Kenyon suppressed his rising anger. He remembered the feeling he had when he had read the place names, the mention of redundant information in
Combs' later reports. There was a quality of a surreptitious sneer about them.
"It strikes me that Combs may not have been the old fool you're implying. Much less the drunken old fool," said Kenyon in a restrained tone.
"Really, James?" said Murray, blinking with a new interest.
"You know his background. He was badly treated. He toughed it out during the war in very tight situations. More to the point, he was not a man to bluff. Judging by his record, I mean," Kenyon said slowly.
"Really, James? That's forty years ago. Personalities deteriorate. That's human nature. Aren't we talking about an old pouf-dah who had taken to the bottle? I don't wish to speak ill of the dead, but we have the living to contend with," Murray said, out in the open now.
"Look," he continued, "we kept tabs on him since he landed in Ireland. We think we know him rather well."
The barb registered with Kenyon, but he was grimly pleased to see Murray throw off the first of his gloves and turn to his prejudices.
"There's one flaw in what you're saying," Kenyon said coldly. "If he really was such an unreliable man, why did your office take him on in the first place?"
Murray blinked once.
"James, James. You know as well as I do that we inherited him. We looked around at what we had for assets in Ireland. It was a particularly bad time. We thought we could use Combs. Believe me, we wouldn't have chosen him if he weren't on the books. He was a relic."
"He was placed in Ireland on the condition that he live near Dublin?"
"Yes. He has been at us for years to be allowed back into Britain. It was decided that he'd be less of a risk if he were at arm's length. You know who he worked with during the war, I take it?" said Murray with a challenging edge.
"Yes. And I know what they did to him afterwards, too."
"Let's not get lachrymose, James. It's not for us to wonder why… et cetera. Particularly after forty years, um? Combs was a security risk and that was that."
Murray made a church-and-steeple of his fingers.
"He'd only have agreed to go to Ireland for a period of time, I imagine," said Kenyon. "Under certain conditions, I mean. There's nothing in his file about the deal which brought him to Ireland."
Murray collapsed his chapel and smiled indulgently.
"Purely informal, I expect. Hardly a signed contract. Tricks men don't get the lawyers to sign deals."
"What conditions?" Kenyon persisted.
"Well," Murray began, "I believe that Combs was offered a deal whereby he'd be allowed to return here. A new passport, if he did a little work for us in Ireland for a short while."
"A short while?"
"Can't be precise. We couldn't expect more than a couple of years. Combs was getting on already."
Meaning that they knew Combs was drinking heavily and wasn't in the best of health to begin with, Kenyon reflected. Murray and company had had good odds that Combs would die before they'd have to live up to the deal about repatriating him. A relic, Murray had said: nuisance, expendable.
"What did you think of the stuff Combs sent? Overall?"
"My assessments are in the file, James. Remember, Combs was very low-level. Intentionally so, I don't need to add. We had nobody on the ground there at that time. The area in south County Dublin was a haven for IRA on the run. All we wanted from Combs were sightings, a name here, a car number there. Not too taxing. His material tapered off this last while, I must say. Could have been the booze, I daresay. Fact is, the IRA may have learned to stay out of that area. The Irish police did a few swoops off their own intelligence there, too. Several things combined to flush them out, I expect."
Murray took up his cup again.
"Combs reported to the Second Sec on a regular basis?"
"Yes. Ball tried to hold him to some reasonable schedule," Murray said vacantly. "Didn't really work, though. You've seen the calibre of stuff that came from Combs lately."
Kenyon nodded. The dull burn in his chest was not going away, he realised then. It was more than his distaste for what lay under the tailored facade which Murray had inherited from the other fops in the Foreign Office. Murray was playing down Combs' death. The Combs that Kenyon had read about in the Registry yesterday afternoon was a different entity from the man whom Murray was now discarding. As he watched Murray draining the cup, it dawned on him that Murray's assessment was wrong because Murray simply hadn't the experience, the depth-most of all, the damned imagination-to see into Arthur Combs. Just for the record, he'd ask Murray.
"So you feel confident that Combs would not have material which could be prejudicial to us?" he murmured.
"'Us,' James?" asked Murray.
"What made this Arthur Combs enough of a security risk to bar him from Britain for nearly forty years? Was it what he was doing in Ireland these last two years?"
Murray paused and tugged at his cuff-links. Kenyon wanted to scream at the gesture. Murray seemed to be considering the question deeply.
"Oh balance, if it's a yes/no question… I'd have to say no. It's my sense that the matter is sealed."
"Excepting for the fact that he was murdered." Kenyon said, hearing the sarcasm plain in his own voice. "And we don't know why."
Murray sat up.
"Is there a need for melodrama like this, James? If our Mr Combs had damaging material to use he would have used it by now, I'm sure. He had no reason to betray his confidences. Really. We're talking about an antique queer who drank half the day. Do you think the Catholic Irish have some soft spot in their hearts for old bum-boys, old English bum-boys at that? Wait and see, you'll find something squalid about him-letting his inclinations get the better of him around some unfortunate youngster. You know what they're like over there. Touchy, temperamental. Peasants in many ways still."
Murray leaned forward over the table, a gesture of readiness to leave.
"Did I hear his place had been burgled, too? The very fact of him living there may have been enough to incense people. Terrible bloody country. A robbery attempt gone astray, I'd start with that if I were a copper. Combs must have looked an easy mark to a local hoodlum. Crime in the Republic is soaring, especially in Dublin. The peons want loot there, too, James. Their economy's on the skids…"
"We can't leave the matter as it is," Kenyon said evenly. "You liaise with this Ball in the embassy, I understand."
"He is one of a number of personnel who reports to me regularly, yes. We have rather a lot on our plates with the border security conference coming up, you'll allow."
"I have to talk to him. It's better he comes here. Will I have difficulties?"
Murray regained his faint smile.
"Only too happy to assist our colleagues in the Security Service."
Which meant the exact opposite, Kenyon thought as he followed Murray out of the restaurant.
CHAPTER 4
Stepaside Garda Station was in the centre of the village. Keating met Minogue in the adjoining carpark. Keating was whistling, tongue behind his teeth. Curly head, mother's love, Minogue mused. He guessed that Keating might be the youngest in his family. Keating winked.
"You found the place all right, did you?"
"Course I did, Pat. I'm a detective. Now who are these Mulvaneys?" asked Minogue.
"They're a bit like hillbillies so far as I can tell from the lads in the station, sir. We have sheets on them for car theft, B amp; E, petty larceny. Three brothers and they live on their own up above Barnacullia. Up there," Keating nodded toward the rounded top of Two Rock Mountain over the hedges.
"Barman at Glencullen said that they had words with Mr Combs one night recently."