‘But originally Ian was going to come home after a year or two,’ Eve said.
West saw her husband’s eyes flicker. He needed to know the truth. ‘Is there something you want to add, Mr Moore?’
Ben’s cup clattered on the saucer as he put it down. ‘Ian thought it would make it easier if he told you that,’ he said. ‘But he confided in me that Dubai was his dream job, that he was going to stay as long as they wanted him.’
West reckoned there’d be words between them when he’d gone, but he needed to know more. Someone apart from Ben Moore knew about Ian’s plans. ‘Who else would have known the truth, Mr Moore?’
His answer was a slow headshake.
Frustrated, West sat forward. ‘Maybe Ian might recognise the name? You say you speak to him on Skype. Would it be possible to get him now?’
Ben checked his watch. ‘Maybe. I could try.’ He stretched behind him for the iPad that sat on a shelf. ‘Let’s see if he answers.’
West was in luck. Seconds later, a cheerful Ian appeared on the screen. ‘Hey, Dad, you’re early.’
‘It isn’t me who wants to speak to you, son,’ Ben Moore said. ‘It’s the detective who was here telling us about the dead man. He wants to have a word. Your mother and I will talk to you later.’ With a wave, he turned the iPad around so that it faced West.
‘Mr Moore, I’m Detective Garda Sergeant Mike West. I’m sorry if this is inconvenient but you might be able to help us solve a crime.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’ Ian Moore was suntanned and relaxed. His smile was reminiscent of his mother’s but his sharp eyes were inherited from his father.
‘We pinpointed the man who used your identity as Cormac Furlong. He lived in Wexford and was reported missing before you went away. He would have been eighteen at the time. I know it’s a long time ago but does the name ring any bells?’
But it was Ben Moore’s voice that cut across the silence. ‘You didn’t mention Wexford,’ he said sharply. ‘We used to have a house in Wexford. In Kilmuckridge to be exact.’ He slid the iPad back. ‘Remember, Ian, you used to go to the pubs and clubs in Curracloe?’
A laugh boomed across the miles. ‘Remember! God, we had some craic there!’
Ben Moore frowned. ‘You spent a week there the summer before you went away.’ He turned to address West. ‘We’d put the house on the market. We weren’t using it as much as we used to and we knew once Ian went away we’d never go down. It had seemed the sensible thing to do.’
‘When did you go?’ West asked. This was it. It had to be. He sat, curbing his impatience as Ian wandered back through the memories of that summer. Finally, he heard the words he’d been waiting for.
‘After that, Tim and I headed down to Kilmuckridge for a final week of fun before I went away.’
A week before Gary Bolger was killed. Two weeks before Cormac Furlong disappeared.
Ian was still reminiscing. ‘We spent most of our days hanging about on the beach at Curracloe, then we’d head to the pub for drinks. There are a couple of clubs, we went once or twice but mostly we stayed in the pub chatting.’
‘Talking about your future plans?’ West saw Ian’s eyes focus. He wasn’t a stupid man, he knew where the question was coming from. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘We talked of nothing else. Not just me and Tim either, but others joined in. Local lads who were heading to Dublin to university, other visitors talking about starting various jobs in different parts of the country. We never thought to be careful about what we said, so we weren’t.’
Of course they weren’t. Young men full of the promise of their future. Probably Cormac and Gary were among them, talking about their own plans.
‘There’s something else,’ Ian said. He ran a hand over his suntanned face. ‘The house had gone on the market a few days before. I remember saying… jokingly… that if any of them wanted to buy a house nearby that ours was going up for sale soon. I only remember because some of the foreign students… German, I think… wanted more details so they could tell their parents about it. I thought I was being helpful.’ He looked towards his father. ‘You’d complained about the commission the estate agents were going to charge. I thought that if these Germans bought it from you directly that you’d be saved that.’ He stopped as if embarrassed at how stupid his younger self had been.
West, who was never too surprised at how idiotic people could be, said, ‘You gave them your contact details?’
A regretful nod filled the iPad screen. ‘The Germans were staying in Wexford for another couple of weeks before heading to Dublin. I was heading home the next day. I wrote down our address and phone number and told them to call around.’
‘Did they?’
‘No, and to be honest, I never gave them another thought.’ A door opening behind his computer drew his attention away from the screen for a few seconds. ‘Sorry, I need to go, there’s a meeting I should be at. I’m so sorry, Mum and Dad, it looks as though the burglary was my fault.’
Hurried reassurances from both parents that he wasn’t to blame made Ian smile before he lifted a hand in farewell and closed the connection.
‘So that’s how that young man knew all about Ian’s plans, and how to find us,’ Ben Moore said.
‘It looks likely,’ West said. ‘We can’t prove anything, of course, but the timeline works. When Gary Bolger was killed a week later, Cormac may have been looking for an escape and remembered those words. It wouldn’t have been hard to find the Germans, and if they had kept the details, why would they have refused to share? And it wouldn’t have been hard to find out who Ian was and where he lived. People talk. Nor would it have been difficult to find out where in Dublin you lived.’
‘Our security then was pretty bad,’ Ben Moore said. ‘The windows were wooden and rotten in parts. There’s a laneway at the back. The burglar hopped over the wall when the house was empty and used a screwdriver to open a back window.’ He pointed to the window behind. ‘They’re all uPVC now, maybe not as aesthetically pleasing but safer. Plus, they’re all alarmed and we have Sinbad.’ A smile appeared suddenly. ‘Shutting the gate after the horse has bolted, eh?’
‘I’d say you learned a valuable lesson,’ West said.
‘So more like, fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me?’
‘Exactly.’ West got to his feet. ‘Thank you both for your time and help, and for getting through to your son for me. I shouldn’t have to bother you again.’
Eve stood and held out her hand. ‘You got Ian’s birth cert back to us. Someday, when he finds the right woman, he’ll be looking for it to get married.’
It crossed West’s mind as he was walking back to his car that he’d no idea where his birth certificate was. Perhaps he’d better ask his mother.
29
It had fallen to Andrews’ lot to deal with the clergy again. He didn’t mind, he was a churchgoer but he didn’t stand in awe of the priests. At least not when he had a job to do.
He understood the sanctity of the confessional, that the priests would be unable to tell him if they’d seen Cormac Furlong there. But it was possible they’d seen him elsewhere, somewhere they weren’t tied by the same restrictions. He also needed to clear up the mystery about Father McComb. Because a priest moving from parish to parish every few months was unusual.
Father Jeffreys agreed to see him at 9.30 in the sacristy of St Monica’s. The Garda technical team had finished their investigation and the church was reopening for business. It wasn’t how the parish priest had phrased it, but Andrews guessed that’s what he’d meant when he said they were once more able to offer customary services and devotions.
Andrews parked in the car park, walked to the back of the church and rapped on the door. It was answered almost immediately, the sacristan Joe Ryan pulling the door open and waving him in.
‘How are you doing, Mr Ryan?’ Andrews asked. He hadn’t seen him since their original call-out. The man had looked pale then, he looked pale
r now. Death had a far-reaching impact.
‘It hasn’t been easy,’ the quietly-spoken man said. ‘I suppose you’re used to it, but I can’t get the image out of my head. It’s keeping me awake at night too. Millie wants me to retire, says I’ve done enough.’
Andrews saw the slight tremor in the man’s hands, the dark circles under his eyes. ‘Have you spoken to anyone? Your GP maybe?’
‘Millie said I should but–’ he shrugged ‘–it seems a bit silly. I’m not sick after all.’
‘You saw something dreadful,’ Andrews said. ‘I’ve seen death many times but I’ve never got used to it. Certainly, I’ve never become numb to its effect. I don’t want to either. Seeing something so terrible can cause damage, Mr Ryan. You’ve been injured, there’s simply no visible sign. And if you speak to someone who knows about these things, they can help the healing process.’
Ryan’s chin trembled.
‘Think about it. There’s no shame in admitting you need help. Now,’ he said, raising his voice a little. ‘I’d better go in: Father Jeffreys is expecting me.’
The sacristy door was open. It was a small, cluttered room that appeared to have multiple uses. A table in one corner held a kettle and tea and coffee-making paraphernalia. In the other corner, a small desk held a computer. Father Jeffreys was hunched over it, his fingers flying over the keyboard with what Andrews, a two-finger tapper, thought remarkable speed.
‘Good morning, Garda Andrews,’ the priest said with no noticeable slowing of speed. ‘Forgive me, I must finish this, I’ll be five minutes.’
‘I might take a wander around the church,’ Andrews said. He retraced his steps and took the door that led into the body of the church.
It was quiet. One elderly man was kneeling in one of the pews, another younger man making the Stations of the Cross. Andrews walked quietly down the side aisle to the main doors, then turned to look back to where Cormac Furlong had hung. He wondered how long it would be before that image faded.
‘Good morning.’
Andrews hadn’t heard the footsteps behind and turned, startled, to find Father McComb standing there. ‘I didn’t hear you,’ Andrews said, annoyed at being taken by surprise.
Father McComb smiled. ‘You get used to moving about in a stealthy fashion so as not to disturb people.’ He looked towards the altar. ‘Are you here for mass? I would be happy to have a member of the Garda Síochána in the congregation: we’re both on the same side after all.’
Andrews wasn’t sure he understood the comparison but he smiled as if he did. ‘Unfortunately, I’m here to see Father Jeffreys and under severe time constraints.’ He was pleased with that expression, thought it sounded like something West would say.
‘I’ll say a prayer for you,’ Father McComb said and with a gentle nod, he headed up the main aisle to the altar and disappeared through the door to the back.
Andrews waited a few seconds before following.
‘Sorry for the delay,’ Father Jeffreys said when Andrew returned. ‘Please take a seat.’
There wasn’t a chair free from clutter but Andrews was used to making do. He took an untidy pile of leaflets from one chair, shuffled them together and put them on the corner of the desk before sitting.
‘Now,’ Father Jeffreys said with a sigh as he shut the laptop. ‘How can I help you this morning?’
‘During the course of any investigation, we end up chasing a lot of what turns out, in the end, to be unrelated facts.’ Andrews watched the priest’s lips tighten as he wondered what was coming. ‘Unfortunately, we don’t know they’re unrelated until after we’ve investigated.’ He met the priest’s gaze. ‘Tell me about Father McComb.’ To his surprise, Father Jeffreys laughed.
‘Oh dear,’ the priest said, wiping his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, you must think me so rude. I thought you were going to tell me something terrible, not ask me about Kevin.’
Andrews felt a surge of relief. Whatever the reason for McComb moving from parish to parish, it wasn’t the one he dreaded. ‘It’s unusual for a priest to move as often as he does. When he was asked, he simply said he went where he was told.’
‘Indeed, he does,’ Father Jeffreys said. He waved a hand towards the kettle. ‘Let’s have a cuppa and I’ll tell you about him.’
The tea was strong, the milk on the turn. Andrews wasn’t fussy and sipped it as he waited to be told the mystery behind Father McComb.
Father Jeffreys took his seat behind the desk and blew gently on his tea before taking a drink and putting it down. ‘Father McComb is an incredibly intelligent, diligent man of great faith. He is also very intense. Too intense, I’m afraid and his sermons… well.’
Andrews had heard him once. All fire and brimstone, hell and damnation. ‘Not exactly uplifting, from what I remember,’ he said.
‘Exactly!’ Father Jeffreys said. ‘To be honest, he scares people to death. The archbishop decided it was best if he didn’t stay too long in any parish, so he’s moved on every six months or so. This posting has been his longest. The archbishop is hoping that perhaps he has learned to be–’ He stopped, searching for the right word.
‘Kinder?’ Andrews suggested.
‘That and more compassionate,’ Father Jeffreys said. ‘I hope that puts your mind to rest that there is no mystery attached to poor Father McComb.’
‘I’m relieved,’ Andrews said. He saw a resigned look in the priest’s eyes and knew he didn’t have to say more. ‘The other reason I came was to ask if the name Cormac Furlong meant anything to you?’
‘Cormac Furlong? No, it doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘It’s the real name of the man murdered here. Perhaps, if you would be so kind, you could ask the other priests if the name means anything to them.’
‘Certainly.’ Father Jeffreys’ rather lined face creased further. ‘But it will be a slim chance, Garda Andrews, we meet so many people but we rarely know their names.’
Andrews stood. ‘It’s worth a shot. Sometimes,’ he said with a smile, ‘we get our leads from mysterious places.’
There was no sign of the sacristan as he left. He hoped he’d get the help he obviously needed.
It was nearly midday. He took out his phone and rang West’s number. ‘Nothing here,’ he said when it was answered. ‘Father McComb was red-herring material and Father Jeffreys didn’t recognise Cormac Furlong’s name. He said he’d ask the other priests but I think we’ve hit a dead end here. What about you?’ He listened as West filled him in on his conversation with the Moores.
‘Young idiot,’ he said when he heard Ian Moore had given his address and phone number out to virtual strangers. ‘It seems safe to bet that’s how it went down.’
‘Yes, but it’s still all supposition, Pete, and it’s not getting us any nearer to knowing who killed him.’
‘It hasn’t been a week. We’ll get there,’ Andrews said calmly.
A frustrated grunt came down the line, followed by, ‘Well, I’m volunteering you to go and tell Morrison that on Monday morning.’
‘Monday’s a long way away,’ Andrews said placidly. ‘There’s nothing else we can do today. It’s Saturday. There’s no point in either of us going back to the station and mulling over things or standing looking at the scant information on The Wall. I’m heading home to spend the afternoon playing with Petey. Maybe if we both relax inspiration will come to us.’
30
‘Ready?’ West shouted up the stairs as he checked his watch: 7.30. It was over sixty kilometres to Gorey. They’d get there a little after eight if they left soon.
‘Coming.’ Edel’s voice floated down. It was what she’d said five minutes ago.
There wasn’t much point in standing in the hallway peering up in hope. Instead, West headed back into the lounge, switched on the TV, and stood listening to a political debate that didn’t really interest him. His brain was still in work mode. Even an afternoon in a local garden centre with Edel hadn’t put Furlong out of his head. He liked complicated, challengin
g cases, but this one was driving him crazy. Everything was too airy-fairy. He needed one concrete fact to be able to bring to Morrison on Monday. A smile flickered. Maybe he should make good on his threat and send Andrews.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and checked his watch again: 7.45pm. He switched off the TV and turned as Edel came into the room. ‘Wow,’ he said, giving a low whistle of appreciation.
‘You like?’ She twirled around, the silk dress floating, then settling on her curves.
‘I like very much,’ West said. He put his hands on her waist and drew her close. ‘You smell nice too.’ She was warm and comfortable in his arms. Suddenly Gorey seemed too much of a bother. ‘We could stay home,’ he whispered into her hair.
Edel laughed and pulled away. ‘Seamus would be upset and, anyway, we’d miss all the fun.’ She turned to pick up the wrapped gift that was sitting on the coffee table. ‘Let’s go or we’ll be late.’
There didn’t seem to be any purpose in pointing out that he’d been waiting for the best part of thirty minutes. He grabbed his keys and within a few minutes they were on the road to Gorey.
Baxter’s new home was in a small housing estate on the far side of the town. West followed the satnav directions to the entrance of the estate and Baxter’s directions from there to a neat semi-detached house. ‘That’s the one,’ he said, passing by the line of cars parked along the road. He drove on and found parking a few minutes away.
Baxter opened the door at the first ring of the bell. ‘Hello, welcome to my castle!’
‘Congratulations,’ Edel said, handing over the gift. ‘A little something to mark the occasion.’
Tanya appeared at Baxter’s shoulder and he reached an arm around to bring her forward. ‘I don’t think either of you have met my lovely fiancée. Tanya, this is the famous Mike West you hear me talking about all the time, and his girlfriend, Edel.’ He handed her the wrapped gift. ‘And look, another housewarming present.’
The Dublin Murder Mysteries: Books four to six Page 40