Peeler (34 page)

‘Gunmen, priests and politicians. An unholy trinity,’ O’Keefe said.

Hanratty smiled and looked to the ceiling as if searching his memory. ‘Diderot spoke of kings and priests but I don’t think he would disagree entirely if I were to paraphrase: “When the last politician is strangled with the entrails of the last priest, only then will we truly be free.”’

O’Keefe shook the man’s hand, smiling. ‘Worry about the priests and the politicians when the time comes, I suppose. Worry about the gunmen now.’

‘And the pig-stickers, Sergeant?’

O’Keefe’s smile faded. ‘And the pig-stickers.’

***

It was dark on the streets of Cork – only a few stragglers, moving hurriedly, heads down, rushing to get home before the curfew. Some had packages under their arms: sausages, rashers wrapped in newsprint. A bottle of whiskey or stout for the long evening indoors behind the drapes and shutters, listening to the roar of armoured cars marauding the empty streets. The sporadic crack of rifle and pistol fire. The sudden stutter of a Lewis machine-gun. O’Keefe picked up his pace.

Montenotte was an area to the north of the city. For the past century, it had been inhabited by Cork’s wealthy merchants and administrators. Built on a hill, it had paved footpaths, imposing black, wrought-iron gates fronting grand, redbrick houses. Tidy lawns, trimmed privet hedges and tended gardens. The area hadn’t suffered much during the Troubles, but the people were scared. It was rumoured that many Montenotte men had sent their women and children ‘home’ to England.

Halfway up the gravel driveway, O’Keefe saw the car. It was parked next to a black Rolls-Royce under a stone arch where once horse-drawn carriages waited out of the rain for their passengers to emerge from the house. O’Keefe remembered that Barton had been riding in the Rolls when he had spoken to him outside the tractor works.

O’Keefe approached the other motor, noting the tan top covering the interior. The shining grate of the front grill was overlaid with the inscription ‘Hispano-Suiza’. The words in Deirdre’s diary came back to him.
Fancy Spaniard
. He rested his hand on the smooth, sky-blue bonnet.

‘You want that hand cut off?’

He turned to the voice. A silhouette in the shadows at the back of the car, its face in darkness. O’Keefe couldn’t see a gun but that didn’t mean the man who had spoken didn’t have one.

‘It’d be you doing the cutting then?’ O’Keefe kept his voice as casual as he could. He slowly moved his hand from the bonnet to inside his jacket, thumbing open the leather catch on his holster.

The man stepped from the shadows. He was of average height, late twenties to early thirties. Average face, as far as O’Keefe could see – his hat brim tipped down over his eyes. ‘Step away from the motor or I’ll serve you up, cunt.’

O’Keefe recognised him. Barton’s driver. He had been at the wheel of the Rolls outside the factory. ‘Mr Barton loves his car, does he? Is the man himself in, or are you playing lord of the manor?’

He took a step forward. ‘Who’s asking?’ Another step.

‘Sergeant O’Keefe, RIC, Ballycarleton. And you can stop where you are or stop a bullet. I’ve a few questions I want to ask your boss.’

The man slipped something into his trousers. Maybe a gun or a club. Something to protect the bossman. O’Keefe had heard that men like Barton had hired ex-soldiers as minders and drivers, and many of them were armed. Guns of any kind had been outlawed in the country under the Restoration of Order Act – even bird guns were taken from farmers – but armed bodyguards of wealthy men loyal to the Crown were known to be tolerated by the authorities. Still, O’Keefe wondered why Barton needed one. He was son and heir to one of the biggest employers in the city. Whether Home Ruler or republican, the people of Cork needed work. O’Keefe would have thought that this fact alone would have been enough to ensure Barton’s safety.

The man said, ‘I’ll ask if he can see you. Wait here.’

‘And your name is?’

He turned back to O’Keefe, his hand on the door. ‘Wait here.’

Moments later he returned.

‘This way.’ O’Keefe tried to place the accent. It was English, but sounded as if some of its edge had been lost to time spent in Ireland.

O’Keefe followed him inside, up a short flight of stairs, into the bright light of a back hallway. The floor was carpeted, muffling their footsteps. Framed photographs were arranged on the walls on both sides of the passageway. Before they reached the end, O’Keefe could hear voices, a man’s and a woman’s, coming from the room ahead.

‘Mr Barton’s only got a moment. Already told everything he knows to the last one of you lot what came round. Think you’d have got the picture then.’

They stood at the closed door to the parlour.

‘And what picture would that be?’ O’Keefe asked, assuming someone from Connolly’s squad had interviewed Barton earlier.

A smile cracked on the security man’s lips as he opened the door. The light in the parlour was much dimmer than in the hallway – only a side table lamp lit, a coal fire glowing in the grate. The room was decorated in much the same style as Hanratty’s, but without the warmth or intimacy. Swagged curtains and overstuffed chairs. Lounging on a loveseat, her feet tucked beneath her, pumps lying on the floor, was a young woman with blonde hair cut in a short boyish bob. The style was all the rage in London and New York, according to the papers, but O’Keefe had never seen a woman with such short hair or such red lips. No, he recalled, he had seen lips as red but only in brothels.

Barton was standing with his back to the fire. O’Keefe crossed the room and extended his hand. ‘Mr Barton.’

‘Sergeant. We meet again.’ His handshake was weak, his palms damp and warm. Releasing O’Keefe’s hand, Barton nodded to the girl on the sofa. ‘This is Miss Traynor, Sergeant. She’s a … family friend.’

The girl giggled. Not as worldly as O’Keefe had first thought, nor as old. Most assuredly no friend of a family like the Bartons.

‘My apologies for calling so late in the evening,’ O’Keefe said. ‘I’ve a few more questions I wanted to ask you regarding Deirdre Costelloe.’

‘Certainly. Anything I can do to help.’ Barton clasped his hands behind his back, all business. Nothing to indicate he was at all surprised or discomfited by O’Keefe’s visit, but at the mention of Deirdre’s name, O’Keefe noticed the girl had glanced anxiously at Barton and then away.

‘If Miss Traynor would excuse us?’ O’Keefe looked pointedly at Barton, waiting for him to dismiss the young woman so that they could speak in private. Barton ignored him, lifting his glass from the mantelpiece and taking a drink.

‘Drink, Sergeant?’ He held up the glass.

‘No thank you.’ O’Keefe took out his notebook and pencil, flicking through the pages until he came to the one he wanted. Brass tacks, he thought, looking up at Barton. ‘How well did you know Deirdre Costelloe?’

Barton smiled. ‘You asked me that very question when you visited my office.’

‘All the same, Mr Barton.’

‘Have you cause to assume my answer will have changed?’ When O’Keefe didn’t answer, Barton said in a monotone as if he’d grown tired of some game. ‘She was a typist, as I recall. A pleasant, punctual girl.’

O’Keefe looked back down to his notebook and scratched a note to himself. He looked up after a long moment. ‘Did you have a relationship with Miss Costelloe?’

Barton stared at O’Keefe for a time before answering. The smile was gone from his face. ‘I did not. I can’t imagine why you might think I did.’ He looked down at the girl on the sofa. O’Keefe followed his eyes and saw that the girl had picked up a cushion and was cradling it in her arms.

‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking your leave, Constable. I’m getting rather tired of being bothered by the police about a matter that is of no concern to me. This is the second time, no, the
third
time I’ve answered questions about a girl I hardly knew.’

He must have seen the flicker of surprise in O’Keefe’s eyes. The smile returned to his lips. ‘Yes Constable,
third
time. You didn’t know, did you?’

‘I’ve been in the field a great deal.’ O’Keefe felt the heat in his face. A bite of anger in his gut. He pressed on. ‘Do you know how Deirdre Costelloe died, Mr Barton?’

‘I read the papers, like every other man and dog in the street.’

‘Do you know how Mr McKenna died, sir?’

‘Mr McKenna?’ The smile dimmed.

‘The man you played cards with last night. He was murdered after he left the card game.’

‘Of course, Charlie Bannon jingled earlier with the news. Dreadful.’ He took a drink. ‘And no, Constable, I’ve no idea how he died.’

‘Were you in the war, Mr Barton?’

Annoyance rode hard in Barton’s voice. ‘What does my service in the war have to do with any of this?’ He gestured with his glass and took another long drink.

‘Trench raiding? Hand-to-hand fighting?’ O’Keefe watched Barton’s face.

‘I know where you’re going with this, Constable, and it’s tiresome.’

‘
Sergeant
.’

Barton set his glass down and stared at O’Keefe. Menace seeped from him like mustard gas. ‘You know what time I left the card game, so you know I couldn’t have killed the man. I wasn’t happy losing to him,
Sergeant
, but it’s not as if I couldn’t afford the loss.’

O’Keefe rifled through his notes. ‘Do you belong to a club, Mr Barton?’

‘I belong to several. I’d invite you along but somehow I don’t think you’d appreciate the favour.’

‘Any clubs here in Cork? One hosting private parties? Girls carted in from Madam Grace’s for entertainment?’

Barton laughed. ‘No, but I wish I did belong to such a club! Sergeant … How did you make sergeant, anyway?’

‘My predecessor was shot.’

Barton’s eyes showed nothing; no amusement, no pity. ‘Shame.’

‘Did you have sexual relations with Deirdre Costelloe?’ There was a pleasing meanness to the question and O’Keefe almost smiled, remembering what Hanratty had said of Barton’s injuries from the war.

‘Get out of my house, Sergeant.’

‘Right, then. Thank you for your help,’ O’Keefe said, shoving his investigation diary into his briefcase, snapping its faulty clasps. He started for the door.

Barton’s voice was like a fusillade from a hedgerow. ‘Does your DI know you’re investigating a murder that’s already been solved? That you’re harassing loyal citizens of the Crown when you’ve caught the man who committed the crime of which you’re accusing me? Does he, Sergeant?’

‘Did I give you the impression I was accusing you of a crime, Mr Barton?’

Barton held O’Keefe’s stare for a long moment, then turned back to his drink without answering.

O’Keefe left the parlour, striding past the row of framed photographs on the wall. Barton on horseback. Barton in hunting gear holding a dead stag by its antlers, cigar clenched between his teeth. Barton in his mess dress uniform. He stopped, taking a closer look at the photograph of Barton in his regimental best. Looking behind him down the empty hallway, he heard the girl’s voice and the low, muffled reply. Before he could think about it, O’Keefe snatched the photograph from the wall and shoved it under his belt, buttoning his coat over it.

Twenty minutes later, O’Keefe was on Washington Street, on the fringes of the Marsh. Curfew had long since fallen. Behind him he heard a shout and pounding footsteps. He ducked into a doorway and drew his revolver.

Hard-soled shoes slapping the footpath, panting, the flapping of open trenchcoats. And then they passed, running hard, three men. A flash of steel in one of the men’s hands. The whine of the armoured car engine came next. A mounted searchlight painting the street with glare. Splashing light into the doorway where O’Keefe was hiding. He pressed himself further into the shadows as the car approached and tried the door. It opened. A narrow entryway and then stairs leading up. No light on the landing. A man’s
voice.

‘Who’s that there? Who’s come in now? We want no trouble here.’

O’Keefe stayed silent.

‘I’m telling you, if you don’t answer me I’ll throw open my window up here and shout for the police, me thinking you a common robber.’

He weighed his options. ‘I’m not a robber. Just caught out after curfew is all.’

There were low voices above. ‘Are you one of the proper lads then?’

Options, O’Keefe thought. Choose one. ‘I am … just waiting it out. Won’t be a bother to you.’

The voices again, murmur and dispute. A woman’s voice joining her man’s.

‘You’re welcome then, so. Only we’ve no food, boy. None we can spare if you’ll forgive us. We’re wanting ourselves.’

He holstered the Webley. ‘I’ll only be a moment, until the street is clear. I’ll be no trouble to you.’

‘God bless you then, son.’

The woman’s voice. ‘And up the republic!’

The picture frame in his trouser waist dug into his stomach, reminding him of its presence. He took it out and removed the glass by touch, putting the photograph into his briefcase. He carefully set the frame and glass against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. A small token of appreciation, he thought, smiling to himself, from the proper lads of the IRA.

He stepped out of the doorway and back onto the city’s streets.

O’Keefe hadn’t considered it before, but wondered now if business in the knocking shops had suffered since curfew had been imposed. He imagined it had, as he hugged the shadows of the empty, cobbled laneways of the Marsh, hand inside his trenchcoat resting on the grip of his Webley, heading for his last stop of the evening.

A wedge of light slanted through the heavy, red curtains. There was light in the crescent of glass above the doorway. O’Keefe scanned the street in both directions as he mounted the stone steps to Madam Grace’s. The street was void of life and it was not yet half-past nine in the evening. Eyes were on him though. He could feel the assessing weight of them on his back.

The same bruiser as before answered the bell. He didn’t seem to recognise O’Keefe.

‘Ye doing any business at all?’ O’Keefe asked him.

The big man stood back and held the door open. ‘Always doing business, boy. No point closing when legs can always open.’