A stone of the heart imm-1

by John Brady

  "I don't get it, Matt…"

  "I'm being led. That's what I'm saying. I believe that boy's girlfriend or whatever you'd call her. I'm not sure why."

  "Her account of the boy…?"

  "Yes. I'm not happy with the two yobbos in Trinity pushing those hints about drugs."

  Kilmartin thought for a minute. Minogue seemed relaxed and somehow resolute about this. Had he changed a bit somehow? "What makes you feel that you're being led down the garden path, Matt?"

  "There's the rub now. I haven't an inkling. Well, actually now I shouldn't say that at all. I have the feeling that something is happening and that time is a factor. Like while the show is on, someone is picking pockets in the cloakroom."

  Kilmartin stood up and walked to the window. He risked a small burning fart for relief. Minogue's thing was contagious, damn it all. Hints and inklings, suspicions. What Kilmartin really wanted was to be called to help in this business last night, not to be left eavesdropping in the radio room for great events which made careers for other men. Something you could leap into and work at and get credit for.

  "Anyway. I'm hoping the car was stolen and that it'll turn up. There's no reason for people trying to bump me off, you know. The old grey matter is nagging at me to believe there's something in this to do with that boy Walsh."

  Indeed, thought Kilmartin. Well now, Matt Minogue, I'm not going to come straight out and tell you what I think, but I'll give you a hint.

  "Tell you what, Matt. Give it until this evening or over the weekend. Then we can get someone else to start from scratch and rehash it."

  Kilmartin caught wind of his newborn fart. It had emerged and lain in waiting only to burst when he had congratulated himself for his discretion. Holy God, it was a killer. The window was stuck. So was Kilmartin. A sulphurous aroma rose around him. Minogue uncrossed his legs and brushed lightly across his nose with his fingers.

  "Right so. I'll look over the parents' statements again and rethink it," said Minogue, rising from the chair.

  "Good, Matt. Look, do you want me to follow up on this thing yesterday? Where that car came at you?"

  Minogue recognised the challenge. Minogue is gone loony, right?

  "No. I'll go through the thing myself."

  "Sergeant Minogue? Doherty here. You asked about a car."

  "Doherty? Right, the one from the Vehicle Bureau."

  "Yes. Are you Pat Doherty's brother?"

  "I am."

  "Tell him they haven't a ghost on Sunday in Nenagh. The Wex-ford crowd will take the day. Ye'll have to play the wings and pass the ball more." „

  "Go on out of that," Doherty said. "If the rain comes again, we'll scalp that crowd. The Wexford crowd hate the rain."

  "My eye," said Minogue.

  "I'll put money on it," Doherty replied.

  "I don't want to be robbing you."

  "Well. A white Ford Granada was stolen on Churchtown Road in the afternoon. Are you with me?"

  "I am."

  "Reported at 10:53 three last night. Some old bollocks had been in a pub all that time. And then he wanted to drive home, but he couldn't find his bloody car."

  "Comical."

  "The country is gone to pot," Doherty said. His Galwegian indignation came softly to Minogue, who thought of the long, open bogroads by Clifden with the clouds rolling in over the horizon, sea on the air.

  "Well, it turned up today in Dundrum. Next to a bus-stop. The cheek of it, I ask you. Do you know, it caused a bit of havoc in the traffic this morning."

  As if he intended we find it, Minogue realised.

  "Where is it now?"

  "Store Street Station."

  "Good luck."

  Minogue's years on the Drug Squad afforded him the chance to track down a pal, Jack Currelly.

  "And how's the family, Matt?"

  "Oh, pulling the divil by the tail, Jack."

  "Where, now?"

  "Store Street. Don't bother with the kit. Let's keep it informal for the moment. You'd know what I'm looking for straight away."

  Minogue stood in the yard leaning on a freshly crushed Capri. Currelly rested on one knee on the driver's seat as he checked the interior. To Minogue, the white Granada looked threatening.

  A uniformed Garda stood by, clasping a clipboard.

  "Rain do you think?" a garrulous Minogue said.

  "God knows now, sir. It's as like as not."

  A fresh-faced lad up from the farm, big sky-blue eyes on him and a razor cut next to his chin. Trying too hard to be perfect.

  Currelly kneed his way out of the car. He showed Minogue the remains of a joint nestling in the palm of his hand.

  "One roach. In the ashtray, if you don't mind. Well, Sherlock. What do you think? Will we call in Dr Watson or what? Joy-ride, I'd say. Still though you'd expect the car would be done in a bit. Want me to give it the once-over in earnest?"

  "No thanks." Minogue turned to the Garda.

  "Do ye dust these yokes for prints or that class of thing?" Minogue asked.

  "If requested, sir. If the items are part of a body of evidence. Commission of a crime, like."

  "How about this one?"

  "No, sir." The Garda pointed to the Comments on the sheet as he held out the clipboard for Minogue. Minogue read 'Joy-ride? and, below, 'No apparent damage.'

  "So?"

  "Well, it's a question of volume really, Sergeant. Your man should be glad he got it back in one piece. There's a lot go missing in Dublin."

  "And if we find a narcotic substance in it?" Minogue pressed.

  "Oh in that case I'm sure that'd warrant full treatment, sir."

  Whatever the hell 'full treatment' meant these days.

  "To tell you the truth, sir, the car was just given the once- over very quick, like, when it came in. The real examination would be done later in the day, I'm thinking."

  Good lad, Minogue thought, at least you're covering for your pals and that's no bad thing. Not the end of the world.

  "Could you arrange to have it done, if you please? And have that Garda Doherty call me as soon as he has anything?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Currelly and Minogue strolled over to their own car.

  "Is this a big deal, Matt?" Currelly asked.

  "Ah you know, I'm just pulling on bits of things really."

  "Terrible bloody mesS that thing yesterday. Out in Blackrock."

  Both men got into Minogue's car.

  "And tell me, Matt, how have you been since that other business?"

  "Could be worse, Jack, could be worse," Minogue heard himself reply.

  The traffic on Friday in Dublin had staggered an already shaky system. Soon they became enmeshed. The sun came out and Currelly rolled down his window. On the path beside him, a well-dressed couple walked by speaking French loudly over the noise of the cars. Minogue knew there wouldn't be any prints worth a damn in the car and he was still being bobbed around on a string. He'd call Trinity to see if anything had shown up in lost and found.

  The Irish Times headlines lay across Allen's desk, barely held in by the width of the newspaper itself. The picture of a Garda in uniform stood next to a picture of a car on its side, leaning against a Mercedes. He was sure of his decision now. Surprisingly, Allen had slept well. He had not dreamed. He felt light now. The sun threw light in the window, over his notes and against the bookcases. It was as good a time as any.

  Allen was certain that he could persuade her. He returned to his notes and began trying to memorise the outline. Allen gathered his notes. He couldn't concentrate. He removed mementoes from a drawer-a pen won in grammar school, a medal of his father's. He looked around the room. There was little or nothing personal in it. A few plants-they could stay-a radio alarm clock, a poster of an old phrenology diagram. The books had been expensive but they could be allowed no weight now.

  Allen fingered through the files in his desk. Anyone could take his place, marking tests, going to conferences, meeting with colleagues. Committees, proposals,
luncheons. Student counselling, research, administration. Evaluation, theses, recommendations. Evisceration. Yes, that too. His friends? Allen's reserve and self sufficiency had allowed him distance. He sat at his desk and began writing a list of what he had to do: 'Bank, letter, solicitor.' He'd go whether she agreed or not. He went through his office again, selecting and discarding.

  The committee met in a carpeted room in Dublin Castle. Army intelligence arrived in civvies. The only uniforms present were those of two district superintendents from Dublin. Almost half of the eleven men present were from Special Branch. A civil servant who looked more like a priest, and knew it and cultivated it, sat at the table also.

  "The basics are these," a Special Branch detective was explaining.

  "We have a man in custody, one James Duffy, native of Newry. He has no record of criminal activities with the RUC. The most he has done in his life is thrown stones during riots, live on the dole and, the RUC suspect, drive other people's cars without their permission. He is on a list of theirs as under suspicion for involvement in IRA activities. Admits to driving the car yesterday. Claims not to have known the other two. Not even their names. You know the routine. Admits to being a 'volunteer.' He says he was here on a kind of holiday. We think he's small fry and that he will be no loss to them. That's probably why he was sent down here. Expendable."

  "What does he know, Sergeant?" army intelligence asked bluntly.

  "Yes, he picked up the car-incidentally the plates were fakes-in the vicinity of a lane behind Lower Baggot Street. We found the garage that probably hid the car and fixed the plates. So, to answer your question, he knows bugger-all. He's more or less a stooge. He says the two were bored so they wanted to crack a bank in south county Dublin."

  "How did he get his instructions?" the army man persisted.

  "Over the phone. As for the garage. We got in yesterday evening. It was decided by the boys on the spot. As it turns out, nothing would have been gained by setting up a surveillance. They had flown the "coop."

  "They?" said the civil servant.

  "Whoever. The owner rented it out, paid in advance. He says the man who rented it was, what was his word, 'civilised.' Well-to-do. Youngish and fit-looking." The detective flicked to a page: "… 'well groomed'… 'obviously a businessman'… The man told him it was for preparing antique cars for restorations. The name doesn't mean anything and the address is rubbish. The man was'refined.'"

  "In other words, nobody."

  "Has the owner been through the books?" one of the superintendents asked, more to get a word in than to advance the understanding of the meeting.

  "Yes, sir. Nothing." The detective sat down. The man next to him stood and put his hands in his pockets. He had no notes to brief him.

  "A man who used one of the sheds up the lane identified the Mercedes straight away. He couldn't be sure about another car he saw there earlier in the week though. He settled on a Japanese car and that's as good as we'll get. The thing which may be of concern is that one of them was getting some substantial attention. Some alteration or repair job."

  "What's the significance, Inspector?" queried the superintendent.

  "Well, we believe the car or cars are being prepared for some operation. If this old man is right, a car has been modified most likely. We're working on the worst interpretation here."

  "With respect, Inspector, I have to explain to the Minister why you are considering this. Seems tenuous to me," the civil servant said. The inspector, who had twenty years on the bureaucrat he was silently eying all the while, continued.

  "Fair enough. We discount legitimate purposes. We don't think that this outfit went to the trouble of getting a place just to switch plates on a stolen car. A babe in arms could do that blind drunk on a wet night. We think there's some kind of a shift on but to be quite honest," he paused and looked directly over to the man from army intelligence, "we don't really know more than the next man."

  He didn't have to spell it out. Sources in the British Special Branch and anti-terrorist squads had been unusually communicative lately. This was the case with the Brits only when they were grumbling. They grumbled because there was little they could do about it from their side, and they grumbled because the RUC's grumbles weren't listened to as keenly in the South. Ergo there was something going on in the South they wanted to stop but couldn't do it themselves. The increase in shootings and the sophistication of the weapons and techniques involved had them stymied. Their usual sources knew nothing about how the weapons were getting in. They had stepped up the border patrols and they had undertaken aerial surveillance with helicopters. The inspector let the silence sink in with its eloquence. Then he reminded them.

  "There are signs that there's a new twist to the arms supply. You all know that our department feels the political pressure very quickly. We're pulling out all the stops. This business yesterday has turned up the heat even more."

  "Will you outline the courses we can follow, gentlemen?" the civil servant asked.

  "We're at a disadvantage. Our sources have either dried up or they don't know anything. There seem to be new men in the game. Whoever this'refined businessman' is, we don't know. We should acknowledge that. We think that there's a connection between yesterday and our current problems. A slip. The human factor, if you like. No organisation is completely watertight. I'm suggesting that every available man be on a surveillance roster for each and every so-called republican on our books. The two murderers have to go to ground somewhere. I want taps on phones… I have a list here and it's as short as I can make it."

  He pre-empted the civil servant whose face was already taking on a set of disapproval.

  "And I don't like it either. There's no point in picking them up and interrogating the whole lot of them."

  He slid the list across the table toward the civil servant and he sat down. Nobody spoke for a half minute. The civil servant looked up from the list and said,

  "Inspector, can I see you after the meeting?"

  A rustle of papers moved the committee on. The army intelligence had reports of sightings of Russian trawlers just outside the boundary last week, the week before and again this week. They had left the area before fishery protection vessels could get there and confirm the sightings. Nothing special, he said, time of year perhaps. A report from British Intelligence that it was almost certain one of their men had been killed by a sniper who used a Startron nightsight. Nothing else could explain him being shot in the head at nearly three hundred feet in the dead of night. Queried to the States because it was restricted on the Munitions List from their State Department.

  Toward the end of the meeting, the inspector looked up from his fingerplay to find the civil servant's limpid gaze fixed on him. The civil servant was absent-mindedly drawing a thumb to and fro over the edge of the sheet which listed the names for the telephone taps. He looked away as the inspector met his stare, affecting attention to the speaker.

  Scared, the inspector reflected. He feels things are slipping, but he doesn't want to tell his Minister that, because the Minister would rather believe otherwise. The inspector gave him a lingering look, knowing the civil servant would be aware of his mild scrutiny. Not as scared as some of my men, he's not, the inspector guessed. Probably not as scared as me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The playwright listened to what he knew were Americanisms. He looked around the pub for some relief from the tight-lipped anger of the Yank.

  "I had to close the god-damn place down rightaway after I heard about your goons," the tanned man hissed. "So much for you loaning out a hot car to those assholes."

  "Who gave you the job of deciding what I do?" the playwright retorted. "I gave them the car because I didn't want them trying to lift one for themselves and getting caught. We need those men up there-"

  "Right. We don't need them screwing up the works down here, I tell you-"

  "— They're coming from a battle zone, mister. Maybe you don't realise that. Your crowd can have your Vi
etnams and your Chiles a thousand miles away. Our men on the ground are under pressure all the time. They need a break. We do what we can for them-"

  "— Like tell them to take on a bank? Shoot cops?"

  "That's out of bounds and they know that. They'll answer for it. To the appropriate authorities."

  The tanned man heard the changed inflexion in the playwright's words now. So that was it, his trump card, the appropriate authorities. At least it was more out in the open now. He felt a grim satisfaction take the place of his anger. He'd have the playwright's head on a plate after he got through with this.

  "Look, let's drop it for now," said the tanned man. "We'll be bringing the present for Aunt Maggie tomorrow. Everything is settled isn't it?"

  "That car? Yes," the playwright replied.

  "No screw-ups, O.K.?"

  The playwright returned the Yank's glare but said nothing. The only other detail really is that you are out of the running, my fine flowery mid-Atlantic fancy man. You're washed up as of tomorrow. He smiled up at the Yank.

  "By the way, your home phone is being tapped again, so go through your list consecutively if it's on business," the tanned man said. Show-off, thought the playwright, as he smiled more broadly at the departing pest.

  Minogue had sought refuge in Bewley's. Needed something to keep him going. He had been on his way out to Walsh's despite the reception he had gotten on the phone from Mr Walsh. A mixture of tentativeness and arrogance which mystified Minogue had been his reward for phoning. Mrs Walsh was under sedation and the doctor was ready to send her to hospital at the drop of a hat. Did Minogue really need to see her today? She couldn't stand to be around the house with memories. Mr W. hadn't been to work in the last week. What good would it seem to talk now? Hadn't they told the police everything they could?

  A large white coffee and a gooey bun brought some solace to Minogue. He ensconced himself near the window in the non-smoker's section on the first floor. Sun streamed in over the rooftops opposite. Between Minogue and the office windows across Grafton Street lay the paralysed traffic below, a snake of exhaust and metal.