Evil for Evil (8 page)
I SAT ALONE in the mess hall, drinking coffee and trying to figure out what do next. So far, all I knew was that Eddie Mahoney had been sighted in two area pubs, once arguing with someone, and once chatting with a GI. Not evidence of anything, not even a clue. I knew that Major Thornton hadn’t bothered to tell me Inspector Carrick had asked for Brennan’s file. Again, nothing really suspicious; worth asking about but I doubted it meant anything. Brennan was in the know about the IRA, and sympathetic, but so was I, and likely hundreds of other GIs in Northern Ireland. I needed to check out Andrew Jenkins to see if he was brazen enough to have used his own delivery truck in the heist. Something about Mahoney and how he was found bothered me. It seemed as if there was a missing piece to this puzzle but I couldn’t see it.
Also, I had been warned by old Grady O’Brick as soon as I landed, warned to watch my step. He’d nodded in the direction of the MP waiting for me but was that what he’d meant? Or was he gesturing toward the land itself? I didn’t know, which pretty much summed up where I was in this investigation. No answers.
I watched the men in the mess hall, eating chow, laughing and talking, doing everyday things, as much as that was possible in the army. Some of these guys had been on garrison duty in Iceland; others were fresh from the States. A few, like Brennan, were transfers from outfits that had been in combat. Maybe the army wanted to add experienced men to the unit but it never made much sense to me. Until men went through combat and saw for themselves, veterans like Brennan would be viewed as oddballs, paranoid and superstitious, strangers in their midst. Brennan himself, his pals all dead, stood apart, doing his job, but unwilling or unable to form the bonds of friendship with men who might get chopped up beside him on the next invasion beach. Instead, his only buddy was a carved pig.
Matches, bottle caps, pocket knives, Saint Christopher medals, coins, and the ace of spades. I’d seen them all grasped in sweaty palms, tucked in pockets and continually patted down to make sure they were safe. There were rituals too—prayers, curses, songs, finger tapping, the sign of the cross, all those charms and amulets each GI was certain he couldn’t do without when the lead started flying. They knew that without it, they’d be dead. With it, their chances might be slightly better than average, but nothing was guaranteed. Finally, after enough time up on the line, they realized luck had nothing to do with it. Skill and alertness—those things could give you an edge, at least until exhaustion set in, but luck was meaningless. Sooner or later, unless they pulled you off the line, you were going to get it.
I stirred my cold coffee and stared at the dark liquid swirling like a whirlpool.
“Lieutenant Boyle?”
I jumped, startled. I looked up and saw a man in a dark green uniform staring at me. He had a square jaw and a thin-lipped mouth set beneath dark eyes. Crow’s-feet showed at their corners, and I judged him to be in his midforties. The uniform had a high collar with the Irish harp on each collar tab. His black leather belt and holster were gleaming, the butt of his revolver high and forward, ready for action.
“You must be Hugh Carrick,” I said, rising from my seat. I didn’t offer my hand.
“District Inspector Carrick, if it’s all the same to you,” he said as he sat down across from me. He gestured with his hand for me to be seated, as if I had just walked into his office.
“It is,” I said. “Do district inspectors in Ulster have to wear Class As all the time?”
“Pardon me?”
“The fancy dress uniform. Back in the States detectives dress in suits except for special occasions.”
“I just came from a funeral in Dromara. A constable, murdered by the so-called Irish Republican Army. Shot four times in the back, twenty yards from his home. His wife and two wee girls reached him first.”
As he spoke, his tone didn’t vary. No emotion crept into his voice, and his eyes stayed focused on me as he sat there, hands folded in his lap.
“I’m sorry, Inspector—”
“District Inspector.”
“I am sorry, District Inspector. I’m a policeman myself, or was. In Boston, before the war. The death of a brother officer is a serious matter.”
“Serious? To a Catholic from Boston? I understand the IRA murder squads enjoy a great deal of support from the Irish settled in Boston.”
“How do you know I’m Catholic? Maybe I’m an atheist.”
“Do not joke with me, Lieutenant Boyle. Your name tells me what I need to know, and your city tells me the rest. It’s in the blood with you from across the border, whether you’ve gone to America or come north with a pistol to shoot a good man in the back.” His words spilled out with the Irish accent I was used to, but with a harder, clipped edge. The only part of him that moved was his lips.
“Perhaps we should talk another time, District Inspector. I’m sure passions are running high after the funeral.”
“Passions, Lieutenant Boyle? We have no time for passions. We have murderers to apprehend. We have a war to fight. Perhaps you allow yourself to wallow in passions but personally I find them distracting.”
“Passion is what usually leads to murder, DI Carrick.”
“But not what solves them, in my experience. Now I am told that I must cooperate with you, and I am sure you have been instructed to cooperate with me.”
“I have been. I’ve only been here one full day. I don’t have much information yet.” I tried to keep my response neutral, to match his tone and his approach to me. It was an interrogation technique my dad had taught me. When a suspect was giving you a hard time, watch how he sits and how he speaks. Copy his stance and tone, and give it back to him. Sometimes it can defuse a touchy situation.
“Very well. What information do you have?”
“I know that Edward Mahoney was seen in the area in two different pubs, by Major Thornton and then by Sergeant Brennan. That you’ve questioned Brennan and requested his file. I know that Provost Marshal Heck was not pleased with my arrival. And now I know that you also are less than pleased. The only person glad to see me has been Major Thornton, who seems certain I can find his BARs for him, which will guarantee his command of a combat outfit.”
“Major Thornton has not yet seen the elephant, or he wouldn’t be so eager. Do you think you can find the weapons, or that your IRA friends will hand them over if you ask?”
“I just explained that I don’t have any friends in Ireland. How about being a pal anyway and telling me what you know? Some of that promised cooperation would be nice.”
“I can tell you I have my suspicions about Sergeant Brennan although his record is exemplary. Stood up well at Salerno after your generals sent good men ashore to be slaughtered.”
“Suspicions?” I asked, resisting the urge to take a swipe at him or at least respond to his barbs. But that was what he was looking for, so he’d have a good excuse to write me off as an inexperienced pro-IRA Yank.
“He spends all of his free time in the villages around here, alone. He never goes anywhere with his mates.”
“His mates are all dead, and he doesn’t seem to want any new ones.”
“Nevertheless, that could be how he made contact with the IRA. The Catholic pubs are sure to be full of them or their sympathizers. And of course who better to let them know when and how to strike?”
“That’s good circumstantial stuff. But I have a question for you. If the IRA pulled this off by stealing one of Andrew Jenkins’s trucks, that would leave him looking the fool. Why hasn’t he retaliated? Have there been any IRA men or innocent Catholics gunned down?”
“No. I’ve told Jenkins to sit this out and let us handle it.”
“You give orders to the Red Hand Society? And they obey them?”
“I’m not part of that rabble, Lieutenant Boyle. The Ulster Volunteer Force are all good men, good Protestant Unionists who will fight for our right to be part of Great Britain. The Red Hand are criminals and bullies, acting under the guise of patriotism. Most would sell out their own mothers if there was a quid in it for them. Andrew Jenkins isn’t the worst of the lot; he does listen to reason on occasion.”
The missing piece came to me when Carrick mentioned selling out.
“Eddie Mahoney was found with a pound note in his hand, the sign of the informer,” I said.
“Aye, he was.”
“Well, whom did he inform on? Whom did he inform to?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s simple. If he was correctly marked as an informer, he must have been informing to someone. Was he one of yours?”
“No, he wasn’t. But they could have made a mistake. On the run, suspicious of everyone, any one of those IRA men could have turned on him.”
“Not really. The IRA has its court-martial process. It might not be pretty but one man couldn’t shoot another like that without approval.”
“How close are you to the IRA in America, Lieutenant Boyle?”
I leaned in on my elbows, as close I could get, and looked him in the eye.
“Close enough. Close enough to know something stinks here. Tell me, are you in on the cover-up, or are you not high up enough to know who was running Mahoney?”
I watched his face for a sign of rage and kept half an eye on those folded hands, in case one came up a fist to slam me. It didn’t.
“It wasn’t us, and it wasn’t the British Army,” he said, his face relaxing slightly. He rested one arm on the tabletop, the most casual pose he had yet taken. “You’re right about that—it doesn’t add up, unless the IRA got it all wrong.”
“Or it wasn’t the IRA.”
“I doubt that. The Red Hand would have an easier time stealing British arms, don’t you think? More sympathizers among the British troops, just as the IRA has its sympathizers among the Americans.”
“That makes some sense, although if the opportunity presented itself—”
“Jenkins would surely take it, yes.”
“But if it was the IRA, then either they were wrong about Mahoney or there’s something going on you don’t know about.”
“Doubtful.”
“What if they were right about an informer but wrong about who it was?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me at all. They can be incredibly stupid at times, very clever at others. And no, you will not be allowed to review information about our current informants.”
“But you will.”
“It may be worth the time. I’ll let you know if I find anything,” he said, sounding as if the possibility was remote. Still, he had taken to the idea. “Tell me, are there any other Americans investigating this case? A civilian perhaps?”
“Not that I know of, no. Why?”
“We’ve had reports of an American, always in civilian clothes, asking questions about certain IRA associates in this area. No name, and not much of a description. About my age. Wears a fedora hat and a trench coat. Nothing else to go on.”
“Sorry, it’s news to me. Is there anything else about the case you can tell me, DI Carrick?” I asked that with the most sincerity and humility I could muster.
“We’ve just had a name come up in connection with this case. Jack Taggart.”
“Red Jack?” The man Subaltern O’Brien was after.
“So you’ve heard of him? He had a falling-out with his comrades after he came home from fighting against Franco in Spain with his tail between his legs. Seeing Bolsheviks up close seems to have cured most of their romantic notions. But they still call him Red Jack.”
“Is he senior in the IRA?”
“We think so. He seems to have operated as their channel for funds from Germany and America. He had something to do with the bombing campaign in England—the S-Plan, as they called it. Not directly, mind you, but most of the money to support it came from him. Lately there’ve been sightings of him in Northern Ireland. He may have been here for some time.”
“So you think he’s part of this plot?”
“It would be the kind of thing he would be part of. Not just the theft but what they intend to do with the arms. It’s the German connection that worries us. He worked with Seamus Rafferty—I’m sure you’ve heard of him—smuggling arms and agents in from Nazi Germany.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of Rafferty. He was in the States before the war.” I didn’t mention the dinner at my parents’ house, when he was the guest of honor along with Joe McGarrity, head of Clan na Gael.
“Right. That’s when they raised most of the money for the S-Plan. Perhaps some of the funds used to kill innocent civilians came from your hometown, Lieutenant Boyle.”
“Perhaps. A lot of people die in wars, DI Carrick. Perhaps there are a few innocent Catholics who would be alive today if you did your job and put those Red Hand boys behind bars. How many of them have you arrested?”
“You must know it’s impossible to get evidence against them,” Carrick said through gritted teeth. “They close ranks and swear on a stack of Bibles they were all having tea with their mothers. And their mothers lie and serve you stale biscuits while telling you what God-fearing lads their boys are.”
His eyes were wide and he was panting. With that tight, high collar choking him, I thought he might burst a blood vessel. He was steaming mad but not at me. It was those mothers, pouring tea and covering up their sons’ gruesome murders. Maybe he was a real cop after all.
“Do you have a picture of Taggart?”
“I’ll give you one,” he said, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “There are some at the RUC station at Killough, about five miles from the gate. You’ve a vehicle?”
I told him I did.
“Follow me if you’re done here. Some of the local constables are gathering at Killough to toast the dead tonight. It will be a chance for them to lay eyes on you, take your measure.”
“Have you?”
“You’re no fool, which is saying a lot for a papist Yank. You may be of some help if you don’t get yourself killed first,” he said without an apparent trace of regret at the thought. He drummed his fingers on the table, staring at me as the rhythmic sound increased in speed, then stopped. “I hate them all, you know.”
“Who?”
“The Red Hand, the bloody IRA. Fools like you who sleep with them and then get up in the morning and wash your hands clean. All of you.” He rose, brushing off his uniform as if it were dirty. He tucked his cap under his arm.