by Declan Burke
Jack liked that kind of thing.
‘I’m in the Butchers,’ he said, ‘and buying.’
‘Sorry, Jack.’ I needed to eat and then get back online to find out what I could about Carol Devereaux and Delphi Island. ‘I’m up to my tonsils over here.’
‘Let me guess. Right this second you’re working on Shay Govern.’
He was close enough to make it worrying. ‘Put me on a stout. I’ll be there in five.’
‘It’s already settling,’ he said.
There were rumours, unproven, that Jack Byrne’s retirement from the illustrious ranks of the detective branch of An Garda Síochána had been hastened by allegations that Jack, being something of an electronics whizz, had facilitated the tapping of phones, some of which may or may not have been regularly used by senior government ministers during a public inquiry into the possibility that certain members of the Gardai might have exceeded their powers of restraint and persuasion while investigating a Tallaght-based gang suspected of having a financial interest in funnelling cocaine from South America through Alicante and Amsterdam and onwards to the not noticeably mean streets of south County Dublin’s leafy suburbs.
Anyway, Jack took early retirement, a pension and a lump sum, and went into the security business. He ran a stable of nightclub bouncers and nightwatchmen, and offered private consultations on best practice for business owners concerned that an insurance company might find a damning loophole in their security arrangements. Now and again the private consultations tiptoed over the line into private investigations, which was how I’d first met him, when I’d tracked him down and picked his brain for realistic detail in the private eye novel I was writing at the time.
‘First thing you want to do,’ he’d told me, ‘is forget about that realism shit.’ Try writing a realistic crime novel, he said, and it’d run to ten thousand mind-numbing pages and fall apart on the last page halfway through the court case because some overworked tech mislabelled a piece of evidence in the lab three years ago. As far as Jack Byrne was concerned, the most realistic crime novels ever written came out of Czechoslovakia courtesy of the boy Kafka.
All told, Jack Byrne’s literary advice, garnered from his own extensive reading in the genre, had amounted to not letting the language get in the way of the words, and to read the Ross Macdonald book, he couldn’t remember which one, where Macdonald has Lew Archer say money costs too much.
The Butchers was just around the corner from my apartment block off Patrick Street, a dimly lit pub of gleaming wooden surfaces and mismatched furniture, its walls decorated with the tools of its insalubrious past as an abattoir. That day Jack was in jeans and Timberland boots and a creased pastel-pink shirt worn untucked, and took up half the old church pew along the pub’s back wall. He had a square-ish head, wide blue eyes and the kind of abrupt and jagged features that suggested his face had very recently detached itself from the side of an iceberg. A fresh pint of Guinness sat on the table in front of him, alongside a half-drunk fruit concoction conspicuously lacking straw and umbrella. Which meant Jack was on the wagon, and things were serious.
He folded up his newspaper as I plonked myself down on the stool opposite him and observed the pleasantries.
‘Story, Jack?’
‘All right, yeah.’
I had a long, cool pull of stout. It slid down bitter and easy.
‘So,’ Jack said, ‘Shay Govern.’
‘The very man.’
‘What are you doing for him?’
‘He’s commissioning me to write a book.’
‘About himself?’
‘No.’
‘So what’s it about?’
‘Need to know, Jack. How come you know I’m working with him?’
‘With him?’
‘With him, for him. What’s the difference?’
‘About ninety million dollars, roughly speaking.’
‘Point taken. So how’d you know?’
He’d seen me with Govern in the lobby of the Shelbourne earlier that morning. Jack had been commissioned by Govern too, a couple of months ago now. ‘Called me from Boston, said he was coming over, wanted an old friend tracked down.’
‘I only met Govern for the first time this morning, Jack. And I don’t know him well enough to—’
He held up a shovel-like hand. ‘I already found the friend.’
The way he said it, I got the distinct impression he hadn’t mentioned that fact to Shay Govern. I said as much.
It was complicated, he said, although I suspected that the main complication was the fact that Jack was working on a juicy per diem and Shay Govern was worth ninety million dollars, give or take.
He’d had a meeting scheduled with Govern for this morning, then walked into the Shelbourne’s lobby and saw me talking to him.
‘So I’m wondering,’ he said, ‘what’s Tom Noone hearing? Maybe he knows something about Shay Govern’s friend that might be useful.’
‘I doubt it, Jack.’
‘Gerard Smyth,’ he said, watching me intently.
‘He didn’t mention the name.’
‘Gerhard Uxkull.’
‘Sorry, no joy.’
‘You sure?’
‘Certain.’ I drank some more of the Guinness, sucked the froth from my upper lip. ‘Get it out, Jack. How come you’re not telling Govern you found his friend?’
‘Because this friend, Gerard Smyth, he’s never even heard of Shay Govern. Also, Gerard Smyth wasn’t born Gerard Smyth. Or in Ireland. He’s Danish, was born Gerhard Uxkull. You think it’s likely Shay Govern out of Donegal had a Danish friend?’
‘Maybe they go all the way back,’ I said, ‘to the Vikings. Had themselves a moment during one of the raids.’
‘That’s one possibility, sure. Except Shay Govern, right, he went to the States in 1940, when he was fifteen.’
‘So I’m told.’
‘And Gerard Smyth, back then calling himself Gerhard Uxkull, only arrived in Donegal in 1940. Sailed into Lough Swilly on a German submarine. The politics and language barrier aside, I’m thinking that didn’t leave them much time for developing this life-long bond Shay Govern’s talking about.’
‘You wouldn’t have thought so, no.’
‘So when I hear what Gerard Smyth has to say, I’m a wee bit peeved. Y’know?’
‘Maybe Govern thought it was none of your business. I mean, he hired you to find this guy Smyth. Which you did. The why isn’t your problem.’
‘In one of your books, maybe.’
‘Touché.’
‘But if it comes out I’m the guy who somehow missed the fact that his client was mixed up in a massacre of six kids, it’s not going to look so good for me. Either I’m too blind to notice or I’ve turned a blind eye. Either way I’m not seeing as much as I should.’
‘A massacre?’
‘A Nazi war crime, yeah. On Delphi Island, early 1940, just before Shay Govern takes off for the States. I’m guessing he hasn’t mentioned it to you either.’
‘It never came up, no. So what happened?’
‘It’s Smyth’s story, I’ll let him tell it.’
‘To me?’
‘Correct.’
‘Why would he want to tell me?’
‘Because I’ve promised him I’ll help get it published.’
‘No chance. Are you shitting me?’
‘Last I heard, you were still trading as a journalist.’
‘Nice try, Jack. But you’ll have to find yourself some other sap.’ If Jack Byrne thought I was going to screw with a book commission to chase some lunatic’s story about Nazi war crimes in Donegal, Jack Byrne was due a radical rethink.
‘Mind if I ask,’ he said, ‘what Govern’s paying for this book of his?’
‘It isn’t his book. And yeah, I do.’
He reached for the fruity concoction and slurped some down, then slumped back against the hard frame of the church pew. ‘You know what he’s worth, don’t you?’
Now we
were getting there. ‘Say it, Jack.’
‘The man’s worth ninety million, Tom.’
‘And?’
‘I just think,’ he said, ‘it might be interesting to see how Govern reacts when he realizes Gerard Smyth’s been talking up a storm.’
‘So now I’m a go-between.’
Jack grinned. ‘That’s right, Tom. A cut-out.’
‘Sorry, Jack.’
‘You’re not curious,’ he said, ‘about why Govern wants Smyth found?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘The old-buddies routine doesn’t fly; Smyth’s never heard of him. So let’s assume there’s another reason.’
‘It could be anything.’
‘Sure, but let’s assume for now it isn’t. Let’s just assume, for argument’s sake, Govern wants Smyth found so he can be sure he stays quiet.’
‘You think he’s planning to buy off Smyth.’
‘Makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘Not really, no. I mean, Jack, Nazi war crimes in Donegal? You think, if that shit actually happened, we wouldn’t have heard about it already?’
‘Listen to Gerard Smyth before you go making up your mind.’
And that was the kicker. Jack Byrne, ex-Garda detective and alleged phone-tapper and subverter of the democratic process, had many faults. Gullibility wasn’t one of them. If Gerard Smyth had convinced Jack, he had a hell of a story to tell.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll listen to Smyth.’
‘That’s all I’m asking.’ Smyth, he said, had documents he wouldn’t release to Jack, would only hand over to a journalist. ‘So don’t forget to flash your press card.’
I drained the last of the Guinness. ‘Does Smyth know anything about this?’
‘Not yet, no.’ A cynical grin. ‘Between you and me, all Smyth wants is for the truth to come out.’
‘He hasn’t mentioned money?’
‘Not once.’
‘Seriously?’
‘He’s one of a kind, Tom. So what do you say?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ll talk to him, yeah, hear him out. But Jack, there’s no way I’m trying to sting Shay Govern. If that’s your game, you’re on your own.’
‘Sting him? That’s harsh, Tom. All I want is for Gerard Smyth, if he’s going to be bought off, to get a fair price.’
The sentiment was sound but the grin on Jack’s face told another story.
‘You know it can’t work,’ I said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because even if all this massacre stuff is true, and Govern was somehow involved, Govern’s the one with the money.’
‘That’s the whole point, Tom.’
‘Come on, Jack, you’ve been around. Govern’ll have an army of lawyers. Try twisting his arm and you’ll get swamped with gagging orders, injunctions. He’ll bury you in paper. And that’s providing he doesn’t just call in your old mates, have you hauled up for extortion.’
‘Sure.’ Jack slurped down the last of his fruity drink. ‘Against all that,’ he said, tapping the folded newspaper, ‘is the fact that the first thing this guy’ll do is shit himself a plank if he thinks this crap’s likely to break. I mean, now? When he’s talking up a gold mine, looking for investors, a public-private partnership with government?’ He shook his head, plonked the glass back on the table. ‘This guy’s a businessman, Tom. He’ll cut a deal.’
FIVE
It was well after ten that night when Martin ushered me through into the sitting room.
‘Sorry I’m late, man, but it’s been a hell of a day.’
‘No worries. The kids aren’t long down.’ He muted the TV, what looked to be a documentary on Krakatoa, and pointed me towards the armchair beside the wood-burning stove. He took the bottle of vodka I’d brought and went through the arch into the kitchen.
I put the manila folder on the coffee table and lowered myself into the armchair, soaked up the room. I’d always liked it. Cosy and comfortable, the carpet and couch and armchairs a little battered, there being no point getting anything new, or so they reckoned, until the kids were older. The lights always seemed to be low, with a warm fire of turf or logs in the stove, although that was possibly because it was always late or getting on for it whenever I was there.
What I most liked about the room was that the bookshelves in the opposite corner to the TV had one shelf devoted to my books, some of them with the spines broken and pages turned down, others pristine – Martin made a point of picking them up in any edition they appeared in. A good guy, yeah. I wasn’t his favourite writer, not even his favourite Irish crime writer, trailing in there a long way behind Connolly and McKinty and Eoin McNamee. What he said was that I was the best writer he knew. As in, personally. Which was why he put in the extra effort.
Or so he said. I believed it was more to do with Jenny and me, and the fact we had history, and Martin in his quiet way letting us both know it wasn’t an issue, that I was just one of Jenny’s stories from way back when. He was one of those rare men with no interest in fencing off his wife’s life, in drawing a line between pre-Martin and now. She was who she was, all in, and if I was her friend, and a writer, then he’d support the writing. Not that I was the only one to benefit. There were paintings and bits of sculpture all over the house – there was even a triptych wool-weave tapestry – that told the same tale.
He came back in from the kitchen with a couple of vodka-tonics. He held up his glass in a silent toast and had himself a hefty swig. ‘Christ, but I needed that,’ he sighed, pushing the square-rimmed specs back up on his nose. Then he remembered why I was there and toasted me. ‘Nice work on the Devereaux book, by the way.’
‘Cheers. There’s been, ah, some developments since.’
‘Oh?’
I told him first that it was a ghost-writing commission. Martin winced.
‘That’s not the issue,’ I said.
‘It’s worse than ghost-writing?’
I told him about Jack Byrne, his theory about Shay Govern and a Nazi war crime on Delphi Island, and his plan to maximize Gerard Smyth’s hush money.
‘As an accountant,’ Martin said, ‘I can only applaud Jack Byrne’s ambition. It’s only fair to warn you, though, that monies earned through blackmail are liable for tax in the highest bracket.’
‘It’ll never happen.’
‘Glad to hear it. I’d hate to think of Jenny not visiting you in prison.’ He had another sip of vodka-tonic, then abandoned the levity. ‘What is it, Tom?’
‘Gerard Smyth,’ I said.
‘You think he’s genuine?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said. ‘But he’s either deranged or sincere. And possibly both.’
Martin winced again. ‘I’ll go get the vodka,’ he said. ‘Sounds like this could take a while.’
Gerard Smyth had lost two children, a girl and a boy, to an Allied bombing raid in February 1944. He tapped ash as he spoke, a saffron thumbnail flickering against the mouth of his cigarette holder.
‘Time heals,’ he said, ‘but it cannot cure.’
Some part of him, he said, still believed that the authorities had misidentified the tiny mangled corpses in the rubble, because he still dreamt of them occasionally and in his dreams they’d grown up. The girl had children of her own. His son, an engineer or an architect, had never married.
‘I do wonder at times if they’re not real,’ he said. ‘If they are not living in a parallel dimension, with my craving for them exerting a gravity that pulls them close enough to sense if not actually see. The mind is a curious and unusual thing, Mr Noone. It is stronger at rest than when fully aware.’
He lived now, he said, for those dreams and little else.
‘I am not a religious man, Mr Noone. Nor am I spiritual in any way. Even so, if there is even the remotest possibility that I might soon be seeing my children again, I would prefer to do so with a clear conscience.’
He had that look, the one a boxer gets when he’s been hit so hard he doesn’t even kno
w he’s been hit. Eyes like the sky in the wake of a storm, watery blue and wild, his gaze intense but far away and lost, vaguely startled. A feeble octogenarian, or maybe even older, thin to the point of emaciation and lost inside the overcoat that had flapped like dark surrender as he came shuffling into the park.
The cigarette holder looked to be plastic, an onyx-effect job. I wondered how he’d got the yellowing nails. Maybe from smoking the roll-up cigarettes he wedged into the holder, which rather undermined the genteel effect and left his trousers flecked with ash.
Jack Byrne had made a call from the Butchers, asking Gerard Smyth if we could meet him to sit down and talk through his story. At first Jack had suggested we go to Smyth’s home but Smyth said no, he’d meet us somewhere public. Par for the course, apparently. The way Jack told it as we made our way across town, he got the impression the old man was a little ashamed of his poky basement bed-sit. Which was maybe the case, but if I was Gerard Smyth I wouldn’t have wanted Jack Byrne in my home either. Or me, for that matter.
So Merrion Square it was, at the corner of the American College, near where Oscar Wilde sprawled on a boulder in his green smoking jacket with pink trim at the cuffs. The traffic hissed by slow behind us on Pembroke Street, a fine drizzle falling. Gerard Smyth was already waiting when we arrived, huddled into his grubby olive-green overcoat. I wondered if he realized or cared how he appeared to the world, sitting there and looking like that just fifty yards along the path from the kids’ playground.
He gave me the creeps.
At first I thought it was the need in his eyes and the dandruff speckling his shoulders. The greasy hair, glistening under its fine sheen of drizzle, that made me want to scratch. Then I’d noticed his frayed trouser cuffs, and the dull brown shoes, oddly swollen, that put me in mind of rotting puffballs in a far corner of some dank wood.
Eventually, though, as he talked on in his tremulous rasp, I had to admit the truth: that he reminded me of my father, in the last days when the cancer finally surfaced like an algae bloom. He was that gaunt. The skin melting back into bone and so tautly stretched that when he smiled it was the smug leer of bare skull. In the few remaining shadows his pallor had the same dull olive sheen as his coat. A disgusting yellowy tinge in the corners of the rheumy blue.