John Brady - Kaddish in Dublin

Minogue felt the acid sting of tears on his own eyes and he turned back in his seat, blinking, while Billy Fine wept in the arms of his friend.

“Did any of ye hear of these lunatics before?”

Kilmartin and Minogue shook their heads.

“The League for Solidarity with the Palestinian People. Not a foreign accent either. Mother of Jases, as if we didn’t have enough to be going on with,” the Commissioner declared. “I have a lot of faith in you fellas. So does the whole country too, let me tell you. Yous have the nose for getting convictions.”

Minogue stole a glance at the neck stretching the collar, the farmyard face. Gardai had always had a measure of suspicion for their Commissioners since the force was founded in 1922. There had been autocrats and weaklings, Napoleons and incompetents in the post. It didn’t take a Leftie to declare publicly that every Garda Commissioner was too much under the finger of his political overseer, the Minister for Justice. Too political.

“You can’t imagine the pleasure I had putting me name to last year’s Report on Crime,” said the Commissioner.

Minogue’s gargoyle within sniggered: did he mean the 450-odd crimes in which firearms were used? The seizure of four rocket-launchers by accident, perhaps? Maybe Lally meant the overall detection rate of 32 per cent, published in black and white for the public to get the willies over? Maybe the state of community-Gardai relations in Dublin, the one county with half the country’s population…?

“Yes, indeed. Every blade out there on the beat knows that if there’s a person murdered in this country then the perpetrator has less than one chance in twenty-five of getting away with it…”

Must be going to ask for something big, thought Minogue. Kilmartin listened with an apparent gravity, nodding his head for emphasis.

“… I threw that 95 per cent success rate at policemen in that bloody conference in Stockholm last month and bejases if they were nearly calling me a liar.” The Commissioner shook his huge head for emphasis. He’s like a horse settling on the bit, Minogue thought. A finger came out of the fist which the Commissioner had been raising and lowering on the table.

“ ‘Oh but in Ireland we hear there is much crime of violence,’ says one of them, a shagging Frenchman, I think. Well I cut him short then and there, so I did, in short order too. And I was thinking of Jimmy Kilmartin and yourself, Matt, when I settled this Frenchman’s hash. I wouldn’t mind but the ones that were bragging about little crime were iijits like the Swiss and the Norwegians, races without the brains and the vim to do a bit of divilment anyway. All they do is sit at home and count their money or commit suicide. Pack of shites… Anyway, all the lads on the Squad have the creative approach as well as the hard work. Do you know what I said to this Frenchman, do you?”

“No,” Kilmartin whispered.

“I nearly told him to eff off. They think they’re the bee’s knees, that crowd. Well I happen to know that they have dracul-”

“Draconian?” said Minogue.

“Exactly. Draconian laws to be harassing their citizens, so I do. The French are savages in their own right. Anyway, I says to this upstart, ‘You’re addressing a policeman whose Murder Squad is an example to the civilized world.’ Do you get the hint about civilized? Themselves and their Algeria!”

What civilized world, Minogue wondered. The Commissioner, more fully inflated with that happiest of Irish emotions, the fearless rebuffing of any suggestion that things Irish were not the equal and better of anything on the planet, became even more animated. Minogue did not like this man one bit.

“That’s the way,” said Kilmartin. Minogue winced at his sycophancy. The Commissioner dropped both fists dramatically on the table and his whole demeanour changed in an instant. His face was now a mask of stern determination.

“So that’s the confidence I had under me hat when I was able to say to Chief Justice Fine that all the resources of the Garda Siochana would be brought to bear on this dastardly crime.”

Did he really say ‘dastardly crime’ to Fine, Minogue’s gargoyle asked.

“Most particularly, the proven record of the Murder Squad.” The Commissioner sat back in his chair, satisfied with his oratory. “And do you know, men, that Justice Fine knows you, Matt?”

“A fleeting acquaintance, I’m thinking,” said Minogue, his suspicions returning in full.

“Maybe so, but evidently the man has the same faith in you as I do and as Jimmy Kilmartin does. You’re not an Inspector for nothing, I can tell you.”

Kilmartin must have known this would come out, Minogue realized then.

“He asked me if you’d spearhead the investigation,” said Lally.

Minogue did not trust himself to look at Kilmartin now.

“So naturally I told him I’d speak to Jimmy Kilmartin about that. To see how the land lies, if you follow me.” God Almighty turned to Kilmartin.

“Absolutely sir,” said Kilmartin guilelessly.

“Great stuff, men,” said the Commissioner, rising. “Can I have a call on it every day? The Minister has asked me for a briefing every evening: that’s the kind of priority it has. He’s expecting to be prodded during Question Period as to security. Oh, and lookit… I had the Branch, er, see if they had any file on this Paul Fine. He was by way of being a journalist. The name sort of struck a chord, like. He was a bit of a Leftie when he was in college, that sort of thing. Mild; no record of trouble with the law.”

Lally swept an arm over imaginary protestations and squinted at both policemen. “That’s all water under the bridge, so it is. Trotskyist, Leftie, journalist, Jew-none of that matters a damn to us, isn’t that the way to approach it? Fair play and justice for all.”

Then why mention it, Minogue wondered.

“I’ve greased the wheels with the Branch already, seeing as I had that titbit of information about Fine. There’s a Gallagher in the Branch, Sergeant Gallagher. I believe that he and another few under him monitor these foreign fanatics here.”

Fanatics. Minogue sat down again when the Commissioner left. Anything to do with the Middle East meant fanaticism apparently. There were no Irish fanatics, of course.

“Looks like you’re elected, Matt,” Kilmartin said from the door. Minogue hoped it was a trace of relief he detected in Jimmy’s voice.

“Can I have Shea Hoey and Keating too then?”

“To be sure,” said Kilmartin remotely. He held his hand on the door yet. “Look. A few things. The Commissioner in his haste may get a hold of you to find out how you’ll be doing on this case-instead of getting his brief from me. You heard him say he wants to hear from us every day?”

Minogue nodded.

“All I’m saying is, don’t leave me in the dark on anything. I don’t want him telling me what I’m supposed to know. I know what you’re thinking: ‘Ah, he’d never do that.’ I’m not saying he would, but you can see he’s jumpy about this. And another thing. I don’t want any of the hooligans in the Branch knowing too much about what we’re up to. Take whatever you can off this Gallagher fella, but don’t be giving him so much as the steam off your piss in July. Don’t be surprised if you-know-who is about to give the identical little speech to the Branch, telling them to keep their own investigation under their hats.”

Kilmartin arched an eyebrow and winked. Neither gesture dispelled Minogue’s bafflement. “You’re still a bit of an innocent, Matt. That doesn’t mean you or I should be taken for a gobshite though, does it?”

“I’m not so sure I want to know more at this point,” murmured Minogue.