“Jack Flynn, Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch. I go back a long way with Dillon. You might say I’m an admirer. I’ve heard the whispers about you and him in past years, so when one of Ferguson’s planes comes in with the one passenger, and it’s you, I wonder.”
“You mean, what’s a well-known London gangster doing here?”
“In one of Ferguson’s planes is the point.”
Billy took out his warrant card. Flynn said, “Holy Mother of God, that I should see the day.”
“We lost part of Ferguson’s team, Superintendent Bernstein.”
“I’ve heard. She was an outstanding officer. Helped us out in the Garda, many times.”
“What you haven’t heard is that her death was no accident. She was helped on her way, if you follow me.”
Flynn’s face was like stone. “You’re saying someone topped that lovely woman? Who would do a thing like that?”
Billy thought about it, wondered what Dillon would have done and knew it would never be the obvious thing, and in this case it would be to talk to Flynn. But there was something about Flynn, and if Billy knew about anything in this life, he knew about coppers.
“I’m teetotal, but I could do with a cup of tea.”
“Well, this is Ireland, and if you can’t get a decent cup of tea here, where else would you? In the main concourse there’s a decent cafe. You’ve got a hire car, I see. You can follow me.”
Which Billy did, noticing that Flynn had a uniformed driver, large and burly. They parked close to the main entrance, leaving the driver in charge.
“Good man yourself, Donald,” Flynn told the constable. “Don’t let them give you a ticket.”
They got the tea, sat in a booth at the cafe and Flynn lit a cigarette. “So what have we got here?”
And Billy told him: Mary Killane, the link with the IRA, Liam Bell – everything except the circumstances surrounding Belov.
Flynn said, “Twenty years in the job, nothing surprises me, but it’s a hell of a story.” He shook his head. “But Liam Bell.”
“You wouldn’t be IRA yourself?” Billy asked. “I know what you bleeding Irish are like.”
Flynn grinned. “No, that was my elder brother as you’re asking. You’re all right with me. There was a day, but it’s long gone and we should move on. I’m surprised about Bell. I thought he was long retired.”
“Well, maybe not.”
“I assume this is all hush-hush. We shouldn’t even be talking.”
“Which means you shouldn’t be helping,” Billy said. “I’ve got his home address and a mention of one or two places he might be.”
“Pubs, you mean. That’s easy. The Irish Hussar down on the quays by the river. That’s where all the old hands go, and a few hangers-on, trying to look big.”
“So what would you suggest?”
“Well, as I’ve nothing better to do and it is my patch, I’ll leave first with Donald, just to show you the way. You follow on and we’ll take it from there. One thing, are you carrying?”
“Now, would I do a thing like that?”
“Absolutely. Just make sure it stays in your pants.”
Billy smiled. “This sounds like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
The police car led him to O’Connor Street, number 15, a neat bungalow, with garden and garage, nothing special at all. Flynn and Donald kept on going. Billy pulled up in his car and tried the front door of the bungalow. The bell was only an echo in an empty house, he had that feel. He went round the back to check, returned to find a late-middle-aged lady peering over the fence.
“Can I help you?” Strangely enough, her accent was English.
Billy said, “I was hoping for Mr. Bell.”
“You’re English,” she said.
“So they tell me.”
“So am I. My husband was Irish, but he’s been dead for twelve years. I should have gone back, really.”
Billy said, “Like I said, I was looking for Mr. Bell. An insurance claim.”
“I don’t think you’ll find him around. He’s left his keys with me in case there are any problems.”
“Did he say when he’d be back?”
“No. I had to phone when there was a water board problem.”
“And spoke to him?”
“No – somebody else. Drumore Place, they said. I left a message.”
“You’ve been very kind,” Billy told her, and left.
A couple of streets away, he pulled up behind Flynn and Donald and conferred. Flynn said, “Drumore, now that’s in County Louth on the coast, a known fact, so you’ve got your link with Kelly. You did a good job there, taking that bastard out.”
“We just need confirmation that Bell really has taken over.”
Flynn said, “It’s a strong IRA area and Josef Belov’s been a power in the land. Everybody’s behind him, and that includes the IRA. They’ll never let go in Ballykelly and Drumore.”
“Fine. I just want to confirm that Bell is running things now, so what do I do?”
“Go to the Irish Hussar for your lunch and ask questions. They’ll suspect you straightaway, because you don’t drink. Let’s see what happens.”
“Great. Lead the way,” Billy said.
The Irish Hussar was on a cobbled street fronting the River Liffey. The police vehicle coursed by and turned into a parking bay. They drove round to the side alley and went in.
The bar was old-fashioned, rather Victorian, everything an old-fashioned pub should be: plenty of bottles crammed behind the bar, mirrors, mahogany, a fresco painting of Michael Collins holding the Irish tricolor high on Easter, 1916. The modern changes were the tables crammed in, making the pub more a restaurant than anything else.
Billy chose a table by a bow window. A young waitress descended on him. “Will you be eating?”
“Considering that the smells from the kitchen are driving me potty, yes I am.”
“So what can I get you?”
“Orange juice.”
Three young men at a nearby table appeared to find this funny. Billy smiled. “Please. And I’ll have the Irish stew, since I’m over from London for the day.”
She hesitated. “You don’t have an Irish accent.”
“Well, when you’re London Irish, that isn’t likely. What’s your name?”
“Kathleen.”
“Well, Kathleen, I’m an Irish Cockney who seeks orange juice and Irish stew.”
She smiled. “Coming up.”
Billy tried Dillon on his mobile and found him. “How are things?”
“Not too bad. I’ve been mulling over what’s happening about Killane and Hannah. Frankly, I think uniform branch at Scotland Yard are dragging their feet.”
“Be fair,” Billy said. “Maybe there’s not much coming up.”
“You could be right. What about you?” Billy went through it. Dillon said, “I remember Flynn. Give him my best. He’s good, Billy.”
Kathleen returned with an orange juice and his stew and crusty bread. “There you go. Anything else?”
“I’m here on business,” Billy said. “Supposed to catch up with a Liam Bell, only he seems to be away.”
She stopped smiling and Billy attacked the stew. “This is fantastic. So, you’ve no idea where he is? I understand he comes here all the time.”
“I wouldn’t know.” She turned and fled and the three men at the next table stopped talking and looked at Billy in silence.
The stew was so good, he actually finished it and washed it down with the orange juice. The looks from the
