To Keep a Bird Singing

by Kevin Doyle

  Cronin appeared. He was wearing light chinos and another of those argyle golf jumpers.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said.

  ‘I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Become more talkative, have we?’

  ‘I found what was in the record collection – I found the Sugrue statement.’

  Cronin didn’t move, his expression didn’t change either. ‘So now you’re in as deep as everyone else. Congratulations.’

  ‘My nephew’s missing. Since yesterday afternoon. Is it connected to this?’

  Cronin smirked. ‘See what I mean.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Do you know where he is?’

  The security boss shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’

  Noelie went nearer, to the foot of the steps. ‘He’s just a kid. Take the records, take the statement if it’s so important to you. I couldn’t care less.’

  ‘Too late. I’ve had visitors. Because of you and your big mouth. My lock-ups, the three I had at Dillon’s Cross, were cleaned out yesterday morning. Special Branch. They took everything. So it’s over for me now.’ Cronin continued looking at Noelie. There was a pitying expression on his face. ‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’

  Noelie didn’t understand. ‘Explain then.’

  ‘Why? I don’t give a fuck about you. You shouldn’t have meddled. Look where it’s got you, coming down here acting the smartarse.’

  ‘I never asked to get involved in this. I just wanted to know how you got my records.’

  Cronin put his hands in his pockets and turned to go.

  ‘Were you blackmailing Lynch, is that it?

  Cronin faced Noelie again. ‘It’s a lot bigger than that and a lot nastier.’

  Noelie stared. He didn’t like what he was hearing. The woman suddenly reappeared in the doorway. Noelie figured she must be Cronin’s wife. She had a dog on a leash, a pit bull. It snarled viciously.

  ‘Where’s my nephew?’ he asked again.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who does then?’ Noelie hesitated. ‘Is Shane going missing connected to this, to whatever this is about?’

  ‘You better hope not.’

  Noelie pursed his lips. ‘Give me a name, give me something.’

  Cronin shook his head.

  ‘Who is Brian Boru?’

  Cronin’s expression darkened. He looked surprised. ‘I’ll give you one piece of advice. Forget that name.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Push this and you’ll end up lying in a ditch.’

  The pit bull snarled. It wanted to attack but Noelie didn’t move. ‘I can’t do that. Not when my nephew’s missing. Who is Brian Boru?’

  Cronin shook his head despairingly. ‘Ajax Dineen said you were a fool. He was right.’

  Noelie nodded to the suitcases. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘On a holiday. Security isn’t what it used to be.’

  ‘Give me a name. Please.’

  ‘You’re already way out of your depth. If I was you I’d go to the nearest church and pray that none of that crowd has taken your nephew. That’s what I’d do. You’ve fucked up, Noel.’

  ‘Who are you talking about? What crowd?’

  Cronin’s wife stooped to release the dog. Noelie retreated. He just managed to get out and close the gate behind him. The dog lunged anyway and the metal gate shook from the impact.

  Noelie watched Cronin turn and say something to his wife. She was on her phone again. They went inside and closed the front door.

  9

  Hannah Hegarty’s desk was tucked away in a corner at the offices of the Cork Voice. She was Noelie’s best friend and an old college buddy.

  ‘The bad penny is back.’

  She hardly looked up. ‘Find yourself a seat. There is one somewhere. I just need to finish this.’

  The only chair was covered with brochures. Noelie picked up a glossy promo for the Marquee, the city’s pop-up summertime music venue. He glanced at the line-up and put it away again. Music and entertainment were the last things on his mind.

  Hannah eventually paused and swivelled her chair in his direction. She wore a black muslin scarf around her neck and through her reddish hair.

  ‘You don’t look so good.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  She put out her hands and he rose to hug her. ‘I’m sorry for being a prick,’ he said.

  ‘Forget it, I–’

  ‘I’ve a big mouth.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said what I said.’

  A week earlier they had had a minor falling-out – Noelie’s fault. He had dissected an article Hannah had written for the Voice – a pen portrait of a local politician. The Voice was a freebie and a fair amount of its journalism was less than rigorous. He hadn’t held back. Hannah had been pissed off and hurt.

  She stood. ‘Let’s get coffee. As you know, we have the highest quality beans here.’

  She led him along a wide, brightly lit corridor. They were good friends, old friends too. At college, aeons back, they had gone out together. Two dates in total and it hadn’t worked. Amazingly they had stayed on good terms. In a way, getting the romantic stuff out of the way was the making of them. Over the years they had gone their own ways but they had always stayed in contact. Now the two of them, unmarried and a lot older, felt like survivors from another era.

  They reached the coffee area. It was makeshift but cosy. Hannah dropped coins into a paper cup and took the two instant coffees she’d made to a table beside a large window. The view was of a busy crossroads. On the other side were more flat-roofed buildings, all of them once part of Cork’s Dunlop Tyre factory.

  They watched the traffic coming and going. Eventually Hannah prompted Noelie. ‘So?’

  ‘I’m in trouble. Not me precisely, not yet anyway.’

  He described what had happened since finding his record collection. He got to the Sugrue statement and gave her a brief summary. He finished with the news about Shane. ‘I can’t help thinking that Shane’s disappearance might be connected to all of this. But that seems crazy. I’m worried about that statement though. I don’t know what to think.’

  Hannah knew Noelie’s sister well enough and got on with her. She’d met Shane once or twice as well and agreed that the lack of contact from him was worrying.

  He told Hannah about the break-in and about the damage that had been done at his place. ‘Someone’s very annoyed, that’s clear.’

  Hannah asked to see the Sugrue statement. ‘Jesus,’ she said when she finished reading it.

  ‘I’ve checked up on Jim Dalton. It’s all legit.’ He explained that he had gone to an internet cafe. Jim Dalton was listed on a number of missing persons sites. One entry included a mugshot of Dalton and a contact number for his wife, Ethel Dalton. He continued, ‘January gone marked the twentieth anniversary of his disappearance. The family held a press conference. There’s a YouTube video of the entire thing. The Daltons are adamant that he’s not in any witness protection scheme and that he isn’t – and never was – an informer. Basically, they’re still looking for him.’

  Hannah said she had some contacts that she could talk to about Jim Dalton. She asked Noelie how much he knew about Sugrue and why he had written the statement. He admitted he knew very little about the man or his motives.

  ‘This statement claims that Dalton was murdered, correct? By the gardaí too?’

  Noelie nodded.

  ‘So you must be thinking what I’m thinking. Like, oh fuck.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m thinking.’

  Hannah read the statement again. ‘He’s remorseful, Sugrue I mean, isn’t he?’

  ‘I guess.’

  A woman appeared and helped herself to a coffee. She looked youngish, pretty. Hannah said hello to her.

  ‘The boss.’

  Noelie looked again. ‘She’s just a kid.’

  ‘That’s how it is.’

  Hann
ah had worked for a long time for one of the big papers in Cork. She was close to making staff when the internet happened. It was a bad blow. For the present it was the Cork Voice and any other freelance gigs she could get. She lowered her voice. ‘She’s actually okay. Got politics, a feminist. Always banging on about pro-choice stuff.’

  ‘How bad.’

  Hannah was thinking. ‘Look, if there was some connection, I mean between Shane’s disappearance and you finding this document, surely they’d make contact?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘But no one has?’

  Noelie shook his head. ‘There’s been nothing at all.’ He told Hannah about his exchange with Cronin.

  ‘You better hope “that crowd” doesn’t have him, he said.’

  Hannah frowned. ‘Crowd, meaning …?’ Noelie shook his head. ‘The IRA? Is that what he meant?’

  Noelie conceded it was possible. A crowd could be an organisation. It was certainly something organised. He put his head in his hands. ‘What have I got Shane mixed up in?’

  Hannah looked concerned. Noelie watched her read the Sugrue statement again.

  ‘Should I tell Ellen?’

  Hannah thought about this. She knew Noelie’s relationship with his sister wasn’t great.

  ‘If you had something to go on, something that would back up the possibility, I’d say yes, but you don’t. Right now there’s nothing.’

  There was silence again.

  ‘The Dalton case is real, Hannah.’

  ‘You said that already.’

  ‘Sorry. What I mean is, what should I do? About the statement, about what it’s saying?’

  ‘Go to the guards?’

  They both saw the joke and laughed. Noelie realised how much better he felt having talked things through with Hannah. He reached over and took her hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Really.’

  Hannah glanced at her boss. ‘You’re giving her ideas.’

  ‘So what.’ Noelie squeezed her hand again. After a pause, he asked, ‘Should I go to the Daltons, give them this information?’

  They were interrupted by someone looking for Hannah. She signalled that she’d be right there. They put their cups in the bin and walked slowly. As they did, Noelie told her the Daltons’ address; it was off Cathedral Road, not far away as the crow flies.

  ‘You’re still not sure I should go?’

  ‘Once you tell the Daltons, they’ll go public. I mean they probably need to. But it will also mean a shit storm. Alleging the gardaí murdered an innocent man. You know how the cops are viewed in this city? Like gods.’

  ‘Except it’s one of their own that’s saying it.’

  He reminded her about what Cronin had said about Branch cleaning out the Dillon’s Cross lock-ups. ‘I’m thinking there are people after this information right now. If I don’t do something soon, what’s to stop them coming after me again?’

  Hannah nodded this time. ‘I see your point. Call the family so, see what they say.’

  Outside, Noelie called Ellen first. In the few seconds that he was waiting for her to pick up, he hoped like he had never hoped before. But the tone of Ellen’s voice alone was his answer. He could hardly hear her speak. ‘Nothing,’ she said, adding after a pause that she was doing a ‘Missing’ poster on the computer. They were going to make a hundred copies and put them up around the area immediately. She put down the phone without another word.

  10

  Cathedral Road was the main artery through Cork’s working-class heartland of Gurranabraher. The Catholic cathedral was at the bottom of the hill. Noelie pulled in at the corner with Casement Avenue. The Dalton house was one in from the intersection: modest and well maintained.

  After talking to his sister, he had called the Daltons. Mrs Dalton answered. He explained who he was and that he had information about her husband. Prolonged silence followed. Then a different voice came on the line, younger and female. Who was he? Where was he from? Was this genuine? Noelie answered each question calmly. After another long silence he was told to come over.

  A young man – one of the Dalton sons or so Noelie guessed, there were no introductions – answered the front door.

  ‘You the man who called my mother?’

  Noelie said he was. He was warned that his visit had better not be any kind of a hoax. If it was, Noelie would pay.

  After that he was shown into the front room. Ethel Dalton was waiting for him. She stood immediately and came towards him. She was older than Noelie, in her late fifties. She looked pale.

  A polished black piano dominated the space. On the lid sat a large framed half-portrait of a man in a dress suit. From the internet mugshot Noelie figured it was Jim Dalton – dark hair and big eyes; a slight build of a man. Arranged around the main picture was a collection of smaller framed photographs. Some were of family gatherings; one showed Jim Dalton as part of a jazz ensemble.

  Ethel Dalton spoke. ‘My Jim’s been seen in San Francisco, in Oklahoma too. He was working in Brisbane for a while. Then in Aberdeen, in Scotland that is, on the rigs. We’ve heard everything, just so you know.’

  The son chipped in, ‘Understand?’

  ‘Took a new life, left us, is what they say. Or he was gay. We’ve heard also that he was having an affair and that he just ran off with his lover. Another story is that if he had stayed in Cork, the IRA’s nut squad was going to have him. So, the story goes, he was one of the lucky ones – he got out before it was too late. Served the Free State lackeys and took his winnings. So, just to repeat, just so as you know, we’ve heard it all before.’

  Noelie hadn’t mentioned the statement on the phone; he had just said that he had information. Seeing Ethel Dalton made up his mind for him. She looked and sounded exhausted. He believed she was genuine.

  Unzipping his canvas jacket he took out the statement. ‘I’ll show you what I found. It’s up to you then.’

  Ethel Dalton looked Noelie in the eye.

  ‘My Jim was an orphan. The one thing he craved in life was family. We were it, we were his family. There’s four of us left. Me, my son and my two daughters. We all know he’d never leave us, not willingly anyway. So I’ve never cared about what they were saying, about any nut squad or any Free State winnings. I know my Jim.’

  Noelie unfolded the document. As he did the door opened and a young woman came in. Her hair was cut short, shaved on one side.

  ‘Hello Mam,’ she said to her mother as she scrutinised Noelie. Unexpectedly she put her hand out to shake Noelie’s.

  ‘If you want to know how I came by this,’ he said, ‘I’m happy to tell you. But suffice to say that I didn’t know anything about who your husband was until I read it. So I have no idea if it’s the truth or if it even makes sense to you. It’s not pleasant reading.’

  Mrs Dalton took the document and sat. There was silence in the room. Noelie asked if he could wait in the hall. They could call him when they were done.

  The Dalton house reminded him of his old family home. It was well looked after. There was a little table with a phone just inside the front door. There were lots of photos and pictures on the walls. A quartet of silver framed photographs drew his attention. Noelie recognised Pádraig Pearse, James Connolly, Joseph Plunkett and Austin Clarke – four of the 1916 Easter Rising leaders executed by the British. Beside them was a wooden carving of a traumatised male face. An inscription read ‘Long Kesh Concentration Camp, 1980’.

  The door opened.

  ‘Mam wants a word again.’

  Ethel Dalton was standing. When she saw Noelie she stretched out her arms and took his hands.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Her eyes were filled with tears.

  The daughter took her mother’s arm. They walked to the piano. Ethel Dalton lifted the portrait of her husband and held it close before giving it a kiss. She placed it face down on the piano.

  ‘It’s over,’ she said.

  11

  Noelie rooted in his inside pocket for the photo of Ajax Dineen.
He called the number scrawled on the side. Inspector Lynch answered immediately.

  ‘Recognise who this is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Noel Sullivan.’

  There was a pause. ‘I was wondering where you had got to.’

  ‘Wonder no more. How’s it all going?’

  ‘As you’re asking, I’ll be calling later. Your warrant’s ready.’

  ‘Thought I’d spare you the expense and the trouble.’

  ‘You’ll bring in the records?’

  Noelie guffawed. ‘No, I found what was in them.’ He enjoyed the silence that followed. ‘The name Jim Dalton ring a bell?’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘Considering that you killed him, accidentally on purpose of course, I’m thinking you might just remember. On the other hand, I am of the view that you’re a callous fucker, so maybe not.’

  They agreed to meet at the Imperial Hotel. There was a cafe at the front. Noelie knew it would be busy. He felt sure Lynch wouldn’t try anything in a public place. Noelie went home first. On Douglas Street, he examined the window display in Solidarity Books. When he didn’t see anyone or anything suspicious around he crossed the street to his front door and entered.

  There was no reply at Martin’s; he was probably still at work. Upstairs, he checked all the rooms in his flat again. There weren’t any surprises but it looked worse. He cursed whoever it was who had trashed his place.

  The front door no longer functioned so he barricaded it shut from the inside using a chair. Emerging from a long, much-needed shower, he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. He was of thin build, with a long face that he had never been wild about; his mother’s side of the family. At least he had all his hair, although it was quite grey now. Hannah had suggested he get it dyed. ‘Just don’t do it yourself,’ she advised, ‘get a professional.’ But he didn’t like the idea.

  He noticed his hill-walking gear. Since being made unemployed he had taken it up as a regular activity. It kept him sane and he tried to get away at least once a fortnight. Sometimes he went on his own, other times he went with a group from his last job. He would have liked to have gone right there and then but he needed to stay put.