'Maybe a falling-out over the BAR theft?' Simms suggested.
'He had nothing to do with that. He was shipping out today to Italy. Why kill him?'
'That is what we are going to find out, Boyle,' Carrick said.
I barely heard him. I leaned into the trunk, careful not to touch anything. I studied Pete's head, ignoring the face with its contorted puffiness from the gunshots. I smelled his uniform.
'What are you doing, Boyle?' Carrick demanded.
'It rained yesterday,' I said. 'His hair is dry, and so is his uniform. If he'd been thrown in here wet, it would smell damp.'
'There is an army trench coat in the backseat, a trifle damp to the touch,' Carrick said.
'He left Ballykinler yesterday morning, probably before it started raining. He was out in it for a bit, but not enough to get himself soaked. I'd say he was shot after it stopped, which was about four o'clock. Then dumped here, after the pub shut its doors.'
'Aye, Tom said the road was clear when he closed up, not long after you yourself departed,' Simms said.
Was there a question left hanging? Did Simms wonder where I'd gone after I left the pub? Did he envision me firing a gun twice into Pete's skull?
'Did you see Brennan at all yesterday?' Carrick asked me.
'No, I tried to find him in the afternoon, to say goodbye, but I'd missed him. His lieutenant had let him off to take care of some personal business.'
'And you're convinced there was no connection between Brennan and the BAR theft?'
'I'm convinced he wasn't involved. But there had to be a connection.'
'Why?'
'Because what other reason is there for two bullets to the head? There must be something, some clue that we're missing but Pete didn't.'
'Where do you suppose he went yesterday?' Carrick asked.
'No idea,' I said as a very good idea formed in my mind. I had no reason to let Carrick in on it yet, since he wouldn't like it one bit.
'That's obviously where he got into trouble. Pity he didn't stay on the base,' Carrick said, shaking his head sadly.
'Jack,' I said, turning to the MP, 'he left Ballykinler in a jeep. Has one turned up?'
'We're looking. I thought he might have gone to the pub last night, so we started checking the back roads between here and the base.'
'The only thing we know for certain is that you saw Taggart in this car, and now Brennan has turned up, dead, in the trunk. The IRA connection is fairly clear,' Carrick said, but he sounded less than certain. 'Perhaps there was an entirely different connection, one we're not aware of, and Brennan was killed over that. Perhaps because he was being transferred, deserting the cause?' Carrick rubbed his chin, thinking as he spoke. I could tell he wanted to believe the IRA had shot Brennan. It was so neat, I could hardly blame him. It fit into his view of the world, which was a powerful reason for belief. Still, I sensed the doubt in his mind as he considered different theories.
'Have you searched the body?' I asked.
'Yes, I have, along with Sergeant Patterson. Nothing of note. Cigarettes, a lighter, a few pound notes.'
'He usually went out armed.'
'No evidence of a weapon, sir, but you're right. Pete always carried a. 45.'
'Not entirely legal for him to go out armed while off duty and outside the base, but I understand his reason,' Carrick said.
'You didn't find anything else?' I asked.
'Nothing. His coat and cap were in the vehicle. Otherwise it looks clean. We will have it checked for fingerprints, but I doubt we'll find anything. It looks like all the surfaces were wiped down.'
'That's odd. Why would Red Jack care about his fingerprints?'
'He has help,' Carrick said. 'There are a number of cells operated by the IRA Northern Command. Most of them operate in secret, and their members lead outwardly normal lives. It would be to protect them, not his own identity.'
'Makes sense. Do you mind if I take a closer look at the body?'
'Be careful,' Carrick said. 'Don't touch any surfaces.'
I nodded, holding back the question I was about to ask: So in case you find my prints on the car, you'll know I was involved? Or was Carrick merely exercising crime-scene control? It was the kind of thing my dad would have done, a natural caution against accidentally interfering with evidence. Maybe I was being overly sensitive. Maybe I was being framed. I ran over a list in my mind of any personal possessions I might have lost in the past few days, in case something showed up in the car. But I didn't possess much except for army-issue gear, which, for once, was a blessing.
I didn't bother looking in Pete's pockets. I knew DI Carrick and Patterson would have done a thorough search. I did look at his hands. His left was open, fingers splayed across his right arm in the cramped pose he'd been left in. His right hand was clenched in a fist, rigor mortis had already set hard.
'He's real stiff,' I said. 'He had to have been killed at least twelve hours ago.'
'That would be six o'clock last night,' Carrick said. 'If he left an hour before noon, he could've traveled for two hours, which would leave two hours for him to return. Killed between one and four o'clock then.'
'Too many factors we don't know,' I said. 'Who would have known he was going off base? I wonder if his execution was planned or a spur-of-the-moment thing?'
'Saul knew,' Patterson said. 'And anybody at the depot Pete might have told.'
'But Saul told me he didn't know where Pete was going.'
'An accidental encounter? But with whom?' Carrick asked. 'Constable Simms, have you seen any strangers about? Anyone suspicious?'
'No, sir, it's been very quiet.'
'We need to find the jeep Brennan drove,' I said as I pulled at Pete's fingers, reminding myself it was only his body, that he was long gone. I managed to pull two fingers apart. I took the small wooden object and held it in my palm. It was cold.
'What's that?' Constable Simms asked. Carrick moved in to take a closer look.
'It's a carved animal of some sort,' he said.
'Its name is Pig,' I said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Pete Brennan had died with his good luck charm in the palm of his hand. Pig hadn't kept him alive but at least had been there at the end. Maybe Pete was a fool to go wherever he'd gone. Maybe he was wrong to volunteer to return to the front lines before he had to. Maybe he would've been killed in Italy anyway. It didn't matter. He'd been executed. Like Sam Burnham had been executed?
Despite the car I didn't think the IRA was responsible. As I stood in the road, watching the searchers in the fields and rubbing Pig's belly, I could think of only one person who would have had a reason to meet up with Pete yesterday. Jenkins had told me his part was to give Pete one hundred pounds, and Thornton's part was to authorize his transfer. I'd assumed Jenkins had already paid out the money. But he hadn't actually said so. And he'd been headed for the Northern Bank in Armagh yesterday afternoon. The timing would have worked out. Jenkins could have met Pete between one and two o'clock, perhaps near the bank, but somewhere they wouldn't be seen together. Instead of a hundred quid, Pete had ended up with two slugs. I couldn't figure how Jenkins had gotten the Austin, but the scenario was perfect in its symmetry. The IRA boosts his truck and implicates him in the arms theft; he uses their stolen car to point the finger at them for Pete's murder. I liked it. It fit into my view of the world, which was that Jenkins was a thieving Orangeman who'd gladly kill a Catholic rather than hand over more than four hundred dollars to him.
A U.S. Army ambulance showed up, trailed by a British Army staff car. This was turning into a full-scale
