When Shadows Fall (7 page)

Mulligan eyed the gun in her hand. “Old history, girl. Why are you dragging up old history? It was nothing personal.”

“Oh, it’s entirely personal, I can assure you.”

“Go back to your embroidery,” he scoffed. “You know nothing of that business. Your father was a traitor to his country, an informer. We’ve only ever had one treatment for informers.”

“He was no informer! He was innocent. My mother was innocent too, and my brother. And you—”

“The deaths of your mother and brother weren’t my fault. They got stuck in a row that wasn’t theirs, and they have only themselves to blame.”

She shuddered with anger. “And you, Larry Mulligan, have only yourself to blame. An eye for an eye.”

“An eye for a—hah! Going to shoot me, are you? Go ahead, then. Shoot me, if you have the balls for it. Many have tried.”

She aimed the revolver. Her hand shook. “I will. I will shoot you.”

“Your father informed on us. He told that big blue-blooded master of his all about us, and I lost good men and a pile of weapons as a result.”

“That’s a lie.”

Tara’s father had worked periodically on the estate of Sir Richard Myles, a local aristocrat, clearing storm-felled trees and unblocking streams. But he had never passed information to him. If anything, despite his distaste for violence, William Reilly’s sympathies had leaned towards the IRA.

“It’s no lie. He deserved to die.” Mulligan stood his ground. “Now, if you’ve no further use for that thing, you’d better give it to me. For I’ll not give you a second chance.”

She poised the gun again, tensing herself.

“What’s this? Losing your nerve?”

“No. I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore.”

“Oh, I think you’re terrified.” He inched towards her. “You’d better give me that gun, lassie. You’re not able for this, are you?”

No
, she realised with dread,
I’m not. I’m not a murderer
. “Don’t move. Stay back.”

His eyes glinted; he kept on moving and extended his hand. “Just give it to me, lass. Right now. Give me the gun.”

“No . . . ”

“I said, give me the fucking
gun
!” With a sudden snarl he lunged, snatching for the weapon.

Tara screamed and squeezed the trigger.

In that instant there was a deafening report; she instinctively shut her eyes and felt the pistol jerk. Mulligan let out a howl.

When she looked again, he was lying on the road, blood pumping from his neck. It pooled quickly round his head and shoulder in a glistening red-black tar, and his hand reached weakly to staunch the flow. Then, after a moment, the hand went limp and his eyes slid closed. He didn’t move again.

Tara felt her guts surge into her throat. She staggered away, almost falling into the bushes as she retrieved the bicycle. Strains of song still emanated from the tavern. The wind had dropped; even the trees were hushed in conspiratorial silence. With unsteady hands and a pounding heart, she tucked the pistol into her handbag, climbed onto the saddle, and pedalled furiously into the black night.

Dublin Castle had been a bastion of English rule in Ireland for over seven hundred years. Though the present building was mostly eighteenth century, a castle had been on the site ever since the thirteenth century when King John of England had ordered the building of a defensive structure with stout walls and a moat to guard the city against the savage Irish tribes. Now it was a beautifully crafted, albeit heavily fortified, compound on Dame Street, the hub of British power in Ireland and the base of operations against the returning tide of Irish revolution.

Tara was a clerical assistant, somewhat down the food chain of the civil service. Though initially it had been exciting to walk past armed sentries on the way to work each morning, this was soon tempered by the dull and endlessly routine nature of her job in the stationery office. Working in stationery meant spending one’s days under threat from wobbling piles of requisition forms, invoices, and delivery dockets, and trying to look industrious under the scrutiny of her sharp-tongued supervisor, Miss Colleen Murphy. Their office had a counter where secretaries from other departments would come to make their orders, while the rest of the room was cluttered with filing cabinets and boxes, invariably coated in a fine layer of dust.

This morning she was late. She usually walked to work from her house in Kilmainham, taking in the bustle of the city, the tram gongs and drays and honking motorcars, but she was forced to rush this morning, skilfully dodging horse dung and puddles along the way. Colleen Murphy did not treat tardiness lightly.

It was cold and sunny, a crisp Dublin morning, but she felt drained to the core of her body. The weekend had brought only fitful sleep and nightmares, and her eyes were puffy with fatigue. Relief at Larry Mulligan’s death was soon overtaken by the trauma that comes in the aftermath of a violent experience, the revulsion and guilt as she dreamed of Mulligan’s death groans, his lifeblood gurgling around his head.

I killed him. I killed a man.

Thou shalt not kill.

On the quays she saw mothers wheeling prams and old men tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons. Flower sellers and newspaper boys patrolled their respective patches on the pavement, while several soldiers leaned against a Crossley Tender across the street. A morning like any other.

Once through the sentry gate of the Castle she let herself in a staff door and walked the polished corridor to the oak door with the sign that said, in grandiose calligraphic lettering, “Stationery Department.” Colleen was at her desk; she pursed her lips and made a demonstration of checking the wall clock.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Murphy,” Tara said breathlessly. “I slept later than I meant to. I don’t know how it happened.”

“Tara,” Colleen replied, “I don’t need to explain to you the conditions of your employment here. The hours of work begin at no later than nine o’clock. It is now quarter past.” The cold-faced supervisor was somewhere around her late forties and had a penchant for brown tweed cardigans and frilly blouses. She usually spoke little, except to reprimand, and the only personal details Tara had gleaned in their four months working together were that she came from Roundwood and now lived in Rathmines with two dogs and a cat.

“Tara,” Colleen said, while Tara was still putting away her coat and handbag, “the invoice from O’Connell’s is still unpaid. I saw it on your desk. Don’t you know that the O’Connell brothers are personal friends of Mr. Foley?” Henry Foley was the departmental head. “I can’t think Mr. Foley will be pleased by this negligence.”

Tara sighed. “Miss Murphy, the O’Connell brothers did not provide us with a registered tax number. I can’t pay an invoice without a tax number. Those were your instructions, if I’m not mistaken.”

Colleen’s eyes narrowed behind her spectacles. “Did you request a number from them?”

“Three times, Miss Murphy.”

“Well, then. Hmm.” Colleen shuffled the papers on her desk. “You see that you pay the invoice immediately once the tax number comes in.”

“I will, Miss Murphy.”

They worked in silence for nearly two hours. Tara was grateful to find that the tedium of sorting through purchase orders and updating ledgers proved a therapeutic diversion, an escape from the events of that weekend. Just after eleven, Colleen raised her head from her work and said, “Tea, Tara?”

It could have been an offer, but Tara knew better. Their routine had been well established by now. “Yes, Miss Murphy. I won’t be a minute.”

She wandered up the corridor to the kitchen that they shared with the rest of the floor. The kitchen had a gas stove, a sink, a kettle, tea leaves, coffee, and sugar. There were chairs and a table, but the room was empty when she arrived. After filling the kettle, she turned up the stove and waited for the water to boil. Once that was done she made two cups of tea, putting three spoons of sugar into her own. Just as she made ready to go, she heard male voices in the corridor.

Two of them walked in, dressed in dark two-piece suits and smelling of cologne. One was in his mid-fifties, balding and paunchy. The other was much slimmer, probably early thirties, with a tanned face and straw-blond hair slicked back with pomade. Both had English accents, and Tara guessed them to be detectives from upstairs. There were several assigned by London to work with the Royal Irish Constabulary.

“I can’t believe it wasn’t us,” the older man was saying. “Damned frustrating, what?”

His companion was about to answer when he caught sight of Tara. He beamed, and when he did so he became impossibly handsome. “Excuse, my dear,” he said, his accent so polished public school that it could have cut glass, “forgive us for interrupting you. Our kettle is broken. Mind if we use yours?”

“Hmm?” She stared at him, mesmerised. “Oh, I mean, yes, of course. I was just leaving.”

“James Bryant.” He thrust out a hand. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Um, I’m Tara. Tara Reilly.” She accepted the handshake, embarrassed by the directness of his attention.

“Work nearby, do you?” His eyes twinkled. “I don’t usually forget a pretty face.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, but the other man came to her rescue.

“Ignore him, love. He’s incorrigible.”

“I was just leaving,” she repeated. She picked up the teacups and hurried out. James flashed her another smile.

“See you soon, Tara. I hope.”

In the corridor, she could still hear them. The old man muttered gruffly, “Keep your mind on the job, eh, Bryant? Now, back to Larry Mulligan.”

She froze. Tea spilled over the rims of the cups.

What did he say?

“Trust me, Philip,” James answered, “if it was one of my boys who shot him, I’d be taking the credit for it. But it wasn’t.”

She stood still in the corridor, breathless.

“Well, it’s one for the books,” said Philip, as he sighed. “One of the most wanted men on our list, and when someone finally gets a pop at him, we know nothing about it.”

“Maybe one of his own. Old Larry has trodden on a lot of toes in his time.”

“Hmm, well. A brave man, whoever he was, for taking on Larry Mulligan.”

“No, a foolish one,” James chuckled. “He should have made sure he killed him. Now Mulligan’s a wounded bear and more dangerous than ever.”

Tara almost dropped the tea on the floor. Her head swam. She felt sick.

Somewhat unsteady, she made her way back to the office and set the cups on her desk with trembling hands.

“For goodness’ sake, Tara,” Colleen snapped, “you’re spilling the tea. Whatever’s the matter with you?”

He’s not dead.

She swallowed a lump and sat down, feeling the icy fingers of fear crawl up her back.

At a little after six o’clock, James Bryant tidied away the last of the papers on his desk and locked the drawers. Through the window, gas lamps flickered and the night had fallen on Dublin City. He gazed out for a few minutes and loosened his necktie. He was still becoming accustomed to the place, its myriad streets and squares, the noises, smells, and accents. This was his third month since being posted to Ireland by his masters at Scotland Yard, and while he was starting to enjoy it here, he still missed home.

Home was Hammersmith, a borough of London. He’d bought a flat there after his divorce three years previous, and while it wasn’t quite as well-appointed as the house he’d shared with Susan in Harrow, it was comfortable and quiet and only a short train ride from work. His parents lived farther north in Watford. The colonel grumbled less nowadays, at sixty-two years of age, about James’s decision to become a policeman rather than a soldier, as James had risen swiftly in the ranks and had eventually won his father’s grudging approval. His career path had spared him the horrors of the Great War too, and even the colonel couldn’t decry that.

A knock at the door stirred him from his musings. District Inspector Philip Black, his superior, stuck his head inside.

“Come on, Bryant, finish up. Dickie and the boys are going for a drink at the Hounds. You joining us?”

James checked his watch and chewed his lip. “Hmm . . . no thanks. Not this time.”