"I believe that we can best get out of the Irish, er, bog, sir, if we insert a man who can legitimately go over Combs' place, his effects. A good sweeper."
Kenyon returned Robertson's glance before dropping the log.
"And with our man there straight away, the need for a joint op with anybody, even Six and the Foreign Office, would obviously be close to nil."
"Obviously," C intoned, again close to sarcasm. "We're not discussing something like the Immaculate Conception here, are we now, chaps? The Micks are hardly going to fall for a long-lost-relative-showing-up routine."
Kenyon sidestepped the leaden mirth.
"Combs' estate is a problem, sir. To be disposed of, the estate needs an agent. Has to be probated."
C snorted faintly.
"Somebody say agent, eh, Hugh?" He looked to Robertson and graced him with a rare grin. Kenyon continued.
"A lawyer. Combs has no will, I believe. Foreign Office worked up a pension for him years ago, and the bank source it as a pension from Customs and Excise.
He also had an annuity. That part of his income comes through a small merchant bank here in the city. They list it as income from stocks. We can surely work up a lawyer to represent either bank involved," Kenyon flourished with a rhetorical lilt.
C was nodding his head lightly.
"Rather elegant solution, James. You'd want to cull some legal type from our own fold here, I take it."
"Ideally, sir. Should have had some field training."
"Find someone, then. Cite my authorisation to hive off this person from what he's doing at the moment. I'll give it priority. Put the fear of a Presbyterian God in the fellow to keep his cards close to his chest. Someone who can get around the police there, maybe listen in on their investigation?"
"That would be quite a coup, sir," Kenyon said.
Kenyon made a mental note of the inquiry which had come through to Newman in the Metropolitan Police. The Garda's name was Minogue, a sergeant. He thought the name looked familiar, but the more he tried to recall where he had seen or head it before, the less he was sure of ever having known it.
Returning to his office after the meeting, Kenyon had felt his elation being swallowed in the maw of anxiety. He had graduated to despondency within the last few minutes. As Kenyon was stepping out of Robertson's car, the door still ajar, Robertson had looked out under the roof at him. Kenyon crouched by the open door. Why did he still feel that Robertson was leaving him out on a limb?
"Keep me posted, James?"
Bowers was propped in front of the terminal.
"Find me somebody, would you? Two people, actually. I need a man in the Service, someone with a legal background and some field training. Let me think, was there somebody a few years back that…"
Kenyon realised that it was six o'clock and that was why he wasn't firing on all cylinders. He'd phone home before going out for supper.
"… Knows something about Ireland, if you can. Get me a list of eligibles. I need this fast. I'm staying on duty for the evening. Can you?"
Bowers detected the tension in Kenyon. He said he could.
"The second chap, sir?"
"Oh, that's a different matter. It's by the way. I seem to remember his name a few years ago, too. An Irish copper, Minogue. Forget it until we've found our own man."
Bowers' face took on a puzzled expression. Kenyon noticed his bewilderment as he was elbowing off the door-frame.
"Some incident a few years back. More than three, let's say, if my memory is sound. We'll be working near him, so I'd like to size him up." spacebarthing
Iseult's wooer, Pat Muldoon, was over six feet tall. His clothes were black again today, save for a dark grey shirt which was not ironed and not meant to be ironed. A long face on him and a bony nose, missing two days' shaving but with lively eyes atop. The eyes were blessed-virgin blue, with a touch of mockery not far behind them. During the tea, Minogue felt he was sitting next to a priest. Pat never laughed outright but smiled enough and gave considered nods of his head. Minogue was a little nervous. Iseult was very animated. She was on guard against lulls in the talk, filling in details which Pat sometimes forgot. What Pat really means, what Pat is getting at…
"He got first in his class last year, so he did. Didn't you, Pat?" Iseult enthused. Kathleen's eyes widened in approval. Pat looked up under his eyebrows as he worked the rind off a rasher, as though to remonstrate with her. Iseult beamed. Kathleen made herself busy with her knife and fork. Was her subconscious leading her to toy with the cutlery, the better to drive away a suitor to her overloved daughter? Minogue wondered.
"Da worships the sun, don't you, Da?" Iseult said guilelessly.
"And the moon and the stars," he said, feeling his cheeks redden. "A bit of everything."
"More luck to you," said Pat. "Nice sermons, I'd say."
Everyone laughed. Pat was studying psychology. When Kathleen had asked before, he allowed that it was very interesting. Was there anything in particular? He liked experimental psychology. Minogue thought about rats with wires attached to their heads.
Kathleen stabbed the Bewley's cake and apportioned slices to the plates stacked by her side. The sun was peeping around the back of the house now. It was Minogue's time of day. He could almost feel his planet turning. Daithi plugged the kettle in and remained leaning on the edge of the sink. No one spoke. The chairs had been pushed back from the table. Birds called out to one another from the garden. Minogue stole a look at the faces around the table. Kathleen was smoothing an imaginary fold in the tablecloth. As his gaze swept by Iseult, she winked at him. Her face seemed bigger. It was entirely possible that his faculties were declining with age, he thought. Damn it, he thought then, her face was glowing. She must have fallen for this lad. The kettle whispered. Minogue looked over to Daithi. He was fidgeting, restless. No doubt he'd want to go out tonight and have a few jars with his cronies. Kathleen had now joined her hands under her chin, elbows on the table.
"Here, Da. Tell us a bit about Paris," Iseult said. She turned to Pat.
"The pair of them are like love-birds so they are, Pat. They up and went to Paris a few years ago."
"To see the sights," Kathleen insisted.
"Some sights you'd see there, too, I'm sure," Iseult taunted. "And they wouldn't take their only daughter to give her a bit of culture. The meanness of it."
"Do you know, Pat," Kathleen countered by turning to the one who might well steal her daughter, "maybe you know something from your studies, but why is it that children turn contrary and get to being punishments for their parents?"
"I don't know, Mrs Minogue," from a diplomatic Pat.
"Here now," Minogue rose from the table, "if ye are really interested in talking about Paris, there's only one proper way to do that."
"And how's that, may I ask?" Kathleen inquired.
"With a bottle of anise and a few tumblers. You bring up the tea if you want, and we'll lay waste the rest of that cake, too," Minogue said, rubbing his hands. "We'll away up to the end of the garden and catch the last of the sun. Now, where's the tape-recorder? We'll bring up your man Offenbach and a bit of Chopin. Who in their right minds wants to be indoors on a summer's evening?"
A Dublin-born Daithi rolled his eyes at the vagaries of a bogman father.
"To hell with poverty, we'll kill a hen!" said Minogue.
The batteries on the tape-recorder died after twenty minutes.
"I thought that Offenbach sounded a bit off-colour," Minogue remarked indolently as he watched Kathleen walking up the garden toward them. She stopped by the rhubarb, toed something delicately in the clay, and continued her slow walk. My wife, I'm her husband, he thought. He had watched her at mass on Sundays for years, her head bowed after communion, eyes closed in prayer. A fine-looking woman.
The sun leaned into the garden now, lighting up the shrubs and branches from the side. Iseult was fidgeting.