Echoland

by Joe Joyce

  Gifford gave him a questioning look but Duggan pretended not to see it. ‘Were you in their flat for the search?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, you’ve read the file,’ Gifford said.

  ‘At last. They gave it to me.’

  ‘I’m sure it didn’t say what really happened.’

  ‘It said nothing suspicious was found.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Gifford laughed. ‘It was a right fuck-up.’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘No. I was the runner.’ Gifford saw the question coming and explained. ‘Hansi and Eliza were on one of their shopping and banking sprees. And my job was to run back ahead of them when they were coming home. To alert the lads who were breaking and entering.’

  ‘Breaking and entering?’ Duggan said. ‘Wasn’t there a search warrant?’

  Gifford looked at him like he was a bit slow. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘the genius who was supposed to pick the lock couldn’t get it open. The other fellows with him were all gathered around the door, cursing and swearing. Making such a racket that this old fellow who lives downstairs put his head up the stairwell and threatened to call the guards. One of them had to go down and explain they were the forces of law and order. Scared the bejaysus out of him. They were only in the place about five minutes when I got there, telling them to get the hell out.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Duggan shook his head.

  ‘Then the genius with the locks couldn’t lock the door. I don’t know if he ever got it locked properly. We were out just before the lovely couple waltzed around the corner. Went scurrying into Mount Street. Looking as guilty as sin.’

  ‘So it wasn’t much of a search?’

  ‘They wouldn’t have found anything incriminating unless there’d been a big signed picture of Adolf on the wall saying, Hansi, I love you, you are my number one best spy.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘And don’t start getting all superior,’ Gifford warned. ‘There are stories I could tell you about your fellows.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Duggan said without conviction. ‘But it means that the place hasn’t been searched. And Hansi knows someone was there.’

  ‘Probably. I doubt our man got the door locked. He said he did, nobody believed him.’

  ‘I suppose he knows he’s being watched anyway,’ Duggan suggested.

  ‘An exhibitionist if you ask me. The way he parades Eliza around.’ Gifford gave him a sly look. ‘And writes dirty letters.’

  The thought struck Duggan, why were there no love letters from Hans to the woman in Amsterdam? Did he not write to her? Then why would she keep writing to him? There weren’t any references in her letters to any from him, he realized. They were just a one-sided lovelorn yearning. ‘Does everybody know about these letters?’ he asked.

  Gifford nodded. ‘We lead such unexciting lives. A file with sex in it is gold dust.’

  ‘You haven’t read them?’

  ‘We don’t get to see such things. Too busy with the local patriots. And trying to do your dirty work, of course.’

  ‘They’re not very exciting,’ Duggan said. ‘Funny rather than dirty.’

  ‘Do tell.’

  Duggan tried to remember some of the phrases but couldn’t get their strange phrasing. ‘They’re just romantic stuff but the English is a bit odd. Makes them funny. I’ll bring you a sample.’

  ‘Something to look forward to,’ Gifford rubbed his hands and changed tack. ‘What happened yesterday that makes you think Hansi went out?’

  Duggan looked at him, unable to dodge the direct question. ‘He posted a letter,’ he said. Maybe somebody else was writing the letter in Hans’s name, he thought. No. That’s getting too complicated.

  ‘Ah,’ Gifford nodded. ‘You think he slipped out while I was having a piss. Or something.’

  ‘No,’ Duggan lied.

  ‘He could’ve gone out while I was otherwise engaged,’ Gifford conceded. ‘But I didn’t see him come back either. Chances of me not looking when he was going and coming are a bit less, I think.’

  ‘Maybe we should have another look. See if there’s some other way out of there.’

  ‘Have a look around the back,’ Gifford suggested. ‘He could be crossing into a neighbour’s garden and coming out their back gate.’

  ‘We should really have somebody around there all the time.’

  ‘Hansi’s not a priority. Unless that’s changed.’

  ‘No,’ Duggan said. ‘Only if some link with Brandy emerges.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Gifford said. ‘The pace of things has speeded up. Always a bad sign. For us in the lazy brigade. Not you, of course.’

  ‘I’ll have a look around the back,’ Duggan said. ‘I’ve got to go up to Mount Street anyway.’

  ‘You could sit on your bike there for a while,’ Gifford suggested. ‘Pretend to mend a puncture. A slow puncture.’

  ‘Great idea,’ Duggan tried to give him a sarcastic look. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘By the way,’ Gifford said, ‘I should have some information about your cousin later.’

  Duggan cycled through the archway on Mount Street that lead behind the Merrion Square houses and braked on the incline to slow himself to a minimum. He counted the backs of the houses to Hans’s and looked at the second floor windows: they were as bland as the milky sky, whether with blinds or reflection wasn’t clear. The back wall was overgrown with greenery which drooped over into the lane. A weathered door, its paint peeling, looked as if it hadn’t opened for years. He freewheeled by and stood on the pedals to see if he could see anything inside but the walls were too high.

  He went on through the archway onto Lower Mount Street and sped up down the road to the nurses’ home. The doorman gave him a look that said you’re not fooling me when he asked for Stella Maloney. ‘Up for the day again,’ he sneered. ‘Cycled all the way this time.’

  ‘Please,’ Duggan said. ‘It’s important. Family business.’

  The doorman went away with a snort of scepticism that said he knew what kind of family business Duggan had in mind.

  Stella appeared in uniform a few minutes later, nodded to Duggan and walked by him. He followed her and they turned towards the canal and crossed the road to its bank. Two boys were fishing a little farther up, their corks still on the surface, broken here and there with tiny ripples from some underwater activity. Stella stopped and turned to him, folding her arms in a defensive gesture. ‘I’ve told you all I know,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve seen the ransom note,’ he said.

  She stared at him, looking from one eye to the other.

  ‘We need to put a stop to this before it goes any further. Gets out of hand.’

  She shook her head from side to side, still staring at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve seen the ransom note,’ he repeated. ‘And the second one threatening to tell her mother.’

  ‘What ransom note?’ Her face twisted into a squint-eyed question. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Her father got a note saying she was being held hostage. Demanding five thousand pounds,’ he said, watching her reactions.

  ‘She’s been kidnapped?’ Her astonishment seemed genuine. ‘Nuala?’

  ‘Well,’ Duggan began, trying to phrase this the best way, ‘she appears to have been kidnapped. But I don’t think she has been.’

  ‘She,’ Stella began, ‘she’s been kidnapped but she hasn’t been?’

  Duggan took out his packet of Sweet Afton and offered her one. She shook her head and kept her eyes on him while he lit a cigarette.

  ‘She’s pretending to have been kidnapped,’ he turned a little to one side to blow a stream of smoke away from her face. ‘To give her father a hard time.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ she finally broke her stare. ‘Raving mad.’

  ‘I understand her wanting to give her father a hard time,’ he said. ‘And I can certainly sympathise with that. I really can. But we’ve got to call it off before it goes any further.’

 
She turned a full circle and fixed her eyes on his again. ‘What d’you mean? Goes further?’

  ‘Sends a ransom note to her mother. Upsets her. And,’ he added, ‘Timmy calls in the guards.’

  ‘My God.’ She put a hand to her neck and dropped her chin on it. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘You didn’t know about this?’

  She looked up at him and shook her head and he believed her. He took a deep drag on the cigarette and said in an even tone, ‘You didn’t tell me everything yesterday.’

  She dropped her head and rubbed her eyes. ‘Nuala’s gone to England,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘Is she in trouble?’

  ‘Why does everyone assume she’s pregnant?’ she shot back, her tone full of sudden anger.

  ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘She’s not,’ Stella snapped. She took a few steps away and stared at the canal. Up the bank one of the boys had started to jerk his fishing line, bored with the unmoving cork. If Nuala’s in England someone else is sending the letters, Duggan thought. Either another accomplice, or someone else altogether. Someone who knew about her movements. Or someone who had really kidnapped her. He dropped his cigarette butt into the reeds at the water’s edge.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. But now you understand why I’m worried.’

  ‘What do you do?’ she asked, not looking at him. ‘In the army?’

  ‘Me? I’m attached to headquarters. Just a messenger boy really. Carrying files around.’

  She gave no sign that she had heard. He waited.

  ‘Nuala’s been very restless for a while. All year, really. Decided she wanted a change. Try her luck in London. There’s lots of jobs there.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ he asked, thinking of the photo of Nuala with that guy at a dinner dance in the Metropole. Richie something.

  ‘Just bored. Restless. You know.’ She shrugged.

  ‘When did she go?’

  ‘About three weeks ago. I was supposed to go out to Dun Laoghaire to see her off on the boat. But I was called back into work. Fill in for someone who was sick.’

  ‘Did she go on her own?’

  Stella nodded.

  ‘Have you heard from her since?’

  ‘No. She was to write to me when she got settled in.’

  Shit, Duggan thought. Maybe she really has been kidnapped. ‘Anybody else heard from her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anyone else who would’ve heard from her.’

  ‘What about that guy she was with at the Metropole?’

  ‘That wasn’t serious. Over a long time ago.’

  ‘What about the other guy? Jim?’

  ‘Jim Bradley?’ She paused. ‘I’m not sure. She wouldn’t talk about him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t mean she wouldn’t talk about him. I mean she didn’t encourage any chat about him.’

  What does that mean? Duggan wondered. ‘Was he her boyfriend?’ He corrected himself, realizing he was talking about her in the past tense. ‘Is he?’

  Stella sighed like it was a deep philosophical question. ‘They’re good friends. I don’t know beyond that.’

  ‘Where would I find him?’

  ‘He’s a student in Trinity College. Doing law.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘In there. In the college. The place they call Botany Bay.’

  ‘Do you know the number or …?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Did she tell anyone else she was going?’

  ‘I don’t know. She made me promise not to tell anyone.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged. ‘She didn’t want a fuss. Just wanted to go off for a few months. See how it worked out.’

  ‘And she didn’t tell her mother? Her sisters?’

  ‘I assumed she did.’ She looked at him. ‘She didn’t?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Duggan said, wondering if it was possible and they hadn’t told Timmy. ‘Her father doesn’t know.’

  ‘Don’t tell him,’ she said. ‘You said yesterday you wouldn’t tell him if I told you.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ he sighed. ‘I didn’t know yesterday that he’d got a ransom demand.’

  ‘When did he get it?’

  ‘Last week. And another one this week.’

  ‘Posted here?’

  He nodded. ‘I saw the envelopes.’

  They stood in silence for a moment. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said.

  ‘Do you think she’s in danger?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe. Maybe it’s a confidence trick. Someone who knows she’s gone away secretly.’

  ‘Who would do that?’

  ‘Somebody she fell out with. Is there anybody like that?’

  ‘Not that I know.’

  ‘Any old boyfriend? Someone who might turn nasty?’

  They fell silent again for a moment and then she began walking back to the nurses’ home. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said as he fell into step beside her. She nodded. ‘Why did you show me her flat yesterday?’

  ‘Because you asked me to,’ she said in surprise.

  ‘Was there something there I was supposed to see?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Duggan wasn’t too sure what he meant, just a suspicion that now seemed unfair. ‘Why didn’t you tell me then that she’d gone to London?’

  ‘Because she swore me to secrecy.’

  They reached his bicycle before the door of the nurses’ home and he stopped.

  ‘Let me know if you find out anything,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  He nodded. ‘Is it still a secret? London?’

  ‘Oh God, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Do what you think is best. In Nuala’s interest. Not anybody else’s.’

  Back in Merrion Square he left his bicycle in its usual spot. There was no sound of any activity from inside the park; the work seemed to have finished. He wondered idly who the shelter was for, just the residents of the square or anyone. He crossed the road and went into the building and asked Sinéad if there was a telephone he could use.

  ‘The boardroom is empty at the moment,’ she said, pointing to a door off her office. It was dominated by a large rectangular table, polished to a reflective brown, lined by ten chairs with padded brown leather. The telephone was on a side table beside a door into the hallway. He had to go back and borrow Sinéad’s phonebook to get the number for Leinster House.

  ‘What’s the news?’ Timmy greeted him.

  ‘Nothing much, I’m afraid,’ Duggan said. ‘I haven’t got anywhere yet. But I was thinking it might be a good idea to put that ad in the paper.’

  There was a pause at Timmy’s end. ‘Might it now?’ he said at last.

  ‘Just in case. To give us more time.’

  ‘More time,’ Timmy repeated.

  ‘Yeah,’ Duggan said. ‘To try and find out what’s going on.’

  There was another long pause.

  ‘It can be hard to get a job done properly,’ Timmy said with a sigh. Then he came to life suddenly. ‘Thought that fucker’d never leave the room. You haven’t found her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you think we should put the ad in the paper?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘To give us more time?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We’ll see. Maybe nothing’ll happen.’

  ‘Putting the ad in means I’ll pay the money.’

  Jesus, Duggan thought, he’s only concerned about the money. ‘Not necessarily. If this keeps going on you’ll have to call in the guards anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll call her bluff with the ad,’ Timmy told himself. ‘Good idea.’

  That wasn’t what Duggan had had in mind, but he said nothing.

  ‘Good man,’ Timmy went on. ‘You’ll do it for me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Put in the
ad. You can’t have me going into a newspaper office asking to put an ad in the paper thanking Our Lady of Perpetual Succour,’ Timmy laughed. ‘Jaysus. If anyone saw me, I’d be ruined.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll have time,’ Duggan said. ‘Things are very busy …’

  ‘This fucking country,’ Timmy interrupted him, ‘jailing good patriots and letting fellows who should be shot walk the streets.’

  ‘That’s why …’

  ‘And not just walking the streets. In the guards and army too.’ Timmy took a deep breath, as if he was addressing a public meeting. ‘I said it at the time. We should’ve abolished both of them when we got in. Started from scratch again. With the right people.’

  ‘Okay,’ Duggan said. ‘What’s the wording again?’

  ‘I’ll put it in an envelope. Leave it at the front gate of Leinster House for you.’

  ‘I’ll be there in five minutes,’ Duggan said angrily, expecting Timmy to ask for more time.

  ‘Good man yourself,’ Timmy said. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’

  Duggan slammed down the phone and left the room, muttering curses. Being treated like a dogsbody by Timmy. As if he had nothing else to do. He was going to end up in trouble with all this running around over Nuala. Sinéad looked up from her desk and sat back at the look on his face. ‘If you see him,’ Duggan pointed upstairs, ‘tell him I’ll be back.’ He was out the door before she could tell him Gifford had gone out too. He crossed the road, jumped on his bicycle and pedalled with venom towards Leinster House. If Timmy’s message isn’t there when I get around to Kildare Street, he can fuck off and do it himself, he thought.

  To his surprise, there was an envelope waiting for him when he got to the Dáil. He thanked the usher who gave it to him, got back on his bicycle, and tore it open. A pound note almost fell out as he unfolded the paper. The surprisingly childlike handwriting said, ‘Thanks to Our Lady of Perpetual Succour for prayers answered – You’re a great lad altogether’. Timmy had dropped his initials from the text of the ad; there was nothing in the envelope to identify him.

  He put it in his pocket and cycled down Kildare Street and was about to swing into Nassau Street when Hans and Eliza Harbusch crossed the road in front of him, hand in hand, ignoring the little traffic there was. He braked to let them by and looked back towards Merrion Square. Gifford was walking towards him, waving.