUC. Clough wasn't so big that I was likely to miss anything. As the early morning mist rose from the ground, it looked like each stone wall corralled a field of fog. The top row of stones stood above the thick grayness, like grave markers all in a line. The sun came up over Dundrum Bay to the east as the sound of sheep bells echoed from hill to hill. Farmers and police, early risers both, tending their respective flocks.

  I knew which way to turn even before the pub came into view. Not far down the narrow road to Grady O'Brick's dirt-floored cottage and Julia Simms's proper Presbyterian home, a gaggle of police cars and a military police jeep were parked. Not to mention a gray Austin four-door sedan, license plate FZG 129. The car Red Jack Taggart had been in, slewed to the side of the road, the front caught up in brambles along a stone wall. When I saw the Austin, I knew there would be a body inside. It had been driven off the road at the same spot where Mahoney had been left.

  District Inspector Hugh Carrick stood in the middle of the roadway, dispatching constables to search the fields on either side. Adrian Simms stood, with Sergeant Jack Patterson, next to the Austin.

  "Lieutenant Boyle, good morning," Carrick said. "I thought you'd want to be here."

  "Who's inside?" I asked, hoping I was wrong.

  "Your Sergeant Brennan. In the trunk. Local man who makes the milk deliveries saw the car and stopped by Constable Simms's home to report it. When he gave Simms the license-plate number, Simms called it in straightaway."

  Pete's name hit me like a two-by-four. Why him? It made no sense. He was free and clear, set to ship out today.

  "Are you sure?" I couldn't take it in. I'd been imagining Pete boarding a ship in Belfast Harbor.

  Carrick beckoned me to follow him to the car. Patterson vaguely stood to attention and gave me a quick salute. I touched my hand to my forehead and froze as Simms opened the trunk. It was Pete Brennan, expert ordnanceman, veteran of Salerno, last survivor of his squad. He was on his side, his back to us, knees drawn up to his chest. Two black-and-rust-colored holes punctured the back of his skull.

  "Small-caliber weapon," I offered, although I was sure that had been apparent to Carrick. No exit wounds.

  "Execution," Carrick said.

  "Aye," Simms said. "Typical IRA job."

  "Who owns the car?" I asked in a low voice.

  "A Catholic businessman in Londonderry. He reported it stolen four days ago. He appears to have no connection to this business."

  "Why would the IRA kill Pete?" I said out loud, but I was speaking to myself.

  "Maybe a falling-out over the BAR theft?" Simms suggested.

  "He had nothing to do with that. He was shipping out today to Italy. Why kill him?"

  "That is what we are going to find out, Boyle," Carrick said.

  I barely heard him. I leaned into the trunk, careful not to touch anything. I studied Pete's head, ignoring the face with its contorted puffiness from the gunshots. I smelled his uniform.

  "What are you doing, Boyle?" Carrick demanded.

  "It rained yesterday," I said. "His hair is dry, and so is his uniform. If he'd been thrown in here wet, it would smell damp."

  "There is an army trench coat in the backseat, a trifle damp to the touch," Carrick said.

  "He left Ballykinler yesterday morning, probably before it started raining. He was out in it for a bit, but not enough to get himself soaked. I'd say he was shot after it stopped, which was about four o'clock. Then dumped here, after the pub shut its doors."

  "Aye, Tom said the road was clear when he closed up, not long after you yourself departed," Simms said.

  Was there a question left hanging? Did Simms wonder where I'd gone after I left the pub? Did he envision me firing a gun twice into Pete's skull?

  "Did you see Brennan at all yesterday?" Carrick asked me.

  "No, I tried to find him in the afternoon, to say goodbye, but I'd missed him. His lieutenant had let him off to take care of some personal business."

  "And you're convinced there was no connection between Brennan and the BAR theft?"

  "I'm convinced he wasn't involved. But there had to be a connection."

  "Why?"

  "Because what other reason is there for two bullets to the head? There must be something, some clue that we're missing but Pete didn't."

  "Where do you suppose he went yesterday?" Carrick asked.

  "No idea," I said as a very good idea formed in my mind. I had no reason to let Carrick in on it yet, since he wouldn't like it one bit.

  "That's obviously where he got into trouble. Pity he didn't stay on the base,
" Carrick said, shaking his head sadly.

  "Jack," I said, turning to the MP, "he left Ballykinler in a jeep. Has one turned up?"

  "We're looking. I thought he might have gone to the pub last night, so we started checking the back roads between here and the base."

  "The only thing we know for certain is that you saw Taggart in this car, and now Brennan has turned up, dead, in the trunk. The IRA connection is fairly clear," Carrick said, but he sounded less than certain. "Perhaps there was an entirely different connection, one we're not aware of, and Brennan was killed over that. Perhaps because he was being transferred, deserting the cause?" Carrick rubbed his chin, thinking as he spoke. I could tell he wanted to believe the IRA had shot Brennan. It was so neat, I could hardly blame him. It fit into his view of the world, which was a powerful reason for belief. Still, I sensed the doubt in his mind as he considered different theories.

  "Have you searched the body?" I asked.

  "Yes, I have, along with Sergeant Patterson. Nothing of note. Cigarettes, a lighter, a few pound notes."

  "He usually went out armed."

  "No evidence of a weapon, sir, but you're right. Pete always carried a. 45."

  "Not entirely legal for him to go out armed while off duty and outside the base, but I understand his reason," Carrick said.

  "You didn't find anything else?" I asked.

  "Nothing. His coat and cap were in the vehicle. Otherwise it looks clean. We will have it checked for fingerprints, but I doubt we'll find anything. It looks like all the surfaces were wiped down."

  "That's odd. Why would Red Jack care about his fingerprints?"

  "He has help," Carrick said. "There are a number of cells operated by the IRA Northern Command. Most of them operate in secret, and their members lead outwardly normal lives. It would be to protect them, not his own identity."

  "Makes sense. Do you mind if I take a closer look at the body?"