arrogance or being wilfully remote to affect some superiority. It was as though there were a slight draft off Moore, cool and with the prospect of a chill if circumstances drew him to disapproval. Moore fitted, all right. Kenyon was searching for a sign that would tell him that Moore was wily as well, behind the facade of being distant.
'Absolutely,' Moore said without enthusiasm. 'It's quite routine, here in Britain anyway. For all intents and purposes, Mr Combs has died intestate. If he has left a will with someone and it shows up later, while I'm there, even, I'm still intact. I'm acting for the estate, appointed by the bank.'
'Right. That was how I saw it,' said Kenyon.
'But the business about looking over police shoulders in Dublin?' Moore probed.
'You'll have to be versatile,' Kenyon said. 'Get your feet moving under you when you land in Dublin. Play it by ear. Get close to the chief investigating copper.'
'I'll have to tell the police there that I'll be approaching people who are involved.'
Kenyon nodded. They fell silent for a moment.
'Remember,' Kenyon said as he reached for the teapot, 'we're looking for something he concealed. Papers, a tape cassette even. Concentrate on finding a person that Combs trusted. Will this person come forward now because Combs so instructed him? We don't know. There may be a time lag where Combs posted something, to himself even. It's very unlikely he posted it abroad.'
'No friend, no one he trusted?'
'No. That's part of the problem. His link was a Second Secretary, Ball, in the embassy. Ball would be the last person on the planet that he'd leave anything with.'
'I expect I'll have to effect entry to the premises,' Moore said, dryly mimicking his former profession. 'Legally, I mean. The embassy. Do they-will they-know me there? Do I need a contact there?'
Kenyon sat up slightly in his chair.
'Yes. I'd prefer otherwise. We'll give you a link to a staffer in the embassy. He's not your control, remember. He's last-choice support if you need it.'
Kenyon glanced from Moore to Bowers and back to Moore.
'Before you go, I want you to be aware of what our situation is,' Kenyon continued. 'What your overall guidance should be, who you're working for and why. We in this section are finally responsible for keeping our civil servants, our senior civil servants, out of the way of whatever may compromise them while they pursue their duties. If it smells really badly, then they have to go, but at the right time, with minimum fuss, with the best timing. There'll be time enough for drinks in the pub with our, er, friends in the F.O. After we settle the matter. Let's soothe any ruffles then, but for the moment this is our show. The Home Secretary knows what we're trying to do. We know for certain that some staff in our Dublin embassy are under surveillance from Irish police intelligence. That doesn't matter. If nothing else, it'll help prevent the IRA taking potshots at our staff. Just be aware of the context if you have to go to the embassy for some reason. Remember: our show.'
Moore nodded and looked off into the middle distance as if considering the aftertaste of the tea. Kenyon looked at his watch.
'Travel under your own name. You'll have no problems. You'll be working for the bank's law firm. You'll have your cards, stationery and credentials. If the Irish police check on you here, all inquiries will be handled by the firm. I expect you know from your own work that several of the principals were in the Service and that they have done work for us before. The firm helped to set up Combs as an entity, so he and his affairs will not be unfamiliar to them. Have no concerns about that, you'll be well covered from this end.'
Moore shrugged. His hand strayed lightly over the sandy hair. For a moment, doubts wormed deep in Kenyon. He searched the face opposite him. Moore, parachuted into an operational role, this time as a lawyer; whatever field instincts he may have had rusted by now. But the assignment didn't require James Bond; just someone who was observant, methodical. Was that enough? Moore interrupted his drift.
'I'll need a letter of authorisation, an introduction, as well as proof of accreditation here.'
'You'll have them by the morning. Draw what you need to get settled into a hotel there. We'll book you on a Dublin flight tomorrow, mid-day. You'll have your letters and background paperwork waiting for you here. Briefing at seven-thirty. Any difficulties with this schedule?'
Kenyon thought he saw a smile start on Moore's features, but he couldn't be sure. Moore shook his head once.
'We'll get you to Heathrow. Run yourself up a three-piece pin-stripe or something. Don't bring a bowler hat to Dublin, though. Only the Orangemen wear them there.'
At least Bowers smiled. Kenyon gestured for him to leave. Moore sat gazing at the tea-tray. He didn't acknowledge Bowers' leaving.
'Now, I know it's short notice and all that,' Kenyon began in a conciliatory tone. Moore looked at him as though to agree, but with a heavily ironic emphasis.
'I expect you want to know more about Arthur Combs and why we're falling over our arses trying to get at him now that he's dead.' spacebarthing
Minogue's mouth was chalky, cloyed from the anisette. Iseult and Pat were in the kitchen now, as was Kathleen. They were drinking mugs of tea and attacking the leftovers of the Bewley's cake.
Minogue poured himself more tea. It turned out to be the bottom of the pot. He filled the kettle from the tap. While he waited for the kettle to fill, he tried to look through the blued reflections of the kitchen which came back to him from the window. He could make out the bushes and the grass where the kitchen light reached. His own blurry shadow, fattened, lay in the distorted rectangle of yellow light. The shrubs beyond the light were faint but dense masses, as if the night had clumped them there, giving them a protective bulk. Was there no moon? He didn't see one, but he did notice a slight fan of blue behind the tree at the end of the garden. Would that be the beginnings of the moon he wanted? Combs, coming home in the darkness to a lonely house. A bit unsteady on the legs after a few drinks? Didn't notice anything amiss. Was there someone with him, a boyfriend? The anise had stilled Minogue, making his movements laborious. He knew it was a fake sleepiness. He wondered what the night-time was like at Tully, the whorls on the stones now faded into the shadow, the ruins no longer standing out against the sky.
The kettle filled, he placed the lid on and plugged it in. How does one draw or paint night anyway? Anytime there was a bright moon Minogue could not resist turning out the lights in the room to admit the moonlight. Moon, luna. Lunatic.
'Don't be falling asleep there, Da,' Iseult said.
Kathleen resumed her interrogation of Pat. She asked about his brothers and sisters. Pat likely knew that this wasn't the first time he'd have to account for himself and his background to his girlfriend's mother, Minogue thought. Mrs Hartigan, the housekeeper. How could she not notice if Combs was homosexual?
He unplugged the burbling kettle and poured a little of the water into the teapot to scald it. Minogue would only drink tea that had been drawn in a fresh pot which had been scalded first. As he poured the tea, he tried again to shake himself of the passport photo: Combs' flabby, tired face, those candid eyes staring into the camera.
Minogue allowed himself an hour and a half of Tuesday morning for the State Pathologist's report, additional pages from Garda Forensic and the State Lab, and typed-up reports based on interviews done by Gardai in Stepaside. Arthur Combs had consumed approximately four small whiskies and one, perhaps two, half-pints of beer in the two hours before his death. Fond of it? Minogue wondered. Murtagh's trips to the gay bars had produced nothing. Only one pub had phoned back when the new shift had had a chance to see the photo of Arthur Combs. A barman in Lydon's pub thought that an older man, like the one in the photo, had come in some Friday nights over a year ago. If his memory was good-and Minogue couldn't silence the cynical gargoyle within-the man had read a sporting paper, probably horse-racing, and had left the pub after a couple of drinks. Alone. What next? the gargoyle whispered. Go to all the bookies in Dublin? Another motive for doing in a man who owed money to a bookie? But no, Minogue realised: Combs wasn't short of money. Horses, a little betting. Tinkers?
He rang Stepaside station and asked for Driscoll.
'One Michael Joseph Joyce, sober,' said Minogue. 'Reliable, usable testimony. It may be twelve and me getting there but…'
'No bother. He can cool his heels here.'
Minogue turned to the forensic report. No pressure prints or UV traces of prints on victim's skin. No cord, twine or string of any description found on premises. Shoe-prints in the laneway matched brogues found in Combs' kitchen. Thirty-seven recoverable prints lifted from kitchen. Twenty-two from Combs, twelve definites from Mrs Hartigan, awaiting more intensive comparison checks on three marginals. More from the car and other rooms in
