“His wife and his wee girls found him. Did I tell you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer as I followed him out.
I thought I’d better give Major Thornton a call before going off with Carrick. He’d told me to check in every day so I decided to get that over with now, before toasts to the dead constable got too far along. I called from the Ordnance Depot office while Carrick and Jacobson chatted. I reached a clerk at 5th Division HQ who said Thornton was out on the rifle range. I left word that I’d met up with Carrick, that we were going to the RUC station at Killough, and that I’d picked up a lead. I figured I’d give the major something positive. I had no idea how the name of Red Jack Taggart would help me find the BARs, but it was something. At least I’d have a picture to show around, like a real policeman. And I had a few places to show it: the pubs in Annalong and Ardglass, where Mahoney had been sighted, as well as the Lug o’ the Tub Pub in Clough. I was heartened that the suspects so far were all drinkers, rather than operagoers or bird-watchers.
As we left the office, Sergeant Brennan approached, stopping short when he saw Carrick. His mouth opened for a second then he clammed up. He saluted and I returned it, watching his face as he mumbled a greeting and hurried past us.
“No need to worry, son,” Carrick called after him. “I’m not here to take you away.”
The unspoken word
yet
hung in the air. Brennan had his hand on the doorknob but didn’t open it. He turned to face us, his body rigid.
“One of you will, soon enough,” he said. “I don’t expect justice from the army or the British.”
“I am an Irishman too, young man,” Carrick said. “I was born here, unlike you or your lieutenant here.”
“He’s not my lieutenant,” Brennan said. “I just heard from my CO that Major Thornton is bringing me up on court-martial charges. Unlawful disposition of military property in wartime. Is that what you’re here for, Lieutenant Boyle? To build a case against me?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. The door slammed and Carrick and I looked at each other in surprise.
“Perhaps Major Thornton has some new evidence,” he said.
“Perhaps he wants someone else to take the rap before some colonel starts eyeing him. Brennan is a sitting duck, an enlisted sitting duck at that. Thornton busts a lieutenant to buck private and ships him out then gets a noncom thrown in the slammer. The heat’s off him and the brass are happy. If he gets me to find the BARs he’ll come out smelling like a rose.”
“It’s natural you’d defend Brennan,” Carrick said.
“Because we’re both papists?” I asked, with an edge of anger I couldn’t keep out of my voice.
“To some extent. But no, that is not what I meant. I mean since you have both seen the elephant, and Thornton has not yet been in combat. I’ve found that’s a greater divide than the one between the Church of Rome and the Church of Ireland. Wouldn’t you agree, Lieutenant Boyle?”
Once again, he didn’t wait for an answer.
• • •
I FOLLOWED HIM along the coast road, the wind sending white fluffy clouds over our heads and out to the Irish Sea. As we neared the village of Killough, houses appeared, their whitewashed fronts close up to the road. Driving on the left, I could have stopped and knocked on a door without getting out of the jeep. To our right, gray pebble beaches curved into the distance. The seawall running along the edge of the road was crumbling, with weeds and moss growing in the cracks. A church steeple rose in the distance, the only structure that seemed solid and lasting. Carrick turned and I followed him down the main street, which was lined with stately sycamore trees that looked in better shape than the two-story homes and shops that bordered it. He turned again and parked behind a row of cars in front of a white building with a sign marking it as an RUC station.
“It looks like someone’s home,” I said after I’d parked the jeep and joined Carrick.
“It is. In villages of this size, the RUC has built station houses for married personnel. Mostly sergeants. In the smaller villages, like Clough, the constables make do out of their homes. Here, we’ll go around back,” he said as he opened a gate that led into a small backyard. Late-season flowers still bloomed in a garden next to cauliflowers and onions. The yard was surrounded by hedges, and at its center was a table in a small grassy area. It looked like a pleasant place to spend a warm afternoon, which this wasn’t.
We entered a long kitchen, a stove at one end radiating heat. About a dozen men in the dark green RUC uniform turned and greeted the district inspector, and a woman of about forty, dark haired with pearl white skin, leaned forward and gave him a kiss. I could have been back home. A gathering of cops after a funeral of one of their own. Telling stories, drinking, feeling glad and guilty it wasn’t them, and working hard at not giving away a thing.
“Lieutenant Boyle, this is Mrs. Chambers, wife of Constable Robert Chambers, that tall fellow over there.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Chambers,” I said as I nodded to her husband, who made his way over to us.
“Always glad to have a Yank as a guest. Call me Mildred,” she said. “Bob, look, we’ve another American.”
“Bob Chambers,” her husband said as he walked up and we shook hands. “Boyle, is it?”
“Yes, Billy Boyle.” I expected a comment about my Catholic Irish name, but it appeared that Chambers simply wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly. He nodded and offered me a whiskey. I took it gladly and looked to Mrs. Chambers, who had waited for her husband to finish his introduction.
“Bob, I was just starting to tell Lieutenant Boyle about the other Yank, the military policeman. Adrian’s friend, what was his name?”
“Burnham,” he said. “Samuel Burnham. He’s in the parlor with some of the lads. Do you know him, Boyle?”
“We’ve met. He helped me out of a difficulty when I first arrived—”
“You mean your trouble with Heck?”
“Word travels fast,” I said.
“That man’s away in the head, and I’ll tell him so to his face,” Bob said.
“Not with that uniform on you won’t,” Carrick leaned in to say, clapping Bob on his shoulder.
“Right enough, sir, right enough.”
“What is he?” I asked, not understanding what he’d said.
“Sorry, Boyle. Well, he’s an eejit of the worst kind.”
“You don’t have eejits in America?” Mildred asked.
“Idiots?” I hazarded as a guess. “We have them.”
“Aye, eejits, like I said. Heck is a prime example. Always getting in the way, he is. Not like the local MPs, like Burnham in there. Heck has to be in on everything, to the point he plain wastes our time.”
“Your Captain Heck is preparing for a new army regulation, as I understand it,” Carrick said. “Apparently your military police have limited powers. They do very basic police functions but any investigative matters are handled by the area commander.”
“Right,” I said. “Like this investigation is in the hands of 5th Division.”
“Heck is awaiting a directive from the provost marshal general, assigning the Criminal Investigation Division which he is in charge of the primary responsibility for investigating all criminal activities.”
“That explains a lot,” I said. “Heck doesn’t want anyone else to solve the case. As soon as this directive goes into effect, he can take over and grab the glory.”
“Or be saddled with a dead-end investigation.”
“No, I don’t think so. He must be holding something back. Otherwise, why would he want to hinder me?”
“Aye, that’s why we weren’t surprised when he wanted to arrest you,” Bob said. He finished off his whiskey with a smack of the lips.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“It’s our business to know everything that goes on in these parts. Right, sir?”
“Right you are, Constable. Introduce Boyle around, will you? He needs to know who his friends are while he’s among us.”
Bob filled my glass and his, and brought me around to quiet knots of men while his wife put out plates of cheese, pickles, soda bread, and potato bread. I met constables from Lowtown, Seaforde, Maghera, and Kilcoo. They all had Protestant names, I was fairly sure, but no one called me a papist—at least not to my face. They felt familiar, the way they loosened the collars of their uniforms, the way they stood with each other, hands draped over shoulders in easy intimacy, the relaxed laugh when away from the scrutiny of civilians. It could have been my kitchen and it could have been Dad taking around a cop from out of town, making him feel at ease. It felt comforting and wrong at the same time. The RUC probably had some fine cops, and Carrick seemed like the real thing, but they also had their fair share of Catholic-hating thugs. Some of these fine boys could be with the Red Hand. Any of them could have been in on the arms heist. I wanted to flee, I wanted to stay. They were my enemy; they were my brothers.
I let Bob take me into the parlor, trying to understand what all this meant. Who was who. Who was an Irishman and who wasn’t. These Northern Irish weren’t British but they were undoubtedly Loyalists, which meant they’d prefer all of Ireland still to be ruled from London. Failing that, it was their mission in life to keep Ulster part of Great Britain forever. The blood oath. Who were these boys but my mirror image? On our side, the side of the antitreaty IRA, we hadn’t signed in blood as literally as the Orangemen had, but we shared the same sort of fixation: Ireland ruled our way, all of it, but from Dublin. Change capitals, change color, change church, and Bob’s your uncle, as the English say. I laughed out loud and realized I needed to watch how fast I drank my host’s whiskey.
“Billy,” Sam Burnham said, surprise registering on his face. He was dressed in his pinks and greens, shoes shined and brass buttons gleaming. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Neither did I until I ran into DI Carrick, and he invited me along to meet the local cops. Did you go to the funeral?” I felt a bit outclassed in my tanker jacket and boots. At least I had a tie on—or field scarf, as the army insisted on calling it—which helped.
“Yes. I thought we ought to have someone there after Adrian told me it was today. Like he said, we’re all brother officers.”
“He’s right. Back home cops will travel pretty far for a funeral, especially when an officer has been killed in the line of duty.”
“Yeah, I hadn’t thought of myself as a real cop, like you, but I guess it was good to have somebody there in uniform. I’m glad Adrian told me it was a dress uniform occasion. I hadn’t worn my Class As over here before now.”
“Any other Americans attend the—”
“Billy,” Sam interrupted, “this is Constable Adrian Simms from Clough.” He reached out to a young constable as he passed by. “Adrian, Lieutenant Billy Boyle. He’s the detective from Boston I told you about.”
“Pleased to meet you, so I am,” said Adrian. He looked to be the youngest of the constables here, maybe twenty-five or so, and on the short side. He had light sandy hair and a fair complexion, with freckles on his cheeks. His smile was quick and genuine. “Sam tells me you were sent here by General Eisenhower himself.”
“He’s definitely interested in what happened here,” I said, trying not to sound too full of myself.
“As am I. That’s my turf, you know, even though it happened on the base. An arms theft and a murder on my patch—don’t like it a bit, I don’t.”
“Some folks might not worry too much about an IRA man being executed by his own,” I said.
“Aye, true enough. But I say if we let the IRA or the Red Hand go about dispensin’ their own justice, then we’ve given up any chance of havin’ any justice of our own, Catholic or Protestant alike. Know what I mean?”
“I do, Adrian. Justice should be blind.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. I’d like the lady to keep at least one eye open to mind the store, don’t you think?” He winked and raised his glass.
“See why we get along so well, Billy?” Sam said. “Adrian and I have done our fair share of keeping the peace around here, especially between civilians and GIs.”
“Aye, when they see the two of us standin’ side by side, neither of us favorin’ one or the other, they tend to patch things up quick like.”
“Have you come up with anything on Mahoney’s murder? Any leads at all?”
“No, but I’ve got my eye out for Red Jack. You’ve heard about him?”
“Yes, Carrick told me. I also just found out about this new regulation that will give Heck jurisdiction over all criminal investigations. Did you know about that, Sam?”
“They’ve been talking about that for months. Sounds like it’s finally going to happen.”
“You think that’s why Heck wanted me in jail? So he could bide his time and then solve the crimes after the new regs come out?”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way. That would mean he’s got something up his sleeve, otherwise he’d only get handed a pig in a poke.”
“That’s what I think. This also explains why Thornton is so fired up to get the BARs back. The sooner it happens, the sooner he gets the credit instead of Heck. That’s his ticket to a combat command.”
“Combat? Thornton?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, he told me he wanted one of the heavy weapons companies, that he had this plan to add more firepower, which is why he had all those BARs.”
“Then he must’ve had a change of heart. Last I heard, he’d put in for a transfer to Corps HQ, to the Ordnance Battalion. That’s a good safe distance from the front.”
“Then that’s two lies he’s told me,” I said, taking in what Sam was saying now.
“The other one?” Adrian asked.
“I asked if he’d told me everything he knew, and he said he had. But he left out that Carrick had just requested Sergeant Brennan’s file. That would make Brennan a suspect, so why would Thornton not tell me about it?”
“Maybe he’s just trying to sound gung ho to impress General Eisenhower’s investigator. And maybe the Brennan thing slipped his mind,” Sam said. “Did you ask Carrick what he was going to do about Brennan?”
“No, I didn’t get a chance. He was pretty prickly at first.”
“That’s the DI, it is,” said Adrian. “He’s not broad-minded on certain matters touching religion and the Crown. He’s a fair man, though, at the end of the day. I doubt a Catholic has ever stepped foot in his home or ever will, but he works the law as fair as can be.”