"Here lookit, where's the gargle?" the short navvy yawned.
"Jases, you're a divil," the older one replied. "It's a wonder those fellas didn't take you aside. You're not out on bail for something, are you?"
"Out on bail is right. It's baling out is what I'm doing. Bloody place."
"What was all that about?" the tanned man managed to ask.
"Your man? The young fella?" red-face said. "I don't know. Maybe he was skipping the country or something. Looks like they were waiting for him."
"Here, do you miss the place already?" the red-faced navvy said. "Come on up and I'll stand you a drink. You have to have something to puke up if it gets choppy."
The tanned man forced a smile.
"Do they let Canadians buy drinks on this boat?" he asked. The older navvy laughed.
It had begun to rain in Dublin. Kilmartin's face was streaked with the shadows of rain which clung like eyelashes to the windows of the car. The constant hush of rain washing up under the car made Minogue sleepy. Kilmartin's face brightened and darkened alternately with the passage of the streetlights as he talked.
Minogue turned to him.
"I want to ask you something about that business earlier on," Minogue said.
Kilmartin returned Minogue's steady gaze.
"I want to know if you knew it would turn out like that."
Kilmartin blinked and said:
"You mean the girl being shot? Of course I didn't-"
"Not that," Minogue interrupted. "I mean dumping them with the Brits."
Kilmartin paused. He took in Minogue's darkened face, the tiredness and the wariness gathered around his eyes.
"No I didn't, Matt."
Kilmartin let his eyes go out of focus as he gazed out beyond the driver and the squeaking wipers.
"They don't tell me that stuff. They're a law unto themseves, so that's that," Kilmartin said softly. He wondered if Minogue believed him. Kilmartin's unease impelled him into talking.
"Our mystery man stayed at the Shelbourne. One of the porters put a good face on him, right down to the shoes he was wearing. 'Looks a bit like a bank manager,' says he. Between what McCarthy told us and what the nosey staff up above in the Shelbourne say, we have a rough-and-ready Identikit of this fella. There were clothes left in a room and there's no sign of the man who stayed. No visitors. He was there for a while," Kilmartin was saying.
"What will he do?" Minogue asked.
"I don't know. Something tells me he is a very polished performer entirely. The Branch are quite up in a dander about him. They don't know anything about him. Came out of nowhere. I'd say he'll lie low here. I wouldn't put it past him to have other passports and things."
Minogue imagined a well-groomed, confident American. He'd have good teeth anyway, probably aftershave, one of those diver's watches on an expandable strap. Hairs would poke out under the strap. He might chew gum. What was he doing here though?
"Irish American. A true son of Erin," Minogue murmured.
"Seems likely, doesn't it?"
"If he's so well set up, then why would he shoot someone?" Minogue wondered aloud.
"Strictly speaking, we don't know that he did," Kilmartin answered. "It's a lead."
"Hardly coincidence then about Walsh," Minogue said.
"Well what do you think, Matt?"
Minogue didn't answer immediately. Then he said;
"I'd better fill you in on Allen."
After he had finished, Kilmartin said:
"God, isn't that the back of the neck? Great oaks from little acorns grow. How long ago was this?"
"Well, Allen is getting on fifty. So let's say nearly forty years ago."
"And what happened?"
"Took psychiatric treatment. Made to. And it worked, he says."
"So he changed his name…"
"… and turned out to be a model. Got interested in the psychology and took it up. He's a very smart fella, Allen."
Kilmartin harrumphed.
"— Not smart enough to deal with Loftus I'll warrant. He had nothing to fear. Jesus God in heaven, people are nearly getting credit for any kind of perversion these days. Sure what age was he?"
"Thirteen," Minogue said.
"And didn't he pull himself up by the bootstraps ever since. I can tell you I couldn't hold it against him. He should have skinned Loftus when Loftus put the pressure on."
"Well," Minogue murmured as a bump interrupted him, "he had to gild the lily, or so he thought. He wanted to measure up, you see. His father was dead these years, probably the only one who could tone down the mother."
"Go on," Kilmartin said. "A real bloody cop-out. 'It started with me mother' and all the psychology stuff. And he told you this in a van in the middle of nowhere?"
Minogue wondered if he could tell Kilmartin how relieved Allen had been to let out with the intolerable stresses he had endured. He had said it all in a matter of minutes. Minogue had felt less disgust than some vague and frightening acceptance of Allen's story. He didn't need to tell Kilmartin the real, the simple and the quite absurd truth which Allen had communicated to him. Allen, elbows on his knees and looking at the handcuffs, had told him in so economical a way as to be devastating, that he could not have Agnes McGuire know about his past. Ordinary, like the rest of us, Minogue had understood, he wanted deliverance and love too. There had been no accounting for that.
On the way back to Dublin, Minogue shivered and spent most of the time wondering how it would come out, how much damage would be done to Allen's work for peace. All come to nothing, probably.
"Pressure," Minogue said, "You never know what people'll do."
Kilmartin did not miss the tone of Minogue's remark. Had MinOgue known all along that everyone was watching him to see if he was the full shilling? Maybe he even played on it, controlling it in his own way. Kilmartin gathered himself in the seat.
"Anyway. Allen is small fry. I want Connors' killer and you want whoever killed that lad in Trinity. We may well be talking about the same character, hah? We'll root him out in short order and there'll be no bones about it."
Loftus looked quite different without a tie, Minogue observed. Still, he retained the appearance of confidence mixed in with a knowingness and a contempt. He had not ranted and raved but slipped on a coat and gone to Donnybrook Station with the three Special Branch detectives. He appeared almost relaxed. His hair had been oiled by the rain. He sat in his coat some six feet from the table. When Minogue entered, an amused glance of recognition came from Loftus. Then he returned to observing the desk and walls. Minogue nodded to the Branch man standing outside the door as he closed the door gently. He stood next to the desk looking at Loftus' face. Loftus smiled.
"Unorthodox. And melodramatic too," Loftus said.
"These are dramatic times, Captain Loftus. Less comedy though, I'm thinking."
"You're wrong there. I was at home watching the television and now I'm here. It's fairly comic, wouldn't you agree?"
"Do you want the rigmarole about what you're doing here and what you're being held under?"
Loftus didn't answer.
"I requested to interview you alone."
"I recall you doing that in my office last week, Sergeant. Am I supposed to be disoriented and confess to something now that I've been dragged down here?"
"You'd know about that stuff, Captain. I mean you've been trained. How long were you in the States on your training?"
Loftus raised his eyebrows.
"Really now, you haven't brought me down here to get me to start an autobiography. I've been out of the army for eleven years."
"When did it all turn sour for you?" Minogue asked.
Loftus laughed briefly.
"Get someone in here to get on with whatever I'm supposed to be here for. And make it good. After I get amused, I'll be none too pleased and heads will roll about this."