When Shadows Fall (44 page)

Duncan would be the one to “discover” the scandal, of course. And he’d be furious. Mother too. Adam would be condemned as the black sheep and banished, if Duncan didn’t shoot him first.

He opened the single cabinet. As he searched through it, looking for the ideal file, it became evident that Adam didn’t actually do much work. There were dozens of contracts awaiting signature, unanswered correspondence from impatient clients, rejected applications from the Land Registry. Everything had a mark of shoddiness about it. Even the alphabetical listings were not alphabetical.

He disgraces us,
Allister fumed.

He needed a file that Duncan was likely to see himself very soon. Something he might have been managing in Adam’s absence. Allister had a card from Clarence in his back pocket. Ornately designed and shockingly lewd, it contained a handwritten message on the back—purportedly from Clarence but written by Allister—that expressed how much Clarence had enjoyed those afternoons in Adam’s flat, how he treasured the memory of their naked bodies together, how they must not hide their love any longer, and so forth.

And once Duncan found
that
. . .

What had been a potential disaster for Allister could be turned on its heels, and Adam would be the one scandalised. If he subsequently tried to accuse Allister in turn, it could be fended off as a desperate attempt to extricate himself from his own wrongdoing. Allister would even bribe Clarence to speak against Adam, if needs be.

Gleefully he fingered through the files, continuing his search. A folded sheet of paper slipped out from a bundle and fell between his knees. He reached down to pick it up, opened it out, and sneered at the scrawled handwriting. More untidiness. But it was just about legible.

Clinton Duffy. The first two words stood out.

Duffy? Wasn’t he one of Duncan’s new clients? Why was Adam . . . ?

He read on, trying to unravel the mishmash of words.

But this wasn’t legal work.

Duffy after IRA mon
ies in Bank of Ireland . . . Address to be taken from G’s file . . . MC to be informed . . . Matter urgent to prevent enemy’s seizure of funds . . .

It went on in similar disjointed manner, but the import of it all gradually dawned on Allister.

“My good God,” he whispered.

His brother was spying. A spy, it appeared, for none other than the IRA.

His own brother was a terrorist.

“My good God.” His head swam. He felt dizzy. The words on the paper wavered.

Now he could finally understand. Adam’s frequent, ever-lengthening absences from the office. His cagey manner whenever he returned. His cuts and bruises. His damned obvious secrets and smugness. He had been engaged in his own business, a different kind of business entirely.

He’ll sink us all.

The implications were horrific. A member of a reputable Dublin legal firm running with gunmen on the streets? Nobody would come near them again. The revelation would bury Bowen & Associates for good. Even Allister, in his most malicious of plots, could not have dreamt up such a charge against Adam. And yet it was all true. It was right here in front of him.

He had never hated his brother so much in all his life.

Now that the real nature of Adam’s character was exposed, he knew he had to act fast. Save the firm, hang Adam out to dry. He should blurt the lot to Duncan and let the boss handle it, but he couldn’t do that. No, the only person whom Allister trusted to handle this was himself. Duncan was more a warrior than a tactician, while Allister had a quieter, more cunning set of skills, more aptly suited to the situation.

And he knew then, with a sudden uplift in mood, that he’d just been handed the golden keys. No need now for forged love notes and imaginary scandals. Adam had laid it all down by himself. He had strung his own noose and placed himself upon the gallows’ trapdoor.

I could have some fun with this,
Allister realised.
Yes, I think I might just do that.

Adam arrived at the office a half hour late. He had slept poorly the night before, still tormented by his own cold treatment of Tara and dreading the moment when he would have to reveal the truth. For the truth, he knew, outpaces every man.

Lydia said good morning, blushed ridiculously, and offered him coffee. He declined and went upstairs to his office.

And found Allister inside.

“What are you doing in here?” he demanded.

Allister chuckled. “Why, Adam, I’m a senior partner of this firm. I can go into any part of the building I please.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, I misplaced a file. Just having a scout about for it.”

Adam was thinking about the notes he had concealed inside the cabinet. A dangerous risk to take, in hindsight. “Find what you need?”

“Hmm, no.” Allister flicked a speck of dust from his shoulder. “Not to worry. These things always turn up in the end. Well, I’ll not keep you from your work.” Just as he went to leave, he paused. “Say, Adam, is everything, oh, all right?”

“What?”

“You’re not having any problems, are you? Not falling behind with any of your files? You’ve been absent quite a lot lately.”

“You don’t have to worry about my files, Allister. I’ll see that everything is put right.”

Again that reptilian smile. “Sure you will, Adam. Quite the industrious little fellow, aren’t you? Who would have thought?”

With that he left, and when Adam heard him descending the stairs, he shut the door and went quickly to the cabinet.

Relieved, he found the notes as he had left them, folded discreetly inside one of the files. He would have to get them out of here, especially if Allister was going to be picking his way about as he chose. The knowledge of Duffy’s activities had become a sore weight for him by now, and he would be glad to pass his discoveries over to the big fellow. Mick could take action as Mick saw fit.

He sat down, taken by fatigue. A bleakness of spirit caught up with him, like a portentous storm cloud. He wanted to walk back home, climb into bed, fall into the oblivion of sleep for a long time. But sleep was a rarity these days. His secrets were ghosts that gathered outside his window each night, tapping the glass, whispering accusations. Even in the brightest of daylight, his every step was shadowed.

Indeed, but isn’t it a cruel, cutthroat world,
Allister thought with relish as he rode a tram through the Dublin streets. Adam’s treachery was against his family, his people, and his king. It would earn him a just fate, and so Allister felt not the slightest compunction as he saw the Bedford Tower of Dublin Castle loom into view. He was an instrument of justice, a bulwark against Adam’s wicked scheming, and he couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride at his own tenacity.

A lengthy jail sentence was the most desirable outcome. Not a hanging—good Lord, no, the family would only end up pining after the devil, and Allister didn’t want that. He wanted stiff punishment for Adam, enough to put him out of the way and for the rest of them to commend Allister’s brave, selfless action. Adam had lorded it over him for long enough. Now Adam himself must learn the taste of public humiliation, and Allister intended to accomplish it in some style.

A discreet enquiry through an acquaintance doing legal work for Dublin Castle had given him a telephone number and the name of the man he must contact. He was on his way to meet that man now. He climbed off the tram and clasped his hat as the wind tried to pull it off. A weak sun had broken through the clouds as he stepped gingerly over the paving and approached the gates. The sentries were blowing on their hands and shifting their feet.

“I have, er, I have an appointment,” he said to the first one, “with a District Inspector Bryant.”

“Name?” the sentry demanded.

“Bryant.”

“I mean
your
name, sir.”

“Oh, it’s Bowen. Allister Bowen.” The wind was making his nose run, and he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe it.

The sentry retrieved a clipboard from the guard hut, found Allister’s name, and ticked next to it. “Across the courtyard to your right, sir. Off you go.”

He met a uniformed policeman under a stone archway and was directed upstairs to a network of corridors where he followed the number sequence and eventually reached the door he wanted.

At a knock, the door was opened by a pretty young blonde woman. Allister coughed. “Ahem, I might be wrong, I was looking for District Inspector Bryant.”

“You’re correct, sir.” She smiled politely. “His office is through the next door again, sir. Go right in.”

The detective in question was sitting behind a desk, reading something. He gave Allister a puzzled look. “Oh, hello. Hmm. Mister . . . ?”

“Bowen,” Allister said, irritated. “I did make an appointment.”

“Ah. No doubt I was told of it, but I’ve been rather up the walls of late. You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Bowen. What can I do for you?”

Allister undid his coat and placed his hat on the next chair. “I shouldn’t even be here, Detective. I shouldn’t even be passing on what I know. But pass it on I must, so that innocent lives can be spared and criminal actions stoutly thwarted.”

Bryant gave a vague smile and leaned his elbows on the desk. “I’m all ears, Mr. Bowen.”

“Have you heard of a gentleman named Clinton Duffy, Detective?”

“I’m not sure that I have.”

“I understand that he is presently involved in a search of bank accounts. A search for terrorist monies, to be more precise.”

Bryant’s eyes narrowed. “And how do you know that, Mr. Bowen?”

“That’s why I’m here, Detective. To explain how.”

“So explain.”

Allister elaborated a little, and eventually Bryant opened a drawer on his left and fished out a bundle of paper. He found the sheet he wanted and scanned it for several seconds. “I may know him. You say your brother is acquainted with him?”

“Not quite in the way you might think, Detective. I believe my brother is spying on Mr. Duffy—for the IRA.”

“The IRA?” Bryant regarded him over the desk for several hostile seconds. “Well, do keep going.”

“My brother is aware of Mr. Duffy’s activities with the banks, and he intends to pass this information to somebody else whom I only know as “MC.”

Bryant stiffened. “Is that so?
MC
indeed. And who on earth’s that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you might.”

“I’ve no idea.” James shrugged in a gesture of disinterest. “Nobody of import, I’m sure. But back to your brother, you’re telling me he’s an IRA spy, and you’re quite happy to report that to a police officer?”

“I didn’t know it myself until a few days ago. And I’m saddened by it. Upon reflection, of course, it does seem to explain a lot of mysterious behaviour. But I’m telling you the truth, Detective.”

Bryant gave a little sneer. “Forgive any scepticism on my part, Mr. Bowen, but I’ll be the judge of who’s telling the truth. It’s an interesting yarn, if nothing else.” He reached for a notepad. “I think I ought to meet this brother of yours. Where can I find him?”

Allister hesitated and glanced at the door. “Your secretary, she won’t . . . ?”

“She’s not my secretary, she was just delivering typescripts. So?”

“I do have one concern, Detective. My family runs a law firm. Can I be assured that you will not attach blame to us when this whole business comes to a head?”

“Be assured of nothing,” Bryant replied, “except that I’m interested only in guilty parties, not innocent ones. Will that console you?”

“Um, yes, I think so. Very well. His name is Adam, Adam Bowen. He’s a member of Bowen and Associates, of which I am a partner.”

“Bowen and . . . ?”

“Bowen and Associates,” Allister said tersely. “A very reputed firm, actually. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of us.”

Bryant scribbled it down. “And so where is the wily Adam now?”

“Right now, I don’t know. But leave that to me.”

“I’d rather pick him up today.”

“Detective, you have my word. Leave it to me, and I will deliver Adam right into your hands.”

For Allister had already crafted a plan.