Echoland (12 page)

‘Swastika Imports,’ a voice answered almost immediately. Gifford.

‘Cousin Peter,’ Duggan said, adding for the benefit of the operator
if he was still listening. ‘Still acting the maggot.’

Gifford laughed. ‘You got my message.’

‘Just in now.’

‘We should have that drink tonight.’

‘It can’t wait? Been a long day.’

‘No time like the present.’

‘Okay,’ Duggan said.

‘Usual place.’

‘It’ll take me about half an hour to finish up.’

‘See you then.’

Duggan wondered why Gifford wanted to see him so urgently. It couldn’t be anything to do with Harbusch or he’d have said so. Hinted at it, at least. It had to be Nuala. As he had hinted with his ‘cousin’.

‘Can you include a line about Robinson in your report?’ he asked Sullivan.

‘Sure. And that woman,’ Sullivan flipped through his notebook. ‘The sergeant remembered her name. Mabel Coffey.’ He looked up from the notebook. ‘How’ll I say you identified Robinson?’

Duggan thought for a moment: he didn’t want any mention of Timmy in any report. ‘Just say I did. And they were last seen turning into Charlemont Avenue.’ Sullivan gave him a quizzical look. ‘I’ve got to go out.’

‘Busy man.’

‘Family,’ Duggan shrugged.

There was still a lingering light in the western sky as he cycled fast towards the city centre. The street lights on the corners, the
compromise
blackout, were beginning to come on with little effect. There were few cars out, moving with their sidelights only. He cycled past a horse-drawn cab, moving slowly. A tram crossing O’Connell Bridge threw out sparks from the overhead wires as it crossed the junction of
the lines at Bachelors Walk. Talk flowed from the opening doors of pubs.

On Merrion Square he coasted up towards Gifford’s lookout building, unsure if he would find him there. But he knew of no other usual place for them to meet. Between the tall houses and the park, the area was gloomy, sinking into the night before the quays. As he neared Gifford’s building, a figure stepped from the doorway of a neighbouring house and raised an arm in greeting.

‘Is there someone up there?’ Duggan indicated. ‘Watching Hans?’

‘The night shift. He must’ve done something even worse than me. Although we might be swapping places now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ll go around to Murphy’s,’ Gifford said.

Duggan left his bicycle and they walked around the corner and up Lower Fitzwilliam Street towards Baggot Street.

‘I’ve suggested that they put more people on Hans,’ Duggan said. ‘Increase the surveillance.’

‘That won’t go down too well with my people. They’ve got their hands full with the IRA. Another of our lads wounded in a shootout in Cork today.’

They turned into Murphy’s, went past the grocery counter and into the pub. It was half full with men, the cigarette smoke and the talk building up as closing time approached. They stood at a free space at the bar and ordered two pints of Guinness. Duggan took out the shilling from Timmy’s change and left it on the counter.

‘I got the third degree this evening,’ Gifford settled on a stool, ‘about your cousin Nuala.’

Duggan sat up too and stared at him.

‘Called in by an inspector and interrogated.’ Gifford paused. ‘Yeah, no other word for it, interrogated about my interest in Nuala. Why was I making inquiries about her? How did I know her? Why
was she of interest? What did I know about her? So on and so forth.’

‘Fuck,’ Duggan said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You tell me,’ Gifford said, watching the Guinness settle in their half poured pints.

‘I’m sorry,’ Duggan shook his head. ‘It’s like I told you. She’s been missing for a couple of weeks. And her father …’

‘A famous Fianna Fáil TD,’ Gifford interjected.

‘Yeah. I should’ve told you. But I don’t like to mention that. He’s not my favourite uncle.’

‘Go on.’

‘He got a ransom note.’

‘Fuck,’ Gifford said in surprise. ‘She’s been kidnapped?’

Duggan sighed. ‘I don’t know. Timmy thinks she’s just
pretending
. That she’s behind it. She doesn’t get on with him. And she’s trying to get him back for something. Her best friend now says she’s gone to London. And your man says she never got a travel permit. I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. But I’m sorry for involving you in it. For getting you into trouble.’

They fell silent while the barman came back and topped off their pints.

‘I had to tell them about you.’

Fuck, Duggan thought. ‘I understand.’

‘Who’s James Bradley?’

‘A friend of hers. Boyfriend maybe. Probably. I’m not sure. Student in Trinity College. What’s he got to do with it?’

Gifford lifted his pint and took a slow sip. ‘Fucked if I know.’

‘They know about the ransom,’ Duggan said, half a statement, half a question.

‘Nobody said anything about a ransom. Or kidnapping.’

‘I’ve been at him to report it. But he won’t. Thinks it’ll damage him politically if it gets out. But they know about it anyway.’

‘I wouldn’t assume that,’ Gifford took a longer drink. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re involved in?’

‘No.’ Duggan sighed. Fuck Timmy anyway, he thought. He was never anything but trouble.

‘I was hauled in,’ Gifford said slowly, ‘because someone else has been making inquiries about your cousin and Bradley. Someone with IRA connections. Why would they be interested in her and her boyfriend?’

‘No idea. I’ve no idea.’

‘Has she been involved?’

‘With the IRA? I’ve no idea,’ he repeated. ‘I hardly know her, for fuck’s sake. She’s a cousin. We didn’t get on particularly well. Or badly, for that matter. Just had nothing to do with each other. Meeting at family things. With nothing to say to each other. I haven’t a clue what she thinks about anything.’

Gifford took another drink. Duggan lit a cigarette. Behind them an old man started to sing ‘Kevin Barry’ and the barman asked him to stop. He didn’t.

‘So, it’s possible.’

‘It’s possible,’ Duggan conceded. ‘I don’t know. One way or the other.’

‘You could ask your uncle,’ Gifford suggested.

Duggan nodded. He’s been told to get information from me, he thought. Fair enough. He could hardly object to Gifford trying to use him, like he had used Gifford. ‘Why would the IRA be looking for her?’

‘Who knows? They’re in a nervy state at the moment. Ready to shoot at anything.’

‘They couldn’t have kidnapped her?’

‘Hardly be looking for her then, would they?’

‘Obviously not,’ Duggan conceded, feeling foolish, but his mind
was reeling with confusion and conspiracies. ‘I’ll talk to her friend as well.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Gifford said, draining his pint and standing up. It was an order rather than an offer.

‘Now?’ Duggan made no secret of his surprise.

‘Why not?’

‘She’s at work. A nurse. On night duty.’

‘Good. She’ll be awake then, won’t she?’

They left the pub as the barman began his long-drawn-out closing time ritual, only succeeding in getting the singer to raise his voice a few decibels as he wobbled with emotion through the final verse of ‘Boolavogue’. They walked down Baggot Street in silence. The night was warm, almost balmy, the sky an inky indigo in the east giving way slowly to a fading blue in the west.

‘I’m sorry for involving you in all this,’ Duggan said as they turned into Herbert Place.

‘Not to worry. Given me something to do.’

‘What?’

‘Investigate you.’

Duggan gave a short laugh.

‘I’m serious.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Yes, I am,’ Gifford said. ‘Deadly serious.’

‘What are you investigating me for?’ Duggan wasn’t sure if Gifford was joking or not.

‘For having a cousin the IRA’s interested in. That’s what they want me to look into. Follow connections.’

‘That’s not going to get you anywhere. I don’t know why the IRA would be interested in Nuala. Certainly nothing to do with me.’

‘That’s what they all say,’ Gifford gave him a sideways grin. ‘Until they sign the confession.’

‘I’ve nothing to confess.’

‘What I want to know,’ Gifford emphasised the ‘I’, ‘is about your involvement in kidnapping.’

Two women stood across the road, on either corner of Huband Bridge, and watched them cross Mount Street Crescent.

‘Like some fun, boys?’ one called, pointing her hip at them. Even in the dusky light neither looked to be in the first flush of youth.

‘Not tonight Josephine,’ Gifford called back and gave a shiver. ‘Fun. Jaysus. Can you imagine it?’

‘Better not try. Are you going to tell them? About the
kidnapping
?’

‘I might wait and see first. If there’s been a kidnapping. Don’t want to be giving them any more harebrained stories.’

‘I’ve been pleading with Timmy to report it. But he won’t. Afraid it’ll get leaked. Damage him politically.’

‘How?’

‘Be seen as a sign of weakness. Or something.’

‘That’s mad,’ Gifford said. ‘How could your daughter being
kidnapped
be a sign of weakness?’

‘Because he’s supposed to be the big man. The one who makes things happen. Not the one things happen to.’ He shrugged. ‘Politics.’

‘Could he have done it himself?’

‘Kidnapped Nuala?’

‘Made her disappear.’

‘Jesus.’ Duggan looked at him. ‘No. He’s a pain in the arse. Not a lunatic.’

‘Just asking.’

They crossed the tram lines at Lower Mount Street.

‘Besides,’ Duggan added, ‘why would he have me try to find her if
he wanted her gone? And have you on the case now too?’

‘Doesn’t make sense.’

‘None of it does.’

‘Never fear,’ Gifford clapped his hands. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of it. More interesting than watching Hansi.’

‘Have they taken you off that?’

‘No such luck. But now I’m watching you watching him. While you’re watching me watching him.’

‘Jesus,’ Duggan sighed. ‘I’ll be in the shit with G2. Once they hear about this.’

‘How’ll they hear about it?’

‘The Special Branch’ll tell them.’

‘They won’t tell them the time of day. If they can avoid it.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘I know so,’ Gifford laughed. ‘They’ll wait till they’ve found out you’re some kind of subversive. Then create an almighty stink about it. At the right moment.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘Are you mad? You may end up having to be shot to get rid of the stink.’

‘But I’m not a subversive.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

Duggan laughed without humour. ‘So I’m going to be shot one way or the other. By our own lads or the Germans.’

‘That’s the size of it. Your only hope is to tell me everything. Confess to Father Peter,’ Gifford said as they went through the gates into Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital. The clock on the top of the building said it was just after 11.15. They went up the steps to the closed doors, Gifford pushed on one side and it swung open.

Inside, a short man in a peaked cap drew himself up to his
maximum
height behind his desk and said, ‘You can’t come in here. The hospital’s closed.’

‘Police,’ Gifford flashed his warrant card at him, adding for emphasis, ‘Special Branch.’

‘Hospital’s still closed,’ the porter said, unwilling to back down easily. A thin column of smoke, disturbed by their arrival, rose from a cigarette in his ashtray.

‘We’re looking for a nurse,’ Gifford turned to Duggan.

‘Stella Maloney,’ Duggan said to the man.

‘I’ll have to call the deputy matron,’ the man said, picking up his phone.

‘I can call for reinforcements.’ Gifford reached over and took the phone from him and held it up. ‘Or we can do it quietly. Just tell us where she is.’

The porter looked from Gifford to Duggan and then pretended to rifle through some papers. ‘The first floor. Turn right at the top of the stairs.’

They followed his instructions, went up the stone stairs and turned into a long corridor. All was quiet in the hospital, the lights subdued. They found her reading a file at a nurses’ station halfway down the corridor. Another nurse was sitting at a desk and said, ‘Yes?’ as they stopped.

Stella looked up from her file and stared at Duggan, then at Gifford, then back to Duggan. ‘It’s okay,’ she said to the other nurse. ‘I know them.’ She replaced the file and led them to a nearby
day-room
. There were wooden chairs lined up against two walls, facing each other, the third wall had some mattresses standing upright against it. The light was off and the room was gloomy, illuminated only by the night outside the window. She turned to face them.

‘We’re sorry for interrupting you,’ Duggan began. ‘Something has
turned up and we need to know some more about Nuala.’

‘What?’ She ignored Gifford.

Duggan looked at Gifford who was watching Stella. ‘The IRA is looking for Nuala,’ Duggan said.

Stella gave an involuntary laugh and looked from one to the other. ‘You’re mad.’

‘Has she ever been involved with them?’ Gifford asked. ‘In any way at all? Even slightly?’

Stella shook her head.

‘What does she think of the national question?’

She gave a short laugh again and replied to Duggan. ‘She has no interest in politics. Good, bad or indifferent. Got too much of that at home.’

‘Any of her friends involved?’ Gifford went on.

‘No,’ she faced him this time. ‘Not that I know of.’

‘Boyfriends?’

Stella thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘So why would the IRA be looking for her?’ Gifford demanded.

She made a helpless gesture with her hands. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Who is James Bradley?’

‘A friend of Nuala’s.’

‘Boyfriend?’

She nodded.

‘Is he involved with the IRA?’

‘No.’

‘Does he ever say anything that would show any sympathies in that direction?’

‘No.’

‘What does he talk about?’

‘I don’t know. What does anyone talk about?’ She looked at
Duggan, then back to Gifford. ‘Are you in the army too?’

Gifford shook his head. ‘I’m in the guards. Special Branch.’

‘My God,’ she sighed.

‘But don’t worry,’ Gifford gave a smile that was indistinguishable from a grimace in the uncertain light. ‘This is all unofficial at the moment. I’m just trying to help out Paul here.’

‘We’re very worried about Nuala.’ Duggan said.

Stella sat down on one of the chairs.

‘You said she’d gone to London,’ Gifford said. ‘But she hasn’t. Not on the mail boat anyway.’

‘I told you,’ she spoke to Duggan, ‘I was to see her off but got called in here at the last minute.’

‘And you haven’t heard anything from her since?’

‘No.’

‘Have you asked around? Checked with her other friends?’

Stella nodded. ‘Nobody has heard from her.’

‘What about Bradley? Have you talked to him?’

‘No. He’s gone home to England.’

‘He’s English?’

‘Yeah. Well, he grew up in England anyway. I think his parents are Irish.’

‘Did he go with Nuala?’

‘No. She went first. He had exams.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because she told me. He wanted to go to the boat with her. But she said no, stay and study.’

‘She didn’t want him to see her off?’

‘No. Because he had an exam the next day.’

‘What’s he studying?’

‘English and something. Philosophy, maybe.’

‘Was that why she was going to England? To be with him?’

Stella thought about it for a moment. ‘Might have been part of it. But she wanted to get away anyway.’

‘Why?’

‘She wanted a change.’ She looked at Duggan. ‘I told you. She was very restless, couldn’t settle.’

‘Was she in trouble?’ Gifford persisted.

‘No. Not that I know of.’

‘What does he look like? Bradley?’

‘About your height,’ she said to Duggan. ‘Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. You saw his photograph. That’s a good likeness.’

‘You have a photograph?’

‘There was one in Nuala’s flat,’ Duggan told Gifford.

The light in the room changed as something moved outside, from side to side. They all glanced at the window and saw a searchlight sweep from right to left and, in the silence, heard the faint drone of an aircraft. A second searchlight shot into the sky from the right and they crossed each other, sweeping back and forth. Gifford and Duggan moved to the window and looked out. There was no sign of the droning plane. A line of red tracer bullets rose slowly into the sky from the anti-aircraft battery in Ringsend, creating a warning fan, and faded away. The sound of the plane began to fade too and after a few moments the searchlights went out.

Stella stood up as they turned back to her. ‘I’ve got work to do,’ she said, offering a small bunch of keys to Duggan. ‘They’re still in my pocket since the other day. If you want to see Jim’s photograph.’

Duggan took them.

‘He’s not mixed up in anything shady,’ she said. ‘He’s not that kind of person.’

They walked back part of the way they had come, turning into Mount Street Crescent at Huband Bridge where there was only one woman standing now. ‘Where are your fellows hiding out?’ Duggan asked as they went around by the Pepper Canister Church.

‘Nearer the other end of the street,’ Gifford said. ‘The other side of the British outposts. Hopefully they won’t see us.’

The street was empty and they walked fast to the house where Nuala’s flat was. Duggan had the big key out and they went in
quickly
and climbed the stairs in the dark. On the top floor, he opened the door to the flat and felt inside for the light switch.

‘Wait,’ Gifford said in a quiet voice. ‘Are the curtains pulled?’

Duggan crossed the room to the window and leaned over the table in front of the window to close the curtains. He took out his
cigarette
lighter and flicked it on to find his way back to the door and the light switch. He pressed the switch and nothing happened. ‘The meter,’ Gifford whispered.

Duggan took another of Timmy’s shillings from his pocket,
handed
it to Gifford and held the cigarette lighter aloft as he fed it into the meter on the landing. The money dropped into the box and the light came on. The flat still had the feeling of an unused room, the air warm and stale, unmoved. It seemed to Duggan to be as it had been the last time he was there. He pulled open the drawer of the table at the window and stopped. The envelope of photographs was no longer there. Neither were the newspaper cuttings, the old one about the Kilmichael ambush, the newer one of Nuala with a man and another couple at a dance in the Metropole.

‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘It’s gone.’

‘Just the picture of Bradley?’ Gifford looked into the drawer.

‘No. There was a Kodak envelope of snaps. Mostly family. They’re all gone. And a couple of newspaper cuttings, one of a dinner dance last winter and one about the Kilmichael ambush.’

‘The Kilmichael ambush? What’s the connection?’

‘None that I know of,’ Duggan said, trying to remember what else had been in the drawer. Nothing came to mind. He looked around the flat again. Nothing else appeared to have been moved. The cup and plate were still on top of the cupboard by the sink.

‘Who was at the dinner dance?’ Gifford went back to the door, opened it and looked at the jamb. There was no sign of a forced entry.

‘Nuala with some guy called Richie something. And another
couple
. Stella knows.’

Gifford pulled open the doors of the wardrobe and held them wide while he scanned the contents. ‘Anything missing here?’

‘I didn’t look very closely the last time.’ Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

‘If anybody searched the place they did it very neatly,’ Gifford said, parting each of the clothes on hangers and looking underneath the jumpers folded on top of each other. He opened a drawer and went through the underwear. ‘And there’s no sign of a break-in. So …’ He stopped as they heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. He crossed to the light switch, waved Duggan back behind him, and turned off the light. They stood with their backs to the wall behind the door as the footsteps came onto the landing, paused, and then moved across to the other door. There was another pause and then the sound of a key in a lock and, a moment later, a door closing. Gifford turned on the light again.

‘Should we talk to the neighbour?’ Duggan asked in a quiet voice.

Gifford shook his head. ‘Keep it as low key as possible. For the moment.’

‘Richie Cummins,’ Duggan said. ‘That was the guy with her at the Metropole dance.’

‘Okay.’ Gifford went back to the wardrobe again. ‘Anything moved about? Different?’

‘I don’t know for sure,’ Duggan admitted. ‘Stella was with me last time. I didn’t want to be pawing through Nuala’s stuff.’

‘Such a delicate creature,’ Gifford gave him a crooked smile. ‘For one who causes such mayhem.’

‘Ah, the hero returns,’ Sullivan said to Duggan as he walked into their office the next morning.