I might have to find out. I pushed back from the table, a feeling of intense weariness washing over me. I could have laid my head down on the hard wood surface and fallen asleep. I looked at my watch, and it was half past one. I was hungry and needed a cup of coffee.
"You want me to give these to you?" I said to Hawkins, gathering up the files.
"Yes, sir. Please pass them through the slot."
"Must be a lonely job down here," I said, still trying to get a response from the man.
"The day does sometimes go slowly, sir, but I don't mind. Not much else to do."
"Why not ask for a transfer?"
"Here's why," he said, rapping on his right leg, the sound of knuckles on wood echoing in the room. "Lost my leg at Narvik. Lost my wife and son in Coventry when the Germans bombed it. There's not much for me to do but file papers and be glad I still have a job to do. Anything else, Lieutenant?"
"No, nothing. Thanks for your help. Sorry, about everything."
"Same here," he said, and with that I understood why he said so little.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
I found major Cosgrove and Slaine waiting for me. In a rare moment of courtesy, the major invited me to lunch in the Stormont officers' mess. I followed them upstairs to more open and elegant surroundings. The dining room was paneled in dark walnut, buffed to a high shine. Soft carpets graced the floor and paintings hung along one wall, huge landscapes of castles and knights on horseback. Probably Irish lands and English castles.
It was very civilized, so civilized that it was hard to believe we were only two floors above evidence linking Slaine O'Brien, if not all of MI-5, to murder. I stared at an English knight on one of the canvases, his black armor gleaming and a long sword held out before him. He was right over Cosgrove's head, one black knight watching over the other. I decided this was not the time or place to accuse either of them of their crimes.
"Well, Boyle, did you find anything of value?"
"There's very good background material in those files. Could be helpful, I suppose. But no smoking gun."
"What did you expect to find in our file on Constable Simms?" Slaine asked. "He's never been investigated for anything; there's just the usual accumulation of data."
"You've looked at it?"
"Yes, to see what you found so interesting about the man. There's not much, I'm afraid."
"No. Major Cosgrove, did you know Adrian Simms was blackballed when he asked to join the Royal Black Knights?" A waiter appeared with the wine Cosgrove had ordered, and we waited in silence as he poured.
"I had no idea. I am not an active member. I travel too much and I can only attend meetings sporadically. But membership is useful for staying in touch with that stratum of Ulster society."
"Which stratum is that?"
"Those Unionists who are not bomb throwers. They want to maintain their connection with Great Britain but at the same time they wish for a stable society here, for all."
"Like the banker, McBurney," I said.
"Exactly. Good man, McBurney."
"He actually employs a Catholic. The bank janitor."
"Things won't change overnight, Boyle. Hiring one is better than killing one, I say. Don't you agree?"
I didn't answer. I raised my glass, thought of a few Irish toasts, then thought better of it and downed half the wine.
"I may see McBurney tomorrow evening at Brownlow House, if I can get away. Some sort of event honoring members from the American lodges. I shall ask him about your suspicions."
"I hope you have better luck than I did."
"So were the files a waste of time, Billy?" Slaine asked.
"No, I got to see a nice picture of you. They brought in the surveillance photo of your meeting with Jenkins. Do you document all your contacts like that?"
"Yes. It's part of our record keeping. It comes in handy if we're building a case file. And photographs can be used in other ways if the informant ceases to be cooperative."
"Blackmail?"
"Don't be melodramatic, Boyle!" Cosgrove said. "Once an informant betrays his organization, we need to keep him on a tight leash. He needs to know if he tries to run, we will show the photographs to those who will be interested. It's all part of the game. They come to us in the first place, after all."
The soup arrived. It was potato and leek, steaming hot, and very good.
"How did Jenkins become your informant?"
"Ancient history, Billy. The soup is good, isn't it?"
"So he's been one a long time?"
"Boyle, it is bad form to discuss informants, even here in the officers' mess. One never knows," Cosgrove said, glancing at a passing waiter.
"Sorry. Professional curiosity, that's all. Without mentioning any names, how do you feel about depending on informants? Back in Boston I was always worried that they might turn on me, and the next meeting would be a setup."
"You have to be careful, it's true," Slaine said. "We have many sources of information, though. I think I'd hear if something was afoot. And you forget, Billy, we are not the police."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that retribution would be mine," Cosgrove said, slurping down the last of his soup.
"Did one of those sources tell you about the murder of Pete Brennan?" I asked. "You never said how you got word so quickly. Was it the RUC?"
"Ha! Do you call your FBI every time there is a murder in Boston? I think not," Cosgrove said.
Slaine stayed quiet as the waiter removed the soup bowls.
"So who was it?" I asked.
"Excuse me, sir," a waiter said, handing Cosgrove an envelope. "Your office said to give this to you straightaway." Cosgrove tore it open, read it, and handed the paper to Slaine.
"Speak of the devil," he said. "Andrew Jenkins is dead."
"Oh, that can't be true," Slaine said.
"What can't be true? That's he's dead?" I asked.
"No," she said, looking me in the eye. "That he killed himself. It says he was found hung from a rafter in a small warehouse in Lisburn. Andrew Jenkins will have a lot of things to answer for in the next life but the sin of suicide will not be one of them."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Mr. Jenkins spent his life clawing his way to the top," Cosgrove said. "As you've discovered, he provided us with certain information. Often that information benefited us, and he was well paid for it. Other times, the information he gave us benefited him. He was a man who held only one life dear. His. I quite agree-he was not the suicidal type."
A waiter came to the table, three plates of lamb chops and boiled potatoes at the ready.
"Oh dear," said Cosgrove as he pushed his chair back. "Those look delicious."
ON A PERSONAL level, I thought Cosgrove was more distraught over the idea of the lamb chops going back to the kitchen than the image of Jenkins dangling at the end of a rope. I was wistful about them myself. It took him about five minutes to get a staff car and driver for us, and then we were off, exiting the formal gardens surrounding Stormont and heading for the main road that would take us south to Lisburn.
One of the first things I saw was a bombed-out stadium. It looked like it had just been hit.
"What's that?" I asked.
"The Oval. It's a football stadium. Not American football, the real thing," Slaine said. "The Germans bombed it in 1941. They were probably aiming for the dockyards or the railway station and released their bombs too early."