by Jo Spain
‘Never underestimate a human being’s capacity for depravity, Ray, no matter what their sex, profession or vocation. But yes, I’d be more than a little shocked if it turns out one of the convent’s residents did this. What I can’t figure out is why somebody would take her from Limerick and bring her to Dublin.’
‘Unless the murderer wanted to get our attention in particular? Make a national statement?’
‘It was still going to make a national statement and get our attention if it had happened in Limerick. The NBCI would have been pulled in no matter where in the country this had happened.’
‘I don’t think our colleagues down in Limerick have a lot of time for this Father Seamus character,’ Ray said. ‘They’re en route to the convent now.’
‘Who doesn’t report someone missing in those circumstances?’ Tom asked.
‘Someone with something to hide?’ Ray suggested.
The inspector stared down at his notepad. There was something gnawing at his memory.
‘Sisters of Pity. It rings a bell. Remind me to look it up later.’
Chapter 11
Dublin’s city centre was starting to fill up with Christmas shoppers moving in the direction of the capital’s major thoroughfare, O’Connell Street. At the main bus terminal, across the road from the garda station, people were alighting from coaches arriving from towns and villages throughout Ireland. The year, like the one before, had been slow for the city’s traders. The recession had long since decimated profits and many businesses, struggling for survival, were eagerly anticipating the seasonal boost in consumption.
Tom looked beyond the bus station to the beautiful facade of Gandon’s famous Custom House. Behind its painted railings, away from the hustle and bustle of the city-centre traffic and the adjacent Financial Services Centre, the stately old building stood solidly, regal and calm. He admired its ornate roof for a moment before pulling his phone from his pocket.
It rang twice before his wife answered.
‘Tom?’
‘Hi. How are things?’
‘Fine.’ Louise was surprised to hear from him. ‘Are you okay? Aren’t you busy?’
‘Of course. We just got our ID.’
Louise said nothing. She knew he wasn’t ringing to talk about the case.
‘Where’s Maria?’ He stifled a yawn as he asked the question.
Tom had slept terribly, his thoughts flitting from the new case to their daughter’s bombshell. He’d spent most of the night staring at the back of Louise’s head, wondering how she’d managed to keep it secret for so many weeks. That was new for him. He kept stuff from Louise all the time, because he had to. In his memory, it had never gone the other way. That he knew of.
‘Where do you think?’ his wife replied. ‘Bed. No doubt she’ll use pregnancy as a convenient excuse for not seeing this side of 12 p.m. most days.’
‘No doubt.’
‘Please don’t worry about her, love. I’m here. You have so much on your plate.’
‘How can I not worry? She’s only nineteen.’
‘Only nineteen? Tom, believe me, she’s far from the youngest girl to face this. She’s not even a girl. She’s a woman.’
Tom bristled. He’d been deliberately ignoring the extra sets of sanitary towels in the airing cupboard for years. He still struggled to get his head around this tall creature who’d taken over his baby’s pink bedroom and replaced the Barbies and teddy bears with black velvet cushions and middle-eastern throws.
He looked up and saw that Laura, who’d walked the nun to her bus, was coming back across the street.
‘How are you handling this so calmly?’
Louise hesitated before replying. ‘One of us has to.’
Considering what had run through his head when he’d first been told, Tom thought he was coping exceptionally well.
He took a deep breath. Louise was always wiser than him. This must have come as a huge shock to her, too, but she was already ten steps ahead, trying to be steady so he could be aggrieved. And he didn’t even have the time to be frustrated right now. There was no head space to indulge in selfish and, quite possibly, irrational questions, such as: Why has she done this to us? How could she have been so stupid? And, the worst, if she can’t even get through her first year in college, how will she rear a child? He felt guilty for even having the capacity for such thoughts.
‘I’d better go.’
‘Okay,’ Louise replied. ‘Will we see you later? I’ve started decorating the tree.’
‘Try to remember, Santa has actual children to visit. Our house doesn’t have to be the landing strip for his sleigh every year.’
‘Bah, humbug!’
He rang off and greeted Laura.
‘There’s a bus in thirty minutes,’ Laura told him. ‘I left her in the café. She’s a little shocked but she’ll be home in no time.’
‘What’s your take on her?’
‘She seemed pretty genuine.’
All the members of the team were good judges of character. They had it instinctively, but their training enhanced it, as well as teaching them to be aware of their limitations.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car engine. Ray, who’d gone to get the car, pulled in beside his colleagues and wound down the driver’s window.
‘Blanchardstown?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I’ll let you drive. Try not to kill us.’
‘You’ll let me drive? It’s my car. By the way, when are you rejoining the world of motoring?’
‘You’d have to ask my mechanic.’
‘Are you still using the octogenarian under the bridge?’ Ray laughed.
‘Age isn’t always an impediment, you know.’
‘I bet you tell yourself that all the time.’
Laura banged on the car roof. ‘Hey, Laurel and Hardy, are we getting a move on?’
Ray pointed to the passenger side and Tom, smiling, walked round to it while Laura slipped into the back seat. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Sean McGuinness’s name flashed on the screen as he pulled the passenger door shut.
‘Chief.’
‘Got an ID, Tom?’
‘Yes. She was the Reverend Mother of a convent in Limerick.’
Straight to the point.
‘Jesus wept.’
‘He’s weeping now, for sure. So, a team will need to head down. I imagine you want me in charge.’
Since the establishment of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation in the late nineties, specialized teams were routinely deployed to assist local squads with serious offences ranging from murder to organized crime.
‘Absolutely,’ McGuinness replied. ‘There’s no way the superintendent for the Midlands division will want this on his plate. They’re up to their eyeballs already. Your body, Tom, your case. I’ll make sure the local sergeant is ready for your team. Oh, and if you have to be down there overnight, see if they can put you up in the convent – save on expenses.’
Tom rolled his eyes but knew enough not to make a sarcastic comment. McGuinness was serious.
He hung up and looked at Ray. ‘All your dreams are about to come true. I’m taking you on a trip where you’ll be surrounded by women and perhaps even get to sleep in their midst.’
‘Ah, for crying out loud, they want us to stay in the bloody convent, don’t they?’
In the back of the car, Laura snorted. Tom turned and gave her a wink.
‘I might have to leave you there to monitor events, interview witnesses, you know,’ he said to Ray. ‘One of them might turn your head, and you’ll forget you ever met any pretty girls in Dublin.’
Ray’s cheeks flushed and he pressed down on the accelerator.
‘We might be heading to a religious house, boss, but it’ll be a while before you turn me into a monk.’
‘Boom, boom,’ Laura laughed.
*
‘The media are in a tailspin looking for the name of the victim. Somebody let them know you got an ID at the morgu
e. And no, we don’t know who,’ Ian hastily added, in response to the look of fury on Tom’s face.
Ray slammed Tom’s office door, shutting the three of them in. ‘Oh, this is going to be fun,’ he said. ‘Let me predict the headline: “Nun left hole-y after being nailed to tree”.’
Tom and Ian stared at Ray.
‘Don’t you get it? A “holy” nun?’
Ray shrugged, while Tom placed his forehead in his hand.
‘Holy nun,’ Ian tutted. ‘It’s a superfluous use of words anyway. Can you be an unholy nun?’
‘I guess if you’re at a fancy-dress party. Then you can be a sexy nun.’
‘Lads!’ Tom banged his desk.
Ray and Ian jumped. ‘Sorry,’ they chimed.
‘Right, we can’t keep her identity a secret, but I’ll ask Sean McGuinness to see if we can hold it back a little longer,’ Tom said. ‘That will give us a chance to get down to Limerick and get the lie of the land before the media hordes descend. Ian, will you fetch Laura and Michael?’
He shook off his coat, slung it on the back of his leather swivel chair and dialled Louise. Ray, who had no one to inform of his imminent trip, grabbed a newspaper from a table just inside the door of the office and settled down.
Louise answered eventually, sounding out of breath.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Tom, anxiously.
‘You’d think we were never apart, Tom. All is well. Maria hasn’t gone into labour yet. Would you just relax?’
‘Louise, I’ve to take a trip to Limerick. If I swing by the house, can you throw a couple of things in a bag for me?’
‘Honestly, the schemes you come up with to get out of helping me prepare our home for Christmas.’
‘So cynical. If it makes you feel any better, McGuinness has turned down my all-expenses request to book into a hotel with a casino attached. They’re hoping I’ll stay in a nunnery.’
There was a pause on the line. Louise knew there was no reason for him to stay in a convent unless the victim had originated there.
‘No problem,’ she said, her voice serious.
He was about to end the call when he thought of something.
‘Louise?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t let Maria pick up anything heavy.’
‘And so it begins,’ she sighed.
‘Indulge me. She’s my only child.’ Tom turned to Ray. ‘If you can just tear yourself away from the Premier League results . . .’
‘When a man can’t even read the sports page on a Saturday!’
His deputy threw his eyes to heaven and was just returning the newspaper to the table when the door opened and Laura crashed into him.
‘We have to stop meeting like this. Though I have to say, you are looking very well today,’ he said, and smiled.
Laura went a bright shade of red and pushed past him.
Ray looked at the back of her head, puzzled. He thought she enjoyed the banter. Then he cursed himself. Some female detectives hated having attention drawn to how they looked. They were working there because of their talent and skills, not their faces. He made a mental note to remember that Laura took issue with compliments – even if he had meant to be funny, not sexist.
As they were waiting for Michael, Tom decided to also include Willie Callaghan, his garda driver, on the trip. Willie had a good head, and Tom appreciated the older man’s wisdom.
The Technical Bureau would have to send down a senior team; the local division had already been ordered to secure the presumed crime scene in the convent hall for the Dublin forensics team.
Michael joined them a few minutes later. ‘We just need a dog now and we could be the Famous Five,’ he joked.
‘Which one of us is George?’ Tom asked.
He left Michael to think of a comeback.
‘I don’t know how long we’ll be down in Limerick,’ he continued. ‘Head home and grab what you need for a couple of nights. Ray, will you give Sister Concepta a ring and see if she’s back in the convent? Maybe hint at a few empty rooms? I’m going to ask Willie to drive me down. I’m guessing two cars?’
The others nodded.
‘Michael, you can come with us. Ray, you take Laura.’
Ray nodded. He’d use the opportunity of the car journey to impress on the younger detective that he wasn’t a chauvinist.
Laura tried to keep her face composed. She wasn’t sure how Bridget had figured it out, but she did have a thing for Ray – and it was growing by the day.
He turned to her now. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Clontarf.’
‘I might need a street name.’
You’re an idiot, her inner voice screamed.
‘Sorry. St Paul’s Avenue. Number thirty-four,’ she said abruptly.
‘I’ll pick you up in a couple of hours.’ Ray flashed his most winning smile, hoping he could charm her into remembering he was a nice guy.
That’s a date, she replied, in her head.
Chapter 12
Tom met Willie at reception, which someone had tried to decorate gaily with a few tawdry strands of tinsel and fairy lights. Willie, in his late fifties, was one of the most relaxed people Tom had ever met. In fact, he gave the impression that if he was any more laid-back, he’d be asleep. His appearance didn’t match his personality. Willie wore his uniform smartly, kept his thinning hair tightly cut, his moustache immaculately trimmed and always smelled of Old Spice.
‘So I’m getting a junket to Limerick?’ he said in his gravelly voice, as Tom approached.
The inspector nodded. ‘If that’s okay, Willie.’
‘More than okay. The daughters are coming home from the States next week for Christmas, and the missus has the house cleaned to within an inch of its life. She wants to keep it that way until they arrive. I’m not allowed to walk on the carpet in the living room. She expects me to levitate to the couch.’
Willie’s daughters had both made the all too familiar trip from college to a new country, along with thousands of other young Irish people forced to emigrate for work. Christmas had become a bittersweet time for so many parents, not all of whom were lucky enough to receive a seasonal visit.
‘I can’t promise to keep you there for a week, but we’ll see what we can do,’ Tom said. ‘Right, I need to call in at the house, but I want to check on my car first. I got a vague indication it might be ready today. You can drop me off, head to yours, then come back. And we’ll collect Michael Geoghegan.’
‘Is he coming?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right, so.’ Willie stroked his moustache and said no more. ‘Where’s your mechanic? You’re not still using that pensioner under the bridge?’
‘Why is everyone so ageist these days?’
‘Well, there might be a reason why you spend more time in other people’s cars than your own.’
The two men left the warmth of the station and crossed the car park to Willie’s gleaming vehicle. Tom opened the passenger door just as he felt icy drops on the back of his neck.
‘Is that snow?’ Willie asked, with all the giddiness of a schoolchild.
‘It is,’ Tom replied. ‘They say it’s going to be the coldest December on record. We could have snow right up to Christmas. If you’re good, we’ll stop on the way down and let you build a snowman.’
‘Yippee,’ the other man responded, dryly.
*
Ten minutes later they were outside the small garage where Tom’s car remained hostage to the knowledge of a man infinitely superior to the inspector on all things motor-related. It was Tom’s job to nod and agree with the garage’s owner, Pat Donnelly. He had been servicing cars in Blanchardstown since the world was black and white, as Louise liked to say.
Pat was standing at the door of the garage in dirty overalls, looking at the sky, as they pulled up. Tiny white snowflakes were melting on the top of his balding head.
‘He’s looking for divine inspiration to fix your car,’ Willie said.
‘There you are.’ The old man looked down from the heavens to his visitor, as if Tom had always been there but he’d only just noticed him.
‘Any joy with the car?’
Pat shrugged. ‘We’ll get there. Found the problem. Common with Alfa Romeos.’
Tom braced himself.
‘You wouldn’t consider getting yourself a nice little German model? Or a Jap car? Can’t stand those Italian ones. Must be the sun. Makes the engineers’ brains funny, so they forget to put pieces under the bonnet.’
Tom had had this one-sided exchange with Pat many times. He nodded dutifully and assured the older man that he would indeed replace this car with a sensible, functioning model. Pat never tired of pointing out to him that his precious Alfa marque was owned by FIAT – which stood for, in his opinion, ‘Fix It Again Tomorrow’.
‘Well, I’m off to the country for a few days, Pat, so I won’t need it today,’ Tom said, loudly.
‘Isn’t it well for some. A holiday, is it? That’s nice for you. And us old folks can’t even go about our business without being murdered. It wouldn’t have been fixed today, anyway. Snow coming.’
‘Well, luckily I won’t need it today,’ Tom repeated, pretending he had some control over the timeline. He wasn’t sure what the onset of snow meant for the prospect of his car being repaired. ‘Okay, Pat, I’ll see you during the week?’
‘Enjoy your break.’
‘Mad as a proverbial brush,’ Willie pronounced, as he revved the engine.
*
Twenty minutes later they were at Tom’s house, just as he got through to Emmet McDonagh on the phone.
‘You’ve nothing more from the crime scene for me?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Emmet replied. ‘If you miss me that much, though, if you find the murder site I might pay you a visit.’
‘What do you mean, if I find the murder site? Aren’t you coming down to Limerick?’ Tom knew he was chancing his arm.
‘Sorry, Tom, that’s just a kidnap site, by the sound of things. It’s too busy in Dublin for me to wander off. I’ll send you a senior team, but there’s no “me” in team.’