'All right,' said Moore neutrally.
Kenyon swore as he dropped the receiver back on the cradle. He made to pound his palm on the desk but held off just as his hand came to within an inch of the desk.
The hotel restaurant was full of Americans, busloads of them. They all wore name-tags with the name of the tour operator framed on each badge. Moore was surprised to find that he was less readily scornful of them here in Dublin than mildly interested in them. What passed for a maitre d' had sat Moore next to a couple of dinosaurs from Minnesota. He had winked at Moore as he drew out the chairs for the pair. Very busy sir, he had said. When the waitress lay down a huge mixed grill in front of him, the maitre d' had murmured that the Yanks would soon be poking around the graveyards in Ballydehob looking for their ancestors.
Moore returned to the Guardian and wondered if anyone not born on this island could feel at ease with the blend of casuistry and friendliness. He had until mid-day. He couldn't move on the Combs' house without first seeing this Minogue. He had reserved a hire car yesterday. It was parked by the hotel and Moore had the key in his pocket. He fended off the gregarious and nasal Minnesotans by studying his route to Minogue's office, designated on the map by a black box near to where train lines converged at a railway station. The waitress called it Kingsbridge, the old name for this rail terminus from the west of Ireland.
When he had seen the headlines about Ball, Moore's first thought was Ball might not be the only one on their list. In a detached but deliberate way, Moore had spent several minutes considering whether he was in immediate danger himself. He had then dismissed the idea. No one could know him here, unless it was Kenyon who had leaked it.
Moore bought the Irish newspaper and, his breakfast now strangely heavy in his stomach, returned to his room. INLA not IRA. Had Kenyon put him into Dublin knowing that something like this was likely? Moore stood and looked out the window of his room. He was three floors up. There was one sliding window with a jam to block an attempt to slide it back more than six inches. Below his room were trees and shrubs, railings marking the boundaries of houses and offices which adjoined the hotel grounds. He heard a vague hum from the floor beneath him. A vacuum cleaner, he guessed. He looked at the door into the hallway. It was locked, but he had not used the safety chain.
As he left, Moore abruptly realised how wary he had become when the lift doors opened at his floor. Without thinking, Moore jumped to the side. There was no one else in the lift. He changed an Irish fiver to coin for the public telephone. Moore had felt acutely vulnerable at the automatic plate-glass door as it whirred open in front of him. The handle of his briefcase felt slippery in his palm. Tiny and exact pieces of information assaulted him: a drop of water in his ear from the shower, the nails on his brief-case hand slightly longer than he liked. For a split second he imagined the heavy sheets of glass shattering with a blast, slicing, spinning. Taking a limb away, spotting the walls with his blood fifty feet from the door. A dim reflection of himself was carried away to nowhere by the sliding door.
He headed to the carpark and started his car, a claustrophobic Mini Metro, whose last client had smoked cigars. He opened all the windows and drove out onto Leeson Street. He did not feel reassured when he saw a Garda squad car parked by the hotel entrance to the street. The car was empty. Clumps of aged Americans were getting onto their tour busses. Someone laughed loudly. Moore turned. The ancient Minnesotans waved at him from a gaggle of garishly-dressed fellow Americans. They looked like lizards to Moore, cartoons. Stopped by a traffic light, Moore's thoughts turned again to Kenyon. It had to be connected to the assassination of Ball. Murray must be Secret Service, too; with Kenyon and the rest of Five along as passengers. Combs though… where could it fit? The lights changed.
Minogue could not get his brain to take up the yoke of work. He really should try to see Kilmartin. He saw half of Combs' face peeping out from under an envelope on the desk. He edged the envelope aside to look again at the tired face. Today the face looked resigned as well as cautious. Eilis was watching him.
'You want me to know by telepathy that I should be expecting this Mr Moore. Is that it, Eilis?'
'That is it.'
Minogue stood and ambled toward Eilis' desk.
'There's a messenger after dropping off stuff from Foreign Affairs and Justice with your name on it. It's plain to see that they are copies of Mr Moore's permissions to go ahead.'
'Urn. Can you tell Detective Murtagh that he may be asked to bring Moore to the house? He'll be good company for Mr Moore, I'm thinking,' Minogue said in a conspiratorial whisper.
Eilis almost smiled, but she caught herself in time. She began clapping her ashtray noisily against the sides of a rubbish bin to make room for an afternoon's butts.
'And Eilis,' Minogue remembered.
Not heard above the din, he had to raise his voice.
'Eilis.'
She stopped and placed the ashtray on her desk.
'Do you remember that Costello fella a few years ago? Shot dead and mutilated a few years back? Up in the North, but there was talk of him being kidnapped from here?'
'I know the name, but I think it was before my tenure here.'
'I believe that the Special Branch were investigating it, too,' Minogue said.
Eilis nodded slowly. Her face took on a moody cast, Claudette Colbert about to dip her feet in some aggrieved ennui because her celluloid gangster paramour was momentarily inattentive.
'I remember reading about it in the papers and the kerfuffle about it. A big feud started, fellas getting murdered every week for a while after.'
'Do we have an active file on him? An unsolved, like?' asked Minogue.
'If it was more than three years ago, it won't be here in its entirety. There'd be a summary here and any updates noted in brief, too.'
'Well, I'm not much interested in reading ten filing cabinets full of this stuff. Could you give yourself fifteen minutes or a half hour over the Costello files and run through them like a roaring lunatic? Not read them, mind you. Look for mention of places in south County Dublin-Stepaside, Kilternan, Glencullen, Barnacullia, Sandyford. I'm hoping that Branch Surveillance Reports on Costello are still in existence.'
Minogue rubbed his eyes and returned to the copy of the telex. Arthur Combs, Customs and Excise career began in 1931, retired 1977. Combs had worked as an insurance clerk in London after leaving school. He had had a secondary school education. He had applied for Customs and Excise twice, failing a test the first time but succeeding in the following year. No other known occupations in the fifty years after that. No criminal record. He had worked in various parts of the Port of London until he retired. There were four promotions in his career, but he had hit a plateau after the last one in 1963.
Had Combs harboured any of the secret longings which Minogue imagined besetting a man entering old age without a family? Customs man, like Le Douanier, his secret life on canvasses. Not a fabulous life by any means, quietly shuffling into old age in a London suburb. Combs was not recorded as having done Army service during the war. That was odd, Minogue thought, a single man not being called up. Maybe he had been working in a protected job doing his bit for the war effort at home. Combs must have cultivated other sides of himself to hear Mrs Hartigan's account. Languages, reading, travelling perhaps-and his drawings, of course.
Minogue knew that, customarily, there were no records of British visitors to Ireland. It would be next to impossible to discover whether Combs had been on holiday here before. What would have decided him on living here, though, and why pick Kilternan? If he had known the area from past visits, then some locals must remember him from before. From before… he'd have to go back further with Combs, to make him less of a victim, a cipher. That'd mean Newman, the police in London for a start.
He retrieved Newman's telephone number from his notebook and dialled. Newman was in a meeting. Could she take a message? She could, Minogue said: Sergeant Minogue from Dublin (should he be saying 'a disgruntled Sergeant Minogue?') in connection with Mr Arthur Combs. He needed a more detailed background on Mr Combs. Need Inspector Newman call back? Only if he needs clarification on what I'm requesting.
At half-past twelve, with his belly light and grumbling about a dinner, Minogue's day became overcomplicated. He wanted and needed a dinner. He was also very keen to get to hell out of the briefing room.
He had almost apologised to Mr Moore when he had opened the door and led him in. Minogue had been astonished to see a tall, pin-striped figure standing boldly in front of Eilis' desk at five minutes before twelve. Moore
