arms. It's the German connection that worries us. He worked with Seamus Rafferty-I'm sure you've heard of him- smuggling arms and agents in from Nazi Germany.'
'Yes, I've heard of Rafferty. He was in the States before the war.' I didn't mention the dinner at my parents' house, when he was the guest of honor along with Joe McGarrity, head of Clan na Gael.
'Right. That's when they raised most of the money for the S-Plan. Perhaps some of the funds used to kill innocent civilians came from your hometown, Lieutenant Boyle.'
'Perhaps. A lot of people die in wars, DI Carrick. Perhaps there are a few innocent Catholics who would be alive today if you did your job and put those Red Hand boys behind bars. How many of them have you arrested?'
'You must know it's impossible to get evidence against them,' Carrick said through gritted teeth. 'They close ranks and swear on a stack of Bibles they were all having tea with their mothers. And their mothers lie and serve you stale biscuits while telling you what God-fearing lads their boys are.'
His eyes were wide and he was panting. With that tight, high collar choking him, I thought he might burst a blood vessel. He was steaming mad but not at me. It was those mothers, pouring tea and covering up their sons' gruesome murders. Maybe he was a real cop after all.
'Do you have a picture of Taggart?'
'I'll give you one,' he said, rubbing his forehead with one hand. 'There are some at the RUC station at Killough, about five miles from the gate. You've a vehicle?'
I told him I did.
'Follow me if you're done here. Some of the local constables are gathering at Killough to toast the dead tonight. It will be a chance for them to lay eyes on you, take your measure.'
'Have you?'
'You're no fool, which is saying a lot for a papist Yank. You may be of some help if you don't get yourself killed first,' he said without an apparent trace of regret at the thought. He drummed his fingers on the table, staring at me as the rhythmic sound increased in speed, then stopped. 'I hate them all, you know.'
'Who?'
'The Red Hand, the bloody IRA. Fools like you who sleep with them and then get up in the morning and wash your hands clean. All of you.' He rose, brushing off his uniform as if it were dirty. He tucked his cap under his arm.
'His wife and his wee girls found him. Did I tell you?'
He didn't wait for an answer as I followed him out.
I thought I'd better give Major Thornton a call before going off with Carrick. He'd told me to check in every day so I decided to get that over with now, before toasts to the dead constable got too far along. I called from the Ordnance Depot office while Carrick and Jacobson chatted. I reached a clerk at 5th Division HQ who said Thornton was out on the rifle range. I left word that I'd met up with Carrick, that we were going to the RUC station at Killough, and that I'd picked up a lead. I figured I'd give the major something positive. I had no idea how the name of Red Jack Taggart would help me find the BARs, but it was something. At least I'd have a picture to show around, like a real policeman. And I had a few places to show it: the pubs in Annalong and Ardglass, where Mahoney had been sighted, as well as the Lug o' the Tub Pub in Clough. I was heartened that the suspects so far were all drinkers, rather than operagoers or bird-watchers.
As we left the office, Sergeant Brennan approached, stopping short when he saw Carrick. His mouth opened for a second then he clammed up. He saluted and I returned it, watching his face as he mumbled a greeting and hurried past us.
'No need to worry, son,' Carrick called after him. 'I'm not here to take you away.'
The unspoken word yet hung in the air. Brennan had his hand on the doorknob but didn't open it. He turned to face us, his body rigid.
'One of you will, soon enough,' he said. 'I don't expect justice from the army or the British.'
'I am an Irishman too, young man,' Carrick said. 'I was born here, unlike you or your lieutenant here.'
'He's not my lieutenant,' Brennan said. 'I just heard from my CO that Major Thornton is bringing me up on court-martial charges. Unlawful disposition of military property in wartime. Is that what you're here for, Lieutenant Boyle? To build a case against me?'
He didn't wait for an answer. The door slammed and Carrick and I looked at each other in surprise.
'Perhaps Major Thornton has some new evidence,' he said.
'Perhaps he wants someone else to take the rap before some colonel starts eyeing him. Brennan is a sitting duck, an enlisted sitting duck at that. Thornton busts a lieutenant to buck private and ships him out then gets a noncom thrown in the slammer. The heat's off him and the brass are happy. If he gets me to find the BARs he'll come out smelling like a rose.'
'It's natural you'd defend Brennan,' Carrick said.
'Because we're both papists?' I asked, with an edge of anger I couldn't keep out of my voice.
'To some extent. But no, that is not what I meant. I mean since you have both seen the elephant, and Thornton has not yet been in combat. I've found that's a greater divide than the one between the Church of Rome and the Church of Ireland. Wouldn't you agree, Lieutenant Boyle?'
Once again, he didn't wait for an answer.
I FOLLOWED HIM along the coast road, the wind sending white fluffy clouds over our heads and out to the Irish Sea. As we neared the village of Killough, houses appeared, their whitewashed fronts close up to the road. Driving on the left, I could have stopped and knocked on a door without getting out of the jeep. To our right, gray pebble beaches curved into the distance. The seawall running along the edge of the road was crumbling, with weeds and moss growing in the cracks. A church steeple rose in the distance, the only structure that seemed solid and lasting. Carrick turned and I followed him down the main street, which was lined with stately sycamore trees that looked in better shape than the two-story homes and shops that bordered it. He turned again and parked behind a row of cars in front of a white building with a sign marking it as an RUC station.
'It looks like someone's home,' I said after I'd parked the jeep and joined Carrick.
'It is. In villages of this size, the RUC has built station houses for married personnel. Mostly sergeants. In the smaller villages, like Clough, the constables make do out of their homes. Here, we'll go around back,' he said as he opened a gate that led into a small backyard. Late-season flowers still bloomed in a garden next to cauliflowers and onions. The yard was surrounded by hedges, and at its center was a table in a small grassy area. It looked like a pleasant place to spend a warm afternoon, which this wasn't.
We entered a long kitchen, a stove at one end radiating heat. About a dozen men in the dark green RUC uniform turned and greeted the district inspector, and a woman of about forty, dark haired with pearl white skin, leaned forward and gave him a kiss. I could have been back home. A gathering of cops after a funeral of one of their own. Telling stories, drinking, feeling glad and guilty it wasn't them, and working hard at not giving away a thing.
'Lieutenant Boyle, this is Mrs. Chambers, wife of Constable Robert Chambers, that tall fellow over there.'
'Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Chambers,' I said as I nodded to her husband, who made his way over to us.
'Always glad to have a Yank as a guest. Call me Mildred,' she said. 'Bob, look, we've another American.'
'Bob Chambers,' her husband said as he walked up and we shook hands. 'Boyle, is it?'
'Yes, Billy Boyle.' I expected a comment about my Catholic Irish name, but it appeared that Chambers simply wasn't sure if he'd heard correctly. He nodded and offered me a whiskey. I took it gladly and looked to Mrs. Chambers, who had waited for her husband to finish his introduction.
'Bob, I was just starting to tell Lieutenant Boyle about the other Yank, the military policeman. Adrian's friend, what was his name?'
'Burnham,' he said. 'Samuel Burnham. He's in the parlor with some of the lads. Do you know him, Boyle?'
