'Ah, that's better, isn't it?' He sniffed and brushed the back of his hand across his nose, sat in an armchair in front of the stove, and motioned for me to take the other one. A narrow table pushed against the opposite wall served as his desk. A newspaper, a telephone, and a few stray pieces of paper were all that were on it. Jenkins looked like he spent most of his time outside. In this room, he probably sat in front of the fire more than at that table. He was constantly in motion-fidgeting, talking, moving, and generally seeming amused at everything around him. So it was a shock to see him finally settle down, look me straight in the eye, and say, 'So, what is it you want?'
There was a lot I wanted to know but it all boiled down to one thing. In that moment, I decided Andrew Jenkins was a man who hid himself behind his bluster, a cunning man who could lull people into not taking him seriously, and find an edge, an advantage, by doing so. In business, politics, and perhaps in war.
'I want to know if you stole those BARs,' I said, warming my hands in front of the stove, as he had. It was a trick my dad had taught me. A con man had told him he gained people's confidence by mimicking their movements in small ways, things they wouldn't pick up on. He claimed it put people at ease since they'd unconsciously identify with you. I didn't know if that was true or not, but I began doing it during interrogations, and it did seem to help calm things down. I rubbed my hands together, then set them on my knees, as Jenkins had done.
'Ha! You're not one for beatin' around the bush, are you, Mr. Boyle from America?'
'I'm a lieutenant, although I'd prefer the rank of mister.'
'Lieutenant is it? Well, excuse me, Mr. Lieutenant Boyle. I'm sorry you don't like the army life but that's not a care of mine. Now tell me why you think I stole them guns.'
'Your truck and a dead IRA man.'
'What kind of mingin' fool would use his own vehicle with his name plastered on each side to rob the very army that's payin' him good money every day for legal goods, I ask you? And I'd be a worse eejit to waste a pound on a dead Fenian, now wouldn't I?'
'A very smart mingin' fool, whatever that means. I thought you people spoke English.'
'Ha!' Jenkins said, his laugh sharp and short. 'That's a good one, it is. I say the very same thing sometimes, especially when you Yanks get to talkin' with that chewin' gum in your craws. There was a fellow from a place in New York the other day-Brooklyn, he said it was- and I couldn't understand half of what he was tellin' me. Ha!'
'So you didn't?'
'Didn't what?'
'Steal the guns.'
'Now that's an example of a waste of good breath to ask that question. If I did, you know I'd never admit it to you, just because you asked. So I'd say, No, I didn't steal them guns, and I'm offended you asked. And if I didn't, I'd say the exact same thing, maybe with a touch more of the righteous indignation. So what can you learn from that question? Nothing. Ask me another, one that won't waste my time and the good air in your lungs.'
'Are you the head of the Red Hand?'
'Ach! There you go again. Do you suppose whoever is the leader of that fearsome pack of defenders of the faith would admit to it, do you?'
'My mistake,' I said. Jenkins leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on one hand. I leaned back as well, and set my chin in my hand, deep in thought. 'OK. Here's one. Do you know Captain Hiriam Heck?'
'Sure, he's that stiff-necked Yank copper.'
'He's no cop,' I said. 'Take it from me.'
'Why should I? Are you a criminal yourself that you can sniff out the peelers?'
'No, I'm a cop, or was. In Boston.'
'Ach, one of the Boston Irish,' he said, and left it at that. 'So what about Heck?'
'He'll probably be coming around here, maybe with the RUC. He's uncovered a plot to defraud the U.S. Army through phony invoices, kickbacks, that sort of thing.'
'In time of war? That's a terrible thing, it is. Who's the villain?'
'You probably know him. Major Thomas Thornton.'
'And I'm not surprised. He tried to extort me, the bastard. I told him I'd go straight to the police but he warned me off, said he'd swear that I offered him bribes. So I kept my mouth shut, I did. I'm glad someone finally found him out.'
'Do you know a sergeant by the name of Brennan? Peter Brennan?'
'Brennan, Brennan, that sounds familiar,' he said, rubbing his jaw. 'Yeah, I do. Haven't seen him in a while, though. He used to be on duty at one of the kitchens at Ballykinler. I've made deliveries there myself. What's become of him?'
'He's returning to the front. Decided it was safer in Italy than around here.'
'Sounds daft to me but there you have it.'
'He was nervous every time he saw one of your trucks. Why would that be?'
'Who sent you here? The milk and vegetable police? I thought you were looking for Fenian killers, German agents, stolen guns, that sort of thing. Instead, you come to see me, a man you accuse of being part of the Red Hand, and ask me about cabbages and such. Is that how you protect the good citizens of Boston? Question working folk? They must love you over there. Ha!'
'No, that's not what I do,' I said patiently. 'What I need to know is if there's any connection between Brennan and the theft. He's been acting strange lately.'
'There's a war on, they say,' Jenkins said, looking away. There was more, but I could tell he needed coaxing.
'Listen,' I said quietly and in a conspiratorial voice, 'I don't have an argument with you about cabbages or parsnips. And I think you're smart enough not to worry about that. But I do need to know the real story about Brennan. I don't think he was involved with the weapons theft but he seems too happy for a guy headed back into combat.'
'You seem on the up-and-up, boy. There might be something I could tell you but it would have to be between us. Repeat it and I'll call you a liar.'
'If it doesn't have anything to do with the guns, then tell me and it goes no further.'
Now it was Jenkins's turn to whisper. 'Sergeant Brennan, he's one for the straight and narrow path, as long as it don't demand too much of him. So if he were to have noticed some… inconsistencies, let's say, with food deliveries, then he'd be one to trot off and report it. A real Boy Scout.'
'Yeah, that's what he did.'
'Well, if the fella he reported to was involved, then it would make sense, in terms of business, purely, to let it be known that he could have an accident or something if he squealed. Right?'
'Just business.'
'Right. And that would work well enough, since Brennan would know what to keep his mouth shut about. But then your Red Jack comes along and stirs up the pot, and all of a sudden, everyone from DI Carrick to you yourself is asking about the theft. Throws everything out of balance.'
'So you have him killed?'
'That'd be one way,' he said, rubbing his chin and turning the thought over as if it had just occurred. 'But that could cause problems too. Why not take advantage of the fact that Sergeant Brennan has taken a real dislike to our little island?'
'So Thornton gives him his transfer. What do you do?'
'Nothing, since this is conjectural, purely. But if I were to do something, it would be to speed the good sergeant on his way, with a last and good memory of Ireland.'
'And how would you do that?'
'Cash, boy! Hard English currency,' he said, and patted a canvas deposit bag with NORTHERN BANK, ARMAGH stenciled on it. 'He has his transfer and a hundred pounds to remember us by. Or forget, I should say, since by taking the money, he becomes complicit. Something for everyone.'
'Purely a business decision,' I said.
'Aye, and a good investment at very low risk. There would be no reason for me to make the sergeant uneasy. He doesn't have to leave, but that's his choice.'
'What about Eddie Mahoney?'
