Allen watched her balancing the coffee as she took the change from the cashier. She sat down across the table from him.
"You know best, I mean," she said.
"By half past, it should be O.K. It's just that I'm allergic to traffic jams," he said.
Agnes smiled.
"It'd surely spoil the impulse if we ended up in a traffic jam so it would," she agreed.
"Does your family know you're coming?" Allen asked.
"No. It'll be a surprise, I can tell you," Agnes sipped her coffee and sat back. Allen had watched her sling a packsack into the boot and had felt a strange thrill.
"Well," Allen said, "I decided to go tonight and not wait. They're expecting me tomorrow but… too much routine. How are the books, Agnes?"
"What a question," she smiled. "I shouldn't tell you. I forget you're one of them."
He laughed.
"Well, aren't you?" she teased.
"Oh come on now. This isn't school. You don't have to pretend," he said.
"Ach, I wonder. I could do with a break from the books."
"Sounds normal to me. You'll pick up again."
Agnes sipped at the brim of the cup speculatively.
"Yes. I know that. It's just that sometimes I think of the future, you know. Jobs and all that. It's better than thinking about the past," she said.
Allen smiled.
"I really like the placement though. That's real social work. When I started out I couldn't understand it, you know. People here-the South I mean-are so different from back home. I used to think they were worse off here sometimes."
"How do you mean?"
"They couldn't blame it on the troubles is what I mean. There's no reason for people to starve in Dublin, but they do."
Allen understood. Life had been whittled cleaner for people in the North. Their uncertainty was kept at bay by this constant involvement.
"You know, like you talk about rationalisation in your lectures? It's the national pastime really, isn't it?"
Allen laughed and nodded his head. She got straight to the point, he thought. Would he though? Later, after they crossed the border. Maybe her reserve was a defence to hide her feelings for him.
By the time Minogue reached Kilmartin's office, he had dropped his files once. He caught Kilmartin just as he was about to step out the door, followed by a uniformed sergeant. Kilmartin's face was tight.
"Put 'em away in my office," Kilmartin nodded at the papers under Minogue's arm. Minogue looked at the sergeant. He appeared to be angry. He was flicking car keys on his fingers. Minogue tripped out in their wake.
"As true as God, Matt, this is the limit. I'll do it myself if I have to."
"What?"
Kilmartin stopped abruptly and shouted.
"They've shot Connors. He's dead. They shot him."
Minogue could smell Kilmartin's breath. Later, Minogue would remember striding behind Kilmartin and his driver and sinking into the seat. The sergeant drove at speed with the siren on. He mounted footpaths and swore. His sweat smell permeated the car. Nobody spoke. The city looked hostile to Minogue as it sped by. Kilmartin sat looking out the opposite window. As they reached St. Stephen's Green, Minogue heard other sirens behind. Ahead of them, Gardai on motorcycles were shouting at motorists. Groups of pedestrians stood staring over at the growing numbers of police cars and vans.
There were fifty or more uniformed Gardai keeping an area free of gawkers. Minogue caught sight of a few faces he knew, plain clothes police. His tension increased. Those men were surely armed. The whole place was falling apart. The Green should have a few people strolling around, some youngsters necking, not this.
Detectives were unrolling red plastic, twining it around trees and shrubs to mark off the area. The body was gone.
"I'm Kilmartin."
A detective stood aside from a group and helloed Kilmartin. Minogue stood behind Kilmartin.
"Inspector-" the detective began.
"What I need to know is this," Kilmartin cut him off. "I need to know who did this. I don't care who or how many."
The detective looked over Kilmartin's shoulder at Minogue. Minogue began to understand why he had been brought along. He felt a tenderness for Kilmartin. Kilmartin could never say it, but he needed Minogue along because he, Kilmartin, was frightened. This was not Kilmartin's Ireland any more than it was Minogue's.
"I can tell you that there were no witnesses to the shooting, sir. He was shot once, it appears, in the chest. We haven't turned up a shell yet, so we don't know if it's an automatic. It looks like a fairly large calibre, sir."
The detective took a step back, glancing at Kilmartin and then at Minogue.
"Is one of these lads from the Branch?" asked Kilmartin. The detective frowned in puzzlement.
"The Special Branch. They're the ones who'd know who Connors was tailing. They borrowed him from me."
"Oh yes, sir." The detective turned and tapped one of the group on the shoulder. The man turned and looked at Kilmartin. The detective stood back, eying Kilmartin.
"Kelly, sir. You're Inspector Kilmartin?"
"Yes."
"We're looking for the fellow. You know him, McCarthy, that bloody playwright. He's not in his flat."
"Kelly, Tell me why a man seconded from my department was on a surveillance assignment on such a dangerous suspect."
Minogue saw Kilmartin's hands fist in his pockets.
"Sir, with respect, it's not like that. That McCarthy is the last fella to do this. It had to be something else, sir. He wouldn't have done that, sir."
"My arse for a yarn, Kelly," Kilmartin snapped.
Minogue heard the chatter from a handset the sergeant was carrying. Kelly looked down at the ground, then back at the rigid Kilmartin.
"Understand this, Kelly: when we finish our job, there'll be ructions. Unarmed Gardai are paying the bill with their lives for what's going on. I won't stand for that. Inspectors in other departments won't. Neither will the public. This is Dublin, the capital of Ireland, for fucks' sakes, not New York."
Minogue watched Kilmartin stalk away. He turned to look around and watch the men securing the plastic rail.
Kelly glanced at Minogue.
"He's right, you know. That fella in Blackrock and now this? Where's it all going to end."
"Are we talking about an organised series of killings here?" Minogue asked.
Kelly shook his head and looked over at Kilmartin, now holding a handset. What a place to die, Minogue was thinking.
The plastic-covered ID had slipped from the man's fingers. It lay face up on his chest. The tanned man saw the polaroid with some print to the left side. He felt suddenly seized, unable to move. A cop. Jesus.
The tanned man rolled off the silencer and buttoned his jacket. He walked to a path nearby and within two minutes was leaving the Green by an entrance which faced onto a taxi rank. He decided against taking a taxi. His back prickled in a sweat, vulnerable. Still he heard no shouts or sirens. Mentally he counted the people he had met as he left. An old woman who had fallen asleep in a chair. Two teenagers entwined, trying to walk on a path.
The rush hour had eased to the degree that cars were moving into third gear between traffic lights. He walked across to the College of Surgeons and turned right toward Grafton Street. He had to work hard at not running. He knew that he had to get in the hotel and then out as soon as possible. They'd find McCarthy.
The tanned man stepped into a pub and went to the Gents. In the remaining fraction of a mirror, he saw his own face, strange and wide-eyed. He could not stop his hands from shaking. He did some belly breathing. Then he combed his hair and straightened his tie. He checked for any mud on the sides of his shoes. He went back outside and bought a newspaper. He tucked it under his arm and, taking a deep breath, strolled toward the Shelbourne Hotel. And still there was no sign that anyone but he knew that there was a body lying under the trees not two hundred yards from where he was walking.
"Picked him up then?" Kilmartin said into the microphone. "Pearse Street station?"
"Well, tell them I'll be there. I want in on this."
The sergeant jammed the car into the traffic and headed down Kildare Street. Kilmartin turned to Minogue.
"Yes. They found what's-his-face, McCarthy, him in a pub. O'Neill's. So they took him in for questioning in Pearse Street."
Minogue still found it hard to believe where he was and what he was doing. He should be phoning home. What was for tea? Did he have to buy sausages? Connors was dead, dead.
"That was quick," Minogue said, trying to fan away the fear.
"He'd better have something for us quick. Those boyos from the Branch may be full of fancy footwork, counter-terrorist this and counter-terrorist that, but I'll wager they won't know how to make do with this fella."
Minogue knew that the Special Branch could be extra-legal and they could get away with it. They'd be all the more urgent because it looked as if they hadn't looked after a policeman who had been on loan to them: faulty intelligence had occluded the danger, bad work.
Kilmartin's fear and anger were not abating. They had grasped his guts, squeezed and held. A vast indigestion had control of him. He couldn't fathom what had happened, no more than Minogue. His neck and shoulders were knotted. He wanted to shout, to hit someone. For an instant he recalled a mannerism of Connors and it tightened his chest. In desperation, he turned to the sergeant driving.
"Coincidence be damned, hah?"
The sergeant looked over and said gruffly,
"That's too much to swallow, sir. I know that fella Kehoe out in Blackrock. I know his parents too. I'm thinking we have to decide who's running the bloody country, them or us?"
Kilmartin wasn't listening. The sergeant's eyes sought Minogue in the mirror.
Speeding and braking along Pearse Street, Minogue saw a dirty, heartless city. The sergeant swore aloud and bullied the engine, himself a countryman trying to wrestle with this brooding dump.
Minogue recognised the playwright. He looked younger than his years, preserved by a fanatic's purity. He didn't look in the least intimidated. A knot of policemen cluttered the corridor, a mixture of Special Branch, uniformed and hard chaws from the Technical Bureau. Minogue saw the door close on the playwright and two plain clothes.
"This way men," a desk sergeant said. "Come on now, it's set up for sound so ye can listen over beyond."
Minogue saw resentment burning in Kilmartin's face. They sat in the briefing room along with three others who nodded and produced notebooks.
"Tea, lads?" the genial desk sergeant said.
They listened to preliminaries. McCarthy was not going to be manhandled in this session with the mikes on.
"You're obliged to tell me under what Section I'm being held," the playwright said.
"You'll be told sometime during the next forty-eight hours. Where were you this afternoon?"
"Where you found me. In a pub."
"How long?"
"How long does it take to drink two pints of ale?" the playwright asked.
He's enjoying this, Minogue realised. A threshold hiss came across the speakers. The men in the room looked at one another. The sergeant stepped in with a tray of tea.
"Technical problems, lads?" he said and smiled.
No one replied.
The hiss stopped and they heard the playwright's voice again.
"You shouldn't have done that. That'll show. This isn't Guatemala you know. Or Belfast," the playwright said. The men in the room heard him breathing out of turn.
"What time did you get in?"
"About a quarter past four."
"Anybody see you come in?"
"I was with friends. You can ask them."
"Where were you before that?"
"I was in another pub."
"Where?"
"The Bailey."
"With who?"
"With anybody, is who. No one specific. I do the rounds."
"Name any of them."
"Ah, they're regulars, I hardly know their surnames. What am I supposed to have done?"
"How long were you in the Bailey?"
"I don't know. A half hour, three quarters. Since after the Holy Hour. I moved on. There was no one there of any interest."
"You know the barmen there?"
"Yes."
"Who was on?"
"I don't know their names."
"He saw you come in?"
"Well, he said hello."
"Who did you talk to?"
"There was no one there really. The regulars had moved on. I caught up with them in O'Neill's. It's a moveable feast."
"Nobody?"
The playwright didn't answer for a moment. Then he said,
"I know what you want. You want to know about that Garda that was killed the other day in Blackrock. You're going at in a roundabout way, aren't you?"
"Shut up and answer the question."
"I hadn't planned on meeting anyone specifically. Is that the right answer?" Minogue stood up and left the room. He dialled home from a phone on the front desk.
"I'll be kind of late, sorry."
"What's up, Matt?" Kathleen asked.
"Well. You'll find out sooner or later. A Garda was shot. Another one. I'm with Jimmy Kilmartin. We're sort of observing right now. He'll be wanting me for something, I'm sure."
Minogue's ear prickled against the phone. He listened to the sound of his wife breathing. He could hear the radio in the background.
Barely audible, she said, "All right so."
"I'll be all right now. Don't worry. Leave it in the oven for me, whatever it is."
By the time they reached Swords, Allen noticed that Agnes had relaxed into the seat.
"Let the seat back if you want," he said.
She smiled.
Allen thought that this must be what a honeymoon couple felt, the man at least. He wanted to believe that they belonged like this, she sitting beside him in the car, not needing to talk. If his instincts were right, soon they'd be laughing about it. She would laugh and say, 'And I thought it was only me.' Or would she?
Sleepily, Agnes said, "You don't have to drive me to Belfast you know. I can get the bus from Newry. What's the point, you have to drive back to Newry again. Really."
"It's nothing, Agnes," Allen said, relishing the echoed name in his memory. "I'm a day early. I'll probably stay over in Belfast anyway."
"I write plays and articles. Didn't you read my file? I talk to anyone and everyone."
Minogue sat down again. Over the speaker he heard someone walking, opening a door and then closing it. Minogue recognised one of the two plain clothes who had been in the room with the playwright.
Without being asked, one of the men at the table said,
"Can't tell. He knows the routine, that's the thing."
The other at the table nodded. Kilmartin folded his arms.
"Check with the barmen and his pals anyway."
Kilmartin cleared his throat and said in a quiet voice,
"Tell him why he's here. He won't be expecting that. Just tell him."
"I don't think he did it either," Kilmartin continued, "but I'll bet that our patriotic bloody playwright will see he's in over his head with this. The man is a complete hypocrite. He's probably never been in on a shooting or the like in his life. Tell him. Put the fear of God in him and stop farting around. We don't have too much time if whoever did it is on the move."
Plain clothes left the room. They heard him returning to the interview room.
"We're holding you on suspicion of murder. A Garda officer was murdered today in the middle of Dublin. Murder of a Garda, who's in the course of his duty, is a capital offence in this state. You'll be tested for evidence that you discharged a firearm recently-"
"You'll find out then that I didn't," the playwright interrupted.
"You won't be able to worm out of being an accomplice. Same thing in the end and you'll not find the climate too sympathetic when it comes to sentencing. Judges don't like policemen being shot dead."
"You're out of your mind," the playwright said slowly.
There was a minute's silence over the speaker.
"Anything to add, McCarthy?"
Minogue listened keenly. When the playwright spoke, Minogue felt a mixture of relief and loathing. McCarthy had lived up to Kilmartin's expectations. He had realised that the rules had changed. Like Kilmartin and Minogue, this was suddenly not his Ireland either.
"Look. I meet all kinds of people. I didn't know I was being followed. There's plenty of lunatics out there. There's this fellow who started to tell me-his story. He's an American. Said he knew of me and wanted to get in touch with republicans or something. I tried to give him the brush. Who knows what kind of a nutcase he might be?"
Minogue's sixth sense told him this was only part of it. McCarthy was parcelling out bits to sell off.
"I don't know the first thing about him."
"How did you meet him?"
"He came over to me in the pub."
Minogue saw Kilmartin shaking his head slowly. He wondered what infinitesimal signs had brought Kilmartin to the same conclusion as himself that McCarthy was lying. There was something else to it.
"Just walked over? Never saw him before?"
"Never."
"Describe him."
"Youngish, I'd say. He'd be in his late thirties. He dresses fancy, sort of."
"A man with no name?"
"Never told me a name. I didn't ask. I could care less what his name is."
Kilmartin turned to the detectives listening to the speaker.
"What's the story on the business in Blackrock?" he asked.
"We've picked up more suspects off the lists anyway. No sign of the actual killers, but they have to turn up somewhere. They might steal a car or turn up at a house under surveillance," one of the detectives replied cagily.
"See any links with today?" Kilmartin murmured.
No one answered. This is the belief, Minogue thought, that is why nobody can say it.
"The place is full of Yanks, that's the thing. It'd be like McCarthy to work up an imaginary Yank to explain everything," the Special Branch man said.
"Yes, but what kind of a Yank would pull a stunt like this? Assuming this Yank really exists at all and McCarthy isn't spinning out rope for someone else's neck…?"
Kilmartin's belly ached. It was like someone had stabbed him. He stole a glance at Minogue. No awkwardness rubbed against them now. They listened again to the speaker.
"How do you know he was American?"
"Accent."
"Drawl? New York maybe?"
"I don't know anything about that. He didn't sound like a cowboy."
"Where is he staying?"
"Jases, I don't know. He just came up to me out of the blue," the playwright replied.
"How did he know to go to you?"
"How would I know? Maybe I have fans out there and they put him my way."
"What did he talk to you about? You said he wanted to meet republicans."
"Said he wanted to write a piece on the Troubles here. Wanted to get'the real story,' he says. I told him to shag off but he kept on yapping and asking me things."
"What things?"
"It's hard to know where to start…"
The playwright was back in role now, Minogue thought. The confidence was returning to him. He was off acting again. The wall between his inner landscape and the real world had collapsed years ago. Maybe he wanted drama, anything on the blade edge of life whether it was to do with guns or props. But this man sounded normal, even witty. As sane as the next man. Yet he didn't keep budgies or go along with superstitions or worship the sun: he was part of an organisation that killed people. Is that what mad means, when you can't tell the difference anymore?
Minogue's chest leadened when he felt the truth of this. He thought of Dublin in the fifties, moribund and discoloured. No wonder there was so much emigration. This fool had emigrated all right, but inwardly: he had willed his life away to The Cause.
"What exactly did he say, then?"
"I don't remember his exact words."
"Try."
"Like I said, he said he wanted to meet republicans."
"Why?"
"Just to meet them. To do a story on them, I suppose."
"What were his interests?"
"I don't know. Maybe a tourist looking for excitement."
"Married?"
"How would I know?"
"A ring?"
"Didn't look."
This could go on for hours and it would. He was lying, probably buying some time for this fellow. Give away a little so they believe the big lies.
Kilmartin leaned back, balancing on the back legs of the chair and said, "Well, are ye out looking?"
"Hotels, airports and ferries, sir. The whole bit," a Special Branch man answered.
"So. It appears to me that a) there's enough truth in this business about an American to allow us to bugger up by wasting time; b) there's some element of betrayal here. McCarthy would like to spill all the beans, but then he'd be a marked man if he sold someone out. McCarthy understands the business about being implicated in a capital offence so he'll let go stuff a bit at a time."
"Time's the thing," the Special Branch man echoed.
"I'm thinking," Kilmartin said slowly, "that you fellas charged with pursuing this investigation in the murder of one of my men should find some way to eliminate this time factor. This would effect a speedy resolution, I'm thinking."
No one answered. Although the interrogation went on over the speaker, Minogue believed that no one was listening anymore. Pencils were being fingered and shoes observed.
"Go over your description again."
"Medium height. He wore a suit," the playwright answered. He was talking too readily, Minogue understood. A command performance.
"And…?"
"There was nothing special about him. In his thirties."
"Eyes?"
"I dunno. I suppose they were blue."
"Balding?"
"No he had a full head of hair. Trimmed, looked after."
Kilmartin seemed to be examining his fingernails minutely. Minogue wondered how many Americans would be in the country at this time of year. Thousands?