Evil for evil bbwim-4 Page 17

  "Be careful," Carrick said. "Don't touch any surfaces."

  I nodded, holding back the question I was about to ask: So in case you find my prints on the car, you'll know I was involved? Or was Carrick merely exercising crime-scene control? It was the kind of thing my dad would have done, a natural caution against accidentally interfering with evidence. Maybe I was being overly sensitive. Maybe I was being framed. I ran over a list in my mind of any personal possessions I might have lost in the past few days, in case something showed up in the car. But I didn't possess much except for army-issue gear, which, for once, was a blessing.

  I didn't bother looking in Pete's pockets. I knew DI Carrick and Patterson would have done a thorough search. I did look at his hands. His left was open, fingers splayed across his right arm in the cramped pose he'd been left in. His right hand was clenched in a fist, rigor mortis had already set hard.

  "He's real stiff," I said. "He had to have been killed at least twelve hours ago."

  "That would be six o'clock last night," Carrick said. "If he left an hour before noon, he could've traveled for two hours, which would leave two hours for him to return. Killed between one and four o'clock then."

  "Too many factors we don't know," I said. "Who would have known he was going off base? I wonder if his execution was planned or a spur-of-the-moment thing?"

  "Saul knew," Patterson said. "And anybody at the depot Pete might have told."

  "But Saul told me he didn't know where Pete was going."

  "An accidental encounter? But with whom?" Carrick asked. "Constable Simms, have you seen any strangers about? Anyone suspicious?"

  "No, sir, it's been very quiet."

  "We need to find the jeep Brennan drove," I said as I pulled at Pete's fingers, reminding myself it was only his body, that he was long gone. I managed to pull two fingers apart. I took the small wooden object and held it in my palm. It was cold.

  "What's that?" Constable Simms asked. Carrick moved in to take a closer look.

  "It's a carved animal of some sort," he said.

  "Its name is Pig," I said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Pete Brennan had died with his good luck charm in the palm of his hand. Pig hadn't kept him alive but at least had been there at the end. Maybe Pete was a fool to go wherever he'd gone. Maybe he was wrong to volunteer to return to the front lines before he had to. Maybe he would've been killed in Italy anyway. It didn't matter. He'd been executed. Like Sam Burnham had been executed?

  Despite the car I didn't think the IRA was responsible. As I stood in the road, watching the searchers in the fields and rubbing Pig's belly, I could think of only one person who would have had a reason to meet up with Pete yesterday. Jenkins had told me his part was to give Pete one hundred pounds, and Thornton's part was to authorize his transfer. I'd assumed Jenkins had already paid out the money. But he hadn't actually said so. And he'd been headed for the Northern Bank in Armagh yesterday afternoon. The timing would have worked out. Jenkins could have met Pete between one and two o'clock, perhaps near the bank, but somewhere they wouldn't be seen together. Instead of a hundred quid, Pete had ended up with two slugs. I couldn't figure how Jenkins had gotten the Austin, but the scenario was perfect in its symmetry. The IRA boosts his truck and implicates him in the arms theft; he uses their stolen car to point the finger at them for Pete's murder. I liked it. It fit into my view of the world, which was that Jenkins was a thieving Orangeman who'd gladly kill a Catholic rather than hand over more than four hundred dollars to him.

  A U.S. Army ambulance showed up, trailed by a British Army staff car. This was turning into a full-scale international incident. I put Pig in my jacket pocket and watched them move Pete's body from the trunk of the Austin to the ambulance. It was an awkward process due to the body's rigor. Patterson helped steady it on the stretcher as they gingerly loaded it into the ambulance. Simms looked away as Carrick stood ramrod straight, eyes front. I think if he'd been in uniform, he would have saluted, no matter what religion Brennan had been baptized into. But there were no funerals today. He wore a dark woolen overcoat over a suit, the slightly askew knotted tie the only sign that he'd dressed in a rush in response to an early morning call. I watched his eyes move to the staff car, his forehead wrinkling. It looked like it was a surprise to him as well as me.

  Its driver, a British Army sergeant, approached me and gave a stiff, palm-out salute. His eyes wandered to the body, then focused on me.

  He was short and compact, a neatly trimmed mustache above a thin mouth. A scar ran along his jaw, a jagged white line of puckered skin. He was armed, a revolver holstered at his side. He might have been posted behind a wheel, but he looked like more than a driver. I returned the salute.

  "Lieutenant Boyle?"

  "Who's asking?"

  "You'll be him then. Please step inside the car, sir."

  "That isn't necessarily the safest thing to do around here, Sergeant," I said, nodding toward the ambulance as it pulled away.

  "What's this about?" DI Carrick asked the sergeant.

  "Military matter, sir. No need to involve civilians, if you don't mind."

  "I do if it involves this crime."

  "Military matter, sir. Now please excuse us. Lieutenant?"

  I could tell we'd get no more out of this sergeant. I shrugged and followed him to the car. It was a Ford Fordor, the kind I'd seen in North Africa, a Canadian station wagon converted for military use. I'd never seen one with anything less than a full colonel in the back, but I couldn't even see inside this one, since the rear windows were opaque. The sergeant opened the rear door and held it for me. It was dark inside, and the rear seat was pushed back, so I still couldn't see who was waiting for me. I stooped and entered. The first thing I saw was a pair of crossed legs.

  "Sit down, Lieutenant Boyle. I don't bite," said Slaine O'Brien. "Unless it's called for."

  "I was wondering when you were going to show up," I said as I settled into the wide backseat. I'd been in smaller living rooms. "How does a subaltern rate one of these?"

  "I don't have time for small talk, so let's get down to business, Lieutenant. What have you found out about the BARs?" She held a pen in one hand while flipping through a file. It looked like she was about to give me demerits.

  "Well, I got shot at by one. Two Americans have been murdered since I arrived here. Oh, yeah, and a major has been arrested for bribery, but that was over black market produce, not guns."

  "It sounds as if you've been busy," she said, "investigating cabbages." The pen started tapping against her knee.

  "I forgot to mention. It was Red Jack Taggart who shot at me and killed at least one of the Americans. With a BAR. And do you have another Yank working this case? Older guy, wears a gray fedora hat."

  "Taggart? Are you sure?" She sounded shocked that an IRA man would shoot at anyone, much less Yanks.

  "Damn right I'm sure. He murdered Lieutenant Sam Burnham while we were at an RUC station after a funeral. I chased him but he got away."

  "I'd say you're lucky to be alive. Taggart is not known for letting his quarry escape his clutches."

  "He's the one lucky to be alive. He was my quarry. I think he was after Burnham for some reason. Taggart shot Burnham, as he stood at a window. Then he sprayed the house, to keep the rest of us down."

  "But you didn't stay down?" She uncrossed her legs, smoothing down the green wool fabric. Her buttons were as shiny on her dress uniform as they'd been on her khakis in Jerusalem. I was distracted as I watched her shift in the seat. I always was a button man.

  "No, I don't like being a stationary target."

  "Neither do I, Lieutenant Boyle," she said, crossing her legs again, the smooth sound of her nylons rubbing against each other filling the silence. Or maybe filling my imagination, I'm not sure.

  "You haven't answered my question about the other American, the one in civvies," I persisted.

  "I'm finding that one American is quite enough, Lieutenant. Do you have any idea who he i
s or what he wants?"

  "No, but he's mixed up in this somehow. I think he's following me."

  "Why would another Yank follow you?"

  "I've been wondering that myself. I thought you might have brought someone else in. Or maybe army CID. But no dice there. So who is he, and why is he here?"

  "I'll have my people look into it," she said. She tapped her pen on the clipboard, impatient at the unanticipated complication. My eyes went from the pen to those buttons to her legs before settling on her eyes. All the choices, except the pen, were mesmerizing. Her eyes met mine, and I looked away, embarrassed, as if she could read my mind. She wasn't like any woman I'd ever met. I had the odd thought pop into my head that it was going to be tough to go back to Boston and settle down with a nice girl who worked in a department store or a deli.

  "Who's the corpse?" Slaine said, nodding toward the automobile by the side of the road.

  "Pete Brennan. GI from the base at Ballykinler."

  "Is he involved in the BAR theft?"

  "He was on duty the night it happened but I don't think he was killed over that."

  "Coincidence?"

  "I'm not sure. I think there is a connection but it has more to do with the black market than with the IRA. I need your help with that."

  "What exactly do you need?"

  "I need to know more about both Jenkins and Taggart."

  "Such as?"

  "Anything and everything you have. Background, connections, all the dope you must have in your security files on them. I'm working blind here, and I need to know more about these guys to try to get a handle on what to do next."

  "Why Jenkins? Do you think he's involved in the weapons theft?"

  "I don't think so but I'd rather be sure. How well do you know him?"

  "I know what he's capable of."

  "But do you know him personally?"

  "I've questioned him, yes."

  "In a Portadown pub?"

  "Wherever necessary. Don't forget what you are supposed to be investigating, Lieutenant Boyle, and whom you are working for."

  "Is that a threat?" I asked.

  "A reminder to stay focused. Part of my job is to keep tabs on the militia groups, including the Red Hand. It's an open secret that Jenkins controls them, so of course I meet with him. He knows I'm with MI-5. One hand washes the other, as they say. I don't know how you found out about that rendezvous but it has nothing to do with this case."

  "I still want to see his file. And I need to know more about Taggart. He obviously knows where the BARs are; he demonstrated that pretty clearly."

  She tapped her pen against the file folder in her lap again. "Very well. I have other business here today but meet me at the Slieve Donard Hotel in Newcastle, eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll take you to Stormont Castle in Belfast and you can review the files. Will that do?"

  "Sure. The hotel is the big brick one with the tower, right?"

  "Aye, you can't miss it."

  "Does your business here have anything to do with this killing? Are you keeping something from me?" I asked.

  "Many things, to be sure, but nothing germane to this investigation. I'll give you what I can about Taggart and Jenkins. Is there anything else?"

  "I thought perhaps I could buy you dinner, and you could tell me about the one Irish-American you admire."

  "Pardon me?"

  "In Jerusalem, when I asked if you didn't like Irish-Americans, you said there was one you admired very much. I'd like to know who."

  "If you find the BARs, Lieutenant, there will be two. I'm quite busy now, so if you're done?"

  "One question before I go. How did you get here so quickly? Who told you?"

  "That's a matter of security."

  "What isn't?"

  "Until tomorrow morning, Lieutenant?"

  She didn't look up from the open file on her lap but I saw one corner of her mouth turn up in a smile. I wasn't sure what I was doing with her. Part of me said the invitation to dinner was to interrogate her. Another part of me said it would be nice to spend time in her company. She was an Irish girl, after all. Ultimately, I was glad she'd turned me down. I got out of the car and nodded to her driver, who leaned against the front fender as he smoked. He looked past me, eyeing something down the road. It was Grady O'Brick, riding in a pony cart, the rear stacked high with black peat held in place by slats of wood bound with rope.

  "What's this now?" Grady asked, fixing his gaze on me. The ambulance was gone, but the Austin still had its nose in the ditch, with DI Carrick and his constables searching it. Grady glanced at the staff car, the sergeant, then back to me. "Have you got yourself in trouble, Billy Boyle?"

  "Not me, Grady. Pete Brennan," I said as I walked over and scratched the pony on its withers.

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "Dead. Murdered, found in the trunk of that car," I said, looking at the gray Austin. "Same car that Red Jack Taggart got away in after the shooting in Killough."

  "Red Jack? Do you think he did this?" Grady sounded incredulous that Taggart would kill Pete, that I'd even consider the possibility.

  "I have no idea. Same car, that's all. It could mean anything. It's no coincidence, though."

  "No, you're right about that, boy. Damn!" He shook his head, gripping the reins tighter around his ruined hands. "May the devil swallow him sideways, the fellow who did this."

  "Move along now," the sergeant said, waving his hand in the direction of the village.

  "Move yourself, you English thief. Don't tell me to move along in my own village!"

  "Take it easy," I said, holding my palm out to the sergeant, who had stiffened at the insult, his hand resting on his holster. "The soldier who was killed was a friend of ours; he doesn't mean anything by it."

  The sergeant let his hand drop to his side. I looked up at Grady.

  "I don't much like the sight of that uniform, as you know," said Grady, his face stern as he gazed straight ahead. His tone contained all the apology he was capable of, and the British sergeant moved away and got into the staff car.

  "I know," I said.

  Grady looked down at me and winked.

  "The curse of his own weapons upon him," he whispered, and laughed. "What are you doing with a bastard like that anyway?"

  "It's a long story."

  "It'll keep. I'll be back in an hour, Billy Boyle. Meet me at my home and I'll put the kettle on. It's a cold dawning for all here."

  "OK, I will."

  "First turning back there," he said with a backward nod as he flicked the reins and the pony clip-clopped away. Grady turned and stared at the Austin as he passed it, and his shoulders sagged. The staff car, mysterious with darkened windows and shining grillwork, started up, its growling engine powerful and alien in the small country lane. The driver turned the car around in the road, leaving deep tire marks on the soft shoulder and spitting mud as he gained traction. He drove behind Grady slowly; the old man didn't coax the pony into a trot or move an inch from the center of the lane. Finally, the road branched near the pub, and the staff car accelerated, disappearing around the corner.

  The curse of his own weapons upon him. A frightening curse, and I shivered. Even the memory of Slaine's legs and the enticing soft sound of nylon rubbing against nylon did not warm me.

  "Who was that?" Adrian Simms asked. He seemed chilled too. His hands were stuffed into his pockets and his shoulders hunched.

  "Military matter," I said.

  "With that sleekit sergeant? Who is he driving around in that big automobile?"

  "What did you call him?"

  "Sleekit. What you might call a sly one, with a dab of dishonesty thrown in."

  "Do you know him?" I asked.

  "I've seen him around. Cyrus Lynch. He's one of the secret bunch up at Stormont. He's brought in IRA boys and Red Hand boys. Most are never seen again."

  "What about the Black Knights?"

  "What about them?" Simms said, his eyes darting to where Carrick stood by the car.
"What do they have to do with anything?"

  "Just wondering if they were ever arrested along with the Red Hands."

  "I doubt it," Simms said, sounding affronted. "They're mainly businessmen, respectable citizens. They do good works for the church."

  "Is DI Carrick one?"

  "Ach, aye. A man in his position almost has to be."

  "And you?"

  "None of your damn business, Boyle. When are you going to stop wasting time and find out where Taggart is with those weapons? You know, the fellow who killed Sam Burnham?"

  "Right about now," I said, but it was to his back.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  There had been nothing else in the car. Carrick said I should watch out for Sergeant Lynch, that the man wasn't trustworthy. Maybe because he was an Englishman who arrested Protestants as well as Catholics, which made him sleekit. We waited until a truck came to tow the Austin out of the ditch, searched the ground some more after it was pulled out, and found nothing but flattened grass stained with engine oil.

  I'd asked Jack Patterson to dig up a picture of Pete. I wanted to show it around the branch of the Northern Bank in Armagh, but I didn't tell him that. He said he'd get one from Pete's personnel file. Then I asked DI Carrick for a photo of Jenkins, figuring they had to have surveillance shots of him.

  "Sorry, Lieutenant Boyle," Carrick said, sounding like he actually was. "We can't do that. Jenkins's file is sealed. Orders from Stormont."

  He wouldn't say more, and I got the same feeling from him that I used to get from my higher-ups in the Boston PD when the heavyweights in city hall hushed something up. Frustration and embarrassment, mixed with a sternness fueled by anger at having to toe someone else's line. I didn't press him.

  ***

  THE ROAD TO Grady O'Brick's place was more like a track, suited to a pony and narrow cart. Branches reached out low into the road, caught on the jeep's fender, and brushed against the windscreen. Washed-out ruts kept the going slow but the land was even on the shoulders, and when I had to I went up on one and plowed through the underbrush. I wasn't the first, as crushed bushes ahead showed. They were starting to pop up and send out shoots. I recognized elderberries, just like the bushes we had at home in our backyard, behind the garage. My mother loved the purplish black fruit that hung in clusters, since it attracted songbirds. Most of these berries were gone now, eaten or dropped to the ground, leaving their long, narrow leaves and reddish network of stems to brush against the jeep.