Friends, family, mere acquaintances and serial funeral-goers shuffled into pews and sat. There was a quiet air of anticipation. They were all there. Even the guest-of-honour, the dead man, was there. And yet they waited.
Then into the silence a voice soared on two words, Ave Maria. Heads turned and necks stretched back and upwards, people contorting themselves to see the woman who stood on the balcony. But as the first two words faded and the voice climbed through the hymn, effortlessly singing Schubert’s notes, they sat back and listened, feeling the hairs rise on the back of their necks, or goose-bumps appear on their arms, or tears beginning to form and fall, or eyes to well, or sobs to catch.
On the final note the priest appeared on the altar and the congregation rose to their feet. West hadn’t been to a church since a friend’s wedding several years before but he fell into the ways of it, the routine hammered in during childhood and never really forgotten. So he stood and kneeled with the rest, joining in with the prayers, finding the words on his lips without thinking.
And then the mass and the funeral service were over and there was the old tradition of the congregation filing past the family offering condolences. And there were more tears and the mingling of tears, shaking of hands, routine platitudes, words meaning to be comforting but remaining meaningless in the face of the family’s loss.
From the back of the church, West and Andrews watched and saw nothing to cause the slightest suspicion. There were, however, some suspicious looks cast their way. It was a damned if they did, damned if they didn’t situation, West knew, seeing the looks, knowing they were thinking, why aren’t they out there looking for the person who did this awful act, the same people who would just as quickly criticise their absence. The same people who would never believe the killer might be one of them.
Problem was, West thought, this time they were right. He didn’t think the killer was one of them.
The four who had carried the coffin into the church lined up once more to start Gerard Roberts on his final journey. An old Gaelic song, one West hadn’t heard since he was a boy, drifted softly from the balcony. Trasna na dtonnta – across the waves – a sailors’ song about returning home after a long voyage. Suddenly, the congregation started singing along, softly at first and then stronger as the coffin passed by. Remembering the chorus, West joined in, startling Andrews who looked at him in amazement. West shrugged and sang louder, the words coming back to him, plucked from boyhood days barely remembered. He was still singing when the family passed in the wake of the coffin but stopped abruptly, mid-word when Kelly Johnson passed, an arm around Sophie, her face turned so she caught his eye. He held her gaze unblinkingly for the long seconds it took her to pass.
Outside people mingled for a while before leaving; some to go back to work or other commitments, others to get their cars to follow the funeral cortege to Glasnevin graveyard. West and Andrews waited till the last person left before heading out to their car.
‘There’s probably not much point going,’ West muttered, ‘but we’d better.’
Andrews manoeuvred the car into traffic and drove in silence for a moment before throwing a quick glance at his passenger. ‘Doesn’t seem that long since we found the body in the church graveyard, does it?’ he said.
Simon Johnson. West wouldn’t forget him in a hurry. Finding his body was what brought Kelly Johnson into his life. What a dance she had led him on, he thought, running away from him when he had found her in Cornwall – they were still making jokes at his expense about that. And then vanishing again, turning up in Cork. What a case that had been.
‘At least we solved that one, Peter. Over and done with,’ he said, not being subtle with the message. Subtlety was absolutely wasted on Peter Andrews.
Andrews smiled. What was it the sergeant was always saying...something about protesting too much.’
‘We’re not having much luck with this one, are we?’ West continued, ignoring the smile he could see from the corner of his eye. ‘No motive, no suspects. Nothing.’
‘Luck didn’t solve the Simon Johnson murder, Mike. It was hard work and attention to detail. Ok, and a sprinkling of luck,’ Andrews conceded with a grin.
They followed the cortege, found parking on the road outside the cemetery and drifted in with others who had parked nearby. Rain had kept off but big ominous clouds continued to lurk and threaten. Glasnevin cemetery with its tall Celtic crosses, towers and leaning tombstones was an eerie place at the best of times but now with the back-drop of dark clouds it was full of other-worldly atmosphere that made those gathered around the coffin of Gerard Roberts shiver.
The Roberts’ family had a family plot at the back of the cemetery and the cortege moved off again, slowly, piling down the narrow avenues, the coffin transported on a gurney that rattled and shook as it moved. The plot was under a huge pine tree and the ground around was soft with damp pine needles, a fresh smell wafting as they walked and stood on them. The grave had already been opened and the coffin was set down on wooden slats laid across the gaping hole.
They gathered around, some forced to stand on other graves, eyes reading automatically of other deaths at other times. The priest, his robes replaced by a dark suit, said the ritual prayers and waved the censer, the clinking sound, the sweet smell of incense filling the air, both strangely familiar. Memories of other services, long forgotten. And then it mingled with the fresh smell of pine and was gone.
Jennifer Roberts sobbed as her husband’s body was lowered. David, put an arm around her but West could see his shoulders heave, knew he too had given way to tears. Slightly removed from the mother and son sculpt, Sophie Roberts held fast to Kelly’s hand, her tears falling gently, soundlessly.
One by one those who had gone to the graveyard dispersed. Jennifer’s brother-in-law, Greg, issued invitations to everyone for lunch in a small hotel not far from the cemetery. ‘It’s just across from the Botanic Gardens,’ he told everyone, ‘You can park there and it’s just across the road.’
He approached the two gardai and held out his hand. ‘Greg Mc Grath. Alice’s husband. This is a terrible business, isn’t it? Can I ask? Have you any idea who did this?’
‘We’re still following up inquiries, Mr McGrath,’ West trotted out the old reliable.
Nodding, he asked again, ‘But you have no idea who it might be, do you? I mean...’ he hesitated, ‘You’re going to be looking at everyone, aren’t you?’
West frowned. ‘It’s a murder investigation, Mr McGrath. We will be looking at everyone connected to Mr Roberts.’ For the first time today, West saw shiftiness in someone’s eyes. Curious, he thought. They had done a superficial check on all of Gerard Roberts’ family. Nothing out of the ordinary had turned up. It looked like they would have to take a closer look at Greg McGrath. ‘Is there something you know that could help us, Mr McGrath?’
Greg McGrath, floundering in the can of worms he had opened, looked horrified. ‘Me? No. I don’t know anything. Honestly. Alice is worried, you know, about her sister. Poor Jennifer isn’t coping at all. If you need to know anything, perhaps you would contact me. You know, leave the ladies out of it.’ His eyes flickered to West’s face and quickly away. Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket he pulled out a business card and handed to the sergeant. ‘These are my numbers. You can contact me anytime.’ There was an infinitesimal quaver in his voice that probably neither West nor Andrews would have noticed if he hadn’t put himself so firmly in the spotlight.
‘And of course, you’ll join us for lunch, won’t you,’ he added, his eyes telling a different story.
West and Andrews shook their heads simultaneously, ‘We have to get back, Mr McGrath. But thank you.’
Greg McGrath’s relief was obvious. ‘Of course. Pressures of work and all that. Well, I must get back to my wife.’ He hesitated as if there was something else he wanted to say but then just nodded and walked away.
‘Interesting,’ Andrews said.
‘Mmmm.’ West murmured noncom
mittally.
They stood watching McGrath as he rejoined his family, noticing how carefully he kept his back to them. Like a child, West thought, if he can’t see us, we’re not here. If we’re not here, we can’t hurt him.
But they could see him. And whatever he’d done. They’d see that too.
17
Turning to leave , West saw Sophie Roberts surrounded by a group of young people West assumed were college friends. To give them space, Kelly had moved away and was standing alone under the branches of a huge oak tree.
‘I’ll meet you back at the car,’ he said to Andrews.
‘What? Why? Oh,’ Andrews replied, answering his own questions when he spotted where the sergeant’s gaze was fixed. ‘Ok,’ he said with a grin, ‘good luck.’
Kelly didn’t see West approach but as it happened she was thinking about him. She’d seen Greg Mc Grath speak to him earlier and assumed, half-rightly, that he did so to extend an invitation to lunch. Part of her hoped he would say no. But there was a larger part, barely acknowledged, that hoped he would say yes. They had locked horns at every encounter recently but she remembered a different man. One who came to rescue her when she desperately needed to be rescued, who had been kind when she really needed kindness. She remembered thinking, back then when everything seemed so awful, that had she been single and circumstances much different she might have been attracted to him.
Now she was single but, unfortunately, circumstances hadn’t really changed. She was, once more involved with dead bodies and criminal activities.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear when West said her name quietly, yelping when he put his hand on her arm to attract her attention. A number of people automatically turned around to look. Kelly did what seemed best, she looked around too.
‘For goodness sake,’ she whispered to West when people lost interest and returned to their own concerns. ‘You nearly gave me a heart-attack. Has nobody ever told you that creeping up on people, especially in a graveyard, is a really, really bad idea?’
‘I did speak but you mustn’t have heard, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Can you spare a minute? I wanted to have a word with you.’
Nodding and with a final glance toward where Sophie Roberts was still surrounded by her friends, she started walking, stopping several feet away and turning to him with a quizzical raise of her eyebrow.
He smiled. ‘You haven’t changed, Kelly.’
She didn’t return the smile. If anything, she looked annoyed. ‘You don’t know anything about me, Sergeant West,’ she snapped, ‘so you can’t know I haven’t changed. You helped me through some tough times earlier this year. But that woman wasn’t me.’ She took a deep breath, said more calmly, ‘The victim. That isn’t who I am.’
West’s smile faded. ‘That wasn’t what I meant, I never saw you as a victim, Kelly. Well, perhaps initially,’ he conceded. ‘But I certainly didn’t when I was chasing you around Cornwall. You led me a ruddy awful dance. That’s what I meant by saying you haven’t changed. You still seem to be leading me on a bloody dance.’
Taken aback, all Kelly could manage was, ‘Oh.’
‘I came over to apologise for Saturday,’ West continued, his face grim. ‘I’m sorry I bothered.’
With that he turned on his heels and stormed off, leaving Kelly staring at his back wishing she had kept her mouth shut, wondering if they could ever have a conversation without one or the other of them behaving like an idiot.
Andrews started the engine when he saw West crossing the road. He didn’t have to ask how his conversation went. Storm clouds were writ large across his face. And if he were so obtuse that he couldn’t read those signs, the slam of the car door and the muttered imprecations would have given the game away.
He decided on the wiser course of action and kept his comments to himself but couldn’t help the shake of his head that drew a glare but no comment. Kelly gave West the run-around five months ago. It looked like round two had just begun.
It made life interesting. Gave him something to tell his wife.
Stuck in traffic minutes later and with a swift glance in West’s direction, Andrews decided it was safe to speak, ‘What did you make of Greg McGrath? Funny carry-on, eh?’
‘Too much bloody funny-carry-on going on these days,’ West muttered, bad-temperedly.
‘You think there’s anything in it?’ Andrews persisted knowing the sergeant’s bad moods never lasted.
West sighed. ‘There’s something,’ he said, his voice more even. ‘And something he wants kept from his wife.’
‘Cherchez la femme?’
West nodded. ‘I just can’t see him for his brother-in-laws murder, Pete. But we’ll go through the motions. Find out what the stupid bastard is up to.’ He sighed again. ‘We could do without red-herrings popping up all over the place. I’m not in the mood.’
They rode in silence back to the station. Normally, they’d’ve had lunch en route but West didn’t suggest it and looking at his glum face Andrews decided he’d be better off eating in the station, bad as the food was.
West went straight to his office, closing the door after him, an occurrence rare enough to draw glances of surprise from a couple of gardai who were sitting writing reports.
‘Say nothing,’ Andrews advised them when he returned from lunch and the door was still closed. He filled them in on their strange conversation with Greg McGrath. ‘Find out where he works, call around and see if you can pick up anything. But be discreet. The sergeant thinks it might be a case of cherchez la femme,’ he said practising the phrase he had learnt from West, hoping it sounded vaguely correct.
‘What’s that mean?’ Jarvis said blankly.
Andrews thumped him on the arm. ‘Cherchez la femme. Find the woman.’
Jarvis didn’t look enlightened.
Andrews raised his eyes to heaven. ‘I’ll spell it out in words you’ll understand then. The sergeant thinks Greg McGrath might be having it off. With a woman.’
Enlightenment. ‘Why didn’t you just say that, and never mind the French stuff.’ Jarvis said, reaching for the phone. ‘We have his address. I’ll ring a mate of mine in the tax office, find out where he works.’
Knowing it was a waste of time to ask Jarvis to go through official channels, channels that were clogged with buckets of bureaucracy, Andrews ignored what he’d heard. Expediency. That was the name of the game. He’d just make sure West didn’t hear about it. Unless of course, he questioned the speed in which they got the information. Andrews sighed. He’d cross that shaky bridge if and when they got to it.
Friends in useful places. Jarvis smiled as he hung up and waved a piece of scrap paper in the air. ‘There we go,’ he said cheerfully. ‘C’mon Paul, let’s go see what this guy’s been up to eh?’
Garda Paul Edwards stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Where’re we off to then?’ he asked, squinting at the piece of paper in Jarvis’ waving hand.
‘Where does he work?’ Andrews asked, wondering if he should, perhaps, go with them.
‘Mary’s College in Marino.’ Jarvis replied, waving the piece of paper again.
‘He’s a teacher?’
‘Yep. An English teacher. In a girl’s school.’
Andrews hesitated. There was cherchez la femme and then there was cherchez la school-girl. There was probably nothing to it. Probably. He groaned. He really didn’t want to cross the city on a wild goose chase. But... ‘Edwards, stay here. Finish whatever it was you were doing. I’ll go.’
Jarvis’ face fell. He’d have enjoyed the trip with Paul. Peter Andrews was a different ball-game. He’d have to watch what he said. Watch how he drove. Definitely no siren and flashing lights to get home later for his dinner.’
Andrews opened West’s office door. ‘McGrath’s a teacher. In a girl’s school. Mary’s College, over in Marino. I’m going to go over with Jarvis. See if we can sus out how the land lies, ok?’
West frowned and dropped the pen he was using on
to the document in front of him. Running his hands tiredly over his face, he said, ‘He wouldn’t be that stupid, would he?’
Andrews didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew the truth. People could be very, very stupid.
‘If he’s involved with a pupil, or with a member of the staff, we might get a feel for it, Mike. It’s hard to keep those things secret. Someone always sees something. Don’t worry,’ he added, ‘I’ll be discreet.’
The journey took longer than it should have done, Jarvis decided irritably, arriving at the school over an hour later. Andrews had refused to allow him to use the bus-lanes, had told him off for even suggesting it. ‘They’re called bus-lanes for a reason, Sam,’ Andrews had said sharply. ‘If it were an emergency, we might have had just cause. But it’s not, so stick in the traffic, like a good law-abiding citizen should.’
Mary’s College, red-bricked and tall-chimneyed, stood surrounded by green playing fields. Elegant steps lead up to a massive dark-wood door. Jarvis, who never stayed cowed for long, gave a long whistle of admiration. ‘Posh this, isn’t it?
They climbed the steps together and approached the door looking for a handle or bell. Instead what they found was a small, inconspicuous sign. Please use side entrance.
‘Oh for goodness sake,’ Andrews said.
The two men took themselves back down the steps and then scanned from right to left wondering which side the sign referred to. Or was there an entrance both sides.
‘How about I go that way and you go this way,’ Jarvis said, indicating with a wave of his hand, one way and then the other.
‘You look like a bloody windmill,’ Andrews said before heading off to the right, ‘C’mon. We’ll try this way.’
Close Ranks: A Garda West Novel (Garda West Crime Novels Book 2) Page 14