by John Brady
“An opportunity to grow in faith and commitment once the dark night is past?”
“You seem to know the tune well.”
“Humph. They haven’t changed much in that department, anyway. You know they come in for criticism, even from inside the Church?”
“No I didn’t,” Minogue replied. “I thought they were just very religious.”
“ ‘Just’ is right. There’s the charge of brainwashing against them. The way they recruit was the subject of some criticism a few years ago but it seems to have died down. They are very good at recruiting high-minded young people to throw in their lot with them. The initiates are usually very driven types of young men, very sincere, very conscientious and very clever… clever isn’t everything, is it?… the way only young adults can be, before the world announces itself to them in earnest. Hmm. This would be a chat to pass the time, though, if it weren’t for the context: Billy Fine’s boy.”
“Indeed,” said Minogue. “It was a cold-blooded murder. Savage. I want the killer very badly indeed, and I have less patience as the days go by.”
“That I noticed earlier in the afternoon. Let me ask you, now, what do you think is really going on here?”
“Like I said at the meeting, I’m beginning to think that the murder had something to do with Opus Dei. A youngster has come forward, a boy who had a glimpse of a man who may be the killer. He said the man looked like a copper. You know how it is with kids.”
Tynan nodded. “They tend to be a problem in so far as they see things a bit too clearly for our liking. But the claim about the fringe group and the Palestinians?”
“Sergeant Gallagher in the Branch has been banging his head on that one. He’s still interviewing but so far he has nothing to lead us with.”
“It’s a cover-up?”
“It might be and it might not. Just because the killer didn’t look like an Arab to the young lad who’s shaping up to be an excellent witness, that doesn’t mean…”
Minogue stopped when he saw Tynan nodding his head.
“We believe that Brian Kelly was also murdered and that the forensic will confirm that soon enough. So with those facts, we’re starting off with this line of investigation.”
“And Kelly was looking to talk to you one night late?”
“He was; we tape the calls to the help-line. We have the sense that Brian Kelly knew something about Paul Fine. I believe he may have arranged to meet Paul Fine just before Paul Fine was murdered.”
“Did Kelly kill Paul Fine?”
“No. He didn’t match the description we have off that sharp young lad. There’s a snapshot of Kelly on its way out to the boy’s home so that we can be positive of this.”
Tynan looked down into his cup. “The other alternative seems to be that Kelly was killed for the same reason that Paul Fine was killed, and perhaps by the same person or persons,” he said.
“Tell me why,” said Minogue.
“Kelly gives Fine some information. Kelly has some troubles with Opus Dei.”
“Thanks,” Minogue said archly. “Now I know how Jimmy Kilmartin feels when it’s me talking like that.”
“Doesn’t work very well when you don’t have evidence and facts, does it?” Tynan said quietly.
“I just can’t see religious people getting up to this mayhem,” said Minogue. “That stops me in my tracks, too.”
“All right, so. The gist of what’s bringing me here is this. I happen to know that Opus Dei has changed over the past few years. The whole character of the organization has changed and so has its membership in Ireland. I know this because I have a personal interest in it. I also know that there are serving members of the Gardai in Opus Dei. You may remember what General O’Tuaime said in the meeting,” said Tynan ambiguously.
“That the issue of Army members belonging to confraternities has come up before, but that it’s of no consequence?”
“Yes. Opus Dei has been around since the ’30s. It was a product of the ’30s in many ways, when people looked to the Soviet Union and began to get the shivers. Fascism as a counter to Bolshevism, and that sort of mania. Opus Dei never really got near the goal of having a broad base of membership here in Ireland. That’s what they realized not too long ago, so the emphasis was put less on recruiting big numbers of young men and more on using the ones they had already, using them more efficiently to do the apostolic work. Quality, not quantity became the by-word for them. I was approached several years ago by a certain party, unnamed, a senior Garda officer. He’s retired now. At one of those get-togethers in the Clarence Hotel, you can imagine. A few jars after the speeches, and we got down to the real business of gossip and character assassination. I’m sure that a goodly number of people know that I was once well on the way to being a priest and this man did. He suggested to me in the friendliest way-two Gardai having a jar and gabbing-that it would do me no harm if I were to resuscitate an interest in lay apostolic work. I caught on immediately that he meant Opus Dei. If it had been the Knights of Columbus, he would have said so. ‘No harm’ meant to my career, of course.”
Tynan’s eyes had taken on a frosty glint.
“This was 1971 when there were deaths every night in the North. The Provos were full of Marxist rhetoric and there was a feeling that anything could happen. I didn’t tell him that as regards resuscitating this interest he might as well be asking me to raise the dead. That’s none of anyone’s business, inside the job or outside of it, except my own. Don’t bother trying to think back as to who’s senior and who’s retired now: he was a harmless fellow, really. With me, you see, and the priestly calling, he would have assumed that once in, I was never ‘really’ out. It’s like being seduced, I suppose. He saw five years in a seminary on my card, and he saw what he wanted.”
Was Tynan a pagan too, Minogue wondered. Tynan flicked a glance beyond Minogue as though to address an unseen audience.
“I was told that as a bit of helpful advice. Naturally, as I’m married and the rest of it, I couldn’t aspire to the heights of being a Numerary or even an Associate in Opus Dei. My would-be mentor would have known that anyway. What he was saying, I decided, was that someone, some people who mattered in the Gardai, were involved with Opus Dei, even in a minor way. If I was to join, I’d be one of the boys.”
“Are we waiting to use the word ‘conspiracy’ but it sounds too dramatic?”
“Could be. I have no idea if it went anywhere beyond being a few people motivated by piety and a bit of nationalism. I simply said to myself that one day I’d find out more about this. I had put it on hold, and almost forgotten about it.”
“When you say ‘people who mattered’, do you mean someone senior to you at the time?”
“I was a Chief Super, working in Sligo then. There were three ranks above me. Assistant Comm, Deputy Comm, and the man himself, God Almighty.”
Seven in total, Minogue estimated. The noise of Bewley’s began to get in on him now. He was dimly aware of some backstage movements but he couldn’t focus on them while he had Tynan across the table from him. He watched him finish his coffee. Was he trying to get him tangled up in some messy speculation that could turn out badly? Why would Tynan confide in him like this instead of monitoring the investigation at a distance?
“If you’re trying to remember who was in those posts then and where they are now, give yourself a rest. I’ll tell you. DC1 was there then, and he’s still there. God Almighty used to be DC1 before Quinn. There’s only one of us four Assistant Comms who was at that rank back then. But that’s not the point, because we’re not on a witch-hunt, and I’ll tell you why before you get the spyscopes out. You know that Supers and Chief Supers have a lot to say indirectly in who gets promoted above them. In my case, other Chief Supers at the time would have been discreetly asked: ‘Is that Tynan worth the money?’ or ‘Can you work with Tynan?’ They even ask Supers and Inspectors, to see how they feel about their masters and their future masters. Not in so many words, of course, but their remarks are noted. So for a
ny of these Opus Dei men to help a fellow along in his career, they wouldn’t have to be the dogs with loudest barks in the house.”
Was that how he talked to Roberta after a day’s work, talking about the Commissioner as God Almighty or the dog with the loudest bark?
“What I’m saying is this: you should bear in mind that I am interested in what facts might emerge from your investigation that’d tell me about Opus Dei. I told you they’re a different organization now, but that doesn’t mean they’re killers, at all. If there’s a one per cent chance that there was any Garda involvement in the Fine murder, I want to know about it on the spot.”
So this was it, Minogue realized. Tynan was asking that he, Minogue, report to him as well. He was hinting that he need not report more than he needed to Kilmartin and the Commissioner because they wouldn’t have the interest to follow up the consequences in-house.
“I’ve started a search of the files, but frankly I don’t expect to be able to find the information you need, we need, on them,” said Tynan. “A lot of the men keep their religion to themselves, me included. You know yourself that there are plenty of people to laugh at the Holy Joes these days. It’ll be the same story with your General O’Tuaime and his files too, I’d guess.”
He was right, Minogue’s sinking stomach repeated: the same would be true of the Army. The worm burrowed more vigorously into his belly now. If Tynan was nothing else, he was blunt.
“And you don’t need to underline the big gaps in all this either,” said Tynan. Minogue returned his gaze.
“What was so important that Paul Fine, and perhaps Brian Kelly, were on to that would cause people to kill them?” Tynan concluded.
They rose to leave. A distracted Minogue sensed that Tynan’s end to the conversation well matched his decisive moves as he strode away from the table. He was like a player walking away from a chess game which was suddenly over. Suddenly over for the loser, that was, who hadn’t seen the checkmate coming.
“I asked the two I met out in the Opus Dei house in Churchtown for a list of their members who might have been acquainted with Brian Kelly, you know,” Minogue said, as they made for the front door on to Westmoreland Street.
“You did, did you,” Tynan said with what could have been a smile, had it lived. “And what did you get?”
“A priest by the name of Heher told me he’d be happy to write to Rome on my behalf. Permission has to come from there, he says.”
“And what did you think about that?” Tynan asked as he stopped inside the door.
“I thought of trying to get a court order and cause a big commotion. I take a dim view of people thinking they may or may not decide to help the Gardai with information in a murder case.”
“The collar didn’t frighten you?”
“Heher was dressed in his civvies. I’m not afraid of being sent to hell for impertinence: it’s an honourable sin in this country.”
Tynan’s smile was almost reincarnated but it was his eyebrows only which registered the amusement now.
“You certainly deserve your reputation.” He held up one hand. “And don’t ask me to explain that remark any further. It’d be more than my job is worth to see you trying to argue the toss with a judge trying to get such a court order, much less enforce it. Tell me, do you think this Heher knew you were bluffing about this?”
“He might have. There wasn’t a thing to incriminate them at all in the Fine murder, I have to say. But I want to get to talk to others in that house, ones who might have known Kelly from when he stayed there too.”
Tynan scratched his chin lightly. “Let me work on that this evening. I’ll see what I can do, at least as regards getting to see the people in this house.”
“It’ll save me walking through the door on them this evening. I was planning to do just that,” said Minogue.
“Hold your fire for a moment, Minogue. We’ll see what five years in the seminary thirty years ago can get done, in these pagan times we’re living in.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Had Minogue not been brooding, he would have paid more attention to the time. He had briefed the Commissioner with a lengthy telephone call, and the Commissioner told Minogue in reply that, if asked by a reporter, he would dodge any reference to a link between the deaths of Brian Kelly and Paul Fine. What was more, the Commissioner told him, only if Opus Dei was mentioned by someone else-and it wouldn’t be, would it? — would he admit that Brian Kelly was associated with that organization. Minogue agreed that this was ‘good policy’.
In the trough after coffee, Minogue returned to the work of trying to accompany Paul Fine through the last days of his life. Hoey asked him if he wanted tea.
“No thanks. After you get yours, would you come back here and pretend you’re somebody else?”
“How do you mean? Do I get to pick who I’d like to be?”
“I’ll be Paul Fine. You’ll be the all-seeing eye. You can explain everything that goes on, all right?”
Hoey blinked and lit a cigarette. “I don’t want tea meself.”
Neither Muses nor gods visit policemen. This is particularly true in Ireland because there is but one God there and the Irish Muses are dispersed over many areas and minds. There is a lot of work for both the Muses and God to do on the island, and policemen do not have preferential treatment. So some Garda detectives called their inspirator Murphy, Murphy being a construct born of, and fed by, the detective’s hunger for facts to help him solve the problem at hand. Murphy is inserted into criminal situations, and knowledge is attributed to him: it is then a matter of interrogating Murphy to see what has happened, what will happen. Minogue did not need Murphy; he chose Hoey and himself to do the work.
“Right. It’s Saturday. I’m in the National Library. I’m reading up on Opus Dei. I am a Jew and I don’t know anything about Opus Dei. I spend a good part of the day reading. Do I make notes?”
“Well, it’s…”
“Do I or don’t I?”
“You don’t,” Hoey blurted.
“Why don’t I?”
“Because you’re reading for pleasure. It’s the weekend.”
“Or because…?”
“Or because it’s your first look at the subject and you’re getting an overall picture: you don’t care about details yet. That’s the way they train you in the university.”
“All right, so. Why am I reading up on a crowd of religious people like this?”
“There might be a story in it.”
“Why am I in the National Library?”
“You don’t like to be at work on a Saturday.”
“That’s all? I could be doing a better search over at the television offices, RTE.”
“Maybe you like to operate on the quiet. Maybe it’s a story you want to keep to yourself.”
“Because I want to make a name for myself?”
“Yes. You’re a nice lad, but Fitz doubts that you’re gritty enough for the real thing, whatever that might be.”
“Good. I’m sitting on something, keeping it to myself for the moment. I’ll land it dramatically on Fitz’s desk and I’ll be the cat’s pyjamas then, won’t I? I’ll have proved I can do the grind.”
“That’s right.”
“Who or what put me on to this possible story? Why amn’t I doing a story on the history of the cocker spaniel?”
“Kelly. Brian Kelly,” said Hoey with assurance. “He phoned you.”
“Why did he phone me?”
Hoey’s confidence collapsed. “It’s impo-”
“It’s because he knows I’m a reporter, a journalist.”
Hoey frowned. “Why you? I mean…”
“Exactly,” said Minogue. “He knows that I work on a programme with Mickey Fitz, the man that knocks holy statues off their pedestals.”
“But why not Fitz himself, or other hard-chaw journalists? I mean, you’re-Paul Fine, like-you’re not the ideal choice. Matter of fact,” Hoey smiled nervously now, “you’re a bit of a pussycat, aren�
��t you?”
“I am,” said Minogue. “I’m far from being the hit-man that Fitz is.”
“Definitely,” Hoey smiled broadly. “You’re too soft, entirely.”
“Good, Shea. Because I’m a Jew, I’m circumspect about matters religious. I’m not a bawler or a brawler like the homegrown quasi-Christians.”
Hoey warmed to his role again. “In actual fact you being a Jew, you probably never even heard of-”
“Exactly, Shea!” Minogue clapped his hands together. “Brian Kelly phoned me because I am a Jew!”
“But Opus Dei; they’re our crowd,” said Hoey in a slightly aggrieved tone. “And what’s to Opus Dei that makes a story out of them? I know that Kelly was a bit of a backslider but what would he have to tell Paul, I mean you?”
“Maybe a story about the hold that Opus Dei has on its members. The way they recruit members. Maybe Brian Kelly is soured on the organization.”
“But they’re Holy Joes. The worst they might do is dress up in women’s clothes and whip themselves.”
Minogue swivelled around in his chair. Eilis was now standing behind Hoey. Hoey followed Minogue’s eyes, craning his neck and twisting to look up at Eilis, who looked down at him with her more sceptical expression.
“Excuse me now if I’m interrupting your plans for your weekend,” she said to Hoey. She turned to Minogue. “DC Tynan would want to be talking to you.”
Minogue listened to Tynan’s brief message.
“Half-past seven? I should pick you up, so. Are you sure I need to be there?”
He thought he heard Tynan snort faintly. “Unless you’re planning to react in some untoward way to the presence of His Eminence,” said Tynan.
“Jimmy Kilmartin, I was thinking…?”
“The Archbishop asked for you by name. He knew you were in charge of the case. Tell James, by all means, but it’s you that His Eminence wants to see, as much as myself.”
Minogue wondered if Kathleen would believe him when he got around to telling her. She might regard it as a conversion. He turned back to Hoey.
“Let’s go on a bit. We were getting somewhere. I’m Paul Fine and I have Brian Kelly wanting to tell me something.”