asked.
'Many things, to be sure, but nothing germane to this investigation. I'll give you what I can about Taggart and Jenkins. Is there anything else?'
'I thought perhaps I could buy you dinner, and you could tell me about the one Irish-American you admire.'
'Pardon me?'
'In Jerusalem, when I asked if you didn't like Irish-Americans, you said there was one you admired very much. I'd like to know who.'
'If you find the BARs, Lieutenant, there will be two. I'm quite busy now, so if you're done?'
'One question before I go. How did you get here so quickly? Who told you?'
'That's a matter of security.'
'What isn't?'
'Until tomorrow morning, Lieutenant?'
She didn't look up from the open file on her lap but I saw one corner of her mouth turn up in a smile. I wasn't sure what I was doing with her. Part of me said the invitation to dinner was to interrogate her. Another part of me said it would be nice to spend time in her company. She was an Irish girl, after all. Ultimately, I was glad she'd turned me down. I got out of the car and nodded to her driver, who leaned against the front fender as he smoked. He looked past me, eyeing something down the road. It was Grady O'Brick, riding in a pony cart, the rear stacked high with black peat held in place by slats of wood bound with rope.
'What's this now?' Grady asked, fixing his gaze on me. The ambulance was gone, but the Austin still had its nose in the ditch, with DI Carrick and his constables searching it. Grady glanced at the staff car, the sergeant, then back to me. 'Have you got yourself in trouble, Billy Boyle?'
'Not me, Grady. Pete Brennan,' I said as I walked over and scratched the pony on its withers.
'What kind of trouble?'
'Dead. Murdered, found in the trunk of that car,' I said, looking at the gray Austin. 'Same car that Red Jack Taggart got away in after the shooting in Killough.'
'Red Jack? Do you think he did this?' Grady sounded incredulous that Taggart would kill Pete, that I'd even consider the possibility.
'I have no idea. Same car, that's all. It could mean anything. It's no coincidence, though.'
'No, you're right about that, boy. Damn!' He shook his head, gripping the reins tighter around his ruined hands. 'May the devil swallow him sideways, the fellow who did this.'
'Move along now,' the sergeant said, waving his hand in the direction of the village.
'Move yourself, you English thief. Don't tell me to move along in my own village!'
'Take it easy,' I said, holding my palm out to the sergeant, who had stiffened at the insult, his hand resting on his holster. 'The soldier who was killed was a friend of ours; he doesn't mean anything by it.'
The sergeant let his hand drop to his side. I looked up at Grady.
'I don't much like the sight of that uniform, as you know,' said Grady, his face stern as he gazed straight ahead. His tone contained all the apology he was capable of, and the British sergeant moved away and got into the staff car.
'I know,' I said.
Grady looked down at me and winked.
'The curse of his own weapons upon him,' he whispered, and laughed. 'What are you doing with a bastard like that anyway?'
'It's a long story.'
'It'll keep. I'll be back in an hour, Billy Boyle. Meet me at my home and I'll put the kettle on. It's a cold dawning for all here.'
'OK, I will.'
'First turning back there,' he said with a backward nod as he flicked the reins and the pony clip-clopped away. Grady turned and stared at the Austin as he passed it, and his shoulders sagged. The staff car, mysterious with darkened windows and shining grillwork, started up, its growling engine powerful and alien in the small country lane. The driver turned the car around in the road, leaving deep tire marks on the soft shoulder and spitting mud as he gained traction. He drove behind Grady slowly; the old man didn't coax the pony into a trot or move an inch from the center of the lane. Finally, the road branched near the pub, and the staff car accelerated, disappearing around the corner.
The curse of his own weapons upon him. A frightening curse, and I shivered. Even the memory of Slaine's legs and the enticing soft sound of nylon rubbing against nylon did not warm me.
'Who was that?' Adrian Simms asked. He seemed chilled too. His hands were stuffed into his pockets and his shoulders hunched.
'Military matter,' I said.
'With that sleekit sergeant? Who is he driving around in that big automobile?'
'What did you call him?'
'Sleekit. What you might call a sly one, with a dab of dishonesty thrown in.'
'Do you know him?' I asked.
'I've seen him around. Cyrus Lynch. He's one of the secret bunch up at Stormont. He's brought in IRA boys and Red Hand boys. Most are never seen again.'
'What about the Black Knights?'
'What about them?' Simms said, his eyes darting to where Carrick stood by the car. 'What do they have to do with anything?'
'Just wondering if they were ever arrested along with the Red Hands.'
'I doubt it,' Simms said, sounding affronted. 'They're mainly businessmen, respectable citizens. They do good works for the church.'
'Is DI Carrick one?'
'Ach, aye. A man in his position almost has to be.'
'And you?'
'None of your damn business, Boyle. When are you going to stop wasting time and find out where Taggart is with those weapons? You know, the fellow who killed Sam Burnham?'
'Right about now,' I said, but it was to his back.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There had been nothing else in the car. Carrick said I should watch out for Sergeant Lynch, that the man wasn't trustworthy. Maybe because he was an Englishman who arrested Protestants as well as Catholics, which made him sleekit. We waited until a truck came to tow the Austin out of the ditch, searched the ground some more after it was pulled out, and found nothing but flattened grass stained with engine oil.
I'd asked Jack Patterson to dig up a picture of Pete. I wanted to show it around the branch of the Northern Bank in Armagh, but I didn't tell him that. He said he'd get one from Pete's personnel file. Then I asked DI Carrick for a photo of Jenkins, figuring they had to have surveillance shots of him.
'Sorry, Lieutenant Boyle,' Carrick said, sounding like he actually was. 'We can't do that. Jenkins's file is sealed. Orders from Stormont.'
He wouldn't say more, and I got the same feeling from him that I used to get from my higher-ups in the Boston PD when the heavyweights in city hall hushed something up. Frustration and embarrassment, mixed with a sternness fueled by anger at having to toe someone else's line. I didn't press him.
THE ROAD TO Grady O'Brick's place was more like a track, suited to a pony and narrow cart. Branches reached out low into the road, caught on the jeep's fender, and brushed against the windscreen. Washed-out ruts
