Sister Caravaggio

by Maeve Binchy

  A gilt carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour.

  ‘So where’s our Caravaggio?’ Alice asked.

  ‘The painting,’ Maggie added, just in case.

  ‘I don’t know where it is,’ Bruno said, looking suddenly exhausted. ‘I wish to God I did.’

  He then told them his theory about Meadowfield subcontracting the theft.

  ‘Who do you think he might have chosen?’ Alice asked.

  Bruno chewed his lip. ‘I don’t know, but there’s a little newspaper man who lives down there and I know he’s into the bookies.’

  Alice and Maggie tried not to look at each other.

  ‘Drinks too much,’ Bruno was saying. ‘I think he owes them ten grand.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Davy something,’ Bruno said, and Maggie shivered.

  Thirty minutes later, when Alice had phoned a chief superintendent she knew on his private line, and had gone over the details with the astonished policeman, the deal was in place. Bruno would enter the witness-protection programme, but in turn, he had agreed to do what Alice wanted.

  Alice stuck out her hand.

  ‘Shake on it, Bruno,’ she said.

  Bruno hesitated, then grabbed her hand in his.

  ‘A deal,’ he said.

  She shuddered. She’d never touched Bruno Scanlon before. But then, Bruno pulled her into him, wrapped his beefy arms around her and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  They walked out through the hall. Bruno opened the door.

  ‘Just one last thing,’ he said. ‘The fact that Brice is dead means nothing. He was only the number two hitman, maybe even number three.’

  ‘So who’s number one?’ Alice asked.

  The colour drained from Bruno’s wide face. ‘Don’t even go there,’ he whispered.

  ‘What’s his name, Bruno?’

  ‘Her, not him,’ he said so quietly Alice had to strain to hear. ‘She’s known only as Poison Lily.’

  ‘Poison Lily?’ Maggie said.

  ‘If she’s here, you’ll need more than the rosary to protect you,’ Bruno said. ‘God bless you, Sisters.’

  Dublin Northside

  17 June, 11.30 PM

  A lovely sea breeze had sprung up, cooling the summer night, caressing the nuns’ ankles as they walked along.

  ‘Whoever would have thought Bruno Scanlon would get down on his knees and pray?’ Alice said. They were making their way towards the main road, where the Berlingo was parked. Without a moon, it was dark now, and they walked under an avenue of lime trees, the leaves whispering, somewhat eerily, in the breeze.

  ‘Do you think he’ll do it?’ Maggie asked, filling her lungs with the salty air.

  ‘I never thought I’d hear myself saying this, but I felt sorry for him,’ Alice said. ‘He’s obviously scared by what he’s seen and wants to change his ways.’

  An old woman seemed to appear out of nowhere, just ahead of them. She must have come out of one of the shady gardens, Alice thought.

  ‘Psh psh, Ruby! Psh psh, Ruby!’ she was calling.

  All bent over, she had to crane her neck upwards to see where she was going. Poor thing, must have terrible osteoporosis, Maggie thought.

  ‘Psh psh Ruby! Psh psh, Ruby!’

  Alice and Maggie diverted to either side of the woman, just as she stopped in her tracks and peered up at them. ‘Did yez happen to see a cat?’

  ‘What colour?’ Maggie wanted to be kind, although in her mind’s eye she could still see the snake in his cage, just a few doors away, and wondered if Ruby the cat had been silly enough to stray in there.

  ‘Black.’ The old woman turned her head away, still searching. ‘Black, with the loveliest snow-white socks.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll turn up,’ Alice said sympathetically.

  ‘He,’ the woman said with some force.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ Alice said. The creature before her was in such terrible shape, and clearly so distraught, her femininity obliterated. Her face – what you could see of it – was ashen, and as wrinkled as tripe.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Maggie said. ‘He’ll come home, all right. Cats often wander off.’

  ‘Ruby doesn’t,’ the old woman said. ‘He’s always home before the nine o’clock news. Ye could set yer watch by him. I only hope he wasn’t knocked down. They’re always runnin’ over cats around here, the villains.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Maggie was getting drawn in.

  Alice gave her a dig in the ribs and said firmly: ‘I’m sure Ruby will turn up in his own good time. Goodnight now.’

  At that moment a howl came from somewhere nearby.

  ‘That’s him!’ The old woman’s voice was delighted. ‘That’s Ruby! Ruby, Ruby, love, where are ye?’

  ‘Come on!’ Alice gave Maggie a pull. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Oh, please, young wan, she’s in there.’ The old woman pulled at Maggie’s sleeve, and pointed to the mouth of a laneway. ‘Please, I live on me own and I’ll die of loneliness without Ruby.’

  Alice and Maggie exchanged glances. Alice shrugged. They edged forward, down the laneway. Darkness dripped from the encroaching foliage. The tarmac ended abruptly and the ground dropped away. They could see the outline of a square shape below their feet, like a cave.

  ‘I don’t see any cat,’ Alice said, but as if to disprove her instantly, there was an even louder squeal.

  ‘Oh, thank God! Ruby! Ruby, pet, ye’re all right now. Come here to me, me darling!’

  ‘It’s all right, we’ll get him,’ Maggie said.

  ‘God bless you, he must be stuck,’ said the old woman, and with that, she burst into tears.

  ‘My friend will get him,’ Alice said, and laid her hand comfortingly on the old woman’s head. Her headscarf was smooth and soft.

  ‘Here goes,’ Maggie said, and jumped lithely down into the darkness.

  There was a cry.

  ‘Maggie?’

  Alice was watching intently. Without warning, she felt herself lifted up as easily as if she were a bag of groceries, and hurled into the void.

  Doonlish

  17 June, 11.45 PM

  Davy Rainbow was exhausted. He pulled up outside his cottage, got out of his car and wondered if one drink would help him sleep. So much going on in his head, so many unresolved longings, fears and complications. He couldn’t sleep with all this going on, he thought, as he opened his front door. A hot toddy was what he needed. Just one, a strong one.

  He switched on the light.

  ‘Well, well, home at last, Davy,’ said Detective Sebastian Hayes.

  ‘What …?’ Davy reeled backwards. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m the only choice you have between fifteen years in Mountjoy and the rest of your life,’ said Sebastian, and flashed his I.D.

  Davy shrank away from the detective, towards the door of the cottage. He wondered whether, if he made a run for it, he could last the pace, but alcohol had saturated his limbs over the years and Sebastian Hayes looked, if not fit, at least ambulant.

  ‘Why don’t you have a nice cup of tea, Davy?’ Sebastian said soothingly. The policeman poured from the pot. ‘And maybe a little something stronger in it to steady your nerves?’

  ‘Okay,’ Davy said cautiously.

  ‘Because I found this when I was having a look around your house,’ Sebastian said, reaching down and picking up a bottle of poitín from the floor. ‘There’s quite a lot of it around: under the sink, under your bed, outside in your turf shed. I’d say you’re a dealer, Davy? Am I right?’

  ‘I … don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Davy spluttered as his eyes feverishly scanned the top shelf of the dresser. The panel was intact. Sebastian uncorked the liquor and poured a generous dollop into Davy’s tea cup.

  ‘You’ll get six to nine months for possession – that’s if you plead guilty and I tell them what a decent man you really are,’ Sebastian said. ‘On the other hand, the theft of the Carav
aggio is going to get you three years, minimum. And, of course, for being an accomplice to murder, or murders, we’re talking a ten-year stretch. So, you see what I meant when I said I was your only choice between Mountjoy and the rest of your life?’

  Davy’s hand was shaking so much that he abandoned the effort to drink the poitín-laced tea.

  ‘Murder?’ he croaked.

  ‘Let me show you something,’ Sebastian said, and took out his mobile phone. ‘This is CCTV footage taken earlier this week from a hotel in Liffey Valley.’ He turned the screen to Davy. ‘Recognise anyone?’

  Davy stared at the image of the huge woman in the hat. He shook his head.

  ‘She’s on quite a roll, this lady friend of yours,’ Sebastian said. ‘We think she specialises in the neck-break. Her name is Sister Diana, right?’

  ‘Di?’ Davy gulped.

  ‘Criminals do crime, so it’s just a little step up from making moonshine to stealing a painting from a group of helpless women. But you and Di are small-time crooks, Davy. You needed someone with form to help you fence the goods, right? Enter the late Mr Meadowfield. I can just imagine the scene: you, Di and Jeremy, sitting around this table with a bottle of poitín, planning how you’re going to get rich.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ Davy cried.

  ‘But criminals are scum,’ Sebastian continued, ‘as you soon discovered. You and Sister Diana somehow stole the painting and gave it to Jeremy to sell. But suddenly, nice Mr Meadowfield decided you were superfluous to his plans. He was going to sell the painting for himself. Ah, I think I’m getting warm, am I not, Davy?’

  Davy was staring, open-mouthed.

  ‘Maybe you then realised you’d made a big mistake,’ Sebastian went on, ‘and decided to call the whole thing off. But you reckoned without your friend Sister Di, right? Di by name, Di by nature. She tracked down Meadowfield and put him down, the same way she’d snuff out a two-headed calf.’

  ‘No!’ Davy shrieked. ‘Not Di!’

  ‘But you and she had got in over your heads,’ Sebastian said harshly.

  ‘For once you lie down with scum, they infect you, they enter your bloodstream, you have to keep killing or you’ll be killed. Right, Davy? Right?’

  Davy lay back, sucking in air. Now that he was being accused of murder, his earlier plan to confess everything seemed like madness.

  ‘But how many criminals are there in this little neck of the woods?’ Sebastian asked rhetorically. ‘We know you and Di are thieves and murderers. We know that Meadowfield was the lowest of the low.’ Sebastian made a point of frowning hugely. ‘But wasn’t there someone else involved in all this? Another member of this little band of robbers and assassins? Another woman, perhaps? Ah, yes! But what’s her name?’

  Davy was shaking like a man on his deathbed.

  ‘She’s Sister Winifred, isn’t she?’ Sebastian said. ‘Dear, serene Sister Winifred, who was Davy’s closest friend. Sister Winifred Superior, no less, who disappeared just before all this trouble started. I think I’d like to have a little chat with this Sister Winifred. But how do I do that? Can you put me in touch with Sister Winifred Superior, Davy?’

  Davy staggered to his feet. ‘I don’t know where she is, I swear to God!’ he cried.

  Sebastian surged up, caught Davy by the throat and pressed him roughly back against the wall.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ he growled.

  ‘I don’t know where she is, honest,’ Davy gasped.

  Sebastian tightened his grip. ‘Not good enough,’ he said.

  Davy’s head swam. ‘I’m … a journalist,’ he said. ‘I … can’t reveal my sources.’

  ‘I need facts, Davy. Facts, before someone else gets killed.’

  ‘I’d rather kill myself,’ Davy gasped, ‘and that’s the truth.’

  At that moment the telephone rang. Sebastian released his grip on Davy’s throat. Davy sank to the floor. The phone continued to ring.

  ‘Answer your phone, Davy,’ Sebastian commanded.

  Davy crawled across the kitchen to the dresser and hauled himself up. ‘Hello?’ he croaked.

  ‘It’s a girl,’ the Tralee voice said. ‘They’re both grand.’ And then: ‘She’s called Aurelia.’

  Davy staggered backwards, turned to face Sebastian, and then, for the second time that day, fainted.

  Dublin Northside

  17 June, Midnight

  Alice could hear an engine being started. She could feel movement – not just the movement of the vehicle they were in, but movement within the vehicle. A grinding movement. It was pitch dark.

  ‘What the hell?’

  She was wedged knee-deep between foul-smelling plastic refuse sacks. She could hear the cat howling, and could suddenly see its luminous green eyes floating level with her own. Slowly, Alice’s legs were being pressed forward, as if she were in a gigantic tumble-drier.

  ‘Maggie!’ she shouted.

  Alice heard a groan.

  ‘We’ve been tricked,’ Alice cried.

  ‘Where are we?’ Maggie was still groggy.

  ‘Oh God, Maggie, I’m sorry, but I think we’re in the back of a rubbish-collection truck,’ Alice said, and pushed for all she was worth against the steel plate that was slowly but surely compressing everything in the small space to pulp.

  ‘Holy Mother of God!’ Maggie said. ‘My knees are up to my chin!’

  ‘I think it’s time for the sorrowful mysteries!’ Alice said with a humour she did not feel. The whole machine shuddered. ‘Shit, we’re being crushed to death!’

  A hideous meow broke out beside them, as if the trapped cat too understood the fatal nature of the situation.

  ‘Poor pussy,’ Maggie soothed. ‘Come to me.’

  ‘Listen!’ Alice cried. ‘Shut up, cat! Listen, Maggie! Outside!’

  Over the noise of the deadly waste compression, and the noise of the moving truck, a siren could be heard.

  ‘You hear that? We’re in traffic!’ Alice said. ‘She’s taking us to a landfill, the dirty bitch.’

  ‘Ohh!’ Maggie cried as the bags popped and their malodorous contents spewed into the shrinking space. She hammered on the steel sides. ‘Yuk!’

  It was useless, Alice realised. You could be murdered on the footpath at this hour of night and nobody would lift a finger to interfere, much less respond to feeble thumping coming from inside a rubbish truck. The pitch from the revolving machinery changed: instead of an inexorable grinding, the engine that now drove the steel plates to pack the rubbish neater than rotten pancakes was labouring madly. The cat howled. If only I could see, Alice thought! Please God don’t let me die in a rubbish truck.

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘What is it, Maggie?’

  ‘The cat is in a steel cage,’ Maggie gasped. ‘The cage is stopping the machine from crushing us.’

  Alice could hear the compacting engine roaring, as if enraged. But then, no sooner had one prayer been answered than God was put to the test again: the metal of the unseen cage began to groan as it buckled against the massive pistons.

  ‘Maggie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can you get out the lighter?’

  ‘I don’t want to see!’ Maggie wailed. ‘Our Father, Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come …’

  ‘Not to see with!’ Alice shouted, as the sound of buckling metal increased. ‘I want you to set fire to the plastic bags!’

  ‘But … we’re in here!’ Maggie shrieked.

  ‘Just do it!’ Alice screamed. ‘Do it now!’

  Metal scraped with appalling intent and then, just as there was a flash from the lighter, Alice saw the cat, jet black with snow-white paws, as promised, staring at her in abject terror as its cage shrank all around it.

  ‘Everything’s so smelly,’ Maggie complained. The explosion of light was followed by dense, tar-like fumes.

  ‘Stick your head into a refuse sack!’ Alice said. ‘There’s oxygen in there.’

  ‘Alice?’


  ‘Do it!’

  ‘I just wanted to say something,’ Maggie coughed.

  ‘Save your breath.’

  ‘It was an honour and a pleasure to have met you.’

  Alice felt something furry and wet fly over her head. Poor cat, she thought forlornly. She gave silent thanks to the people who threw out perfectly good tomatoes and bread, just because the best-by date said they should. She sucked in the yeasty oxygen of fruit and veg. Another siren, outside. This time closer. Fumes everywhere. Metal pressed against her tightly now. A cold vice on her head.

  Chapter Seven

  Dublin

  17 June, Midnight

  Ned O’Loughlin was feeling restless. He had enjoyed an evening that felt very much like love, in his new fiancée’s bijou apartment in Dublin’s Rathgar district – one of the nicest places you could possibly conduct a liaison. This was the better end of Rathgar, closer to Dartry than to Terenure. Sive was an altogether lovely girl: quiet, well spoken, slightly reserved, and always exquisitely turned out. Her dental floss and her ironing board were in constant use – the sort of girl he could have introduced to his grandmother, or even his late father, in complete certainty of ancestral approval. An accomplished cook, a bright conversationalist, a respectful listener: what more could a man want? Sive was a practising Catholic, and her willingness to invite Ned into her bed was, she let it be known, strictly a down-payment on their eventual marriage. Now she snored sweetly beside him. So why was he feeling restless?

  Although he tried not to, it was difficult not to compare her to Alice. He would go to his grave and not understand why Alice had entered that convent. Bad enough to be left by a woman for another man, but to lose out to the seclusion of an enclosed order was brutal. Ned knew he was too fat, and much too stupid, to deserve a beautiful, idealistic girl like Alice Dunwoody, but he had always done his level best to look after her and had been a good, reliable, sensitive modern man, even to the point of cooking her healthy breakfasts of porridge and pecan nuts. And all the thanks he got was that she went and left him merely because she had shot some half-witted gangster.

  And then he had met Sive and life had somehow started up again. They had hit it off from the start: dinner in a Michelin one-star restaurant had led to a night at the Russian ballet and later to a weekend in a four-star hotel in County Wexford, where fine dining, spa treatments, cultured conversation and decorous sex had taken place. There was more to Sive than met the eye. Her interests involved not only the arts but animal welfare; she had done sterling work on behalf of a donkey charity, to which Ned himself had also subscribed. They found much to talk about in the overheated bedroom of the Wexford hotel. She also turned out to have a surprisingly large capacity for champagne.