A stone of the heart imm-1

by John Brady

  "Unorthodox. And melodramatic too," Loftus said.

  "These are dramatic times, Captain Loftus. Less comedy though, I'm thinking."

  "You're wrong there. I was at home watching the television and now I'm here. It's fairly comic, wouldn't you agree?"

  "Do you want the rigmarole about what you're doing here and what you're being held under?"

  Loftus didn't answer.

  "I requested to interview you alone."

  "I recall you doing that in my office last week, Sergeant. Am I supposed to be disoriented and confess to something now that I've been dragged down here?"

  "You'd know about that stuff, Captain. I mean you've been trained. How long were you in the States on your training?"

  Loftus raised his eyebrows.

  "Really now, you haven't brought me down here to get me to start an autobiography. I've been out of the army for eleven years."

  "When did it all turn sour for you?" Minogue asked.

  Loftus laughed briefly.

  "Get someone in here to get on with whatever I'm supposed to be here for. And make it good. After I get amused, I'll be none too pleased and heads will roll about this."

  "Is that so, now? I have convinced the Special Branch crowd and even my superiors, who are all waiting to talk to you, that I can get you to help us. Now I don't mind telling you that they think I'm cracked. I don't even want to tell you that they are in a fierce hurry to talk to you. Pressure, you see. We're all under pressure. So I'm here to pass on some pressure to you."

  Loftus' bemused look had changed to one of curiosity.

  "Everyone seems to believe that systems can be designed to rule out human weakness. Perversity, maybe I should call it. I mean nothing is ever watertight. People don't behave according to plan. Isn't that really banal, Captain?"

  "You're putting it mildly."

  "The best-laid plans and all that. You think you can depend on people. Especially if you control their motivations. I mean, young people are called cynical the way they scorn the carrots dangling in front of them-the job, the car, that stuff. What happens when the incentive isn't there though?"

  "You're nearly as entertaining as the programme I'm missing at home," Loftus said.

  "Weakness, though. Some people can live with it and some can't. Some despise weakness, don't they? They fall in love with efficiency, action. Any action if it comes to that. Looking for to be heroes of some description."

  Loftus drew in a breath and expelled it noisily through his nose.

  "Or was it Captain Loftus, the great nationalist, who has all the ready solutions at hand…?"

  Loftus' eyes glittered with contempt but he said nothing.

  "… If I had to place my bet, though, I'd not put money on your brand of patriotism, Loftus. Not even your love affair with the problem-solving know-how that you learned off the Yanks when you were there… Oh no, I see the dark horse as the one for this course. You're a good, upright lad who probably still goes to Mass and visits his mother, are you? But every day in the college you rub up against what's left of the Anglo Irish. And you find that you're not really their equal, no matter what the job description says… You're just not a college boy, are you? A Catholic lad, up from Cork, you have your wits about you, but you find it's not quite enough to be ace-"

  Minogue saw Loftus' nostrils flare. Loftus leaned forward in the chair.

  "Easy does it now, like a good man, Loftus. There are men outside here who have had friends killed by the types of people you favour with your politics. Do you follow the gist of what I'm saying?"

  What would have been a sneer had Loftus not controlled it eased into a strained grimace of a smile. He sat back stiffly in the chair.

  "I'm getting tired of this ramble, Minogue. I've been patient. I have an idea how things work for security organisations. The more you talk, the bigger a stink I'm going to make about this. I'm not your common or garden-variety citizen who has to put up with this. I maintain enough links through the college with people who can have you on the carpet-"

  "So Murphy's Law of Damage is true again," Minogue continued.

  "What?"

  "You know. If there's a one percent chance of something going wrong, it'll go wrong ninety-nine percent of the time and cause one hundred percent damage."

  "That's rich all right. I'll remember that. Now-"

  "Now we'll talk about Allen, Captain."

  "Who?" asked Loftus.

  "Allen, the one who's putting the finger on you. You don't have a lever on him anymore. Something else came up. Didn't you know? I'm sure you did. Agnes McGuire? Well she was in the car with him, but he didn't make it this time. Someone tipped off the Brits. They were waiting for him. Yes. Allen tried to make a run for it, but they shot up the car. Yes. Don't know if she'll live or not."

  Minogue stood up and crossed his arms. He began to stroll slowly around the room, watching Loftus out of the corner of his eye. Minogue felt the day would never end. He had an ache like a kick in his belly. The tea would be burned by now and he'd reneged on one of his resolutions. Kathleen would be worried. As he paced the room, he recalled the blades beating the air as he bent to walk to the cockpit of the helicopter. Rust-coloured blood on Allen's face and shirt, but not Allen's blood. He stopped and sat on the desktop.

  "He has nothing to lose now, you see," Minogue murmured.

  Inspector Colm Quigley arrived at a run from the car which had raced through Dun Laoghaire. Even before he stepped from the car, he had been breathing heavily. The drizzle came as a relief to him. Somehow the smell of the sea calmed him. He reminded himself to be more regular with his exercise as he approached the van.

  Other policemen were jealous of what they thought was glamorous stuff that Quigky's Emergency Response Team did: hostages, shoot-outs, surveillance. Often arriving unannounced, Quigley walked heavily on many toes. His teams were called cowboys. At meetings, Quigley spent a lot of time returning the gazes of senior uniformed Gardai whose looks indicted his forty-three years as well as the paramilitary operations he reported on.

  Three other cars stood next to the van, their engines running. He tapped on the window of the van. A face behind the drops widened in recognition.

  "They're ninety percent sure," the driver of the van said, rolling down the window. "Come in outa the rain, sir," Sergeant O'Rourke added.

  Quigley declined.

  "He was in the crowd getting on," O'Rourke said.

  "And how did it get this far?"

  "Came out on the train, sir. We don't have anyone actually on the train."

  "Are the two detectives down there armed?" O'Rourke asked quickly, nodding toward the ferry lights, half hidden in the trees which lay below the carpark on Marine Road.

  "No, sir. A fair crowd on the boat tonight," O'Rourke said.

  Quigley recognised the tact and he privately admonished himself.

  "Right. How many are we?" Quigley said.

  "Gibbons, Maher and meself here, sir. There's eight more in the cars outside. All the stuff is here."

  Quigley thought for a minute. This could be buggered up very easily. If it was the fella, then there might be shooting. There were a lot of confined spaces on the boat. Too many places to cover as well. The drizzle was soaking down his hair now, settling, cool.

  "Anybody told the Gardai yet?" Quigley asked.

  O'Rourke shook his head.

  More trouble, thought Quigley. He'd have to tell them sooner or later. Maybe this fella was standing up on a deck looking around for police. Imagine a crowd of yahoos tearing down here with the lights flashing…

  The ferry was due to leave at a quarter to nine. They had twenty minutes before having to ask for a delay and arouse the man's suspicions. Now: if they could coax the fella out on a deck alone. No one would be out in this weather.

  Quigley could see the beginnings of the pier's lights below. The rest of it hid behind the trees, curling around to meet the East Pier at the mouth of the harbour. Behind him he could hear musi
c coming from the lounges in the seafront hotels. The idling engines reminded him that time was running out fast.

  "O'Rourke, listen. This fella may have the same gun on him. It's a 45 Calibre, an automatic, so it'll put out a lot in a hurry. Under no circumstances are you or any of these lads to challenge him if there is another party present. Bystanders and it's out, completely. That doesn't leave us much leverage. No one is to take submachine guns on board."

  O'Rourke raised his eyebrows, then he nodded twice, slowly. "Moloney, you get a call through to the bridge for the captain or first officer only. TeR, them we're coming on board. Don't tell them why. Tell him I'll go directly to him so have someone meet me and tell any crew at the entrance."

  O'Rourke paused. He was aware of a slight tremor in his voice.

  "Then you'll wait for ten minutes and you'll radio in for Garda assistance. If there's any questions asked of you later, you'll refer them to me, and me only. Gibbons, I want a vest. You and O'Rourke and myself are going to go ahead, one by one at a half minute apiece. I'll go first. The two lads at the gangplank say he might be with a crowd of navvies, but I don't get it. He has a red outdoor jacket, like an anorak, like something for climbing mountains. One bag. When you get on, just disperse, move around. We don't have much time. He'll be suspicious if the boat is late. If you spot him and there's none of us near, then use the radio. If he's clearly on his own and you've got the space, well and good. Assume he is armed so follow procedures. I repeat: assume he is armed." ^

  Quigley paused before continuing. He looked from face to face and worried lest the men see his own fear.

  "Have you some kind of duffle bags to carry? Something casual…?"

  "What about the other lads, sir?" Gibbons said.

  "Too much. We can't take that chance. Moloney: tell'em to scatter around the dock and maintain radio silence. We'll be wired up, but we can't use an earpiece. We'll only use it if we have to. Just be ready to get on board in a hurry if you hear anything on your set."

  O'Rourke was looking down at the gauges on the dashboard. He's not happy, thought Quigley, but he won't say anything. This was the worst kind of operation. A not-so-hot description, a boat half full of people, a million cubby-holes to get lost in. They hadn't even got a plan of the decks. The suspect wouldn't hesitate to use a gun. In a small space the jacket wouldn't mean much. He could even go for a head shot. There'd be ricochets.

  Quigley hunkered into the back of the van and slipped off his anorak. He undid the strap and elbowed out of the harness. Where the leather had warmed, now felt exposed. He banged his head off the panel as he got into the Kevlar vest. Before he put on his anorak, he undipped the Browning and checked the magazine. He remembered O'Rourke looking at it one day.

  "They let you have one of those things? That's a very all-or-nothing yoke if it's the one I'm thinking of, sir. Bit of a whack to it for a nine millimetre."

  Quigley hadn't had to use the standard automatic off the firing range, but the double action had never jammed yet. He took a deep breath. He zippered his anorak right to the neck to cover the vest beneath.

  He closed the van door behind him. Men were getting out of the parked cars. Two he recognised, Lacey and Doyle, strolled over to take over the van when Gibbons and O'Rourke left. As O'Rourke stepped lightly onto the tarmacadam, Quigley noticed the sergeant was blowing air around his tightly closed lips, running bulges around his gums. Nervous. Quigley touched O'Rourke on the shoulder.

  "All right Donal, give me a half minute. No radio contact until we need to, all right?"

  O'Rourke nodded. He shifted from foot to foot as if winding up for a race. Quigley felt a slippery warmth like pins and needles at his knees as he descended the glistening steps toward Marine Road. As he got under the trees, more of the ferry came into view. Its gaping maw, beak upturned, seemed to draw the cars into its yellowed belly. He looked up at the decks and railings but could see no one there. The floodlights floated above triangles of light, misted by the drizzle.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Minogue's eyes roved around the room. The worn green and white lino tiles stretched to a wall painted yellow. The wall gleamed dully with the oil paint. The room contained two chairs and a desk. Innumerable hieroglyphics were etched onto the desktop. They had been done with some care though, Minogue realised. Probably the work of a civil servant, one of many who had occupied the desk. Funny the things you do and you don't notice, like dancing around the place when you're talking on the phone. Minogue glanced at Loftus. Loftus was looking straight ahead, but Minogue knew that he was alert.

  Minogue thought of Iseult on the phone at home, twirling the wire, poking at a picture on the wall, pulling on strands of her hair. Sometimes she scribbled things on the phone book, strange signs left behind after a conversation. Nerves? Daithi fiddling with something when he was talking to him: irritation, concealment? As if Minogue had something terribly important to say and that he should sit up and listen? But it wasn't that, ever. It was merely a furious desire to see these strangers' faces, grown people. Genes my arse, Minogue thought. He was different from the children. A whisper would have woken him in the night and Kathleen awake beside him too; to tiptoe as best as a size ten countryman's feet can, to the little room over the stairs. An ammoniacal smell of piss, but even stronger was the curious baby breath warm air; a struggle to turn over, a frown; lips licked, maybe a grunt. He'd wait to hear the rhythm of breathing start up again. 'All right?' Kathleen would whisper, neither awake or asleep herself. 'Yes,' and back into the bed: will I sleep now? It's hormones is what it is, Minogue thought, time of life to be lusting after girls. Five minutes gone now, he realised. He was wrong about Loftus. Maybe Loftus didn't have a blind side.

  "It's a matter of time really, Loftus. We know you're not going to open your heart to us. Don't forget Allen. He'll testify and you won't be able to get at him. Know a fella by the name of McCarthy, one of our playwrights?"

  Loftus seemed to smile faintly at the mention of the name.

  "Can't stop that man from yapping, I can tell you. I'll bet you a fiver he'll stick another needle into you. Ah, if only they were all as perfect as yourself, Captain Loftus," Minogue said. "But you can't deny me. They'll trip you yet. You know I was going to begin our interview here by getting right down to brass tacks, straight from the word go. I was going to ask you directly, 'Captain Loftus, did you murder Jarlath Walsh?' And I expected you to give me an honest answer, just like in one of those melodramas on the telly. You know, a burst of violins after it, the case solved. But I'm not going to a^k you that at all, because I know you didn't do it. All I will ask you is who you gave the key to."

  "What key?" Loftus asked.

  "Whoever did it had to get out of the college at night after the gates were locked. Only higher-ups have keys to the sidegates. Whoever did in young Walsh could slip in and out when he wanted," Minogue replied. Loftus laughed.

  "You know, Captain, I have this picture in my head of the fella we want. We've started calling him the mystery man, but we know what he looks like. You met him or at least you've talked to him on the phone. He is a Yank, we think. The fella who killed the guard in St. Stephen's Green. In a sense I think he's like you. Went to the States, didn't you, and fell in love with the efficiency thing? They call everything 'problem solving' over there, don't they? Still I bet you came back a convert. Am I right? But what I don't get is when it all turned bad for you here, when you decided to get into this from the other side. What was it?"

  Loftus' gaze rested on the wall behind Minogue. Thinking about it later, Minogue believed that Loftus was about to speak when Kilmartin stuck his head in the door and motioned Minogue out.

  The four of them sat at a plastic-topped table bolted to the floor facing the bar. Underfoot he could feel the hum of the ship's engine. The three were anxious for the screen to come up from the counter.

  "And what do they drink in Canada now?" the older navvy asked.

  "Oh, beer and lager. I'm not much on th
em myself-"

  "— No more than myself," the smaller navvy added.

  "— but I can toss a few back in the summer," the tanned man continued.

  "'Toss a few.' Hah, that's a good one. We say'sink a few' so we do. Same thing only different. All goes the same way, amn't I right? I hear the pubs do be open until all hours in America, I mean Canada."

  "Longer than they should, people say," the tanned man parried. He ached for some sign that the ship was preparing to go. A blast of the siren, a rumble below, maybe. He looked around at the passengers who had come straight to the lounge. Altogether about twenty-five people. Sitting opposite one another over a table by a window too big to be called a porthole, a young couple was the only exception to the general air of brooding tiredness which the men in the lounge had brought with them. Some sat on their own, watching the steward, yawning. The train from Holyhead would get the passengers into Euston Station in London by seven the next morning. A sense of loneliness gathered itself at the edges of his thoughts, surprising him. That Irish people have to do this, that the country is so bathed in this habit, he thought.

  "Any minute now," the older navvy said, nodding toward the bar.

  "Are there delays on this trip fairly often?" the tanned man asked.

  "The weather can slow you down, that's a fact. It can speed you up too though. I was on this a few times, and I'm not joking you, I was the only one not spewing me lights up all over the place. Even your man, the barman or the steward or whatever you call him, officers, the whole lot. All puking goodo all over the place. We were three hours late getting into Dun Laoghaire. Wait'til I tell you, they wanted to close down the bloody bar. 'Hold on there a minute, brother,' I says. 'I'm a paying customer and I can guarantee you that yous won't need to be mopping up after me. I was well reared. So hand me a pint of stout there and keep the oul flag flying.' Not a bother on me." The older navvy fisted gently on the tabletop and wagged his head with pride.

  "Jack Tar," the red-faced navvy said.