‘Mr McBride – why are you telling us this now, when you lied before?’
McBride frowned. ‘Well, um, you came down asking about James. I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t want to get involved. I thought Stephen had listened to me; I didn’t think what we had said was important. I thought I had handled things. But then it was on the news, that another man had died and—’
‘I told him he had to come down.’ Gavin McBride’s voice sounded weary, almost resigned. ‘I’d no idea – I’d no idea he was this involved. I’m sorry. I hope it’s not too late.’
Despite her growing excitement, Claire forced herself to keep her own voice even: ‘Why did you lie to him, anyway? About James? Why did you tell him that nothing could be done after thirty years? It’s not true – plenty of historical abuse cases have been investigated.’
‘Because there’s something else I need to tell you.’
Suddenly, Councillor Richie McBride seemed to have left the room. In his place was an older and frailer man, wrinkles fanning out from behind the metal frames of his glasses. He took the glasses off and dug his finger and thumb into the corners of his eye sockets. He looked smaller too, Claire thought, deflated somehow. Here was a man, she thought, who was desperately trying to hold on to the power he once had but was seeing it evaporate. Here was a man who was afraid.
Chapter Thirty-One
‘Thanks, I’ll get out here.’
Liz threw money at the taxi driver and slammed the car door behind her. She had expected to see evidence of the break-in as the car drove around the corner – Garda tape, maybe, or a police car parked outside the house. But Tír na nÓg looked the same as it always had, its front garden deserted, the gentle swish of the leaves on the hedge as she brushed past them the only sign of life. The cops must be on their way, she decided, and thought for a moment about waiting for them out on the road. Then she reconsidered. She needed to get inside. Felim had sounded so worried on the phone.
The front door was locked and she scrabbled in her handbag for her keys, rooting through receipts, tissues, wallet and past her phone before finally closing her hands on the bunch and withdrawing it, hands suddenly shaking. It took her three goes to get the key into the lock and, when the door finally opened, she half stumbled, half fell into the hall.
‘I’m here!’
‘Oh, thank goodness!’ Felim’s head poked out of the sitting room, his face flushed. ‘Oh, Elizabeth! I’m so glad you came. I couldn’t get in touch with Tom. I was so worried. I didn’t know who else to call.’
‘It’s OK, Felim, you did the right thing.’
‘They must have come in through the kitchen window.’ Speaking quickly, the old man led her down the corridor and into the kitchen at the back of the house, where the windows still stood wide open.
Shaken, Liz looked at Felim. ‘Jesus. You must have got some fright. Oh, my God – you don’t think they’re still here, do you?’
Felim shook his head. ‘God, no; I wouldn’t have asked you to come back if I thought that. No, I had a quick look around after I called you. The place is empty. I’m not sure if they’ve taken anything, either; you’d know more about that than me.’
‘Yes.’ Liz stepped backwards and out into the hall again. It didn’t look as if anything had been disturbed, but, with the house in its usual messy state, it would take a while to figure out if anything was missing. Anyway, she thought bitterly, it wasn’t like there would be any money on the premises to take. Tom had made sure of that.
The doorbell interrupted her thoughts and made Felim jump.
‘Oh! That’ll be the guards. I’m sorry, love, I’m in a heap.’
‘Here, you take it easy; I’ll deal with it.’
Liz pointed him in the direction of the sitting room. The last thing she wanted was for him to collapse, or have a heart attack or something. At the risk of sounding flippant, they’d lost too many clients recently.
‘Go in there. They’ll probably want to talk to you, anyway.’
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she walked down the hall and towards the front door where a figure could be seen, blurred by the glass.
‘Thanks for coming; we’re not sure when it happened but . . .’ It took her a moment to realise that the man wasn’t wearing a uniform and that there was no squad car parked outside.
‘I’m sorry, I . . .’
‘Elizabeth, I need to talk to you.’
His stench was almost unbearable. As the man moved towards her, Liz took a step backwards as the full force of the smell hit her. He couldn’t have washed in days. Jesus, where were the cops? He reached out his hand and she saw the stains under the armpits of his shirt, caught the rottenness of his breath as he moved closer.
‘It’s important!’
His hand was on her arm. She tried to tug it away and he clamped his other hand on top of hers. Suddenly, she was reminded of a dance they learned in school, the luascadh, an Irish dance which involved one partner swinging the other at great speed around the dance floor. Repulsed by him, she took another step backwards and he moved with her until he was inside the hall door.
‘Get away from me.’
‘I need to talk to you.’
There was a rustle from behind her and she turned her head with relief. ‘Felim! I need some help here?’
‘It’s alright, Elizabeth.’ Felim moved towards them and, in one quick, fluid movement – she was surprised, in fact, at how quickly he could move – he pulled the younger man fully into the hall. He was still holding on to Liz’s arm and she collided with the wall as she tried to stay upright.
‘Hold on, I don’t think . . .’
And then the other question occurred to her, too late. The obvious one, the one she should have asked immediately – the one that had been driven from her head by Tom’s revelation and her own distress. How had Felim discovered the burglary? The centre wasn’t open on weekends; he had no reason to be there.
Suddenly her hand was released and she felt herself falling forwards as the man at the door darted past her and launched himself at Felim. But Felim, who was by far the bigger of the two, simply pushed him out of the way and, reaching upwards, gave the door a heavy shove, slamming it shut.
‘What are you doing?’ Liz’s voice rose in a shriek, but the younger man was talking too, and his words washed over hers, so it took her a moment for her to process what he was saying.
‘Daddy. Please don’t touch her. Please leave her alone.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘It was Stephen’s own father he wanted to sue. Lar Millar.’
‘But you said . . .’
Claire looked at Richie McBride in disbelief. All of his gruff bluster had evaporated. Climbing down from a pedestal he’d been living on for thirty years hadn’t been easy.
‘I know what I said. I’d say I was sorry now, only I don’t think you’d believe me.’
‘Why don’t you just tell us everything, Richie? From the beginning? We’re all sick of the messing around.’
Gavin’s voice was sharp and Claire noticed, with interest, the use of his father’s first name. McBride senior sank down even further in his chair.
His son was still talking, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable: ‘Or maybe I’ll start off, yeah? Maybe I’ll be able to jog your memory.’
He’d make a good barrister, Claire thought, as he began.
‘I’ll try and keep this as short as I can, detectives. I got the practice audited a week ago. I’ve been thinking of taking on a partner; things have been going pretty well and I thought it was time. But we needed to get the books done first: an intensive audit, a spring clean. The guy I hired went back over financial records from years ago, and then he came to me saying that something was wrong.’
Richie McBride was paler now than the pages of the notebook in Flynn’s hand, but he said nothing, just fastened and unfastened the strap of his watch, the metronomic clicking providing a strangely appropriate soundtrack for Gavin M
cBride as he began to unravel his father’s thirty-year lie.
‘There was a period in the nineteen-eighties the accountant just couldn’t figure out. You could see from the books that things were in bad shape for a while – that’s no surprise, I suppose; everyone took a hit back then. But then – and I’m not an accountant, but even I could see it quite clearly when he pointed it out to me – suddenly things were fine again. He explained it really well; I have the details here, if you want to see them. But what it boils down to is, someone stepped in. Someone fixed things. It was clear the business got a cash injection from somewhere, only there was no record of the source. So I asked Dad.’
All three looked across at McBride senior but his gaze remained fixed on the floor.
Gavin McBride sighed. ‘I asked him and I didn’t believe his answer. So I asked him again and—’
Abruptly the clicking stopped. Ignoring his son, McBride senior looked directly at Claire. ‘Lar Millar lent me money when I needed it. He was a good friend. He stood by me.’
‘And you stood by him too, didn’t you, Dad?’
Claire could hear the disgust in the younger man’s voice. McBride shrugged but said nothing.
‘He scratched your back; you scratched his! I swear to God—’
‘I had no option!’ Richie McBride’s voice rose to a shout. ‘My son, the big man. You think you have all the answers, don’t you? Well, I’m telling you, I had no choice. I had five children, a mortgage, your mother wasn’t well and my business was in trouble. Yeah, that business – that fine, thriving business I handed over to you on a plate – the one that has you sitting back and talking bullshit about partners! I built that up and handed it to you, so don’t you talk to me about back-scratching!’
His voice was shaking now, spittle gathered on the corners of his lips.
‘My business was going to the wall and I needed cash. I had just been approached to stand for the council too; I couldn’t do that if I was unemployed. I was in a bad way. Lar Millar was one of our biggest customers and, yes, I asked him for help and, yes, he helped me out. He just needed help on . . . on a legal matter in return.’
‘Stop fucking lying, Dad!’
She had anticipated the anger, but Claire was shocked to see tears in Gavin McBride’s eyes.
‘You lied, for Christ’s sake! You lied to the school board and you lied to Mum and, if you didn’t lie outright to the entire town, well, then, you did the next best thing: you covered something up and you let a good man lose his job, and his name!’ He looked at Claire in despair. ‘Some of it I’ve had to guess. But it looks like Dad was taking backhanders from Lar Millar for years.’
They both fell silent and looked at Claire, who frowned.
‘So where does James Mannion come into this? And Stephen?’
‘James . . .’
Richie McBride took a deep breath and held it for a moment. Contrasting emotions flickered across his face. Anger at his son’s actions. Guilt at whatever had happened in Rathoban thirty years ago. Reluctance to give any more information than he needed to. And then, and Claire could see it as clearly as if a light was turned on, he came to a decision. It wasn’t out of any sense of justice, she knew that, but Richie McBride had been a lawyer for a long time; he knew how deep his involvement was, and how it would look when things came to court. He couldn’t hope to get away with it and, at this stage, honesty was his best chance of retaining some sort of dignity.
‘James Mannion came to see me one night. He was worried that Lar was . . . had displayed violent tendencies. Towards his son. Maybe his wife too.’
‘And why did he come to you?’ Flynn’s voice was calm, but Claire could hear the tension in it.
‘Things were different back then, detective. People didn’t speak about these things. There weren’t the stories you hear now, on the news and that. Sure, we all knew Lar was fond of the drop but we weren’t sure of anything else and if we heard rumours, we kept them to ourselves. People just didn’t interfere. James had thought about going to the guards, but he didn’t know anyone in the barracks. He thought that maybe, as a solicitor, I’d know what he should do . . .’
‘And you went straight back to your mate and told him everything.’ Gavin spat the words out. ‘I’m right, amn’t I, Dad? That’s how it went.’
McBride senior gave a resigned nod.
‘Yes, I told Lar what James was saying. I owed him a favour. Jesus, I didn’t mean any harm by it. Don’t look at me like that, Gavin! I thought James was probably exaggerating, that Lar had just given the young fella a few slaps or something. Things were different in those days. And I knew, if it got out that someone in the school had been asking questions, that it would do Lar serious damage. He ran a factory in the town; he was a big employer locally. Lot of families depended on him. So, yes, I warned him – warned him that James had been talking. And he—’
‘He marched straight into the school and told everyone that James Mannion had dropped the hand on his son.’
Flynn had stopped writing now. Three pairs of eyes were fixed on Gavin McBride.
‘I had a chat with Mum last night, Dad; we filled in the blanks between us. She’s just as pissed off as I am, by the way. Probably more so. Anyway, detectives, this much I know: Lar Millar went straight to the school and told the headmaster James had interfered with his son. Mum said it was known around town that James was gay, or rumoured to be. It was never spoken about; no one mentioned that sort of thing in those days; sure, it was still illegal, apart from anything else. But people knew, alright, or suspected it. So it was very easy to accuse him of child abuse. Everyone believed it, straight away. Isn’t that right, Daddy?’
McBride didn’t move, and Gavin continued after a moment.
‘He used to give the kid lifts home and that; people felt there was evidence there. And I suppose, the way things were . . .’ Beads of sweat were now rolling down his face. ‘When it came to it, he didn’t feel he could fight it. It was Lar Millar’s word against his. The big man around town, and his solicitor backing him. So James Mannion took what must have seemed like the simplest option. He got the fuck out of Rathoban and never came home again.’
Claire nodded, slowly. ‘And that’s why his father cut him out of the will. He believed the story.’
‘Yeah.’ Gavin nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking about this all night. The timing all makes sense and everything. You’ve been there, detective; you know what a small place Rathoban is. It’s easy to see how simple it would be to ruin someone’s life. I just can’t believe . . .’
His voice cracked on the final word and Claire could see how hard he himself had been hit by the revelation. It wasn’t just that his father had lied. It was that his own business, his life and that of his family was all built on those lies.
But she didn’t have time to sympathise with him now.
She looked across at Richie McBride who was, once more, fiddling with his watch strap. ‘So that’s why you told Stephen not to chase his father, not to look for a prosecution. You were still protecting him, after all these years.’
McBride dipped his head. ‘I thought . . . Thirty years had passed; I thought the whole thing was best forgotten.’
Click, as he fastened the strap of his watch again.
‘There’s something else too, I might as well tell you. I contacted Lar a few months ago, after Stephen called me. The Millars emigrated to England soon after everything that happened with James. But Lar always made sure I had his address; he still had fingers in a few pies over here. So I called him and told him Stephen had been in touch. The next I heard, James was dead. I told myself it was a coincidence, James was an old man, it was just one of those things. But then you came to see me. And I saw that interview on the news, with the superintendent, and another man dead—’
‘Stop fucking lying!’
Gavin McBride’s voice bounced off the walls and the other three jumped.
‘Don’t even go there, Dad! Don’t make out like y
ou decided to come here or that you came to some decision. If I hadn’t gone through the books, you never would have said anything!’
‘Hold on.’ Fascinated as she was by the disintegration, in glorious Technicolor, of the McBride family, Claire needed to take back control of the situation. The name Lar Millar meant nothing to her. He’d be, what, in his early seventies now? ‘Do you have a photograph of him?’, she asked. ‘Of Millar?’
Gavin McBride shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You must do.’ Flynn leaned towards the older McBride. ‘When we were in your sitting room, it looked like there were pictures of half the town up on the wall. Your hall of fame.’
Given everything that had emerged, Claire forgave him the note of sarcasm.
Richie McBride nodded, slowly. ‘I would do, now you mention it. I opened the new wing of Lar’s factory, when I was Mayor. But I don’t . . .’
Brilliant. Claire mentally went through the checklist. They could get someone from Rathoban station to call out to the house, maybe scan the image through.
Flynn interrupted her thoughts. ‘Is your mother in?’ he asked McBride junior. ‘Does she have a smartphone?’
Gavin McBride’s brain was moving as fast as Flynn’s; he grabbed his own phone from his pocket and dialled.
‘Mum? I need you to do something for me, OK? Yeah, we’re with the guards now. I’ll tell you later. I need you to do this first. Can you stick on Skype? Yeah, now. Brilliant. I’ll call you back on it, OK?’
He hung up and looked across at Claire.
‘The brother lives in Sydney. She learned how to use it when he had the first kid.’
His phone beeped and he pressed the Skype icon.
‘Hi, Mum. Yeah, that’s brilliant. Listen, I need you to go down the end of the room, OK? We’re looking for a photograph from Dad’s wall . . . Yeah, just walk down and hold the computer up. That’s brilliant, Mum.’
Are You Watching Me Page 24