St Ernan's Blues: An Inspector Starrett Mystery

by Paul Charles

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Garda Romany Browne was quite excited to be on his first bit of solo detective work. The Potato Fork Test didn’t really count. In his book – there was no initiative involved in that; he’d been told what to do and he’d done it. He didn’t at all mind doing what Inspector Starrett asked of him; in fact, he found the inspector to be just like his mentor, Major Newton Cunningham, had said he would be: quirky; honest; bright; funny; fair; a team man; a great friend to have on your side in times of trouble and, on top of all of that, the best detective ‘not just in the county’, the Major had declared, ‘but on the island of Ireland’.

  Since the Major had been a true friend to his dearly departed father, remained a good friend to his mother and had been the only constant male presence in his young life so far, Browne had trusted the Major’s assessment. Admittedly, it had taken a bit of time, but his boss finally seemed to be accepting him as a member of the team.

  And he was also surprised by just how much he was enjoying the work. He hadn’t thought much of the Major’s suggestion that he join An Garda Síochána. Possibly early on he’d written off a career in any job that involved wearing a uniform after he’d witnessed how his mother had cried over that man in the uniform in the well-worn photograph. That man, she’d eventually explained to him, when she thought he was old enough, who was his father. That man, who had gone off to Cyprus with the Royal Ulster Rifles in order to protect his country and fellow men, and had never returned. ‘But he might come back someday, Mam,’ he’d naively offered, more in hopes of sparing her further tears. Eventually she had explained why his father would never return.

  Browne had no memories whatsoever of his father, apart from the image on that well-worn photograph, but he remembered not being as resentful as he later thought he should have been when his mam started to ‘spend quality time with other men’. He’d often wondered whether Starrett had ever gotten to ‘spend quality time’ with his mother, to the point where the Major had assured him that that just wasn’t Starrett’s style. ‘Apart from which,’ he’d said, ‘Starrett has unresolved romantic issues with someone out on the Shore Road.’

  Browne knew exactly what he meant: the ‘unresolved romantic issues out on the Shore Road’ involved a certain Maggie Keane, and Browne could see why his superior was so preoccupied with her. Besides, he was happy with both of Starrett’s preoccupations: the first being crime solving, because Starrett was great at it and was an even better teacher, and the second being Maggie Keane because, pure and simple, it left him with a chance – a very slim chance, that much he knew – with the most beautiful creature he’d ever set eyes on: Dr Samantha Aljoe. But sadly, the pathologist seemed almost to swoon every time she came into contact with Starrett. At least her constant flirting with Starrett afforded him the chance to get to know her, more than he would under normal circumstance. And perhaps, if he played his cards right, it might also serve for her to get to know him better, and then someday maybe, just maybe, he might find himself in a position where he could ask her out.

  Such were the pleasant thoughts that passed through his mind as he pedalled his way into Donegal Town on a bicycle he’d managed to borrow from Father McKenzie, who had insisted on personally fetching it from one of the ancient outhouses set between St Ernan’s house and the island’s treeline.

  His task – in solo capacity, of course – was to find a bookie within the shadows of the castle tower, just as Father O’Leary had advised Starrett, and just as Starrett had passed on to him. Once he found the establishment in question, he was to enquire about their dealings with a certain Father Patrick O’Connell. Yes, O’Connell – the one who considered himself a bit of a ladies’ man, the one he’d caught ogling Dr Samantha Aljoe on more than one occasion. Even so, surely there wasn’t a man in the whole of Ireland less suited to the beautiful doctor than the purple-handed, grossly-overweight priest?

  He turned his attention back to his detective work just in time to realise that he was hitting Donegal Town in the best weather – in the autumnal sunlight – to witness the shadows created by the castle tower. But as noon was fast approaching and the weak sun would move directly overhead, those shadows would become thin on the ground, not to mention insipid.

  As luck would have it, there was but one bookmaker, EasiBet, within the shadows of the castle that autumn morning. Browne chained the bicycle, as instructed – and twice more reminded – by ginger-haired (and bearded) Father McKenzie. ‘What does he care?’ Browne wondered aloud, as he closed the clasp on the lock.

  The bookies was a-buzz with excitement, as a dozen or so customers cheered at a TV screen broadcasting a horse race from somewhere or other, while two girls behind a safety grill busied themselves with paperwork. They looked up only briefly as he darkened their door. There’s nothing like making a good impression, and that was nothing like a good impression, he thought, remembering one of Starrett’s favourite sayings. But when the two of them glanced up again from their work, they became far more interested once they’d looked beyond the gardaí uniform.

  Browne approached the older, more subtly made-up girl – again, a trick he thought he clocked Starrett use – and made his pitch to her.

  ‘Good day,’ he said, hearing in his voice a lack of confidence that he certainly didn’t feel, ‘I’m wondering if I could talk to you about one of your customers.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll want Mal, in the back office,’ she offered sweetly, as a big cheer went up from the majority of the customers glued to the TV screen.

  She swivelled her seat around so her back was to him, made a big drama of hopping off it and swaggered off towards a door. At least, that’s how he saw her walk – his problem now was that he couldn’t help but compare all girls to the graceful Dr Aljoe. The bookmaker’s assistant disappeared behind the door and a minute later she appeared at another door in the shop, to Browne’s right, and waved to him to follow her through it.

  She introduced Browne to ‘My boss, Mal’ and swaggered off back to her highchair, whereupon Browne realised that her exaggerated walk was solely for the benefit of her boss.

  ‘Aye right,’ Mal said, barely looking up from his desk, ‘and what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m Garda Romany Browne and I’d like to ask you a few questions about one of your customers.’

  ‘Ask away,’ Mal said, putting his pen down for the first time.

  ‘Yes, the customer in question is Father Patrick O’Connell.’

  ‘Aye right,’ Mal said, ‘yes, Father Pat. Now, you’re not here to tell me he’s the priest who was found dead over on St Ernan’s, are you?’

  ‘No, no,’ Browne assured him, ‘Father O’Connell is very much alive.’

  ‘Aye right.’

  ‘But I understand he owes you some money?’

  ‘Aye, me and a few others, I reckon.’

  ‘Really?’ Browne said, involuntarily.

  ‘Well, I can’t tell you about the others – they’re no concern of mine,’ Mal said, taking a large leather-bound ledger out of the central desk drawer he’d just unlocked. He fast-flicked through the pages and then flicked through again, somewhat slower the second time. ‘Yeah, here he is.’

  Browne waited, and waited, as Mal slowly read down the page.

  ‘Holy crap!’ he shouted. ‘I didn’t realise…he must have been in again at the weekend.’

  ‘How much does he owe?’ Browne asked, growing impatient.

  ‘I’ll tell you that when you tell me what the Guards are going to do to help me get it paid.’

  ‘You’ve the courts for that,’ Browne offered and pulled out his notebook. ‘What’s the amount please?’

  Mal remained silent, visibly in shock.

  ‘How do you normally collect on bad debts?’ Browne asked, gambling that the bookie, in his moment of shock, might be indiscreet.

  Mal ignored the second question as he got around to answering the first, ‘He owes us 17,651 euro!’

  * * *

/>   ‘Bejeepers,’ Starrett gasped when Browne relayed this to him thirty minutes later in their temporary base in St Ernan’s, ‘17,651 euro! How the feck does a priest run up a debt like that with a bookie?’

  ‘Well, Mal said that he was only at nine grand–’

  ‘Only at nine grand?’ Starrett hissed. ‘Since when is nine grand classed as “only?”’

  ‘He was at nine grand, apparently,’ Browne continued, ‘and then, to try and get himself out of trouble, he laid on a lot of other bets, usually with different members of staff, which weren’t marked to his account until they matured, meaning apparently he never reached the cut-off point of 10,000 euro.’

  ‘Good to know they actually have a cut-off point,’ Starrett moaned.

  ‘He reckoned Father O’Connell played the odds “hoping, maybe even praying”, were Mal’s exact words, that the father would win at least one of his bets – they were all at high odds, you see – and that he’d cover all of his outstanding debts with one win, and maybe even have another one or two wins to keep him in–'

  ‘…more money for gambling,’ Starrett offered, closing down the topic. ‘Good work, Garda.’

  Starrett noted that, whereas some people – Packie Garvey, for instance – were uncomfortable taking compliments, others, such as Romany Browne, positively thrived on them.

  ‘So how might his gambling be connected to the death of Father Matthew?’ the aforementioned Packie Garvey asked.

  ‘Well, what if the Hokey Cokey isn’t what it’s all about?’ Starrett offered.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What if it’s just random? What if Father Pat O’Connell realised the trouble he was in, due to losing all that money on the gee-gees, and large lumps of the proverbial were just about to hit the spinning blades of the fan big time. So, perhaps he thinks if he can just find a way of creating a diversion, he could somehow find his way through the immediate patch of trouble, giving him a bit of breathing space so he could find another way of solving his problem?’

  ‘You mean by murdering a fellow priest?’ Sgt Packie Garvey offered. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Browne looked like he was in line with Garvey but didn’t want to go as far as vocally disagreeing with his superior.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Starrett said, nodding to his sergeant and even appearing happy that his sergeant disagreed with him. ‘Maybe you’re right. But how about this; what if Father O’Connell was aware of the rare John Hamilton nibs hidden in the desk in Father Matthew’s rooms? Maybe he’d discovered just how rare they were and he nicked the nibs in hopes they would pay off some, if not all, of his gambling debts.’

  ‘That approach works better for me,’ Garvey admitted.

  ‘And then Father Matthew discovers the nibs are missing and he confronts Father Pat about them. Father Pat thinks the game is up unless he gets rid of Father Matthew,’ Starrett said, developing his theory but all the while never quite sounding like he’d totally committed to it.

  Romany Browne made to say something, but Starrett unknowingly cut him off with, ‘Before we go any further down this road I have two questions for ye: one, shouldn’t we find out exactly what the nibs are worth? I’m with you, Packie, but I’m having great difficulty accepting that these nibs are worthy dying over. Two, could someone remind me what Father Pat was doing at the time Father Matthew was murdered?’

  The ever trustworthy Sergeant Packie Garvey withdrew his notebook from deep inside his jacket, licked his forefinger and flicked through a few pages before announcing: ‘He’d lunch with a Miss Edwina Uppleby, apparently a woman of independent means. She picked him up shortly after noon yesterday, outside the Craft Village shop, on the road to Ballyshannon. They had lunch at the Lough Eske Castle. They left the castle at 5:15, she dropped him off at the Abbey Hotel in Donegal Town where he ran into an old friend, they’d a drink, then he caught a taxi back and arrived here at 7:40 p.m.’

  ‘Should be easy enough to check all that out,’ Starrett said, to no one in particular. ‘But, in theory, he could have had a quicker lunch than he claimed in order to establish his alibi; rushed back here to St Ernan’s, murdered Father Matthew, nipped back into Donegal Town, “ran into” met up with his old friend – all just to re-establish his alibi, you understand – and then returned to St Ernan’s.’

  Yes, Starrett mused to himself, Father Pat O’Connell deserved the several lines of chalk he’d scratched under his name on the blackboard.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Starrett sent Romany and Packie off to ‘see a man about a horse’. And, as luck would have it, that very same man was resting in his rooms at the moment two members of the Ramelton Serious Crimes Unit of the Gardaí came calling.

  ‘Oh, it’s the boys in uniform,’ Father Pat O’Connell said, as he rose from his chair and waddled over towards the door to invite the Gardaí officers into his room. For some reason or other he put his suit jacket on. ‘Come on in. How’s the case progressing?’

  Packie thought there was a distinct whiff in the air; the whiff of an older man who didn’t shower as much as he needed to. Perhaps, Packie guessed, that had been the reason for the priest putting on his jacket, particularly in a room that was already quite warm. The priest finger-combed his blue-black hair, but not to great effect.

  ‘We’re just collecting information.’

  ‘What, no Ban Garda this time?’ O’Connell offered, visibly upset, as the three men took seats at each apex of a triangle centred on a square, dark-blue patterned carpet.

  ‘Not this time, no,’ Packie volunteered, ‘she’s off with Inspector Starrett. Ehm, look…our investigation has thrown up a few more questions we’d like to ask you.’

  ‘A few more questions is it?’ the priest puffed. ‘Fire away then!’

  ‘It’s come to our attention that you’ve got quite a slate going at EasiBet in Donegal Town?’ Packie began, as Browne started writing in his notebook.

  Father Pat looked indignant, distressed, annoyed, and then indignant again.

  ‘I’m not sure what business that is of yours, Sir,’ he said, shifting his large frame in his deflated seat, in the hope of finding a more comfortable position.

  ‘Well, 17,000 odd euro is a lot of money to be in hock to your bookie for.’

  ‘But hardly a criminal offence.’

  ‘But with certain bookies it most certainly could be potentially detrimental to your health,’ Packie said, sounding as considerate as he knew how to be.

  ‘In my case,’ the priest said, patting his protruding tummy with his purple and rough-skinned hand, ‘they’ll have to join the queue.’

  ‘I must say that considering the size of your debt you seem remarkably relaxed about it.’

  ‘As I said, I’m not breaking any laws.’

  ‘But Father, you’re a priest – we don’t expect our priests to be gamblers…to be…’ Packie was going to leave it there but the obvious concern on his face was not going to allow it. ‘Father, shouldn’t you be an example to the community?’ was the politest way he could find of digging himself out of the hole.

  ‘Should I be an example for the community?'

  ‘Well, yes,’ Packie said, slowly shaking his head in a disapproving way.

  ‘Well, some might say that my time in the front-line of the Church’s many battles would mean I deserve to be part of the community that I’d once taken care of, and now it is the community’s turn to take care of me. I say, what do you say to that then?’

  Packie was still shaking his head, but now he was smiling, trying to find a way to look less disapproving. ‘Father Pat, all joking aside, 17 grand – that’s a lot of money. That's a lot of money in anyone’s book. What are you doing about paying it off?’

  ‘What am I doing about paying it off, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And pray tell me, what business would that be of the Gardaí?’

  Packie wondered how long it had been since the priest had last prayed, a thought he kept to himself as he i
gnored the question, choosing instead to ask, ‘Have you ever had a debt to a bookie that high before?’

  ‘I…I just…’ Father Pat started and then appeared to think better of where he was going to go with his answer, maybe even deciding to change tack altogether, Packie figured. ‘Look, of course I’ve run up bills with my bookies before, but if you take it across the year, I’m always, but always, ahead.’

  ‘So you’ve been in hock to your bookie for over 17 grand before?’ Packie asked, in disbelief.

  ‘Well maybe not quite so high,’ Father Pat chuckled, like a naughty ballooned version of Billy Bunter. ‘But I repeat my earlier fact: taken across the year, I’m always up.’

  ‘What’s the most you’ve ever won on a horse?’ Browne asked.

  ‘What’s the most I’ve ever won on a horse?’ Father O’Connell said, his interest most definitely peaking. ‘On a single horse or on an accumulative bet?’

  ‘Both,’ Browne replied immediately.

  ‘Well, on one horse…the best I’ve ever done would be when I won four grand plus change. It was Cheltenham, St Patrick’s Day, 2005. The horse was Another Rum, running at 40 to 1. Well, I just had to put a ton on the nose on that, didn’t I? Then earlier this year, in January, I’d a handy wee accumulator and won thirteen grand on a one-euro stake.’

  ‘You’re kidding us?’ Browne said, eyebrows rising in apparent disbelief.

  ‘Please believe me, Sir, I most certainly am not kidding. First off there was Eye Of The Tiger at Lingfield. It was an evens favourite. The night before, it was 20 to 1,’ the gambling priest offered, regretfully. ‘Then there was Seven Summits at Catterick, that was at 7 to 4. The next one was Indus Valley at Kempton – that too was 20 to 1 the night before the race but by the time I placed my bet, it was down to 4 to 6, and then the final one of my fab quartet was Low Key, the 7 to 4 favourite, also at Kempton.’

  ‘So how did you know which four to pick?’ Browne asked.