The Angel Tapes (16 page)

Nolan laid a small pile of glossy brochures on the desk. Duffy picked up the topmost one. It was entitled “Movement Sensor Systems.” Duffy leafed through it.

“I can understand, sir,” Nolan went on, “why that and things like”—he held up a second brochure—“‘passive infrared sensors' would be relevant to Delahunt's alarm installation.”

Duffy nodded sagely. It was Greek to him.

Nolan pulled out a folder from the bottom of the pile.

“But what in the name of God,” he said, “would Roche be wanting with something called ‘Military and Civil Applications of Voice Encryption Software'? It doesn't make sense.”

The assistant commissioner lit a cigarette. He said nothing for about a minute, continuing to stare at the text and diagrams contained in the folder. He shut it.

“Does Blade know about this?”

“No, sir. Should he?”

“I don't know, Charlie.” He stabbed a finger at Nolan. “But don't
you
go bothering him with it, is that clear? Leave it with me for the moment.”

Nolan's grin was broad as he turned out of Duffy's office. The rank of detective superintendent in the Special Branch had its privileges, he mused. It opened doors that were closed to others. Folders that were out of reach to members of the general public could be acquired by the mere flashing of a badge of rank, if you knew the right buttons to push.

He could just about fit in one more interview before lunch. On returning to his office, he gathered up the rest of Roche's brochures, slipped them into a document wallet, and set off to Dr. Patricia Earley's rooms in Trinity College.

*   *   *

The assistant commissioner lit a new cigarette from the old one. He glanced through the folder again. Then he picked up the phone.

“Sweetman, is Macken there?”

“Ehh, no sir, he isn't. He went up to the canteen. Will I have him call you, sir?”

“No, Sweetman, don't bother. It's nothing important.”

*   *   *

“Hello?”

“Hello, is that Sandra?”

“Yes.… Who is this, please?”

“It's
Blade,
love.” She didn't even recognize her own father's voice anymore. Or pretended not to. Unbelievable.

“Oh.… Do you want to speak to Joan? She isn't here.”

“That's all right. How are you, love? Are you well?”

“I'm okay. Is there anything else?”

Jesus
wept.

“No, Sandra, there isn't. If Peter's there, will you put him on?”

“I'll call him. Bye.”

“Ehh … bye.”

There was a long interval before his son came on the line. Blade lit a Hamlet and puffed lightly on it while he turned the audiocassette over and over in his hand.

“Blade?”

“Peter. What's the matter with Sandra? You'd think I was the bloody Antichrist the way she behaves.”

“Ah, she's just in one of her moods. You know how she gets.”

“Mmm. Listen, Peter, can you slip down to the corner for me?”

“I'm on my way.”

They'd developed the code together as a precaution against Jim Roche and his electronic ears. Blade thought it unlikely that Roche would bug his own home—but you never knew with someone like him. The coded message sent Peter jumping on his bicycle and riding almost a mile to a certain telephone booth; not only had this booth the advantage of being out of sight and earshot of Jim Roche, but it was rarely in use whenever Peter and Blade needed to communicate urgently.

“Peter?”

“Yep. Is it about the tape?”

“Yes.” Blade drew on his cigar and chuckled. “It's
blank,
Peter.”

A pause.

“Are you sure? But it can't be. I checked it before I posted it to you.”

“Well, I'm just after playing it, and I can assure you there's feck all on it.”

A longer pause.

“Are you sure you played the right side?”

Blade stopped his turning of the cassette and looked more closely at the clear plastic casing. Only then did he see the small, blind-embossed
B
in the corner. Stupid of him; Peter had scribbled over whatever it was that had been written on the label. He ought to have guessed that that was the wrong side.

“Er, sorry, Peter. My mistake. Look, I'll be in touch.”

“You won't like what you hear, Dad.…”

“It's all right.”

“But if it helps at all…”

“Yeah. Listen, I appreciate it; I really do.”

“They didn't say anything about Roche living here, so it isn't much use on that score. But Roche was talking about something I didn't follow.”

“Oh…?”

“Yeah. Something about him doing the deal-to-end-all-deals in a couple of days' time, and making enough to retire to the Bahamas on.”

Blade looked at the tape in his hand. His mind was a helter-skelter. Jesus, what was it Duffy had said?

Duffy had approached Macken in the canteen.

“Charlie's on to something, Blade. Just thought I'd mention it. It may be nothing at all to do with the investigation, so I won't bother you with it for the moment.…”

“I wish you wouldn't do that, sir: half tell me something and get my curiosity aroused.”

Duffy's next words had indeed aroused Blade's curiosity. More than that.

Christ, he thought now, had Nolan got it by the right end for once? He couldn't believe it. He unwrapped another Hamlet and lit it from the still-smoldering end of the first cigar.

“It's probably meaningless,” he told his son, as calmly as he could. “Cock is always going on about his shagging deal-to-end-all-deals. Ever since I've known him. But I'll have a listen anyway. You never know.”

“I'll keep trying, Blade. I'll ring you.”

“Thanks, Peter. Bye.”

Blade turned over the tape, inserted it in his machine, and sat back to listen.

Nineteen

Dr. Patricia Earley was in the conference room in Harcourt Square when Macken and Sweetman got there a little after seven in the evening of Friday, the eighth day of Angel. Duffy and Nolan were also present, as were Lawrence Redfern and several of his dark-suited associates. Blade nodded to Dr. Barry Keogh and Linda Doyle of forensics before he took a seat.

The center of attention was the long, white “blackboard” on the south wall of the room, on whose shiny surface Earley was adding some last-minute data with an erasable felt-tip pen. There was a sheaf of papers in her left hand. She turned and smiled on noting the new arrivals.

“The very pair,” Earley said. “I think you'll like what I have to say, Detective Superintendent.”

He was offered a chair, but remained standing. Outwardly, he was calm; only those who knew him well would have seen that, inside, Blade was burning up. Sweetman, having seated herself across the room from him, observed that his knuckles were white.

“We have reached,” Earley said, returning the cap to her pen and addressing the gathering, “what I believe to be a watershed in the investigation—at least as far as profiling is concerned. I think I can say with confidence that we've been able to put together a pretty good picture of our suspect.” She paused and threw Blade a smile. “This is largely due to the information gleaned over the past few days by Superintendent Macken.”

Blade folded his arms and looked down at the floor. Earley went to the right of the blackboard and picked up a long pointer. She tapped a column of data. Diagonal lines ran from it to groups of words.

“First, we have established beyond all doubt that the bomber is a Dubliner.
This … this
 … and
this
are all expressions native to the city.” She turned around. “Yes, I know what some of you are thinking: that more than half the so-called Dubliners in this town are actually culchies.”

There were sniggers around the room; it was a well-known fact that a large proportion of the gardaí were recruited from rural Ireland.

She tapped the column again.

“But locutions such as ‘I don't give a tuppenny ticket,' ‘If it was raining soup, you'd have a fork' and ‘You've made a right haimes of that' are so typical of Dublin that their use is confined strictly to native citizens. Moreover, these are slang expressions which are not part of a young person's vocabulary but are found chiefly among members of the immediate postwar generation, say, forty- to fifty-year-olds. Which leads us to the second column …
here.
”

Dr. Earley continued in this vein for some fifteen minutes, displaying a profound knowledge of demographics and sociolinguistics. Blade listened with only half an ear. He was already familiar with most of what Earley was presenting, having worked closely with her on the study of the Angel tapes. He found it hard not to be distracted, as she went over ground they'd covered together, appending dry and long-winded glosses to keywords on the blackboard. Only when she suddenly referred to another high-ranking officer by name did Blade prick up his ears.

“I'm grateful to Superintendent Nolan,” Earley was saying, “for his suggestions pertaining to certain electronic devices, not being familiar enough myself with such highly technical matters.”

Where the fuck does Nolan get off, Blade thought angrily, sticking his nose into the investigation?

“The superintendent explained to me that the devices used by the bomber are not available on the consumer market—and will not be available for perhaps years to come. He suggested that our man must have either great personal wealth, in order to afford such hypermodern equipment,
or
that he has ready access to such things, possibly because he's employed by an electronics research company.”

Nolan flung Blade a self-satisfied smirk. Bastard, Blade thought.

“So,” Dr. Earley said, in a tone of voice she usually reserved for her summing-up speech, “what do we have so far? A great deal, I believe. He's probably in his forties, perhaps older; he has a working-class background, most likely to have grown up in the Phibsborough area. He is largely self-educated and has a brilliant mind. He's enormously conceited; he despises the guards and the government. He is not a terrorist in the sense that his crimes are motivated by nationalistic fervor or the like. Greed and revenge are his motives, probably as a result of some perceived wrong at the hands of the authorities.”

She looked steadily at Blade, was about to say something to him directly, but then changed her mind.

“The evidence suggests,” Earley continued, “that he is not a nine-to-five employee, because of the times at which his telephone calls were made.” She pointed to a column of figures. “As you can see, they display a great variation; yet most of the calls were made at times when most employees are at their desks. This suggests that he is self-employed or has a private income.”

“Or that he's on his hollyers,” Sweetman said. There was a small ripple of laughter.

“The detective sergeant has a point,” Earley acknowledged, “and we must not rule out the possibility that the suspect has indeed simply taken leave of absence from his job. Yet I ask you: Is it likely, given the circumstances? The amount of planning and preparation that must have gone into this operation would seem to rule out that possibility.” She smiled. “But thank you all the same, Detective Sergeant.”

Earley was once more in summing-up mode. “Superintendent Macken and I have looked time and again at our suspect's ability to work with high explosives. We've concluded that the handling of the explosives and detonators does not, in itself, require a specialist background—though we must not entirely dismiss this line of inquiry. The remote-control receivers and transmitters do, however, demand specialist knowledge. Which is why we should look for someone engaged in this line of work.”

She took off her glasses, breathed on the lenses, and wiped them carefully with a tissue.

Blade recognized the ritual. Had she been a pipe smoker, then she might likewise have kept her audience in suspense, while going through the motions of tamping and lighting up. Earley stood poised to deliver the
coup de grâce.

“Finally,” she said, “it is my considered opinion—an opinion, I may say, shared by Superintendent Nolan—that the gardaí may well be up against one of their own, or possibly an outside expert.”

The room broke up in disorder. Duffy had to call for quiet.

“He knows too much,” Dr. Earley continued unperturbed, “about what goes on here in Harcourt Square.”

She picked up the sheaf of papers and held them high.

“He knows more intimate details about Mr. Duffy, Superintendent Macken, and others in the Branch, than would be known by an outsider. He knows too much about police procedure, current and past investigations, and numerous other matters to which an ordinary member of the public would not be privy. That is why I am recommending that you embark upon a careful examination of your own personnel. Yes, Detective Sergeant?”

It was Sweetman again. “Past or present, Doctor?”

“Both. Perhaps we must go back many years. Let us not forget that the bomb was planted five years ago.”

She was done. Duffy thanked her formally, then addressed the conference.

But Blade wasn't listening. His subconscious had registered something while Earley had been submitting her findings. It was so innocuous, so commonplace, that he'd almost missed it.

It didn't constitute proof of guilt. Yet, taken together with Earley's summary and his own suspicions, it pointed a finger in a direction that he'd never in his wildest nightmares considered until today. He looked again at the blackboard and scanned the words and phrases transcribed from the Angel tapes.

He saw now with clarity what he'd only half-seen before. Ironically, it was a snatch of the very first recording: the one made on Friday morning in Duffy's office. Earley had alluded to it that same day—yet had failed to quote the locution in full. She'd done so now, in writing.