edge.
'Yes. And I know what they did to him afterwards, too.'
'Let's not get lachrymose, James. It's not for us to wonder why… et cetera. Particularly after forty years, um? Combs was a security risk and that was that.'
Murray made a church-and-steeple of his fingers.
'He'd only have agreed to go to Ireland for a period of time, I imagine,' said Kenyon. 'Under certain conditions, I mean. There's nothing in his file about the deal which brought him to Ireland.'
Murray collapsed his chapel and smiled indulgently.
'Purely informal, I expect. Hardly a signed contract. Tricks men don't get the lawyers to sign deals.'
'What conditions?' Kenyon persisted.
'Well,' Murray began, 'I believe that Combs was offered a deal whereby he'd be allowed to return here. A new passport, if he did a little work for us in Ireland for a short while.'
'A short while?'
'Can't be precise. We couldn't expect more than a couple of years. Combs was getting on already.'
Meaning that they knew Combs was drinking heavily and wasn't in the best of health to begin with, Kenyon reflected. Murray and company had had good odds that Combs would die before they'd have to live up to the deal about repatriating him. A relic, Murray had said: nuisance, expendable.
'What did you think of the stuff Combs sent? Overall?'
'My assessments are in the file, James. Remember, Combs was very low-level. Intentionally so, I don't need to add. We had nobody on the ground there at that time. The area in south County Dublin was a haven for IRA on the run. All we wanted from Combs were sightings, a name here, a car number there. Not too taxing. His material tapered off this last while, I must say. Could have been the booze, I daresay. Fact is, the IRA may have learned to stay out of that area. The Irish police did a few swoops off their own intelligence there, too. Several things combined to flush them out, I expect.'
Murray took up his cup again.
'Combs reported to the Second Sec on a regular basis?'
'Yes. Ball tried to hold him to some reasonable schedule,' Murray said vacantly. 'Didn't really work, though. You've seen the calibre of stuff that came from Combs lately.'
Kenyon nodded. The dull burn in his chest was not going away, he realised then. It was more than his distaste for what lay under the tailored facade which Murray had inherited from the other fops in the Foreign Office. Murray was playing down Combs' death. The Combs that Kenyon had read about in the Registry yesterday afternoon was a different entity from the man whom Murray was now discarding. As he watched Murray draining the cup, it dawned on him that Murray's assessment was wrong because Murray simply hadn't the experience, the depth-most of all, the damned imagination-to see into Arthur Combs. Just for the record, he'd ask Murray.
'So you feel confident that Combs would not have material which could be prejudicial to us?' he murmured.
''Us,' James?' asked Murray.
'What made this Arthur Combs enough of a security risk to bar him from Britain for nearly forty years? Was it what he was doing in Ireland these last two years?'
Murray paused and tugged at his cuff-links. Kenyon wanted to scream at the gesture. Murray seemed to be considering the question deeply.
'Oh balance, if it's a yes/no question… I'd have to say no. It's my sense that the matter is sealed.'
'Excepting for the fact that he was murdered.' Kenyon said, hearing the sarcasm plain in his own voice. 'And we don't know why.'
Murray sat up.
'Is there a need for melodrama like this, James? If our Mr Combs had damaging material to use he would have used it by now, I'm sure. He had no reason to betray his confidences. Really. We're talking about an antique queer who drank half the day. Do you think the Catholic Irish have some soft spot in their hearts for old bum-boys, old English bum-boys at that? Wait and see, you'll find something squalid about him-letting his inclinations get the better of him around some unfortunate youngster. You know what they're like over there. Touchy, temperamental. Peasants in many ways still.'
Murray leaned forward over the table, a gesture of readiness to leave.
'Did I hear his place had been burgled, too? The very fact of him living there may have been enough to incense people. Terrible bloody country. A robbery attempt gone astray, I'd start with that if I were a copper. Combs must have looked an easy mark to a local hoodlum. Crime in the Republic is soaring, especially in Dublin. The peons want loot there, too, James. Their economy's on the skids…'
'We can't leave the matter as it is,' Kenyon said evenly. 'You liaise with this Ball in the embassy, I understand.'
'He is one of a number of personnel who reports to me regularly, yes. We have rather a lot on our plates with the border security conference coming up, you'll allow.'
'I have to talk to him. It's better he comes here. Will I have difficulties?'
Murray regained his faint smile.
'Only too happy to assist our colleagues in the Security Service.'
Which meant the exact opposite, Kenyon thought as he followed Murray out of the restaurant.
CHAPTER 4
Stepaside Garda Station was in the centre of the village. Keating met Minogue in the adjoining carpark. Keating was whistling, tongue behind his teeth. Curly head, mother's love, Minogue mused. He guessed that Keating might be the youngest in his family. Keating winked.
'You found the place all right, did you?'
'Course I did, Pat. I'm a detective. Now who are these Mulvaneys?' asked Minogue.
'They're a bit like hillbillies so far as I can tell from the lads in the station, sir. We have sheets on them for car theft, B amp; E, petty larceny. Three brothers and they live on their own up above Barnacullia. Up there,' Keating nodded toward the rounded top of Two Rock Mountain over the hedges.
'Barman at Glencullen said that they had words with Mr Combs one night recently.'
'Glencullen? You mean Johnny Fox's pub? But didn't Combs live in Kilternan? Why would he be going up there for his gargle?'
'Don't know, sir. Maybe he didn't like the one around the corner from him. The Golden Ball. Can't say I blame him either.'
'Aha,' Minogue murmured.
'And the barman says the Mulvaneys were in the pub with their usual carryings on. Mr Combs used to go in early in the evening for a brandy and a chaser. He'd be in about half seven and gone by nine o'clock, he says. Now one or another of the brothers Mulvaney had words with Combs. They were langers drunk. Drinking all day, by the cut of them,' Keating said and paused to rub his eye.
'I think the barman is a bit leery of the likes of the Mulvaneys, sir,' he added. 'Now he has a chance to get a dig at them without having to face them. There's a lot of people up in these parts are not the full shilling, I believe.'
'What was the row about anyway, did you hear?'
'Something about Combs' accent. 'Why is there an effin' Brit bein' served in this effin' pub with all the boys fightin' for freedom not a hundred miles up the effin' road?' and the rest of it,' Keating replied.
'Barstool heroes. When they're not falling off them,' Minogue muttered darkly. Three Gardai in shirtsleeves came out the back door of the police station. They carried batons.
'Come along up with us lads, the view is only tremendous,' quipped a balding Garda. Minogue recognised him from somewhere. The Garda football club? A Cork accent, as thick as a ditch, and a clown's loaded smile. Another Cork exile here in Dublin.
Keating drove. The car made heavy work of the steep, winding road to Barnacullia.
