When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  And once Duncan found that . . .

  What had been a potential disaster for Allister could be turned on its heels, and Adam would be the one scandalised. If he subsequently tried to accuse Allister in turn, it could be fended off as a desperate attempt to extricate himself from his own wrongdoing. Allister would even bribe Clarence to speak against Adam, if needs be.

  Gleefully he fingered through the files, continuing his search. A folded sheet of paper slipped out from a bundle and fell between his knees. He reached down to pick it up, opened it out, and sneered at the scrawled handwriting. More untidiness. But it was just about legible.

  Clinton Duffy. The first two words stood out.

  Duffy? Wasn’t he one of Duncan’s new clients? Why was Adam . . . ?

  He read on, trying to unravel the mishmash of words.

  But this wasn’t legal work.

  Duffy after IRA monies in Bank of Ireland . . . Address to be taken from G’s file . . . MC to be informed . . . Matter urgent to prevent enemy’s seizure of funds . . .

  It went on in similar disjointed manner, but the import of it all gradually dawned on Allister.

  “My good God,” he whispered.

  His brother was spying. A spy, it appeared, for none other than the IRA.

  His own brother was a terrorist.

  “My good God.” His head swam. He felt dizzy. The words on the paper wavered.

  Now he could finally understand. Adam’s frequent, ever-lengthening absences from the office. His cagey manner whenever he returned. His cuts and bruises. His damned obvious secrets and smugness. He had been engaged in his own business, a different kind of business entirely.

  He’ll sink us all.

  The implications were horrific. A member of a reputable Dublin legal firm running with gunmen on the streets? Nobody would come near them again. The revelation would bury Bowen & Associates for good. Even Allister, in his most malicious of plots, could not have dreamt up such a charge against Adam. And yet it was all true. It was right here in front of him.

  He had never hated his brother so much in all his life.

  Now that the real nature of Adam’s character was exposed, he knew he had to act fast. Save the firm, hang Adam out to dry. He should blurt the lot to Duncan and let the boss handle it, but he couldn’t do that. No, the only person whom Allister trusted to handle this was himself. Duncan was more a warrior than a tactician, while Allister had a quieter, more cunning set of skills, more aptly suited to the situation.

  And he knew then, with a sudden uplift in mood, that he’d just been handed the golden keys. No need now for forged love notes and imaginary scandals. Adam had laid it all down by himself. He had strung his own noose and placed himself upon the gallows’ trapdoor.

  I could have some fun with this, Allister realised. Yes, I think I might just do that.

  Adam arrived at the office a half hour late. He had slept poorly the night before, still tormented by his own cold treatment of Tara and dreading the moment when he would have to reveal the truth. For the truth, he knew, outpaces every man.

  Lydia said good morning, blushed ridiculously, and offered him coffee. He declined and went upstairs to his office.

  And found Allister inside.

  “What are you doing in here?” he demanded.

  Allister chuckled. “Why, Adam, I’m a senior partner of this firm. I can go into any part of the building I please.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Oh, I misplaced a file. Just having a scout about for it.”

  Adam was thinking about the notes he had concealed inside the cabinet. A dangerous risk to take, in hindsight. “Find what you need?”

  “Hmm, no.” Allister flicked a speck of dust from his shoulder. “Not to worry. These things always turn up in the end. Well, I’ll not keep you from your work.” Just as he went to leave, he paused. “Say, Adam, is everything, oh, all right?”

  “What?”

  “You’re not having any problems, are you? Not falling behind with any of your files? You’ve been absent quite a lot lately.”

  “You don’t have to worry about my files, Allister. I’ll see that everything is put right.”

  Again that reptilian smile. “Sure you will, Adam. Quite the industrious little fellow, aren’t you? Who would have thought?”

  With that he left, and when Adam heard him descending the stairs, he shut the door and went quickly to the cabinet.

  Relieved, he found the notes as he had left them, folded discreetly inside one of the files. He would have to get them out of here, especially if Allister was going to be picking his way about as he chose. The knowledge of Duffy’s activities had become a sore weight for him by now, and he would be glad to pass his discoveries over to the big fellow. Mick could take action as Mick saw fit.

  He sat down, taken by fatigue. A bleakness of spirit caught up with him, like a portentous storm cloud. He wanted to walk back home, climb into bed, fall into the oblivion of sleep for a long time. But sleep was a rarity these days. His secrets were ghosts that gathered outside his window each night, tapping the glass, whispering accusations. Even in the brightest of daylight, his every step was shadowed.

  Indeed, but isn’t it a cruel, cutthroat world, Allister thought with relish as he rode a tram through the Dublin streets. Adam’s treachery was against his family, his people, and his king. It would earn him a just fate, and so Allister felt not the slightest compunction as he saw the Bedford Tower of Dublin Castle loom into view. He was an instrument of justice, a bulwark against Adam’s wicked scheming, and he couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride at his own tenacity.

  A lengthy jail sentence was the most desirable outcome. Not a hanging—good Lord, no, the family would only end up pining after the devil, and Allister didn’t want that. He wanted stiff punishment for Adam, enough to put him out of the way and for the rest of them to commend Allister’s brave, selfless action. Adam had lorded it over him for long enough. Now Adam himself must learn the taste of public humiliation, and Allister intended to accomplish it in some style.

  A discreet enquiry through an acquaintance doing legal work for Dublin Castle had given him a telephone number and the name of the man he must contact. He was on his way to meet that man now. He climbed off the tram and clasped his hat as the wind tried to pull it off. A weak sun had broken through the clouds as he stepped gingerly over the paving and approached the gates. The sentries were blowing on their hands and shifting their feet.

  “I have, er, I have an appointment,” he said to the first one, “with a District Inspector Bryant.”

  “Name?” the sentry demanded.

  “Bryant.”

  “I mean your name, sir.”

  “Oh, it’s Bowen. Allister Bowen.” The wind was making his nose run, and he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe it.

  The sentry retrieved a clipboard from the guard hut, found Allister’s name, and ticked next to it. “Across the courtyard to your right, sir. Off you go.”

  He met a uniformed policeman under a stone archway and was directed upstairs to a network of corridors where he followed the number sequence and eventually reached the door he wanted.

  At a knock, the door was opened by a pretty young blonde woman. Allister coughed. “Ahem, I might be wrong, I was looking for District Inspector Bryant.”

  “You’re correct, sir.” She smiled politely. “His office is through the next door again, sir. Go right in.”

  The detective in question was sitting behind a desk, reading something. He gave Allister a puzzled look. “Oh, hello. Hmm. Mister . . . ?”

  “Bowen,” Allister said, irritated. “I did make an appointment.”

  “Ah. No doubt I was told of it, but I’ve been rather up the walls of late. You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Bowen. What can I do for you?”

  Allister undid his coat and placed his hat on the next chair. “I shouldn’t even be here, Detective. I shouldn’t even be passing on what I know. But pass it on I must
, so that innocent lives can be spared and criminal actions stoutly thwarted.”

  Bryant gave a vague smile and leaned his elbows on the desk. “I’m all ears, Mr. Bowen.”

  “Have you heard of a gentleman named Clinton Duffy, Detective?”

  “I’m not sure that I have.”

  “I understand that he is presently involved in a search of bank accounts. A search for terrorist monies, to be more precise.”

  Bryant’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you know that, Mr. Bowen?”

  “That’s why I’m here, Detective. To explain how.”

  “So explain.”

  Allister elaborated a little, and eventually Bryant opened a drawer on his left and fished out a bundle of paper. He found the sheet he wanted and scanned it for several seconds. “I may know him. You say your brother is acquainted with him?”

  “Not quite in the way you might think, Detective. I believe my brother is spying on Mr. Duffy—for the IRA.”

  “The IRA?” Bryant regarded him over the desk for several hostile seconds. “Well, do keep going.”

  “My brother is aware of Mr. Duffy’s activities with the banks, and he intends to pass this information to somebody else whom I only know as “MC.”

  Bryant stiffened. “Is that so? MC indeed. And who on earth’s that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you might.”

  “I’ve no idea.” James shrugged in a gesture of disinterest. “Nobody of import, I’m sure. But back to your brother, you’re telling me he’s an IRA spy, and you’re quite happy to report that to a police officer?”

  “I didn’t know it myself until a few days ago. And I’m saddened by it. Upon reflection, of course, it does seem to explain a lot of mysterious behaviour. But I’m telling you the truth, Detective.”

  Bryant gave a little sneer. “Forgive any scepticism on my part, Mr. Bowen, but I’ll be the judge of who’s telling the truth. It’s an interesting yarn, if nothing else.” He reached for a notepad. “I think I ought to meet this brother of yours. Where can I find him?”

  Allister hesitated and glanced at the door. “Your secretary, she won’t . . . ?”

  “She’s not my secretary, she was just delivering typescripts. So?”

  “I do have one concern, Detective. My family runs a law firm. Can I be assured that you will not attach blame to us when this whole business comes to a head?”

  “Be assured of nothing,” Bryant replied, “except that I’m interested only in guilty parties, not innocent ones. Will that console you?”

  “Um, yes, I think so. Very well. His name is Adam, Adam Bowen. He’s a member of Bowen and Associates, of which I am a partner.”

  “Bowen and . . . ?”

  “Bowen and Associates,” Allister said tersely. “A very reputed firm, actually. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of us.”

  Bryant scribbled it down. “And so where is the wily Adam now?”

  “Right now, I don’t know. But leave that to me.”

  “I’d rather pick him up today.”

  “Detective, you have my word. Leave it to me, and I will deliver Adam right into your hands.”

  For Allister had already crafted a plan.

  At the same time that Allister was leaving Dublin Castle, Larry Mulligan was sitting in the lounge of Vaughan’s Hotel, a Guinness and a box of Woodbines on the table. Michael Collins had arranged to meet him here, and as usual he was impatient to be away again, for fear of surveillance.

  “I told you, Mick, for the last time,” Mulligan snapped, “that my guns are exactly where I want them. If some gobshites in Kerry or Clare are falling short, then let ’em find their own.”

  “They’re complaining in Munster, Larry. They’re saying Dublin doesn’t give a stuff about them. And if they don’t have enough guns, then they can’t fight a war.”

  “They’re my guns. I won them. Me and my boys.”

  “They’re not your guns, Larry. They’re the IRA’s. And come on now,” his eyes glinted, “is sharing not caring?”

  Mulligan glowered back at him and spat into the fire. “The IRA wouldn’t have an arse to scratch between them if it wasn’t for me.”

  “Oh, I think we’d get on just fine without you, Larry. Don’t go assuming an importance that you don’t possess. We are all of us expendable.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mulligan demanded but was cut short when the boy from the reception approached them. It wasn’t Billy McDonagh, but another youth whom Mulligan didn’t know very well.

  He apologised and said, “Mick, I didn’t see you come in. There’s a message waiting for you the last few days. A fellow named Bowen dropped it in.”

  Mulligan sat up.

  “Give to me,” Collins said and read the short brief. He closed his eyes and swore softly.

  “Bowen, is it?” Mulligan murmured. “Anything up?”

  “Nothing I can’t deal with.”

  “Where is he? Bowen?”

  “He’s about. He’s fine. Why are you so interested?”

  Mulligan stifled his frustration. He would desperately have loved to pour it all out to Collins here and now and condemn Adam Bowen to his fate. But Mulligan’s mission was a personal one, against both Bowen and his whore, and he wasn’t about to share. “Oh, no reason. I just hope he’s not getting himself in any trouble that he might regret, is all.”

  Collins tucked the message inside his coat. “I said he’s fine. Now, I must be going. You think on our discussion, Larry. I need those weapons. You’ll be well rewarded for your efforts in knowing that every single gun will be employed in the liberation of your country.”

  “See you later,” Mulligan said. “I think I’ll stay for another pint.”

  “You ought not to. Your name was on that Castle list too, you know.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Mick. I can move faster than any man when I need to.”

  Tara was alone, and while she was getting ready to close the stationery office, a male clerk from down the corridor knocked on her door.

  “Ian, hello. What is it?” she asked.

  “I was told to pass on a message, Tara. A fellow called Adam said to say he’s outside the gates, if you’d care to meet him.”

  She stopped in the act of wrapping her scarf around her neck. “He’s outside?”

  “That’s what I was told to pass on. Have a good night, Tara.” He winked and headed off.

  She went first to the restroom and checked the mirror. An odd sense of trouble affected her now, as though she must prepare herself for the worst.

  He doesn’t want to see me anymore. That’s what he’ll say. I knew something was wrong.

  Closing her coat and fetching her hat, she steeled herself for the cold outside and the uncertain reception from Adam.

  Yet his face told its own story.

  “Tara,” he smiled in relief. “I so badly wanted to see you. I’m sorry.”

  She allowed him to kiss her cheek, maintaining her defences for the moment. “What are you sorry about?”

  “I shouldn’t have left you last Sunday like that. It was a silly argument. I’m sorry.”

  Her worries were banished just as swiftly, and she laughed. “Oh, Adam. Did you really feel so bad? Goodness, let’s not worry about Mrs. Clohessy and the parish priest. I was silly too. Come on, it’s freezing here. Are you taking me to dinner?”

  “I am now.”

  They ate in the Shelbourne, a Dover sole each and a glass of wine, and the awkwardness of the previous Sunday wasn’t mentioned again. Afterwards they dropped into Counihan’s tavern a few streets away, procured two stools in an alcove, and watched the gang of musicians gathered about the fire. There was a table of half-eaten sandwiches and glasses of Guinness in front of the band. The air was pungent with smoke while bodhrans, tin whistles, and violins raced in splendid harmony. Boots stamped and hands clapped. Dozens of boisterous voices around the bar tried to keep tune.

  Even after the sweating musicians took a break, the noi
se continued in earnest. Stories were spun from the fireside, jokes retold, shawled women singing Danny Boy. As Adam ordered a second drink for them, a solemn-faced youth with an over-long mop of curls stood to the fore and cleared his throat. He delivered a self-composed poem about a girl who hadn’t returned his affections, reading with tearful sincerity and a wobbling voice. Once done he pushed the spectacles back on his nose and retook his seat. Roars of laughter echoed into the ceiling.

  Soon the musicians formed up again and launched into a belting melody that shook the wooden beams. A space was made for people to dance, and after Tara had watched several sets in awe—and sank a half-pint of stout to bolster her nerve—she announced to Adam, “I want to try that.”

  “That? I shouldn’t if I were you.”

  “Don’t be a big scaredy-cat.” She grabbed his hand and dragged him into the maelstrom.

  Later, long past midnight, they lay exhausted in bed, Tara breathing softly with her eyes closed. Adam gazed at the soft porcelain skin of her shoulder and kissed it. “Tara?” he asked gently.

  “Mm?”

  “Are you asleep?”

  “Mm.”

  “I need you to know,” his voice struggled with tiredness, “I need you to know something. I love you, Tara. And I need to know if you’ll love me too. No matter what happens from now on.”

  Long moments of silence passed. No answer came.

  He looked over her shoulder. She was already asleep, and so he surrendered himself into the warm black void.

  “It’s devious.” James chewed his lip in doubt. “Devious, and damned tiresome too. I’m the one who should dictate the time and place of arrest.”

  Allister blew his nose and carefully folded the hanky. “Detective, I’m leading you to a dangerous terrorist. I thought you might be pleased.”

  “I’d hardly call him a dangerous terrorist, Mr. Bowen. He’s a sideshow, nothing more.”

  “I’ll wager he’s more than a sideshow. Do you want him or not?”

  “Yes, I do. But I don’t like playing games with my job. It would be far easier for me to pick him up at his office.”

  “Detective, I told you, he’s hardly ever there. I’ve just given you a definite time and place. It’s foolproof.”