by Jacqui Rose
‘But Michael Burke didn’t kill him.’
‘It doesn’t matter who killed him. Don’t make it your business so.’
The driver turned round. He switched the lights back on. They lit the long straight road that stretched up towards Kilranelagh Cross that was called the New Line. The other man got out and opened the rear door for David Gillespie. He stepped out. The saloon moved away, picking up speed. David watched it for a moment. He pulled up the bicycle and got on it. He rode a few yards and then stopped. He was shaking. He took his breath slowly, calming himself, then rode on, turning into the winding lane that led up to Kilranelagh. Donal Kerrigan had been involved in a lot more than marrying a woman who was loved by another man and beating the daylights out of her; that was obvious enough. And whatever it was he was doing with the IRA or for the IRA, he’d crossed someone. It wasn’t the hardest thing to do, especially for a man who couldn’t walk out of his front door without crossing one of his neighbours. And the people he’d crossed were very definitely the kind of people who’d think about wiping the fingerprints off a gun that had just been used to kill someone. Proving any of that was a different matter though, especially as the people Kerrigan had crossed certainly wouldn’t want it proved. He could hardly call them in as character witnesses for Michael Burke. They would be happy enough to let him hang.
*
‘Jesus Christ!’ Inspector Gerry Riordan stared out of the window of his office. The view across Edward Street towards the stone walls of the mill held no great attraction, but it held more than the conversation he was having with David Gillespie, only a night’s sleep away from the row in Sheridan’s. He’d thought that was the end of it. The story was about the fingerprints on the gun, not the fingerprints that weren’t on the gun.
‘Is that Jesus Christ we were after putting a noose round the wrong man’s neck, Gerry, or Jesus Christ keep your fecking nose out of this?’
‘Let’s just say Jesus Christ covers all eventualities, for the moment, including the ones we haven’t got to. So did you know these fellers at all?’
‘No. It was no one I’d ever seen.’
‘I’d have a fair idea who’s an IRA man around here,’ said the inspector, turning round now. ‘Not your Saturday night “We’re-All-off-to-Dublin-in-the-Green” sort. I mean the one’s who give the orders and the ones who like dressing up in a Sam Brown belt and running around the mountains, and the ones who’d think the best thing about a Garda uniform’s that it gives you something to aim at. I’d have put Donal down as a Saturday night gobshite, who wouldn’t even have known the words to half the songs.’
‘Me too. Still, I’d say recruits are thin on the ground these days.’ David smiled. ‘If they ruled out the gobshites, where would they be then?’
‘I’d have known,’ said Inspector Riordan.
‘It doesn’t have to put him in the IRA. If he got on the wrong side–’
Riordan shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘There we are again. Things that don’t make any sense. Those are the things to look at. I’ve given you a good reason why Michael Burke would be lying, even if you think the business with the fingerprints is all in my head. And now the IRA doesn’t want anyone poking around Donal Kerrigan’s death. I don’t know where that’s going to take you, but you can’t ignore it.’
‘You’d better come and talk to Michael with me.’
‘I’ve done my bit. That’s all I promised Father Boland–’
Gerry Riordan moved toward the door, a wry smile on his face.
‘You’ve put me in it. Now why would I let you just walk away?’
Michael Burke was twenty-five. He was thin at the best of times, but it was something that went with long limbs and a quick mind somehow; there was a different kind of thinness in his face now though. He’d always been more a thinker than a doer, and it was maybe too much thinking that had taken him away from all that Baltinglass had offered him, which had been first milking cows on his uncle’s farm and then shovelling grain from wagons and trucks at the mill in Edward Street. When he had decided to go to England it wasn’t because he knew it would give him anything more, it was because there was a horizon he couldn’t see the end of. He had looked at the hill above the town his whole life. It was barely a mile away. It was the end of the horizon and it always would be. He had wanted Sarah Phelan to come with him. He had wanted her to marry him, as she’d said she would since he was seventeen and she was sixteen. But she wouldn’t leave. She had no problem with the horizon she had, as long as he was there to look at it with her. It had ended with both of them feeling betrayed by the other. Her dreams were small, but he wouldn’t share them. His dreams had no real shape or form, but they were bigger dreams, different dreams, and she wouldn’t let him have them. Now all there was in front of them was the wreck of their lives.
‘I’ve told you everything, Mr Riordan. I can’t say any more.’
‘If I said I knew you might have a reason to lie–’
‘Who says I’m lying?’
‘Wouldn’t you lie for Sarah Kerrigan?’
‘Jesus, what do you want from me?’
‘I want to be sure you’re telling the truth.’
‘You have my statement. Haven’t you all the evidence I was there?’
They were all standing in the small cell; Michael Burke, Inspector Riordan, David Gillespie. Michael turned away and sat down on the bed.
‘You could have been there and still not killed him, Michael.’
It was David who spoke. The young man stared at the wall.
‘If Inspector Riordan said there might have been someone else there that night, not Sarah, not anybody connected to you or Sarah. If he said that, would you make the same statement? Would you still say you killed him?’
Michael Burke turned to David. ‘And who would it be, Mr Gillespie?’
‘That’s what we need to find out.’
‘I’ve said it enough times. Now leave me to say it in court?’
‘There are some things that don’t add up,’ said Inspector Riordan.
‘Is there a reason Mr Gillespie’s here?’ asked Michael abruptly.
‘People want to help you. Father Boland–’
‘Father Boland would be better remembering his duties as a priest.’
It was clear that the story was not going to change. There would be no more to learn from him. In his head, any move he made away from the statement he had given, any move that even suggested Donal Kerrigan was dead when he finally found the courage and the anger to go and face him that night, would only point the finger of suspicion at the woman he loved.
As Gerry Riordan and David Gillespie stood outside the Garda barracks the inspector was still not convinced that Michael Burke was lying, but he had doubts now where he had none before. What David Gillespie had faced him with couldn’t be explained and it needed explaining. And there was something in his head that was troubling him. It wasn’t his business; such things were never his business; but he knew. He knew it concerned a house on the slopes of Keadeen, on Ted Norton’s land, or what had always been the Nortons’ land until Donal Kerrigan bought it, almost a year ago. There was Aghavannagh too, and Billy Walsh on the other side of Rathdangan.
As they walked over the Slaney, down through the town, he told David.
‘There were some fellers down here from the Special Branch–’
‘Doing what?’
‘It was maybe nine months ago now. They’d information about an IRA arms dump, at Aghavannagh. I don’t know that there was much to it. A couple of rifles, no more than that. They were back two weeks later at Billy Walsh’s, in Rathdangan. There was more to it there, a dozen guns maybe.’
‘Wasn’t Billy up for it?’ David Gillespie remembered it now.
‘The jury wouldn’t convict him. But that wasn’t the end of it.’
David waited. Gerry Riordan was still thinking it through.
‘They found another dump at the foot
of Keadeen. That was the biggest haul they had. Rifles and ammunition, a machine gun, and explosives too. There wasn’t much said about it. Special Branch were never even in to tell me they were here. They had no one to tie it to. But that was land Donal Kerrigan bought from Ted Norton. I don’t know about Aghavannagh, but Billy Walsh rented his farm from Ted. So that was Donal’s too. Ted sold everything he had when he went to America, and Donal had it all. But Ted’s family was always strong Sinn Fein, and he was a fierce anti-Treaty man himself. You knew him well enough yourself.’
‘So if Donal found out about some dumps Ted had let–’
‘It puts him in the way of the IRA at least,’ replied Riordan.
‘As an informer,’ said David
The Inspector frowned, even saying it he didn’t believe it.
‘Donal? I don’t know. It doesn’t sound any more likely.’
‘Then it’s something else that doesn’t make sense.’
Garda Inspector Riordan nodded; it was.
‘You’ll have to talk to them,’ said David Gillespie quietly.
‘Talk to who?’
‘The IRA.’
Gerry Riordan stopped.
‘You want me to talk to those bastards?’
‘You’ve got to talk to somebody. Even if Michael changes his story, it’s too late. There’s all the evidence anyone would need, whatever he says. You’re right about the fingerprints too. No one will care what isn’t there. If the IRA’s in this somewhere, you’re only going to find out from them.’
‘Would you come in and tell me if you shot a feller, boys? Is that it?’
For a moment neither of them spoke. They were both looking across the road at the National Bank, as people moved round them. They were both thinking of the day, eighteen months ago, when one of Gerry’s men, Garda Patrick O’Halloran, had been gunned down as he stumbled into the middle of bank robbery. The killers were never caught, but nobody had any doubt that an IRA man fired the shot. Inspector Riordan shook his head bitterly.
‘Maybe they’d hand over the man who shot Paddy O’Halloran too.’
‘You have to do something, Gerry. If there’s no other way–’
‘I’ll ask the Special Branch in Dublin. If they know whether Donal–’
He stopped in mid sentence and walked away, quickly, heading for the courthouse, and pushing the day’s work back into his mind. It still hit him hard. David let him go. Gerry Riordan was not often a man for tears.
*
It was a week later when Father Boland drove David Gillespie and Inspector Riordan up into the mountains beyond Rathdangan, along the Military Road to the bleak crossroads where a scattering of hill farms stretched into Glenmalure and up across to Laragh. It was where Wicklow broke in two; the west and the east. It was the IRA commander who had insisted that the priest come with them, as a guarantee that this really was about what Gerry Riordan said it was about, and to ensure there would be no guns; though there was no priest with Eddie Purcell to guarantee that the two men outside in the car park, leaning against the dark saloon, didn’t have guns. As he passed them, walking into the bar of the Glenmalure Inn, David Gillespie thought they were probably the men who had stopped him that night on his way home from Baltinglass. Gerry Riordan knew the IRA commandant. The greetings were cold and businesslike; when Commandant Purcell held out his hand Inspector Riordan made no attempt to shake it. They sat down. The barman produced three glasses of Guinness and then quietly disappeared.
‘Where’s the lad now?’ asked Purcell.
‘He’s in Mountjoy. They took him to Dublin on Saturday.’
‘And what did you get from the Special Branch?’
The words were to Inspector Riordan alone. He said nothing.
‘You must have asked them?’
‘They didn’t know anything about Donal Kerrigan.’
‘Except that an arms dump was found on his land?’
‘I knew that myself.’
‘Jesus,’ laughed the Commandant, ‘those boys are buggers!’
‘You know the question, Eddie,’ said Riordan.
‘Isn’t it a thing though? One hell of a thing! You’ve a man determined to hang himself for something he didn’t do, and your own detectives in Dublin Castle wouldn’t lift a finger to stop it. And they’re the fellers they say are defending Ireland! You’d wonder if they know fuck all about shite!’
David glanced across at Father Boland. The priest nodded. He had heard the words too. The words were there, matter-of-fact and thrown away. For something he didn’t do; to hang himself for something he didn’t do.
‘I’m asking for your help Eddie. If you know what happened–’
‘And what would you do if I told you?’
‘Come on, we wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know.’
The commandant nodded.
‘Maybe this’ll be some use to you.’
He turned over a piece of paper in front of him on the table and pushed it at Inspector Riordan. The policeman picked it up. There were several typewritten lines, pale from a ribbon used too many times. Purcell took out a Woodbine and lit it. Gerry Riordan held the paper up to the light.
By order of the Wicklow Battalion Óglaigh na hÉireann, Donal Kerrigan, farmer, of Colvinstown, County Wicklow, after failing to comply with an order expelling him from the thirty-two counties of Ireland indefinitely, is to be executed for crimes against the IRA and against the Republic. Signed, Commandant, Wicklow Battalion, IRA.
‘I doubt a jury would convict your man with that in front of them.’
The IRA commandant of the Wicklow Battalion stood up. ‘You won’t mind if we leave, gentlemen. You’ll maybe stay to finish your drinks. I’d appreciate it you took your time drinking. There’s another one for you behind the bar. It’s not that I don’t trust you Gerry, but you know how it is.’
They all stood now, Inspector Riordan, David, Father Boland. This time when the IRA man held out his hand, the inspector shook it. But no more was said. And then Purcell was gone. They sat down again. They heard the sound of the dark saloon driving away. Father Boland picked up his drink, looking from Gerry Riordan to David Gillespie. It would be enough.
‘Thank you.’
*
Almost six months had passed when David Gillespie told his son Stefan the story. Stefan Gillespie had recently become a guard. He had been in training first, at Headquarters in the Phoenix Park; and now he was in Mullingar, serving his time and trying to find a way to walk the streets that made him feel older than his barely twenty-one years, but already impatient about how long he would wait for the posting in Dublin he wanted, and how many years beyond that it would take him to battle his way into the Detective Branch. He knew a bit about Donal Kerrigan’s death. He knew the IRA were in it somewhere; he knew that Michael Burke had confessed to it because of Sarah Kerrigan. But it was already being forgotten in Baltinglass. Michael and Sarah were married now, living in England. It was Father Boland’s death that had brought it up again, as Stefan sat with his mother and father one night at the kitchen table, The Carlow Nationalist open at the article.
The death of Father Patrick Boland, the recently retired Parish Priest of Kilranelagh, Co Wicklow, is reported from Palestine. Father Boland was on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, when he was involved in a boating accident on the Sea of Galilee, where he drowned. Full details of his death are not yet known, but he will be buried in the Holy Land. A memorial service will take place later in Baltinglass.
The story David Gillespie had told was not the one Stefan expected, or the one he thought he knew. And it was one very few people would ever know.
‘So Michael Burke was there?’ asked Stefan.
‘Oh yes, he was there,’ continued David. ‘It was late when he went back. Very late, I’d say. Donal was dead. Michael must have picked up the gun. I suppose he bent down to see if Donal really was as dead as he looked, so he got some blood on his clothes. And then he went. I don’t know how long he stayed. I don
’t know how long it was before it came to him that Sarah must have done it. Maybe it was the first thing he thought. But by the time the Guards came to question him, he’d already decided what he’d say.’
‘And when did you know your man was codding you? The PP.’
‘I don’t know about codding. He led me by the hand though.’
‘Did he tell you?’
‘No. We never talked about it again.’
‘But someone told you.’
‘I was in Dublin a few weeks later. It was the time the Dublin Metropolitan Police finally disappeared and became just another division of the Garda Síochána. Well, you know all that better than I do now. Gone and soon forgotten.’ David Gillespie laughed. ‘Still, it had been a long time dying. There were a few of us wanted to have a drink to see it off. We met in Neary’s. Some of us who’d left and some of us who hadn’t. Some who’d stayed in and given information to the rebels. Some who’d stayed in and hunted them. Some who’d just kept eyes shut and heads down. But we didn’t talk about all that. I’m not sure what we talked about. Probably our kids.’
‘And where does Donal Kerrigan come in to that?’
‘He doesn’t. That’s the thing. Ned Broy was there, and he walked some of the way to Kingsbridge with me when I went for the train. He’s the head of the Dublin Division now, a superintendent. Well, you’d know that.’ David grinned at his son. ‘Full circle you might say, for an old DMP man–’
‘He was more Michael Collins’ man than he was a DMP man.’
‘Well, as I say, we all talked about other things. But when I walked back with him, I asked him about Donal Kerrigan. I was still pissed off that Special Branch wouldn’t reach out a hand when Gerry Riordan was looking for help. So worried about their fecking secrets they’d let a man hang, the way it took the IRA to tell us the man was an informer, when Special Branch must have known. Who the hell else would he be telling about arms dumps?’
‘So Superintendent Broy knew about it?’
‘No. But he wasn’t very happy. He said he’d look into it.’
‘Did he?’
‘He did. I saw him in Neary’s again before Christmas. Donal Kerrigan never informed on anyone, about anything. It was Ted Norton. And the IRA knew that. Because there was an expulsion order. It was Ted Norton who had to leave Ireland. That’s why he sold up. He’d been giving information to the Special Branch for years. The arms dumps were just his parting shot.’