show in the Gaiety Theatre, the American stock market report, an ad for White’s Wafer Oatmeal.
Another cutting from the
Irish Independent
made more sense. It was a photograph of two couples taken at a dinner dance in the Metropole the previous winter and identified Nuala and the others.
‘Richie Cummins,’ Stella said. ‘And friends of his.’
‘Not a boyfriend?’
‘You know Nuala,’ she said. ‘Very independent minded. Won’t let herself be tied down by being too attached to any one man. Not yet anyway.’
He put everything back into the drawer.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’ve got to be getting back.’
He opened the wardrobe and stepped back, inviting her to look at the row of dresses and blouses on hangers and two pairs of shoes onthe floor. ‘Would you know if there’s anything missing?’ He felt uneasy looking into her clothes, as if it was a step too far.
She shrugged an apology. ‘Impossible to know. She still kept some of her clothes at home.’
He closed the door. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks for bringing me in.’
‘Did you find what you wanted?’ she asked as she locked the door behind them.
‘I don’t know what I wanted,’ he said. ‘She seems to have left intending to come back.’
‘That’s the bathroom,’ Stella said as they passed the return. He opened the frosted glass door and looked in. A bath with a green stain under a tap had a gas geyser above it, the toilet had a cistern up near the ceiling, a long chain hanging down.
‘Why did she leave Clery’s?’ Duggan asked as he followed her down the stairs.
‘Boss was a bitch,’ Stella said over her shoulder. ‘Gave Nuala a terrible time because she was forced to take her into her section by someone on high. Her father had pulled strings.’
Duggan nodded. He could understand Nuala’s decision. Timmy couldn’t resist trying to run everyone’s life. Even my own, he thought.
On the street, Stella held out her hand formally. ‘Nice to meet you,’ she said as he shook it.
‘Will you let me know if you hear anything?’ he asked. ‘Just for my own information. I won’t tell anyone if that’s the way Nuala wants it.’
‘How do I contact you?’
‘If you leave a message at Collins Barracks I should get it,’ he said.
Sinéad was just leaving the building when he got back to Merrion Square.
‘Is he still up there?’ he asked her.
‘Does he have a home to go to at all?’ she said. ‘I think he sleeps on the floor up there. Poor lamb.’
Duggan laughed, assuming she was joking, and went on up.
‘So, how was the Swedish massage?’ Gifford greeted him.
‘What?’
‘I’ve always wondered about that place in Mount Street. The Swedish institute of gymnastics and massage. You couldn’t go wrong with that combination.’
‘I didn’t notice it.’
Gifford shook his head, like he was a hopeless case.
‘Sinéad’s worried you’re sleeping here.’
‘The secret police never sleep,’ Gifford sniggered. ‘Hope you didn’t tell her that.’
Duggan took a perfunctory look out the window at the Harbusches’ flat. ‘Nothing moving over there?’
‘Not a sausage.’
‘Seriously,’ Duggan said. ‘What d’you think he’s up to?’
‘Apart from the obvious?’
‘Nobody’s paying him from a Swiss bank for that.’
‘You’re right,’ Gifford clicked his fingers, as if that hadn’t occurred to him. ‘Even Hansi couldn’t be that lucky.’
They stood in silence, side by side, looking out the window for a few moments. Gifford shrugged and turned back into the room. ‘Fucked if I know,’ he said, serious for once. ‘I presume our masters know more than they’re telling us.’
‘I suppose so,’ Duggan said. He looked down at the street, busier now as the offices around the square emptied for the day and bicycles and a few cars headed for the suburbs. He was still thinking about Nuala. What was she up to? There was no doubt her friend Stella knew more than she was saying. And
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