An old blind woman, and a child, thought Benedikt. And . . . would dummy1
that be two ‘old friends’ from Special Bureau No 1, come to ask questions only the very brave or the very foolish refused to answer?
“They didn’t have a chance, of course—not a chance!” The Irishman settled his glance finally on Benedikt himself, as though it was he who needed education most. “ ‘Oh yes’, says she—and thinking it’d serve Aloysius right, whatever he was into, but now there was Michael to remember, which was the name and address they were after—‘Oh yes’, says she, ‘that fine boy Aloysius—him that put those two Black-an’-Tans in the gas works furnace at Tralee—a fine boy!‘ And that flummoxed them, because they were foreigners, and if they’d heard of ’Black-an‘-Tan’ it was in the history books—or a drink across an English bar, more likely. ‘Oh no’, says one of them. ‘This is Aloysius Kelly, our old friend—him that was Frank Ryan’s friend in Spain, auntie.’ And she looks into the air between them and nods. ‘Frankie Ryan?’ she says. ‘No—
but he was a fine boy too! Yet he had no part in what was done at Tralee—it was Kilmichael he was at, when they took that Auxie patrol— an’ it was Tralee, where the Tans burnt down the Town Hall afterwards, that Aloysius was—with young Seamus, that was killed by the Free Staters afterwards, and little Patrick Barry, who’d made his fortune in America an‘ wanted me to join him.
Only it was Mr Kelly that I’d given my word to—that you see there on the mantelpiece, above the fireplace, in his silver frame.’ . . . And every time they asked her a question, she gave them an answer that was more than fifty years out-of-date, would you believe it!” Mr Smith shook his head admiringly. “And when I was there, not a week ago, it was Cruise missiles she wanted to dummy1
know about—it’s her great-grand-niece, that’s still not married, who has to read the paper to her every day— The Irish Times, is what she takes—and her an admirer of Margaret Thatcher, by God!
Not a chance, they had: they went away thinking her senile—and she’d run twenty rings round them!”
Audley swayed forwards. “So how did you get her to talk to you?”
“Aargh! She knew my mother—and my grandmother before her.
And she knows where I stand.” The Irishman gave Audley an uncompromising look. “And I told her that Aloysius was dead, and that Michael was on the run because of it. . . And not a postcard she’s had from him, these four years. But I said I’d maybe pass on the word, if I could.” The look softened suddenly. “Is that something I can do—with a clear conscience?”
Audley compressed his lips into a thin line. “To be honest. . . I don’t know.” He considered the Irishman. “But I’ll put it to him, and he can choose for himself. That’s a promise I’ll include with my word, if you like.”
The Irishman gave him back the same consideration. “She would take that as a kindness, for she set great store by him. And . . . and I would take it kindly, too.”
Audley shook his head. “Better not say that, Mr Smith. Better say a debt repaid, and the slate clean—since we have never met.”
The Irishman looked at Audley for another moment, and then turned to his American. “I think it is time for my other appointment. And I’m thinking I would not like to miss it, now, more than ever.”
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“Okay.” The CIA man looked at his watch, and then at Audley.
“David .. . ?” But there was something in the question that was looking for more than mere permission to withdraw.
“Hail and farewell, trusted ally.” Audley lifted a hand. “I’ll be seeing you . . . very soon ... Is that soon enough?”
“Okay.” The American gave Benedikt a nod. “And I guess I’ll be seeing you too, Captain . . . Let’s go, Jim.”
The Irishman started to move, and then paused suddenly, twisting back towards them in mid-step. “Michael. . . Michael was the easy one, and that’s the truth. But that was a long time ago, Dr Audley, and there’s things that a long time teaches.” He closed his eyes for a second. “And if he’s been running . . . running changes a man.
And . . . most of all ... whatever Aloysius touched— don’t you be trusting it not to turn in your hand, Dr Audley. That’s all I’m saying.”
Benedikt watched the two men weave between the tanks until Audley’s voice recalled him.
“Well . . . coming from ‘Jim Smith’, that was a gipsy’s warning, and no mistake!” Audley spoke wonderingly.
“You knew him?”
“I think maybe I do ... by reputation.” Audley half-shrugged. “Not my field, though. But our loyal ally certainly did us proud, no doubt about that, by golly!”
Benedikt frowned. “But he only gave you a connection between . . . Aloysius Kelly and Michael Kelly that was years ago
—ten years?”
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Audley gave him a sidelong look. “He didn’t bother telling me what we both knew. Waste of time, don’t you know!”
That was far enough, decided Benedikt. “No, I do not know. So you need to tell me, I think. And preferably without patronising me.”
The Englishman’s ugly face broke up quite surprisingly. “My God!
I’m sorry, Benedikt! I was, wasn’t I! And quite without justification too. In fact. . . in fact, I wouldn’t like you to put it down to damned insufferable British delusions of superiority—
quite the opposite, rather. . . More like butterflies in the stomach making me nervous.” He grimaced.
“About Aloysius Kelly?”
“About Aloysius Kelly—right.”
“And . . . Debreczen?” It was hard to stay angry with him, even allowing for the certainty that he was also a clever man. “Is it that important?”
“Aloysius Kelly and Debreczen!” Audley drew a breath. “You feed either of them into your computer, and the little red lights will start flashing.” He looked at Benedikt. “I don’t know why . . . but I had this pricking of the thumbs that I was on to something here.” He looked around. “Only . . . I’m not really intuitive—I like little sharp facts, like diamonds—or juicy soft ones, like currants and raisins in a suet pudding.” He came back to Benedikt again. “And now I’ve got something I can’t wear and I can’t swallow, by Christ!”
Benedikt made a disturbing discovery: the disadvantage of playing dummy1
second fiddle to David Audley was that the man’s confidence and omniscience was irritating. But David Audley suddenly nervous was rather frightening.
Audley seemed to sense his disquiet. “Not to worry, though. We’ve maybe got a bit of time . . . The point is that he knew I’d know where Aloysius was killed.” He gave Benedikt an evil grin. “Car bomb in his garage. Spread him like strawberry jam.”
“Where?”
“Airedale. Little cottage on the far side of the valley from Keighley . . . lovely country. Just down the road from Bingley.
Which is just down the road from Bradford, you see.”
“Where Michael Kelly drove his taxi?”
“Just so. And altogether too coincidental.” Audley sighed. “At least, it is now—in retrospect .... At the time, the bomb brought in the Special Branch, and they brought in our people . . . who in turned picked up enough evidence in the cottage to identify the strawberry jam as Aloysius Kelly. And what made him so very interesting was not simply that he’d been on our wanted list for years, but that more recently we’d had word that he was on their wanted list as well. In fact, it was a toss-up who wanted him more