Evil for Evil (27 page)
Less than two years ago, back in Beantown, I would’ve thought such a thing crazy. Now I was in the lair of my family’s sworn enemies, nodding my head at the soundness of the idea. Sláine O’Brien was doing her job, and doing it well. Did Cosgrove know? Or didn’t he care how she got it done? There must have been lots of money involved but that probably wasn’t important to MI-5. Getting the job done was. Keeping a lid on things so Allied troops could move peacefully through Northern Ireland on their way to the next invasion. But now somebody had thrown a monkey wrench into the works, and we had Krauts and a well-armed IRA faction to worry about.
I was going to have to confront Sláine about Taggart. Why hadn’t she used her relationship with Taggart to recover the BARs? Was it possible that she had an arrangement to turn a blind eye when she needed him to carry out a killing? Or maybe he no longer had possession of the guns, didn’t know where they were, and she saw no reason to end a useful arrangement. I thought it might be possible. But she’d nearly broken down when we were alone. Did that signal a more vulnerable side of her? Could the Sláine O’Brien I’d held in my arms do all this, conceive of all this, and see it through?
I might have to find out. I pushed back from the table, a feeling of intense weariness washing over me. I could have laid my head down on the hard wood surface and fallen asleep. I looked at my watch, and it was half past one. I was hungry and needed a cup of coffee.
“You want me to give these to you?” I said to Hawkins, gathering up the files.
“Yes, sir. Please pass them through the slot.”
“Must be a lonely job down here,” I said, still trying to get a response from the man.
“The day does sometimes go slowly, sir, but I don’t mind. Not much else to do.”
“Why not ask for a transfer?”
“Here’s why,” he said, rapping on his right leg, the sound of knuckles on wood echoing in the room. “Lost my leg at Narvik. Lost my wife and son in Coventry when the Germans bombed it. There’s not much for me to do but file papers and be glad I still have a job to do. Anything else, Lieutenant?”
“No, nothing. Thanks for your help. Sorry, about everything.”
“Same here,” he said, and with that I understood why he said so little.
I FOUND MAJOR Cosgrove and Sláine waiting for me. In a rare moment of courtesy, the major invited me to lunch in the Stormont officers’ mess. I followed them upstairs to more open and elegant surroundings. The dining room was paneled in dark walnut, buffed to a high shine. Soft carpets graced the floor and paintings hung along one wall, huge landscapes of castles and knights on horseback. Probably Irish lands and English castles.
It was very civilized, so civilized that it was hard to believe we were only two floors above evidence linking Sláine O’Brien, if not all of MI-5, to murder. I stared at an English knight on one of the canvases, his black armor gleaming and a long sword held out before him. He was right over Cosgrove’s head, one black knight watching over the other. I decided this was not the time or place to accuse either of them of their crimes.
“Well, Boyle, did you find anything of value?”
“There’s very good background material in those files. Could be helpful, I suppose. But no smoking gun.”
“What did you expect to find in our file on Constable Simms?” Sláine asked. “He’s never been investigated for anything; there’s just the usual accumulation of data.”
“You’ve looked at it?”
“Yes, to see what you found so interesting about the man. There’s not much, I’m afraid.”
“No. Major Cosgrove, did you know Adrian Simms was blackballed when he asked to join the Royal Black Knights?” A waiter appeared with the wine Cosgrove had ordered, and we waited in silence as he poured.
“I had no idea. I am not an active member. I travel too much and I can only attend meetings sporadically. But membership is useful for staying in touch with that stratum of Ulster society.”
“Which stratum is that?”
“Those Unionists who are not bomb throwers. They want to maintain their connection with Great Britain but at the same time they wish for a stable society here, for all.”
“Like the banker, McBurney,” I said.
“Exactly. Good man, McBurney.”
“He actually employs a Catholic. The bank janitor.”
“Things won’t change overnight, Boyle. Hiring one is better than killing one, I say. Don’t you agree?”
I didn’t answer. I raised my glass, thought of a few Irish toasts, then thought better of it and downed half the wine.
“I may see McBurney tomorrow evening at Brownlow House, if I can get away. Some sort of event honoring members from the American lodges. I shall ask him about your suspicions.”
“I hope you have better luck than I did.”
“So were the files a waste of time, Billy?” Sláine asked.
“No, I got to see a nice picture of you. They brought in the surveillance photo of your meeting with Jenkins. Do you document all your contacts like that?”
“Yes. It’s part of our record keeping. It comes in handy if we’re building a case file. And photographs can be used in other ways if the informant ceases to be cooperative.”
“Blackmail?”
“Don’t be melodramatic, Boyle!” Cosgrove said. “Once an informant betrays his organization, we need to keep him on a tight leash. He needs to know if he tries to run, we will show the photographs to those who will be interested. It’s all part of the game. They come to us in the first place, after all.”
The soup arrived. It was potato and leek, steaming hot, and very good.
“How did Jenkins become your informant?”
“Ancient history, Billy. The soup is good, isn’t it?”
“So he’s been one a long time?”
“Boyle, it is bad form to discuss informants, even here in the officers’ mess. One never knows,” Cosgrove said, glancing at a passing waiter.
“Sorry. Professional curiosity, that’s all. Without mentioning any names, how do you feel about depending on informants? Back in Boston I was always worried that they might turn on me, and the next meeting would be a setup.”
“You have to be careful, it’s true,” Sláine said. “We have many sources of information, though. I think I’d hear if something was afoot. And you forget, Billy, we are not the police.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that retribution would be mine,” Cosgrove said, slurping down the last of his soup.
“Did one of those sources tell you about the murder of Pete Brennan?” I asked. “You never said how you got word so quickly. Was it the RUC?”
“Ha! Do you call your FBI every time there is a murder in Boston? I think not,” Cosgrove said.
Sláine stayed quiet as the waiter removed the soup bowls.
“So who was it?” I asked.
“Excuse me, sir,” a waiter said, handing Cosgrove an envelope. “Your office said to give this to you straightaway.” Cosgrove tore it open, read it, and handed the paper to Sláine.
“Speak of the devil,” he said. “Andrew Jenkins is dead.”
“Oh, that can’t be true,” Sláine said.
“What can’t be true? That’s he’s dead?” I asked.
“No,” she said, looking me in the eye. “That he killed himself. It says he was found hung from a rafter in a small warehouse in Lisburn. Andrew Jenkins will have a lot of things to answer for in the next life but the sin of suicide will not be one of them.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Mr. Jenkins spent his life clawing his way to the top,” Cosgrove said. “As you’ve discovered, he provided us with certain information. Often that information benefited us, and he was well paid for it. Other times, the information he gave us benefited him. He was a man who held only one life dear. His. I quite agree—he was not the suicidal type.”
A waiter came to the table, three plates of lamb chops and boiled potatoes at the ready.
“Oh dear,” said Cosgrove as he pushed his chair back. “Those look delicious.”
• • •
ON A PERSONAL level, I thought Cosgrove was more distraught over the idea of the lamb chops going back to the kitchen than the image of Jenkins dangling at the end of a rope. I was wistful about them myself. It took him about five minutes to get a staff car and driver for us, and then we were off, exiting the formal gardens surrounding Stormont and heading for the main road that would take us south to Lisburn.
One of the first things I saw was a bombed-out stadium. It looked like it had just been hit.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The Oval. It’s a football stadium. Not American football, the real thing,” Sláine said. “The Germans bombed it in 1941. They were probably aiming for the dockyards or the railway station and released their bombs too early.”
“Bad luck for Glentoran,” the driver said. “I’m a supporter.”
“That’s a team, Billy, and he’s a fan,” Sláine explained.
“Thanks. I’m a Red Sox supporter myself. Ever hear of them?”
“You mean like garters?” the driver asked.
“Never mind.”
Cosgrove laughed and I gazed at the gritty city landscape. We were nearing the Belfast dockyards, one of the busiest harbor areas in Europe now. Troopships, tankers, Liberty Ships, and destroyers were lined up to unload or refuel. Trucks rumbled by, heavy with the material of war brought by ships. A column of GIs crossed the road in front of us until finally an MP let us through.
“Have you seen all this before, Boyle?”
“No, sir. First time in Belfast.”
“It’s rather amazing. They have a runway built right up to the docks. After they unload the planes, they take off, right from the ship. Wizard, simply wizard.”
“More bomb damage?” I said, pointing to piles of rubble where workers were loading debris onto trucks.
“Yes. The Luftwaffe gave Belfast the full treatment early on. They went for the dockyards regularly, the railroads, and the city in general. Some neighborhoods were hit quite badly. There are not enough resources at present to rebuild everything, so some of the damaged buildings are taken down and the rubble hauled away, as they are doing there. They still find bodies underneath.”
“Do they still hit the city?”
“No, not for a while. With you Yanks coming in, with your aircraft added to ours, and our increased defenses, it’s too risky for them. It’s a long flight, navigating at night, across England, avoiding the Republic of Ireland, and then finding Belfast. It’s a wonder they ever tried. Do you know they accidentally bombed Dublin? Blighters got lost and thought they were over Ulster! I’d say those particular boys are shivering at the Russian front, if they’re still alive.”
“I never heard about that.”
“De Valera kept it as quiet as he could. Embarrassing for him not to retaliate in any way but he didn’t want to antagonize the Germans or encourage us. He’s walking a tightrope. One slip and he’ll have us, the Germans, or both over his border.”
We left the city, occasional gaps in the rows of buildings showing where German bombs had fallen. A few new buildings were going up but mostly it was bricks and concrete going out, leaving small fields of weeds sprouting between structures, marking the place where homes and lives had once flourished.
Convoy traffic lightened up and we made it into Lisburn in forty minutes. Sláine gave the driver directions to Jenkins’s warehouse, one of a number of small facilities he owned as part of his distribution network. Had owned, I should say. We drove up to where two RUC constables had set up a roadblock with their vehicle at the entrance to a fenced-in yard containing a few large garages, some open sheds, and a few sheet-metal-roofed wooden buildings. The main gate was open, a chain with an open padlock hanging from one side.
“Here to see DI Carrick,” the driver said.
We were waved through, the constable pointing to the row of buildings on our left. We drove across the dirt drive, still wet and churned up from the recent rains. Ahead of us were an ambulance and three police cars. It occurred to me I’d seen several ambulances in Northern Ireland, and they all had been used to transport murder victims. Wasn’t anybody ever simply injured here?
Jenkins’s warehouse was the last building. The double doors were open and one of the police cars was parked in front, its lights on, illuminating the dark interior. Two thick wooden beams ran across the interior space. From the second hung the limp body of Andrew Jenkins, his head tilted sideways at a sickening angle. Those who hang themselves are not pretty to behold, and I’d give odds that no one would do so who had ever seen such a sight.
“Lieutenant Boyle,” DI Carrick said with the solemn tone appropriate to a crime scene. He shook Major Cosgrove’s hand and suggested to Sláine that she might wish to wait outside.
She ignored his concern and glanced around the space. Beneath Jenkins was a flatbed truck and a single wooden chair on the ground next to it. Crates of vegetables were stacked along one wall, and an empty workbench adorned the other.
“Nothing’s been moved?”
“Nothing. We thought you might have an interest, and were sure Lieutenant Boyle would.”
“Do you mind?” I asked, stepping forward. Carrick nodded his assent, and I walked over to the truck, watching where I stepped across the dirt floor. The truck had been driven in recently, the wet mud showing clearly in its tracks. A rope was secured to the truck bed, tied through one of several clamps used to tie down crates. The truck looked like it had come straight from a farm.
“It appears that Mr. Jenkins secured the rope, threw it over the rafter, put the chair on the truck bed, and then kicked it out from under him,” Carrick said, raising his voice for all to hear.
“It does,” I said, looking inside the truck cab. “There’s no note. Did you see any paper in here?”
“None.”
I walked around the truck, searching the ground. I looked inside the cab. The seat was cracked and torn, the interior caked with mud and dust. The key was in the ignition. I put the chair on the truck bed and jumped up. I could see the rope wasn’t long enough to reach the rafter from the ground, so he’d used the truck for extra height. I stood on the chair, close to Jenkins. His feet dangled several inches above the seat where my feet were. I had to look up at his face, which was distended, eyes and tongue bulging out. I didn’t linger long. He hadn’t been much to look at when alive.
I felt his arm and noticed the beginnings of rigor. “Who called it in?” I asked.
“Anonymous phone call,” Carrick said. “To the local station, saying that Andrew Jenkins had hung himself.”
“The caller used that name specifically?” Carrick consulted with a constable, who nodded his head emphatically.
“Yes.”
Why? Why would someone who knew Jenkins call in his suicide? Why mention his name? I turned the body, listening to the creak of the rope on wood as I did. The back of his head was dark. I turned the body more, bringing his head into the full light of the headlamps. Dried blood. Andrew Jenkins had been hit over the head before this noose had gone around his neck. I looked at the rope again, and I saw how it had been done. Knock Jenkins out, and then throw him up on the truck bed, parked right below the rafter. Toss the rope over, tie it to the truck, and put the noose around his neck. Then drive the truck forward about four feet, and Jenkins is swaying in the air. Throw the chair down near the truck, and we’re ready to jump to the suicide conclusion.
“He was murdered,” I said. Jenkins spun around once or twice, then settled into a gentle back-and-forth motion. I saw Sláine turn away, her hand over her mouth. Not quite one of the hard-case boys yet. I got down from the truck and told them about the blood on the back of his head.
“And his feet don’t quite reach the chair,” I said. “I doubt he hit himself on the head and then jumped up into the noose.”
“Why stage a suicide then? It doesn’t make sense. A man like Jenkins was bound to come to a violent end,” Carrick said. “It wouldn’t have surprised me to find him shot or beaten to death and left by the side of the road. But this seems like an elaborate ruse for no purpose.”
“Perhaps the killer wanted to divert suspicion from himself,” Cosgrove said.
“No need to, sir,” Sláine said. “There are any number of IRA types who would gladly have strung him up. We’d be hard-pressed to limit ourselves to a dozen suspects offhand.”
“Then why?” Carrick asked. “Drive the truck forward slowly, so we can let the body down,” he said, pointing to two constables who stood by the cars. “One of you hop up and get that noose off him.”