Though the Heavens Fall

by Anne Emery

The Royal Ulster Constabulary barracks was surrounded by an enormous blast wall and not without reason, in the land where the car bomb had become a weapon of choice during the Troubles. Monty went through the formalities of being vetted and admitted and sat down to wait for Sergeant Garth Brown to arrive. It wasn’t going to be a long meeting. Brown, a tall, burly man of about fifty with a pugnacious red face and a ginger moustache, didn’t invite Monty into an office or even an interview room. Whatever Monty had to ask, and whatever reply might be forthcoming, would be dealt with over against the wall out of earshot of the cop on the desk.

  But Monty opened with a courtesy nonetheless. “Thank you for seeing me, Sergeant. I appreciate that you’re busy here.”

  “Buzzy doesn’t begin to describe it. Now what do you think I can do for you?”

  “As I indicated on the phone, it’s about the death of Eamon Flanagan on the fourteenth of November, 1992. I have been retained by his family to see what compensation might be available to them as the result of their father’s death. I have seen the autopsy report —”

  “Then you know as much as we do about what happened.”

  “Well, I’m hoping that’s not the case, actually. I’m hoping there is something else you can tell me —”

  “I reviewed the file. Nowt I can tell you. The man drowned.”

  “No, he died of his fractures.”

  The cop ignored that. “I don’t know how you expect to get any payment for his wee bairns out of that, sad as it is for me to say it.” He didn’t look overly sorrowful over the fate of the Flanagan children. Monty could not imagine his face arranging itself into an expression of mourning for a widow or a houseful of orphans or any other victims of misfortune. But perhaps that was to be expected from someone on the front lines of a bombing and shooting campaign that had taken more than three thousand lives.

  “But, Sergeant, bear with me for a second if you will. Have you any idea what time he fell?”

  “We know he left O’Grady’s bar at ten minutes to one in the morning of Saturday, fourteenth November. The bridge is only a few minutes’ walk from the bar.”

  “I noted in the autopsy report that Mr. Flanagan had a fracture to the front bone of his leg.”

  “Nothing surprising about that, since he’d been on the rattle since arriving at O’Grady’s right after finishing work on the Friday afternoon, and he plunged thirty-five feet down onto the rocks beneath the Ammon Road Bridge.”

  “All the other bony injuries were to the back of his head and body.”

  “You’re looking for somebody who knocked him off the bridge, but that didn’t happen. Only other recourse I see for his wife and his weans is the social services or whatever it’s called now. State assistance.”

  “Eamon Flanagan wasn’t the only person who came to grief that night.” Sergeant Brown stood over Monty like a pillar of stone: silent, expressionless. But Monty persevered. “A man was shot not far from that bridge, and not long before the estimated time of death for Mr. Flanagan. You’re well aware of that, of course.”

  “Aye. We are. How does that play into your accident case, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Collins.”

  “Collins, right.”

  “There are reports of a car in the area.”

  “A car. It’s a public road. Why would there not be a car? Or cars?”

  Monty reminded himself, as he had done so often during his career questioning police officers and other reluctant witnesses, to remain patient and friendly. There was nothing to be gained, and everything to lose, by becoming surly and aggressive. And he was not going to tip his hand about the information he himself possessed, about the Ford Orion with two bullet holes in the back. He was here to obtain information, not give it away.

  “I think Flanagan was the victim of a hit and run.”

  “There’s no evidence of that.”

  “And if there was, you would have looked into it.”

  “Are we funnushed nye, Mr. Collins?”

  “Apparently so.”

  The sergeant gave him a brisk nod and walked away.

  Monty returned to his office. He needed more information about that car. Where to turn now? To somebody right here in the office, one of his fellow solicitors. He went to the open door of Muriel Whiteside and asked if he could have a word. She smiled and invited him in, and he sat down. Monty knew she had a sizeable insurance defence practice.

  “You may be able to help me, Muriel. I’m hoping to trace an unidentified motor vehicle, which may or may not have been involved in an accident over two years ago.”

  “I don’t see any difficulties there. Just let me go down my list of unidentified cars waiting to be identified with accidents that happened in years past.”

  “Yeah, I know. Hopeless, I’m sure.”

  “Anything else you can tell me, or was that it?”

  “No, that was it. Thanks for your time.” He made to get up off his chair, and she laughed.

  “So. What else do you have?”

  “Date, November fourteenth, 1992. Place, the Ammon Road Bridge.”

  “Eamon Flanagan.”

  “Right. I went out there with a Mr. Malone.”

  “Hughie.” She rolled her eyes. “Living proof that porter is a preservative.”

  “He does seem to enjoy a drink. Anyway he took me to a pub out there on the road, and one of the locals had a story about a young fellow who had —”

  “So I’m hearing third-hand information.”

  “Second-hand. I’ve since met with the young fellow himself.”

  “All right. Go on.”

  “This kid was with his girlfriend out in the country in a private spot. They were sharing their love presumably, and a car came speeding into the clearing near them. The young fellow got up to have a look and saw the car. It had been driven way off the road in amongst some trees and bushes. This was the night Eamon Flanagan died.”

  “In the river bed. So why the interest in a car?”

  “Again, it’s a long shot. But Mr. Flanagan had a bunch of fractures to the back of his head and body, and only one in the front. Fractured left tibia. Fragments going inwards. I’ve seen that type of break in pedestrians who’ve been hit by a car.”

  “Yes, I have, too.”

  “So I’m proceeding for now on the notion that it was a hit and run.”

  “If that had been established, the MIB would have paid compensation to the family. The Motor Insurers’ Bureau. Well, you’re likely aware of the Untraced Drivers Agreement, which provides compensation when someone has been struck by an unidentified vehicle.”

  “Yes, but this was deemed to be nothing but a fall from a bridge. Pure accident. The evidence of a car is new. I spoke to the RUC sergeant in charge of the investigation. Didn’t get anywhere with him.”

  “He had no information for you.”

  “For me, no. Whether he had information he wasn’t sharing is another question.”

  “One for which you’ll not be likely to find the answer.”

  “Why would the police not look into a possible connection between the shooting that night, and the possible commotion arising out of that, and the death a few minutes later of a man in the same area?”

  “I think you can answer that for yourself, Monty. One, they think there is no connection. Or, two, they think there may very well be a connection and they don’t want to talk about it.”

  “If it’s the second option, I can’t help wondering why.”

  “Get used to it.”

  That was the kind of thing he had heard from his Republican acquaintances here in Belfast. He had not expected to hear it from Muriel Whiteside in this bastion of the Northern Irish establishment.

  “So,” he said, “this lover’s lane story is the only lead I have. The Ammon Road isn’t the M1 motorway. It’s pretty quiet out
there, so it’s not as if there are hundreds of cars. All the young fellow saw was the rear and side of the car. He recognized it as a Ford Orion, black or dark blue, a few years old. Didn’t take any notice of the tag number. He wasn’t in a position where he could see the front, let alone examine the front bumper for a mark or indentation.”

  “This case isn’t going to fund your retirement, Monty.”

  “No, I’m going to have to take on a second job if things don’t get any better than this. Bartender, parade marshal for the Orange Lodge, handler of a bomb-sniffing dog.”

  “Well, we’ll see if we can help you avoid those career choices. I have a number of insurance people I deal with. Adjusters, claims people. If someone brought a Ford Orion in for repair around that time . . .” She turned and withdrew a couple of file folders from a shelf behind her and put them on the desk. “I could try some of the people listed here.”

  “Something that might stand out in their minds: there were bullet holes in the back end of the car.”

  She pulled the files back towards her. “Bullet holes.”

  “Yeah. And there’s something else.”

  She looked at Monty the way a schoolteacher would look at a particularly exasperating young student. “What else?”

  “Driver pulled a knife on the young fellow and told him to fuck off out of there. And the young fellow did. Makes me think the driver was a little touchy about something. Worried, maybe.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re going to tell me that this additional information . . .”

  “Bullet holes, a knife.”

  “That those additional facts will make it less likely that the owner or operator of said motor vehicle would have gone to his insurance company and made a claim for the repairs.”

  She surprised him then. “Not necessarily. A car with bullet holes and possibly damage to the front end is not something you’d want to be seen with in public. Particularly after a well-publicized shooting. All the more reason to have the damage repaired. But, as you say, perhaps not through official channels such as one’s insurance company. That might tend to attract attention, and raise the amount of future premiums. More likely he’d ask a pal to do the work for cash, somebody in the auto repair business.”

  “What are my chances of tracking down something like that?”

  She laughed.

  He’d have to leave it at that, for now.

  Chapter XII

  Brennan

  Brennan wanted to do some fact checking with his evangelical contact in the United States. It was mid-afternoon on Tuesday in Belfast, morning in the eastern U.S.A. He had just picked up the phone when Ronan came in from a half day’s work at Burke Transport.

  “I’m calling the Reverend Tait in America. Want to check something Brody MacAllan said.”

  “Good. I’ll wait to see what the rev has to tell us. And then I’ll be off to the monastery.”

  “Oh? Are you retreating from the world to take up a life of contemplation and Gregorian chant?”

  “It’s tempting, but no. I’m going to see Father Alec. You must know who I mean, Alec Reid.”

  “Of course.”

  “Why don’t you come along with me? I’ll introduce you.”

  “Great. I’d love to meet him. I’ve only seen him saying Mass. Well, took Communion from him. Hold on a sec while I consult Harold here.”

  He pressed the number and Harold Tait came on the line. They greeted one another, then Brennan said, “There was one thing our man here said about the rally in Tennessee, an incident he recounted, and I wanted to check it with you. He said a fellow in the crowd interrupted Hiram Stockwell at one point and shouted out a complaint about the numbers of Catholics increasing in the United States. Stockwell asked what he meant, and the man expressed alarm at the figures supposedly showing creeping Catholicism in the nation. Not true, of course, but when did that ever matter? And Stockwell came up with a bland reply, trying to smooth the fellow’s feathers and get on with the show.”

  “I don’t know. I certainly don’t remember hearing about it. But it was a long time ago. A minor interruption like that wouldn’t make the news, so I’ll have to ask around.”

  “Great. Thanks, Harold.” Brennan ended the call and turned to Ronan. “Is jacket and tie de rigueur where we’re going, Ronan?”

  “Not at all. You are quite presentable in a shirt and jumper. I only wish I’d seen you in your cowboy get-up or whatever you wore when you met MacAllan in the bar.”

  “It’s as well you missed it. You’d never look at me the same way again.”

  Just as they left the house, it started bucketing rain. Ronan made a beeline for the car, Brennan on his heels. They got in with the driver and another security man, tried to shake some of the water off themselves, and were chauffeured to the meeting.

  “So, what’s the story?” Brennan asked.

  “Father Alec has been the honest broker between me and a couple of other Republicans on the one hand and constitutional Nationalists on the other. The physical force tradition versus the political tradition, you might say. I’m going to have a quick chat with him. Good chance for you to meet a man who will be honoured in the history books in the ages to come.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Brennan gazed out the window as the car passed the Milltown Cemetery on the right and, farther ahead, the Belfast Cemetery on the left. People scurried past the shopfronts on the Falls Road, obscured by black umbrellas. Running off the Falls were side streets lined with brick row houses. Republican murals adorned the gable walls of many of the buildings.

  All was quiet in the car until the driver switched on the radio and a familiar, grating voice blared out at them.

  “Old Saint Nick,” Ronan muttered. “Oh, and he’s got John the Baptist with him.”

  “Saints, is it? Should I fall to my knees?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Father. The pair of them dig with the other foot and wouldn’t appreciate our Romish rituals.”

  “I take it this is the Old Saint Nick I’ve been reading about for years in connection with the conflict here?”

  “It is. Real name, Gideon Sproule.”

  “I’d much rather be known as Old Saint Nick.”

  Anyone who had been following the news coming out of the North of Ireland over the past number of years would recognize the pugnacious white-haired firebrand. Fire and brimstone preacher, fierce Loyalist, staunch Orangeman. This was a man who recited “No surrender” as often and as piously as Brennan recited the “Ave Maria.”

  “And the other fellow?” Brennan asked.

  “John the Baptist is John Archibald Geddes, another minister of the Word who has close ties, shall we say, to the Loyalist paramilitaries.”

  “Right. Geddes. I’ve seen him in the papers, too.” He pictured the man, late forties with bushy dark hair and an intense demeanour.

  “Practically speaking, nothing in the way of a peace agreement, let alone a power-sharing agreement, will see the light of day without the imprimatur of those two.”

  “Just as nothing will be approved on the Republican side without the approval of Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness.”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  Now, on the radio, Old Saint Nick was ranting about, what? Road works? That couldn’t be it. Brennan tuned in to the strident voice, the thick northern accent. “They tell us these works are going to be carried out in the high summer. Why weren’t our people consulted? We don’t want to be marching through potholes and over barricades, but you mark my words: march we will! Nothing will stop our people from taking their rightful place on the streets on the twelfth of July!”

  “What’s this?” Brennan asked. “They’re fretting about street repairs that are scheduled for the summer? They’ve got their knickers in a twist about this in February?”

&
nbsp; “Welcome to my world, Brennan.”

  The preacher was still going on. “And that goes for Donegall Street, too! Major works planned there. The street looked fine to me last time I saw it. That makes me wonder if there’s another agenda here!”

  “What’s he on about now?”

  “Saint Patrick’s church is on Donegall Street.”

  “What does Saint Patrick’s Roman Catholic church have to do with an Orangemen’s march?”

  “Maybe the street repair plan is a giant popish conspiracy. The church is on the Orangemen’s parade route. They march by our church, banging their drums and belting out their songs. If the street is torn up, Saint Nick and his followers may miss out on that moment of inter-faith dialogue.”

  “That moment of rubbing Catholics’ noses in their defeat at the Battle of the Boyne three hundred years ago.”

  “Methinks you’ve caught the spirit of things here, Father Burke.”

  Brennan shook his head and raised a hand to ward off any more lunacy. He’d heard enough.

  The car pulled up beside Clonard Monastery. Brennan had been in the twin-spired church but never in the monastery itself. It was a four-storey building done in red brick with a mansard roof and dormers. The two bodyguards got out first, seemingly oblivious to the rain, and surveyed the area. They nodded to Ronan, who got out and headed into the building, followed by Brennan. They stood together inside the door and were joined by a slight, white-haired priest whom Brennan recognized as Father Alec Reid. Ronan introduced them, and Brennan said he was honoured to meet the man who was putting heart and soul into bringing about a solution to the conflict. Father Alec gave them a friendly greeting in the accent of County Tipperary where he had been raised. He asked about Brennan, his family, and home parish, and said he’d be back in a tick to sit down with Ronan and hear what he had to say.

  A couple of minutes later, Father Alec returned with another man by his side. The fellow appeared to be in his early forties, with thinning light brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He had the look of a scholar. He was introduced as a Methodist minister by the name of Clark Rayburn. “Clark and I have had our chat,” Father Alec said. “Your turn now, Ronan.”