Kelly swept across from the middle lane onto the raised platform, feeling suddenly exposed. He left the engine running.
‘Turn it off. We’re not going anywhere until we’ve straightened a few things out.’
It was suddenly quiet, just the hiss of traffic passing them occasionally – a bus, a lorry, a few cars in the late evening sunshine. Smith watched them go and thought, well, if anyone was following they’ve lost us now for a while. Kelly had his hands back on the wheel, waiting for Smith to say something.
‘If your plan is to drive me around Belfast so that you can have a pop at me, we can do that but it would be wasting time. I’d prefer your uncle’s approach – much more cost effective. We can get out, you take a few swings at me, I’ll do my best to dodge them, and then we can get on. How does that sound?’
‘Ridiculous.’
‘Well, we agree on that.’
Kelly was staring ahead, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the wheel as if they were doing the 155 miles an hour. Something had got to him – something had to be said.
‘You’ve worked it out for yourself, I’m sure. Your mother and I got close in my time in Belfast. That wasn’t planned, it never is, you’re old enough and ugly enough to know that. It just happens. It was complicated, for reasons that are blindingly obvious. I never intended to leave the way I did. Quite the opposite, in fact. But when it all blew up in my face, I had to get out in a hurry. And not just for my sake – anyone who knew me, who had associated with me, was in danger. I couldn’t risk contacting any of them.’
Kelly’s head had turned halfway towards him, enough so that he could see Smith’s face.
‘I thought I had got clear and that they were safe. It now looks as if I was wrong.’
A police BMW was travelling along the opposite carriageway. It slowed down to have a good look at them, and then picked up speed. With not much more than a mile to the next roundabout, Smith calculated that they had about two minutes left before they had to explain themselves.
He said, ‘I’m not going to waste time apologising to you or anyone else. I’d rather do something, if I can. You can help me get started on that. Up to you.’
He seemed to have relaxed a little – his knuckles were no longer white. After a few seconds, Kelly said, ‘Fair enough. What’s next?’
‘First, drive away from here at the maximum speed allowed. Second, find somewhere to park and make that phone call. Third, tell me everything I need to know about Martin McCain.’
He lived in a council house just off the Crumlin Road. From the street it looked as if it was still under local authority or housing association control; around it several other properties had the new porches or windows or paved driveways that proclaimed the wonders of private ownership. A little odd, then, and not quite squaring with what Kelly had been telling him – that McCain was the manager of a local betting shop, and had been so for a number of years. If that was the case, he was good enough at the job to have earned a decent income and to be living somewhere better. It might not matter and probably had no bearing on the business in hand, but it was the kind of thing that Smith’s mind worked over automatically – he allowed it to do so and awaited the conclusion.
McCain had been married twice but now lived on his own, apart from the dogs that is, Kelly had told him. Mairead was his brother’s daughter. The brother, Patrick McCain, had gone south of the border with his work and wouldn’t be coming back, but he wasn’t political and had never been involved. That was all Diarmuid needed to say, just that one word ‘involved’. Mairead wasn’t close to her uncle but she kept in touch for her father’s sake – they saw him three or four times a year. Last Christmas they had invited him over because he might be spending it alone – he had declined the offer and sent them a bottle of the best Irish as an apology.
Smith had said, ‘And is Martin still ‘involved’?’
‘I don’t know. We have nothing to do with it ourselves, Mairead and me. I don’t know what he gets up to, to be honest.’
They sat in the car and looked at the house and the houses around it. A quiet road considering it was still so warm – one would have thought there would be children out playing. Smith looked again at the houses and the road, and thought, this place is having an identity crisis. It’s somewhere between aspiration and desperation. It has glimpsed the future in television commercials for window blinds and washing machines but the programmes in between are all about the past.
Then he thought about the last time he had seen Martin McCain. Four of them had been holding him, Smith, in the storeroom at the back of Rourke’s bar – McCain, Eamon Callaghan, Michael O’Dell and Tommy Blake. They were waiting for Lorcan to come – Lorcan would know whether it was true, and Lorcan would know what to do about it. Smith had followed the golden rule – deny, deny, deny – and he could see that Callaghan and O’Dell were uncertain about what they had been told. They had made him sit in a chair while they stood and waited but they had not touched him. McCain was the oldest of them, and Blake was the most unstable – periodically he laughed for no obvious reason and there was a strange, disconcerting glitter in his eye, as if he had some sort of fever. The thought that they had found a traitor in their midst had excited Tommy Blake much more than it should have done.
Smith left the memory there – he would be back to it soon enough – and re-focused on the present. McCain would be in his sixties now. He had been the most old-school of the cell and knew his Irish history – single-minded to the point of ruthlessness but not with the irrational, emotional hatred of the English that marked out so many of the younger recruits. Smith had been present early in the year when one of Thatcher’s speeches had been showing on the television in the bar. There had been the usual jeering and abuse which rose to a crescendo when she referred to the Brighton bomb of the previous autumn, and someone had thrown a glass which smashed on the wall behind the screen. When the noise died down, Smith had heard McCain say to no-one in particular ‘We could use a leader like that’.
How he might react to seeing Stuart Reilly again was anybody’s guess – and whether he had in the meantime contacted any of the others was the same. When Diarmuid Kelly had called him half an hour ago, McCain had asked ‘Are you coming alone?’ and Kelly had answered that he was not. Smith had been able to hear the conversation plainly enough although the phone was not on speaker. After a pause, McCain had said, ‘Is this to do with your trip over the water?’ and Kelly said that it was. McCain had said finally ‘OK, then’ and that was the end of it. One could only assume that he knew who was coming.
When they reached the front door, Diarmuid stood closest, rapping on the frosted glass pane with his knuckles. Smith looked around at the windows and doors of the neighbouring houses but there was no sign of any interest. He remembered that, how the people looked the other way when business was going on – both those who approved and those who did not knew enough to know nothing. Some of these would know who it was lived at number seventeen, whether or not he was still ‘involved’.
The door opened away from the shadow of the porch, and Smith could see that it was Martin McCain himself. He had little of his hair left and he looked smaller than Smith remembered him – age does that to some men sooner than others. McCain’s eyes looked over Kelly’s shoulder and caught sight of Smith but there was nothing to be read in them.
McCain said, ‘It is you, Diarmuid. Come on in, you and your friend. Come on in,’ walking back down the passageway, leaving them to close the door. Again Kelly went first, Smith following and seeing the threadbare mat that lay at an angle across the linoleum floor-covering. He could smell the dogs before he saw them, a strong smell of wet dog as if they had just come back from a swim in the river and had not yet begun to dry out; three greyhounds lay on the floor in front of where there would be a fire in the winter. Two of them got up as the strangers entered, tails wagging when they recognised Diarmuid despite his three or four visits a year. When they saw Smith, their ears w
ent up and one of them gave a low growl – he turned his body side on and looked away from the dog.
McCain said, ‘Now then, girls – remember your manners. Sit down, the two of you, and I’ll make some tea.’
Smith realised that the Irishman was talking to his guests rather than his dogs, at least as far as the tea was concerned; the latter remained watchful as he and Kelly crossed the room and occupied the two chairs which seemed to have been placed in readiness. McCain went back into the hallway and turned right this time towards where the kitchen must be. Then there was the sound of a kettle being filled, and the rattle of cups and saucers.
With a growing sense of unreality, brought on by the realisation that he was about to take tea with the IRA, Smith observed the room and its contents. There were many photographs in old-fashioned silver and gilt frames – a few obviously of family but others were of groups of men, sometimes just two or three men in dark clothes and caps, upright, unsmiling and facing the camera as if it were part of a firing squad. All of the photographs, he realised, were old, some of them so much so that they had the sepia tints of fading memories. These were some of the forefathers of the modern movement and Smith did not doubt for a moment that McCain would be able to name them all, and tell of the parts they had played.
Between the photographs stood seaside ornaments and shells, china dogs and birds, figurines of milkmaids and shepherds, silk flowers in vases and a leprechaun or two peeping out for good measure. Over it all, a thin film of dust, the sort that one finds only in the rooms of men who have lived alone and in the past for a long time.
Kelly was pointing to a photograph. He said quietly, ‘That’s Mairead.’
A row of three men, with three small children standing in front of them. The little girl was smiling and her father’s hands were on her shoulders.
Smith said, ‘I can see Martin, and presumably that’s his brother. Who’s the third?’
‘Terry McCain, another brother. He emigrated to the States, and he’s never been back. They fell out – no prizes for guessing why. She got in touch with them recently, wants to go and see them but they’ll have nothing to do with Martin here.’
One of the dogs, the third one that was plainly the oldest, stood up, stretched its long back into a U and then walked stiffly over to Smith. He put out a hand and the dog lowered its head a little, the pale blue eyes never leaving his own; with just one finger at first Smith began to rub gently behind the dog’s ear.
He said, ‘What about these? Not racing dogs, are they?’
‘Not now. They will have been. He rescues them from the trainers. They don’t keep them long once they slow down.’
The dog gingerly lowered its haunches, taking care not to move its head away from the hand, even when Martin McCain came into the room with a tray.
McCain said, ‘Ah, that’s Jezebel for you – living up to her name. Would you mind now, Diarmuid? Throw those papers anywhere.’
He was nodding towards a low wooden table. Kelly placed the pile of newspapers and racing magazines on the floor and lifted the table into the space between their three armchairs. McCain lowered the tray down and Smith saw that the tea had been served in bone china, as it should be. The evening was growing stranger by the minute.
McCain sat down and looked thoughtfully at the tea tray. Then he said to Smith, ‘Help yourself, there. I’m sorry – I can’t remember whether you take milk and sugar.’
That was it – the first acknowledgement that the two of them had ever met before. Smith smiled at it briefly but Martin McCain’s face remained inscrutable. Jezebel continued to rub her head on his hand, her eyes closing now.
Smith said, ‘Jezebel – a good name for a stray dog, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Well, they’re much like women. The only way to love them is not to trust them. She’s a tart as you can see but I’ll not be throwing her out of the window any time soon, not for that.’
Diarmuid Kelly looked from one to the other, at a loss as to what they were talking about – McCain saw the look and shook his head at the ignorance of modern youth. Then he said to his nephew, ‘Talking of which, how’s Mairead?’
Kelly said, ‘She’s fine. Working hard.’
‘A good girl. Treat her well or you’ll have me to deal with, you know that.’
Diarmuid nodded, accepting it though it was plain he could have put Martin McCain out of the window, never mind the dog, if he had a wish to do so.
McCain said, ‘When I last was talking to her, she told me you’d plans to buy up half of the city centre.’
‘It’s like you said, Martin. You can’t believe half the things they say.’
McCain smiled for the first time, looked at Smith and said knowingly, ‘Computers.’
‘Yes. It’s all I hear, all day long.’
It was the only thing he could do – wait. Wait for Martin McCain to address the elephant in the room, to say something across the chasm of thirty years that lay between them and yet which held them together in a way that the younger man would never understand.
Jezebel walked away and lay down with the other dogs, satisfied for now. Smith poured a little milk into the cup and then some tea. It was good china, wafer thin and finely painted with red roses – quintessentially English, and, under the circumstances, quintessentially absurd.
Martin McCain sipped at his own tea, put the cup back in its saucer and looked at them both – first Kelly and then Smith.
‘All day, you say? That’ll be in your work, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘As a policeman?’
Smith nodded. It seemed that the waiting was almost over.
‘And is your visit to me any part of that? Is this an investigation, Officer Smith?’
There was no confusion over names for Martin McCain; he knew exactly to whom he was talking.
‘Of a sort. But it’s personal to me and the O’Neill family – some of them, anyway. There is nothing official about it, and as far as I am concerned there never will be. There will be no records. Nothing will be written down.’
McCain leaned back and interlaced his fingers across his abdomen – the gesture of a kindly old priest ready to give the benefits of his experience and the blessing of his wisdom.
He said, ‘When I gave this boy your name, I didn’t think for a minute he’d actually find you. And now he has. Is it a sign? The working in mysterious ways?’
Smith said, ‘I’ve no idea. Not my area of expertise, Mr McCain.’
‘Ah, but that’s just it, you see. I know that one of your areas of expertise is dissimulation. I have first-hand experience of that. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘If it’s any consolation, neither have I.’
Jezebel got up onto her forelegs, as if it was time to pay the Englishman another visit. Martin McCain said quietly, ‘Lie down’ and she did so without even a look at him. Then the man regarded Smith for a long time – long enough for Diarmuid Kelly to feel a little uncomfortable about it.
‘Alright, then. Investigate away. Ask me the questions. There’s just one thing before you begin.’
Smith said, ‘What’s that?’
‘This Mr McCain business. No more of that, if you please. Call me Martin.’
Chapter Ten
Martin said, ‘One of the stories that went round at the time was that it was because he was queer. It could have been that now, couldn’t it? Belfast was not the easiest place to be one in those days. I don’t know about now.’
The intolerance was probably real enough but that wasn’t why McCain had said it – he was making mischief, knowing that Smith would never believe that Brann had left for such a reason but saying it anyway. Diarmuid Kelly had stiffened a little at the use of the word but kept his silence just as Smith had hoped he would.
Smith said, ‘I very much doubt it. Brann had outed himself early, while he was still at school, I believe. At the university, if anything, it made him trendy,’ and then with a glance at Diarm
uid, Smith added, ‘Cool’ by way of explanation. ‘Brann was, as they say today, Martin, secure in his sexuality. He didn’t run away and never come back because of some name-calling, whoever might have been doing that.’
‘Oh, well, you’re obviously up on all this. I just put it out there as something said at the time, y’understand? In case it’s any use in the investigation.’
‘Very public-spirited of you.’
McCain nodded and poured himself some more tea from the second pot that he had brought in from the kitchen. Smith declined the offer of the same. Time was moving on; from the growing dusk outside the sitting room window it must be getting on for half past nine and McCain had talked freely enough and told them very little. A little speculation, a little reminiscing and a little gossip, whittling away the time as if it were a stick of green willow. Gauging how much he was concealing wasn’t easy, and would not have been even if Smith had had him for twenty four hours in Kings Lake – but Smith’s instincts were that there was something worth waiting for, if only he could figure out the old man’s game.
Then McCain was on his feet without warning, making for the door.
‘Now pardon me but I’ve remembered about the shop in the morning. I’m at the doctor early and I need to ask one of the boys to be in and open up for me. I’ll be two minutes.’
He closed the door to the sitting room, and then they could hear dialling – there was a landline on a small table inside the front door, Smith now recalled. Kelly shrugged and gave a half-smile which Smith did not return. It was a mercy that the young man’s mind did not operate as his own did, but this was not promising – Martin McCain making phone calls about a doctor’s appointment on a Saturday morning? And then the talking very quietly on that phone, with Stuart Reilly back in Belfast and the dusk growing quickly now. He debated standing and heading for the front door with the minimum of apologies and then, as suddenly, McCain was back in the room and sitting down, the dogs watching him as one.
In This Bright Future: A DC Smith Investigation Page 11