Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  She had to see Sean, that was clear. As soon as possible. But how? She did not even know his address; and anyway, if the detective had taken the photograph from his flat, Sean could not be staying there any more. If he went there and was caught, he would be in prison.

  Perhaps he was already in prison! The thought made her gasp, like a blow. The Inspector hadn’t actually said they were still looking for him, had he? Perhaps they had already caught him and he was refusing to talk. The thought of Sean, alone in some stone cell, made her shudder. She wrapped a shawl round her shoulders, and strode up and down thinking back frantically over the interview. No, surely he had said the police were anxious to talk to him, something like that? Sean must still be free then.

  Who would know him, to give him a message? Professor O’Connor perhaps, the people from the Gaelic League in Parnell Square. But the classes were closed for Christmas. And anyway, what would she say? The police are after you, they’ve got your photo, please be careful. That was silly, he must know all that already. Perhaps not about the photo, but all the rest. And then - she remembered her blush - that Inspector was no fool. He might be waiting for her to go to Sean, have her followed, so that she would lead the police to him.

  In that case, she must not see him at all.

  But the thought of it was so painful, she dug her fingers into the velvet cushions of the window seat in frustration. She wanted to see him, more than anything else. Not because of the police visit, that just made it more urgent. She wanted to see him for herself.

  5. Radford

  KEE SAT together with Radford and Detective Sergeant Davis in DMP headquarters in Brunswick Street.

  They were in Radford’s office. It was a drab, functional room with a desk, several filing cabinets, and a solid table that was cluttered with papers, dirty teacups, and ashtrays. It was eight o’clock in the evening. The single window, which was slightly open to let out the smoke, looked down on the street two storeys below. The occasional sound of cars, and the clip of hurrying feet or hooves, formed a background to their discussion.

  ‘So that’s it, then, Tom, is it?’ Radford asked. ‘The grocer gave the lad a room and a job, let him take time off whenever he chose, and never asked any questions?’

  ‘That’s what he says.’

  ‘And his other tenant was a model university student, only pausing from his studies to help old ladies cross the road.’

  ‘That’s the boy.’

  Radford sighed. ‘Well, I suppose we could intern him on well-founded suspicion of lying through his teeth, and earn ourselves another half-dozen newspaper articles about police insensitivity. But there’s another lead, you say.’

  ‘Yes. The girl. Catherine O’Connell-Gort.’ Kee pronounced the surname with exaggerated precision, as though it offended him in some way. He got out his notebook, and went carefully through the details of his interview with her. ‘She’s one possible lead to the boy, Brennan. If she is involved with him in some way, she may lead us to him. I think we should put a watch on her.’

  Radford paced up and down, considering the idea. ‘It’s promising, but there are difficulties. First, the boy, Brennan. We can’t prove he was at Ashtown, or even that he’s a Shinner. All we know is that he shared lodgings with Martin Savage, who definitely was there, and that he had a clip of German cartridges in his sock drawer. Well, that might not convince a jury, but it should be enough to intern him for a while, if that’s what we want to do. Then there’s the girl. If anyone ever had the perfect alibi, for God’s sake, she has. She was sitting there, squashed up between her father and Johnny French, when the bullets started flying through the window! You’re not saying she planned it?’

  ‘No, sir, of course not. I just think she’s fond of Brennan.’

  ‘And you base this theory upon a blush?’

  ‘Well, not entirely, sir. Her whole demeanour, more like.’

  Radford stopped pacing and sat on his desk. ‘I don’t know about your experience of the female mind, Tom, but I would have thought the young lady’s ardour - if it ever existed - might have received a rather rapid douche of cold water if she really saw her young Lochinvar chucking a Mills bomb at her head, as you say.’

  Davis laughed. Kee said: ‘She may not have seen him. She may just have believed it was possible he was involved. In which case she might run off in desperation to ask him if it was true.’

  Radford considered this. ‘Possibly. In which case Sod’s Law tells us she’s with him now, while we’re discussing it. But then there’s another thing. Her daddy, as you know, is a fairly important man in Dublin Castle, and in the country generally. Have you thought what I’m going to say to him about this, if she complains she’s being followed everywhere by big men in raincoats?’

  Kee sighed. ‘We stick to the grocer, then.’

  ‘That’s about it, unless you’ve got any more ideas.’ Neither of them had. ‘Right, then, I’m going to get a bite to eat. Dick, can you type this up, as usual?’

  ‘Sir.’ Davis gathered his notes together, and took them into his office. Kee took his coat off the stand by the door. As he was leaving, Radford touched his arm. He pushed the door softly to.

  ‘Sorry about that, Tom,’ he said quietly. ‘It wasn’t such a daft idea as I said. But there are other things we can do. Come on back to the hotel. I’ll buy you a drink.’

  In his office down the corridor, Davis had also closed his door. He sat down at his desk, in front of the big Imperial typewriter. He was a good typist for a policeman, and a meticulous keeper of records. He arranged his notes carefully on the left of the machine, and took paper, carbons and flimsies from the drawers on the right. He arranged these neatly. A top copy for the Assistant Commissioner, Radford; then a carbon; a second copy for the main files kept in this room; then a second carbon; a third copy for Military Intelligence in Dublin Castle.

  Then he added a third sheet of carbon paper, as he always did; and a fourth sheet of flimsy paper.

  He looked at his notes, and began to type. If he wasn’t interrupted, he would be finished in about half an hour.

  Tom Kee was a man of few loyalties, deeply held. His wife, Margaret, was the one he held most dear. Since their marriage he had seldom been away from home for more than a few days, and his transfer to Dublin had caused him much inner distress, because of the separation from her. But they had three sons and a daughter, all at good Protestant schools in Belfast. He wasn’t going to risk their education for anything.

  He had hoped to travel home at weekends, but had only managed it once so far. Some of the greatest miseries of this time were the constant train strikes, encouraged by Sinn Fein as a protest against British rule. The one time he had got home, he had had to wait fifteen hours on Sunday night for the chance to return.

  So he was forced to rely on the telephone. He had had one installed in the house before he left; it was only the second private phone in the street, the engineer had told him, and they had put up a special pole to carry the wires. But it was not very satisfactory. Kee was an undemonstrative man, but he loved his wife deeply, in the way the Bible prescribed. He realized now that he loved the warmth of her, the rich full curves of her body in his arms in bed; and he loved her cheerful efficiency, the way she bossed him and the kids around, so that they dared not be lazy or untidy. And he loved the smell of hot stew or fresh bread when he opened the door of the little terrace house in the evening, despite the irregular, unpredictable hours that he worked. None of that came out of the tinny, crackling voice on the telephone; and Kee could not express his feelings towards her, with the thought of the ever-present ear of the operator on the line.

  So their phone conversations were inhibited, awkward and increasingly irregular.

  His other great loyalty, apart from those to parents, church and Empire, was to William Radford. Indeed, it was only for Radford’s sake that he had agreed to come to Dublin at all.

  If it had not been for Radford, Kee would probably still have been a uniform
ed sergeant, patrolling the Shankill Road on Saturday nights. A docker’s son, he had no connections or influence to help him climb to the top. But ten years ago Radford, then a detective inspector, had recognized some traces of ability in the young sergeant, and encouraged him to take the exams for the CID. He had passed, and had worked with Radford during the war on anti-espionage work. They had foiled two attempts by spies to penetrate Belfast’s naval dockyards, and their mutual respect had grown and lasted. So when Radford had been made Assistant Commissioner of the DMP, with orders to do something about the demoralized G Division, he had asked for Kee to go with him.

  Now they lodged together in the Standard Hotel in Harcourt Street, a few hundred yards from the entrance to Dublin Castle.

  Most of the rest of the clientele were army officers. As the two detectives crossed the dining room to a table in the corner, Kee noted with amusement how several had ostentatiously laid a loaded revolver on the table before them, beside the fish knife.

  Radford waved greetings to one such officer, a much-decorated major with fine handlebar moustaches.

  ‘What’s that for, Tony? Waiters late with the soup again?’

  The Major shook his head. ‘This is a country in rebellion, Bill - don’t you forget it. I remember a chap like you in Simla once. Intelligence officer. Fine fellow, great on the polo field, but refused to believe the natives meant what they said. I had to fish his body out of the river in the end. Nasty business.’

  Radford nodded. ‘I know. I’ll be careful, don’t worry.’

  Kee admired Radford’s assurance. He might be an inspector now, but he wasn’t able to relate to men like these. He lacked their sense of ease, of banter, of worldwide social control.

  Their table was quite secluded, out of casual earshot for the other customers, away from any door or window. To Kee’s surprise it was laid for three. ‘Expecting someone, Bill?’ he asked.

  Radford smiled, and ordered beer. While they waited for it he said: ‘That’s my surprise. The man we’re meeting here tonight is from Military Intelligence. To be precise, that girl’s father.’

  ‘What?’ Kee spilt some beer on the table, and mopped it with a handkerchief.

  ‘I know, he doesn’t sound the type. But he must have more between the ears than he lets on, to be where he is.’

  ‘Perhaps; I haven’t met him. But if he’s in MI, how can he be so daft as to let his daughter run around with the murder gang?’

  ‘You wait till your kids are her age, Tom. They don’t always turn out exactly as you’d hope.’

  Kee frowned. ‘Not my kids. Not a thing like that.’

  Radford took another draught of beer, and smiled. It was the thing he liked most about Tom Kee - his utter reliability. For all his intelligence, he never seemed to have any doubts about what was right and what was wrong. Ambiguity, in Kee’s view, was a disease that afflicted criminals, not the rest of the world.

  ‘I hope not, for your sake, anyway. But here he is.’ Radford pushed back his chair as a tall, grey-haired colonel made his way towards them across the dining room. As he approached, Kee had the impression of an archetypal soldier: tall, high forehead, long nose, a proud, disdainful chin under the bushy Kitchener moustache. Well-cut khaki uniform with a line of medal ribbons, highly polished Sam Browne belt and cavalry boots, cap crushed under his arm. A man who would be at home leading the King’s birthday parade in Phoenix Park, Kee thought; but hopelessly at sea fighting Collins in the back streets of Dublin.

  But when Sir Jonathan shook his hand, Kee noticed the eyes. Hard, cold, grey - paler than those of his daughter, Kee thought: the eyes of a man who was no one’s fool, and would get what he wanted whatever the cost.

  They ordered, and while they were waiting Sir Jonathan asked, crisply, for a report on how far the police had got with the Ashtown incident. Radford told him, giving details of the findings in North Strand. With a warning glance at Kee, he mentioned the interview with Catherine, but omitted his suspicion about her blush. He passed Sean Brennan’s photograph across the table.

  ‘Good,’ said Sir Jonathan. ‘Pity it’s not the negative. But we’ll try and get some kind of copy made for the troops. There’s a young major in the Castle who’s hot on that sort of thing.’

  The soup came. Radford tucked his napkin under his chin, and said: ‘You’re off to London tomorrow, Colonel, I hear?’

  ‘That’s right. Lloyd George is presenting his bill, and he’ll want up-to-date information on the situation here. That’s one reason why I want to talk to you chaps.’ He sipped his soup, and dabbed thoughtfully at his moustache with a napkin. ‘You’ve both been in post for over a month now. What’s your candid opinion of the ability of the DMP to get to grips with this terror?’

  Radford sighed. ‘Unfortunately, sir, not high.’

  ‘There are a few leads,’ said Kee loyally.

  ‘But not many, Tom. Our problem, Colonel, is that half the experienced Dublin officers, with all their local knowledge and contacts, are dead, and the rest are clinging to their mothers’ skirts in fear. In addition to which, I don’t know how, I have the impression that Collins knows everything we decide to do five minutes after we’ve decided it. So I hardly dare trust anyone. In short, the whole of the effective official police force opposed to Collins is sitting right here at this table.’

  Kee said: ‘There’s Davis, too, surely?’

  ‘I hope so. He works hard, I’ll give him that. But I’ve only known him a few weeks. You and me, Tom, we’ve been together a long time.’

  Kee shrugged. He didn’t like running down his force, even an adopted one, before a soldier, but the truth was inescapable.

  Sir Jonathan glanced from one to the other. ‘Anyway, whether it’s two or three doesn’t make much difference. I get your drift. It’s you two against half the city.’

  ‘Right.’ They waited while the waiter brought the main course. Kee glanced around the room. Through the open door of the dining room he could see several men in civilian clothes come off the street into the foyer. The loaded revolvers beside the soup plates began to seem more of a comfort than an eccentricity.

  Sir Jonathan resumed. ‘Well, that’s pretty bleak, but it’s truthful. And the fact is we’re dealing with a major political conspiracy here. A threat to destabilize the whole country, by murder if necessary. Agreed?’

  Radford nodded. Kee began to eat his food, gloomily. He wondered where all this was leading.

  ‘And you, as the established police force, are in no position to deal with it. You agree to that too?’

  ‘At the moment,’ Radford said. ‘But if we could just get hold of the ringleaders, the thing would change entirely. There can’t be more than five or six at the very top. Put them behind bars and their organization would start to fall apart, and morale in the force would rise. Those men who are just serving out time at the moment would start to put their backs into the job again.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Sir Jonathan waved his knife emphatically. ‘And as far as I can see there are two ways to do it. Martial law and a curfew would help, and Johnny French has asked for that again. But even if the fools in the Cabinet give it to him, it’ll only help if we can lay our hands on these beggars, Collins especially. And to do that, it seems to me, we must fight them at their own game.’

  Kee sipped his beer thoughtfully and said: ‘What do you mean by that, Colonel?’

  The clear grey eyes stared at him coldly. I wouldn’t have liked to be up before you for a disciplinary charge, Kee thought.

  ‘What I mean, Detective Inspector, is that when the country is being destabilized by a group of armed thugs who have reduced the police force to a cipher and have attempted to murder the Viceroy himself, it’s time we sought out men skilled enough in the same arts of spying and assassination to fight back.’

  There was a silence. The conversation in the main dining room seemed to have fallen, but it was unlikely that anyone could have heard them. Kee noted with relief that the group of men in
the entrance hall seemed to have gone.

  Radford said: ‘You mean we should run agents, like we did in Belfast during the war. I agree, but it will take time to set up. We can’t tap into the local network yet, because it’s all corrupt or terrified. And if we brought in an outsider he’d stand out like a sore thumb. You’d find him lying in a gutter somewhere with a cardboard sign round his neck.’

  ‘Maybe. It’ll take guts, I agree to that,’ Sir Jonathan said. ‘But what alternative have we got? Damn it, man, my own daughter was in that car as well. She’d have been lying in the gutter, too, if those scum had succeeded.’

  The waiter cleared their plates again, and brought the dessert. Radford met Kee’s eyes across the table. He said: ‘In principle you’re right, Sir Jonathan. If Military Intelligence can find us such men, then it’s our duty to cooperate with them, though what help we can give, I’m not sure. We could provide support if called on, and channel information from G Division, to give them an idea of the layout.’

  Kee snorted. ‘I’ll write the information on a postage stamp.’

  Radford smiled. A Kee joke was something rare enough to be savoured. ‘Your handwriting must have improved, Tom. Don’t forget there’s all that stuff Davis keeps so carefully in those files. There must be something useful there.’

  ‘Two postage stamps then. But that’s not the point.’ Kee put down his spoon carefully and looked Sir Jonathan firmly in the eye. ‘You said we should seek out men who are good at spying, Colonel, and I fully agree to that. We’ll give them all the help we can. But assassination is another matter. As a policeman I’ve spent all my adult life upholding the rule of law in a Christian country, and that’s how I intend to continue. Secret murder, even of Sinn Feiners, is a thing I’ll have nothing to do with.’