Echoland (19 page)

‘Any more insubordination and you’ll be confined to barracks.’

‘Right. A drunken row in a pub.’

‘Confined to barracks,’ Duggan repeated. ‘I always wanted to say that.’

He opened his Harbusch file and flicked through it until he came to the section about the other residents in the Merrion Square
building
. There wasn’t much about Kitty Kelly. It was just as Gifford had said: she was from Cork originally, went to England after leaving
primary
school, worked for Royal Liver in London for practically all her adult life, never married, now retired. He also looked again at the
others
in the building. The elderly man who taught piano at the Royal Irish Academy of Music, the one who had seen the Special Branch break into the Harbusches’ flat. Would he have told them? The two girls from Cork who worked in the Land Commission. Was there a Cork connection with Kitty Kelly? The junior doctor at St Vincent’s on Stephen’s Green and his wife who’d been a clerk in the Department of Industry and Commerce until she had to give it up when they married last year. Maybe she was the best one to talk to; she was probably around all day.

He got up and went to the heavy Royal typewriter on the other side of the table and typed out all the details about Kitty Kelly. Then he took the sheet of paper into the office dealing with the British and asked an officer there to request a full background check by MI5.

‘What are you looking for?’ the officer skimmed through the details.

‘Any German connections or involvement with the British fascist movement.’ Maybe that was the connection with Harbusch’s wife, he thought. ‘Actually, see if there’s any connection with Eliza Godfrey, a
member of Mosley’s outfit, or Hans Harbusch, a German agent. They know all about him. And her.’

The officer jotted down the names.

‘It’s high priority at our end,’ Duggan offered.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ the officer sighed.

Duggan went back to his office and stared at the file for a while, letting his imagination roam. A thought struck him and he went in search of McClure and found him still in the colonel’s office.

‘I was wondering if all the post to Harbusch’s address is being monitored. Not just anything addressed to him but anything addressed to anyone in the building.’

‘Good question.’ McClure reached for the phone and asked for the mail monitoring section in the GPO. ‘It’s not,’ he said to Duggan as he hung up after a brief conversation. ‘But it will be now.’ He
dismissed
him with an approving nod.

The phone was ringing on his desk when he got back to his office.

‘Personal call, sir,’ the orderly on the switch said. ‘Your cousin.’

‘Peter,’ Duggan said as he sat down.

There was a pause and a woman’s voice said, ‘It’s Stella. Nuala’s friend.’

‘Oh, hello,’ Duggan was taken aback.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘I’m afraid I’m very busy at the moment,’ he said, resisting an urge to tell her there was a war on.

‘It’s about Nuala.’

Duggan sighed. ‘There’s nothing more I can do. Talk to her father. I’m up to my eyes.’

There was a pause. ‘I’ll be in her place in an hour. She needs your help.’ She hung up.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Duggan said half-aloud as he leaned back in his chair and took out a cigarette. No, he thought. I’m having nothing
more to do with the Monaghans and whatever twisted games they were playing with each other. Besides, he had something real to do now, something of importance now that he might have made a
breakthrough
in the Harbusch case.

He got up and walked around the room, feeling restless, a surge of adrenaline from all the events of the day coursing through him. What if he’d really broken the Harbusch case? There was no telling how far that could reach, if he had really found a way into a German spy ring. Maybe it included Brandy or whatever his real name was. Goertz. There hadn’t been any mention of him recently; presumably he’d gone to ground somewhere. If he could nab him, that’d be something.

His mind hopped back, out of his control, to Timmy and Nuala. What was all that about? He didn’t care, didn’t want to know, but couldn’t clear it from his hyperactive brain. Nuala was pretending to have been kidnapped to extort money from Timmy. Which was crazy. And Timmy was pretending to go along with it, pretending to pay up while getting some of his old friends in the IRA to recover the money and find Nuala. That didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t set
gunmen
after his own daughter, would he? Maybe he would. He
wouldn’t
like to lose the money and he’d want to best her. And who else could he call on for help if he wouldn’t go to the guards? I wasn’t much use to him. Why didn’t he just ignore Nuala, let her do her worst. Tell her mother. That was the worst she could do. Though that would put enormous pressure on Timmy, force him to pay up
whatever
she wanted and to call in the guards. Jesus, he thought, what a family.

He circled the table again and stubbed out his cigarette. He had to be doing something. And there’d probably be nothing on Harbusch and Kitty Kelly until tomorrow. He might as well go and talk to Stella. Tell her he was out of the picture. He’d done all he could. And all he’d got for it was a lash across the face from a Webley.

He cycled up Merrion Square, joining the army of civil servants
leaving
their offices beyond Leinster House, most on bicycles. He turned into Baggot Street and continued down to Herbert Street where he cut down to Mount Street. It was a long way around but he didn’t want to be seen anywhere near Harbusch’s flat. He was settling his bike against the railings outside Nuala’s flat when he noticed the
elderly
man walking towards him. The music teacher from Harbusch’s building.

Duggan stepped in front of him. ‘Excuse me, Mr Jameson,’ he said. ‘I’m Lieutenant Paul Duggan from, ah, G2, defence forces security. I wonder if I could have a word with you.’

Duggan fished in his inside pocket for his identity card while Jameson looked at him, glanced at the bicycle, and back at the
bandage
on Duggan’s face. He was short, with a thin grey face which faded into grey hair. He had a music case in his left hand.

‘I know you’re aware of our interest in one of your neighbours,’ Duggan said as he handed over his card. ‘We’re following up our inquiries and I’d like if I may to ask you a few questions.’

Jameson examined the card and handed it back to Duggan. ‘This is all very irregular,’ he said.

Duggan nodded. ‘These are irregular times. If you’d prefer we could make an appointment to meet. In Dublin Castle.’

The suggestion did the trick. ‘What do you want to know?’ Jameson blanched.

‘Miss Kelly,’ Duggan said. ‘The lady on the ground floor. What can you tell me about her?’

Jameson looked surprised. ‘Nothing. She keeps to herself. Like we all do.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘It’s not a building where we interfere in each other’s business,’ Jameson said, with a touch of pride. ‘I’ve never spoken to the lady other than to say ‘good day’ to her on the few occasions we passed each other in the hallway.’

‘Does she get much post?’

‘Really,’ Jameson looked affronted. ‘I have no idea. We don’t pry into each other’s affairs.’

Duggan blushed and realized the stupidity of his question. ‘Is she friendly with Herr Harbusch and his wife?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Jameson shifted from one foot to the other as if he was preparing to move on. ‘She keeps herself to herself. Like we all do. It’s a quiet house. Nobody disturbs anybody else.’

‘Okay,’ Duggan stepped back. ‘I’m sorry for accosting you like this. Taking you by surprise.’

Jameson nodded and thawed a little. ‘You have a job to do, I
suppose
. Irregular times, like you say.’

‘If anything occurs to you please give me a call at army
headquarters
.’

Jameson nodded and moved off. Duggan watched him go,
wondering
if it was the ineptitude of his questions which had made the encounter a total waste of time. I ended up telling him more than he told me, he realized. What if he was one of Harbusch’s group? Shit. Then they’d know that G2 knew about Kitty Kelly.

He watched Jameson turn the corner into Merrion Square and told himself to stop seeing spies everywhere. Question everything, McClure had told him. Assume nothing. But that way led to paranoia and maybe madness. Besides, Harbusch’s letters didn’t read like the work of a master spy. McClure wasn’t even sure he was a real spy or just playing at being a spy. Which was why he had given the case to him. Maybe Harbusch was a decoy, there to distract attention from the real group, the real spies like Brandy/Goertz. He shook his head
in an unconscious effort to clear his mind and stepped up to the hall door and pressed the bell for Nuala’s flat.

The door was opened almost immediately and Duggan realized that Stella had been waiting just inside. He hoped she hadn’t heard his attempt to question Jameson. ‘Thanks,’ she said and led him up to the top floor. The door to Nuala’s flat was open and she led him inside.

There was an envelope lying on the table in front of the window. Otherwise, the room seemed the same as the last time he had been there, still heavy with trapped air.

He turned to Stella. ‘I only came to tell you what I said on—’

She thrust a white envelope at him.

Her name was on the front, no address, no stamp. He took out a single handwritten sheet.

‘Stella,’ it said. ‘I’m so sorry about all the hugger mugger but I will explain all when it’s safe to do so. I desperately need your help now. Please contact my cousin Paul Duggan (he’s in army headquarters, an officer) as soon as you can and give him the envelope on the table in my flat. He’ll know what to do with it. I’m sorry I can’t explain
anything
at the moment but this is very important. You’re a pal. Love, Nuala’

The ‘very’ in ‘very important’ was underlined twice.

He read it again and then stepped over to the table to look closer at the envelope, knowing already what it was – the envelope he had delivered to the address in Wicklow Street.

It was badly creased now and there was a smear of what looked like mud across the bottom right corner.

‘Have you opened it?’ he asked Stella.

‘No. She said it was for you.’

He picked it up. The back flap had been opened and was held shut again by the white edging from a line of stamps. He opened it and
took out the fold of notes and counted them out, two fifties, ten twenties, and twenty tens. His first thought was that Timmy had paid real money, not left sheets of paper.

He turned to find Stella staring open-mouthed at the wad of notes in his hand.

‘Five hundred pounds,’ he said, putting them back in the envelope.

‘Where’d she get that?’ Stella searched his eyes. ‘Is she in danger?’

‘From her father.’ He tried to close the envelope with the stamp edging but it had lost its stickiness. ‘And now she wants to give it back.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I don’t either.’ A wave of tiredness came over him. ‘Not really.’

He dropped the envelope on the table and opened the drawer underneath. Everything looked the same as the last time he’d been there. The newspaper cutting about the Kilmichael ambush that he had seen the first time was still missing. He walked around the room and settled on the bed and threw his legs up on it, sitting against the headboard. Stella watched him with a look of confusion. He took out his cigarettes and offered her one silently. She shook her head and he lit one for himself.

‘When did you get the letter?’

‘Just before I called you. When I got up.’

‘And you haven’t seen Nuala?’ The question was superfluous. It was clear from the letter, from Nuala’s reference to him, that they hadn’t been in touch since he first met Stella.

‘And she’s been here,’ he looked around the room. ‘Has she taken any clothes?’

Stella went to the wardrobe and opened the door wide. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘She’s not far away,’ Duggan said, holding his cigarette upright to prevent its ash falling onto the bed or the floor. Stella took an ashtray
from the table and brought it over to him. She sat on the bottom of the bed, as far away from him as possible.

‘What’s going on?’

Duggan took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke at the ceiling. ‘Nuala pretended to be kidnapped and demanded a
ransom
from her father. Who paid a bit of it,’ he nodded towards the envelope on the table, ‘and also set some IRA thugs after her.’

‘What? You’re not serious.’

Duggan pointed at the bandage on his face. ‘I’m that serious. One of the IRA men did that with the barrel of his revolver. A swipe across the face.’

‘Good God,’ she touched his shoe. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘It’s getting better.’

‘I don’t believe …’ she began.

‘She and her father don’t get on.’

‘I know that. But why would she try and get at him like that? There must be someone else behind it.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘This boyfriend of hers. Jim whatever his name is.’

‘No, don’t be ridiculous. Jim’s the sweetest, most peaceable guy you could ever meet. He wouldn’t have anything to do with anything violent, criminal.’

‘And Nuala?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Is she given to being … dramatic?’

‘She’s your cousin.’

‘We hardly know each other. Like I told you.’

‘Not that dramatic. Not five-hundred-pound-ransom off her own father dramatic.’

‘The five hundred was only the first payment.’

‘Oh my God. How much?’

Duggan shrugged. ‘She wanted a few thousand.’

‘That’s not Nuala.’

‘The note says it is.’

‘I don’t believe it.’ She went to the table and read the note from Nuala again. Duggan stubbed out his cigarette and swung his legs off the bed.

‘What does she mean “when it’s safe to do so”?’ Stella asked.

‘I think she knows that Timmy has sent some old IRA friends after her and she wants to put a stop to it before they find her.’