The Discourtesy of Death Read online

  ‘I know, so, but he insisted.’

  The doorbell rang. Twice, then a third time. The signal meant the caller was alone, as planned. Liam nodded, left the sitting room and went to unlock the front door.

  Liam was small-time. He gave low-grade intelligence on well-known figures in the Belfast Brigade of the IRA. Just their movements. Where they went. Who they met. Registration numbers. Snippets of conversation from people who knew them. Pub talk. For all that he got paid a hundred quid a week. Tax free. He was just eighteen and very small-time indeed, which was why Michael was his handler. They were both new recruits to the long war. But Liam said he’d got something big this time. Real big. He’d met someone with a message. So he’d set up the meeting and Michael had turned up feeling sick with fear. He was sitting on the edge of a synthetic leather sofa in a council house in the Ballymurphy district of West Belfast. The sitting room door opened and Liam ushered into the wan light a haggard man in a long dark overcoat, black shoes and trousers, a black hat and a black scarf. Removing his hat, the man said, ‘How’s your ma, Liam?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘Her knees and ankles?’

  ‘Swollen again.’

  The visitor brought his dark eyes onto Michael. Addressing Liam, he said, ‘This is your man?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘He’s Army?’

  ‘I am,’ said Michael, his mouth dry, wanting to stamp some authority on his rising panic.

  The man shrugged off his coat and unwound the scarf from his neck. A white collar under the soft chin showed him to be a priest. Liam’s priest.

  ‘Get yerself upstairs now and look after your mother. I’ll call you when I’m done.’

  Liam obeyed. The priest shut the door. He started speaking even before he’d turned around.

  ‘It’s my job to look after the living and the dying. Sometimes, I help them pass over. I put oil on their forehead … I rub it into the palms of their hands … I give them bread for the last time … we call it viaticum … which means “provision for the journey”. The moment of parting, after giving the oil and the bread … it’s always unforgettable.’

  The priest sat on a shiny armchair near to Michael. He, too, sat on the edge of his seat, his arms wrapped around his overcoat and crumpled scarf. His hair was white. Thick black eyebrows bristled over his pale, lined face.

  ‘Last week there came a knock to the door,’ he said, looking at the ragged carpet. All the colour had gone. A loose weave of grey strands was all that remained. ‘It was after eleven. I opened up, and there on the step was a man I’d never seen before. A broken nose face. He didn’t even look at me, but I heard him well enough. “There’s someone needs you, Father. You won’t be long.” He walked off, into the dark, and I followed. Didn’t even get my overcoat. A car was waiting, engine running, a back door opened. The man didn’t speak. He just drove me half a mile to a house that had been half burned out the month before. I knew the family that had moved out … they’re decent folk.’ The priest paused to moisten his lips. ‘I went in, thinking I’d see one of the family, but there, at the end of the corridor, was a man in a denim jacket with a mask over his head. Roll-neck jumper. Corduroy trousers. He had a pistol in one hand. “Upstairs,” he said. “He asked for you. Make it quick.” Up I went and I stopped outside the bathroom … the floor was soaking wet, the bath full of discoloured water … and blood swimming round the taps. A short bulky man with thick arms appeared from one of the bedrooms and said, “Get on, will you. His time’s up.” He had a mask on, too … slits cut for the eyes and mouth. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he was drying his hands on a filthy towel. There were red washing-up gloves hanging out of a pocket. “It took us three weeks to get a confession. You’ve got three minutes.” I went into the room and there … I …’ The priest dropped his head and his shoulders began to judder. He made a strange squealing noise and Michael shrank back into the sofa, the worn material squeaking loudly as he moved. Looking up, facing the drab wall, the priest said, ‘I knew him … I’d known him from birth … I’d baptised him … and he was strapped arms behind his back to a wooden chair, dressed only in his underpants and socks. He couldn’t lift his head. There was blood all over his chest and knees … and he was shining … shining all over because of the water. This voice from the mask said, “Three minutes and no heroics. I’m warning you. I’ll shoot you as easily as I’m going to shoot him.”’

  Michael’s mouth clacked for lack of spit. He was hot though the room was cold. The air was damp and his skin tingled with a sudden flush of sweat. The weak central light had no shade. There were no pictures on the walls. The gas fire didn’t work.

  ‘His name was Eugene … he was a father to four children,’ said the priest. ‘I had to kneel down in a pool of blood and water at his side. “It’s all a mistake, Father,” he said. “I’m no tout. But they think I am. They think I’m an informer. It’s a mistake and I’m done for. This lot are the Nutting Squad. They’re gonna shoot me in the head. They’re going to put my head in a plastic bag …” I took his hand … and I was about to speak when he spat out some blood and whispered, “Listen to me …” I leaned near to his breath and closed my eyes.’

  But Eugene’s mind wasn’t on sins and a final cleansing. He had a message. Before they blew his brains out, he was going to do something big … something that would change the future. He was going to send a message that could help bring the Troubles to an end.

  ‘Eugene spoke quickly,’ said the priest after a short, sickening pause. ‘He said, “Ó Mórdha’s going to Donegal. Next Wednesday. He’ll be alone. Tell someone in British Intelligence … someone who deals with touts.”’

  Néall Ó Mórdha. Michael knew of him from intelligence briefings. He’d joined up in the forties. Veteran of the fifties. Founder member of the ‘Provisionals’ when they split from the ‘Officials’ in 1969. Part of Southern Command. On the Army Council. A hardliner. Aged fifty-eight. Married to Bláithín. Keeps a dog. Irish water spaniel.

  The priest stared at Michael expectantly, moisture shining on his upper lip. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying? Have you got the message?’

  Michael hadn’t … not quite; but he nodded. Only the priest wasn’t to be fooled.

  ‘You don’t follow a damn thing, do you?’ he said, despairing. ‘You’re as lost as the boy upstairs. I’m talking to a greenhorn …’

  The priest let his head drop onto his chest. After an age of slow, measured breathing, he looked up, his eyes dark with knowledge and purpose.

  ‘Eugene had always talked to me. Shared his doubts and regrets. I knew he was in the IRA. And I’d let him know my mind about political violence. Told him he couldn’t come to communion as long as he carried a gun.’

  And Eugene, in turn, had fought back, arguing the moral case for the armed struggle; that innocent people get killed in wars, even just ones. By default, the priest had come to learn a great deal about the Republican movement and its masked soldiers. He knew how the organisation was structured. He’d been given a glimpse of internal rivalries and the disputes over tactics.

  ‘The IRA is run by a seven-man Army Council,’ said the priest, as if Michael didn’t know his left from his right. ‘They decide if there’s going to be a ceasefire. They could even stop the war.’

  Michael nodded impatiently.

  ‘The last time I’d spoken to Eugene, he’d told me there was a struggle at the heart of the IRA between those wanting to shoot the Brits out of Ireland and the growing feeling among some that the only way forward was Sinn Fein and democratic politics, that an electoral mandate for a united Ireland could reach further than the gun and the bomb.’

  Where was the war going? This was the big question. In recent years the INLA had killed Airey Neave outside the House of Commons. The IRA had murdered eighteen soldiers at Warrenpoint. They’d assassinated Lord Mountbatten at Mullaghmore. Ten Provisionals had starved themselves to death in the Maze. And the British troops were still in
the North. Thatcher wouldn’t bow. The Saracens were still patrolling the housing estates. But there’d been a swing in a surprising new direction: following the hunger strike, Sinn Fein had emerged as a real force in local elections.

  ‘This is only last year,’ said the priest.

  ‘Yes,’ added Michael, asserting his authority. ‘And they’re still bombing London. Remember the summer? Hyde Park? Regent’s Park? Nine soldiers dead. Three civilians killed. Fifty injured.’

  ‘And Gerry Adams has just won a seat in Westminster,’ replied the priest, presumably for Eugene. ‘That’s national politics with international significance. He’s the MP for West Belfast. He’s my MP.’

  ‘Liam told me you had a message,’ snapped Michael. ‘Who cares if Ó Mórdha goes to Donegal?’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’ll never give up the armed struggle. It’s a religion to him. He’s the one man on the Council who stands in the way of change. The others can be persuaded. Eugene was saying that the debate between the gun and the ballot box can be tilted in the right direction … and now is the time.’

  Michael leaned forward and the seat covering squeaked again. The priest’s head had dropped once more. He was holding his coat tight.

  ‘What is the message?’

  The priest spoke to his knotted hands. ‘Ó Mórdha has a cottage in the hills. Few know the place even exists … Eugene was one of them. And he told me.’ The priest rummaged into the coat on his knees, finally pulling out a sheet of folded paper from a pocket. His hand was shaking as he passed it to Michael. ‘There’s only one house in the valley … by a stream and two trees. I’ve written down the details … you’ll find it easily enough on a map.’

  Michael frowned and took the paper. ‘Did Eugene say anything else?’

  The priest looked up with the waxy stare of someone who’s just killed a man.

  ‘Eugene said, “Get Ó Mórdha, and you’ll get a peace process. Let him go and the war will never end.”’

  The priest had done Eugene’s bidding and an awful silence filled the room. It was as though they were both standing over the battered body of a tout. Looking into the space in front of the dead fire, the priest began mumbling confidentially. He’d heard the one confession in his life that he was meant to repeat. And it wasn’t quite over. The priest was back in that wet, burned-out council house.

  ‘A voice came from behind the mask. “Time’s up.” I reached into my pocket for the blessed oil … I always carry it with me, just in case … and I began to rub it into one of Eugene’s broken hands. I did them both, watched by this man with the filthy towel hung on one shoulder, and then I anointed Eugene’s forehead … and it was only when I stood up that I realised I hadn’t brought my bag. I couldn’t give him any bread for the journey … this man who’d never come to communion. You know, they dumped his body in an alleyway with an empty milk crate on his head. That was their message. Telling the kid who found him what’ll happen if he grew up to become an informer.’

  The floor creaked upstairs and Liam’s mother called for help. He wasn’t by her side. Michael knew at once: he was behind the door, as if to earn his £100. After a glance at the ceiling, the priest stood up, wrapped the scarf around his neck, pulled on his coat and settled his hat low on his head.

  ‘And I’ve got a message, too,’ he whispered. ‘Let Liam go. Stop using him. He’s only a boy. You’ve played on his vulnerability. You’ve made him feel important, full-size and useful. For once in his life he thinks he’s not just another nobody. He’s got a job and a wage.’ The priest paused to study Michael’s pale face. ‘You’re scared, aren’t you? It’s no fun sitting in a hovel knowing the IRA are on the other side of the front door. Well, I wanted you to feel that fear, to sweat a bit, because this is where Liam lives. Far from an armed compound in Lisburn. He doesn’t even know when to shut up. He talks easily. Like he did when I pressed him hard about the money. Didn’t want me to think he was a thief. Just give it some thought before you go home: if I can find out in five minutes that he’s speaking to the Brits, how long will it take the Provos?’

  Michael swung his legs off the bed. Wrapped in his overcoat like that priest, he walked to the bathroom to rinse his face. On turning around he thought again of Liam, as if the kid were kneeling on the floor, handing over the Browning. The boy had risked his life, knowing what the Nutting Squad had done to Eugene. He’d risked everything, trusting in Michael to do his stuff.

  12

  Anselm knocked on the door of a small bay-windowed house in the village of Long Melford, part of a row of seventeenth-century dwellings, distinguished by various shades of paint, but joined by tangled ivy and a gently undulating roof of auburn tiles. He’d decided to call unannounced mid-morning on the understanding that the unprepared witness was always more enlightening than the person who’d had time to edit and organise their thoughts. With best intentions, such people often left out the apparently trivial details that were, in fact, of critical importance.

  ‘Hello?’

  The woman was smiling – almost professionally. But the greeting was genuine. She wore loose jeans and a flowery shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Gardening gloves and a trowel revealed what she’d been doing moments before. Her grey-brown hair was simply cut and carelessly ruffled. She’d aged without lines to the mouth or eyes.

  ‘I wonder if I might speak to Nigel Goodwin,’ said Anselm.

  ‘I’m afraid he won’t be back for half an hour. Is there some problem? I’m his wife … we share everything.’

  According to Olivia, this woman had accompanied her husband to Martlesham, only to swallow whatever she might have said. Anselm addressed her directly, as if she were the sole object of his visit. ‘I don’t want to cause you any distress but I’d like to talk about the death of Jennifer Henderson.’

  The woman’s sunny smile vanished instantly. One hand came to her neck as if to fumble with a necklace that wasn’t there.

  ‘I’ve been asked to make discreet enquiries,’ continued Anselm, reassuringly. ‘I understand the police didn’t take your husband’s concerns seriously. I do. Along with yours. That’s why I’m here. To listen rather than to speak.’

  ‘I think you’d better come in,’ she said, stepping to one side.

  The sitting room was small and tidy. Prints of various cathedrals adorned the brightly painted walls. Three armchairs and a sofa hugged a round coffee table. Spread across the glass surface were a selection of books on gardening and an imposing volume on herbal medicine entitled Heal Yourself. It was a cheerful room for a cheerful couple. Sunshine streamed through mullioned windows. Taking a seat, Anselm explained his role as an investigator based at Larkwood, introducing Mr Robson as a colleague from his days at the Bar. He summarised the letter, observing that Detective Superintendent Manning had concluded that the anonymous author was Nigel Goodwin.

  ‘Your husband is a doctor?’ asked Anselm.

  ‘Of a sort, yes.’

  ‘He’s given up practice?’

  ‘No.’ Sensing Anselm’s misunderstanding, she added, ‘He’s a vicar. A doctor of systematic theology. Specialised in Karl Barth.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Anselm suddenly decided to say nothing further at all. And not simply because he’d never fully understood Barth’s colossal Dogmatics. (Not a man for jokes, Barth, he’d thought.) It was, instead, a trick he’d learned from the Prior. Silence forces most people to speak. They begin with trivia and then, bit by bit, they start to reveal their deeper concerns. Helen Goodwin, proud of her husband, a partner in his ministry, kind and outgoing, had her own monumental thoughts. She was perched on the edge of her seat, glancing regularly at Anselm’s habit, wanting to share them with someone likely to understand. The charged quiet became gradually prickly and then unbearably painful. As if climbing gingerly onto a window ledge, she said, carefully: ‘Strange, really, that Nigel joined the Church and Michael went into the Army.’

 
She’d assumed knowledge of Jennifer’s father. She wanted to talk about him as much as her husband. This quiet man who stood at the back of every photograph.

  ‘Why?’ prompted Mitch.

  ‘Well, Nigel was the sporty one,’ said Mrs Goodwin, her hands working as if she were warming a ball of clay. ‘Played rugby for Suffolk. Climbed mountains. Jumped into rivers. He’d been in the cadets and loved the marching and the uniform and the chance to fire a real gun and scream his head off, whereas Michael was shy and retiring, hated any kind of confrontation. He was the peacemaker in the family. Always wanted to get people to sit down at a table and sort out their differences. Hated violence of any kind. Loved Evensong. You can imagine everyone’s surprise when he announced he wanted to join the Royal Anglian Regiment. We thought he saw the Army as a kind of peace-keeping force … not a fighting force as such, if you see what I mean. We imagined he wanted to build bridges in the Third World. But he didn’t build anything … he went to Northern Ireland instead.’

  She made the statement as if it were charged with menace and meaning. She looked from Anselm to Mitch, her blue eyes inviting a reaction. None was given.

  ‘He was there during the Troubles,’ she explained, hopefully.

  Still no response. After a moment’s further uncertainty, she seemed to make the final leap: ‘We don’t know what happened while he was over there … but when he came back he was a completely different man.’

  Mrs Goodwin’s hands stopped moving. Having made this central disclosure – the significance of which was lost on Anselm – she appeared to relax, grateful to leave behind the habitual deference. She was used to milling around fêtes and fairs, listening to the entanglements in other people’s lives, but now, for once, it was her chance to talk. Few wanted to know if the vicar’s wife had had her own experience of hell.

  ‘He ended up with the Intelligence Corps,’ she said, and then abruptly changed tone. ‘Look, I’m telling you this because I have my own theory about Jenny’s death … but I can’t tell you in front of my husband, and you won’t understand why I think what I think unless you understand what happened to Michael after he came home from Belfast.’