The Angel Tapes (12 page)

Jim Roche, briefcase in one hand and beaker of coffee in the other, shifted uncomfortably. He couldn't meet Macken's eye, and walked on.

“Now, now,” said Nolan, “a bit a common courtesy wouldn't go astray. Jim's here with Duffy's blessing, y'know.”

“Oh? Is he helping us with our inquiries?”

Nolan smiled at Macken's little insult; the garda euphemism for the interrogation of a suspect was a running joke at the Square.

“If you must know, Jim's helping us look into the break-in at Don Delahunt's house.”

“The family jewels? Yeah, I heard all about it. The wife's up in arms, isn't she?”

“That's right,” Nolan said. “Old Don may be retired but he's still got enough political clout to make it warm for everybody. Look, Macken, I know we don't see eye to eye but surely to God you can appreciate that Duffy's on the spot. He won't have a minute's peace until this is cleared up. And you know what
that
means.”

Blade knew. An unhappy assistant commissioner meant an unhappy department; Duffy's moods had a habit of sucking you into them.

“Jim's the best man for the job, y'know,” Nolan continued. “He's the only one in the country who understands the system that Delahunt's got up there.
I
thought microwaves were cookers until Jim explained it to me. Bloody amazing.”

“Until they go wrong,” Blade said. “Who installed the system anyway?”

“A Swiss firm. They went bust last year.”

“Hmm. So Cock's the fireman, is he?”

“Yeah. Jim reckons he can rebuild it from scratch.”

“Well, good luck to him.” Blade went on his way.

Yet just before he stepped into the assistant commissioner's office, he pondered over the encounter with Nolan. Brief though it was, the exchange had been the longest conversation Macken and Nolan had had in a long time. They avoided each other whenever possible.

Nolan, Blade decided, was up to something.

*   *   *

The sniffer dogs had covered almost half the route to Leinster House by noon on Tuesday, the fifth day of Angel. They'd found nothing, as Blade had feared. It had been a very long shot.

The rest of Macken's investigation team had likewise drawn a blank. Several of the detectives had questioned IRA men incarcerated in Mountjoy Prison and Portlaoise, the country's most secure jail. Nothing. Pardons and reduction of sentences had been hinted at as rewards for information on the bomber. “Freelance” had been the term most used by the prisoners they'd questioned. Angel's modus operandi put him outside the working of a terrorist cell, the three-man IRA unit that was the bane of Britain's security forces.

Macken's team had had to tread carefully. The bomb on O'Connell Street remained hypothetical; the gas-leak story still held—tenuously, but it still held—and any allusion to devices buried underground had been couched in the vaguest language. Yet the detectives had come away from the prisons convinced that Angel was indeed a freelance. And all the more dangerous for that.

Blade's team had pulled the files on every known terrorist who'd operated in Ireland, Britain, and mainland Europe since the Northern Ireland “troubles” had begun almost thirty years before. Redfern's men had gone through their own lists. They'd scrutinized every bombing, searching for some detail that could provide a link with Angel. Again, nothing. The man seemed not to have existed before July 3, 1998.

Yet he must have had a past, and that was why Macken and Sweetman were visiting Dr. Patricia Earley at her rooms in Trinity College.

Sweetman ran a red light at the junction of Clare Street and South Leinster Street and blithely ignored the angry honking of horns.

“We're not in
that
big of a hurry,” Blade muttered.

“Sorry. Force of habit.”

She showed her ID at the rear gate of the college and they were directed to the visitors' parking lot in the shadow of the eighteenth-century buildings. The campus was thronged with tourists; the boundary of the cricket green had become a picnic area, as well as a mecca for sunbathers and groups of idle youths. Blade caught a whiff of an illegal substance and shook his head with a smile.

Dr. Earley was a gracious hostess. She served them Earl Grey tea in fragile cups and saucers of bone china. Seated in a club chair in her sitting room, among her books and antique furniture, the psychologist reminded Blade more than ever of his mother.

“I've been through the tape I don't know how many times, Blade,” she said, “and I know most of it by heart now. What intrigued me in the beginning is how his language continually changes. At times it's almost as though we're dealing with two people. He can be extremely erudite one minute; the next he's using the language of the gutter.”

She paused to sip her tea.

“But not only that,” she went on. “It's his use of the second-person plural that had me baffled. He uses ‘you,' ‘ye,' ‘yiz' and ‘yooze' almost indiscriminately. Very few people do; they will tend to choose one pair and adhere to that pair, whatever the context.”

Blade nodded.

“What, I kept asking myself, could account for this shift?” Earley said. “Background? No; we tend to adopt the speech patterns of our peers. Of course, we will change the patterns at times—for example when we are in conversation with someone either higher up or lower down the social ladder. We do this either to impress, or when we are engaged in what linguists call social bonding. In other words, we tailor our language in order that we might identify with a certain group.”

“So how does Angel fit in?” Blade asked. Sweetman was making notes.

“Angel, I believe, is otherwise. It is my opinion that we are dealing with a working-class man who is largely self-educated. In the normal run of things, formal schooling eradicates much of the speech characteristics of one's roots. A self-educated man, on the other hand, would retain a good many of these speech characteristics, while adopting the patterns of better-educated speakers. This, I think, accounts for the fluctuations.”

Blade put his cup and saucer on a low table.

“That's very interesting, Doctor. So you're saying he's a self-made man?”

“I believe so. I also believe him to be from the northside of Dublin.”

“Oh, why's that?”

“It's a little complicated, Blade, so I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say that his vocabulary points in that direction. I also believe him to be extremely disturbed mentally. Possibly schizophrenic.”

“Split personality, doctor?” Sweetman said. She continued writing without looking up.

“No, the two illnesses should never be confused. Technically speaking, schizophrenia is not really an illness at all, but rather a set of symptoms that can differ widely. But it is not split personality. It is, rather, an almost total
lack
of personality. The schizophrenic cannot distinguish right from wrong; he cannot distinguish reality from delusion. To the schizophrenic, the world is a frightening place, Detective Sergeant. He must rebuild it each day of his life, according to his own perception of how the world
ought
to be. I believe that this man Angel is such a one.”

Blade breathed hard. “So he
is
a nutter. I thought as much.”

Earley frowned. “If you must use that word, yes.”

“Hmm. How do we handle him then, Doctor?”

“With extreme caution, Blade. The next time he rings you, say nothing that might upset him. One word of criticism from you could set off a chain reaction of psychotic behavior. Make him believe that you're on his side, that you understand. No matter what he says, no matter how confused it may be, try to assure him that you are in full agreement with him. That he has a friend.”

“I'll certainly try, Doctor. Thanks for the warning.”

Blade stood up a half hour later. Dr. Earley's cautionary words had made a deep impression on him. Sweetman laid her teacup and saucer aside and shut her notebook.

“One more thing, Doctor,” Blade said. “How do you actually recognize a schizophrenic? I mean, is there any pattern of behavior you should look for?”

Earley shook her head.

“I wish there were. Forget any preconceived notions you may have had about a schizophrenic being a raving lunatic. Outwardly he's normal—most of the time. You could be living with a schizophrenic for years without knowing it. Oh, there are little signs: compulsive behavior, obsessive neatness perhaps, overattention to trivialities. But generally speaking he'll appear to be as normal as you or I.”

“I was afraid you'd say that, Doctor.”

*   *   *

They left the car parked in the grounds of Trinity College, walked out into the milling lunchtime throng on Lincoln Place, and headed for a sandwich shop on Nassau Street.

They passed a street vendor selling small American flags and presidential paraphernalia: buttons, stickers, and T-shirts bearing the smiling face of the statesman whose visit loomed nearer. The sight of the souvenirs made Blade uneasy.

“Can you spare some small change for a bit o' food for the child?” a voice sang out.

It was a beggar-woman, squatting on the lowest step of an office building. She wore a plaid shawl in which an infant was swaddled. Blade ignored her.

“Is it my imagination,” he said to Sweetman, “or are there more of them around than this time last year?”

“More what?”

“The beggars. You'd break your neck over them.”

“Hmm, I hadn't noticed.” Sweetman cast a glance behind at the beggar. “I'd give her a pound,” she said, “but you know as well as I do, Blade, that she'd only spend it on drink anyway.”

Dodging the traffic, they crossed the street, and managed to find a table in the crowded lunchroom. Blade had an egg mayonnaise sandwich, the cheapest item on the menu.

His phone rang just as he took his first bite. The sound attracted no attention; there was another cellular phone being used in the sandwich shop and he heard the ring of yet another two tables along. This was cellular-phone territory.

“
HELLO, BLADE! ALL QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT
?”

Macken swallowed, and quietly pressed the
RECORD
button at the back of the unit.

“Hello, Angel. I was expecting you sooner or later.”

“
YOU SOUND IN GOOD FORM, SO YOU DO. ARE YOU IN THE PUB AGAIN
?”

“No, just having a sandwich.”

He stood up and moved out to the doorway. The reception was marginally better.

“
THAT'S GOOD. YOU SHOULDN'T DRINK ON AN EMPTY STOMACH, BLADE. IT'S BAD FOR THE LITTLE GRAY CELLS. THAT'S WHAT POIROT ALWAYS SAYS
.”

“I'll remember that.”

“
YOU KNOW WHY I'M CALLING, DON'T YOU
?”

“I can guess.”

“
HOW'S EVERYTHING AT THE SQUARE? IS NOLAN BEHAVING HIMSELF? HE ALWAYS WAS A BIT OF A BACK-STABBING CUNT, WASN'T HE? AM I RIGHT
?”

“You know Nolan as well?”

“
I KNOW EVERYBODY, BLADE. LISTEN, A WORD OF ADVICE: KEEP AN EYE ON CHARLIE NOLAN, OKAY? HE'S NOT TO BE TRUSTED, ESPECIALLY WHERE YOU'RE CONCERNED
.”

Macken felt his skin crawl. How could the bomber know such things? It was eerie. He said: “I'll bear it in mind, Angel. Thanks.”

“
THINK NOTHING OF IT. NOW LET'S GET DOWN TO BUSINESS. I'M SURE I DON'T HAVE TO REMIND YOU THAT THERE'S LESS THAN SEVEN DAYS TO GO. WHAT'S HAPPENING, BLADE? WHAT'S THE STORY ON MY MONEY
?”

“It's coming.”

“
I MEANT EVERYTHING I SAID ON FRIDAY, BLADE. I DON'T GIVE A SHITE WHO COMES UP WITH THE MONEY, BUT IF IT ISN'T THERE ON THE FOURTEENTH, THEN IT'S BOOM TIME
.”

Careful, careful. Kid gloves.

“Look, I understand perfectly, Angel, and I can imagine what it's like being kept in suspense, but I can assure—”

“
DON'T PATRONIZE ME
!”

Fuck.

“I'm not, I'm not. I only wanted to make clear to you that you've nothing to worry about. The money'll be paid. It's just a question of cutting through a lot of red tape, that's all.”

“
GOOD, ENJOY YOUR SANDWICH, BLADE
.”

Blade heaved a sigh and partially rewound the tape. It had worked.

Angel's voice had gone on record.

*   *   *

“Have you got a minute, Charlie?”

“Not really,” Superintendent Nolan said. “I'm up to me bleeding eyes at the moment. What's up?”

“Is Roche still with you?”

“No, he left ten minutes ago. Look, what is it, Paddy? I really am up to me tonsils here.”

He was, too. His desk was every police officer's tribulation: the stack of papers on the left was supposed to decrease as the stack on the right rose, but for some inexplicable reason the process appeared to be working in reverse. Then there was the pile of security-alarm manuals Jim Roche had left behind for his attention. Nolan had opened one at random—and had shut it again immediately. The diagram had resembled a map of the London Underground redrawn by a chimpanzee.

“Well, if I was you, I'd drop everything and get down here right away. I want you to be the first to see this.”

“Fuck's sake, Paddy, what is it?”

“Not over the phone.…”

“Right. I'm on my way.”

He found Detective Sergeant Paddy Flynn in a corner of the big incident room, shielded from the rest of Blade's investigation team by a shoulder-high dividing partition. Nolan's friend and golf partner was seated in front of a computer terminal, one of many identical units linked to the giant server in the basement.

“You better sit down, Charlie.”

Nolan sat. “And this better be good.”