by Kevin Doyle
They got out and walked a short distance to an excavated area. There was a heap of gravel that was overrun with weeds. Noelie saw two people in dust suits. One checked that they had permission to continue. They were given the go-ahead. Noelie saw a body lying on the ground; it was covered. Byrne approached and squatted. He followed. She pulled the sheet back and Keogh’s dead eyes looked at them. He was staring sideways like something had caught his attention at the last moment. There was a single bullet hole in his forehead and a rat jammed into his mouth. Noelie had never seen someone who had been shot at close range before. The bullet hole was neat. Some blood had crusted on the wound’s perimeter. The rat had been stuffed in tail first so that that its head and bared teeth faced them. It was an ugly sight.
‘Found this morning. Forensics reckon he’s been dead five hours or so.’
‘So in the early hours.’
She nodded. ‘They lost no time.’
Noelie stared at the corpse. He had very mixed feelings. He knew Keogh would’ve killed him and Meabh. He also knew that he had killed Hannah. As if that was not enough he was also an abuser. Yet this end didn’t feel satisfactory.
‘The Provos are crude.’
‘You’re sure it was them?’
Byrne looked at Noelie. ‘This is their trademark treatment for informants and touts.’
‘Except that anyone could’ve done that.’
She shrugged. ‘I guess.’
Noelie caught a whiff of urine and wondered if it was from the corpse. He looked around. It was bleak and isolated, not the sort of place he would fancy being dragged to in the middle of the night. As an informer, Keogh must have known that this was how things might end for him. Thinking about it, Noelie reckoned that Keogh must’ve lived with this outcome as a real prospect for quite a long time. One word in the wrong ear and it was always going to be over for him. And yet he had come across as calm. On the two occasions they met Noelie recalled a relaxed figure, someone sure of himself. Had he made peace with his role or was it that he was aware of his value and the protection that it afforded him? On reflection Noelie could acknowledge what a huge asset Keogh was. Having a reliable informant inside Sinn Féin over the decades must have been invaluable. Keogh was intelligent too and above suspicion. With the remit that he had, he would’ve been able to glean a significant amount of useful information about the inner workings of the party and its relationship with the IRA over a very long time. When austerity hit, his position within the party would have been even more useful. There was real concern in some quarters about any Sinn Féin involvement in the government in the South. Their occasional flirtation with Marxist ideas made them the ultimate ogre in some quarters, particularly with a section of conservative Ireland, which for the most part kept itself out of public view.
A garda came towards them. He was clearly an officer even though he was kitted out in tactical garda wear. Byrne stood to say hello and introduced Noelie to Superintendent Kenny. Noelie shook the cop’s hand. He was younger than Noelie and had that emaciated appearance that distance runners often have. He enquired about Noelie’s injuries and how Meabh was.
Noelie put out his injured hand. ‘I always wanted a good manicure,’ he said. No one smiled.
Kenny asked if he could have a private word with Noelie.
‘I’ll wait in the car,’ said Byrne.
He walked away and Noelie followed him past a mound of bitumen into a section of yard where a rusting silo was leaning precariously to one side. Turning eventually he faced Noelie.
‘It will come out tonight or tomorrow about Father Boran and the Keogh identity. With what’s happened, with this execution, it has become possible. We want to draw a line under this entire affair. Senior garda management are shocked by what they have learned. As long as Keogh was alive, it wasn’t possible to fully investigate this entire business but now that’s going to happen. If anyone has hidden evidence of any crimes or obstructed justice you can be assured they will be held to account.’
He told Noelie that he had also just been apprised of the statement made by James Irwin alleging the murder of three men in the Glen Park area in 1970. It was his intention to appoint an investigating officer to examine all aspects of these claims and to establish if there were links between those events and the matter of Father Boran’s identity.
‘Mr Irwin is of the view that Albert Donnelly is at the centre of this. We are also concerned about the presence of Mr Teland at the Donnelly property over a number of years. Everything will now be investigated, which leads me on to what I want to ask you. We’d like to view the film you claim to have. Even if you don’t want to hand over the original at least allow us to see a copy.’
Noelie wasn’t surprised by the request. Decision time was fast approaching and Branch needed to work out their exposure. It was likely that they hadn’t seen the film in decades. It could well have been edited or even altered in the interim. They needed to know what they should be afraid of.
Refusing to cooperate could be dangerous. Noelie could be done for obstruction of justice and he was in plenty of trouble already. There was only one other option.
‘There’s just the one copy now and that’s with Wikileaks,’ he lied. ‘I couldn’t retrieve it for you even if I wanted to. See, we entered into a contract with Wikileaks to the effect that they would hold a copy until we instructed them to make it public.’ He frowned. ‘I imagine you have been informed of other developments. We have instructed Wikileaks to publish the film in its entirely tonight at 2 a.m. unless the Dalton family are informed where Jim Dalton’s remains are.’
‘What have Jim Dalton’s remains to do with this?’ Kenny asked coldly. ‘We are looking into crimes that took place in the sixties. That is what we’re investigating. We need to view the film.’
‘It’s out of my hands,’ said Noelie shrugging again. ‘I’d love to help but I can’t. On the other hand, if as you say Jim Dalton has nothing whatsoever to do with all of this, then you’ll be able to see the film tonight anyway at 2 a.m. Along with the entire world.’
Kenny’s stare was icy. ‘This is a criminal matter and you are deliberately compromising the investigation. I repeat: I’d like to see the film.’
A garda jeep entered the yard and turned noisily on the gravel. Noelie was glad of the interruption and watched the vehicle. Eventually he looked at Kenny again.
‘I think you need to understand something. I’d like to help and I’ll try to but the truth is I don’t trust the gardaí. Whether it was officially sanctioned or the work of some rogue element, members of your organisation engaged in a criminal cover-up and also killed to cover up their cover-up.’ Noelie hesitated. There was a lump in his throat and his anger over Hannah was raw. ‘My best friend was murdered. Now I know for a fact that we were being watched from around Bonfire Night onwards by a part of the intelligence community. Meanwhile, Hannah was entrapped into attending a bogus meeting using a manufactured Facebook identity. I believe it was known by the security services that she was going to her death that day. People in your organisation allowed her to be killed.’
Kenny’s expression didn’t change. He took a cap from his back pocket and unfolded it slowly and meticulously. ‘I was warned about your mindset, Mr Sullivan. It will be your downfall.’
Kenny walked away and Noelie watched him go. Sometimes when you said things out loud, they became more real and that had just happened for Noelie He realised now that he would most likely never get justice for Hannah and that those who had sat back as she went to meet her murderer, who had perhaps facilitated all of that, would never be called to account. These people were protected and beyond reach. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t try, that he wouldn’t cause as much trouble as possible. No way he would ever forget what had happened to Hannah.
At the car, Noelie found Byrne leaning against the bonnet, taking in the sunshine.
‘So how was that for you?’
‘We’re no longer drinking buddies.’
Byrne smiled. ‘A word of advice: don’t underestimate him. He’s a former Ranger, the new breed.’
Noelie was surprised to hear of Kenny’s pedigree. The Rangers were the elite army counter-terrorist unit.
‘It’s a new initiative. The force is stagnating – or haven’t you heard? The word cross-fertilisation has been used. And no funny jokes about that please. Back to Cork?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
They chatted on the return journey. Byrne told Noelie that there were still no leads regarding Albert’s whereabouts. Interpol had been alerted to look for him. In his statement Noelie had mentioned the threat to take their bodies out to sea on the night of the confrontation at Church Bay. Byrne said they had looked into this but so far they hadn’t been able to identify any vessels in the area that had been acting suspiciously. Noelie wondered. Keogh had implied that there was something untouchable about Albert. How much of an effort was really being made?
As they arrived back in Cork, the detective mentioned that Inspector Lynch was taking early retirement.
‘Nice. Hauling a fine fat bonus with him too, no doubt.’
Byrne nodded. ‘Correct. With the austerity squeeze, there are lucrative packages on offer, particularly to senior level officers. Considering that his stock has also fallen, it’s a good outcome for all concerned.’
‘At the last place I worked they liked to use the term a “win-win” situation a lot. Is that what we’re talking about?’
‘In one.’
‘Is it any wonder I’m so cynical?’
‘So the new man is Kenny. He’ll be deciding how the Cronin case is pursued and if they’re going to go after you too. So I hope you haven’t pissed him off already.’
Noelie laughed. ‘They won’t be going after me. Over Cronin? The Keystone Cops would’ve done better. The entire business reeks of a fit-up.’
‘Except the Director of Public Prosecutions may not see it like that. There’s the poker and there are forensics from your car too. That’s evidence.’ Byrne pulled in on Washington Street. ‘I’m not trying to bother you, Noel. Just be careful is all.’
He nodded. ‘Speaking of unsolved crimes. My punk records were stolen again. Last week. I guess I should put that in the pot too and make a new report.’
Byrne smiled. ‘Touché.’
46
Albert was sitting on a bench under some bougainvillea in the monastery at Čapljina in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Travelling as Father James Burke, he had crossed the border into Northern Ireland and flown from Belfast to Stansted and onto Dubrovnik where he was collected and allocated a room at the retreat.
He had been helping in the garden when he was handed the note with the short account of Father Brian’s death. Tears came to his eyes. It was a sad end to their long and arduous journey together.
The messenger had not stayed as there was a practice of silence and solitude at the monastery during daylight hours. Albert kneeled, put the piece of paper in his pocket and said the ‘Our Father’. Afterwards he went over to the central fountain around which the quadrants of the garden were arranged. It was peaceful.
They used to say about each other that they were chosen men. Born into institutions, uncertain of their origins, they had both been singled out for special treatment.
It took them a while to appreciate their similarities; in particular how isolated each of them was. In time they became very close and came to see themselves as siblings of a special type.
They met when Father Brian was in his first year as a novitiate; he was seventeen then and Albert twenty-one; the year was 1959. Father Brian had come to the Ballyvolane farm with Albert’s oldest brother, Father Tony. By then Tony was a rising figure at Danesfort. He had seen the opportunity of free labour for the family farm at Ballyvolane; it was struggling because of Old Donnelly’s alcoholism.
That first meeting with Father Brian happened at a particularly important time for Albert. He was finally taking the lead at the farm and was being viewed by his brothers – Tony and Robert – as the one most likely to carry on the family’s farming tradition. Long denied legitimacy by Old Donnelly, this role brought him a measure of acceptance. But he harboured only hate and anger for Old Donnelly and for his brothers who had watched his ritual humiliation over many years and who had done nothing to help him.
Father Brian was an elegant, striking young man whose physical beauty was often remarked upon. An abandoned baby, he had been placed into the care of the Rosminians and offered the advantage of a special education. He was held up as an example of a soul whom the Rosminians had rescued from a debauched sinful parentage. He was being transformed and would in time become an officer in God’s army, charged with doing his good works around the world.
It was a narrative familiar to Albert. In Spain, at the moment of his birth, he had become the property of a religious organisation, Deum Fidem, which believed that the worst sins of heathenism could only be extinguished by a strict Catholic upbringing. Albert was given to Old Donnelly to be his third son, to be turned into a faithful Catholic. But it hadn’t worked out that way.
One day he found Father Brian in one of the outlying sheds at the Donnelly farm with one of the Danesfort boys. Albert had already formed a bond with Father Brian. He liked him and understood him. He saw in Father Brian’s situation a way out of his loneliness. He would protect the young novitiate. The remote farmstead was perfect and Albert would be in charge one day.
Now it was over. Albert did not want to dwell on Father Brian’s end. He had been expecting such an outcome and knew it was inevitable. He felt empty inside, a feeling that he was unfamiliar and uncomfortable with. He had escaped and he was happy at the monastery – a lot happier than he ever expected to be; it was perfect in many ways – but he was finding it difficult not to do battle with the mistakes he had made; with the threat that Sullivan and the Sugrue woman represented. Over the years he had learnt to be meticulous, dedicated and ruthless. It was an approach that had brought peace and calm to everyone; to himself too. Now this had happened. The future was no longer under his control. He had let everyone down. Perhaps he was weakening? Perhaps it was age or arrogance? These thoughts unsettled him even more.
It was peaceful here, the fountain of water calming. Then he heard a voice, quoting the apostle Paul. It was unmistakably Father Brian, clear and distinct. ‘In my flesh, I am filling up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ on behalf of his body, which is the church.’ Albert and Father Brian had argued many times about those words, about their precise meaning, on those occasions when they had walked together around the Lough in Cork. It had been claimed by some that Paul was being heretical by suggesting that his suffering was equal to that of Jesus; he was at the time a prisoner of the Romans and drained of hope. But Father Brian never agreed with that interpretation. He believed that the apostle was coming to an understanding that persecution and misery could be the greatest offering to God. It was salvific and would lead to renewal.
It was clear then to Albert; he was being offered guidance. He put his hands in the fountain’s cold water and drew them up to his face. It felt good. They were not finished: Father Brian had left this earth but he had not left Albert. He spoke then, in reply, into the bright sunshine, in bold defiance of the monastery rule, ‘I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep.’
47
There was no one at Hannah’s apartment. Noelie went over to the sofa and sat down, his eyes falling on a large wall print that Hannah had brought back from one of her trips to Australia. It was of a sunset at Kakadu National Park in the Northern Territory.
Noelie didn’t know what he was going to do. A couple of months ago he had been struggling with boredom and where he was going in his life. Should he emigrate again? What could he work at? Hannah had planted the idea of going back to college. He had been thinking about it.
These were real worries but now they felt insignificant. He had become caught up in something s
o dark and serious that it had led to the death of his best friend. It was no surprise that terrible things had gone on in the past. Every other year there was some new revelation. If it wasn’t to do with a particular Catholic diocese, it was about a mother and baby home or a Magdalene Laundry. But he had never expected to end up at the centre of something that was so ugly. He had uncovered a number of serious crimes that had damaged the lives of lots of people, including his. He just couldn’t walk away.
He decided to get out of the apartment for a while. Walking along Washington Street, in the direction of the university, he veered right at the main campus gates and went towards the river and Fitzgerald Park. Passing the bust of Michael Collins he finally arrived at the river, which was at full tide. He sat on the riverbank. Llanes was just across the way.
He understood a lot more now: there were two crimes not one. The first centred around the identity of Brian Boru and initially involved Robert Donnelly. Later on, Special Branch with the assistance of other arms of Irish intelligence and, quite possibly, Britain’s MI5 had taken control of the mole. In exchange for turning informer and giving information on the inner workings of Sinn Féin, Father Boran’s past crimes were covered up; Boran was also given protection and a new identity as Keogh. As Tommy Keogh, Boran had evolved into a highly valued informer. Over almost four decades his handlers did everything possible to keep his identity a secret. Dalton, Sugrue, Hannah and Cronin had all been killed because of him.
Noelie believed that Keogh’s execution was the result of Branch’s assessment that his role as an informer was no longer viable; it was safer to close him down. An orderly retreat from the entire mess was now underway; this would be managed and choreographed with the able assistance of the usual sources in the media.
The second set of crimes centred around the organised abuse of boys at the Donnelly farm. It wasn’t clear for how long this activity had gone on, nor was it clear who and how many men were involved. In fact the only proof that these crimes had taken place at all was the double-8 film that they had found. They were living at a time when more and more victims of historic abuse crimes were coming forward, but no one had come forward about the Donnelly farm.