This Irish House (21 page)

“Stop it, Kate.”

“What could you possibly protect me from?”

Neil took the file from her, flitted through the photos, chose one and held it up.

“This.”

She looked at the photo and dismissed it with the confidence of a woman who has never suffered an unfaithful husband. “Patrick was not a philanderer, Neil. There is nothing you could show me that would make me believe that.”

“You didn't think he was a terrorist, either.”

“I still don't.”

Neil clasped his hands together. “I investigated this myself, Kate. I spent months verifying the information. I had no reason to falsify any of it.”

“You're British and you're Special Forces. That's reason enough.”

“Give me credit for some integrity, please.”

“Why should I?”

“Because, damn it, I care for you.”

Her hands clenched and her control broke. “How dare you say such a thing?” She pulled the file from his hands. “You don't know the first thing about caring for anyone.” She picked up her handbag and coat. “Tell the prime minister that Robbie Finnigan is the biggest stumbling block to the peace process. Until he's removed we'll never have unbiased law enforcement in Northern Ireland.”

Neil frowned. “Why not tell him yourself?”

“Because I'm going home. Don't call me, Neil. I want to be left alone.”

“I understand.”

At the door she turned to look at him one last time. Her eyes were wide, accusing. “I doubt that very much.”

“Kate—” He would have said more, wanted to say more, but she was gone and the copied file with her.

The knock on her door startled Kate. No one knocked in Ardara or in any another Irish village. Visitors called out from the yard, opened the door, stuck their heads inside and called out again. If there was no response they walked through the house searching the rooms for good measure. Kate knew to keep her bathroom door locked if she wanted privacy. Setting aside her report, she walked in stocking feet to the front door and opened it. The woman on the porch opened her arms and Kate, after her first mew of surprise, threw herself into them.

Finally she drew back, laughing. “Maeve. I didn't expect you for at least another month.”

Maeve flipped back her waist-length red hair and sucked in her cheeks. “I thought you needed me, darling.”

“I've never needed anyone more.” She pulled her friend inside. “Come in. Have you eaten?”

“I'm fine for food but I could use a drink. Have you anything decent?”

Kate felt almost giddy. “I feel like wine, very decent, I think. Please, join me.”

“I'm yours, love. You needn't ask twice. Lead the way.”

Deciding the occasion warranted something special, Kate selected a twelve-year-old merlot from Patrick's personal collection, held it up for Maeve's approval and poured it into her favorite Waterford. Maeve followed her into the living room. They sat across from each other on identical couches close to the blazing turf fire.

Maeve spoke first. “What in bloody hell is happening to you, Katie?”

The sound of her childhood name undid her. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her hands shook. To avoid spilling the expensive wine, she set her glass on the coffee table.

“Good Lord.” Maeve's eyes were wide with shock. “Is it as bad as all that?”

Kate nodded.

Maeve walked around the table and sat down beside her friend. “Tell me.”

Pressing the back of her hand against her nose, Kate sniffed. “I don't know where to begin.”

“Is it Kevin?”

Kate shrugged. “I thought so, until this morning.” She searched for a tissue, blew her nose and tried to explain. “Have you ever been so sure of something, so sure that you would stake your very life on it, only to find that everything you believed was a lie?”

Maeve rubbed the lipstick from the rim of her glass. “This is about Patrick, isn't it?”

Kate looked up, surprised. “How did you know?”

“I didn't, not really. It was just a guess.”

“They're saying Patrick was a terrorist.” Her eyes filled. “That's not right, either. According to their report, he was more than a terrorist, he was an assassin, a murderer, no better than the men who killed him.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don't know what to believe.”

“He was your husband for a very long time.”

Kate hesitated.

Maeve refilled her wineglass. “Is there anything else?”

“No, not really.”

Maeve's eyes were green, light-struck, wise. “Tell me, Kate.”

“There are photos of a woman.”

“Do you have them?”

Kate shrugged it off. “It's ridiculous. Patrick loved me. I never doubted that, not once.”

Maeve was silent.

Kate's face clouded. “There are a thousand reasons why Patrick was with her that may have nothing to do with infidelity.”

“Of course there are.”

Kate stared at her friend. “I don't think I could bear it, Maeve, not even now, after all these years.”

Maeve folded her long legs beneath her, leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “I know you, Kate. More than anyone I think, you could bear it. It might even make things easier for you.”

“How could that be?”

“It's been six years since Patrick's murder and you're still walking around like a corpse. For pity's sake, Katie, his clothes are still in your closet. Perhaps if you saw Patrick for who he was, a man with flaws instead of a saint, you could move on and find some happiness in this life.”

“I don't think it would make me happy to learn that my marriage was a lie.”

“It wasn't a lie. I have no doubt that Patrick loved you. You were his wife, the mother of his children. If there was anyone else, she certainly never took your place. Some men—” She stopped.

“Go on.”

“I'm sorry. I've no business going on like this. I came to comfort you and I'm making you miserable and angry.”

Kate studied Maeve's lovely flushed face. “Please finish.”

“No, Kate.”

“I think I've been horribly naive,” Kate said quietly. “I'd like you to finish what you were going to say.”

“It's just a theory. I've no evidence.”

“I've evidence enough for ten lifetimes. What I need are reasons. I've no experience, Maeve. Patrick was the only man in my life. You're different. Help me.”

Maeve sighed. “Aye. I'm different.”

“I didn't mean—”

Maeve held up her hand. “I know what you meant, Kate. I don't pretend to be a saint and I'm not offended. In my defense, I've never done anything to hurt anyone. In fact, I've gone to lengths to be sure no one was hurt. I don't know if I can help you. I know that men don't look at relationships the way women do. A man can sleep with a woman he finds attractive even if he doesn't love her, even if he has a wife at home whom he does love and has no intention of ever leaving. Having an affair or a mistress doesn't diminish the affection he has for his wife.”

“Are you telling me that Patrick—”

“I'm not
telling
you anything. I'm offering the possibility of an explanation.”

Kate shook her head. “It isn't possible. I knew him better than anyone.”

Eyes averted, Maeve, fidgeted with her wineglass. “Did you?”

“Do you want to see the file?”

“Good God! You actually walked away with a file?”

“Do you want to see her?”

Maeve swallowed. “Yes,” she said, her voice huskier than usual.

Kate left the room.

Maeve closed her eyes and pressed her hands against her temples. Already she had gone through a considerable amount of wine. She felt Kate come back into the room. Opening her eyes, she took the cream-colored file from her grip and opened it. Drawing a deep, sustaining breath, she forced herself to look at the police photo and the woman seated beside Patrick Nolan.

K
evin was not familiar with the Falls. He couldn't remember ever visiting the house where his father grew up and where his uncles now lived. He'd never questioned that the relationship with his father's family began and ended in his own home. Now he knew that circumstance had everything to do with his mother. She wasn't comfortable in West Belfast. It was too dirty, too poor and too dangerous.

It was his first time away from Tranquility House. He kept his eyes on the ground, glancing up occasionally to be sure he was traveling in the right direction. Row after row of new brick buildings with colorfully painted doors did little to disguise the slumlike quality of the neighborhoods. Litter gathered in rain gutters, bars covered street-level windows and rusted debris lay in forgotten piles beside porches. Kevin thought of the lace curtains and cozy kitchens of Ardara, where peat fires smoked their friendly hazes and welcomes were warm and genuine. He hated Belfast. He hated Neil Anderson and, more than anyone, he hated himself.

A black taxi pulled up beside him. He walked faster. The window rolled down. “Kevin.”

The voice was familiar. He turned and nearly tripped with relief. Uncle Liam. He would have called out but the man shook his head.

The door opened. “Climb in, lad.”

Kevin scrambled over a pair of legs and fell into the middle of the back seat. Two men were in the back, two in front. Other than his uncle, they were all strangers. No one said a word. Kevin was very conscious of his own labored breathing. “Where are we going?” he asked at last.

Liam answered. “Settle in, lad. We'll be there soon.”

Kevin was more nervous than frightened. He was with Liam. Nothing would happen to him.

Neil pulled out of the narrow space where he'd parked the nondescript car he was driving. He'd waited long enough. The taxi was a considerable distance ahead. He would not be observed. His hands clenched around the wheel. He'd made a mistake with Kevin. The boy looked more like a prep school student out for a Sunday stroll than a drug abuser. He was too clean, too innocent and much too young for the role thrust upon him. Whatever the lad's involvement in the drug world had been, it couldn't have been serious. He hoped to God that blood ran true and that Liam Nolan would protect his nephew.

He followed the taxi down the Springfield Road to the Monagh Bypass. He made a quick right on to the Glen Road away from the city toward Andersonstown. The streets were wider. Traffic had calmed. He dropped farther behind. The black taxi continued east and turned abruptly on to a small street where a group of young boys played football. Neil passed by the turn and doubled back. He drove slowly down the street. The taxi was parked halfway up on the footpath. No one was inside. Again, Neil turned, drove past the parked car, found a side street and parked in back of a lorry. He ached for a cigarette. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge and settled in for a wait.

Kevin looked around, careful not to make eye contact. He was seated beside Liam on a long L-shaped couch that faced a television screen. The conversation was filled with terms he knew nothing about. He felt awkward and very young, much younger than the grim, hard-jawed men all around him. He was obviously an outsider. No one would tell him anything. Deliberately he blocked out the voices on both sides of him. He knew he would have to bring something to Neil Anderson. He trusted Liam to supply him with information.

Somewhere in the conversation he was aware of his own name. The room was silent. Liam introduced him. “This is my nephew, Kevin Nolan.”

No one said a word.

“Patrick's son,” Liam finished.

The sudden buzz of conversation startled him.

“He'll be with us for a time,” Liam explained.

The men had questions, questions they would voice after he'd gone. Kevin could see it in their eyes, cold, narrow, speculative. For the first time he was aware of details. Everyone was casually dressed, black leather jackets, windbreakers, denims. Only men were represented, all clean-shaven, unsmiling, purposeful. No one was high or out-of-control. Four men were hunched over a table quietly discussing what looked like an aerial map. Nothing had been exchanged. As far as he could tell, never once had drugs or money come into the conversation. Anderson would be disappointed. A burst of triumph surged through him. Perhaps this would be easier than he thought.

Liam stood, pulling Kevin up with him. “Come with me, lad. We'll have a snack in the kitchen.”

Kevin followed him into a clean, brightly lit room furnished with a small wooden table and four chairs. Liam nodded toward a tray filled with biscuits, snacks and scones. “Help yourself,” he said. He seated himself and spooned sugar into his milky tea.

Filling a small plate, Kevin sat across from him. “What am I doing here?”

“Working off your promise to the RUC.”

“I'll have to tell him something.”

Liam shrugged. “Tell him what you heard but describe no one, not even if he shows you photos.”

“I heard enough but I didn't understand anything.”

“Say there's a shipment coming in two MacReady lorries down the Crumlin Road at half past eleven on Tuesday next.”

“Is it true?”

“Aye.” Liam swallowed half his tea. “But it's only a front, to make him trust you. We'll give him a little to keep the rest in reserve.”

“What kind will it be?”

Liam frowned. “What do you mean
what
kind?
When did you become interested in weapons?”

“I thought you meant drugs.”

“No,” his uncle said slowly. “Drugs ruin a man, lad. I hope you're done with all that.”

“Anderson won't be happy,” Kevin protested. “He wants drugs.”

Liam pulled another cup across the table and filled it for Kevin. “Trust me. He'll be happy with what you give him.”

* * *

Neil opened his thermos and swigged down a healthy portion of steaming tea. Ten years in the desert had thinned his blood. He felt the cold. No one had gone in or come out of the house in over two hours. Once again he checked his watch. Was it his imagination or was time moving particularly slowly? Where in bloody hell was Kevin? What were they doing in there? His imagination soared. He felt heat in his fingers and ears, an indication of rising blood pressure. What was the matter with him? Breathing deeply, he deliberately quelled his fears. The lad was in no danger, not here, not this time. The meeting was a setup, designed to test Kevin and to put Neil off the track. Nothing he needed to know would take place tonight.

The door opened and Kevin walked out with Liam Nolan. They were alone. Together they climbed into the taxi. Neil slumped down, careful to keep his head hidden. Two more men left the house and joined them. Neil didn't recognize the driver. The taxi pulled away from the curb, circled and headed back down the street. Neil kept his eyes on his rearview mirror, waiting until the taxi disappeared around the bend before starting his car. Kevin looked unharmed and in good spirits. He would wait until tomorrow before contacting him.

Neil's hands shook. He couldn't insert the key into the ignition. Cursing, he tried again. This time it fit. Slowly he turned the car around and headed back toward the City Centre.

Maeve's laugh bordered on the hysterical. Kate didn't know whether it was her fourth glass of wine or the shock of reading the contents of the envelope she'd filched from the prime minister's office. “Are you all right, Maeve?” she asked anxiously.

“I'm drunk,” her friend replied.

Kate frowned. “Shall I make up a bed for you?”

Maeve shook her head. “I'll manage. I'm not driving.”

“You haven't said anything about the photos.” Maeve hugged herself and leaned over the table to inspect the pictures again. “There isn't much to see,” she said slowly. “The woman's face is completely shadowed and so is Patrick's. It may not even be him.”

“It's him.”

“How can you tell for sure?”

“I know my husband. The way he holds his head, his fork.” Her throat closed. She cleared it. “I know my husband,” she repeated.

“Do you know the woman?” Maeve's voice was low and muffled, alcohol-thick.

Kate picked up the photo and studied it carefully. “No,” she said at last, “but there's something about her—”

“What?”

“I can't put my finger on it.” She handed the photo to Maeve. “What do you think?”

“About—?”

“Do they look like two people having an affair?”

“Oh, Kate,” Maeve moaned. “How can anyone determine such a thing from a picture?”

“Look at them,” Kate insisted.

Maeve looked. She hesitated. “They're eating,” she said slowly. “It looks like they're drinking, too. I see wine on the table.”

“What else?”

“Their faces are too dark, but their hands—” she stopped.

“Their hands—” Kate prompted her.

“They're not touching each other,” Maeve finished.

Kate sighed. “No, they aren't.”

“People have meals together, Kate. It doesn't mean they're having an affair.”

“Look at the matches on the table.”

“Why?”

“Look at the monogram. What does it say?”

Maeve squinted. “I can't make it out.”

“Try,” Kate insisted.

“It looks like the Lime Tree.”

“Do you know the restaurant?”

“It's in Belfast, I think.”

“Yes, it is, a lovely restaurant in Belfast.”

“Well?”

“I was there for the first time last week.”

“So?”

“Patrick was a regular patron.”

“Is that a problem?”

Kate leaned forward, her eyes wide and earnest. “Don't you think it's odd, considering the amount of time Patrick and I spent in Belfast, that he never once took me to one of its finest restaurants, one that he frequented often?”

“I'm not sure that's important.”

“He never even mentioned it.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Patrick was a conversationalist, Maeve. There wasn't anything he didn't say or describe in great detail. It was very uncharacteristic of him not to even mention the name of a restaurant where the maître d' knows his name, enough to offer me condolences six years later.”

Maeve's mouth, lovely, sultry, deliciously curved, tightened. “Leave it, Kate.”

“What if I can't?”

“What good will come of it?”

“The truth.”

Maeve snorted. “Truth, always the Holy Grail. What if it tears your family apart?”

Kate looked at her friend incredulously. “Look at my family, Maeve. Can it get any worse?”

The green eyes were very bright and filled with pity. “Don't test the waters, Katie. Leave this one alone. You've your children to think of. Patrick was a man, not the best, but certainly not the worst. Accept that and move on.”

“Is that what you would do?”

“It is.”

Kate leaned her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes. Six years ago she thought nothing could ever hurt her again.

The following Wednesday she stayed the night in the city. Seven o'clock found her at an impasse, clenching the telephone. Her wrist ached. Coming to a decision she punched in Neil Anderson's number.
Please
be
home,
she prayed silently.

He answered on the second ring. She relaxed her death grip on the receiver.

“Neil, this is Kate Nolan.”

“Kate. How can I help you?”

“Can you meet me?”

“Of course. When?”

“Now.”

“Are you in Belfast?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be there in ten minutes.”

“No. I'll come to you, and make it an hour.”

“Done. Do you have my address?”

“Yes.”

“I'll be waiting.”

Kate replaced the receiver, walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and winced. Pulling herself together, she stepped into the spray. A shower would revive her.

Her visit with Kevin had been a disaster. He was cocky and sarcastic, the Kevin she couldn't reach. Even Deirdre's wit and patience couldn't cut through his cheek. Her daughter was a love, too serious and cautious for a girl her age, but a rock of sanity. As much as Kate appreciated her, she knew she must not cling too closely. The child's experience bore little relation to normalcy. Time, the experts said, would take care of everything. Kate was beginning to doubt their judgment.

She was very close to succumbing to panic. For the first time since Patrick's death she doubted her ability to cope. Only her work kept her sane. Attending to the abused civil rights of the downtrodden of the Six Counties, she lost herself in their difficulties and avoided her own. Even her father's unfailing wry wit, which once had the ability to send her into peals of helpless laughter, couldn't lift her spirits. Kate was ashamed to admit it was Patrick's defection more than anything else, more than Kevin, that had claimed her spirit. Despite her brave proclamations to Neil and the prime minister she had grave doubts. It was impossible to read the report and not have them.

Kate combed her hair back allowing it to dry naturally and pulled on a pair of denims and a pullover. Deciding against makeup, she smoothed balm over her lips, zipped up her boots, threw a blue leather jacket over her shoulders and stared at herself objectively in the mirror. A slim woman, obviously forty years old, with good teeth, large eyes surrounded with spidery laugh lines, a mouth defined by recent suffering and thick, fine hair stared back at her. Her only jewelry were the tiny hoops in her ears and the gold wedding band she had never removed. Kate frowned at her reflection. She was pale and plain and aging. No one looking at her scrubbed face and straight hair would ever accuse her of vanity.