John Brady - Unholy Ground

Minogue gathered himself from his wool-collecting and took leave of Keating, but not before trying to buoy him up.

"Tell you what. Give it a rest. Shea can tidy up bits there, do you follow me? Get yourself a cup of something, polish up a summary of those three brothers. Get here for the four o'clock powwow here with me. Can you do that?"

"I think so, sir."

Bill Hogan phoned as Minogue was replacing the receiver. Hogan liked doing favours which showed his acumen and authority in the bank, Minogue remembered as he listened to Hogan's flamboyant greeting.

"Mr Combs had the two accounts, all right. One was for savings and the other was a current account. One of the girls remembers him. He used to wait for her so she'd do his business for him. There. Aren't we quick off the mark in this bank, Matt?"

"I'm blinded by your efficiency, so I am," Minogue said. "Listen, was Combs a big depositor?"

Minogue knew that his request was beyond the pale. Hogan could well ask for the official request in writing, in between apologizing for the formalities of course.

"Let's say he was comfortable, Matt. More comfortable than you or I."

"Any large transactions in the last while?" Minogue tried gingerly.

"No. He never left more than three figures in the savings. The current account was just to receive remittances from banks in England. Credit memos. Now, don't you want to ask me where these remittances came from?"

"Well. I suppose I do… yes, I do," Minogue said, taken by surprise. Had he such currency with Hogan, a man who had grown up as a townie in Ennis while Minogue was mooching around in the sodden fields with clay under his nails?

"National Westminster Bank. NatWest. A branch in London. Every month, a credit memo at the beginning of the month and then another one at the end of the month."

"A pension, Bill?"

"Arra, I dunno. If either one was a pension, then it's in England the pair of us should be living and not here. One of the memos had the name of another bank as source. Sampson Coutts. Sounds very 'nobby, doesn't it?"

"Like they supply snuff to the Queen."

"Well. That's as much as we know here. Oh, he had nothing in the safe with us here."

"Aren't you great, though," Minogue declared. "There wouldn't be more later?"

"Nothing of any import."

Minogue had to sit through a crude joke where only Hogan laughed. Then he returned to the itemized list of Combs' effects.

There was no sign of a will. There was a box which seemed to have contained the receipts that had been scattered about the kitchen. Receipts for the electricity, receipts from a garage for a new clutch in the car, bills for water. Combs owned the house freehold. There was no safe or cubby-hole in the house. No money had been found. Combs' wallet, if he had had one, was missing. Minogue read through Hoey's report for mention of an address book, a diary, any notes for appointments. There was none. There was, however, a photocopy of a list of telephone numbers which had been taped to the wall beside the telephone. Hoey or somebody had tried the numbers, because red felt pen marks were next to all of the numbers. A doctor in Stepaside, the housekeeper's number, numbers for two bookies (ah, a racing man), the B amp;I ferry office, Aer Lingus, British Airways. One number had the name "Ball" next to it. "British Embassy" had been written in red on the photocopy.

Minogue leaned back in the chair. He almost toppled back onto the floor. Recovering his poise, he leaned his elbows on the desk. It was gone three o'clock. Eilis was burrowing in a filing cabinet. There was a smell of tea lurking somewhere, not yet suffocated by her Gitanes. It was a toss-up whether he should visit Bewley's in Georges Street (in which backwater you were liable to fall asleep) or go for the real Bewley's in Grafton Street or Westmoreland Street. Minogue took stock of what he needed. Meeting at four to put the nuts and bolts together. Combs didn't seem to have any solicitor in Ireland. Did the bank deal with this kind of thing, seeing as Combs had been a customer? Eilis to phone Bill Hogan back. Listen to his jokes, too?

But this was all a bit too routine, Minogue sensed, when he stood up from the offending chair. Beyond the sketches there was little enough personal in Combs' place. Did no one write him letters? No grandniece to send him a postcard about her holiday in Brighton? No shoebox of snapshots and cards? Mrs Hartigan's mention of Combs' corresponding with others… but no sign of him hoarding any letters he had received in reply. Minogue's house held mountains of knick-knacks, all sacraments sufficient to his own faith. He didn't know how a person could live comfortably without such a glut of signs. He looked at the copy of the passport pages again. Went on holidays to Spain on his own…

Minogue was almost by Eilis when her phone rang. She beckoned to him before he could reach the door. The call was from the British Embassy. Minogue listened to an English accent announcing that she was Miss Simpson, that Mr Combs was unmarried and that Mr Combs did not have any family extant. Extant?

"Mr Combs' sister, Janet Combs, died in Bristol in 1979. We know of no relatives."

Just like that, Minogue thought. The way Miss Simpson had said it added a weight to the feeling he had held aside so far. Silly maybe: he had almost said "poor devil."

"Oh, I see. Now can you tell me where Mr Combs used to live in England? In Great Britain, I mean. Did he have a house there himself, like."

"Mr Combs last lived in London."

She gave Minogue an address which meant nothing to him. Some place called Wood Green. It sounded nice, but wasn't London very crowded? He scribbled while she spoke. A delphic Eilis sat behind a slim thread of smoke watching him. He tried not to be distracted by the way Miss Simpson was ending her words so precisely.

Mr Combs had retired from his job as a Customs Inspector at the Port of London. He had sold his house over two years ago and moved to Ireland. He had established contact with the embassy in Ireland as a matter of course. The address she gave him was the same house in Kilternan.

"I see, Miss Simpson." Minogue said.

"Would there be an Irish background here at all, his parents perhaps?"

Miss Simpson didn't know and she said so.

"Is there no one we can tell he's dead? Relatives, I mean, of course."

"I expect that his will may tell you something."

"Yes, indeed," said Minogue, adrift again. "But we have none. Will, that is. Solicitors I suppose. If there are any."

"Your Department of Foreign Affairs usually looks after the return of remains," she said lightly.

Minogue realised that she was trying to be helpful.

"Yes, Miss Simpson. Thanks very much now. And 1 hope we find someone for Mr Combs. His relatives I mean, as well as the perpetrator. However distant the relatives. Oh, before I forget, is there a Mr Ball working at the embassy?"

"There is. He's a Second Secretary… Did you want to…?"

"Not at the moment, no thanks. It's just that we found a telephone number in Mr Combs' house for your Mr Ball."

"One of Mr Ball's duties is to see to inquiries and communications with citizens of the UK resident in Ireland. As I mentioned, Mr Combs registered with us here."

"That's a lot of work, though, isn't it?" asked Minogue. "All those Britons who come here to live, even for a while, like."

"Not everybody would do so, Sergeant. Some like to do it, but Ireland, the Republic, is not a foreign destination for Britons really, is it?"

A sense of humour maybe?

"True for you. I hope to have better news for you if I'm in touch again, Miss Simpson."

Miss Simpson said that would be nice and rang off with a "cheerio," something Minogue had heard only in films. Eilis was lighting a cigarette from the butt of her last one when Minogue put down the phone.