Red Herring (24 page)

He moved down the passage.

Walsh hitched his trousers at the knee and squatted down by O’Flynn, lifting the Irishman’s lifeless arm and placing the tips of two fingers between the bone and the tendon over the radial artery. Satisfied, he stood and regarded the body for a minute, silent and absorbed. He could have been praying for O’Flynn’s immortal soul, or sending up a quick novena to St Jude, the patron saint of difficult causes. Unlikely, but not impossible. “Sad,” he said. “Life’s twists and turns.” He gently pushed at the Irishman’s shoulder with the tip of his brogue in a reflective manner. “This fella had quite a reputation in certain circles in the old country. ‘Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart’.” He looked around. “Know your Yeats? Should do, name like Molloy.”

“I thought he was a rat,” said Molloy, his arms around Caitlin, who was shaking, her teeth chattering.

“Sometimes circumstances will force a fella to act in a way that he might never have imagined he would,” said Walsh, his voice soft. “And he carries that knowledge with him always.”

“You set him up for this and then you had him killed,” said Molloy. “Why?”

Walsh flicked a handkerchief open and bent down to wipe the toe of his shoe. “Why?” He stood and began to fold the handkerchief, taking his time, holding the corners together, shaking out the creases, putting his thoughts in order. “They say you’ll find that word scratched on the walls of every cell in the Soviet Union.
Pochemy?
In Russian it means sort of, ‘Why
me
? After everything
I
’ve done for the Revolution? For the Party? For Uncle Joe?’” He pulled back a cuff and checked the time. “But you know what? I’ll tell you why.”

Molloy thought of O’Flynn’s comments from the previous night about the baddy’s foolish insistence on tying up a plot’s loose ends.

Walsh read his mind. “Don’t flatter yourself, son,” he said. “I always blab after a killing. It’s the penitent in me, buried away.”

He put the folded handkerchief back in his pocket. “I’ve never been a bible basher or a street-corner man of any kind — I’ve got no use for God or any of that malarkey — but a lot of the places I’ve bunked in over the years — flops, jails, People’s Palaces, what-have-you — a lot of those places the Bible was the only way to pass the time. The occasional almanac or lingerie catalogue or political tract of one sort or another, a deck of cards sometimes, but always the Bible. So I know it pretty well. Take the religion out and it’s a good read. And I can quote it at length. Hell’s bells, show me a Wobbly who can’t.”

He turned and nodded towards O’Flynn. “Timothy 6:10. ‘The root of all these evils is the love of money and there are some who have desired it and have erred from the faith and have brought themselves many miseries.’”

He clapped dirt off his hands and brushed it from his strides. “Banal as it might seem here in this dank corridor with a dead
Irishman and a German gun and enough explosives to blow up Parliament — well, that last one’s a stretch — but there’s your why. Plain old money. The root of everything. It’s brought
me
many miseries, God knows. I’ve fought inequity in all its evil guises me whole life. And now I find I’m asking
myself
why? Because this thing I’ve been fighting for so long, it’s just so flamin’” — he stretched out his hands —
“big.
And you can’t touch it! It’s like the blimmin’ Vatican or the Rothschilds or, I dunno, Black Lodge Masonry. It can’t be changed from the outside, I doubt it could be changed from within.”

He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “The very things I despised in my father, always worrying about
money
and
tomorrow
— in
Poverty Bay
for Christ’s sake, was ever a place better named? — those very things are happening to me! I look around. What have I achieved? And I’m getting old and I have bugger all to show for it. Farms in the Wairarapa? Bunkum. A few acres and a couple of cows.” He put his hat back on and squared it. “So if an opportunity comes along I have to act upon it. And an opportunity came along. Simple as that. Fortuitously, on this occasion, I happen to agree with the outcome.”

He shrugged. “See what I mean? Just pours out. Am I dreading the loss of heaven? Could well be.”

He hooked a thumb in the direction of Queen Street. “And we’re on the verge of chaos, let’s not forget. Anarchists. Bombs. Innocent civilians. The country held by the throat. Those stories seeping out of Russia? Is that how it will end? Is that why so many bombs were thrown and so many good men and women died? I’m just doing what I can to tilt things in the right direction.” He pointed to the late O’Flynn. “Hard on Frank, but he was a fella who lived by the sword, so in his heart he’d understand.”

He looked at his watch. “Anyway, son. You foiled an attempt on the life of our beloved Prime Minister. By a wild-eyed Red, what’s more. The country’s in your debt. You’ll be working with a better class of divorcée from now on, I’d think.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Sid Holland’s bodyguard escorted him to the scene of the crime. An electric cable had been fed down the stairwell and lighting strung along the beams.

“Brace yourself, Prime Minister,” said Walsh, as he took hold of the sheet covering O’Flynn. “This is fairly ghoulish.”

“I was on the Western Front, Walsh,” said Holland. “I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies, don’t you worry.”

Walsh pulled back the sheet, tugging slightly where the blood was sticking in the area of the head and chest. Half of O’Flynn’s face had collapsed. His dead eyes stared at the ceiling.

“Do we know who the bastard is?” said Holland.

Walsh stood. “A wharfie,” he said. “Frank O’Flynn. Known wrecker and malingerer.” Walsh took a note from his suit pocket and handed it to the Prime Minister. “This was on him.”

“‘Thus always to tyrants!’” said Holland, translating.
“Tyrannis
with one ‘n’. Can’t even spell, the ignorant beggar.” He looked at O’Flynn’s bloodied face. “He’s a Red, I suppose?”

“As pigeon’s blood,” said Walsh.

“I want this kept under wraps,” said Holland. “No use scaring the horses.”

“Understood,” said Walsh.

“They set a charge on a railway bridge near Huntly this morning,” said Holland. “God alone knows how many people might have perished. Fortunately, the police were tipped off.” He shook his head. “The whole show’s starting to feel like St Petersburg in 1917, don’t you think?”

“Identical, Sid,” said Walsh. “What now?”

“Oh I know what now,” said Holland. “Don’t you worry about that.” He looked around. “By the way, where’s the fella who shot him?” he said. “Like to express my appreciation.”

“Upstairs,” said Walsh. “Giving statements.”

“Excellent,” said Holland. “Police taking charge. We’re going to see a lot more of that, mark my words.”

The Prime Minister and his party left.

A young constable cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr Walsh,” he said. “Would you mind having a look at something for me.”

Walsh followed the constable’s torch beam into O’Flynn’s work area.

“What is it, son?”

“I’m probably speaking out of turn, but when I left school and before I joined the police I was a pit boy at the Blackpool Mine in Westport,” said the policeman. “So I’ve had experience around explosives. Not a lot, but some.”

“Is this area safe?” said Walsh, putting one hand into his pocket, feeling the Luger.

“It is,” said the policeman. “As houses. That’s what I’m trying to say, Mr Walsh. That’s what’s funny.”

“What’s your point, son?”

The young policeman shone his torch on the timer. “Well, this whole set-up looks a bit queer to me. Only one of the fuses was plugged into a detonator. And look at the size of the stick?” He
shook his head. “You’d get a bigger explosion from a string of Double Happies. I can’t, sorta, work out what he was, y’know, what he was hoping to do.”

Walsh relaxed. He took a notebook from his breast pocket and thumbed for a clean page. “What’s your name, lad?” he said.

“Robbins, sir.”

Walsh licked his pencil and wrote down the name. “Christian name?”

“Kerry, Mr Walsh.”

“Enjoy police work, do you, Robbins?”

“I do, sir, yes,” said Robbins.

“Intend sticking with it?”

“I do, Mr Walsh, yes.”

“I like your stamp, Constable,” said Walsh. “I’m going to keep an eye on you. I think you’ll go far.”

“Oh, thanks, Mr Walsh,” said Robbins.

“But my advice, and I say this to all young blokes starting out in life, whatever their position — it’s not an original observation but it’s a sound one — I say to them, for your first couple of years breathe through your nose. You know what I mean by that?”

Robbins thought hard. “Um, not really, no, sir.”

“No,” said Walsh. He closed his notebook. “No, I bet you don’t. I’m saying keep your blasted trap shut. I’m saying there are things going on here that will be dealt with at a level beyond your comprehension. Ordnance examiners and Special Branch and God-knows-what. Not some country bumpkin who thinks he smells a rat because he spent a couple of days in the pit when he was a lad.” Walsh put his hand on Robbins’ shoulder and pulled him in close. “I’m saying that if you voice your misguided and ill-informed concerns to anyone,
anyone
mind, you’ll be checking padlocks in Eketahuna till 1970. You foller?”

“Jesus,” said the young constable in a small voice.

“And there’s no call for profanity, either,” said Walsh, hooking a thumb in O’Flynn’s direction. “A man’s warm body lying just down the hallway, his poor soul still in transition.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Walsh,” said Robbins.

“Good,” said Walsh.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Molloy and Caitlin were waiting in a room next to the Town Hall manager’s office. A constable had brought in tea and biscuits. Caitlin had a spray of blood on her blouse. She was very quiet, hand shaking when she lifted her cup.

The door opened and a man entered. He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and had policeman written all over him. He sat down and put a folder on the floor by his chair.

“How d’you do,” he said. “Detective Sergeant Howard.”

“What’s going on?” said Molloy.

Howard looked at him. “A looney tried to blow up the Town Hall and kill the Prime Minister and several hundred of the good people of Auckland,” he said. “Then he was shot and killed by a private detective. Doesn’t happen that often. Raises a few questions, sorta thing.” He took a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Smoke?”

“Good on you,” said Molloy, taking two and handing one to Caitlin. The policeman put a box of matches on the table. “Okay,” he said. “Want to tell me what happened?”

“Miss O’Carolan had nothing to do with all this,” said Molloy. “She was an innocent bystander.”

“Funny place to be a bystander,” said Howard. “Two floors under the Town Hall.”

“She’s a reporter.”

“Even so.”

“The dead bloke’s name is O’Flynn,” said Molloy. “That’s the name he uses, anyway. Used to use. I think his real name’s O’Phelan. He’s an Irishman. I didn’t shoot him. Maori called Sunny Day did. Works for F.P. Walsh, the union big wig. Shot him with a Luger that belonged to me.”

“Where’d you get the Luger?” said Howard.

“Italy.”

“I thought your mug was familiar,” said Howard, looking up. “22nd?”

“That’s right.”

“23rd,” said Howard, tapping his chest. “Just at the end. Fiji for two years. Then a year’s jungle training in Queensland in preparation for the Japs. Once we were ready for that they sent us to Italy.”

“Situation normal,” said Molloy.

“You’re telling me,” said Howard.

There was a knock on the door.

“Got a mo’, Craig?”

There was whispering.

“Back in a tick,” said the policeman, closing the door.

“What’s going on?” said Caitlin, still in shock.

“Not sure. Are you all right?”

“Not really. I can feel his blood on my clothes.”

They waited for what could have been an hour. The door would open and people would look in and change their minds and go out. At one point Walsh’s laughter could be heard. Molloy went to check in the corridor but a constable prevented him from leaving. Eventually, Howard returned, accompanied by a tall, stooped man in a well-cut suit, with a wrinkled face, a suggestion of white hair, and
dark eyes that could cut steel. “Two days in a row, Caitlin,” he said. “Your father will be putting me on a commission.”

“Johnny, this is Mr Haigh,” said Caitlin.

“We’ve met,” said Molloy. “How are you, Frank?”

“I’m well, Johnny,” said the lawyer. “Yourself?” He took two sheets of paper from his briefcase. “This is a suppression order. You’re not to discuss or write or in any way pass on details of what happened in the basement of this building earlier today, on pain of prosecution under section 161 of the Emergency Powers Act. An Act which has yet to be passed, incidentally, but that doesn’t seem to worry these clowns.” He unscrewed a fountain pen and offered it to Caitlin. “Once you’ve both signed you’re free to go. My motorcar is outside. Shall we?”

“What about Johnny?” said Caitlin.

“He can take off too,” said Howard.

“How come?” said Molloy.

Howard shrugged and held a hand way above his head. “I’m just the flunky,” he said.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Sid Holland took a seat in 1YA’s Studio C. There was a jug of water and a glass on a table in front of him, and a microphone covered with a sock.

“Some of our speakers like to have a gargle beforehand, Mr Holland,” said the nervous studio manager.

“Done this sort of thing plenty of times,” said Holland. “Let’s get started, shall we?” He pulled the heavy microphone towards him. “Testing, testing. One, two, three, four.”

“Sorry, sir,” said a voice from the control room. “Caught us by surprise there, Mr Holland.”

“Well, hurry it up,” said Holland. “I’ve got an aeroplane to catch.” He took notes from his breast pocket and unfolded his reading glasses.