"Her father was a magistrate in Belfast. He was assassinated three years ago."
Minogue felt as if the afternoon had run in a window and fallen on top of him. It wasn't the faint touch of smugness in the delivery that suggested he hadn't done his homework. It was more the thought of Agnes' composure, the control she had. She had had the cruellest practice.
The silence in the room lasted for a full minute.
"Three years."
"I'm Agnes' tutor. We take on groups of students to help and advise them. She was assigned to me alphabetically. My specialty is in the psychology of aggression, of all things. I do public lectures all around Ireland, North and South. Everything's coloured by what happens hf the North, of course. Here I was, sitting across the table from her. I'm trained in various therapy techniques, you see. I expected that she'd be a candidate for help. Given the right suggestions, learning is improved, relationships bloom. I cannot disclose anything of our chats, you'll understand, but let me tell you that Agnes McGuire gives credence to some unfashionable notions. Health, freedom…"
"Strange to think…" Minogue began.
"That she and Walsh could get along? She's Catholic. Her father was killed by Protestant extremists. Isn't that something in itself?"
"I don't follow," Minogue said.
"You'd think they'd leave him alone, wouldn't you? I mean they talk about law and order and enforcing the rule of law when it suits them. The thing was that McGuire was the one who started the process of getting Loyalist paramilitaries behind bars, not just the IRA. I imagine the other side couldn't countenance a Catholic putting away one of theirs, no matter that he was part of the institutions they said they were fighting for."
Minogue said nothing. A whorl of pity eddied down his stomach. No, not pity: regret.
"So much for rationality and politics," Allen said.
"So much indeed," Minogue muttered.
It was beginning to dawn on Minogue that Jarlath Walsh had been naive all right. Still, there was a pedestrian heroism to his ideas. In the end though, what did this all have to do with his getting killed? Ireland entertained a lot of people with the most lunatic ideas. Some were even elected to promote those ideas.
Minogue made to go. Allen's eyes had gone out of focus. They returned to focussing on his feet. Then he looked up at Minogue.
"Sergeant, I last saw Mr Walsh after last Thursday's lecture. That I've told you. I'm not sure if what I'll tell you now has any bearing on your investigations. For some weeks now, Walsh has been asking me privately at the end of the lectures for books on the psychological effects of things like cigarettes, alcohol, narcotics and so on."
Minogue tried to look unconcerned, but apparently it didn't work.
"That shocks you a little, Sergeant?"
"I'm a bit taken aback to be sure. I'm sure that you can understand how one forms an image as one investigates someone's life." Minogue liked the sound of the way he had said that, very neutral and analytical.
"Narcotics. You mean hash and grass basically?"
"I suppose I do," Allen replied with the faintest of smiles. Touche, thought Minogue.
Minogue recalled the bland assurances he had had from college officials about this kind of thing not being on their turf, oh no.
Minogue's mind was tired. He was beginning to feel irritable. He felt uninformed. He hadn't really one promising lead, not a sausage. Intuitions meant nothing, less than nothing, because they deflected his attention. Look: he had spent ten minutes talking about Agnes McGuire. Romancing, he was. Go home to your wife.
CHAPTER FIVE
Instead of going home to his wife, a contrary Minogue knocked on Captain Loftus' door. He caught Loftus leaving. Loftus stood in the doorway, half-coated, reaching for the sleeve. The office had a strong smell of aftershave.
"A minute of your time, Captain. I'd like to see Walsh's locker."
"Ah, that'll be a job. I'm afraid those lockers were too badly damaged now. They've been replaced."
Minogue felt the beginnings of indignation.
"I had the understanding that the lock was jemmied. They'd be those little locks you get in Woolworth's. There'd hardly be damage to the locker itself though, would there?"
Loftus dodged, pretending to search for keys in his pocket.
"There was a lot of damage done, Sergeant. The hinges were torn out. You can't just weld on a door. They make you buy the whole unit. There was nothing for it but to be rid of them."
"Where are they now?"
"They'd be gone to the dump, I expect. Good for nothing."
"Actually, Captain, they'd be good for my investigation. When did you have them taken down?"^v
"Last week, sometime," Loftus replied.
"Friday, then?"
"It might have been that late, yes."
"Who gave the order?"
"The requisition…? I did."
"So there'd be a record of the date."
Loftus stopped fiddling. He stood to his full height.
"Sergeant Minogue. I'm beginning to wonder if you're not overworking yourself here."
"Let me enlighten you then, Captain, because I think you're not enlightening me much. Now I didn't get out of bed on the wrong side this morning, but that doesn't mean that I'm interested in getting the run-around. I'm paid to look into all the bits and pieces."
"An empty, damaged locker, Sergeant?" Loftus said slowly to heighten the effect.
Minogue didn't reply. He didn't want to tell Loftus that he'd wanted to look for signs of what might have been in the locker. He wondered if Allen had misread the questions that Jarlath Walsh had put to him. Minogue was beginning to believe that this was the case. Minogue guessed that the boy wanted the information for something more prosaic, like a debate. He caught a little of this Jarlath Walsh and it wasn't encouraging. A boy, not a man, tipsy on book-learning, his trust in the power of reason, boyscout's honour. Knowledge is power for good: Walsh was a dupe for the university. No. He was a trier. Minogue was dried up with cynicism. Maybe. Walsh didn't have the edges smoothed out by experience yet. He noticed that Loftus was eying him. Why not give him a swipe?
"It may look odd to you, Captain. Let me be candid. This student wasn't killed by some random act. All the signs are against it. He had something, he did something or he knew something. He probably didn't know that he did any of these things. At least not powerful enough to warrant his murder. I'm no Agatha Christie, and I don't have a computer to calculate odds. The thoughts I'm having are what they call hunches in the thrillers. The word'drugs' keeps popping into my head. I hear it a lot. Dublin isn't what it used to be. Nor, might I add is Trinity College or its students. What do you think?"
Loftus' nostrils had been sucked in. Minogue recognised signs of breath held in. Loftus was staring intently at him, struggling with a decision. Then, abruptly, he turned away. He took off his coat with an air of resignation and he walked around to the other side of his desk. He fumbled with his keys and unlocked the desk. Without a search, Loftus drew out a large envelope. He handed it to Minogue. Minogue saw defiance in the place of the smugness he had read on the face before.
Minogue removed the note and read it. It had been typed, poorly.
JARLATH WALSH MAKES A MOCKERY OF THIS COLLEGE. WHO WILL ACT? WALSH TRAFFICS IN DRUGS. DRUGS POISON PEOPLE. DON'T BE DECEIVED. ACT. WALSH'S FRUIT IMPORTS LOOKS AS INNOCENT AS WALSH.
Minogue read over the note again. Loftus sat down.
"Get many hoaxes, Captain? Your students here have a reputation for high jinks."
"My thoughts exactly, Sergeant." Was there a hint of vengeance in his voice?
"I made a decision quite a while ago. Forbidden fruit is a lot less tasty when there's no talk about it."
"I don't follow your analogy, Captain."