John Brady - Kaddish in Dublin

“Here, so, think on this: God Almighty has no choice but to go along with Fine’s request to have you running this. And don’t be worrying about me and me pride. I’ll be more than happy to take the credit from you when the time comes. But don’t forget that you have the name of being a class of a wild rozzer.”

“I do?”

“Don’t be an iijit, of course you do. You nearly managed to make a diplomatic pig’s mickey out of the Combs business. God Almighty was expecting you to march down to the British Embassy and break down the door looking for any more involved in that Combs case. You don’t think you’d be drawing an Inspector’s pay today if the Commissioner was the sole captain of the ship, do you? It came down from Justice, right from the Minister too, as a signal to the Brits that we done right here and we support our police, no matter what the politicos might say. That sort of political weather spoils our gallant Commissioner’s humours, don’t you see. He just wants to run his shop like any other yo-yo high up on the State payroll.”

Minogue had heard it before. He had no sympathy for the Commissioner’s humours.

“Perhaps I should be grateful to have you keep me from falling under a bus too?”

“Don’t be getting uppity, Matt. Just be looking over your shoulder when you’re working on this.”

Paul Fine’s flat was in Ringsend, close by the new city-centre bypass route. His flat was the upper storey of a house which backed on to Ringsend Park. The house, standing at the end of a terrace, was removed both in architecture and original function from the houses on the terrace itself. Minogue guessed that it had been an official billet or quarters for a functionary who had worked on the docks around this part of the Port of Dublin.

The air was thick with seagulls and pigeons. Sulphurous, fishy smells on the air reminded Minogue that the Liffey Basin and docks were on the far side of the bypass road at the foot of the terrace. He could see the upper decks and cranes of moored cargo-ships when he looked in that direction. A young woman holding an infant stood in a doorway half-way down the terrace watching the two policemen. The snout of a Garda car showed from a lane next to Fine’s place.

Ringsend had had the name of being the toughest assignment for Gardai but that was twenty and more years ago, Minogue reflected, as he stared bleakly down the grimy road. Pitched battles outside and inside the pubs on Saturday nights had been routine then. Innumerable gangs and family racketeers fleshed out the crime figures in Ringsend and Irishtown. As with the newer working-class areas such as Inchicore and Crumlin and, more recently, Tallaght, much damage had been done to Garda work by Gardai themselves. Young Guards, countrymen, fresh from training, had been thrown into areas like Ringsend and had been backed up and directed by Gardai also overwhelmingly from the country. Over the years, those old hands had distilled their native dislike for Dubliners into a cynical and heavy-handed contempt. Time, not training, had settled the matter. Ringsend and Irishtown had become quieter as the first generation born into the flats and terraces had married and moved out. The Garda Press Office still liked to point out, to nuisances who asked why Garda-community relations were so bad, that crime rates in places like Ringsend had plummeted because Garda foot-patrols had solved the problem.

“They used to say that a sign you were a real Dubliner was if you knew where Raytown was,” Minogue observed. Hoey took note of Minogue’s melancholy tone, of Minogue examining the grey sky over the docks. “Yep,” Minogue added. “Raytown’s over there by Ringsend village.”

“Seems like a rough spot still to me,” Hoey said.

“Ah, it is and it isn’t. Is this the house?”

A cramped glass porch had been built around the front door. Two Guards were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. The middle-aged woman who had admitted Minogue and Hoey fussed with the teapot for the new arrivals.

“Miss Connolly has keys for the flat upstairs, sir,” one Guard said, rising from the table.

Minogue declined tea, and took the keys.

“When was Mr. Fine here last?”

“Let me see. This being a Monday… It would have been Sunday morning. Late morning. I was doing a bit in the garden there, and I saw him come out. About eleven o’clock.”

“In the morning?”

“Oh yes. We all go to bed early here, we do. The whole street does be as quiet as a graveyard at nine o’clock at night.”

“Sure it was him?”

“Certain, I am. A very nice man, Mr. Fine. I’m still not able to believe it. Lovely young man. Of course I knew he was a Jew, seeing as I see the mention of his father in the papers and so on. Lovely family, I’m sure.”

Minogue staved off his discomfort. He was less irritated than nervous at people telling him that Paul Fine was a Jew.

“Did Mr. Fine speak to you at all recently?”

“Oh, precious little. ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good evening’. Very much kept to himself and always polite.”

“Any chat with him at all?”

One of the Gardai started in on another piece of sponge cake. Minogue didn’t care that they were all seated around the table listening. She might say something different to them and that would be good for starters.

“Nothing. I’m alone here, you see. I never married, as I was saying to the lads here,” she smiled wanly toward the two Gardai. “But I don’t like to be putting conversation on people. If I met him at all, it’d be: ‘How’s it going, Miss Connolly?’ and ‘Grand weather’. Oh a lovely young man.”

She looked entreatingly at all the policemen and shook her head.

“Any visitors, Miss Connolly?”

“Let me think… Very, very occasional… very odd…”

“Do you mean odd visitors, is it?”

“A very odd time, I meant. It was only people he’d arranged to come and visit, I’m sure. There was one fella, I remember his face, used to call by sometimes. Familiar-looking, a fella with a beard. They’d sit in the garden of a nice day. Have a little wine and all that,” she said with an air of casual insight. ‘Having a little wine and all that’ might constitute glamour or bohemian living in these latitudes, Minogue guessed.

“A fella with a beard?”

“Matter of fact I saw him on the telly once. Fitzpat-”

“Fitzgerald?”

“That’s it. He’s a bigwig in RTE,” said Miss Connolly, referring to the head office of the Irish radio and television stations. “But he’s a bit of an atheist too, I believe. I brought them out tea once and I was introduced. Mr. Fine said that Mr. Fitzgerald was his boss and he was trying to soften him up for a bit more pay. A nice sense of humour, I’d say. Terribly nice lad… There were a few others too, all in the same line of business, I’m sure. You know how you can tell, what with the trendy clothes. Have a cup of tea or a bottle of stout maybe. I’d hear them upstairs, but never late at night, never.”

“Did you ever meet his girlfriend?”

“No, I didn’t,” she replied. “Sure you wouldn’t like more tea?”

Minogue glanced at the two Gardai whose car was blocking the driveway outside. One had crumbs in the folds of his uniform. A nice easy few hours’ work holding Fine’s place until the glamorous blades from the Murder Squad came by. Minogue gestured for the younger Guard to step out of the kitchen.

“We’re going up to his flat now. Go over what she remembers again, would you? How long he had been here, any irregularities? Did he ever come home drunk, was he ever having rows that she knows of? Arguments with people on the phone? Did he ever tell her anything about his work or personal life? Any strangers on the terrace this last while, callers looking for Fine?”