by M J Lee
Her father had always teased her about it, saying it was just the product of an overzealous imagination. But the moments had remained, still occurring, even when she was in the police.
She remembered going to the scene of one particularly grizzly killing in Moss Side. One minute she was standing at the entrance to the door, SOCO officers walking past her dressed in their white coveralls, the next she was watching and hearing the man attack his wife with a butcher's knife. The blood spurting across the wall, her cries for mercy, his snarls, the grating noise as the knife cut through the skull, snagging on some bone, and his breathless grunts as he tried to pull it out.
It was as if she were with him in the room at the same time as the crimes were committed. Even stranger, when the pathologist produced his report, all the details she had imagined when she had entered the house were written there in black and white, right down to the incisions into the bone of the skull.
She shook her head. Must concentrate, can't dwell in the past, not now, not here.
She looked at her watch, 3.15. She had to move quickly. Otherwise, the office might shut for the day.
She walked across the courtyard, striding more quickly now, not letting herself be sidetracked. Under another portico and she found herself walking beside a cricket pitch. The British had definitely been here. If there was one thing that defined a British presence, it was a cricket pitch. She never understood the attraction herself. Maybe, it was creating an area the old colonial administrators could call home in the centre of something utterly alien.
Across a quiet park, courting couples sitting on benches as they had sat for hundreds of years, and out through a metal gate onto a narrow lane.
Peace and quiet were behind her now, as she climbed some steps back onto the main road, clogged with waiting traffic, spewing its light blue exhaust into the air. Air that smelt and tasted so different from just a few moments ago in the centre of Trinity College.
She hurried down the road, crossed at the traffic lights and Dublin changed again. A Chameleon of a city, or a vaudeville artist changing its costumes to entice and entrance the audience. Merrion Square was perfectly Georgian, like many of the squares in the West End of London, but more elegant and infinitely more sophisticated. She turned right at the end of one of the corners and there it was, 49 Merrion Square. A large bronze plaque on the door announced the National University of Ireland's General Office. She pushed open the door and walked up to reception.
Nobody was there.
She tapped the top of a bell on the counter and a few seconds later a head popped round the corner. 'Can I be helping you?' The speaker was a large woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a twinset, complete with a string of pearls. The voice was efficient rather than friendly.
'I'm looking for a relative who I think went to the university.'
'Was it before or after 2000? We went online for people who graduated in the new millennia. Makes it terribly efficient, but a little cold, if you know what I mean.'
Thinking of the hours she spent in front of her laptop, Jayne nodded. 'I certainly do. I'm afraid he may have graduated during the war.'
'The 'Emergency', we call it. De Valera loved his euphemisms and his neutrality.'
'No, not that one. The First World War.'
'That's going back a fair bit. Was he your granddad?'
Jayne nodded, biting her lip at the blatant lie.
'There's a form for that, under here I am thinking.' She reached beneath the counter. 'Here it is. Just complete it with your name and address, email, and details, and we'll send you the search in ten days, plus a copy of any degrees he may have taken at the college.'
'There's another problem, I only know his initials. I think they were MD.'
'You don't know your own grandfather's name?'
'I was adopted,' Jayne invented quickly, 'I'm trying to find my past and who I am.'
'Aren't we all.' The woman thought for a moment. 'It will be more difficult with just initials. There could be a lot of fellas with the initials MD graduating at that time. Give me a second.' She went back behind the wall, returning a few moments later with a tall, older man with a shock of grey hair pulled back from his forehead, wearing an elegant green tweed jacket, tortoise shell spectacles and a cream cravat. A distinguished-looking man who seemed to have stepped out of a 1950s novel. 'I've explained your problem to Sean, he knows the archives far better than I ever could.'
'Madam,' he said formally, 'there are two sets of records that may be of use to you. A list of undergraduates attending the College exists for those years, as does a list of those who matriculated during that period.'
Jayne's brow furrowed at the strange word. She had never been to university herself and was unaware of the terms they used.
He noticed. 'Took exams in that period. Nobody matriculates anymore, a shame really. We could search through those years but we would probably turn up quite a few MDs. How would you know which one he is if you don't have a surname?'
Jayne realised he was right. How could she know which was the right MD? And he may not have even gone to UCD or graduated from there, maybe he had just sneaked into the library and stolen the book. 'Thank you for your time. I realise it's a bit of a wild goose chase. Sorry to have bothered you.'
She turned away and walked towards the door. That was it, any possibility of finding the elusive MD of the inscription seemed to have vanished. This trip to Dublin was another in a long line of wild goose chases. Paul would be pleased. She could hear his voice now revelling in her disappointment, 'How you could think that you could discover the identity of a man from a book inscription is beyond me. You're a good detective, Jayne, but not that good.'
She wouldn't give him the pleasure of reminding her of the difficulties of her job. As she opened the door to leave the office, she turned round and gave it one last go. 'But there's one other piece of information I have.'
The man in the green tweed jacket was still stood behind the counter watching her leave. He smiled. A friendly smile. 'What is it?'
'I think he may have been in the Dublin Brigade of the Irish Volunteers during the Easter Rising.' She took out the picture of the cap badge. 'We know he wore this badge.'
It was a stab in the dark. She didn't know he wore that badge at all. She just knew it had been on John Hughes' lapel when he arrived in America.
The man looked at the image. 'The archives have many records from that time. Letters, posters, and diaries from the participants. I don't think there is a list of Volunteers from the university. They weren't terribly welcome at that time, you see.'
She loved his old-fashioned formality, so like her own father. 'It's not much help, is it?'
'Not here. But you might want to have a chat with Captain Ellis at the military archives in Cathal Brugha barracks. I'll give him a call if you like?'
'Could you? That would be great.'
He picked up the phone and dialled a number. He explained her situation very quickly and then listened, nodding his head as people do. 'Can she book a time to see you?'
Jayne nodded her head, pleased at his proactivity on her behalf.
'Tomorrow, at 10.30 am?' He looked at Jayne. She nodded again. 'Ok, that's confirmed. The woman's name is...'
'Jayne Sinclair.'
He put down the phone. 'Captain Ellis will see you tomorrow, Mrs Sinclair. He knows more about the Easter Rising than anybody else. If he can't help you, nobody can.'
'Thank you, Sean, for all your help. You've been a Godsend.' She leant over the counter and planted a kiss on his cheek.
The old man blushed, wiping his face. 'Happy to help.' He stammered finally as Jayne was closing the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
Manchester. November 17, 2015.
He relaxed back on his bed in the Premier Inn. All these places were starting to look the same to him. They were even beginning to smell the same. That hint of slightly damp carpet in the air that seemed to get everywhere; in the closets, in t
he towels, between his sheets, on his skin.
The target had understood the subtle hint of a brick through her kitchen window. He had watched her this morning leave her house with a suitcase, head to the airport and board a flight to Dublin. She had obviously done a runner. His little message had worked.
It was noon. He would ring the client and tell him of his success. Another job well done with the minimum of effort and stress. He picked up his burner. Use the phone once and then throw it away. Luckily, these were cheap in the shops in Rusholme. Three for the price of two. Like everything else these days, they were on discount. Who paid full price for anything anymore? Except his clients, of course.
He dialled the number and waited for the client's voice to come on the line. It rang three times before it was answered.
'Turner here.' That was his nom de guerre. Nobody knew his real name. Even for him, it was lost in that age before he became a soldier and learnt his trade. 'The message has been delivered and the person involved has decided to leave town.' Keep everything vague, you never knew who was listening at GCHQ. One of his old mates, perhaps.
'She's gone to Dublin.'
'How did you know?' The client was smarter than he thought. Perhaps he wasn't the only operative working this case. The client was rich enough to afford his fee after all. If there were another watcher, he would have to be careful.
'She's gone to Dublin for work. Your message was too subtle. It needs to be clearer now. More precise. Do you understand?'
He thought for a moment. The job was escalating which meant more money for him. He was pleased, he enjoyed an escalation, it added some pleasure to the job satisfaction. 'Is this full-time or just half-time?' His notes to the client gave certain words to be used in case of an escalation. Full-time was a termination of the target. Half-time was a warning with bodily harm. He enjoyed using football terminology in his notes. Easy to deny the meaning if anyone was listening. We were just talking about football, governor, honest.
He heard the client flicking through the pages he had been sent. 'Neither for the moment. I want you to go to Dublin, find out what she's up to. Get her computer. I want to see what she's discovered so far. Don’t screw it up.'
The bluntness of this client annoyed him. He wasn't using the code words but issuing orders in clear language.
'Do you understand? Report back to me when you are in the city.' The officer's voice again. He was losing control of this. But before he could respond the line went dead.
'Fuck you and your mother,' he shouted into the dead phone.
Turner was tempted to ignore the order and stay where he was. There were plenty of other clients who wanted his services, he didn't need any aggro from this one. But the fee was good and he'd already been paid up front. If he were to quit now, the client would put it around that he had lost his bottle, couldn't take the heat anymore.
'Fuck it.' Time to get on a flight to Dublin. A quick call to an old mate living in the city and he would be picked up at the airport, have a driver, a bit of extra muscle in case it was needed and some local knowledge. You could never underestimate the benefit of local knowledge. He had learnt that in Iraq and Afghanistan.
He dialled the number. 'Ronnie, it's Dave Turner. How you doing? Listen, are you up for a couple of days of freelance? It's worth a monkey to you.'
He could hear that Ronnie was pleased about the dosh. Ex-soldiers always needed ready cash wherever they lived. And Ronnie needed money more than most. A little fondness for the ponies was his problem. For 500 quid, he would kill his mother and bury her too. 'I'll send you the flight details. And, one last thing, you need to find a woman for me. Not that sort of woman, fuckwit. Her name's Jayne Sinclair and she arrived in the city today. You'll get on it? Good. See you this evening.'
Great, that was sorted. Ronnie was one of the best men he'd ever known. An Irishman who somehow found himself serving in the British Army. Well, it takes all sorts to fight wars and the Army wasn't that choosy.
A quick check with Manchester Airport and he knew the next flight was at 5.30 pm. Time to pack his stuff and check out of the hotel. He wouldn't miss the smells.
He threw the burner in the bin after removing the sim card. He was overly careful but nobody ever got killed by being too cautious.
After ten years in this game, he wasn't going to take it easy now.
A smile crossed his face. It looked like this job was finally getting interesting.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dublin. November 17, 2015.
'Hello, is that Jayne Sinclair?'
She had picked up her mobile while half-asleep and answered the call. The neon green numbers on the digital clock beside the bed read 23.30. 'Speaking,' she mumbled down the phone.
'It's Richard Hughes, Mrs Sinclair. I'm just ringing to let you know that my uncle has had a relapse. I'm at the hospital now.'
She was instantly awake. Years of being called late at night by the police had given her the ability to instantly click her brain into gear. 'What's happened? Is he okay?'
'It doesn't look like the end is far away.'
'But he told me he still had two months to live.'
'He's been pushing himself hard recently. I told him not to come to England but he insisted.'
'Can I talk to him?'
'He's sleeping now, sedated.'
'Do you want me to continue my investigations?'
There was silence on the end of the phone as if Richard Hughes was thinking of the correct answer. 'I suppose you should. He may get better but the doctors are not offering any hope. He drifts in and out of consciousness, becoming agitated when he is awake. That's why the doctor has sedated him.'
'Agitated?'
'Keeps asking about you, I'm afraid. 'Has she found him? Has she found him?' Over and over again.'
'I haven't discovered anything concrete yet. I've got a few leads I'm following up in Dublin, but there was so little to go on...'
'Don't worry, Mrs Sinclair, I understand.'
'I'll try to move faster, give him the closure he needs.'
'As you wish, Mrs Sinclair.'
'Where are you now?'
'Still in Manchester, at the Royal Infirmary.'
'I'll be back just as soon as I've found something concrete.'
'You'd better hurry, Mrs Sinclair.'
She put her phone down on the bedside table. The truth was she didn't have much at the moment. Perhaps, there were no links to the Easter Rising and Dublin? Perhaps, this was all just a wild goose chase with the real truth much closer to home? She hadn't even begun to look into the background of John Hughes' mother yet. She would do that when she went back to England, and do it quickly. She had so little time left, the truth about this case was getting further and further away, like a tide ebbing out into the distance.
She stayed awake for the rest of the night unable to sleep, listening to the sounds of Dublin below her window; the roar of the night buses, the crash of broken glass, the shouts of drunken men as they wended their way wearily home.
She thought about calling her husband but she didn't want to speak to him right now. He would just ask her when she was coming back. And the truth was she didn't have an answer. She didn't know if she was ever going back to him
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dublin. November 18, 2015.
Cathal Brugha Barracks was just a short walk from her hotel in the cold November air of a Dublin day. She decided to leave her laptop and valuables in the safe in her room, taking just a notepad and John Hughes' book and certificates with her.
She approached the guard room of the barracks and a young soldier guided her to the archives section.
Behind a desk sat a tall man in army uniform. She coughed and he looked up. 'Captain Ellis?'
'And you must be Mrs Sinclair. Sean rang me yesterday.' He stood up and shook her hand. A firm handshake but not crushing. 'Just give me a sec, will you? The Army loves its forms even more than it loves its uniforms.' He sat down again
, completing his requisition quickly before placing it carefully in his out tray. 'I only want a few pens. It's like the Spanish Inquisition.'
She stared at the hard, Swedish chairs in the archive room. 'There's no comfy chairs, though.'
'No, the Irish Army doesn't do comfort. Not in our DNA. How can I help you, Mrs Sinclair?' He gestured for her to sit in one of the uncomfortable chairs in front of him.
'My client is looking to find his father. He was adopted from England and taken to America when he was four years old in 1929.'
'He's not Irish then?'
'I don't know. But he was born in England and I'm trying to find his father for him. He had just two possessions when he arrived in America, This book...' She passed over the copy of The Lives of the United Irishmen. 'If you look inside you'll see it was published in 1914 and was originally in the library of University College Dublin. You'll notice the handwriting on the inside leaf?'
'I didn't know library books came with inscriptions.'
'That's the point, they don't.'
'And the other possession?'
She passed over the picture of the badge. Captain Ellis smiled as soon as he saw it. 'The Dublin Brigade Cap Badge. This one was issued just before the date of the Rising on April 24, 1916.'
'Who would it have been issued to?'
'Volunteers who were mobilised at that time. Some had uniforms, others were dressed in mufti or whatever clothes they brought with them when they mobilised. The badges for the Dublin Volunteers were the one feature they had in common. They are quite valuable if you have one, Mrs Sinclair. Collectors, you know.' He sniffed disapprovingly, shrugging his shoulders.