The White Tower (9 page)

Nine

I rang Moira to let her know where things stood. In the course of the conversation I mentioned the clothes Niall had been wearing on the night he died.

There was a long silence, then Moira said, ‘But Bernard couldn't have known what Niall was wearing. He didn't see Niall that day at all. Bernard had an eight o'clock meeting. He left for work before Niall was up. Niall ate a piece of toast that I made for him and had a quick cup of coffee. He was running late for work.'

Interlaced with confusion, there was pride in Moira's voice, that she'd helped prepare her son's last breakfast. ‘And he didn't see Niall in the evening. He told me not to go in, and he didn't go in either.'

‘You're sure of that?'

‘Of course I'm sure.'

‘What have you done with Niall's clothes?'

‘They're still here. Hanging up in his cupboard. All his shoes and socks.'

We agreed on a time to meet and I put the phone down, thinking about what Bernard Howley had said to the police.

I picked it up again and dialled Bernard's work number. He answered on the second ring. I said I needed to talk to him in person. He protested, but I overrode him, and we arranged to meet at one o'clock.

I glanced at my watch. 12.15. Plenty of time for Bernard to phone Moira and find out what had gotten into me.

. . .

Hudsons of Dickson, with its tables outside under wide umbrellas, was the right place for summer lunchtime meetings. Today was too cold and windy to sit outside in comfort, and I realised my mistake in having said the name of the first café that came into my head. Inside, it was crowded with people lined up at the counter buying cheeses and servings of lasagna. The tables were too close together for discretion. I slid quickly into a vacant chair, practically pulling Bernard down opposite me.

‘You lied to me. You did see your son the night he died.'

In the second before Bernard answered, I felt his relief. He wasn't a good liar. In his own stiff, unfriendly way, he was sincere, or at least wanted to be. A determined liar would have refused to see me, fobbed me off over the phone.

‘Niall was excited,' he said, keeping his voice low. ‘I knew something had happened. He was'—Bernard paused, then continued carefully, as though, now he'd decided to tell me, the words he chose had to be the right ones—‘more alive than I'd seen him in weeks. In spite of what I said to Moira about letting him work things out for himself, I'd become increasingly worried. So—yes, I did check up on him that night. Moira thought I was going to the bathroom. I didn't mean to spy on Niall or pester him. I just wanted to make sure he was okay. I knocked on his door and he said come in. I could see he was getting ready to go out again.'

‘What about his room?'

‘You're thinking of the papers he got rid of?'

‘What was on his desk?'

‘It was—I think it was clean—clear apart from his computer.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘I wasn't looking for anything. If I looked at his desk at all, it was just a glance. He looked at
me
without seeing me. I was used to that, but this night it was different. You have to understand that it was the closest we'd come to a conversation for a long time. I was as grateful as a small boy who thought all his birthday presents had been stolen, then found out they hadn't. I should have let it go at that.'

‘There was another reason for going in to see your son. You weren't just making sure he was okay.'

‘I might as well tell you. It might make you understand that it's better not to pry.' Bernard lowered his voice even further and I had to strain to catch it. ‘My son's dead. Digging over the traces as you seem intent on doing will only cause harm. I found a letter once. In his room.'

‘A letter?'

‘About organising support. Money. For this Irish group. For a Republican group in Ireland.'

‘Do you know its name?'

‘The Austral–Irish Friendship Society,' Bernard said with contempt. ‘Stupid name isn't it?'

‘How do you know they're a Republican group?'

‘I saw a reference to them in a newspaper article, in connection with supplying arms and explosives to the real IRA.'

‘Do they have a branch in Canberra?'

‘Sydney. I looked them up in the phone book. I had no intention at that point of confronting Niall with it, but—'

‘Did you phone them?'

‘They were founded to raise money for the hunger strikes of eighty-one. I couldn't get anyone to tell me whether any of the money was used to buy guns.' Bernard laughed to make sure I got the sarcasm. It was such a cutting sound that a couple at the next table looked up, surprised.

‘Apart from the newspaper article, did you see or hear anything else to suggest what the money might be used for?'

‘Look,' Bernard said, ‘I know these people. My wife's family left Belfast to get away from them.'

‘And your parents?'

‘My mother was born here. Dad came out before the war.'

‘What did the letter say exactly?'

‘It referred to a concert. A benefit concert. It was very short. No more than four lines. The society was organising a Cranberries tour. There was to be a benefit concert in Sydney and another one in Melbourne.'

‘Did the Cranberries come to Australia? Did the concerts go ahead?'

‘Oh yes. I saw the advertisements in the
Sydney Morning Herald
. I pointed one out to Niall, to see what he'd say.'

‘And?'

‘He said he had too much on his plate right now to go to Sydney for a concert.'

‘So you assumed he was hiding something?'

‘Yes I did. Of course I did. I was concerned. I began to wish I hadn't seen the letter, but I had, and I couldn't forget about it. It preyed on my mind. Niall was so withdrawn, you see, so secretive.'

‘The letter could have been genuine.'

‘Yes, but if that's the case, why didn't Niall tell us about it? Why feign ignorance when I mentioned the advertisement? And if he was a member of this Friendship group, why didn't we know about it?'

‘Did Niall show an interest in Irish politics in other ways?'

‘Not to me he didn't.'

‘With Moira?'

‘They used to talk,' Bernard said bitterly.

‘Where's the letter now?'

‘I assume Niall destroyed it.'

‘Did you say anything to Moira?'

‘No. I kept hoping I was mistaken.'

‘So you went into Niall's room that night to ask him about it?'

‘I don't know if the intention was so clearly in my mind, but yes, I did bring it up. I wish to God I hadn't. Niall went cold again. He said I should know better than to accuse him of anything illegal and that he had to go. That was it. We parted on a note of mistrust, instead of how—'

‘Do you still believe that—about Niall raising money to pay for guns?'

‘I could have been jumping to conclusions. If I'd made it clear that night that no matter what he'd done—'

‘Do the police know about this?'

Bernard shook his head. His voice was just above a whisper. ‘Please believe me when I say dragging it all up can't do any good.'

. . .

I made some notes, sitting in my car, trying to recall exactly what Bernard had said, then drove to Turner to meet Natalie Rowan.

Niall's ex-girlfriend had been back in Canberra for a while, but reluctant to meet me, telling me over the phone that her relationship with Niall had ended over three months before his death, and that there was nothing she could do to help. When I persisted, she replied that she'd already told the police everything she knew.

After an initial hesitancy, Moira Howley had agreed to act as a go-between. Whatever she said must have worked because Natalie at last said she would talk to me.

She opened the door, and greeted me with the downcast eyes and blush of a shy person. She pushed her dark hair back from her forehead with the fingers of her left hand held stiffly all together, then looked past me to my car parked in the driveway.

I stepped inside quickly, and followed her down a short passageway. I don't know what I'd been expecting, student grot perhaps, stained smelly carpet that the owner was too mean to get rid of, hand-me-down furniture nobody looked after or cared about.

Under wide windows, a scrubbed wooden table held a glass vase of apple blossom. I'd stopped for a second to admire the tree on my way in. A combustion stove sat on brown hearth tiles at one end of the room. A wall had been taken out to extend the living area. Natalie motioned me to sit down on a plain two-person sofa, the cushions covered in heavy cotton. The floor was polished pine with rugs in a pattern of red, dark brown and cream. Nothing was expensive and certainly the room was no show piece of taste or acquisition, but the overall effect was one of light and ease.

A smell of sweet bread and freshly ground coffee came from the kitchen. Natalie asked if I would like a cup. She came back with coffee, milk and sugar on a tray, and a plate of warm cinnamon rolls.

I asked her what Niall Howley had been like.

‘Before we broke up he started acting really weird.' Natalie flicked her brown hair off her face, then continued. ‘I think the change had been coming for a while, but I didn't notice it, and then all at once I did.'

‘What kind of change?'

‘You couldn't have a normal conversation with him. He wouldn't tell me what was bothering him. He refused to explain. He wouldn't talk. It made me really mad.'

‘Was there someone else?'

‘I don't think so. I feel bad about it you know, because he's, well, he's dead. But he scared me. He was getting so weird. He'd be up all night, and then go to work. I'd say something to him and he wouldn't answer and I'd turn around and he'd have fallen asleep. Sex. Forget it. Going out to a movie. Forget it.'

‘How much did you know about the MUD?'

‘I knew he was playing some game on the internet. I didn't take much notice.'

It struck me that Natalie was spinning me a line, one that had possibly begun with heartfelt impressions, but had moved on from them.

‘Didn't Niall talk about it?'

‘Not much. Well, like at the beginning he did. But he knew I wasn't interested.'

‘Did you know what it was?'

‘Some war game wasn't it?'

‘Did you know he'd fallen foul of the guy who ran it?'

‘He just became, you know, really withdrawn. He spent all his time in his room. He didn't even want to eat together. I was relieved when he said he wanted to move out. I was upset at first, but then I was so relieved.'

I took a deep breath and told Natalie what Niall's father suspected him of having been involved in.

As Natalie listened, she gave me a look that I could imagine my daughter perfecting by the time she was three, a look that summed up her contempt for anybody over thirty-five.

‘I'd be careful with Niall's dad if I were you,' she said. ‘I'd check his story out with someone else.'

‘Which part of the story should I check out?'

‘I don't believe any of it, actually.'

‘Did Niall ever talk to you about Irish politics?'

‘Not much.'

‘Did you talk about politics in general?'

‘Well, we must have. I mean, people do.'

‘Why would his father make up a story like that?'

Natalie shrugged. ‘He wanted to pick a fight maybe. He sneaked into Niall's room and found some stuff and went ballistic. I'd say that was typical of him.'

‘Did you know Niall belonged to a group called the Austral–Irish Friendship Society?'

‘No.'

‘Did he mention a Cranberries concert? Last summer, it was. In Sydney.'

‘What about it?'

‘Did you go to the concert, you and Niall?'

‘Sydney you said? I couldn't get Niall to go to a movie in Civic, let alone drive to Sydney for a concert. Look, there's heaps of stuff I never knew about Niall. Obviously. Heaps. And there's heaps of stuff he never knew about me. He wasn't interested. And I got sick of trying.'

Natalie began to wind a lock of dark hair round and round one index finger. She looked up at me, suddenly intent.

‘I'll tell you something about Niall's dad. He's a total control freak. Moira is too, only I don't think she's as bad as him. After Niall moved in here, one or the other of them was ringing up every five minutes to check he had clean socks. I'm not kidding. It was that bad.'

I couldn't imagine what it would be like to have two possessive, ­hovering parents. I wondered about Natalie's family. She didn't seem to fit with the picture I was building up of Niall. Was she a selfish young women, whose retrospective discomfort moved her more than the death of someone she'd been close to? Perhaps I was being too hard on her. She hadn't wanted to see me at all, but she'd made an effort to be hospitable. It didn't paint a flattering picture of their relationship that Niall had kept so much from her. But Natalie hadn't tried to dress this up for me.

Had Niall's parents been in large part responsible for his secretive behaviour? Again, I tried to think what it would be like to be an only child with two adults watching every move you made, the painstaking effort such a child, once grown, might make to keep part of his life private and unknown to them.

‘What about Niall's work?'

‘He didn't talk much about it. I mean, he talked about the patients, who was a hopeless case, who he thought might pull through. I guess to that extent he did talk about it. He worried about the patients, that's for sure.'

‘Would you say his worry was obsessive?'

‘What I'm trying to say is, Niall stopped behaving like a normal guy. He was better when we met, like he was okay then. We did go to movies and stuff, and out with friends. But he began to close in on himself. I tried. I did try. A relationship's got to
be
something, not just two people sharing a kitchen and a bathroom.'