by Jon Cleary
Then she proceeded to tell him what he already knew; but more. He said nothing, listening to her without expression. At last he said, “What do you want me to do?”
“You’re the managing director of Austarm—you should be able to stop it!”
“It isn’t that easy—” He couldn’t tell her how powerless he was, that her grandfather held all the cards and all the voting stock.
“Nothing’s easy! God, don’t you think I know that?” She was beginning to boil beneath the surface, but she was still in control of herself. “You have to do something! That’s why I’ve come to you—you’re my last hope. Well, almost . . .”
“What do you mean by that? Almost . . . ?”
She took a deep breath; all at once there was a look of despair on her pretty face. “I’m going to tell it all to the newspapers and to television, to Four Corners or some programme like that. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do that—that you would help me—you’re one of the managing directors. I tried to get in touch with Mr. Borsolino—I’ve never met him—but he’s away somewhere—”
“He’s down in Melbourne, he’ll be back tomorrow night . . . I don’t think you need to see him. I don’t think you need to talk to the newspapers, either.”
“Oh, I’m going to talk to them!” She took a long gulp at her drink; it took a moment for her to recover. “Grandpa threw me out of his house—even my uncle threatened me. They’re mad, you know. They’ve got to be stopped. The only way to do it is to give the story to the newspapers.”
“That will have more effect than you realize. It could bring down a whole corporation, the biggest in the country, drop its prices on the stock exchange—”
“Does it matter?”
Oh Christ, he thought, she’s mad, too, the whole bloody Hourigan lot are mad. “I think your vows of poverty have warped your vision, my dear . . .”
He sounded patronizing, episcopalic. She saw her uncle in him and began to bridle.
“There are hundreds of thousands of people who depend on Ballyduff for their jobs and income . . .” He really didn’t care about Ballyduff shareholders and employees. The hoi polloi always survived: there was always the dole.
“There are hundreds of thousands of people in Nicaragua who could be killed if a full scale war breaks out there. Do the Ballyduff people want their jobs and income to come from that?”
“You’re exaggerating everything. You’re cockeyed with your Marxism—”
She laughed, a harsh sound in such a young throat. “God, you sound just like my uncle! I’m not a Marxist—I’ve never read a political pamphlet in my life—all I’m concerned about is the people I lived amongst . . . Are you in favour of selling the arms to my uncle and his friends?”
“No, I’m not. I’m trying to prevent it. But it shouldn’t be done by going to the newspapers. There are left-wing journalists here in Sydney who’d make hay out of that—”
“They’re the ones I’m looking for, someone who’ll make a big splash . . . I’m going to them, Sir Jonathan. I don’t trust anyone any more. I thought you might back me up—from what I understand, you run the corporation from day to day . . . But you’ve known about this all along, haven’t you? I’m telling you nothing new.”
“No, I found out about it only yesterday. And I’m telling you—I’ll do my best to stop it. But I’ll do it my way!”
“No, you won’t—not if you won’t go to the newspapers. You’ll hide it all there in the boardroom—my grandfather will find some other way of getting those arms to the Contras. You won’t stand up to him—nobody does. I’ve only known him for a few months and I can see he rules everyone—he’s a despot! I should have known—all you people care about is making money! You may not have any time for the Contras, but if it’ll make you money, you don’t care!”
He didn’t know if it was the drink; not just one glass of vodka on the rocks, surely. She was drunk on something else: zeal, fervour, whatever it was that drove these religious cranks beyond reason.
“Sister, sit down—listen to me—”
She had risen, was heading for the door. He plunged after her, got between her and the door. “Get out of my way!”
He put out a hand, grabbed the lapel of her raincoat. “Listen to me! You can’t go to the newspapers—that will ruin everything! I can stop the arms sale—I can beat your grandfather! Listen to me—”
All at once she was beyond listening, there was something in her (a madness? fanaticism?) that had turned her deaf. She saw her friend Rose Caracas, dead and buried now, the frightened José Caracas and his children, the unconscious figure of Audrey Burke lying in the dusty village street, Sister Carmel torn between neutrality and beliefs . . . She hit at Tewsday with her fist: he was a dozen men: her grandfather, her uncle, the Contra lieutenant, everyone who had to be fought. Her fist struck him on his plump cheek. Without thinking, he hit back. The heel of his hand caught her beneath the jaw. Her eyes abruptly rolled back in their sockets, she moaned, then fell in a heap at his feet. Just as the junkie had done . . .
The door was pushed against his back. He fell forward, just managing to avoid stepping on the unconscious girl, grabbed the back of a chair and spun round to see Gawler standing in the doorway. “You all right, Sir Jonathan?”
All he could do was nod. He was trembling, his legs shaking under him. Was he going to piss himself again?
“I heard most of that, sir. You want me to get rid of her?”
Tewsday looked at him, uncomprehending.
“It’ll be easy, sir, no trouble. She’s a Commie, isn’t she? I saw her kind in „Nam . . .”
“Kill her?”
Good Christ, was murder this easy? He had no memory of how he had felt thirty years before when he had purchased that other murder. That had been a hands-off affair, the victim had not been lying at his feet. He looked at Gawler—was he another fanatic, a Commie killer? No: he was just a plain killer. It’ll be easy, sir, no trouble . . .
“How?” he croaked.
“Leave it to me. I’ll dump her somewhere—”
“No, not anywhere. Dump—put her—” He was still trembling, even his voice; the plummy tone had gone, it was the flat voice of his youth, the barren country he had escaped from. “Do you know the Quality Couch?”
“The brothel, the one in Surry Hills? Sure, sir.”
“Yes, yes. Put her there—on the doorstep—”
Gawler smiled as he picked up the still unconscious Mary Magdalene. “A nun on a brothel’s doorstep. You got a nice sense of humour, Sir Jonathan.”
Tewsday’s mind had always been a calculator; it had stopped working for a while, but now it was in gear again. It was only his nerves that were not under control. He began to giggle, but it was from hysteria, not humour. He was going to avenge himself on the Hourigans with one deed.
Gawler took Teresa Hourigan across to the garage. There he put the junkie’s long-bladed knife into her heart. He laid the body out on the garage floor on sheets of newspaper till the wound had stopped bleeding. Then he buttoned up the raincoat and put the body in the boot of the second-hand Toyota that was his and Sally’s own car. He then got into the front seat of the car and slept till three a.m. when his wrist-alarm woke him. Ten minutes later he drove out of the grounds and headed for the south side of the city and Surry Hills. He felt a certain excitement being back on the job he did best. He was glad, however, that Sally had not been home.
V
Fingal Hourigan was deeply shocked by the murder of his granddaughter. He did not show it when Inspector Malone and Sergeant Clements came to the Vaucluse mansion on the Sunday morning; he acted the opposite to what he felt, because it was natural for him to resent any invasion of his privacy. When the two detectives had gone, he said “I’ll stay home. You go, Kerry, and say Mass.”
Kerry, equally shocked, said, “I’ll say it for her.”
“Keep it to yourself. Don’t announce it publicly.”
“You’re not going to be able t
o keep this out of the papers. They’ll be here as soon as they know who Teresa was.” When she had called him and asked could she see him again yesterday, he had unhesitatingly agreed. The urge to convert is an appetite; but it worked both ways. She had arrived with all her arguments still intact and after a while he had replied with the same anger. But she had not deserved to die, not in such a way.
“They’ll never get past the gates.”
“You’d better call Brigid.”
“Not yet.” The old man had sat down. “I—I’ve got to get myself together. I’ll call her soon.”
Kerry had never seen his father like this before; not since Sheila, his mother, had died. “I’ll be back as soon as Mass is finished.”
He left and Fingal sat alone in the big drawing-room. Mrs. Kelly came in to ask if he wanted anything, a drink or coffee, but he just shook his head and sent her away. He sat on there for another half-hour, the silver stick occasionally tapping the carpet like an extension of a nervous tic. He had never been repelled by violence, though he had never physically indulged in it himself: it was a fact of life and he accepted it. He had, however, never been able to accept or understand violence against women. His granddaughter had been a major aggravation, provoking temper in him and Kerry; but he had recognized something of himself, and even of Sheila, in her. She had the courage of her convictions, wrong as they were, and she had been admirably, if irritatingly, persistent. She should not have been murdered and all at once he was angry.
He rang the White Sails Motel in Rose Bay and spoke to Paredes. “You’d better check out of there at once. Bring your stuff over here to the house.”
“Is something wrong, Señor Hourigan?”
“A bloody lot’s wrong! Get over here!”
Paredes and Domecq arrived at the same time as Kerry returned from saying Mass. The two Nicaraguans came in rather tentatively; it had occurred to them that Fingal Hourigan saw them as no more than minions. That offended their pride, especially Paredes’, but this was the man with the money and certain concessions had to be made. He was obviously angry and their first thought was that he was going to cut off their funds, that the Austarm deal would be stopped before it had begun.
“My granddaughter has been murdered,” said Fingal bluntly and looked at them accusingly.
Paredes was the first to recover. Though he spoke English well, his mind could be slow in it. He was genuinely shocked, at the murder and at what seemed to be the accusation that he and Domecq might be responsible. “What can I say? She was an enemy—” That was the wrong word, he saw at once. “No, not an enemy. An opponent? But to be murdered for what she believed . . . ?” It was a good performance. He had murdered others, including a woman, for what they believed. “We know nothing about it, Señor Hourigan, believe me.”
“Nothing,” said Domecq, shaking his head.
Fingal stared at them for a moment, then said, “Then who did it?”
Domecq spread his hands and Paredes said, “Where did it happen?”
“They found her outside a brothel in the inner city, in Surry Hills.”
Domecq’s face closed up, but he said nothing. Paredes said, “Outside a brothel? Then perhaps it could have been anyone who killed her? The brothel area in Miami, no one goes there alone, certainly not a woman.”
“Maybe.” But Fingal was certain Teresa had not been murdered by some casual stranger. These men, he was sure, had something to do with her murder, no matter how remotely. “Anyhow, we have to keep you away from the police. They’re getting nosey.”
“Would your granddaughter have told the police anything before she was—she was killed?” said Domecq, face still closed up.
“Why would she?”
Domecq shrugged. “She never made any secret about how she felt about us. Isn’t that right, Your Grace?”
Kerry had been silent up till now, sitting stiffly in a chair as if still in a state of shock. He looked up now, took a moment to catch the drift of Domecq’s question. “What? Oh, yes. Yes, she’s been talking to groups around the universities.”
“There’s a young priest,” said Paredes, “a Nicaraguan. He’s been encouraging her. Perhaps he will talk to the police.”
“How much does he know?” said Fingal.
“Who knows?”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“No.”
“Maybe someone should.”
“Dad—” Kerry looked anxiously at his father. “This could get out of hand. Don’t let’s get any more involved . . . It’s bad enough Teresa being murdered. I never . . .” He looked as if he might break down if he went on.
“Go upstairs and lie down.” Fingal spoke as he might have to a six-year-old; but his voice was tender. “I’ll call Brigid.”
Without another word Kerry got up and left the room. All at once it seemed that God had turned His back; Teresa’s murder was a warning. But was it a warning of disapproval or just one that the road ahead would always have such tragedies, that the victory would not be easy? He would pray for an answer, but he didn’t really believe in the efficacy of prayer. That required another sort of faith.
When his son had left the room Fingal said, “You’d better have a look at that priest. What’s his name?”
“Father Marquez.”
“Get someone to have a word with him.”
“I can do it over the telephone,” said Domecq. “A few words . . . It has worked in Miami when we have found people causing trouble.”
“That’s all it needs sometimes,” said Paredes, the voice of experience.
Fingal looked at them, understanding them; it had been like that in Chicago all those years ago. “Okay, do it then. But go to a public phone box, don’t do it from here. Then have someone keep an eye on him, see if he takes the warning. You have someone here in Sydney can do that?”
“Oh yes, we have our supporters. It can be done.”
Then Fingal left them, went into his study and called his daughter. In the best of circumstances it would not have been an easy call for him to make; this was the worst of circumstances. He was surprised how sorry he felt for her.
“I have some bad news—”
“The police have already been here.” Her voice was calm and cool, almost cold.
“I—I’m sorry, Brigid.” Father and daughter, he thought, and we’re strangers talking to each other. And whose fault is that? That sounded like Sheila, her voice coming out of the grave.
“If this happened, Dad, because of you and Kerry—”
“No,” he said sharply. “No, Brigid. Kerry is shattered . . . Would you care to come here? I think we need to be together.” It was the closest he could come to expressing love.
There was silence at the other end of the line; he thought she had just walked away from the phone. Then she said, “I’ll be there in an hour,” and hung up.
She arrived an hour later, as promised. Grief, however, did not reunite them. Kerry tried, but Brigid had retired behind an invisible wall. “I only came to find out how much you were responsible for her death.”
“Bridie—” He tried to take her hand, but she moved it away from him. “Do you really think I’d have my own niece killed? I saw her in Nicaragua—”
“She told me.”
“A Contra lieutenant there wanted to kill her. I prevented it.”
“No, I don’t think either of you would be capable of killing her. I should hope not,” she said, looking at her father as if she had doubts about him. “But those men you’re dealing with—Paredes and Domecq. She told me about them. Are they here?”
“They’re staying with us,” said Fingal. “They had nothing to do with the murder. I swear that.”
She smiled cynically, “Dad, your oath has never been worth a spit in the wind. But I’ll believe you . . . I want to,” she said and her voice was full of despair, as if she had suffered enough and she wanted it all behind her.
Oh Sheila, cried Fingal silently, where did it all go wrong? But he
knew the answer. Long ago in Chicago, when what few scruples he had inherited from his own mother had been smothered, like fragile flowers, beneath his father’s corrupt advice and his own ambition. It was too late now.
VI
The war with Jonathan Tewsday had been put aside for the moment. Tewsday’s resignation did not arrive on his desk Monday morning and he did not send downstairs for it. The newspapers now had the full story on Sister Mary Magdalene, Teresa Hourigan; Ballyduff House and the castle at Vaucluse had been besieged by the media jackals. Brigid had not gone back to Stokes Point, but had remained at the house, occupying the room she had slept in as a child. The reporters and cameramen had looked as if they were about to camp outside the high gates, but Fingal called Chief Superintendent Danforth. The police arrived and within ten minutes the street had been cleared. The media men and women went away, complaining loudly about the violation of the freedom of the press, and the police agreed with them and gave them another kick up the bum. Both sides knew that democracy could sometimes be a comedy.
“Kerry and I won’t go to the funeral,” Fingal said on Monday evening. “The press would just turn it into a stampede. You don’t want that.”
“No,” said Brigid, but it was impossible to tell whether she was grateful or hurt. In truth, she did not want either of them at the burial. If it could have been arranged, she would have wanted no one there but herself. She had to ask the dead Teresa, her one and only child, for forgiveness.
Late Tuesday afternoon Paredes knocked on the door of Fingal’s study and came in. “Did you watch the funeral on TV this morning, señor? The eleven-thirty news.”
“Yes.” He had watched it only till the coffin was lowered into the grave and then it had been too much for him and Kerry. They had switched off the set. “What happened? You’ve got something to tell me.”
“The camera remained on Señorita Brigid. In the background were Father Marquez and the detective who came here Sunday morning, Inspector Malone. The priest gave Malone a letter. Father Marquez looked very worried.”
“Has Domecq spoken to him, given him a warning?”