“And you have the keys?”
“I have. I swept his stuff off the desk and stuffed it all into his drawers and cabinet. The newsroom heard it first and a fella came over to us. We were terribly shocked here, just couldn’t believe it. Even with my expert knowledge of police procedure from watching the telly, it took me ten minutes to get my head together and fix up his desk. Hardly anyone here locks their desks. I turned the keys and put ‘em in me pocket.”
“Good man. I’ll be wanting to look at this stuff later, Mr. Fitzgerald,” said Minogue.
“And I’ll be wanting a list and a receipt detailing anything you take,” Fitzgerald replied.
Minogue looked back to the silent group and met their gaze for several seconds.
“I have me own private cell over here,” said Fitzgerald.
Seated in Fitzgerald’s office, Minogue took in the furnishings while Fitzgerald phoned for Brendan Downey. When Downey appeared, Minogue recognized him for one of the group huddled about the desk outside.
“What did Paul Fine do here, as regards his job?” Minogue asked then.
“He was a reporter/researcher: that’s his job description. He’d be one of eight people who works for the producer, i.e. me. He was a journalist and a reporter. Basically he would have called himself a journalist. He had been on the afternoon programme-”
“Day by Day?”
“Good for you, Inspector. We squeeze in segments of between five and ten minutes’ live time. It’s a magazine format that takes us to news-time on this channel.”
“To the Angelus, you mean,” said Minogue.
It was hard to tell what went on behind the beard, Minogue realized, but he believed that he saw Fitzgerald’s amusement push his glasses up slightly. Fitzgerald had made no secret of his opinions on institutions like the Catholic church. Minogue struggled to recall when it was that several bishops had jointly written an open letter to the newspapers, complaining about a sinister anti-clerical undertone to many current affairs programmes on RTE radio. To the credit of the Director General, he had asked them for proof. In a religion which regards the notion of ‘proof’ as an upstart provincial relative to horned heresy-stigmata, moving and bleeding statues excepted-this was an impertinence. Fitzgerald, a tenacious weed, still held his job.
“True for you. Sort of sets the tone for the news, wouldn’t you say?” said Fitzgerald.
Minogue almost smiled. Fitzgerald was no more than forty. He’d have allies, a common passion, support now. Minogue could remember the dull bells of the Angelus broadcast forty years ago in that pious, somnolent Ireland, summoning people to prayer at midday and at six. Fitzgerald, and his generation, could jibe now: he was educated and tough. It had taken Minogue thirty and more years to know that within the vague narrative which made up his life was retained the precise anger of his own rebellion. There had been few Mickey Fitzgeralds then. Minogue was now almost content that his anger had been blunted into detachment; Fitzgerald had made no such concession, he was sure.
Downey smiled tightly as though anti-clericalism was but an exchange of pleasantries. Hoey looked lost. Minogue stretched. Fitzgerald’s teeth showed for an instant. He took off the Leon Trotsky intellectual glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“Bren here did some stuff with Paul,” he said.
“Before we go into whatever stuff you or he was working on, can you tell me if there were any peculiarities about Paul Fine recently?” Minogue began. “I mean if he was under stress or under some threat? Losing his job, a dangerous assignment, something of that nature? Did he behave in an unusual manner recently, make any odd comments?”
Fitzgerald shook his head.
“Anybody come looking for him here, asking after him here?”
Fitzgerald looked enquiringly at Downey who shrugged.
“Appear worried about anything? His personal life?” Minogue tried again.
“No,” said Downey.
Downey was well able to talk. Minogue interrupted him several times. The first time was when Downey mentioned Libya.
“No, nothing to do with the, er…” Downey looked to his boss to share the quip. “ ‘Proscribed organizations’ and all that. No, it was off-the-wall, we were talking over a pint one night, you know, talking up possible projects for the programme. We knew there’s a fair number of Arab students here on student visas. We were just wondering if there was any story in that, you know-if any of the Arabs had connections with members of the, er, you know.”
Minogue looked to Fitzgerald rather than Downey. “Lookit, lads, can we stop this pussyfooting around with the terminology?”Proscribed organizations“ and the rest of it? Call them the IRA or the Provos or whatever you like. My colleague here is not a tape-recorder or a lie-detector either, in case you’re wondering. He’s only jotting down notes. If I want a statement out of ye, I’ll ask ye. So can we talk like we’re citizens of the same planet?”
Fitzgerald’s arched eyebrows gave way to a shrug.
“Like I say,” Minogue added. “We’re not the mind police or anything. We can only do good work if people are co-operative with us. Now, this is a murder investigation so don’t spare our sensibilities. We tend to like getting straight to the point. We’re tough nuts the pair of us, aren’t we, Shea?”
“We’re awful tough, so we are,” Hoey obliged.
“Matter of fact I can safely say that I don’t even go to Mass and I suspect that Detective Hoey here doesn’t go to confession either. So can we hurry it up here?”
Downey resumed. “He said he’d do a bit on that, just to get a feel for it. We just decided off the tops of our heads to start with any Libyan connection first, seeing as Gadaffi’s very much in the public eye. He’s on record as supporting the IRA.”
“Ever heard of that group, The League for Solidarity with the Palestinian People?”
Fitzgerald shook his head too. “I know from reporting on stuff like that that some other outfit will invent a name to cover some incident, just to keep it at arm’s length and see what public reaction will be,” he said.
“What outfits?”
“Well, in this case I don’t know. There’s no Palestinian Liberation Organization or Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine in Dublin,” Fitzgerald said emphatically. “And there’s no Jihad that I can tell. I bet that yous know them or at least your Branch does. There are none of the madmen from Lebanon here either, the Hezbollah crowd or other pro-Iranian groups. That’s not how those organizations work, as I understand my reading. They don’t send members here as students to be farting about with the IRA in secret. Sure, there are sympathizers and militants amongst any group of students from Arab countries. I’d bet there are even informal groups where PLO sympathizers give a speech here in Dublin. That doesn’t translate into guns and bombs, though.”
“The links are organized on the Continent,” Downey added. “You know, Paddy Murphy from Belfast goes to Amsterdam or Copenhagen and meets So-and-so. They don’t come here offering guns.”
“We knew all that but we still thought it was worth a second look. The situation changes. Libyans might be interested in causing a commotion here,” said Fitzgerald. He began polishing his glasses with a paper handkerchief. Idly Minogue wondered if Fitzgerald had more in common with the keen, cerebral pugnaciousness of a Jesuit than he realized.
“Did Paul Fine actually get to the stage of going out and meeting these students?”
“I don’t think so. We were just starting up, catching up on background at this stage. It was his story basically, he was just picking my brain a bit. Same as we all do here,” Downey added a little defensively. Minogue caught Fitzgerald’s eye for an instant. Had Fitz powers of mind-reading, from that look on his face after Downey’s mention of picking one another’s brains? Minogue had instantly thought of a family of apes grooming themselves.
“Do you keep a notebook, Mr. Downey? Could you tell us the names of persons you or Paul Fine were to meet with in this regard?”