‘There now, Pat,’ she said, ‘that’s all over. You’ve been put in your place now. No more playing at kings for you, boy.’
Close behind her, Malachi held up Pat’s right nipple so that he could see it, then the carroty-curled young man passed him a small polythene freezer bag. He dropped the nipple into it, along with the bloodied left nipple, and passed it back.
‘You see, you won’t be having to make a phone call now to prove that we have you,’ said the carroty-curled young man, flip-flapping the bag in front of Pat’s face. ‘We’ll be able to send these to her, with a warning not to show them to the guards under any circumstances, but of course she will. The guards will do a DNA test to prove that they’re your little titties, and then they’ll pay up to have you released. See? Perfect!’
Lorcan, the crimson-faced man, came away from the window and looked down at Pat’s chest, with its two circular wounds where his nipples used to be. The wound on his left side had begun to clot now, but the wound on the right was still bleeding. ‘You shouldn’t have changed your mind, Pat. We didn’t have to do this at all. But I suppose you’ll always have something to remember us by.’
Pat didn’t answer him. His eyelids were fluttering and he kept losing consciousness – light, then dark, then light again – and he kept missing fragments of conversation. It was like listening to a microphone with a faulty connection.
At last he croaked, ‘It doesn’t – doesn’t work.’
‘What doesn’t work, Pat?’ asked Lorcan. He had tucked a cigarette between his lips and he was snapping the top of a purple plastic lighter.
‘Prayer,’ said Pat. ‘It doesn’t fecking work.’
28
Katie met Michael Dempsey in the Roundy Bar on Castle Street in the city centre. It was still raining hard outside and it was dark inside, so they sat at a table under the window.
‘I need you to tell me about the High Kings of Erin,’ she told him, hanging her raincoat over the back of her chair.
‘The High Kings of Erin?’ asked Michael Dempsey. ‘How long do you have?’
He was tall, at least six foot three, but round-shouldered, with thick black curly hair that was beginning to show strands of grey. He looked like the professor of history that he was, wearing a maroon corduroy jacket with elbow patches, a yellow cravat and a thick green flannel shirt. His trousers were baggy at the knees and his brown deck shoes were worn down.
‘I know that there were dozens of Irish kings,’ said Katie. ‘But you must have seen on the news that we’re trying to track down a gang of kidnappers who call themselves the High Kings of Erin.’
‘You could hardly miss it. Those two people burned to death on the beach like that. And that fellow having his head cut off and baked into a wedding cake. Shocking.’
Katie said, ‘The trouble is, I’ve received two phone calls now from these High Kings of Erin, but I still can’t be sure if they’re the real kidnappers or if they’re hoaxing us. This always happens whenever we’re dealing with a major crime and it gets well publicized – some stupid gobdaw will ring up and claim they have vital information for us, or that they committed the crime themselves. Sometimes it’s some header who is totally convinced in his own mind that he really did do it, but usually it’s time-wasters – the sort of people who call the fire brigade just to see the engines come out.’
She paused while Michael Dempsey ordered coffee for them both and a raspberry pastry for himself. ‘You’re sure I can’t tempt you?’ he asked her.
Katie shook her head. ‘No thanks, I’m a cake-o-holic. Once I start eating them I can’t stop.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t either. But when you teach history you realize how short your life is, and is it worth depriving yourself? You can’t eat raspberry pastries when you’re lying six feet under the sod in St Joseph’s Cemetery.’
‘True enough,’ Katie smiled. ‘But what I wanted to ask you, Michael, is if you thought these murders were – I don’t know, ritualistic in any way. Did the real High Kings of Erin kill people like that? Or even the mythical High Kings?’
‘Would it make any difference?’
‘Of course. If the real High Kings of Erin ever killed people like that – burning them and baking their heads into cakes – that would make me pretty sure that these new High Kings of Erin really are responsible for doing it. They wouldn’t simply be trying to take the credit for a couple of random gang killings that were nothing to do with them.’
‘I understand,’ said Michael Dempsey solemnly. ‘However, I can’t truthfully tell you that I’ve ever read anything about the High Kings of Erin disposing of people in those particular ways. But, like you say, there were dozens of High Kings, more than fifty altogether, some of them mythical and some of them real, so I don’t know everything that was ever written about all of them. I can tell you, though, that they were a pretty ruthless lot, on the whole. They had to be. They sacrificed innocent children and they murdered their brothers and sisters, just to stay on the throne.’
He tore open a packet of brown sugar and poured it into his coffee, then another one, and then another. ‘You’ll have to give me a little time to do some research.’
‘I’d be very grateful, Michael,’ said Katie. ‘More than anything else, it might help me to understand their agenda. The two men they’ve abducted so far were both on the brink of bankruptcy. Why would they demand ransom money from people who patently didn’t have any? Why didn’t they kidnap rich people?’
She didn’t tell him that she was almost certain that Derek Hagerty had aided and abetted his own kidnapping, and that the Pearses may well have been murdered because they had suspected it, too, and might have been able to give evidence in court to prove it. Neither did she say that there had been another witness who could possibly prove that Derek Hagerty had been an accomplice in his own abduction – Meryl’s former fiancé, Eoghan.
Michael Dempsey said, ‘You – ah – you won’t be mentioning my own name in connection with this investigation, will you?’
‘Of course not. My lips are sealed.’
‘Well, you know that I’m more than happy to help you out. But after what happened to Gerry O’Brien …’
‘No,’ Katie assured him. ‘We won’t risk anything like that.’ He was referring to his late colleague from the history department of Cork University, Professor Gerard O’Brien, who had assisted Katie and her team to investigate a previous series of ritual homicides. The killer had found out that Professor O’Brien was getting close to the truth about the murders and had brutally silenced him.
Michael Dempsey sipped his coffee and then he said, ‘It’s queer, don’t you think, that this gang should be giving themselves a name like the High Kings of Erin? Quite intellectual for a Cork crime gang? About the most romantic gang name I’ve ever heard is the Bride Valley View Boys. Not that it’s at all romantic if you know Bride Valley View.’
‘That’s one of the main reasons I’ve come to you, Michael,’ said Katie. ‘I need to find out if their name can give me any clues as to who they really are and what it is they’re after. They may be political fanatics, or they could be using the name just for mockery, who knows? Or, like I say, it might not be them at all, and they might just be stringing me along. But they know much more about these kidnappings than they could have seen on the TV news or read in the papers, so I do have serious suspicions that they’re responsible.’
‘Well, Katie, the High Kings of Erin committed some terrible acts of butchery, either to survive or to get what they wanted. For instance there was Art Óenther, who was sent by his wicked stepmother Bé Chuma to fetch back to Ireland the daughter of Morgan, Delbcháem, so that he could marry her and inherit her father’s throne. Before he could take her away, though, he had to kill her brother, Ailli Dubdétach, and then her mother, Coincheen, the ‘dog-headed’. Coincheen had cut off the heads of all her daughter’s previous suitors and impaled them on a bronze fence. So Art Óenther cut off her head, and Morgan’s too, for
good measure, and impaled them on the fence.’
‘Mother of God, they were a bloodthirsty lot all right.’
‘There are plenty of descriptions of people being burned alive, but on bonfires usually, not half buried in sand. And the only mention I can recall of people being cooked was in the reign of the High King Tigernmas, the son of Follach, which was a particularly bloody time. Tigernmas used to offer sacrifices to Crom Cruach, the fertility god. Apart from many other small children, they once included the twin babies of his own sister, Eithne. The poor little babes were boiled alive in a pottage, with herbs and grains.’
‘Jesus. I’ll bet Darina Allen doesn’t teach you how to cook that recipe at Ballymaloe.’
Michael Dempsey lifted up his raspberry pastry and said, ‘You’re absolutely sure you wouldn’t like a bite?’
‘If I was tempted before, I’m certainly not tempted now. Can you imagine it? “What’s for supper tonight, darling?” “Oh, just the usual, boiled twins.”’
Michael Dempsey chewed and swallowed his pastry, but as he did so he was watching Katie closely. ‘Something else is worrying you, isn’t it?’
‘What?’ she said, looking up at him. ‘No – nothing more than usual.’
‘I don’t know. You’ll forgive me for saying so, but you look kind of sad.’
Katie tried to manage a smile but it turned out to be more of a pout, like a small child just about to burst into tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Michael Dempsey. ‘It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have stuck my snout in. Forget I ever said it.’
‘No, no, you’re a sensitive man, Michael. You’re a sensitive man and you’re right. The truth of it is that the man I thought was going to marry me – well, now he’s not going to be marrying me.’
‘He must have a screw loose, this fellow.’
‘No … it’s just that Fate with a capital F had different ideas. That can happen sometimes. He went off to America and I decided to stay here.’
‘Couldn’t you have gone with him?’
‘Ah,’ said Katie, fiddling with her coffee spoon. ‘That’s the sixty-four thousand yoyo question. But no, not really. I have a city of over half a million people to look after. I couldn’t just walk away and leave them, could I?’
Michael Dempsey continued to watch her for a while and then he said, ‘Do you know what I’ve learned, more than anything else, from all of my years of studying history? I’ve learned that life is filled with overwhelming sadness.’
‘Oh, come on now, Michael, don’t be so depressing. The day’s dark enough,’
‘No, it’s true, Katie. No matter how wonderful life is, no matter how exhilarating, no matter how filled it is with joy and love, in the end it’s always over.’
Katie looked up at him again and this time she saw that there were tears in his eyes. She reached across the table and laid her hand on top of his.
‘Michael … what’s wrong?’
He shook his head and took out his crumpled handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Sorry … sorry. I shouldn’t have intruded. It’s just that my mother passed away last week and now I can recognize sadness wherever I see it. I never realized before how much of it there was about.’
This time Katie managed a genuine smile, although it was more a smile of understanding than of good humour. ‘You and me both, Michael. You and me both.’
***
On her way back to the station she received a text message from Detective Sergeant Ni Nuállan, asking where she was, and by the time she walked into the office, shaking her umbrella and taking off her raincoat, Kyna was already there waiting for her. Her blonde hair had been cut even shorter than usual, shaved up the back of her neck, which emphasized her sharp cheekbones and her strong, almost masculine jawline.
‘I talked to Mrs Collins, Meryl’s mother,’ she told Katie. ‘She’s in bits about Meryl, but she still wanted to help as much as she could. She lost her husband to throat cancer and her only son in a motorcycle accident, both within three months of each other, so she doesn’t think that fate has been very fair to her this year, to say the least.’
‘Strange you should say that,’ said Katie. She sat down at her desk and quickly leafed through the messages on it. ‘I was talking about fate not half an hour ago with Michael Dempsey from the university history department, how unkind it can be. Anyway, did you have any luck with Eoghan?’
Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán took out her notebook. ‘Eoghan met Meryl when they were kids at school. Carroll his surname is, Eoghan Carroll. Mrs Collins said that she and her late husband both liked Eoghan. He was always polite, she said, and he always held his knife and fork properly, and he came from a very respectable family. His father worked for the county council. Everybody assumed that Eoghan and Meryl would be married when they were old enough.’
‘So, what happened?’ asked Katie, standing up. ‘How did Meryl end up marrying a travel agent more than twenty years older than she was?’
‘Usual story,’ said Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán. ‘Eoghan went off to find a job in England and met somebody else. Well, met somebody else and made her pregnant.’
Katie was standing by the window now. She pressed her fingertip to the glass where a raindrop was dribbling down but, of course, she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t help thinking of John. He must have found some other woman by now. He was too attractive a man not to. Some other woman he would marry, and cherish, and make pregnant.
‘Mrs Collins told me that Meryl rang her three days ago to say that she had bumped into Eoghan,’ said Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán.
‘So Eoghan settled back to Ireland?’
‘No, no. He only came over from England for a couple of weeks to visit his parents, but his wife didn’t join him because of their kids having to go to school. His meeting with Meryl was pure accidental. He’d walked into Eason’s looking to buy some pens or something, that’s all – didn’t even realize Meryl was working there. He asked her to go out with him for a bit of a catch-up, like, but she told her mother that she wasn’t sure if she ought to go. Norman was very possessive, mostly on account of their age difference.’
‘But if Eoghan was over here for a couple of weeks, he may still be here?’
‘Oh, for sure, I’m almost certain that he is. Mrs Collins gave me his parents’ address in Carrigaline and a couple of the local garda went round there for me and took a sconce. There was nobody at home at the time but there was an Avis car parked in the driveway, so they noted the number. Eoghan Carroll rented it from the airport ten days ago and he’s not due to return it until Saturday. This afternoon he’s probably out somewhere with his parents, but I think he’s still here in the country all right. Crannagh, The Grove, Carrigaline, just off Church Road.’
‘Is somebody from Carrigaline keeping an eye on the place for you?’
‘Sergeant Barry said that he’s pushed for manpower at the moment but he promised to send a car past the house every hour or so, just to check. He’ll call me as soon as they see that the Carrolls are back home.’
‘Okay, Kyna, that’s grand. Like I said before, I still shouldn’t think that Eoghan can tell us anything useful, but you never know.’
Just as Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán was leaving Katie’s office, Inspector Fennessy came in. ‘Ma’am?’ he said. ‘You’ll be delighted to know that I found Fergal ó Floinn.’
‘Well done! But of course he denied everything. I’ll bet he denied even knowing that a bomb had gone off.’
‘No, he didn’t, he knew about it all right. But I very much doubt that he made it or planted it himself. He’s in Blair’s Hill Nursing Home and the staff are surprisingly intolerant when it comes to the residents bringing in Semtex and timing devices and putting bombs together, even in the quiet room.’
‘Well, I suppose that lets him off the hook.’
‘Amazingly, he tried to be helpful,’ said Inspector Fennessy. ‘I don’t know if he’s mellowed as he’s grown older, or if h
e’s turned to religion since he’s been at Blair’s Hill. Maybe he’s seeking absolution for all the innocent people in Belfast he’s blown to bits over the years, now that he’s so close to meeting his maker.’
‘He tried to be helpful?’ asked Katie. ‘I wouldn’t mention Fergal ó Floinn and a helpful man on the same day.’
‘You say that, but he gave me a hint about the Merchants Quay bomb. He said that one of his visitors had seen Clearie O’Hely in the centre of Cork the day before.’
‘Clearie O’Hely? There’s a rave from the grave.’
‘That’s no proof in itself, Clearie just being here in Cork. But of course Fergal ó Floinn trained him in bomb-making back in the seventies. He was always a prime suspect for that Palace Barracks bombing in Holywood, wasn’t he, although the peelers could never prove it?’
Katie frowned and said, ‘I don’t think we’ve ever had the slightest sniff of Clearie O’Hely operating in Cork. If you’d asked me, I would have guessed he was dead by now.’
‘I was surprised myself when Fergal told me he’d been seen around here. Apart from that time he spent in Belfast, O’Hely’s a Limerick boy through and through. He used to work for the Duggans more than anybody, didn’t he? They had him blowing up ATMs and building society safes and the doors off security vans. Well, that’s until the sainted Niall Duggan got what he so richly deserved.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Katie. ‘Shot dead wearing his mistress’s white satin dressing gown, if I remember – much to his wife’s annoyance. I seem to remember that she was only angry because somebody else had shot him before she had the chance to do it herself.’
Taken for Dead (Kate Maguire) Page 24