John Brady - Kaddish in Dublin

Kilmartin had said it out loud as the trio were crossing Harcourt Street to Farrell’s office. Jimmy would make a lot of his prophecy after they had finished the meeting with Farrell, Minogue knew. After all, Kilmartin had been right… again.

“Bet you that the Commissioner told him to let us in. And that Tynan told the Commissioner too,” Kilmartin had said excitedly. “Bet you any money you like. Go a tenner, Matt? A tenner says that Tynan made him.”

Yes, Kilmartin was probably right.

“And you know Farrell, runs the Branch like his own private army. I’d say he’s bulling mad. He wanted to go after Heher and get the source who made the confession; squeeze the bejases out of him. What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” said Minogue.

“I still say it was Drumm who made the confession, and after Heher came down offa the ceiling he knew he’d have to tell the Archbishop about it. Ah, but Farrell’d choke the Pope himself to get at the source,” said Kilmartin with relish. He licked a palm and rubbed it back along his crown to settle what was left of his hair.

“I like the sound of that,” Minogue conceded.

“Choking the Pope or putting your tenner on the line?”

“The former,” said Minogue. “I’d lose my tenner, I’m sure.”

“Well, I must say that Tynan sticking up for us is something I don’t mind at all, at all,” said Kilmartin. “There may be something to him if he stood up to Farrell. Did you hear that Farrell went to the Minister, and all? He wanted the swoop last night even; he thinks this crowd is dangerous. It was Tynan’s doing to put in the phone taps and make Farrell wait for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Maybe Farrell didn’t believe that the confessional is secret, and thought these-what should we call them-conspirators might have been told of the leak,” said Hoey. “But the confessional is still sworn to secrecy, isn’t it? So the Branch couldn’t have gone any further than ourselves.”

“Secrecy, is it?” said Kilmartin in his music-hall incarnation. “It had bloody well better be, for the love of Jases. I told a few whoppers in confession boxes in my time, and I don’t want them broadcast, I can tell you,” he added, stepping around the parked police cars.

Tynan’s first call from Slattery’s pub had been to the Commissioner. A second tenpenny piece had clanged into the phone when he called Farrell at his home in Clontarf. Minogue was in the pub by then and he dearly wanted to eavesdrop on what Tynan was demanding in crisp tones, sentences without verbs, a slow insistent, serious voice, as he stared at the graffiti on the wall in front of him. Minogue had fought off that temptation by giving into another. He pushed his way to the bar and bought two Jameson’s whiskeys with ice in both of them.

Tynan questioned neither the ice nor the whiskey. Minogue phoned Kilmartin at home after Tynan had told him what he had started. To his credit, Kilmartin had not questioned Farrell’s involvement. As part of Garda department C3, the Special Branch was expected to see to subversive groups within the State. Nor did Kilmartin pass any remark about Tynan taking the reins. Putting down the telephone, Minogue had then realized that Kilmartin’s deferring without complaint was the surest sign of what the list in the envelope could mean. Kilmartin seemed to have been glad to step aside and let the paint-and-powder brigade, as he sometimes called the Special Branch, work it out.

It was not until this morning that Minogue had found out that Tynan had had a District Court judge roused from his telly in Fairview and brought by police car to the Four Courts. No fewer than twenty-seven phone taps had been operating within ninety minutes of the two men sipping their Jameson’s. By midday today the number had grown to over fifty. Surveillance teams had been placed on all the people on the list by midnight, and had remained in place throughout the night. They were relieved by shifts of Branch detectives. In the case of the Army ranks on the list, Army Intelligence had been alerted and was reporting to the First Secretary of the Minister for Defence.

Gallagher had met the three detectives at the front desk and directed them to Farrell’s office.

“Tommy,” said Kilmartin, reaching across the desk, “how’s things?”

“Hot,” grunted Farrell, a taciturn and driven policeman with a reputation for ruthlessness, but a man believed to have no political debts to service.

“And Matty Minogue himself,” said Farrell.

“And Seamus Hoey,” Kilmartin added.

There were no preliminaries. Gallagher had the tape of the telephone calls edited, rewound and poised to play. He turned the switch and nothing happened.

“Plug?” said Minogue. Hoey checked the socket behind his chair. Farrell pursed his lips.

“Jimmy,” said Farrell, “I told God Almighty a half-hour ago that leaving things this way was too much of a risk. We should have jumped last night and worried about hard evidence and building a case after we got in the doors.”

“Did you play him this tape too?” asked Kilmartin.

“Damn right I did. That’s why we’re moving tonight. Yous may have a murder to worry about: we have several to prevent. As well as lunatics flinging petrol bombs at Jewish churches.”

“Two murders,” said Minogue. Farrell glared at him.

“It’s nothing to what could happen unless we lift this lot tonight,” said Farrell gruffly.

“Well we-that is to say Tynan-had hardly got a start on going through the files for possible associates not mentioned on the list, Tommy,” Kilmartin said. “There has to be a lot more than two Army officers and one Garda sergeant.”

“And didn’t Johnny Tynan tell me the selfsame thing not an hour ago? ‘A lot might slip the net if we move too soon,’ says he. ‘If we don’t get the ones on the list to talk, we’ll fall short of getting all of them,’ says he. Oh they’ll talk all right, I says to myself, but I couldn’t say that to them, now, could I?”

Indeed, Minogue reflected. It was known that Farrell had had a hand in the selection and training of a squad of Special Branch officers whose sole job was to interrogate suspects.

“Well, they’ve been trying,” said Kilmartin. “They’ve been up all night with the files and they’ve added possibles to the list.”

Gallagher got up off his knees red-faced and turned the switch again. This time it worked. After the hiss of the leader portion, a broad Kerry accent announced the time and the names of the persons speaking on the tape.

Gibney’s voice was a measured and polite Dublin accent. There were no pauses when he talked. He seemed to have prepared everything he wanted to say to Gorman on the phone. The tone was reasonable, gently persuasive. Minogue watched Kilmartin’s face go blank when Gibney mentioned the Ard Fheis.

“… We’ve drawn up a list of proposals for when the Dail gets back in session. Wait a minute, I dropped something… OK. Now you’ll have just the one day because the Opposition will go right to work and table the no-confidence. Now there’s no way around the business we discussed, you know? You know? We just have to have them so as we can accelerate the thing and- ”

“ I still say the momentum will carry us through.” Gorman’s tone was almost urgent, a palpable effort to stay calm.

Minogue felt a non-existent draught on the back of his neck.

“But we’ve talked about this ad nauseam, Fintan. Even your own estimates are for four to break ranks and then you-”

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. That’s more than enough to carry the vote when the Dail sits. Don’t you see what I mean? There’s no need for anything more.”

Farrell held his hand up. Gallagher stopped the tape.