Anglo-Irish Murders

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘Now, look here, Rollo, you’re the one who gave him the alibi. And gave him one which leaves him nearly two hours to the good. That’s got to be enough leeway. Now, if what you’re saying to me is that there’s two murderers applying themselves to Kelly-Mae, we have to consider how many were applying themselves to the others. Besides which, I find it frankly incredible that a fella whose life has been spent in the civil service should have been able to lay his hands on explosives let alone know what to do with them.

  ‘I mean, we can show him this, but he’s just going to deny it. And unless you’re right about magnifying it proving it, where does that get us?’

  ‘Inspector, I don’t mean to presume…’

  ‘Now, Rollo, don’t give me any of that ould shite. You’ve been a great help and it’s much appreciated. Come on, what are you suggesting?’

  ‘Gibson’s doctor. Find out if he’d been prescribed sleeping pills.’

  ‘How can we find out who his doctor is without tipping him off?’

  ‘We need a pretext. Maybe we could ask everyone.’

  ‘What pretext? And even so, that would still tip him off.’

  There was a long silence. And then, with great reluctance, Amiss raised a miserable face. ‘I can’t believe this. Simon is a decent human being.’ He paused. ‘But…’

  ‘But?’ said Pooley eagerly.

  ‘But I admit there’s a prima facie case to answer.’ He looked at them even more miserably.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I expect you’ll find his doctor’s name in his…’

  ‘Of course. What was I thinking of? It’ll be in his filofax.’

  ‘No, no. Not a filofax. Nothing as vulgar as that for Simon. But he’s got a little address book he carries round which is wonderfully comprehensive.’

  ‘Where does he keep it?’

  ‘Usually in his jacket pocket. But of course he’s not wearing a jacket at the moment, so presumably it’s in his bedroom.’

  Pooley looked at his watch. ‘Half past six. Ring him, Robert, and ask him to meet you for a drink.’

  ‘I’ll tell Bradley to come up here with the master key.’

  ‘I don’t want to do this, Ellis. I don’t want to be Judas.’

  ‘Simon isn’t Jesus, Robert.’

  ‘But he’s a friend.’

  Pooley looked at him straight and without another word, Amiss walked over to the phone.

  ***

  McNulty chewed busily. ‘That’s it, then.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Time to talk to him. I’ve been thinking. He might talk more freely to you, you know.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘All I know is the fella’s English and you’re English so you probably speak his language better than I do. So would you oblige me?’

  ‘It’s a risk, isn’t it?’

  McNulty raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Listen. I don’t think this is the time to be doing things by the book, do you? Even if we had a book. In any of our languages. Besides, from what I’ve seen of him, whether murderer or not, he’s not the kind of fella’s going to start complaining about you being an undercover cop. Are you with me?’

  ‘I’m with you,’ said Pooley.

  McNulty turned to Bradley. ‘Right, Joe, off with you and bring us Mr Gibson. He’ll be in the bar.’

  ***

  If Gibson was surprised to see Pooley, he showed no sign of it. He sat down, pulled up his trousers slightly to preserve his crease and smiled benignly. ‘Is this official? I mean Rollo and you in partnership?’

  ‘Yes and no. If you’re wondering about Rollo here, well, to put it bluntly, he’s an English policeman. I thought you might be more comfortable if he were to ask you the questions.’

  ‘How ethnically sensitive of you, Inspector. Well, well, well, how interesting. I wonder how that happened without my knowing about it. It’s always instructive to find one is trusted less than one thinks. But of course, in our world, it is even more interesting to find out who is the person not doing the trusting. I should have cottoned on, of course. I never could understand how this generous millionaire could have kept his identity secret.’

  He looked at Pooley, who said nothing.

  Gibson smiled. ‘A conundrum for another day no doubt. Now, do tell me. What status of policeman are you? Inspector Pooley? Or are you too young to have risen to such heights?’

  ‘I’ve passed my inspector’s exams,’ said Pooley blushing. ‘But I’m still just a sergeant. But Inspector McNulty thought you wouldn’t mind that.’

  ‘Not in the least, my dear chap. I’m sure the reasons for this will all become clear shortly.’

  Pooley looked at him steadily. ‘We needn’t delay getting to the nub of this, Simon. Okinawa unwittingly captured you on film dropping pills into Kelly-Mae’s glass.’

  ‘Really? How extraordinary.’

  ‘And your doctor tells us you have a prescription for the very drug her body is full of.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He crossed his left leg over his right. ‘And what doctor would this be, Rollo?’

  ‘The doctor you’ve had for the last five years. Doctor Fraser.’

  ‘I see. Would you be kind enough to play me the relevant piece of tape?

  ‘Yes,’ he said, when Pooley switched off the remote control. ‘Not conclusive, but I suppose in conjunction with Dr Fraser’s evidence, definitely tricky. Did he tell you anything else?’

  ‘No. He was reluctant enough to tell us that.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that. I always thought well of him.’ He smiled pleasantly. ‘What’s next? Are you going to charge me?’

  ‘First of all, Simon, it would be very helpful if you could explain things to us. Then we—or rather, Inspector McNulty—will think about charges. I have no authority in this jurisdiction, as you know.’

  Gibson clasped his hands on his knees and gazed at the floor. After a minute or two he looked up and smiled again. ‘This is a little unorthodox, is it not? But then it has undoubtedly been an unorthodox conference. The murders have been unorthodox and now it emerges that even the policing arrangements are unorthodox. Not that I’m complaining, you understand. However, this being the case, might I ask an unorthodox favour?’

  Pooley looked at McNulty, who shrugged and said, ‘Ask away.’

  ‘For reasons which will emerge, I don’t really feel like fighting my corner on this one. I’m happy to tell you the truth. In exchange, I’d be grateful if you’d extend my audience to include Robert Amiss and Jack Troutbeck. It seems to me that I owe them an apology for messing up their conference in such a dramatic fashion. Not, that is to say, that I don’t owe apologies to others, but friendship rather comes into it with Robert, and Jack, I think, would enjoy the story.’

  ‘If that’s the way you want it, that’s the way you can have it,’ said McNulty. ‘Get them, Joe.’

  ***

  ‘You know I feel more guilty about Gardiner Steeples than anyone,’ said Gibson. ‘No one ever wanted to come to a conference less than he did and no one ever less enjoyed the freebie and self-important aspect of it. And my activities have kept him away from opening the scout hut or whatever it was that is particularly plaguing him at the moment. Still into each life a little rain must fall.’

  The door opened. ‘Ah, Jack, Robert, do come in. I’m sure Inspector McNulty and Sergeant-soon-to-be-Inspector Pooley would wish you to make yourselves at home.’

  He leaned back, stretched his arms wide, yawned and said, ‘I often wonder that civil servants don’t commit more murders. I do know from Robert that in his brief period as an official he was privileged to be intimately involved with such a rare phenomenon but it is rare and even in that case it was civil servants who were murdered while their natural prey—ministers—were left alone.’

  He arranged himself more comfortably. ‘Like most civil servants, I’ve had many fantasies of killing ministers, but since I was posted to Northern Ireland my homicidal fantas
ies have tended increasingly to focus on murderers. It’s a matter of natural justice, really. Begins to get to you when you see people you know to be unpunished murderers and torturers being kissed by politicians, offered another canapé at a departmental Christmas party or topped up with champagne at an embassy dinner. Brings out the Jewishness in me. All that eye-for-an-eyery. Mind you, the Catholic side of me might have kept control had there been any sense that these murderers had repented and asked for forgiveness, but of course they hadn’t. They don’t. That’s the rub.’

  ‘Yes, but what about…?’ began the baroness.

  He looked at her and smiled seraphically. ‘Jack, curb your impatience. It’s not every day you hear a confession from a murderer. Surely I should be allowed to do this without interruption. I know you’ve a low boredom threshhold, but stretch a point.’ He caught Amiss’ eye and they both laughed. ‘I’ll give you the narrative and the explanation. The exegesis can wait for another time. But in deference to Jack, I’ll skip my formative years, my Oxford days, my first years as a civil servant, disillusion, disappointment in love and all the rest of it and get down to what happened in the last week or two.

  ‘The great liberation was what Dr Fraser confirmed after my tests a few weeks back. That I was going to die and die soon of liver cancer. Incurable, unless you’re going to go in for transplants, for which I have neither the inclination, nor, it emerged, the time. The condition was quite far advanced when spotted.’

  He looked at Amiss’ thunderstruck face. ‘You’re wondering why you didn’t realise I was ill, Robert? Why should you? We only met face to face a few times before this weekend and it doesn’t show yet. I never ate or drank much anyway and it hasn’t yet started to be incapacitating.

  ‘That I should hear this news at a time when I was being more than usually irritated by people I loathed and was about to be locked up with in a strange hotel was fortuitous—or not, depending on your point of view.

  ‘I’ve often wondered how many reasonable people commit murder simply out of irritation. I’ve been intensely irritated, which is why what happened happened. I didn’t come here intending to commit mass murder—or even any murder, though I did come here feeling anarchic and with a vague urge to do something. Otherwise I would have done the sensible thing, left the service instantly on perfectly justifiable medical grounds and gone off to put my affairs in order.

  ‘I have a slight qualm about Billy. Infuriating little bastard, puffed up with his own importance and all that. But to the best of my knowledge, he’s never actually killed anybody. As against that, he seems to me to have absolutely no moral qualms about those of his pals who did. Even worse, he seems to have had no moral qualms any more about those on the other side who murdered his own pals. To see him chummy with Laochraí, whom he would have known had personally shot in the back of the head two exemplary young men whose crime was to be policemen made me sick. And then he came and gave me the idea.

  ‘Remember I mentioned that I had to tell him that his candidacy in the council elections was smiled upon by my masters. That’s what we’ve come to, when a civil servant can be required to tell a jumped-up little paramilitary stooge that Whitehall smiles on him in a council election. Billy was delighted but not surprised. He knew he was popular with the establishment. But he had a problem which he explained frankly. It was easier for people who’d been known to do the business to do well in elections, so he was going to have to do something dramatic. Then he shared with me his masterplan. And because he wasn’t exactly a man of action, he wanted my support, advice and if possible, practical help. Wondered if he’d need an assistant.

  ‘I put it to him that it was unlikely that a middle-ranking civil servant could help to put a contentious flag up in a foreign country, but I promised to recce for him unofficially. Hence I investigated the flagpoles and the means of getting to the flagpoles and discovered the bolts.

  ‘It was ridiculously easy. I slipped up to the roof on Sunday morning when I knew I couldn’t be putting the maintenance men at risk, undid the bolt almost completely, clapped Billy on the back as I went off to mass and he to his ecumenical service and told him I looked forward to seeing his emblem flying bravely when I got back to lunch.

  ‘I have to say it was extremely difficult to contain my curiosity when I saw the flagpole was down, but it wouldn’t have been wise to go and look for the body.

  ‘Of course Call-me-Cormac wasn’t a murderer either, I admit, but he was happily and hypocritically sleeping with one. And I didn’t join the Roman Catholic church in order to see priests sleeping with murderers. Whiskey priests and Graham Greene-type sinners is one thing. Liberation theologians fomenting disorder is another. And he was even more irritating than Billy. What’s more, you can argue that there is some excuse for people who were brought up in all this, but for outsiders to come in and espouse their cause is especially objectionable.

  ‘And besides, it was another easy one. And it appealed to my puritan soul that he would be punished for his sexual as well as his other sins. I knew he’d go to her at night—or she’d go to him, which would have been even better. I spent some of those ludicrous sessions thinking of a suitable accident.

  ‘I had a lot of luck. Late Saturday night I was able to pinch half-a-dozen empty bottles from a bin in the bar and early on Sunday evening my major problem was resolved when a bulb went in my bedroom. It felt like a divine omen.

  ‘So when I got back from the pub on Sunday night I lurked, saw him leave his turret and go to hers and had it all set up before you returned. And magnificently successful it was too.

  ‘Now, Kelly-Mae, as you know—oh, sorry, for those of you who don’t, Okinawa’s film spotted me dropping sleeping tablets into her Diet Coke. Kelly-Mae was straightforward too.’

  McNulty interrupted. ‘Hold on. What about Laochraí?’

  ‘Sorry, Inspector. Laochraí? Nothing to do with me guv. Billy, yes. The egregious priest certainly. And I did my best to despatch Kelly-Mae, who was so typical of those dreadful Irish-Americans who are happy to encourage young idiots three thousand miles away to kill and die. And she was, as well, fearfully irritating.’

  He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘I’m afraid that when you begin to murder and it goes well and you don’t care whether you’re caught or not, the grounds on which you do it become slimmer and slimmer. Had Kelly-Mae not been Irish-American I might still have been tempted to get rid of her because she was stupid, as well as really annoying about food. Corruption happens quickly.’

  ‘But you didn’t smother her?’ asked McNulty.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor blow up Laochraí?’

  ‘No.’

  He chewed his moustache a bit more. ‘Any idea who did?’

  ‘Possibly, Inspector, possibly. As you might imagine, I’ve been giving this a rather considerable amount of thought. I can see it’s a bit unorthodox to be discussing the identity of the second murderer with the first murderer, but…’

  ‘Listen, Mr Gibson, I’d sup with the devil if he’d get me out of this feckin’ mess and this feckin’ place.’

  ‘Very straightforward, I think. Unless there’s another murderer who knocks people off for pretty arbitrary reasons, what you’ve got here is internecine warfare in the republican movement. I don’t think this collection of fine intellects has to expend too much effort on identifying the likely perpetrator.’

  ‘Liam MacPhrait.’

  ‘Precisely, Inspector. My guess is that he’s actually a dissident, and that in addition to being a mole within the IRA he’s taking revenge for what happened to his brothers. It may be that Laochraí had something to do with their betrayal. I’m absolutely sure she was still active in the IRA.’

  ‘And Kelly-Mae?’

  ‘Probably saw or heard something she shouldn’t. Or maybe got involved disastrously in MOPE politics.’

  ‘I’m expecting to hear from the FBI any time now,’ said McNulty. ‘In the meantime, Mr Gibson, I’m afraid I have to c
harge you with murder.’

  ‘Be my guest, Inspector. At least this will give you the opportunity to rub the nose of Maloney in the dirt. And I won’t even have to stand trial.’

  The baroness stood up. ‘Inspector, there’s something I should explain. I’ve gathered that you believe that behaviour is frequently determined by the place of origin?’

  McNulty nodded.

  ‘There are a few lines that have come to my mind that might go some way to explain what happened with Simon. I admit the first two lines may not immediately strike you as reminiscent of him, but I think the verse as a whole will be helpful.’

  ‘Go ahead, mam.’

  ‘Kipling is speaking of the English. “Their psychology is bovine, their outlook crude and raw. / They abandon vital matters to be tickled with a straw.”’ She paused and looked across at Gibson. ‘“But the straw that they were tickled with—the chaff that they were fed with—/ They convert into a weaver’s beam to break their foeman’s head with.”’

  Gibson bowed. ‘I’ll try to take that as a compliment, Jack.’

  McNulty stood up. ‘Isn’t it a pity, mam, that there aren’t more in that mould? Now can you all leave Mr Gibson with the sergeant and meself. We have business.’

  Epilogue

  Three Weeks Later

  ‘It’s wonderful to be back in Ireland,’ cried the baroness, as she drove out of the airport. ‘We’re on the road to Dublin,’ she sang. ‘We’re Dublin bound.’

  ‘We’ll be off it soon, if you don’t slow down.’

  ‘More and more, Robert, you resemble a nagging wife.’

  ‘Like most nagging wives, I’ve a lot to nag about.’

  ‘No, there is much to celebrate.’

  ‘How can you be so callous? Doesn’t Simon’s death bother you at all?’

  ‘Could he have died at a better time? Elegant denunciation published widely. Two governments in a frenzy of self-justification. He went out on a high point. And here are we at last about to be reunited with the delectable Aisling and Siobhán.’

  The Sailor’s Hornpipe sounded. ‘Hello…Inspector McNulty. Yes…Yes…Good God…Yes…No, really?…When? Are they sure?…Did she?…Him too?…It’s hard to take it all in…What’s the official line?…But of course…It would be…Yes…Thanks very much for letting me know. Good luck.’