Peeler (20 page)

Shifting tack, O’Keefe took the murder book on Janey Plunkett from his briefcase and extracted the old booking photo of the girl – taken a year and two months before her death when she had been arrested for public drunkenness. This he laid on the table next to the crime scene photo from the hillside. He tapped the print with his finger. ‘You know who
she
is though, don’t you, Noonan?’

‘Was, yeh mean. Know who she
was
.’ Again, the glance over the shoulder and the smirk. Noonan caught the look in O’Keefe’s eyes this time and closed down his smile. Turning back to the photo, he said, ‘Janey Plunkett. Had a room here for half a year, maybe eight months. Sure, yis fuckin’ well know I’d nothing to do with her death. You know full well ’cause Connolly told yis, gave yeh the book on her as well, I’d bet.’

Taking Deirdre’s death portrait, O’Keefe placed it beside Janey’s booking photo. As he did, he was struck by something that had escaped him the first time he had looked at the prostitute’s photo back in Sutton’s when Connolly had handed over the file. The girl found dead in the alleyway bore a notable resemblance to Deirdre Costelloe. She had the same dark hair, round face and high cheekbones. You wouldn’t say they were sisters, O’Keefe thought, but there was a likeness.

O’Keefe stayed silent, hoping for a reaction from Noonan. Admittedly, he hadn’t picked the best place from which to observe his face, but he noticed Mathew-Pare staring hard at the pimp and knew he was looking for the same thing. It pleased and surprised O’Keefe in equal measure. The man had been forced on him and yet here they were, working much like partners.

‘Who’s this?’ Noonan asked. ‘Is she why yis’re here?’

‘Never seen her before, have you not?’ O’Keefe said.

‘Never in me life.’

‘You sure about that, Noonan? Won’t go well for you now, if you don’t admit to knowing her and we find out later that you did.’

The man looked over his shoulder again. There wasn’t fear in his eyes – not exactly – but there was concern. He seemed to be thinking, trying to gauge how serious things were. How badly did the Peelers want someone for the girl’s death? Was it bad enough to fix someone like himself up for it? The pimp was aware it would be hard to frame him for a murder like this, but he knew that O’Keefe could have him interned for several days if not indefinitely, under the Restoration of Order Act, Cork being a Special Military Area.

O’Keefe waited, considering his own options. At the very least he could cost the bastard money, leave his untended business vulnerable to takeover. On the other hand, Noonan no doubt had friends in high places; all pimps and madams did. No whoremonger could run his shop without them. Brothels were tolerated, even encouraged, throughout Ireland and the rest of the Empire. O’Keefe had read once that Saint Thomas Aquinas himself had written that they were as vital to any city as its sewers, and Whitehall and the Crown Courts seemed to agree. But they existed in a grey world legally. Men like Noonan stayed on the right side of the police and the powers that be – stayed open – by being useful, not merely as a means of allowing soldiers far from home an outlet for their physical needs, but by passing information and cash payments to favoured detectives, army officers and public officials. In city police barracks from London to Cork to Calcutta, it was a commonly accepted fact that if you wanted to know the most likely men to be promoted, find out who the pimps and madams were handing the fattest envelopes to. Inside information was as much part of the trade as fresh whores. Their survival depended on it. And in times such as these, this applied doubly, because now the whoremongers had a new master to appease.

The IRA allowed the brothels to operate for their own purposes: funding and information. As Connolly had said, there was a strongly puritanical streak among many of the leading members of the IRA and Sinn Féin, but obviously there was a practical streak too. O’Keefe imagined that more than one ambush on some poor army patrol had had its genesis under knocking-shop sheets.

Noonan was now deciding if, or how, he would disappoint his masters by giving information to O’Keefe. Weighing it all up. Bother the Peelers, get shut down, locked up for a week and lose his whores to another house maybe. Bother the Shinners and catch a bullet. No choice really. He looked back at the photographs. ‘Is this girl,’ pointing at the crime scene photo of Deirdre Costelloe, ‘the dead one?’

‘She is.’

He shook his head. ‘Who do yis want for it?’

At his question, Mathew-Pare cracked a half-smile. Noonan was a smarter man than O’Keefe had thought. Who was wanted for it and who actually did it. Maybe two separate issues altogether.

‘We want who killed her. No politics here, Noonan. And I’m not here to tether you up for something you had no part in. I want to find who killed this girl. Maybe find who killed Janey Plunkett in the bargain. Whoever did Janey cost you her wages, don’t forget.’

The whoremonger smiled a little at that. ‘Not much, mind. She was losing me money the amount she was pissed on gin. Not able for work half the fuckin’ time. Hadn’t the heart to run her off, though.’

Starkson laughed out loud at this and O’Keefe looked hard at him. The man stifled his laughter but continued to smile. Noonan responded defensively, surprising O’Keefe. ‘You might think it’s a laugh but she was … there was something about her. Anyway, she’s dead now. I told that peacock Connolly she was working the lanes and the quays as well. Giving it away for a tot. For fuck all. Any loony could’ve choked her if she said something smart to him. I don’t see – ’

‘You told Connolly about the girl doing private parties for a gentleman punter. Out in the country some place.’

Noonan looked up at O’Keefe. ‘I did?’

‘You did.’

‘I must have then. Posh fella. Private parties, card games out in some pile. A social evening for select gentlemen. Connolly never came back to me on it, mind you. And Janey came back from the parties in one piece, so I didn’t see the point – ’

‘How often were these parties held?’

Noonan shrugged. ‘Once a month maybe? I don’t know. The girls liked going, they did. Money for old rope. Gentlemen players. Played cards and then played with the girls. A fine time had by all, by all accounts.’

‘I need a name.’

Noonan shook his head, delivering a regretful smile. ‘Don’t have a name. Only came himself the once. The first time. Picked out the girls and then sent his man to collect them each time after that.’

‘When was the last time?’ O’Keefe asked.

‘Two, maybe three, months ago. Always paid up, always brought my girls back in one piece.’

‘And what did he look like, this gentleman?’

‘Never laid peepers on him, meself. Tadhg dealt with him. Ask him yerself if yis didn’t crack his loaf.’

O’Keefe took out his notebook. ‘I need the names of the girls he used.’

Again, the rueful smile. ‘Jaysus lads, you don’t want much, do yis? Right. Janey’s dead, sure. The others …’ he made a show of trawling his memory, ‘one of them is back up in Dublin in the Monto. The other married a navy fella. Fierce religious chap from Plymouth or Portsmouth – some place ’cross the water.’ He smiled and held out his hands. ‘I could give you their names, I could. Yis could track ’em down if yis liked.’

‘Seamus Connors,’ Mathew-Pare said, from his place on the sofa.

Noonan didn’t even blink. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Not one of the Volunteers you pay off?’

Noonan shook his head. ‘Pay off? Sure, I’ve hardly a ha’penny left after what I pay you grasping fuckers.’

O’Keefe closed his notebook and lifted the photographs from the desk, placing them back in their files and into his briefcase. ‘Let’s go.’ He made his way around the desk to the door.

The other men stood. The pimp remained seated at his desk. He leaned back, linking his hands behind his head. Safe as houses. Protected. If not by some high-ranking cop or army officer, then by the IRA. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be more help. Come back if you think of anything else.’

O’Keefe stopped and turned back to him. ‘One more thing, Noonan. The car. The gentleman’s car. You see what kind it was?’

There was a flicker in the pimp’s eyes. It was there and then gone. ‘A Model T, maybe? Nothing special, like. Not that I saw. Anything else?’

***

On the street in front of the brothel, darkness had settled, though it wasn’t yet five o’clock. The air was cold and moist. Mathew-Pare’s cigarette glowed orange.

‘He knew more than he was telling.’

O’Keefe nodded. ‘He did, but he thought better of telling us. It might not be the same fella, anyway.’

Mathew-Pare considered this. ‘No, I think it is. “Card sharpie”? Card games in the country? And the car. You notice how Noonan made a point of playing down the car?’

‘Yes, the car and the name. He has both I’d bet. Still, won’t be hard to find out who the fella is. Flash car. Card player. Someone in this town will point us in the right direction.’

‘Point us toward Seamus Connors?’

‘Point us wherever we need to go. I can’t see Connors playing cards with gentlemen at some Big House. What we need to know is whether or not Connors knew Deirdre was stepping out with the card player. That would give us good motive. It occurred to me to ask the pimp about him, but you know yourself what his answer would have been.’

Mathew-Pare exhaled smoke. ‘Connors was a med student. Been known to play the odd hand of cards, Sergeant, student chaps. College? Sounds every bloody bit the young gentleman to me. They could be best pals – Connors and our mysterious card sharp. Or maybe the girl, Anne Duffy, got her facts wrong. Maybe there was no “posh fella” and it was Connors the whole time. Maybe the two are one?’ He smiled as if at his own joke.

‘No, she was clear about it. Connors used to come to the flat. Why would he stop coming, just because he got a car somewhere? No, they’re two different people. One girl, wanted by both. We need to find the card player first. See is there any connection.’

Keane spoke up, his voice not confident in the company of the other, senior men but willing nonetheless. ‘What does … I mean, what’s the point of following up the card games? Connors has the motive, you said it yourself. Shouldn’t we shake the trees and see if he falls out? The Branch man said he was running with the West Cork Brigade flying units. Couldn’t we step up raiding in and around the country areas until we get someone to give him up?’

O’Keefe thought about it and then shook his head. ‘No. We need something firmer. West Cork is a big place. We’d need to involve hundreds of troops and all we’d end up with is a series of ruined houses and raised IRA recruitment in the area. And all for the sake of a “maybe”.’

Mathew-Pare said with his half-smile, ‘Do you think there’s any young chap in West Cork who hasn’t already been recruited? Kitchener couldn’t have done half what the IRA has done to motivate idle boys to pick up rifles for the cause. Far better than any conscription.’

‘Like I said, we only have a “maybe” on Connors. Sure, we could destroy the whole of the county looking for him.’

‘It’s a pretty fair “maybe” though. He had the motivation, and he’s wanted for any number of murders. Lieutenant Colonel Smyth for one,’ Mathew-Pare said.

‘Look, other murders aren’t my problem. If I think he’s good for our murder, I’ll rifle every house in the county to get him, tap every tout in Christendom …’

‘What, all three of them?’

O’Keefe smiled. Unlike past insurrections against the Crown in Ireland, there were virtually no informers to be found within the IRA and almost as few amongst the general and criminal populations. The IRA was a tighter, more ruthless ship this time around, and citizen and rogue alike were terrified of being marked as traitors to the cause. He continued, ‘I’m telling you, if we put Connors up as our number one suspect, that’s it for the investigation. The brass will run with it and, when he’s found, charge him with Deirdre Costelloe’s murder whether or not he’s done it and we’ll be fobbed off to other things.’

The Englishman’s face was as bland as ever. ‘So they’ll charge him with it. Case cleared. Connors gets the rope or a bullet and the world gets shot of a bad fucking article, making West Cork a safer place to live for you and me.’

‘Safer for young women?’

‘We don’t know if our killer had anything to do with the whore’s murder.’

‘Exactly. Which is why we need an exhumation order.’

Mathew-Pare dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his boot. ‘I could take Starkson in there right now and have the name for you in five minutes. We would know any connection Connors might have with this house and the card player, whether Connors knew our victim was seeing him. Five minutes. You know that, don’t you?’

O’Keefe held his gaze. ‘You’d want to be willing to kill him outright. He’s more afraid of the IRA than he is of us.’

‘He’d fear Starkson more than Satan himself, after five minutes. It’s an option, Sergeant. I’m no more for violating the rights of ordinary citizens in ordinary times than you are, but …’

The Detective gave that half-smile again as he said this and a chill washed over O’Keefe. He suddenly felt the weight of violence, of brutality, that Mathew-Pare and his men represented and it struck him that they were the embodiment of the way the British had always worked in Ireland. Civil at first, pronouncing upon the value of rights and citizenship in an Empire bigger and more modern than the world had ever seen. But when the people of the country refused the Empire something, anything, there were men like Starkson and Eakins around to slap them back into line. O’Keefe wanted no part of the man’s methods, the methods of the Empire. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No heavy stuff.’

Mathew-Pare shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. Where to now then, Sergeant?’

It was over. Like that. Something in O’Keefe knew it had been too easy. He thought for a minute. ‘Why don’t I drop you lads at the Victoria barracks? Then I’ll head over to Anne and Deirdre’s rooms. Give them the once-over. You could get something to eat and maybe ask after the procedure for exhumation. We’ll head back after that.’

‘Exhume the whore? The Plunkett girl?’