Over the High Side Page 6

  The Officer of Justice fell into a profound trance, apparently disagreeable.

  ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘there’s grounds for questioning, certainly. But even a mandate for interrogation, to a witness in another country, is still a serious step. You’re a pest, you know that?’

  ‘Oh I quite agree. But I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Pleased! – you have this infernal knack of turning things up in other countries.’

  ‘Haven’t turned anything up there yet. I thought we could get the Irish police to look into it.’

  ‘Remember that infernal mess in France – woman got machined-gunned. You always get yourself into these irregular positions.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to Ireland,’ defensively. ‘Haven’t the least interest in going there. Position’s entirely different.’ He spoke with sincerity, but realized at once he was not telling the truth: he would be interested, very, in meeting the lady of the portrait!

  ‘They can surely ask the fellow questions on your mandate?’

  ‘I’m none too sure,’ muttered the magistrate irritably, ‘it’s all very circumstantial.’

  *

  ‘Just my sentiment,’ said Mr Kevin Nolan, Counsellor at the Irish Embassy. He was like a teddybear that has a bald forehead, with tiny round eyes, a curly little mouth, a round padded pleasant face that needed shaving often, a benevolent milky voice. ‘Tenuous, y’know. A pair of glasses, a picture in a museum, a hired car, a changed plane ticket; nothing there that can’t bear a construction of complete innocence. Can’t expect us to believe, can you now, that this young man comes over for a bit of sightseeing, since nothing shows otherwise, kills this Mr Martinez and calmly takes the next plane back. Maybe he does know Martinez and these daughters of his. Comes over here and looks him up – reasonable. Art gallery together – normal. Chap shows him a picture like his daughter – amusing coincidence. And then he forgot his glasses – so do I, often. So did Mr Van der Valk on his own showing: not exactly an indication of guilt is it now?’

  ‘If I may say,’ said Van der Valk softly while the magistrate fidgeted and a lawyer from the Ministry of Justice smoked a cigar, ‘none of my friends or yours got knifed in the street.’

  ‘It’s a point, to be sure,’ said the Irishman, ‘a point – no more.’

  ‘But perhaps the essential point,’ said the lawyer, ‘– the manner of this death. Hardly a premeditated act. The very suddenness of it suggests a violent upheaval. Evidence on Martinez’ state of mind would be relevant, and this young man’s own state of mind. The car parked outside, the meeting in the art gallery, the resemblance to a person in Ireland – the tie is undeniable. This young man, Mr Nolan, is thus a witness to Martinez’ movements, words, possibly mind, on the last day of his life. We suggest no more than that there is a case for hearing his account. Time enough afterwards to consider any, uh, whatever might appear a subsequent suitable step.’

  ‘Oh I’m not trying to obstruct the course of justice,’ with good-humoured milkiness.

  ‘Very well then, suppose we ask your people to interview him.’

  Van der Valk said nothing: too cosy altogether, all these bland functionaries. But once out in the street he realized that this was the way to do things, that he was only cross at things being taken out of his hands. His witness, found by him – and now a pack of civil servants were doing what they enjoyed; squabbling over legal niceties. But there, his Officer of Justice, dubious, had asked advice of the Procureur General, and it had been that gentleman who suggested a tactful scheme with, if possible, the co-operation of the Irish.

  ‘We haven’t even a case. Even if we did, launched an international mandate, they would sit thinking up excuses for not letting us have him. Remember the fellow who helped the English spy break prison, the one who got that absurd prison sentence – Irish chap that too. English wanted him, tried to extradite him, fine fools they looked, never did get him. Irish said blandly he was a political refugee. We don’t want any touchy nationalist sentiments: extradition is always a tricky business.’ A faint volcanic noise rose from the Procureur’s lungs, suppressed out of consideration for United Europe.

  No no, thought Van der Valk, better this way, they’re quite right – but he did dearly wish there was some way of contacting his opposite number in Ireland for a little heart-to-heart.

  *

  Some days later the Officer of Justice handed him a thick envelope of papers clipped together, the top two or three covering-notes, but – ‘Read it for yourself,’ with a long face. It was like peeling an onion.

  Republic of Ireland, Ministry of Justice, Attorney-General – a few skins in came ‘Criminal Investigation Department. Dublin Castle. Confidential,’ which was more up his street.

  ‘In furtherance of instructions received’ – he could skip the phraseology, which he could read easily enough, English bureaucracy being much the same as Dutch, and the jargon no different (mercifully it wasn’t all in Irish!).

  Facts at last. Lynch was a common name; since there was no clue to identity they had begun with a passport check: this was the subject of a confidential memo to the Irish Embassy in The Hague – yet another skin further in. Inquiry from airlines had produced information that young man in question had not come on connecting plane from London to Dublin, nor did name appear on subsequent lists, which did not exclude possibility of travel by boat (or flying saucer, muttered Van der Valk, exasperated). Further discreet inquiry elicited information that young man was not at home: had stayed in England, or of course gone elsewhere. His home had apparently received no recent news but he ‘was always a bad letter-writer’. Detective-Inspector Flynn (plainly jubilant at finding the fellow outside his jurisdiction) felt there was little purpose in pursuing matter until receipt of further instructions; bloop bloop bloop.

  What was this memo lark? The Officer of Justice rang the Ministry of Justice. Yes, there was a memo; it had been received, was the subject of study, would doubtless be forwarded on from External Affairs when the time should be ripe.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said the magistrate, almost with satisfaction in his voice, ‘I knew there would be trouble.’

  Van der Valk decided by himself that there was a way of getting at the facts, and went quietly to see Mr Kevin Nolan.

  ‘A confidential memo?’ said Mr Nolan, sounding a little amused. ‘That will mean it went to the Ambassador and hasn’t come my way. I’m curious myself,’ disarmingly, ‘I’ll pop in for a word with him; he’s free as it happens. Won’t keep you more than a minute.’ And true to his word reappeared in a quarter of an hour.

  ‘The Ambassador feels it’s a little ticklish: however, he authorizes me to handle the matter. I’m only anticipating, of course, since this will come trickling down through official channels – hm? – but since you are here and took this trouble I will give you the gist … verbally … in confidence of course … oh dear, oh dear.’

  ‘Sounds English, that,’ said Van der Valk comfortably, liking Mr Nolan, who was certainly doing him a good turn by being human. ‘Civil servant in receipt of embarrassing instruction.’

  The teddy-bear beamed, pleased by this perspicacity.

  ‘It does rather, doesn’t it? In Ireland we would probably say “Oh Jaysus”. Mm, I mustn’t be frivolous.’ He gathered threads, coughed, got his fingertips arranged.

  ‘Perhaps I can best explain by putting a hypothesis. Let us assume that we in Ireland have a criminal inquiry, and Inspector Moriarty – in charge of the investigation – forwards a request to the Netherlands Government with a view to interviewing a witness of Dutch nationality – a young man of unknown identity. Now upon checking this identity, Commissaire Van der Valk discovers a fact that could, conceivably, embarrass the Dutch Government. To wit, the young man in question is the only son of a well-known, highly respected, massively influential member of the Second Chamber. On hearing this the Dutch Government is – undeniably – embarrassed. It communicates a sense of misgiving to th
e Netherlands Embassy in Dublin, where at this moment the Counsellor, Mr Van der Linden, is trying to explain to Inspector Moriarty, in whom he has every confidence, that his witness to put it mildly is red hot.’

  ‘I understand perfectly. Can I know the identity of the respected etcetera member of the Chamber – let’s see, you don’t have a House of Lords do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Nolan sorrowfully. ‘We are like you, or rather since we are a republic, like France. We have Senators. You wish to interview the son of the President of the Senate. Imagine what the French police would say to you.’

  ‘They’d say “Oh Jaysus”.’

  Mr Nolan beamed at him.

  ‘Since – oh Jaysus – you possess the name Lynch there’s no point in hiding under any alias. We are about to be faced with Senator Terence Lynch uprisen in his majesty. Oh Holy Mother.’

  ‘Some cry on the Virgin,’ agreed Van der Valk. ‘Mutti, Hilfe!’

  *

  ‘If we had something direct, now.’ The Officer of Justice was far from happy. ‘You must understand, Van der Valk, that I’m under instructions from The Hague. If we had an overriding fact; a strong motive; or an eyewitness. Something we could go into court with. An incontrovertible fact. We haven’t, you know. I have received a confidential memo.’

  Van der Valk groaned, and cried silently upon the Virgin.

  ‘Senator Terence Lynch is a prominent – a most prominent figure. He is a newspaper proprietor, sits upon several international commissions, in his own country chairman of a most important committee on the Euro-market. A man of unquestioned integrity.’

  ‘But as liable to bring his son up badly as anyone else.’

  ‘Get it in your head: we’re not getting this boy. Not without more evidence.’

  Van der Valk went home and brooded, causing Arlette to say many rude things about the opinion she, as a French woman, had of Senators. He then put in a request to see the Procureur General for the province of North Holland. He had not seen Mr Anthoni Sailer for seven years, and found him as alarming a figure as he had then.

  ‘Van der Valk,’ said Mr Sailer with the severely upright voice he had recalled vividly, ‘I have sympathy for you. It is undoubtedly a case of conscience. I recall that once before you had a dilemma of a similar nature, and acquitted yourself with credit. I am, myself, far from satisfied with the apparent cloak of diplomatic immunity presented to me to invite my acquiescence. If you have a suggestion I will consider it with sympathy.’

  ‘I have a certainty.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘An interior certainty – of a tie, a connection.’

  ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘Sir – if a Dutch woman marries an Irishman, does she acquire Irish nationality?’

  ‘I will inform myself. The frame of reference?’

  Van der Valk explained about the three lovely ladies of Belgrave Square.

  ‘And with what is melodramatically known as his dying breath he spoke of “the girls”.

  Mr Sailer did not draw on his blotter or play with his paperknife; it wasn’t his style. He sat, immobile.

  ‘Very well, Van der Valk,’ he said, simply. ‘Leave this to me.’

  So that when another summons came three days later from the Officer of Justice he was unsurprised.

  ‘A compromise – diplomatically speaking – has apparently been reached. I am instructed that if, in pursuance of this inquiry, it is thought useful to interview Mr Martinez’ daughters, who are Dutch subjects by birth, there will be no obstacle placed in our path by the Irish Government, irrespective of their present legal status or domicile, all this of course without prejudice to any subsequent steps they may see fit to – uh –

  ‘Etcetera. Quite. So the Irish police…?’

  ‘Er – no. The Irish police, it is felt, have no role to play beyond a certain informal cooperation; not, put vulgarly, their pigeon. No, it is proposed that we send a Dutch officer.’

  ‘Oh no,’ wailed Van der Valk. ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Why not?’ startled. ‘You liked the idea.’

  ‘And every conjectured, supposed, or alleged criminal on whom I ever look like laying hands always manages to commit suicide practically within the whatnot, precincts of the Court, and I get my head washed from here to kingdom come. Anyway I’ve never been to Ireland. I know nothing about the place, I talk no Irish. And if I discover naughty things about Senator Thingummy what then?’ – soprano – ‘then it’ll be don’t make a fuss, there’s a good chap, simply climb into this box we have here, the wet concrete’s all ready and the tide won’t serve all night.’

  ‘Stop talking such nonsense, will you?’ said the magistrate irritably. ‘Even if I were disposed to listen I can’t do anything about it; I have formal instructions, I tell you. You are to proceed to Dublin, The Hague says so. You will contact Inspector Flynn at Dublin Castle – equivalent I gather of our Prinsengracht. You speak English, I suppose?’

  ‘I can just barely make myself understood.’

  ‘That’s all that’s needed – if you’re going to interview these women you speak Dutch to them. That’s the whole point; they are Dutch. Otherwise, if I may be permitted the expression, we wouldn’t get our toe in the door. Vulgar expression that.’

  What was there to say? With nothing on the whole but a soggy feeling round the socks – that would be the wet concrete, no doubt – he said nothing.

  ‘You will report confidentially to – let’s see – Mr Slavenburg at the Netherlands Embassy, who will be responsible for any diplomatic liaison that may prove necessary. Written reports to me which will go, hm, to The Hague, and – let’s see – oh yes, the comptroller at the Embassy will see to your expenses – really, Van der Valk, you’ve nothing to complain of. What worries me is we’ve no guarantee whatever of your turning anything up. How can we expect that these women will know anything material about the circumstances of their father’s death? I have taken, by the way, a formal deposition from Mevrouw Martinez – nothing to go on there, nothing at all.’

  Back at home Arlette was unexpectedly sympathetic to the idea.

  ‘Be most interesting and rewarding, I should think. I’ve always wanted to go to Ireland, sounds fascinating. They drink stout; I don’t quite know what that is, sounds horrid. I’ve a street map of Dublin, which I got to try and help follow the journeyings of Ulysses. It doesn’t seem to have changed all that much.’

  ‘I don’t want to go at all. I’m afraid of the Irish – all much too allusive and oblique for a fool like me – is allusive the word I want or is it elusive?’

  ‘Oh stop talking nonsense,’ said Arlette sounding like the magistrate. ‘You’ll enjoy yourself. Now let’s see – weather – rains all the time like here but not so cold. Loden coat, your rawhide shoes, umbrella.’

  ‘I refuse to carry an umbrella.’

  ‘Very foolish and snobbish.’

  He was to realize the truth of this.

  *

  Schiphol to Heathrow – nasty as ever. Toy plastic aeroplane, the famous thirty-eight inches between economy-class neighbours, a very Dutch smell and an ooze of cheap piped musak. A chill competence, a politeness as false and oily as the musak. Heathrow a sweaty scrum; smell of soft-boiled bread and synthetic lemonade in a plastic thing the English called a ‘goblet’ – unspeakable … But he was beginning to enjoy himself, coming round to the idea of ‘Ireland’. And Anastasia, hm, conceivably as fascinating as her namesake. A little air of mystery that lent seduction: ha.

  The Irish aeroplane was almost pleasant. True, the stewardess stood there ladling out charm over the passengers’ spareribs as though it were barbecue sauce, and her uniform was a singularly hideous shade of green, and he had already noticed that Irish women had absurdly short legs. But there was the delightfully haphazard feeling that is so different from Holland; that things are no longer cut-and-dried; that one does not know quite what will happen next and neither do the Irish but they will improvise and the improvisation will
be brilliant; the sensation one has in France and which is so agreeable, of a clown’s nimble sloppiness … he would like Ireland.

  At the Dublin airport a man asked him earnestly whether he had been in contact with cows, and another man stamped his passport and said, ‘Ah, Mr Van der Valk, hold on a second now, I’ve a message for you.’ It was an envelope, large and thick; coat of arms and ‘Je Maintiendrai’. Fifty pounds in currency, a street map with the Embassy meticulously marked in black ballpoint, a little note saying ‘Expect you tomorrow ten a.m. Slavenburg’ and a hotel reservation.

  ‘Sheridan,’ said the official, reading unashamedly over his shoulder. ‘Doing you well. Nice that, right in the centre, Stephens Green, best bar in Europe, cheerio now, enjoy yourself.’

  No different from other countries – every town he had ever been in had the best bar in Europe – but a nice change that, for the poor policeman, to be given an expensive hotel. Not the Embassy’s doing, he’d bet. He climbed to the top of a double-decker bus, sat right at the front, discovered his knee-space to be a lot less than thirty-eight inches (plainly all the Irish had such tiny little legs) and turned happily back into a schoolboy.

  Part Two

  The Sentimental Seducation

  He had wondered whether he would be conspicuous, like the man at Val d’Isère who went to ski with his bowler hat on, and was relieved to find he blended into the landscape. Plenty of local people given to his kind of checked shirt; as for the loden coat, it was as correct as in Kitzbühel. There was a fine drizzle, and no sun, but there, he hadn’t expected everyone to be out picking grapes. It was still warm for October, with milky, heavy clouds. ‘Very close, today,’ said the reception desk.

  Enchanting, Dublin: tatty, deliciously disgraceful; all the buses looking like much-played-with Dinky toys – all the corners bent and practically no paint left. Wasn’t like England at all; was like nowhere else he knew – it must be like Ireland! Traffic went, if that was the word, on the left, money promised to pay the bearer quick punt (whatever – aha, pounds?) on demand in London, and the pubs had uncivilized hours, but the difference was much bigger than the resemblance. He headed instantly for the best bar in Europe.