Dying for Compassion (The Lady Doc Murders Book 2)

by Dr. Barbara Golder

  I flushed. Was I that transparent?

  Terry continued. “She wasn’t worth it to him anymore. But kill her, he could have. And there were times in his life when he would have cheerfully broken that long, pretty neck of hers with his bare hands, if she’d given him the chance.”

  “Go on.” We looked at each other across the small table, unblinking.

  “You know that scar of his, the one on his cheek? Did he ever tell you how he got it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Eoin was working as a joiner at the shipyards. One of the few jobs a Catholic could get in Ulster in those days. The man in charge owed our da a favor. Most of our mates gave up looking for a job and left for America or took the dole, but Eoin refused to leave Ireland, and he’s always needed the dignity of work. He can be stubborn.” Terry slid the glass aside and played with the coaster; I could almost feel him organizing his words. “Eoin worked alone, the only Catholic among the Protestants there at the shipyard. He’d arrive earlier and work later and never gave them the flimsiest excuse to fire him. Along the way, he made friends with a young brickie — a Protestant, as friendless in his way as Eoin was in his.”

  “Brickie?”

  “Bricklayer. That was a Protestant job in those days. Funny how those things went. Anyway, that particular day Eoin was on his way back to Falls Road to meet a few of the lads at the pub. They were already several pints into it when he got there. Eoin always nursed his one pint, waving away the extras when someone shouted a round. He’s never been one to get drunk without a good reason. That night he had just stood up to leave when Tam Murphy’s da staggered in.” Terry paused again, then continued. “I was there, too. I’ve never seen such grief. Tam had been killed by accident in a R.U.C. raid a few weeks before — Eoin was there — and that night Tam’s da was already drunk and rowdy, shouting that there was a f–”

  I smiled at Terry’s censure of himself; I’ve heard the word before, and even in the short time I’d been in Belfast, discovered that there was a strain of Irishman who used it like a comma in conversation. He continued, “There was a Prot up at the corner chatting up one of our girls, bold as brass.” A smile crossed his lips as he continued. “Tam’s da was known for his language, even amongst us, and ours was none too good. I’ll never forget what he said next: ‘If you had a pair of balls among you, you’d be up there teaching him a lesson for my poor Tam.’ What Tam had to do with that poor, love-struck boyo, I’ll never know. Grief doesn’t always make sense.”

  Tell me about it, I thought.

  “Anyway, rumblings among the others began, with hot sentiments against the Protestants rising with every word until the lot of them stood up and swarmed for the door. Eoin slid away and headed out the side door, dragging me along. The last thing I heard was someone yelling, ‘Bloody coward! Are you not with us, Connor? Are you sleeping with the R.U.C. these days instead of with Fiona?’”

  I broke in. “R.U.C. — Royal Ulster Constabulary, the police? I gather it was a dangerous thing, in those days, to be known as a conspirator.”

  He gave me a wry smile just as I had hoped he would. My sarcasm wasn’t lost. It eased the mood a bit, and we both relaxed. “You could say that, and particularly bad for Eoin, because — after all — he was. He was the one who’d called the R.U.C. to that flat across from Murphy’s, to rid himself, his sister, and the world of Seamus Devlin.” He paused again, taking a long draught from his glass. “Devlin, to make a long story short, was an I.R.A. hoodlum. He was courting our sister. Eoin’s very bad luck, and Tam’s, a twitchy constable shot Tam Murphy and not Seamus.”

  “Bad luck, indeed. I’ve seen my share of similar incidents.”

  “So Eoin says. At any rate, he got to the corner about the time that the crowd started after the brickie. He tried to hurry to a spot of safety, but there wasn’t one, not in Falls Road in Belfast during the Troubles. He turned a corner into a dead-end alley, and that mistake had cost him dearly. I remember the sight of his face when the first fist came at him.”

  I closed my eyes in reflex. I can look death straight in the face, but I can’t hear about violence without feeling it in the very marrow of my bones. I can close my eyes to images, but to words there are no borders, no obstacles to sounds. I found the darkest place in my mind’s eye, sighed, and engaged Terry Connor once again. “Go on.”

  “He fought well, poor lad, but he was one and they were four, and it wasn’t long before he was doubled over in pain, blood pouring from his face and mouth. Eoin threw a punch or two, then tried to ghost away. It was a mistake.”

  “How so?”

  “The meanest and drunkest of our mates grabbed him and swung at his face. Eoin, sober and stronger, landed his fist on the man’s jaw, and he crumpled, spitting teeth and blood, with a broken jaw.”

  I thought of the baseball bat again.

  “After that, Eoin was all for the brickie. He put himself between the poor brickie and the fists. He hit back at the men he’d shared life in Belfast with. Eoin’s a fine boxer, you know. Our parish priest inflicted boxing lessons on us all, but Eoin took them to heart, though I never saw him start a fight. He felled a second man and a third with his bare fists. Another man got close enough to swipe a knife in his face — that’s how he got the scar — and Eoin felled him, too, with a kick to his groin. That one hit his head against the wall, and he died.” Terry paused and looked at me for signs of reaction. I was fighting hard to have none. “It was a kill-or-be-killed fight by then,” he added.

  “About that time, the constables arrived. The brickie lived, but Eoin was branded a traitor, and when he got home to pack a few things before running off to England to save his skin, Fiona had already left, spreading rumors that he was a collaborator in her wake. From that moment, he was a marked man.”

  I knew enough about the Troubles to know that a traitor was not destined to a long and happy life, dying contentedly in his bed of an old age, but Eoin had survived. I asked Terry how.

  “With the clothes on his back, he walked to the ferry terminal and hopped a boat to Birkenhead. He signed on as a stevedore there, scribbling thoughts on spare pieces of paper whenever he had a moment, for over a year, and sending as much of his paycheck as he could afford back home to Tam Murphy’s ma. At length, he had a book published, a tribute to Tam. Eventually, he was able to come back to Ireland, because he paid his debt by writing a book on the Troubles that squared him with the I.R.A. His first bestseller. What most people don’t know is that he sent money to Tam’s parents and to that brickie for years, until he was well enough to find a job and whole enough to keep one. I think he was even asked to stand as godfather to the man’s son, though Eoin, bless his pious heart, declined.”

  Terry pushed back his chair and went to the pass-through. He returned with two glasses of brandy, tasting one before shoving the other across to me.

  “You said you don’t think Eoin could have killed Fiona. She tricked him, she exploited him, she betrayed him, and just when he found someone he wanted to share his life with, she showed up to throw a spanner in the works and reclaim him as her own. That’s a lot more reason to kill a man than protecting some poor brickie from a mob thrashing. Eoin is very, very capable of killing, if the circumstances are right. The question for you, lassie, is do you have enough faith in him to figure out whether he did and live with the answer, whatever it is?”

  I drained the brandy in a single gulp, thanked Terry Connor in a quiet voice, and hurried out of the snug. It was beginning to snow, and I needed to think.

  ***

  Suskind was already sitting in one of the chairs when Eoin entered the room. He nodded to the guard, who held the door and exchanged wry smiles with him. He was finding that there was an odd camaraderie within the gaol and not just among the prisoners. He suspected gaol life took its toll on the guards as well. Perhaps another book, one day, assuming he ever got out of this place. Or whatever gaol they decided to send him to if he was convicted. At least he didn’t hav
e to worry about them stretching his neck; unlike the U.S., the U.K. had no death penalty. He supposed he was pleased about that.

  He sat down opposite Suskind and extended his hand. “Progress?” he asked.

  “I have some reports that I want to go over with you. And a request. An odd one.”

  “Start with that.”

  “I got an offer from the sheriff in that town you lived in…” He ruffled through his stack of papers and then added, “Telluride. Seems you are well-thought-of back there. He wants to assist. How, I have no idea. But he says that he has some folks over there that would like to look over your file to see if there is anything they see that we don’t.”

  Eoin pondered the question for a moment. This had Jane’s fingerprints all over it. “Does the report mention a Dr. Wallace?” he asked hopefully. He had not heard from her since his arrest. Granted, they had not parted on good terms, but under the circumstances, he hoped she might set that aside.

  More ruffling. “No. It mentions some Center for Forensic Science. Some man named Tom Patterson. A Dr. Michael Delatorre. But not her.”

  It bothered Eoin that he felt such a sharp stab of regret at that piece of information. She was a stubborn woman, Jane, and if she gave up on him, it would be once and for all. Perhaps she had. “No harm in it, I suppose, but not sure what they can do. Let them have at it. Can’t hurt.” He leaned back in his chair. “What about those reports?”

  Suskind shoved a stapled document across the table. “Autopsy report and toxicology. Nicotine poisoning. Take a look at the whole thing. Anything new in there? Anything that helps?”

  It only took a few minutes to read over the report. Eoin knew what he would find. He pointed to the summary of physical findings. “It’s not relevant, and it probably doesn’t help. But she told me this — I probably should have gone back with her, out of simple charity. But I couldn’t bear the thought of living with Fiona again. Not even for a little time. And I could not bear the thought of having to care for her after all she did to me.”

  Suskind took the report and read the paragraph indicated by Eoin’s index finger. “The brain is sectioned at 3 mm intervals. There is a 7 mm lesion in the left temporal lobe with a hemorrhagic and necrotic center. There is a small pseudocapsule, and the surrounding parenchyma is edematous. Microscopic examination reveals glioblastoma multiforme.” He looked up from the page. “Plain English, please?”

  “Brain tumor. A very bad one. One that was certainly going to kill her, and relatively soon. She wanted me to be with her for those last days. I’m a selfish bastard. I said no. She even offered me the whole of her estate if I would look after her. I still said no. I’ve plenty of scratch on my own.”

  “She told you?”

  “She did.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “No.”

  “Did you mention this when you were first arrested?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “So from the prosecution’s perspective, that’s just a convenient admission after the fact.”

  “I suppose so.” Eoin Connor leaned forward. “I found out after I got here, that night in her flat, the night she died. If I had known about it earlier, do you think I would have traveled half a world away to pursue a decree of nullity, knowing all I had to do was wait her out?” He paused. “Damn Fiona! It seems even when she is murdered, she manages to ruin my life. I was on my way to her suite to tell her I’d changed my mind, that I’d see her through this, though I wouldn’t live with her, when the police arrived.”

  “You told no one.”

  “Damn it, man, who did I have to tell? I thought about calling Jane to explain, but I got arrested first.”

  “Did you know about this?” Suskind shoved a sheet of paper across the desk. “A copy of a note found in Fiona’s desk. Rather interesting, actually. Lavender paper and florid purple ink.”

  “That would be Fiona.” Eoin read the note and dropped the paper as if it were about to burst into flames, then picked it up again and read it slowly. “Monday: Georges and Sons, solicitors: change will to eliminate Eoin. The bastard.” He put the paper down again. “Fiona was never one to leave anything unsaid, especially if it was vindictive. I knew nothing about this.”

  “The concierge confirms that she called that evening, quite upset, to ask him to schedule an appointment with those same solicitors. He also said that she had seen them only a few days before. And he says that hotel records show her calling your room that afternoon after the appointment, and the maid says that she saw her coming toward your room that day. Worst of all, your sister...”

  “My sister? My sister! Molly?”

  “Deirdre. Isn’t there a Deirdre?”

  Eoin nodded. “Deirdre told the investigators that Fiona returned to the suite, telling her that you refused to care for her and that she told you she was writing you out of her will.”

  “I did refuse. The day she died. She said nothing about the will.” He was still trying to process Deirdre’s role in all this. Surely, she could not still be in the sway of Fiona after all these years and after being so badly abused. But he had been correct. It was Deirdre he had seen when he was leaving that night.

  Eoin sat back in his chair and rocked it up on its back legs. It was an old one, painted over several times, and sturdy enough to stand the strain. Not like the flimsy modern ones. “That’s a tight little net they have there. Paint me as a selfish bastard — which I am — interested in Fiona’s money, but not in her. Throw in a threat to write me out of the will — recompense for all those years she stole from me with that lie of hers — and I have to admit, it’s a strong motive for murder. One of the best. Well done, Fiona. You can ruin my life even by getting yourself killed.”

  He tipped his chair back to the ground with a sharp clang. “The only problem is, I didn’t do it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  January 21

  I spent the next morning in the newspaper morgue: a modern combination of old print, microfilm, microfiche, and computerized records, finding everything I could about Eoin, Fiona, Tam Murphy, Seamus Devlin, and the incident Terry had detailed to me. The newspaper accounts added nothing and confirmed Terry in every detail. It seems Eoin isn’t the only Connor with a storyteller’s mind. They did, however, provide a few more leads to follow up on. I jotted down names and retired to my hotel for room service lunch and extended computer time, trying to get current addresses. Of the four names, only one still lived in Belfast; two were dead, and one I just couldn’t trace. I would forward that to Ben to work his internet magic; he might be able to find out more than I did.

  Sheila Fogarty had worked with Fiona in the bank and had been a flat-mate before Fiona married Eoin. One of the follow-up stories reported on Eoin’s flight and the fact that his wife, too, had disappeared, casting journalistic aspersions on the absent man, insinuating that he had something to do with it. In that context, Sheila had been interviewed. She cast little light on the mystery at the time, made a few vaguely complimentary comments about Eoin’s character and not about Fiona’s. I gave a silent prayer of thanks for such local color padding needed to fill column-inches in the old days; there was surely no other reason to have included her at all, but there she was.

  Her current address was not far from the Cathedral of St. Peter, in the section of Belfast that would have been strongly Catholic in the days of the Troubles, and if my driver was correct, still was. The Cathedral was about a mile away, and though the day was cold and dreary, there was no wind or snow or rain, so I elected to walk. It was midday by then. Traffic along Victoria Street bustled, and there were a fair number of people on the sidewalks, though that thinned as I got farther from the commercial section and closer to the residential areas around the Cathedral. I passed the apartment building Paddy had pointed out as the headquarters of the English forces during the Troubles: tall, dull, unimaginative, and with a flat roof that allowed helicopte
r landings. It also, as I recalled, meant I was nearing my destination.

  I turned the corner into the square, across from the murals that kept the Troubles so present and vivid and had the distinct sense that eyes were following me, despite the fact that it was just past midday, and the only person I saw was a stooped, older woman entering a newsagent’s shop on the corner.

  Sheila Fogarty — now Carney and widowed — lived in a first-floor flat with a small dooryard garden gone to seed for the winter, a riot of overgrown brown twigs with broken, lacy tops. A crushed beer can lay next to the wall, its label faded by the sun. Yard maintenance did not seem to be Sheila’s forte. She answered the door at my knock; the bell was dangling and useless. No man about to fix it, I supposed.

  “Yes?” Sheila spoke through a crack in the door, wide enough to see who was there, but not open enough to be inviting. The tidy room I saw beyond her stood in contrast to the outside but squared with the small, bright, tidy woman in the doorway. She looked to be a few years older than I, but like me, had done as little to repair the march of time as she had to repair the peeling paint on the metal door she stood behind. Her hair was red gone largely to gray, and her face was plain, freckled, and completely devoid of makeup. I liked her instantly.

  “Sheila Fogarty?”

  “Yes.” Her response was cautious. She didn’t open the door any further, but she didn’t close it on me, either. I took that as a good sign and hurried to explain myself.

  “I’m a friend of Eoin Connor. And Fiona.” A minor lie, but I could be forgiven that, under the circumstances. It reminded me why I hate this kind of investigation so much; it requires me to be too cautious of my thoughts and speech in order to draw something out of an unwilling interviewee. “Fiona died. Rather tragically, really, and Eoin is suspected in her death. I need to talk to you, please, if I may.”

  A long pause. “I haven’t seen Fiona for years. Not since she left Ireland. Eoin, either. I can’t help you.” She started to close the door, but I put one of my size tens on the threshold. “I know. I just need to find out some things about her life here. Really, it’s important, and I won’t take much of your time.”