Echoland (27 page)

‘A good bit,’ she said.

But he was sure to catch up, Duggan thought. He couldn’t go as fast as him with the extra weight of Nuala. He pushed harder,
beginning
to breathe heavily, and shot across Baggot Street with barely a look in either direction and into another lane, hoping it was not a
cul-de-sac
. It was dark, without any street lights, but it stretched straight ahead as far as he could see.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’ Nuala asked, as if reading his mind.

He shook his head, saving his breath.

‘There’s a left turn just up here,’ she said. ‘Take it.’

‘Now,’ she said and he swung into a barely visible entry, almost running into the wall as he took the corner too fast. The bicycle bumped along another dark and unpaved laneway, high walls on
either side with regularly spaced doors into the gardens of the houses on the main streets. A dog behind one began to bark in a fury and clawed at a door and they rounded a bend.

‘Right again,’ she said and he followed her instructions into a short stretch of rough lane, trying to keep on one side of the track. They bounced through a pothole he hadn’t seen and came out on a road beside the canal.

‘Go right,’ she said, leaning back to look around his right shoulder as he made the turn. ‘We might’ve lost him.’

He kept pedalling as hard as he could and she told him to veer right as Wilton Park loomed ahead of them and then took him into another laneway and back into the one where the dog resumed his barking. Nuala muttered a curse and told him to go left and they were back into the long dark lane he had gone into from Baggot Street.

Duggan was slowing, breathing heavily. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing, no movement, in the gloom behind him. He slowed down, trying to recover his energy. ‘Stop,’ she said quietly as they passed a recessed garage door. She slid of the crossbar and he dismounted and put the bicycle against the door and they stood side by side behind it, their backs to the door, trying to keep inside the shallow recess.

Nuala put her fingers to her lips and he tried to still his breathing.

After a few moments she looked out from the recess, checked in both directions and then stepped across the lane and tried the garden door opposite. It was locked and she tried the next one. It was locked too. She came back and stood beside him.

They stood in silence for what seemed a long time, listening to the night sounds of the city like they came from another world. A tram clanged, a door slammed, wood grated as a stiff window was raised or lowered, and there was the rumble of a distant train but no sounds of
people or the hum of bicycle tyres on the compacted sand and gravel of the laneway.

Eventually they stepped out from the recess and looked up and down at the empty lane and Nuala indicated the opposite direction from Baggot Street and they walked along, Duggan wheeling the bike on one track, Nuala walking on the other.

She led him out into Fitzwilliam Place where the restricted street lighting at the junctions seemed to their night vision to make the street brighter than it was. There was no sign of anyone about. Nuala linked him and said, ‘Looks more natural,’ as they walked along the footpath.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘Ranelagh,’ she said.

They walked all the way there, not talking, through residential streets, stopping occasionally to pretend to talk but to check that nobody was following them. ‘How do you know all those laneways?’ he asked at one point but she only gave a husky laugh and didn’t answer.

She finally stopped outside a redbrick terraced house in a quiet street near the centre of Ranelagh. ‘The friend of a friend’s,’ she said.

‘I can find you here?’ he said, noting the number.

‘Just make sure you’re not followed,’ she said, as if everything that had just happened was his fault.

Duggan shook his head in amazement as she opened the metal gate and went in the hall door.

Duggan had already finished his third cigarette of the day and was slumped in the chair staring at the ceiling when McClure came in and said, ‘Penny for them.’

He straightened up. ‘Just trying to make sense of everything.’ Which was a lie. He had been trying to decide how he should approach Timmy. It wasn’t a meeting he was looking forward to but it had to be done if he was to ever get this monkey off his back.

‘There are a few other bits and pieces,’ McClure said, sitting down at the table. ‘Our friends across the water confirm that Miss Kitty Kelly is in Torquay at present. So,’ he spread his hands in an open
gesture
. Duggan nodded. That was no surprise, they had assumed as much.

‘They’re also grateful for the address in Zurich. They hadn’t known of that one. And,’ he opened the file on his desk, ‘we’ve got another letter for Harbusch. From his inamorata in Amsterdam.’

He slid the envelope across the table and Duggan took out the hand-written page. ‘My dearest one Hans,’ it began. ‘It is no good. I can no longer go with the memory only of your hot body.’ Duggan couldn’t hold back a snigger. McClure gave him an inquisitive look.

‘Hans’s hot body,’ Duggan shook his head, thinking of the dumpy little man he was so used to following.

‘The ways of the heart,’ McClure shrugged.

‘I have found another one,’ the letter went on. ‘He is not so big with the imagination but he will have to do for me for now. Even so I think only of you when he is with me. Tell me you come again and again and I will give him the orders to be marching immediately.’

‘Just a Dear John letter or marching orders?’ McClure asked.

‘He’s being told to pull out?’ Duggan said and blushed, cursing himself mentally for adding to the double entendres.

‘A tactical withdrawal,’ McClure said with a dry smile. ‘Possibly.’

‘It’s written by an English speaker,’ Duggan said as the idea struck him. ‘Someone who’s deliberately putting in all the double meanings. Pretending their English isn’t too good.’

‘Go on,’ McClure encouraged him.

‘And by a man,’ Duggan concluded.

‘Why a man?’

‘Because a woman wouldn’t do that.’

‘Perhaps,’ McClure said with a noncommittal shake of his head. ‘Let’s think it through. Let’s suppose an English speaker is writing these letters. Man or woman doesn’t matter. And they’re writing this slightly jumbled English. With lots of double entendres. Why?’

Duggan couldn’t think of a reason.

‘Surely not for the fun of it,’ McClure said. ‘Nobody has time for that sort of nonsense these days.’

‘We don’t know if Harbusch ever writes back to her. This person.’

McClure nodded. ‘He writes to Copenhagen and Miss Kelly gets a reply from Zurich. He gets money from Switzerland as well. And he gets these letters from Amsterdam.’

‘Maybe Miss Kelly posts the letters to there too,’ Duggan suggested.

‘Or sends the replies to somewhere else. We should find out in the next few days. If Harbusch replies to this one. Otherwise,’ McClure sighed, ‘we’ll have to work on the assumption that there’s
someone else involved in this little ring as well.’

Sullivan came in and McClure turned his attention to him. ‘And how is miss whatever her real name is this morning?’

‘Same as usual,’ Sullivan said. ‘Went to Mass in Westland Row and picked up her letter and back home again.’

‘Who’s watching her now?’

‘The Special Branch.’

‘Good,’ McClure stood up. ‘Check the overnight reports of
parachutists
, planes, strange noises and the look-out posts’ reports and see if there’s anything we need to follow up.’

Sullivan sat down at his place.

‘And,’ McClure said to Duggan, ‘all we can do is keep our eye on Harbusch and see if he changes his pattern. See what he does with the instructions he’s just got in the letter from Zurich. And have that Amsterdam letter left for collection when you’ve finished parsing it.’

‘Jaysus,’ Sullivan sighed when McClure had left. ‘That priest in Westland Row loves the sound of his own voice. Drags everything out. Thinks he’s on the stage.’

‘Here’s some light relief for you,’ Duggan tossed the letter down the table to him.

‘More piggy wiggy stuff,’ Sullivan rubbed his hands in
anticipation
.

Duggan didn’t want to spoil it by sharing his theory about the
letter
writer.

He took his time going into the city centre, still trying to figure out his approach to Timmy. The heat wave was over, grey clouds piling up, darkening the mood of the city and threatening rain. A strong breeze from the west hurried him along, faster than he wanted to go.

There was no alternative but to put everything to him straight, he thought. Get some answers. And find a way out of this mess. Through threats and counter threats. It was a question of whether Timmy or Nuala caved in first. And he wasn’t sure which it would be. Though Nuala was right, Timmy had the upper hand. She wanted Jim released and Timmy was their only hope of getting him freed.

He waited at the kiosk at the gate of Leinster House while an usher phoned Timmy’s office and then told him to wait. He stepped back into the small waiting area and watched the comings and goings. It was still early in the parliamentary day and there was little traffic in and out; a few politicians and staff members or civil servants arriving. All were nodded through by the ushers.

Duggan checked his watch and wondered what Timmy was up to. Was he trying to make him sweat or was he just busy? Then he
realized
that this was probably the first time that he wanted something from Timmy rather than the other way round. And Timmy probably knew that.

After a quarter of an hour the usher’s phone rang and he told Duggan to go up to the main door and someone would meet him there. He walked around the looming bulk of the plinth and its image of unmovable empire and up the couple of steps and in the main door. Another usher stood before him and asked, ‘Deputy Monaghan?’

Duggan nodded and the usher showed him into a room to the right of the high hall. ‘Wait here, please,’ he left the door open behind him.

He circled the room, around by its marble fireplace, examining its ornate ceiling, feeling its deep carpet underfoot. There was little
furniture
, a few period chairs by the walls, a low table in the centre with an ashtray: a room for people passing through. He settled beside one of the tall windows, looking out at Queen Victoria’s back as she stood sentinel and kept the city out. A spatter of rain appeared on the
window, almost hesitant at first.

Timmy left him another ten minutes and then walked in and closed the door behind him. He stopped in the centre of the room and they stared at each other.

‘I met Nuala,’ Duggan broke first.

‘Good,’ Timmy nodded. ‘Good.’

‘We were chased by a gunman.’

‘Someone shot at you?’ Timmy said, startled.

Duggan shook his head. ‘He followed us. Tried to catch us but we got away.’

‘Good,’ Timmy repeated, nodding to himself.

‘Why was he following us?’

Timmy looked mystified.

‘I know he’s working for you,’ Duggan pressed on. ‘Nuala told me what all this is about. You knew all along what was going on. And you tried to use me, made a fool of me. Pretending to be concerned about your daughter, when you’re only concerned about your own
reputation
. And making sure nobody knows the despicable thing you did.’

‘Paul, Paul,’ Timmy raised his hands in a mixture of surrender and trying to stop him.

‘Nuala was wrong to do what she did but at least her motive was good. Which is more than can be said for you. Fighting for Ireland but filling your own pockets.’ Duggan felt himself growing angrier. ‘Everything you were supposed to be fighting against you were doing yourself. Exploiting a poor worried woman, taking her property and reneging on your agreement. Shooting him in the back …’

‘Paul, shhh!’ Timmy said as if soothing an overwrought child. ‘You’re upsetting yourself.’

‘Fucking right I am,’ Duggan hurled back. ‘I can’t believe you would do something like that. That you would use the cause for your own …’ He couldn’t find the word. ‘And then set these fellows on
your own daughter. And have her boyfriend killed. The son of the same woman …’

‘Shhh, Paul, shhh.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Duggan bit his lip, close to tears. ‘How could you?’

Timmy shook his head in sadness. ‘Terrible things happen in war.’

‘That wasn’t fucking war,’ Duggan shot back. ‘That was – I don’t know – robbery. Extortion. Murder.’

‘No, no,’ Timmy turned decisive. ‘It was not murder. He was an agent of the crown. He was the enemy, one of the occupying forces. He was trying to kill us. To keep us in subjugation. It was a war. Us or them.’

Duggan shook his head.

‘Terrible things happen in war,’ Timmy repeated. ‘And they’re best left there once it’s over. That’s what I told Nuala too but she wouldn’t let it go. Too stubborn. And look at all the trouble it’s caused now. Twenty years later.’

Duggan couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. It was all Nuala’s fault.

‘The past should be left in peace,’ Timmy continued,
metaphorically
climbing on to an election platform. ‘What matters now is the present and the future. How we rise up to the challenges before us. And they’re bigger than ever before with the world in the state it’s in. I hope we don’t have to fight them all over again. But, by God, if we have to we will. And we’ll win all over again.’

A wave of exhaustion overcame Duggan. So much for the best way to handle Timmy, he thought. He’d let his emotions run away with him and ended up getting a political speech.

‘What about Jim Bradley?’ he asked.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Timmy said, oozing sincerity. ‘Do my level best to get him out.’

‘Nuala’ll never talk to you again if anything happens to him.’

‘She say that?’

Duggan nodded. ‘And she meant it.’

‘That girl is so headstrong,’ Timmy sighed.

‘You’ve got your money back.’

Timmy shook his head with a noncommittal grunt.

‘I handed it back to you myself.’ Duggan said and added, a
statement
rather than a question. ‘You didn’t get back the second
payment
.’

‘I haven’t seen it yet,’ Timmy said with care.

‘Your friends have taken it,’ Duggan gave a short laugh. ‘Did you not pay them?’

‘Paul,’ Timmy said with patience. ‘I’ve told you I’ll do everything I can.’

‘You got him into this. You have to get him out of it.’

‘If it was only that easy, I’d do it in a minute.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They say he’s a spy.’

‘He’s not a spy.’

‘Nuala told you that?’ Timmy didn’t wait for an answer. ‘And I’m sure she believes that. But those fellows have their own sources of information. They’re usually well informed.’

‘You’re saying he is a spy?’

‘I’m saying I don’t know,’ Timmy widened his eyes in innocence. ‘I’m just saying that those fellows have good intelligence. And isn’t it an amazing coincidence that he should meet up with my daughter and tell her all about his family. Isn’t that strange? Wouldn’t you think so?’

Duggan’s head began to reel. ‘Why would a British spy target you? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘I don’t know,’ Timmy said. ‘I’m just saying it’s a strange
coincidence
, that’s all.’

That’s crazy, Duggan thought. Why would the British send over a spy to find Timmy’s daughter and get her to try and blackmail her father? It was totally crazy.

‘He’s not a spy,’ Duggan said, taking a chance. ‘Our people say he’s not.’

‘They’re sure?’

‘They’re sure,’ Duggan lied. He didn’t even know if they were aware that Bradley was the kidnap victim. He thought of telling Timmy that the British said he wasn’t but that wouldn’t persuade him of anything. Probably the opposite, confirm Bradley’s guilt in his eyes.

‘All right,’ Timmy said. ‘I’ll do everything I can. Talk to everyone I know. See what can be done.’

‘And tell them to leave Nuala alone. Stop trying to find her.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Timmy said with the air of a penitent. ‘I’ll pass the word along.’

‘Time is running out,’ Duggan pointed out. ‘Things will have to be done quickly.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘And I think you should give back some of the money at least to Mrs Bradley.’

‘Paul, Paul,’ Timmy shook his head in disappointment. ‘You’re a good lad. Like a son to me. A smart lad. But I told you before. Don’t try to be too smart.’

‘It’d be only fair. They’re very hard up.’

Timmy gave a world-weary sigh. ‘Don’t push it. This is how this whole thing started. Nuala wouldn’t let it go. Let bygones be bygones.’

‘Nuala didn’t shoot this man while promising not to.’

‘And I didn’t either.’

Duggan stared at him, stopped in his tracks. Timmy nodded,
affirming what he had said. Neither added anything for a moment.

‘Let sleeping dogs lie,’ Timmy pointed a finger at him. ‘Let the past rest in peace. There’s many a good young lad like you in the cemetery for the last twenty years. But there’s nothing to be gained from raking it all up again and again.’

‘Who shot him?’

Timmy shook his head.

‘Tell me.’

‘I’m not saying another word about it,’ Timmy closed his eyes. ‘That’s not a road you want to go down. Leave those things alone.’

The shower of rain had passed, leaving the streets glistening in weak sunshine. Duggan felt weak too, light-headed, feeling he’d been ambushed by Timmy. Again. He left his bicycle where it was at the railing of Leinster House and walked up Kildare Street and crossed the road into Stephen’s Green. The benches were all wet and he stepped into the shelter beside the still pond and lit a cigarette. He leaned on the railing, blowing grey smoke towards the grey water, forcing himself to think the thought that he didn’t want to think.

He was almost finished his cigarette when his thoughts were interrupted by a flight of lapwings coming low over the water and landing with a skidding splash off to his right. He turned to look and saw a dumpy man with a brown paper bag throwing pieces of bread onto the water among the chattering ducks. Harbusch.