Echobeat (7 page)

The knot was too tight to open and he gave up on it and tried to force one end of the string over a corner. It gave after a moment and he opened back the rough brown paper. Inside were two stacks of leaflets, one in English and one in Irish. He picked up an English one and realised that they were all the same, English on one side, Irish on the other.

He scanned it and then sat down on the bed to read it. ‘Soldiers of Eire,’ it was headed. ‘We have come to help you in your historic struggle against the British warmongers. Do not resist us. Come to us. Keep your weapons. Join us in the fight against the common enemy. Together we will free Ireland from the imperialism which has oppressed you for centuries.’ It was signed
Oberkommando der Wehrmacht
and decorated at each corner with crossed flags, the Irish tricolour and the German swastika.

Duggan was scanning the Irish version, an accurate and good translation, when Gifford came in and picked up one of the leaflets. He gave a quiet whistle. ‘That’s not Jimmy’s work,’ he said.

‘Wouldn’t think so,’ Duggan said.

‘They’re all gone to the Bridewell,’ Gifford said. ‘The sarge said we were to stay here until some uniforms arrive. Apparently Mr Quinn is very worried about the security of his property. So,’ he looked around, ‘we might as well have a look-see.’

They took their time going through the rest of the house, looking in and under drawers, in and behind wardrobes and cupboards, pulling up carpets, checking behind pictures, poking in the barrel of soil holding a Christmas tree, but found nothing more. A uniformed garda arrived to take up a position outside the broken door and Gifford asked him where they would get a lift back to the Bridewell. He laughed at him and told him to walk, young fellows like them. Duggan parcelled up the leaflets again and carried them under one arm as they walked through deserted streets. Frost sparkled in the pools of light from the occasional street lamps and the silence was broken only by their footsteps.

Gifford stopped on the canal bridge and sniffed, closing his eyes and letting his head tilt backwards. ‘Does that remind you of home?’

‘What?’

‘The turf smoke.’ Gifford sniffed again at the faint smell from the previous night’s fires.

‘I didn’t notice,’ Duggan shrugged.

‘Jaysus,’ Gifford started walking again. ‘Culchies. You’ll have us all smelling like bogmen. And we won’t even know it.’

‘Here,’ Duggan handed him the packet of leaflets. ‘You carry them for a bit.’

Quinn was still in an interview room when they got to the Bridewell. Gifford took a couple of leaflets from the package and showed them to his sergeant who gave them a cursory glance. ‘Can we talk to him?’ Gifford asked.

‘You and him?’ the sergeant inclined his head towards Duggan. Gifford nodded. ‘All right. He says he knows nothing about anything.’

‘We’ll see what he knows about this.’

Quinn was slumped in a chair behind a scarred wooden table, huddled into himself. He was dressed now in a dark suit with a V-neck pullover and a shirt and tie but they all seemed to be too big for him. His head hung down, dark wavy hair facing them, and his hands were joined loosely between his legs. He didn’t look up when they came in and took the chairs across the table from him.

Gifford and Duggan studied him. He didn’t look much like a Gauleiter, Duggan thought. Or like the man who had firm political opinions at the Friends of Germany meetings. He looked more like a man in shock.

Gifford slid one of the leaflets across the table under his eyes. ‘You know what this is?’

Quinn didn’t raise his head and they couldn’t tell if he could see the leaflet.

‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ Gifford paused, waiting for a reaction. There was none. ‘Do you want me to tell you what it is?’

Quinn gave a barely perceptible shrug.

‘Treason.’ Gifford waited a moment than added, spacing out the words. ‘Straight. Forward. Treason.’

Quinn looked up, bewildered, and then dropped his eyes to the leaflet.

‘A hanging offence,’ Gifford continued. ‘Pure and simple.’ He let Quinn read through the leaflet. ‘Inviting the Defence Forces of this country to surrender to a foreign power. Treason. Pure and simple.’

‘They’re not invaders,’ Quinn said.

‘Oh?’ Gifford masked his delight with mock surprise at having engaged him. He tapped the leaflet under Quinn’s nose. ‘Where does it say “Thanks for the invitation, we came as soon as we could”?
That’s not what it says though, is it? It says, “Surrender now, or else.”’

Quinn shook his head.

‘So, when are they coming?’ Gifford demanded. ‘When’s the invasion?’

A brief look of interest – maybe hope, Duggan thought – flashed across Quinn’s face and he straightened a little. He said nothing.

‘When were you going to distribute these?’ Gifford continued.

‘What?’ Quinn looked bewildered again.

‘As soon as the invasion started? Just beforehand?’

‘Look,’ Quinn sighed. ‘I’ve never seen this before.’

Gifford gave a cynical laugh. ‘The man who knows nothing. Who didn’t know his wife’s cousin was an armed IRA man. Who didn’t know his German friends were coming. Even though,’ he picked up the leaflet and waved it in Quinn’s face, ‘he was preparing for their arrival.’

‘Where’s my wife?’

‘Next door,’ Gifford snapped. ‘Having her neck measured for the rope.’

‘Look, she—’

‘Once the questioning is finished that’ll be that,’ Gifford interrupted him. ‘Charged with treason. Up before a military tribunal. Only one possible sentence.’ Gifford gave a harsh laugh. ‘You think there’ll be mass prayer vigils outside Mountjoy jail the night before the two of you are hanged? People on their knees in the street, saying the rosary? Calling on Jesus and his Holy Mother to save you with a last-minute reprieve? To save a couple who did their best to bring the war here? You’re out of your fucking mind.’

‘She knows nothing. She’s not involved in anything.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Gifford groaned. ‘Don’t give me this gallant shite. She’s as guilty as you are. It’s in her house as well as yours.’

‘What?’

‘This,’ Gifford waved the leaflet.

‘I never saw it before,’ Quinn pleaded.

‘He thinks this is a game,’ Gifford said to Duggan. ‘He things he’s in the pictures. Up on the big screen. Cary Grant. A hero protecting his wife. Hundreds of these leaflets in their house and he’s going to do the manly thing.’ He threw his hands up in despair.

Duggan kept his eyes on Quinn, realising that Quinn had not seen him before. ‘
Wo ist Ihr besonderer Weihnachtsbesuch
?’ Duggan demanded. Where is your special Christmas visitor?

Quinn’s eyes darted to Duggan and fixed on him with a look of horror.

‘
Sie verstehen die Frage
,’ Duggan said evenly, a statement. You understand the question.

Quinn seemed unable to break the stare but he wasn’t really seeing Duggan.

‘He left the leaflets in your house,’ Duggan switched to English. ‘In the wardrobe in the back bedroom. Where he stayed.’ He took Quinn’s silence as confirmation and nodded to Gifford. He turned back to Quinn. ‘When is he coming back for them?’

Quinn said nothing.

‘Or were you to deliver them to somebody else?’ Duggan continued.

Quinn remained silent. Gifford sighed with impatience. ‘I’m fed up with this shite,’ he pushed his chair back and yawned. ‘Let’s get them charged. Hand them over to the military tribunal. We get to bed. They get hanged.’

‘Give him another minute,’ Duggan said. ‘He needs time to think.’

They both stared at Quinn, who dropped his head. Seconds ticked by slowly. Quinn didn’t move. Gifford looked at Duggan and shook his head. Duggan nodded. They both pushed back their chairs noisily and stood up.

As they walked out the door Gifford said to Duggan, ‘We’ll charge her first. Get her before the tribunal today.’

Quinn muttered something and Duggan paused. ‘
Ich wusste es nicht
,’ Quinn repeated.

‘Don’t waste your time,’ Gifford snorted and walked out, letting the door bang behind him.

‘What didn’t you know?’ Duggan asked in German.

‘That that was in the house,’ Quinn nodded at the leaflet. He seemed more willing to talk in German.

‘He didn’t tell you?’ Duggan said. ‘He didn’t trust you.’

Quinn winced, like he’d been poked in the ribs.

‘Did Herr Goertz trust you with his real name?’

Quinn glanced up quickly and Duggan tried to decipher whether that meant a yes or a no. Or just that he knew who Goertz was.

‘
Ich wusste es nicht
,’ Quinn repeated, more an admission to himself that he had been used than a reply to Duggan. He dropped his head and shrank into himself again.

Gifford was waiting outside in the corridor and gave him an enquiring look. ‘I don’t think he knew those leaflets were there,’ Duggan said. ‘But he knows who Goertz is. And there’s a strong chance Goertz was the one staying with him over Christmas. He knows more than he’s telling us.’

‘Such powers of deduction,’ Gifford exclaimed. ‘You ever thought of becoming a detective?’

Duggan ignored him. ‘We should go back and keep an eye on the place. See who turns up.’

‘Nobody’s going to turn up. The word will be out that we were there. That we’ve got Quinn.’

‘If we got the guard away and propped up the hall door—’

‘And put some Christmas paper over the bullet holes in the window,’ Gifford interrupted, shaking his head. ‘A waste of time. Nobody’ll turn up now.’

Duggan stopped to light a cigarette. He was right. But this was the best lead they’d got on Goertz in months. They couldn’t just let it go. ‘I’ve got to phone the office,’ he said.

He waited for Commandant McClure to come on the line, working out a brief report in his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the orderly on the switchboard at headquarters came back, ‘the commandant is not here at the moment. Will anyone else do?’

‘It’s all right,’ Duggan said. ‘I’ll be back in a little while.’

He replaced the receiver and put out the cigarette and looked up to find Gifford staring at him. ‘What?’ Duggan demanded.

Gifford was sitting on a table, his feet on a metal chair, hands in his trousers pockets. ‘You need to get some sleep,’ he said, amused.

Duggan shrugged. His body ached with tiredness but his brain was still too active to allow sleep. Go back to the office and write a report while it’s all fresh, he told himself. Aloud, he said, ‘Where are the leaflets?’

‘Station sergeant has them.’

Gifford’s sergeant looked into the room. ‘Stop playing with yourself and come on,’ he said to Gifford. ‘Jimmy boy has given us another address.’

Gifford dropped his feet to the floor and raised his eyes to Duggan as he went past. The sergeant looked back into the room and said to Duggan, ‘If we find any Germans we’ll bring them back to you.’ An unseen detective in the corridor gave a single loud laugh.

When they had gone Duggan went to the station sergeant and asked him for the package of leaflets they had left with him. ‘No can do,’ the sergeant, an elderly man in uniform, said. ‘It’s in the evidence locker with the gun and a few other things.’

‘But I need it for my superiors.’

‘Too late,’ the sergeant shook his head. ‘It’s entered in the book now.’

Duggan didn’t move, a wave of tiredness breaking over him. ‘There’s a few of them here,’ the sergeant offered, taking a clutch of the leaflets from a drawer in his desk. ‘How many do you want?’

‘All of them,’ Duggan said, too tired to disguise his demanding tone.

The sergeant held his gaze for a moment and then handed them over. ‘Are they real?’ he asked, no longer sounding official.

‘I don’t know,’ Duggan said, subconsciously repeating Quinn’s mantra.
Ich wusste es nicht.

Captain Sullivan came into the office, ashen faced, and sank down behind his typewriter. Duggan looked up from the previous night’s reports and stared at him. Sullivan stared back.

‘Give me a cigarette,’ Sullivan said.

Duggan slid his cigarette case down the table to him, followed by his lighter. Sullivan didn’t normally smoke. He coughed and made a face as he inhaled too deeply.

‘You just back from Carlow now?’ Duggan had already read the preliminary report on the bombs which had fallen in County Carlow. One had hit a farmhouse, killing two women and their niece in their beds.

Sullivan inhaled again, more cautiously, and nodded. ‘Car skidded on a patch of ice. Had to wait for a transport truck to come and pull me out of the ditch.’ He put the cigarette in his mouth and placed two sheets of carbon paper between three sheets of typing paper, straightened them, and rolled them into the typewriter. The smoke drifted into his eyes and he rubbed them. ‘You heard what happened?’ he looked at Duggan, red-eyed.

Duggan nodded.

‘I mean it’s the middle of fucking nowhere.’ Sullivan shook his head. ‘A farmhouse on the side of a hill. The middle of nowhere.’ He
took another cautious drag and stubbed out the cigarette. ‘From higher up the hill you could look down and see where all the bombs landed. Black holes in the snow. In a straight line. One after the other.’ He indicated with his hand, like he was beating out music. ‘And the house in the middle of it. One bomb hit the end of it. Totally destroyed the bedroom where the women were sleeping. Probably never knew what hit them. I hope so anyway.’ He paused. ‘I mean it’s the middle of nowhere,’ he repeated, emphasising every word.

‘It was a German?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Sullivan waved with impatience, as if that was of no importance. ‘No doubt.’

‘A clear night?’

‘I’ve never seen so many stars in my life. I don’t know what the fucker thought he was doing.’

‘Dumping his bombs?’ Duggan asked, still concerned with the reports he was reading from the coastal lookout posts.

Sullivan looked at him like he was a bit slow, missing the point. ‘They lived in the middle of nowhere. It really is the middle of nowhere.’

Duggan nodded, realising what he was saying. The shocking randomness of war. The carelessness with which it rained down death and destruction. How could anyone be safe when it could reach into the middle of nowhere and kill you? For no reason. Without a thought.

‘You see the bodies?’ Duggan gestured at his cigarettes.

‘Jesus, no.’ Sullivan slid the case and lighter back to him. ‘Where’s the commandant?’

‘Still in conference with the colonel.’

Sullivan began to poke at the typewriter and Duggan lit himself a cigarette and went back to his reports, trying to figure out the bombers’ intentions from the courses they had followed. The two
Heinkels had crossed the east coast south of Wicklow Head, apparently heading north-westerly. One had dropped its bombs in Carlow, the other to the north of it on the Curragh. Nobody had been injured in the Curragh: the high explosives had fallen on open ground near the racecourse, one incendiary had set fire to a hay barn in a stud farm.

Two Heinkels had been logged crossing the south coast near Helvick Head within a few minutes of each other shortly afterwards, heading south-easterly. Back to Bordeaux or around there, he thought. Maybe to the base from which they flew their Condors up the west coast to Stavanger, looking for British convoys.

Duggan jumped as someone poked him in the back. ‘How’s about you?’ Captain Anderson from the British desk announced himself. ‘Very interesting photos you got about the Brits’ strategy.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Be great to know the source,’ Anderson sat back against the table. ‘I mean the original source.’

‘I know. But my source won’t say.’

‘You could ask him again. Explain that it’s in the national interest that we talk directly to that person.’

‘I can try,’ Duggan agreed, thinking that he knows it was Timmy. ‘But he wouldn’t budge the last time.’

‘He might change his mind when he realises just how important it is.’

‘He knows how important it is. But I’ll explain to him again.’

Anderson clapped him on the shoulder and left. Duggan felt that he had been patronised but shrugged mentally. At least McClure had wasted no time passing on the information. So much for Timmy’s insinuations.

The commandant himself arrived and said to Sullivan, ‘Good work last night. You’re putting it all on paper?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sullivan looked up, a hint of satisfaction crossing his grey face.

‘Well?’ McClure turned his attention to Duggan.

Duggan told him of the flight paths of the Heinkels. ‘No indications that they were in trouble,’ he added. ‘So they didn’t jettison their bombs for that reason. Unless they were short of fuel to get back home.’

McClure shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t have been. So,’ he paused, summing up. ‘Clear night, perfect visibility. They fly up the Irish Sea. Can’t mistake that. Drop their bombs on open ground. Drop incendiaries on open ground. What appeared to be open countryside. Turn around and fly home. Mission accomplished. But what was the point of it? What was the mission?’

Duggan wasn’t sure if that was a rhetorical question but said nothing.

‘Were they trying to hit the Curragh camp?’ McClure continued. ‘They had to know it was there. Why would you drop incendiaries on open ground?’

‘Another message,’ Duggan offered.

McClure nodded. ‘But it kills two women and a girl. Inadvertently.’ He glanced at Sullivan who had stopped typing and was following the conversation. ‘Come with me.’

Duggan followed him into his office. McClure sank into his chair with a sigh and waved Duggan to another chair. He caught sight of one of the leaflets Duggan had found in Quinn’s house and picked it up from the desk. ‘Where are the rest of these?’

‘The guards have them. In the Bridewell. In their evidence locker.’

‘We should get them back. We don’t want them floating about.’

‘I asked. But they wouldn’t give them back.’

‘We’ll ask again.’ McClure let go of the leaflet and watched it float to the desk. ‘Things are balanced’ – he paused – ‘so delicately.’ He picked up the leaflet and let it fall again. ‘That’s all it might take. For one side or the other to make a move.’ He watched it for a moment, then reached for a cigarette and lit it. ‘Looks like we’re in a situation
where both sides are looking for an excuse to invade. Or, even better for them, trying to provoke the other into doing it first.’

‘I’ll go down to the Bridewell again and try and get them back.’

‘Your information about the British plan is on the nail,’ McClure went on, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘They’ve told the Department of Supplies that they have to cut back on the coal they can give us. And the oil and fertilisers and other things. Because of the losses on their convoys. Barely enough supplies getting through to maintain themselves. And their war effort.’

‘The first part of their plan,’ Duggan nodded. So, it was starting. Regrets at first. You have to understand our problems, the way things are. Then up the pressure. You’ve got to help us, it’s in your interest too. We both need to secure these convoys and your western ports are the only way to do it. Then, it’s a matter of life or death. We must have those ports to survive. So we have to take them by force if you won’t let us have them. No choice.

‘Exactly,’ McClure nodded. ‘There are talks still going on between officials. They say they’re sorry but that’s just the way it is. Have to concentrate on providing for their war needs. And their own population. No mention of quid pro quos. Or of retaliation for neutrality or not giving them access to the ports or anything like that.’

Duggan lit a cigarette too and they smoked in silence for a moment.

‘What about all the food we’re sending them?’ Duggan said.

McClure shook his head. ‘We don’t want to escalate the situation with threats of retaliation. Just play into the hands of those who want to invade, get it over and done with.’ He leaned back and stretched his arms above his shoulders and then straightened up at the desk. ‘Anyway, that’s none of our business. A matter for officials and diplomats and the government. But it’s a hell of a situation. Very dangerous.’

‘What can we do?’

‘Our jobs,’ McClure sighed and gave him a grim look. ‘Gather the
best intelligence we can. Make sure that whatever happens doesn’t happen by accident. By people getting the wrong end of the stick. Misinterpreting something.’

Duggan half stood to reach the ashtray on the desk and stub out his cigarette. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Keep on the Goertz trail for the moment. Your man Quinn is the best lead we’ve got on him for a while.’

‘Could I just ask you something?’ Duggan said. ‘Just to be absolutely clear. We are trying to catch him, aren’t we?’

McClure looked at him for a moment. ‘Let’s put it this way,’ he said. ‘We want to find him. We want to know what he’s up to. When we know where he is and what he’s doing, someone will decide what to do with him. Okay?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Duggan stood up and went towards the door.

‘And,’ McClure stopped him with a wintry smile, ‘we shouldn’t really speculate about the bigger picture. The country has enough armchair generals and strategists without us adding to their number.’

Duggan cycled along Benburb Street and then cut down to the quays and the raw east wind pushing the tide up the Liffey hit him in the face. He lowered his head into it, pushed harder on the pedals, thinking about what McClure had said. And Sullivan. Both had seemed shocked in their own way, McClure by the evidence that the British were really following a plan that would lead to invasion. Sullivan by coming close to the reality of the war, seeing where people had died, in the middle of nowhere. Randomly. For no reason.

In the Bridewell, the station sergeant gave him a disgruntled look and said something into a phone. ‘This is against regulations, you know,’ he said to Duggan as they waited. ‘Once something goes into the evidence locker it can’t come out again.’

Duggan nodded, rubbing the backs of his hands, trying to warm them up, not caring about the sergeant’s problems. Whoever McClure had talked to had obviously overruled him and his regulations.

A young guard arrived in the office with the package of leaflets and handed it to Duggan. ‘And Mr Quinn?’ Duggan prompted.

‘He’s waiting for you,’ the sergeant said. ‘That’s against regulations too. He’s been charged so he can’t be questioned again.’

‘I’m only going to talk to him,’ Duggan said. ‘Not question him.’

‘I can only do what I’m told,’ the sergeant said, almost to himself, as if preparing for a defence barrister demanding to know why he had allowed evidence to be removed. He nodded to the young guard who led Duggan out of the room.

‘What’s he been charged with?’ Duggan stopped at the door.

‘Offences Against the State,’ the sergeant said. ‘Harbouring a member of an illegal organisation.’

‘What’ll he get for that?’

‘Six months.’

‘His wife? Has she been charged?’

‘Not yet.’

Duggan thought for a moment. ‘Could I make a quick phone call?’

The sergeant raised his eyes, sighed, then nodded at the guard who showed Duggan into an empty office. Duggan phoned McClure and asked him if he could offer Quinn the release of his wife if he cooperated.

McClure thought about it. ‘I’ll get onto it,’ he said. ‘But don’t offer any cast-iron guarantees.’

Quinn was at the same table in the same interview room. His arms were crossed on the table, his head resting on them. Duggan thought
at first that he was asleep but he raised his head slightly when the door opened. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was spiked up from the way he had been resting his head.

Duggan took off his overcoat and placed it and the parcel of leaflets on the spare chair at his side of the table. He offered his hand to Quinn. After a moment, Quinn gave it a perfunctory shake and straightened up.

‘Have you been here all night?’

Quinn shook his head.

‘Did you get any sleep?’

‘Not much,’ Quinn said in a hoarse voice and coughed to clear his throat.

‘I’d like to have a talk with you,’ Duggan said, settling himself on the chair. ‘Unofficially. Nothing said here will be used against you in court or anything like that.’

‘
Wer sind Sie
?’ Quinn coughed again.

‘
Ich heiße Paul Duggan
.’

‘Are you a policeman?’ Quinn continued in German.

Duggan shook his head, offered nothing more, intrigued by Quinn’s switch into German. Did he feel more comfortable speaking German? Like earlier when he’d been more forthcoming in German? But why? Was he distancing himself from his current predicament? Living in some fantasy world where Germans already ruled?

They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Duggan reached into his inside pocket and took out their only picture of Hermann Goertz, the British police one taken when he’d been jailed in England before the war for spying. He placed it on the table facing Quinn. ‘Was this man your Christmas visitor?’ he asked in German.

Quinn took his time responding. Then he nodded.

‘What’s his name?’

‘I don’t know. He never told us his name.’

‘Had you ever met him before?’

‘No.’

‘Did he ever come to the Friends of Germany meetings?’

Quinn shook his head.

‘How did he come to spend Christmas with you?’

‘Someone asked if he could stay with us for a few days.’

‘And you didn’t ask who he was?’

‘No,’ Quinn shrugged.

‘But you knew he was a German?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he spoke German to you?’

Quinn nodded. ‘And English to my wife. She doesn’t speak German.’

‘She’s not in the Friends of Germany?’

‘She’s not interested in politics.’

Duggan took out his cigarette case, offered him one but he shook his head. Duggan lit one for himself and pulled the tin ashtray within reach. ‘So what happened then?’