James Benn - Evil for evil

Also, I had been warned by old Grady O'Brick as soon as I landed, warned to watch my step. He'd nodded in the direction of the MP waiting for me but was that what he'd meant? Or was he gesturing toward the land itself? I didn't know, which pretty much summed up where I was in this investigation. No answers.

I watched the men in the mess hall, eating chow, laughing and talking, doing everyday things, as much as that was possible in the army. Some of these guys had been on garrison duty in Iceland; others were fresh from the States. A few, like Brennan, were transfers from outfits that had been in combat. Maybe the army wanted to add experienced men to the unit but it never made much sense to me. Until men went through combat and saw for themselves, veterans like Brennan would be viewed as oddballs, paranoid and superstitious, strangers in their midst. Brennan himself, his pals all dead, stood apart, doing his job, but unwilling or unable to form the bonds of friendship with men who might get chopped up beside him on the next invasion beach. Instead, his only buddy was a carved pig.

Matches, bottle caps, pocket knives, Saint Christopher medals, coins, and the ace of spades. I'd seen them all grasped in sweaty palms, tucked in pockets and continually patted down to make sure they were safe. There were rituals too-prayers, curses, songs, finger tapping, the sign of the cross, all those charms and amulets each GI was certain he couldn't do without when the lead started flying. They knew that without it, they'd be dead. With it, their chances might be slightly better than average, but nothing was guaranteed. Finally, after enough time up on the line, they realized luck had nothing to do with it. Skill and alertness-those things could give you an edge, at least until exhaustion set in, but luck was meaningless. Sooner or later, unless they pulled you off the line, you were going to get it.

I stirred my cold coffee and stared at the dark liquid swirling like a whirlpool.

"Lieutenant Boyle?"

I jumped, startled. I looked up and saw a man in a dark green uniform staring at me. He had a square jaw and a thin-lipped mouth set beneath dark eyes. Crow's-feet showed at their corners, and I judged him to be in his midforties. The uniform had a high collar with the Irish harp on each collar tab. His black leather belt and holster were gleaming, the butt of his revolver high and forward, ready for action.

"You must be Hugh Carrick," I said, rising from my seat. I didn't offer my hand.

"District Inspector Carrick, if it's all the same to you," he said as he sat down across from me. He gestured with his hand for me to be seated, as if I had just walked into his office.

"It is," I said. "Do district inspectors in Ulster have to wear Class As all the time?"

"Pardon me?"

"The fancy dress uniform. Back in the States detectives dress in suits except for special occasions."

"I just came from a funeral in Dromara. A constable, murdered by the so-called Irish Republican Army. Shot four times in the back, twenty yards from his home. His wife and two wee girls reached him first."

As he spoke, his tone didn't vary. No emotion crept into his voice, and his eyes stayed focused on me as he sat there, hands folded in his lap.

"I'm sorry, Inspector-"

"District Inspector."

"I am sorry, District Inspector. I'm a policeman myself, or was. In Boston, before the war. The death of a brother officer is a serious matter."

"Serious? To a Catholic from Boston? I understand the IRA murder squads enjoy a great deal of support from the Irish settled in Boston."

"How do you know I'm Catholic? Maybe I'm an atheist."

"Do not joke with me, Lieutenant Boyle. Your name tells me what I need to know, and your city tells me the rest. It's in the blood with you from across the border, whether you've gone to America or come north with a pistol to shoot a good man in the back." His words spilled out with the Irish accent I was used to, but with a harder, clipped edge. The only part of him that moved was his lips.

"Perhaps we should talk another time, District Inspector. I'm sure passions are running high after the funeral."

"Passions, Lieutenant Boyle? We have no time for passions. We have murderers to apprehend. We have a war to fight. Perhaps you allow yourself to wallow in passions but personally I find them distracting."

"Passion is what usually leads to murder, DI Carrick."

"But not what solves them, in my experience. Now I am told that I must cooperate with you, and I am sure you have been instructed to cooperate with me."

"I have been. I've only been here one full day. I don't have much information yet." I tried to keep my response neutral, to match his tone and his approach to me. It was an interrogation technique my dad had taught me. When a suspect was giving you a hard time, watch how he sits and how he speaks. Copy his stance and tone, and give it back to him. Sometimes it can defuse a touchy situation.

"Very well. What information do you have?"

"I know that Edward Mahoney was seen in the area in two different pubs, by Major Thornton and then by Sergeant Brennan. That you've questioned Brennan and requested his file. I know that Provost Marshal Heck was not pleased with my arrival. And now I know that you also are less than pleased. The only person glad to see me has been Major Thornton, who seems certain I can find his BARs for him, which will guarantee his command of a combat outfit."

"Major Thornton has not yet seen the elephant, or he wouldn't be so eager. Do you think you can find the weapons, or that your IRA friends will hand them over if you ask?"

"I just explained that I don't have any friends in Ireland. How about being a pal anyway and telling me what you know? Some of that promised cooperation would be nice."

"I can tell you I have my suspicions about Sergeant Brennan although his record is exemplary. Stood up well at Salerno after your generals sent good men ashore to be slaughtered."

"Suspicions?" I asked, resisting the urge to take a swipe at him or at least respond to his barbs. But that was what he was looking for, so he'd have a good excuse to write me off as an inexperienced pro-IRA Yank.

"He spends all of his free time in the villages around here, alone. He never goes anywhere with his mates."

"His mates are all dead, and he doesn't seem to want any new ones."

"Nevertheless, that could be how he made contact with the IRA. The Catholic pubs are sure to be full of them or their sympathizers. And of course who better to let them know when and how to strike?"

"That's good circumstantial stuff. But I have a question for you. If the IRA pulled this off by stealing one of Andrew Jenkins's trucks, that would leave him looking the fool. Why hasn't he retaliated? Have there been any IRA men or innocent Catholics gunned down?"

"No. I've told Jenkins to sit this out and let us handle it."

"You give orders to the Red Hand Society? And they obey them?"

"I'm not part of that rabble, Lieutenant Boyle. The Ulster Volunteer Force are all good men, good Protestant Unionists who will fight for our right to be part of Great Britain. The Red Hand are criminals and bullies, acting under the guise of patriotism. Most would sell out their own mothers if there was a quid in it for them. Andrew Jenkins isn't the worst of the lot; he does listen to reason on occasion."

The missing piece came to me when Carrick mentioned selling out.

"Eddie Mahoney was found with a pound note in his hand, the sign of the informer," I said.

"Aye, he was."

"Well, whom did he inform on? Whom did he inform to?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"It's simple. If he was correctly marked as an informer, he must have been informing to someone. Was he one of yours?"

"No, he wasn't. But they could have made a mistake. On the run, suspicious of everyone, any one of those IRA men could have turned on him."