‘So it wasn’t only Radha and the rest of the Langtry family who were shot. It was “Gerald” as well?’
‘That’s what it looks like. At first, all five of the soldiers’ bodies were squashed into a single coffin and buried in Bandon, but after some more negotiations in 1924 they were dug up, like, and sent to the regimental headquarters in Ashton-under-Lyne. They were separated and all of them were buried with the full military honours in Hurst Cemetery, which is where they still are.’
Katie leafed through the letters and papers that had been emailed to Detective Ó Doibhilin from England. There was even a photograph of Lieutenant Gerald Seabrook, MC. He was standing in a summery garden somewhere, in his uniform, his eyes half closed because of the brightness of the sun. He didn’t look to Katie as if he were particularly tall, maybe five foot seven or eight inches, and his shiny dark hair was parted in the middle, but he was handsome in a cheeky Tom Cruise way and he had an engaging smile.
‘Strange to think that he’s been dead now for over ninety years, isn’t it?’ said Katie. ‘Taken away, shot and buried under a hedge. And look at him, still grinning away like he doesn’t have a care.’
She felt that the motive for the Langtrys’ murders was gradually becoming more distinct, as if she were cleaning successive layers of dirty varnish from a very old painting. The information that Detective Ó Doibhilin had gleaned from the Manchester Regiment archives hadn’t really helped much, but at least it had confirmed who ‘Gerald’ had probably been. He could have been shot by the IRA for no other reason than he was a British army officer, but Katie thought it increasingly likely that they had killed him out of revenge for the Dripsey ambush, and that they could have shot the Langtrys for the same reason.
All she had at the moment was ‘what-ifs’, but the ‘what-ifs’ made sense and it was worth following them up to see if they helped to make the picture any clearer. Stephen Langtry had been a member of the IRA. What if he had told Radha about the imminent ambush? He might have done it for her own safety, or so that she could caution her employer, Mrs Lindsay, to stay away from Godfrey’s Cross that day. If anything happened to Mrs Lindsay, Radha would have been out of a job, and secure jobs like that in those days weren’t easy to come by – or, indeed, any jobs at all.
But what if Radha had been having an affair with Gerald Seabrook and she had told him, too, in case he were killed? What if the British army’s informant hadn’t been Mrs Lindsay at all, as the IRA had first thought and the history books still suggested – or at least, not the only informant?
Whether it was Mrs Lindsay or Radha or both of them who had warned the British about the ambush, Katie could understand why the IRA might have been set on revenge once it had gone so calamitously wrong. Most of their men had escaped because they knew the countryside so well, but one had been mortally wounded and eight had been captured, and of those eight, five had been sentenced to death and executed.
In retaliation, the IRA had abducted and shot Mrs Lindsay and her chauffeur. But if they had subsequently discovered that Radha was the source of the leak, it was more than likely that they would have made a point of going after Gerald Seabrook, and the Langtrys, too. That was only another ‘what-if’, of course, and Katie knew that she might never find the evidence to back it up. But unless the Langtrys had been murdered because they were having some kind of bitter personal feud with another family, it seemed like the most logical explanation.
After all, she thought, the killings had been a classic example of an IRA punishment: you were taken, you were shot, you were buried, and nobody ever saw you again or knew exactly what had happened to you. It was infinitely more traumatic than being murdered in the open, in front of witnesses, especially for your family and friends. You had simply been ‘disappeared’. They didn’t even have a grave on which they could lay flowers.
‘This fellow Bracewaite said he’s happy to do some more snuffling around for me,’ said Detective Ó Doibhilin. ‘He said he might be able to trace the Seabrook family, especially if they’re still living around the Hale Barns area. From what he told me, you have to be fierce flathúl to live around there – it’s all big five-bedroom houses and swimming pools, do you know what I mean, like? – so families don’t tend to move so often.’
‘That’s grand, Michael, keep banging away at it,’ said Katie. She looked at the clock on her desk. ‘Now I have to go and have a word with our friend Bobby Quilty. After that, I’ll be holding a general debriefing about Operation Trident.’
‘You don’t want to know what they’re saying in the canteen about Operation Trident,’ said Detective Ó Doibhilin.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Katie.
‘Serious?’
‘Tell me. I won’t get odd with you, I promise.’
‘Well, they’re saying, “Two wrongs don’t make a right. Three prongs weren’t worth a shite.”’
‘I’ll ignore that,’ said Katie. ‘Just warn them that if I overhear anybody saying that myself, I’ll be sending them out in the rain to lick my car clean.’
Twenty-eight
Katie took Detective Sergeant Begley and Detective O’Donovan down with her to the interview room. When she walked in Bobby Quilty was deep in murmured conversation with his lawyer, Terence O’Counihan, their heads almost touching, and even though he flicked his eyes towards the door he didn’t stop murmuring and showed no other sign that he had seen her come in.
‘Mr Begley, Mr O’Counihan,’ said Katie, drawing out a chair. Terence O’Counihan turned around as if he were surprised to see her, and stood up. He was so tall that Katie had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye and he made her feel like a child rather than a grown woman. He was wearing an expensive grey shark-skin suit, double-breasted, and a blue silk tie with a repetitive pattern of herons on it. He was very handsome, in a smooth, well-moisturized way, with black hair that was greying at the temples and immaculate eyebrows. Whenever he was amused, or quizzical, one eyebrow would rise like a raven lifting itself off a rooftop. His nose was very straight, his eyes were slightly hooded. His tan had come from somewhere very much more exotic than Santa Ponsa.
‘Well, well, Detective Superintendent Maguire. We must stop meeting like this.’
‘We would, Mr O’Counihan, if you were more selective in your choice of clients.’
‘Ouch!’ Terence O’Counihan grinned. ‘You still float like a butterfly, sting like a bee! However,’ he said, lifting his wrist to look down with those hooded eyes at his gold Patek Philippe watch, ‘time is flying by, Detective Superintendent, tempus fugit. I must insist either that you release Mr Quilty on station bail or immediately bring him up in front of the District Court on the charges for which you arrested him.’
‘I need to ask him a few questions first,’ said Katie.
‘My client has nothing to say.’
‘He does realize the seriousness of the charges against him? Incitement to murder and false imprisonment?’
‘He does, of course. But he vehemently denies both. Whatever it is you’re accusing him of saying, he didn’t say it, and whoever you’re accusing him of imprisoning, he doesn’t know them and in any event he wasn’t there.’
‘We have forensic evidence that John Meagher was held in a property on Leitrim Street belonging to Mr Quilty.’
‘He knows nothing at all about that and he has no comment to make.’
Katie found it hard to look at Bobby Quilty, but he didn’t take his eyes off her. He sat there with his chubby fingers squashed together like sausages, and a porky, self-satisfied twinkle in his eyes. Now and then he gave a catarrhal snort in his left nostril, and swallowed. He didn’t yet know that she had discovered where he was holding Kyna and John, and of course she wasn’t going to tell him, because he would either have them moved at once to some other safe house or kill them – she had absolutely no doubt that he was capable of it. She was so angry and afraid that she had to stop and take a steadying breath now and again, in case she burst out and told h
im how vicious and loathsome she thought he was, and how deeply he disgusted her. Detective Dooley always referred to him as ‘Bobby the Hutt’, after Jabba the Hutt in Star Wars.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘If Mr Quilty doesn’t wish to answer any questions, that’s his right in law. However – as you know full well yourself, Mr O’Counihan – if he fails to tell me now anything that he later relies on by way of his defence, the judge will be very much less than amused.’
‘I’d say the key to these accusations is evidence, wouldn’t you?’ Terence O’Counihan replied in a warm, smooth voice. ‘May I ask who’s going to be standing up in the witness box to confess that my client incited them to murder your unfortunate detective? And may I ask who’s going to testify that they were party in any way to the false imprisonment of Mr – what was his name?’
‘John Meagher,’ said Katie. Her mouth was dry, as if she were reading his name from a gravestone.
‘Of course, John Meagher,’ said Terence O’Counihan. He spread his hands wide and said, ‘But Mr Meagher’s whereabouts are still unknown, or so I gather, and apart from some forensics which you claim to have recovered, and which we have not yet had the opportunity to examine ourselves and contest, what evidence do you have to prove that he was falsely imprisoned at all? My client is being in no way uncooperative or obstructive by declining to answer your questions. The plain fact is that there is no case for him to answer.’
‘Well, we’ll see what the district judge has to say about that,’ said Katie. ‘Meanwhile, I’m extending Mr Quilty’s detention here until we’ve arranged a time for his appearance in court.’
‘I must object to that,’ said Terence O’Counihan.
‘Your objection is noted, Mr O’Counihan.’
Katie was turning to leave when Bobby Quilty let out a sharp whistle between his front teeth, as if he were calling a dog, and beckoned Terence O’Counihan towards him. Terence O’Counihan leaned over while Bobby Quilty muttered something in his ear. Then he stood up straight again and said, ‘My client would like a private word with you, Detective Superintendent, if that’s possible.’
‘What does he mean by that – “a private word”?’
‘He’s asking if there’s somewhere in the building where you and he can go to talk confidentially, without anyone overhearing and without any microphones or other recording equipment. That kind of private.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’ asked Katie, still not looking at Bobby Quilty directly.
‘He says it’s a personal matter. But it does have some bearing on the charges against him.’
If any other offender had asked to speak to her in confidence, on a ‘personal’ matter, Katie would have refused outright. But Kyna and John were in Bobby Quilty’s house in Forkhill, in South Armagh, and God alone knew what condition they were in and how they were being treated. She had felt a sickness in her stomach ever since she had talked to Alan Harte, and she kept tasting bile in her mouth, and this morning’s coffee.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘If it helps us to clear this matter up.’
‘You’re welcome to talk in my car, in the car park,’ said Terence O’Counihan. ‘That would be private.’
‘No,’ Katie told him. ‘For all I know you have a recording device inside it.’
‘Or a bomb, even,’ put in Detective Sergeant Begley, but nobody laughed.
Katie said, ‘We can go upstairs to the fourth floor and out on to the balcony. An officer will be able to keep an eye on us then from inside, but nobody will be able to hear what we’re saying.’
‘Fair play to you, Detective Superintendent,’ said Terence O’Counihan. ‘Floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee. Sharp as a knife, I should have added.’
*
Katie and Bobby Quilty went up to the top floor of the station, accompanied only by a single garda, although he was big and muscular and they could barely all fit into the lift together.
‘Ach, this is fierce intimate,’ said Bobby Quilty, holding in his belly with both hands. ‘But look at the bake on you, Detective Superintendent! You look like a wee bag of weasels the day!’
Katie said nothing, but gave a quick, sour smile.
They went out on to the balcony that overlooked Anglesea Street, although they stayed away from the railing because of the rain. The garda remained inside, his arms folded, watching them bored and stony-faced through the window.
Bobby Quilty took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket stuck one between his lips.
‘There’s no smoking in the station,’ said Katie.
‘Not until now, anyway,’ said Bobby Quilty, lighting up his cigarette and blowing smoke out into the rain. The garda took a step towards the door, but Katie raised her hand to indicate that he should stay where he was.
‘Well?’ said Katie. ‘What was this private and personal matter you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘Ach, sure, you know yourself that you’ll never make those charges stick,’ said Bobby Quilty. ‘Do you think that I came up the Lagan in a bubble? I respect you, Detective Superintendent Maguire, don’t make any mistake about that. But I’m a survivor, and I know how to protect my interests, and you need to give me the credit for that.’
‘I give you credit for nothing, Mr Quilty, except for being a dangerous scumbag. You were responsible for Detective Barry being killed, and I have every reason to suspect that it was you who ordered Darragh Murphy to be disposed of so that he couldn’t give evidence against you. You told me yourself that you were holding John Meagher, so I don’t think I need much more proof of that.’
Bobby Quilty blew more smoke and shook his head in amusement. ‘Catch yourself on, will you? As if you’ll ever get me to admit that to a judge. No – what I’m trying to say to you now, doll, is what I was trying to explain to you before, but it seems like it fell on deaf ears the last time. You and me, we both have to find a way to rub along together without constantly getting up each other’s noses.’
‘The thought of getting up your nose gives me the gawks, if you must know, Mr Quilty.’
Bobby Quilty laughed and gave another cackling sniff. ‘I love you, Detective Superintendent Maguire, do you know that? If you weren’t a fecking poll I’d ask you to marry me. I know you have to enforce the law, that’s what you get paid for, but at the same time I have to scrape a wee living myself. So if you won’t agree to a treaty, I have to have some kind of insurance policy so that you won’t keep coming after me and disrupting my business. Like I said to you before, I’m only flogging a few fags at economy prices and there’s no desperate harm in that.’
‘You’re still holding John Meagher, is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Oh, you catch on quick, no question about that. Yes, Mr Meagher is still a guest of mine and that’s how he’s going to stay until I’m convinced that you’re going to live and let live.’
‘How is he? Is he still well?’
‘As fit as a butcher’s dog. In fact, I’d say he’s treating his stay with us as something of a holiday.’
‘Don’t take me for a fool, Mr Quilty. There was blood on the carpet in that house on Leitrim Street.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, Detective Superintendent. Your man is still living and breathing and eating cheesy beanos for breakfast – what more do you want than that? And I would never take you for a fool. I‘ve heard that you have to pass all kinds of fierce hard exams to be a guard. Why, some of the guards I’ve met, they can count from twenty to one, backwards, and walk forwards at the same time.’
‘I don’t need to remind you what a serious offence it is, false imprisonment. Not to mention trying to influence a senior police officer by means of menaces.’
‘I know that fine rightly, of course. But you haven’t left me any alternative, have you? Which is why I wanted to talk to you now, in private. I wanted to let you know that in the light of what you did last night, busting into my house like that, I’ve doubled my insurance policy and Detective
Sergeant Ni Nuallán is now a guest of mine, too.’
‘Is she safe?’ asked Katie. There was no point in acting surprised. ‘She’s not hurt in any way?’
Bobby Quilty flicked his cigarette butt over the side of the balcony. ‘I think her pride is a wee bit dented, but that’s all. She played her part amazing, though, I’ll give her that. For a while there she had me believing that she really was some slapper from Gurra. I even sent her out on a fag run and the boys said she was beezer at it.’
‘Who tipped you off?’ said Katie.
‘Nobody tipped me off, doll,’ said Bobby Quilty. He tapped the side of his nose and said, ‘I can smell peelers a mile off. It’s a kind of a blue smell, you know, like rotten fish. You can’t mistake it.’
‘So you’re telling me that you have both John Meagher and Kyna Ni Nuallán as hostages?’
‘Hostages! That’s the exact fecking word I was looking for and couldn’t think of it for the life of me. That’s it, Detective Superintendent! Hostages!’
‘And in return?’
‘In return for them being given bed and board and not beaten on a regular basis, you’ll be dropping all of the charges against me and on top of that you’ll be recompenserating me for my busted front door.’
Katie stared at him for a long time. Behind him, from the south-west, the grey sky was gradually growing brighter, almost silvery.
‘What if I say no?’ she said.
‘Well, I thought you might be asking me that,’ said Bobby Quilty. ‘That was the whole reason I wanted us to talk in private, with nobody earwigging. If you say no—’
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