'Close to midnight.'
'Any idea who was behind it? Any rumors floating around?'
'None that make any sense. Everyone seems convinced it was the IRA.'
'You're not?'
'Well, they used Jenkins's truck, right? And he's big with the Red Hand boys around here. Now that would be a slap in the face to the Protestants, wouldn't it?'
'Yeah, if that's why they did it. But he had access to the post, he made regular deliveries here, so it makes sense to grab one of his vehicles.'
'No, you don't understand. Do you know your Irish history, Lieutenant?'
'It's a fairly big deal in my family.'
'Mine too. So think about this. The IRA steals a vehicle from the leader of the Red Hand and uses it to steal automatic weapons, adding insult to injury. What would Jenkins's first reaction be?'
'Retribution,' I said, as I began to see what Brennan meant.
'You are a cop! And as an Irish cop, you'd know that any Catholic would do, IRA member or not.'
'Have there been any reprisals? Retaliation of any kind?'
'Not against Catholics by Protestant militia. The IRA shot a Belfast cop a couple days ago. With a pistol. That's it. At least that's all that's been in the newspapers.'
'Could've happened that way. Or maybe with everyone looking for the BARs, the Red Hand decided to lie low for a while.'
'Lieutenant Boyle, if you know anything about recent history here, you'll know that lying low isn't something either side does.' He drew Pig out of his pocket and began to rub the creature absentmindedly as he gazed out over the sea.
'I just got here. To Ireland, I mean. What's it like for someone with a sense of Irish history to be here in the north?'
'Helping the British garrison their part of Ireland, you mean? I don't like it much, but we probably won't be here long anyway. It is strange, though. Most of the IRA activity these days goes on up here or along the border. After hearing so many stories, it's odd to see it really happening. I mean, back home, who cares if you're Catholic or Protestant? Here it could get you killed if the other fellow has his blood up.'
'Tell me, has anyone from the IRA ever approached you? Appealing to you as a patriotic Irishman?'
'I'm not sure. There was one time-it was in a pub in Ardglass-a guy asked me what church I attended. I thought it was a strange way to strike up a conversation, but it turned out to be common around here. Lets you know right away if you're drinking with the right kind or not. He said he went to Saint Mary's, which meant he was Catholic. Once I told him I went to Saint Brigid's back home, he started talking about how we all have to stick together, even those who'd left Ireland for America. It could've been nothing but talk except that he asked a lot of questions about what type of guns we had, almost as if he knew I was assigned to the arms depot.'
'Did you ever see him again?'
'Once, over in Clough. It's a lot closer than Ardglass, and I wondered if he was looking for me. I waved and he nodded back but that was it. He was deep in conversation with another guy, some GI, and I didn't want to butt in.'
'What did he look like?'
'Pretty average looking, except for his red hair. Bright red, like a carrot. The other fellow was tall, forty or so, balding.'
'Do you remember his name, the guy you'd talked to before?'
'Yeah, it was Eamonn, he said. A Gaelic name. He talked about how it used to be illegal for an Irishman to even say his name in Gaelic. Can you believe that?'
'Yes, I can.' 'Eamonn' was 'Edward' in English. Eddie Mahoney had bright red hair, and this was the second time he'd come up. Or the third, if you counted the time someone had shot him in the head.
CHAPTER TEN
I sat alone in the mess hall, drinking coffee and trying to figure out what do next. So far, all I knew was that Eddie Mahoney had been sighted in two area pubs, once arguing with someone, and once chatting with a GI. Not evidence of anything, not even a clue. I knew that Major Thornton hadn't bothered to tell me Inspector Carrick had asked for Brennan's file. Again, nothing really suspicious; worth asking about but I doubted it meant anything. Brennan was in the know about the IRA, and sympathetic, but so was I, and likely hundreds of other GIs in Northern Ireland. I needed to check out Andrew Jenkins to see if he was brazen enough to have used his own delivery truck in the heist. Something about Mahoney and how he was found bothered me. It seemed as if there was a missing piece to this puzzle but I couldn't see it.
Also, I had been warned by old Grady O'Brick as soon as I landed, warned to watch my step. He'd nodded in the direction of the MP waiting for me but was that what he'd meant? Or was he gesturing toward the land itself? I didn't know, which pretty much summed up where I was in this investigation. No answers.
I watched the men in the mess hall, eating chow, laughing and talking, doing everyday things, as much as that was possible in the army. Some of these guys had been on garrison duty in Iceland; others were fresh from the States. A few, like Brennan, were transfers from outfits that had been in combat. Maybe the army wanted to add experienced men to the unit but it never made much sense to me. Until men went through combat and saw for themselves, veterans like Brennan would be viewed as oddballs, paranoid and superstitious, strangers in their midst. Brennan himself, his pals all dead, stood apart, doing his job, but unwilling or unable to form the bonds of friendship with men who might get chopped up beside him on the next invasion beach. Instead, his only buddy was a carved pig.
Matches, bottle caps, pocket knives, Saint Christopher medals, coins, and the ace of spades. I'd seen them all grasped in sweaty palms, tucked in pockets and continually patted down to make sure they were safe. There were rituals too-prayers, curses, songs, finger tapping, the sign of the cross, all those charms and amulets each GI was certain he couldn't do without when the lead started flying. They knew that without it, they'd be dead. With it, their chances might be slightly better than average, but nothing was guaranteed. Finally, after enough time up on the line, they realized luck had nothing to do with it. Skill and alertness-those things could give you an edge, at least until exhaustion set in, but luck was meaningless. Sooner or later, unless they pulled you off the line, you were going to get it.
I stirred my cold coffee and stared at the dark liquid swirling like a whirlpool.
'Lieutenant Boyle?'
I jumped, startled. I looked up and saw a man in a dark green uniform staring at me. He had a square jaw and a thin-lipped mouth set beneath dark eyes. Crow's-feet showed at their corners, and I judged him to be in his midforties. The uniform had a high collar with the Irish harp on each collar tab. His black leather belt and holster were gleaming, the butt of his revolver high and forward, ready for action.
'You must be Hugh Carrick,' I said, rising from my seat. I didn't offer my hand.
'District Inspector Carrick, if it's all the same to you,' he said as he sat down across from me. He gestured with his hand for me to be seated, as if I had just walked into his office.
'It is,' I said. 'Do district inspectors in Ulster have to wear Class As all the time?'
'Pardon me?'
'The fancy dress uniform. Back in the States detectives dress in suits except for special occasions.'
'I just came from a funeral in Dromara. A constable, murdered by the so-called Irish Republican Army. Shot four times in the back, twenty yards from his home. His wife and two wee girls reached him first.'
As he spoke, his tone didn't vary. No emotion crept into his voice, and his eyes stayed focused on me as he sat there, hands folded in his lap.
'I'm sorry, Inspector-'
'District Inspector.'
'I am sorry, District Inspector. I'm a policeman myself, or was. In Boston, before the war. The death of a brother officer is a serious matter.'
