In This Bright Future: A DC Smith Investigation

by Peter Grainger

  ‘OK, DC. Got to go now. Be safe.’

  He’d got the current location thing working on the phone, and because he had accidentally ‘dropped a pin’ on the site of Old Timothy’s, he could watch his progress towards it as he sat on the bus. Or at least he could until he realised how quickly this was draining the battery – he turned current location off after that.

  It was a fine June morning. He made a show of being interested in the changing street scenes as the bus journeyed on, just like a proper visitor, watching first out of the left-hand window and then the right, taking the opportunity too to look back along the interior at the handful of other passengers. There was no-one of obvious concern, and he had made a point of being the last person to get aboard. From his seat he could not see the traffic behind the bus but at the other end he would continue with the basic precautions. The internal debate that had been going on since he arrived in Northern Ireland continued; one part of him saying that he really was too old for all this and the other saying that’s as maybe but you can still do it, can’t you? That’s something after thirty years.

  Martin McCain had not known the truth about Aidan Quinn’s death – if he had, last night’s meeting would have gone differently, and much more like the ones he had anticipated. Smith had broken one of his own golden rules. He had assumed that McCain would know that truth, but now, after the phone call from Kings Lake, one had to ask instead, which truth? The truth in the police surgeon’s report, which wasn’t actually the truth at all? McCain had been the most solid and respected member of the cell, effectively Lorcan Quinn’s second-in-command, and he had not known, still did not know, what had happened to Aidan. Who else did know? Michael O’Dell? Smith was perhaps fifteen minutes from finding out the answer to that one.

  The process of elimination, he thought, with the grim ghost of a smile; I believe what McCain told me – that he and Callaghan were miles and hours away when Lorcan gave the command to find anyone who knew that English bastard; I believe that McCain was never told the truth about what happened to Brann O’Neill because I know now that he was never told the truth about what happened to Aidan Quinn. And I know without the shadow of a doubt where these confusions and complications came from, where the double-dealing and dissembling have their source. What better training could there have been for the man with the fancy sort of office in the white building up on the hill?

  Smith got out of the bus one stop away from the one nearest to Old Timothy’s and watched it drive away. The cars behind carried on with their morning and he could see nothing of interest in them. Then he began to walk north along Allen Road, looking for the left turn that would take him to his destination. The day was so warm and breathless now that he didn’t really need his jacket.

  He felt perfectly alone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Some public houses are perpetually dark, and some are even more so on the brightest of days - Old Timothy’s was one of these. Smith stood inside the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust and his nose to grow accustomed to the smell of stale Guinness – no, not stale so much as ancient for it had been absorbed into the very timbers of the building. There was no sawdust on the floor but in every other respect Old Timothy’s was exactly that; proudly and defiantly old and out of date. Someone had been smoking in the bar until minutes ago and perhaps they still were – it was impossible to see into all the alcoves and snugs that would undoubtedly be out there in the gloom. Smith had the sudden urge to smoke himself, and thought that if he saw another doing so then he might as well. When in Rome… And it had been years since he was able to sit in a pub with a pint of beer and enjoy a cigarette.

  There was no music, and he approved of that, too. Live music yes, preferably some blues or local folk of an evening, but jukeboxes and their like should be banished to countries that have no history. English or honorary English pubs like this one should be for drinking, smoking and talking, and nothing more. As for gastro-pubs – well, he could smell no food here, and there was no sign of a menu. For a moment he thought he might have died and gone to heaven, and then he remembered that in a few minutes he might well have done so. Perhaps he should have that cigarette.

  He moved towards the bar, where a small, thin, elderly man stood waiting for him. The closer Smith got, the smaller, thinner and older the man seemed – he had to wonder whether this might be Old Timothy himself.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Guinness, please.’

  Two words, but they were enough. The old man did not hesitate and nothing in his face moved, but the nationality of the visitor had been noted. The hand and arm that pulled on the pump had the colour and grain of old oak; the two of them watched the dark liquid foaming into the glass. Then Smith was told of the price and he duly paid. The man said not a word more.

  The area behind him between the bar and the door was the best lit and Smith decided to remain here; there were clearly other spaces off to the right but he could not see into them. In addition to the five small tables, each with three or four chairs, there were benches and settles around the walls, and Smith made for one of the latter, one that gave him a view of a small section of the road outside through a narrow window. At the far side of this space, one of the tables had two occupants, two men in their forties or fifties. One, wearing the traditional flat cap of those who work with race horses, watched Smith cross in front of them and he continued to watch until the visitor’s eyes looked back at him, and then the Irishman seemed to wince a little before he looked away. His companion never glanced up – he continued to stare gloomily down at the folded newspaper that lay on the table in front of him.

  Smith checked with his watch – twelve o’clock exactly. If he had been in O’Dell’s position – always assuming that McCain had made the call – how would he have handled this? Well, he would have sat right where he was now and watched the road outside the pub; any suspicions and he could then disappear into the recesses beyond. Perhaps that was what had happened, and O’Dell had been sitting right here moments ago. One way or another, O’Dell would want to see before he was seen, and Smith had no doubt that if he, O’Dell, had decided to make this meeting, then he, Smith, had already been observed.

  But the Guinness was divine. It was worth making the journey across the sea just to taste it, and he wished that the gloomy newspaper man would reach for the packet of cigarettes that lay on the table in front of him. It was all that he had drunk during his days as Stuart Reilly, apart from the whiskeys that Barran O’Neill had shared with him on the nights that he had visited the family in Hannahstown. Those were good times, and it was hard to believe that they had come to this, the search for the remains of the bravest and brightest of them.

  The man with the flat cap murmured something to his companion and stood up. Smith caught his eye again, and this time saw that there was something indirect about its expression. Then he was looking at the man’s back as he moved into the rear of the pub where the ceilings seemed to be even lower and the shadows more intense. The barman was motionless, an automaton, looking out across the tables and chairs but apparently seeing nothing at all; then he too ducked out of sight behind a heavy green curtain, and Smith felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise.

  Voices back there – a question, an answer, another question and another monosyllabic response. The flat cap reappeared, still not looking directly at Smith but he did not return to his seat, and now the other, the newspaperman, was watching too, his hands flat on the table as if they were ready to push him up onto his feet and away. A third figure came out of the darkness now, one that Smith recognised.

  Michael O’Dell was more than the man he used to be, that much was certain – he must weigh close to twenty stones. It was all around his middle because the face, though much older, was hardly changed. Smith thought that if that’s what the Guinness does to you, it’s a good thing I left in such a hurry after all. The fact that O’Dell had been a big man in the first place redeemed him a little now – the frame
was just about able to carry the weight but one more pint might topple him into obesity.

  Smith stood up. It might to an observer have looked like politeness but he had concluded that being on his feet might be a good idea. With Martin McCain he had never felt that he needed a bodyguard though he had, unwittingly, had one; now some martial arts might come in handy, though he had no regrets about leaving Diarmuid Kelly out of this.

  O’Dell said slowly, ‘When he called me, do you know what I did?’

  Smith said, ‘No. I honestly cannot imagine what you did.’

  ‘I looked at my watch to make sure it wasn’t April the first.’

  ‘Really? If you had to check, it might be time for a new watch.’

  The Irishman’s lips stretched into a thin smile.

  ‘Will you not join us in the back? We have our own little snug there. We can talk privately, if that’s what you’ve come for.’

  ‘Here is fine. I don’t feel an overwhelming need for privacy just at the moment.’

  O’Dell looked towards the doorway through which Smith had entered the pub.

  ‘Thinking of making a dash for it? There’s two outside stopping anyone else coming in, and they’ll do the same for you if you decide to leave.’

  ‘No, I’m not leaving just yet. I was hoping to ask you a few questions – and then I’ll leave.’

  ‘Oh, aye!’ said the flat-capped man with a snigger that was ignored by O’Dell.

  ‘Do you know what? I’m going to sit down with you, just for old time’s sake. But before I do, there’s something we need to take care of. Sean?’

  The newspaper-reading man got up slowly, edged himself around the table and approached Smith. He stopped three feet away – or rather he was stopped by something in the eyes of the man in front of him. Then he turned and looked at O’Dell.

  ‘There’s one precaution I must insist on. Sean will just pat you down. If that’s a no for you, perhaps we have our answer, and you can then do the attempting-to-leave thing.’

  Smith accepted it, raising his arms as Sean moved close enough to run his hands over arms, legs and upper body; when Sean asked him to remove his jacket, he did so, handing it to him. The Irishman went through the pockets and then checked Smith’s upper body again through his shirt. They were not looking for a gun.

  While the search was going on, O’Dell said, ‘You have a bit of a history with recording devices, it seems. Wouldn’t want to make the same mistake twice, y’see.’

  It was safe to assume, then, that McCain’s conversation with O’Dell had not been a brief one – safe to assume that everything he had told McCain was now known to Michael O’Dell. Sean nodded and stepped away, back to his own table. The flat-capped man went to the bar, where the bartender had reappeared, presumably because he felt sure enough that he was not yet about to witness anything that he would rather not, and O’Dell came forward and took a seat opposite Smith’s.

  This close, there was an unexpected smell about the man, a flowery scent of eau-de-cologne, freshly applied, and Smith wondered whether he should feel flattered. He had shaved that morning but not brought with him the quite pricey after-shave that he had bought for himself last Christmas – an oversight if they were to do battle by fragrance.

  ‘Martin tells me you like to be called David now.’

  ‘Yes. And it’s convenient as it’s my name as well.’

  The others in the bar did not appear to be listening, or at least taking the slightest interest in what was or was about to be said. Smith wondered how many more there were; two inside and at least two more outside – he had no doubt that O’Dell had been telling the truth about that. McCain was alone with his dogs, out of it, cradling his memories and imagining a brighter future when the oppressors had been driven from the shores of his native land, but O’Dell was still a part of something, with a crew of his own that did as they were told. A part of what, though? The Republican movement had always been prone to splintering but since the peace agreement all sorts of odd groupings had formed and re-formed. Smith knew that much from the Sunday papers – he should have known more.

  O’Dell said, ‘When we first heard in the phone call, and even when Lorcan came in and said it was true, I couldn’t believe it. You’d done such a job on us! Using the O’Neills like that was brilliant. David.’

  A nice touch. Had O’Dell found that in something that McCain said or had he worked it out for himself? He could almost have been talking to Lia Wisbey, come to think of it – and Smith did think about that fleetingly before dismissing the idea. Still, it was better for O’Dell to be trying to hurt him in that way than in some of the others that were, at this particular moment, at his disposal.

  Smith said, ‘I was lucky, that’s all.’

  ‘A lucky soldier… And are you a lucky policeman, too?’

  ‘So far. I have my moments.’

  O’Dell leaned back in the chair and looked him over.

  ‘You don’t come across as a copper, I have to say. But then you didn’t come across as a tout. I guess it’s the same thing – some people just aren’t what they appear to be. It’s a rare sort of talent.’

  ‘I think it’s important to make the most of what you are given. You only get one life.’

  There was a pause before O’Dell said, ‘Yes, you do.’ If he had said instead ‘Yes, we do,’ it would have been a little more comforting. Smith wondered what odds Martin McCain would give him here and now on whether he would be walking out of Old Timothy’s in one piece. Obviously it would be difficult to walk out at all if he was in two or more pieces.

  O’Dell said, ‘I need t’understand your motivation in all this. You got out against all the odds. You survived at least one attempt to pay you back for what you did to the Irish people. After thirty years one would have to say you were free and clear, and then you voluntarily walk back into it? What in God’s name would make anyone stupid enough to come through those doors and look me in the eye?’

  Ah. Smith had often wondered whether the two attempts on his life back in England had anything to do with the cell that he had exposed. For all he knew, there was a separate branch of the IRA that dealt with betrayal, and his name had simply appeared on a list, but Michael O’Dell knew something about it.

  ‘It’s just as I told Martin, and I’m sure he has told you. The Inquiry looked into Brann O’Neill’s disappearance after Callaghan’s death last year, and they didn’t get very far. A member of the family found me recently, wanting to know if I could shed any light on what happened. At that point, I didn’t even know that he had gone missing. I offered to help, and that’s why I came through those doors.’

  ‘Help to do what? Put someone behind bars?’

  ‘No. It’s no different to what the Inquiry itself does. The family want to find him, bring him home and give him a Christian burial.’

  ‘Always assuming that he is dead in the first place.’

  ‘It would be a strange thing to do to someone who wasn’t. But he is dead. He was killed that Friday night or the following day, I’d say. All I need is to speak to someone who knows what happened to him after that. There are plenty of precedents now, you know that. You know how this can be done.’

  O’Dell leaned in a little. The warmth of the early afternoon, the stuffiness of the bar and the directness of the conversation had combined to produce a faint gleam of sweat across his forehead.

  ‘Yes, I do. What I don’t know is why I should bother.’

  Despite the precariousness of his situation – or perhaps because of it – Smith felt a flutter of excitement at that moment, when those words were spoken. O’Dell had something for him; all he needed was the right reason to give it up.

  Smith said, ‘The O’Neills were decent people, and they still are. What’s more, they are still good Republicans – you don’t need me to tell you that. What they believe in is what you believe in, assuming that you still have that belief yourself, assuming that you’re not just some sort of gangster now. If
you are, I’m wasting my time, and probably my life, sitting here talking to you. Tell me if so and we can cut to the chase. I’ll get up and see how far I can get before you finish the job that someone else could not.’

  A risk but not so much as it might seem; O’Dell would have seen a softer, more sympathetic approach as weakness. At least this one had made him smile.

  ‘Will you listen to this?’ O’Dell said, looking around at Sean, who nodded. ‘If I still had fighting cockerels, I’d put you in with one of them!’

  It was the wrong moment to say any more. Smith took a long pull of the warm Guinness and wondered why on earth no-one was smoking yet. Time might be short, so he picked up his own packet from where Sean had placed it on the table and asked O’Dell if he minded.

  ‘In here? Surely that’s against the law? But I understand, condemned man and all that. Go ahead.’

  Nicotine hits the neural transmitters instantly, smoothing out one’s thought processes, bringing a sense of calm, the belief that all will be well. There was no need to hurry this, whatever the outcome. The sounds of the road began to intrude, and the voices of a group of schoolgirls chattering and laughing passed by, first growing louder and then fading – Smith glimpsed them through the narrow window. He thought, there is nothing in this world more sensuous and seductive than the laughter of Irish women.

  O’Dell said, ‘Barran O’Neill was a fine speaker, I’ll give you that. He pulled people to the cause but then he stopped them from doing the only things that will ever work. Words, words, words – that’s all he was, in the end.’

  ‘Not reason enough to lose a son, though.’

  ‘That’s not why he…’

  A confirmation at last, and O’Dell realised that he had given it. After a moment, he said, ‘How much did Martin tell you?’

  ‘Not much. He and Callaghan went to Fermanagh. You were out finding some place to entertain me. When I declined the invitation, Lorcan Quinn sent out anyone and everyone to find me or anyone who knew me. Someone found Brann O’Neill. Quite how it went from there to murdering him is beyond me at the moment.’