Branch's move from Dublin Castle to Harcourt Square.
'It's like Phoenix, Arizona, or someplace.'
Minogue laughed aloud and let the pleasantries settle while he stirred his coffee.
'Well, thanks for coming over, Pat. I hope you're not discomfitted. Do you know about this Combs man?'
'Murdered? Over the weekend?' Corrigan asked.
'That's the one. The well is dry on this so far, you see. But the name Ball-your business-his telephone number was on a little list that Combs had by his phone at home.'
Corrigan nodded noncommittally. Both men made use of their cups and spoons now, each pretending to be absorbed in his coffee.
'The thought crossed my mind, Pat, that-'
'That your business might be connected with mine?'
'You're very quick off the mark. What do you think?'
Corrigan paused and breathed out heavily before he sat up, elbowing onto the table.
'Let's be practical now. I checked your Mr Combs after you phoned me. There's nothing in our files. He's not connected with the British Embassy so far as I know.'
'Well, Pat, I asked myself if it was enough for Mr Combs to be English for the IRA or their likes to kill him. Only a passing thought, really. They wouldn't kill him the way it was done anyway, though. Maybe I shouldn't be asking you.'
'Go ahead, you can if you like. The crowd that killed Ball last night, they meant business. There was at least three of them. More, I'll bet. Someone tagged him at that eating house or pub he was at and they let him drive his moth home. Very chivalrous. The fella on the motorbike used a sub-machine gun on Ball. Typical of the action men in the INLA out for the kill.'
'Have you got anyone picked up for it yet?'
'We picked up two INLA fellas in Castle-knock, see if we can shake anything out of them up in the Bridewell,' Corrigan went on. 'But they were gangsters from the North, we're almost certain. There were four or five jobs like this one done in the North since last September. We think they have a unit that specialises in this stuff only. We had one strong name from the Brits, but he's at home in bed in Derry this morning.'
'What about them telling the papers that Ball was some class of intelligence man?' Minogue asked.
Corrigan scratched the back of his ear.
'Ah, they'd have to say something like that. You know yourself, Matt. Make it sound like they had a reason.'
Minogue spoke to Corrigan without looking at him.
'Is it all classified, Pat?'
Corrigan made an effort to smile.
'Sure isn't everything classified these days?'
Corrigan hadn't been quite able to carry it off.
'Did the INLA work something out about Ball and intelligence work here?'
Minogue watched Corrigan work harder at appearing relaxed.
'Sure isn't that what I'm telling you? They'd make up any kind of a yarn or excuse for a bit of gun-play. You know, make hay out of it for their outfit.'
Corrigan leaned further over the table to confide.
'Now you know and I know that there's still an unspoken agreement for there to be no stunts like this here in the South. I can say this in confidence to a fellow member of the Gardai. Now you know more about the INLA anyway, more than would others, so what I'm saying will be no big news to yourself. What has me and my higher- ups jittery about this is that the rules aren't sticking…'
Minogue nodded.
'Yes, Pat. But the INLA are out of their minds at the best of times,' Minogue said gently. 'Since when did they care a damn what the public thinks? Didn't they break away from the Provos because they thought the Provos cared too much for what the man in the street thought?'
Minogue looked into Corrigan's eyes as he spoke. The friendliness 'was quite gone now, as though a window had been closed behind them.
'True for you. But like I was saying, that's what we're wondering about. If this is a whole new way of operating on their part. A new campaign. New rules.'
Corrigan sat back in his chair, disengaging himself. He drained his cup and replaced it carefully on the saucer. Then he winked at Minogue. He sat upright. Minogue watched Corrigan labour again to look jovial when he whispered.
'British intelligence at work in Ireland, I ask you,' Corrigan said. 'That'd make a change, wouldn't it? They never applied any in the country before.'
Minogue agreed with the thrust of the conceit, but he could only manage a smile.
'Who needs any fecking spies lurking around here, Matt? Go into any pub in Dublin and you'll know everything that's going on. The country's a bloody sieve. Here, look now. Tell me a bit about the case you're on.'
Minogue knew that Corrigan was trying to get something for nothing. It took him but three minutes to give Corrigan the gist of his investigation. He did not embellish any detail.
'And you're looking for a handle?'
Minogue nodded. He felt a barrier, an invisible line running down the table between them. He knew that Pat Corrigan was preoccupied by the assassination of Ball. Minogue did not dislike Corrigan. Minogue also knew enough of the workings of the Special Branch to understand that Corrigan had to be circumspect. He looked around the cafe. Bewley's was one of his cathedrals. He recalled the phrase that^he had heard on the news: 'had received information.' And what did that mean? Given the choice of the two most likely alternatives, Minogue guessed that someone had tipped off the INLA. They didn't maintain a network of touts, and even if they did, they'd never have gotten a man-or a woman-close enough to Ball to know for sure what he was about.
Corrigan had regained his agreeable expression. He laid a hand on the saucer and slid it to the centre of the marble table-top.
'You never know, Matt. I tell you what, though. We'll stay in touch, so we will.'
Corrigan's car was next to the door to Bewley's. Corrigan smiled briefly at Minogue, then he stretched his arms over his head and groaned.
'That's what you get for being up all night. They called me and me going up the stairs to bed. The perils of being indispensable. Ah sure the holidays are coming up,' Corrigan continued, grasping the doorhandle. He seemed anxious to restore something which had ebbed from the conversation. Holiday, Minogue thought. Hegel's Holiday, the glass of water upright and poised over the umbrella.
'Pat.'
Corrigan turned from the open door, the grimly benign smile still holding firm under the grey eyes. Almost like a cat, the eyes, Minogue thought.
'You know how it is with me, Pat. A bit of a crank, I suppose,' Minogue began.
Corrigan tried to maintain the smile.
'Do you remember that business with the Ambassador?'
'Could I ever forget it, Matt. You've had it rough.'
'To be sure. There were droves of people thought I was owed something after that. Jimmy Kilmartin included. That's why he took me under his wing, I'd say. God knows why really. I was glad to be able to pick meself up out of the bed afterwards. Even drink a pint or two and wake up safe in bed in the morning.'
Corrigan snorted, but held the flinty smile. He waited.
'Plenty of people telling me that I could call in a favour any time,' Minogue added in a vacant tone. 'As I say, I don't know what for. I mean, I was just there by coincidence really. But you don't want to be disabusing people of their notions. Do you know what I'm saying, like?'
'I think I do,' Corrigan replied bleakly.
'You were one of those people, you see, Pat. Said to call in my chips with you any time I needed.'
Corrigan looked up and down Fleet Street. Minogue scrutinised his face until Corrigan met his gaze again. A double-decker bus, its full diesel roar at the curb opposite, drowned out Corrigan's voice.
'Fire away,' Corrigan murmured. Minogue didn't need to hear the words after he noted the expression.
