by Joe Joyce
‘Why?’
‘Because his granduncle left him money to go to Trinity College.’
Timmy took another sip of his whiskey. ‘And you believe that?’
Duggan reached for his glass to hold down his irritation. He hadn’t expected this interrogation, hadn’t been prepared for it, and didn’t want it. It was all Nuala’s fault again. ‘I’m sure we could find out one way or the other,’ he said. ‘Aren’t wills public documents? It’d be the same will that left your house to Mrs Bradley, wouldn’t it?’
Timmy’s face went blank and he took out his cigarettes and lit one. He didn’t offer one to Duggan.
‘Look,’ Duggan said. ‘We’ve got to sort this out ourselves. Get Bradley released and put an end to it all. Isn’t that what you want? Keep it in the family.’
‘Or else?’ Timmy glared at him.
‘Or else I’ll have to report it all to my superiors. As soon as possible.’
‘All of it?’ Timmy kept his tone even.
‘Very hard not to. Every bit of it raises more questions until …’ Duggan shrugged.
‘I warned you before this was not a road you wanted to go down.’
‘Yes,’ Duggan lit a cigarette, taking his time to calm his temper. ‘And I talked to my father about that.’
A mixture of surprise and shock crossed Timmy’s face. ‘When?’
‘Yesterday. He told me everything. And he didn’t appreciate your attempt to blame Bradley’s father on him.’
‘I never said that,’ Timmy sounded shocked.
‘Not a road I’d want to go down,’ Duggan threw Timmy’s words back at him.
They lapsed into silence. Duggan let his anger cool and a sense of satisfaction replaced it – he had turned the tables on Timmy. Timmy didn’t know what his father had told him and the prospect had clearly shaken him. There are other things Timmy doesn’t want known, he realized. Things which Timmy thought his father knew. And he was afraid that his father might talk if he angered him. Which explained why Timmy had always treated his father with great care.
Timmy scanned the lounge again: no one was paying them any attention. The pianist played ‘She Moved Through The Fair’ at a leisurely pace and the businessmen across the lobby stood up and began a round of handshaking.
‘I knew you’d be good at this intelligence stuff,’ Timmy said at last. ‘That’s why I got you moved into G2. You like it there?’
Duggan nodded, knowing the threat that was coming.
‘And you’d like to keep doing it?’
Duggan nodded again.
‘You know what I’m saying?’
‘I know what you’re saying. But I don’t want to stay there if it causes an innocent man to be killed.’
Timmy gave a shrug of impatience. ‘There’s no need to be over-dramatic. You’re taken after your mother. At least your father always kept a cool head.’
Nuala sat down at the third side of the table and looked from one to the other, registering the tension.
‘D’you want a cup of tea or something?’ Timmy asked.
She shook her head and they lapsed into silence.
‘Paul,’ Timmy said at last. ‘Would you let me talk to my daughter in private?’
Duggan looked at Nuala who stared at his half finished glass of Guinness. He got up without a word and walked away. In the lobby he asked the porter where he’d find a phone and was directed to a booth in the back of the building. When he got through to Sullivan he asked him if the captain was back.
‘Not yet,’ Sullivan said. ‘Is there a message for him?’
‘No, it’s okay. I’ll talk to him later.’
He left the hotel, not bothering to glance back into the lounge to see if they were talking. He crossed into the park and walked fast around the duck pond to calm his seething anger. What a fucking pair, he thought. At least it made it easier to do what he had to do. He was finished with them now.
‘You did what he asked you to do,’ Gifford shrugged after Duggan had told him about the encounter. ‘You found his daughter.’
‘Yeah,’ Duggan agreed. And found out some things I might’ve been better off not knowing for sure, he thought. But if Timmy was the only reason he was in G2 he didn’t want to be there. ‘But I can’t leave it at that.’
‘Bradley?’
‘Yeah.’
Gifford scratched his head and walked around the edges of the room. He dropped to the floor and did five quick push-ups and jumped to his feet and stretched his shoulders. ‘We need to shoot someone,’ he said.
‘I know who I want to shoot.’
‘That’d stir things up all right.’ Gifford looked like he was considering the idea. ‘Maybe he’ll get Bradley released.’
‘Maybe. But I wouldn’t bet on it.’
‘He’d let them kill him?’ Gifford shook his head.
‘He’s a vindictive fucker. He won’t back down easily. If at all.’
Duggan picked up the phone extension, unable to let it go in spite of his resolution, and asked Sinéad if she could get him a number. ‘Tea’s ready,’ she said before putting him through. ‘If you want to send your batman down for it.’
He told Gifford while he waited for the number to answer. Gifford saluted and left.
‘This is Paul,’ he said when the same woman as before answered the phone. ‘Is Nuala there please?’
‘She’s not back yet.’
‘Could you ask her to call me at this number as soon as she gets in?’ He gave her the number and thanked her.
He stood in the window, watching the treetops bending in the breeze, and glanced over at the Harbusch’s flat. Their windows reflected the milky clouds, as bland and uncommunicative as ever. He wished he could just concentrate on Harbusch and his spy circle but he couldn’t just walk away from the other problem. At least it would all be out of his hands soon.
Gifford came back with a tray and two cups of tea and a plate with two Kimberley biscuits and two Mariettas.
‘Only plain biscuits for you,’ he said, putting the tray down on the chair.
‘Why?’
‘You’re lucky you’re getting any at all. Had to put in a good word for you.’
‘What’d I do?’
‘Ah, culchies,’ Gifford slurped his tea and bit into a Kimberley.
‘What?’ Duggan took the other cup.
‘She thinks you’ve been ignoring her.’
‘What?’
‘Not paying her sufficient attention.’
‘Don’t know how she got that idea.’ Duggan took a plain biscuit.
‘Indeed,’ Gifford smirked. ‘What’s really happened is that you’ve had your eye wiped by a better man.’
‘Hah. You?’
Gifford curtsied before him. ‘We’re going to the pictures tonight.’
Duggan raised his cup to him.
Gifford touched his cup to Duggan’s. ‘I’ll give you lessons in how to deal with women. Starting next week. If you haven’t been transferred back to the bogs by then. And aren’t sitting in a bothán in a cloud of turf smoke describing the amazing sights of the city to open-mouthed yokels.’
The phone rang and Duggan moved to pick it up.
‘It’s Giggler,’ Sinéad said and put Sullivan through before he could say anything.
‘The captain checked in and I told him you were looking for him,’ Sullivan said. ‘He’s got to go down the country and won’t be back till late.’
‘Okay.’
‘If it’s important and urgent he said to report directly to the colonel.’
‘Okay.’
‘Would you like me to make an appointment for you with the colonel?’ Sullivan asked with heavy sarcasm.
‘Jaysus, no.’ Duggan couldn’t imagine trying to tell the colonel about Timmy. It’d be bad enough telling McClure.
‘Yes, sir,’ Sullivan paused. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘What?’
‘My heels clicking. I’m getting into practice for our new
masters.’
‘You don’t need to worry,’ Duggan glanced at Gifford. ‘The Special Branch says we’ll be first on their execution list.’
‘Gifford’s even more full of shite than you,’ Sullivan hung up.
‘Reprieved,’ Duggan told Gifford. ‘Captain’s away until the morning.’
Gifford offered him the Kimberley biscuit. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to keep you hale and happy. So that we can push you lot out into the front line when the parachutists start landing.’
‘Thanks,’ Duggan took the biscuit.
‘Or Hansi bursts out with a Schmeisser in his hands. Followed by Eliza and Kitty. And blows your theory apart.’
‘What’d they do today?’
‘The usual,’ Gifford said. ‘Hansi went into Switzers. Eliza went into the Monument and he met her and they walked home.’
Duggan shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It’s a living,’ Gifford said enigmatically. ‘I hope we never run into one of those Switzers women at a dance or somewhere. We’ll be ruined.’
‘Who’s following Kitty Kelly today?’
‘One of the lads went to Mass with her this morning. But he was pulled away to something else afterwards. That fellow they caught in Dartmouth Square is talking his head off.’
‘Carey?’
‘Not him. He’s a tough guy. The youngest one. Coyle.’
‘Would he know anything about Bradley?’
‘Possibly. But I don’t think we can get to him.’
‘But if you told your guys about Bradley …’ Duggan let the suggestion hang there.
‘You want me to?’
‘I don’t know,’ Duggan threw his hands up. ‘Time’s running out. We’ve got to do something.’
‘You do it first thing tomorrow,’ Gifford said. ‘And I’ll follow up with a report a little later. To make sure everyone knows. Pretend I got it out of you.’
‘Okay,’ Duggan nodded. Twelve hours or so wasn’t going to make much of a difference. There were still a few days left to the end of the month deadline.
He lit a cigarette and wandered over to the window and blew smoke at a pane. ‘So there’s no one watching her,’ he said. ‘Kitty.’
Gifford shrugged. ‘Our lads aren’t that interested. More concerned with the local heroes than anything the Germans are up to.’
‘But she led us to Goertz once already,’ Duggan protested.
‘Your lads are more interested in Goertz than mine. Anyway,’ Gifford smiled, ‘you can stay here and watch. Cover for me while Sinéad breathes sweet nothings in my ear.’
Duggan snorted and glanced at the phone. He still wanted to talk to Nuala, find out what Timmy and she had agreed, if anything. And he had nothing better to do.
Duggan squashed the sodden newspaper into a ball and tossed it into the far corner of the room. He licked the grease and vinegar from the fish and chips off his fingers and dried them on his knees.
He lit a cigarette and picked the Evening Herald from the floor where Gifford had dropped it and straightened the pages and read through the accounts of the French surrender. The war in the west was over, the German high command had announced. Did that mean they were going to leave England alone? And Ireland? Was it a hopeful sign or was it disinformation? You could hope it was true but you couldn’t let yourself believe it.
Outside, the cloud had broken up and the evening sun glanced off the top floors of the houses and touched some of the higher trees. The wind had died and the treetops were still. Down below, the street was empty. All was peace and calm, a sleepy evening fading into the half-night of midsummer. It was difficult to imagine it being torn apart by war.
The building creaked around him, its night sounds beginning to assert themselves in the silence. Sinéad had put the main phone line through to his extension before she and Gifford left. He was still waiting for Nuala to phone, undecided whether it was a good sign or a bad sign that she hadn’t called him back. Probably good, he decided: it meant she didn’t want anything from him anymore. Which probably meant that she and Timmy had sorted out their differences and that he’d get Bradley released. But it’d be nice of her to let him know, one way or the other. Nice, though, was not a word he associated with Nuala.
He noticed the figure shuffling up the other side of the square several moments before he registered who it was. He threw the newspaper on the floor and stood up, pressing against the window to see where she went at the junction. She crossed Mount Street into Fitzwilliam Street and he ran down the stairs and pulled the hall door shut after himself.
He slowed down and turned the corner into Fitzwilliam Street and cursed under his breath. She was only about thirty yards ahead of him on the other side, moving very slowly. He should’ve given her more time. There was no way he could slow down to her crawl without looking suspicious. She can’t be Eliza, he thought. It’s too difficult to walk that slowly unless you have no choice.
He adopted a casual pace and overtook her before she had gone a further twenty yards. He kept looking straight ahead, resisting the urge to try and get a close look at her face, and turned right into Baggot Street. He slowed and went down about half a dozen houses and stepped into the doorway of a building whose half-drawn ground floor blinds said solicitors and commissioners of oaths.
He faced the door, pretending to push at one of the bells beside it, hoping she didn’t turn this way too. She couldn’t help seeing him if she did. There were few people about. He kept glancing back towards the junction, wondering what could be keeping her. Maybe she had gone into one of the houses on Fitzwilliam Street.
She appeared at the corner and he reached towards the bells as he watched. She turned left without looking in his direction and went in the door of Larry Murphy’s pub.
Duggan sauntered towards the pub, willing himself to slow down, give her time to do whatever it was she was doing there. He went by the pub and turned back and took a deep breath and went in.
The bar ran parallel to the street and there was a snug enclosed with wooden and coloured glass walls at the end. A couple of elderly men sat at the centre of the bar staring at pints and smoking. The snug, he thought. He could see the shadow of two heads inside, distorted by the dappled glass. He felt his excitement rise and tried to calm it. She hadn’t come in to buy a little bottle of whiskey or something to take home. She was meeting someone.
What if it was Goertz again? His heart began to pound. What should I do? Try to arrest him? But I’m not armed. And what if Goertz was? Follow him, he decided. Wait for a chance to call in reinforcements.
The elderly barman gave him an enquiring look and Duggan ordered a half pint of Guinness. Two other regulars came in behind him and settled on stools at the bar. The barman started filling two pint glasses for them without asking.
Duggan moved to an empty stool between the first two men and the snug. He could hear a mumble of voices from within but whatever they were saying was drowned by the desultory conversation of the two men at the bar about characters who once lived in some local street.
‘Killed in the Boer War,’ one said. ‘And his brother wounded. Never the same again afterwards.’
One of the figures in the snug knocked on its hatch to the bar. The barman topped off Duggan’s glass and put it in front of him as he went to the serving hatch.
‘Yes sir?’ the barman said.
‘A glass of the lady’s favourite sherry and a small Paddy,’ a man’s voice said.
Duggan’s stomach leapt as he recognised the voice.
Sixteen
Duggan stared at the mottled mirror advertising Kilbeggan whiskey behind the bar and tried to order his thoughts. Various pieces fell into place. The reference in Harbusch’s letters to a new manager, for instance. But was Timmy acting for the IRA? It made sense, explained how he was able to use Billy Ward and his friends to try and find Nuala and catch Bradley. And he shared their aims and their interest in a German victory. Jesus.
He took another small sip of the Guinness, trying to make it last, and lit another cigarette even though his mouth felt as dry as the ash in the tray by his hand.
Had Ward been secretly laughing at him when he threatened to tell the IRA that Ward was working for Timmy? No. He didn’t think so. Ward had given in to their pressure, to their threats to let the IRA know he was freelancing for Timmy. So what did that mean? That Ward didn’t know Timmy was part of the IRA? Which meant that he wasn’t. Or did it? What would a low-level volunteer like Ward know anyway? As much as a low-level lieutenant, he thought.
Duggan left the cigarette on the ashtray and rubbed his face with both hands. He stared at his own reflection above the bottle tops in the dulled mirror and waited.
The two men beside him had moved on to footballers they had seen play for Shamrock Rovers. ‘No one could touch Bob Fullam,’ one said. ‘Give it to Bob,’ the other chuckled, a catch cry of the supporters. ‘A hard man,’ the first said. ‘I remember him well on the docks.’
One of the shadows in the snug stood up and Duggan caught the movement in the corner of his eye as the door opened. He glanced sideways and saw Kitty Kelly emerge and he watched her pass behind him in the mirror. She was huddled into her coat and her features were muffled by the dull mirror. Timmy emerged a half minute later. Duggan turned around on the stool and faced him.
Timmy made no effort to hide his surprise.
‘Another Paddy?’ Duggan offered.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Who was that?’ Duggan nodded towards the door Kitty Kelly had gone out.
‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ Timmy stepped sideways against the bar, his right arm resting on the counter, ‘but she’s the sister of an old comrade. A man who saved my life once. God rest him.’
‘In Cork?’
Timmy gave him an odd look, then raised a finger to the barman and signalled for two drinks.
‘Or in London?’ Duggan kept his eyes focussed on Timmy.
‘Okay,’ Timmy nodded. ‘You know who she is. Kitty Kelly.’
‘She’s not Kitty Kelly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s not Kitty Kelly,’ Duggan repeated.