Free Over the High Side by Nicolas Freeling

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.’
    â€˜Oh I’m not trying to obstruct the course of justice,’ with good-humoured milkiness.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜We haven’t even a case. Even if we did, launched aninternational 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.
    â€˜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 purposein 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.
    â€˜What did I tell you?’ said the magistrate, almost with satisfaction in his voice, ‘I knew there would be