Patriot games - Tom Clancy [183]
Then his parents had died in an auto accident.
Owens was struck by the fact that they'd died in a completely ordinary way. A lorry's brakes had failed and smashed into their Mini one Saturday afternoon. It was hard to remember that some people in Ulster actually died "normally," and were just as dead as those blown up or shot by the terrorists who prowled the night. Dennis Cooley had taken the insurance settlement and continued to operate the store as before after the quiet, ill- attended funeral ceremony at the local church. Some years later he'd sold out and moved to London, first setting up a shop in Knightsbridge and soon thereafter taking over a shop in the arcade where he continued to do business.
Tax records showed that he made a comfortable living. A check of his flat showed that he lived within his means. He was well regarded by his fellow dealers. His one employee, Beatrix, evidently liked working with him part-time. Cooley had no friends, still didn't frequent local pubs-rarely drank at all, it seemed-lived alone, had no known sexual preferences, and traveled a good deal on business.
"He's a bloody cipher, a zero," Owens said.
"Yes," Ashley replied. "At least it explains where Geoff met him-he was a lieutenant with one of the first regiments to go over, and probably wandered into the shop once or twice. You know what a talker Geoff Watkins is. They probably started talking books-can't have been much else. I doubt that Cooley has any interest beyond that."
"Yes, I believe he's what the Yanks call a nerd. Or at least it's an image he's cultivating. What about his parents?"
Ashley smiled. "They are remembered as the local Communists. Nothing serious, but decidedly bolshie until the Hungarian uprising of 1956. That seems to have disenchanted them. They remained outspokenly left-wing, but their political activities effectively ended then. Actually they're remembered as rather pleasant people, but a little odd. Evidently they encouraged the local children to read-made good business sense, if nothing else. Paid their bills on time. Other than that, nothing."
"This girl Beatrix?"
"Somehow she got an education from our state schools. Didn't attend university, but self-taught in literature and the history of publishing. Lives with her elderly father-he's a retired RAF sergeant. She has no social life. She probably spends her evenings watching the telly and sipping Dubonnet. She rather intensely dislikes the Irish, but doesn't mind working with 'Mr. Dennis' because he's an expert in his field. Nothing there at all."
"So, we have a dealer in rare books with a Marxist family, but no known ties with any terrorist group," Owens summarized. "He was in university about the same time as our friend O'Donnell, wasn't he?"
"Yes, but nobody remembers if they ever met. In fact, they lived only a few streets apart, but again no one remembers if Kevin ever frequented the bookshop." Ashley shrugged. "That goes back before O'Donnell attracted any serious attention, remember. If there were a lead of some sort then, it was never documented. They shared this economics instructor. That might have been a useful lead, but the chap died two years ago-natural causes. Their fellow students have scattered to the four winds, and we've yet to find one who knew both of them."
Owens walked to the corner of his office to pour a cup of tea. A chap with a Marxist background who attended the same school at