there was me, a sympathetic Irish-American if ever there was one. Either my reputation as a Boston detective preceded me, or I had stumbled onto something, something that pointed to him. What?
I had no idea, I admitted to myself as I stopped at the main gate to Ballykinler. The GI on duty glanced at the automatic on the seat next to me. I told him there were bandits on the back roads, and he nodded as if it were common knowledge as he opened the gate. I went through the second gate, to the Ordnance Depot, with my. 45 holstered, remembering that these guards were sharper than the others.
A few minutes later I opened the door to the office. A clerk was on the telephone, going down a checklist. Jacobson was on the phone in his office, standing with his back to me, waving one arm in the air. I walked closer to him.
'How was I supposed to know… yeah, yeah… I'll call you.' He hung up.
'Hi, Saul,' I said. 'Is Sergeant Brennan around?'
'Jeez, Boyle, knock or something, why don't you?' He did look surprised but maybe that was because he didn't expect to find me standing right behind him. 'Why is everybody looking for Brennan? Is it about the BARs?'
'Who else is looking?'
'Thornton. He's sending MPs over to pick him up.'
'Was that him just now on the phone?'
'No, that was Joe Patterson, he's a sergeant in charge of the MP detail. I told him I'd given Pete an evening pass. He has to be back by midnight.'
'Any special reason for the pass?'
'When he gets jittery he likes to get out, have a few drinks with the locals. I think it calms him down to be away from the army for a while.'
'Him and a million other guys. Any idea where he went?'
'He said he'd probably go in to Clough. He likes the Lug o' the Tub, know it?'
'I know where it is. Anything unusual going on? With Brennan, I mean?'
'He was OK after he talked to you. We were out on the loading dock after a shipment of bazookas came in. One of Jenkins's trucks went by on its way to the mess hall. He clammed up. Came back an hour later and asked for the pass. Why, what's going on?'
'An MP was shot a while ago,' I said. 'Sam Burnham, know him?'
'Lieutenant, right? Yeah, I know who he is. What happened?'
'Long story. Listen, any idea why seeing Jenkins's truck would make Brennan nervous?'
'I have no idea, Boyle. Maybe Pete is mixed up in all this, I don't know. I have enough problems as it is. I got bazookas without rockets, 81mm mortars with no ammo, 60mm mortar shells but no mortars- you want me to go on?'
'No need, I'll leave you to your troubles,' I said, thinking that Brennan must not have mentioned anything to Saul about the MPs coming for him. 'Thanks.'
'Find those BARs, that'll solve one of my problems at least,' Saul said as I left. Everyone wanted me to find the BARs but I was more worried about them finding me first.
Saul had acted completely normal after his initial shock when he turned around and saw me. Did Brennan's departure have anything to do with the attack on the station? I didn't see how it could. Maybe the sight of the truck had made him jumpy, or maybe he'd started a fight in the wrong pub over politics or religion, and he was worried about the Red Hand. But why leave the base? Did Saul know the MPs were coming for Brennan, and if he did, why would he give Brennan a pass?
I drove out of the Ballykinler base, turning left on the road to Clough. The last thing I wanted was another drink, but I had to check on Brennan. Besides, by now it was likely that word had gotten back to Thornton about Sam being shot. As soon as they sent the ambulance for his body, the XO would get a report. Executive officers got reports all day and all night, from every formation under their command. Which probably meant that Thornton had known Sam was going to the funeral. He was probably the only person who knew there would be two American officers there. Not that I could come up with a reason to suspect him, other than having caught him in a couple of lies, but it did make me wonder. Was Sam the intended target after all? If he was, why? What could he have known that was worth his life? I needed to talk to his sergeant, Patterson, to see if there was anything I was missing. Adrian too, since he seemed to be a pal of Sam's.
The Lug o' the Tub sat near the edge of the road, its whitewashed stone walls gleaming in the moonlight. The overhanging thatched roof loomed darkly, and the smell of peat smoke floated in the night air. There wasn't much room to park, so I edged the jeep off the road as best I could. Bicycles leaned against the building and one old sedan was parked beside it. No other jeep was in sight.
I opened the door and stepped into a haze of yellow lamplight, cigarette smoke, and murmured conversations. The bar was set along the wall to my left, and necks craned as they do in neighborhood bars all over the world, checking out the newcomer. I had new Yank written all over me, and the locals, in their white shirts and vests, or shabby old suit coats that had once been their Sunday best but now wore the shine of decades, turned away as one, grinding out cigarettes and sipping their Guinnesses. The barman nodded, ever so slightly, keeping his eyes on me as I scanned the room. Tables were set along the walls, and small groups huddled over their drinks. Four GIs sat at one, grimly drinking warm beer and probably thinking of bars back home that had actual women in them. Clough was not much for nightlife, and the clientele was decidedly male, and on the grayer side of that sex. In the farthest corner, with his back to the wall, sat Grady O'Brick. He raised his glass to me and as he did, his drinking partner turned around. Pete Brennan grinned when he saw me, a cigarette at the corner of his mouth drifting smoke across his squinting eyes.
'Come join us, Billy Boyle from America,' Grady called out to me. I saw they were near the bottom of their glasses, so I nodded and went to the bar.
'What are they drinking?' I asked the barman, hooking my thumb back in Grady's direction.
'Tonight it's Caffrey's Ale,' he said. 'They brew it up in Antrim, a good Ulster ale.'
'Make it three of those. They drink together often?'
'You new around here, Yank?' He raised an eyebrow as he began the slow pour from the tap, expertly wiping foam from the glass and starting another. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his forearms were strongly muscled, as the rest of him looked to be. His weight was starting to settle, though, and from the flecks of gray in his dark hair I figured him to be close to fifty, and not a man to speak out of turn.
'Yes, I am.'
'I can tell by your color. You've been in the sun, and we don't get near enough for that shade of yours.'
'You should be a detective,' I said.
'If I were, I wouldn't walk into a pub in any part of Ireland and start asking questions about regular patrons. Apt to be bad for business. Know what I mean?'
'Listen, I didn't mean anything by it. Grady asked me to stop by, and I didn't know they knew each other, that's all. The name's Billy Boyle,' I said. 'My family came from Donegal, in the Republic.'
The barman set aside the first glass, topped off with an inch or so of foam. He wiped his hands on his bar rag and offered me one for a shake. 'Tom McCarthy. You must be that officer Grady rowed in from the flying boat.'
'Like I said, you should be a detective.' He grinned, and it seemed that I'd fallen on his good side with my name, family history, and maybe the connection with Grady O'Brick. 'Do you know Pete Brennan as well?'
'Oh, Pete, he comes in when he can. Likes to sit by himself most nights, but he and Grady have struck up a friendship, as you can see.' He finished with the second glass and began to work on the third, tilting it and letting the amber liquid slide down the side, stopping for the foam to settle down. 'Young Pete has seen the elephant, he has.'
'You can tell?'
'I served with the Dublin Fusiliers in the last war,' Tom said. 'Saw a fair bit. I survived Gallipoli. Not many men standing today who can say that.' He brushed the foam from the top of the last glass and set it down.
'You can tell then.'
'Aye, and Pete has seen more of the old rogue than any man's a right to. It weighs on him, the idea of going back to all that. They sent us from Gallipoli to the trenches in France, and I can tell you, these things do weigh on a man.'
