by Paul Charles
Starrett wasn’t aware that the Major’s wife even knew his Christian name. The fact that she had used it in such a desperate plea meant he had to get out of the house before he totally broke down.
Before he did, he gave her frail frame a considerate hug. For her part, she hung on to him for dear life. Proof, if proof was needed, about how much she really needed him to be there - to be there for both herself and the Major.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Starrett popped into the Bridge Bar on his way home to see if his friends, the other boys from the James gang, John and James, were in residence for a quick drink and a chat and the pick-me-up Starrett felt he really needed. But sadly, by their absence, they were both otherwise engaged on that particular evening. He zigzagged his way through the packed room, en route to his usual, quiet spot at the other end of the bar, the end furthest away from the street door, and ordered up a pint of Guinness. He was deep in thought about the Major when his rich and appetising drink arrived, and he couldn’t help but overhear snippets of a conversation happening not too far to his right.
A woman, she sounded middle-aged, said, ‘I’ve got self-esteem issues.’
‘Does that mean you shag strangers?’ a voice, Starrett thought he recognised, asked hopefully.
‘Normally, yes,’ she replied and added quickly, ‘but in your case I’ll make an exception.’
Starrett tuned out of the conversation. He was just about to savour his first sip when he felt someone sidling up beside him. But he didn’t want to ruin this moment by acknowledging anything other than his pint. He could feel this presence beside him trying and trying and eventually, with a bit of shoulder shoving, getting just a wee bit closer. He tried to play the percentages by risking his solitude through interrupting it, albeit briefly, to fend off the unwanted attention.
‘Ah, Moondance, it’s yourself, bejeepers, I should have recognised the trainers!’ Starrett offered the owner of the male voice he’d overheard several seconds ago, while never for a split second taking his eyes off his pint.
‘The very man I’m looking for, I say, the very man I’m looking for, I thought I might find you in here!’
‘Yeah, I find if I order a pint it helps me to mind my own business,’ Starrett said, as though addressing his Guinness. ‘Tell me this, Moondance, do you fancy one yourself?’
‘Ah jeez, don’t be like that, Inspector Starrett,’ Moondance offered in his high-pitched whine while aping hurt, ‘I’ve got a proposition for you that’ll make money for us both.’
‘Away with ye man so I can enjoy me pint.’
Starrett still hadn’t looked up but he would have bet that Moondance, aka Bee Bee, aka Brian Boyce, would be dressed in his regular uniform of white flashed, electric-blue trousers and matching jacket with a white high-collar, zipped up (nearly to his chin) and crowned off with a Magic Johnson baseball cap pushed well back on his shaven head. He claimed his matching white Nike trainers -- with all their flashing lights – were worth more than Starrett’s car, which wasn’t saying much. The five foot four inch, light-framed, forty-plus-year-old managed to knock at least fifteen years off his spotty-faced age with his ‘threads’ and his ‘bling’ (Moondance’s words).
‘No listen, Starrett, just listen, it’s a quick pitch and then I’ll be gone,’ Moondance continued, unperturbed, ‘What do you know about Tom Dooley?’
‘Go and fetch me a rope and I’ll give you a practical demonstration.’
‘Jeez Starrett, man, you’re a hard cat to…but look, you’ve proved my point, don’t you see.’
‘Okay Moondance, I’ll make you a deal; you’ve got exactly three minutes to make your, your…what did you call it?’
‘Pitch,’ Moondance whined gleefully.
‘Pitch, yes that’s it, you got exactly two and a half minutes to make your pitch.
‘But you said three minutes–’
‘You’ve got exactly two minutes and fifteen seconds to…’ Starrett paused to offer the bait again, but Moondance refused to bite so he continued, ‘to make your pitch and then you’re gone and I’ll start my Guinness.’
‘Okay, so my point is that the only reason you, me, and most of the people in here remember Tom Dooley is because someone bothered to write a song about him; that’s why he’s a legend. So my idea is that you collaborate with my artist Flanagan, the world’s first trad rap artist. Flanagan – that’s just the one name, Flanagan – do you remember him?’
‘He’s a cross between Christy Moore and Say Sneeze?’
‘Close Inspector, very close – Jay Z, but at least it proves the auld marketing is having some traction–’
Starrett interrupted Moondance by glancing briefly at his watch.
‘Yes, yes, so you and Flanagan write a song about one of the murderers you’ve caught. Right, I’m thinking…say, in the style of "Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley." Now, man, it would be much better for the song if this murderer died in the chase. But you have my word, there’ll be no interfering, that’s guaranteed, but I’m just saying it would be great for the promo boys if the murderer died in the song. My plan is for Flanagan to record the song, it’ll be a massive hit and we’ll split the royalties with you, sixty to us forty to you,’ Moondance offered and then added in a somewhat quieter voice, ‘after management commission.’
Starrett glared at him for the first time.
‘Okay, okay! Jeez man, you drive a hard deal, fifty-fifty and no management commission?’
Starrett nodded his head up and down in a positive motion.
Moondance grew visibly excited, ‘What? What…you agree? Inspector, you won’t regret it, it’ll be massive! Can I announce it tonight? I’ll get you and Flanagan both on The Late Late Show. Tell me, Starrett, how good are you on the auld harmony vocals?’ Moondance’s excitement visibly dissipated somewhat. ‘You did nod your head saying you’d do it, didn’t you? That was you confirming, wasn’t it? I just need to get you the paperwork, right?’
‘Moondance, me auld mate, I was nodding to you to signify that you’d run over your allotted time and I was waiting for you to depart so I could start my pint.’
Moondance shook his head meekly as he disappeared into the crowd at the Bridge Bar. His way out was a lot easier than the zigzagging on the way in. That’s always the way.
Starrett drank.
Chapter Thirty
Day Three: Friday
‘You do know that the Norwegians claim the highest skies, but it’s Donegal that actually has them?’ Starrett declared to Gibson first thing the following morning.
Starrett’s head and heart were heavy with Mrs Annette Newton Cunningham’s words from the previous evening. So as far as he was concerned, Norway versus Donegal wasn’t a debate, it was more a statement of fact. Gibson seemed to pick up on this because she didn’t contradict Starrett, but, equally, that could simply be because she also knew that Donegal’s skies were the highest.
‘How was Mrs Orla O’Connor when you left her yesterday evening?’ Starrett asked the ban garda.
‘She was quite upbeat actually,’ Gibson started, ‘Sean Clarke, the American, arrived long before Francis did and he’s a very nice man. He and Orla were getting on like a house on fire.’
‘I’ve never really got to grips with that one, Nuala,’ Starrett mused.
‘Sorry?’
‘People getting on like a house on fire. I mean, really, think about it – that’s one of the last things people should like to get on as, don’t you think?
‘Well, I’ve never really thought of it that way before, but now you come to mention it,’ Gibson replied, clearly humouring her senior.
‘Anyway, sorry,’ Starrett offered, as though he’d just managed to solve the eighth Wonder of the World, ‘you were telling me about the American.’
‘Oh yes,’ Gibson said, seeming happy to pick up her thread again, ‘Sean is very talkative – maybe he was nervous, but he immediately went into a positive gear. Orla said she couldn’t tell him what ha
d happened, maybe she did, the moment I left the house, I don’t know. He claimed he was happy to get out of the house and was up for a bit of good old chin-wagging. She talked a little about her husband.’
‘Oh,’ Starrett perked up, ‘anything interesting?’
‘Well, just that, in retrospect, she had to admire him in that he was totally transparent; what you saw was exactly what you got. Unlike someone she’d recently had dealings with. Apparently her husband was a womaniser and never tried to hide it from her. Sean confessed to Orla that his wife had been perfect, he just regretted that he’d never realised that when she was still alive.’
‘So Orla was okay then?’
‘Well, I thought I could see where it had all gone wrong,’ Gibson said.
To her surprise Starrett nodded her on past Steve’s Café, up to the right, past the Presbyterian church, which was on the left and badly needed its steeple cleaned due to the fact that the weather had in recent years taken a turn for the better and the current rainfall was no longer sufficient to cleanse the steeple. They drove on up Church Street and left at the fork by the Church of Ireland with its brand new roof, then up the hill a bit, bearing right and then a very quick left at the Cup and Saucer and onto the Letterkenny Road. ‘I’d breakfast with Maggie and the kids and besides, Maggie says you’re only humouring me by going into Steve’s with me. But you were about to tell me how it had all been going wrong for Orla?’
‘Well they, she and Sean were getting on so well, I could very easily imagine her asking him to run her Orla O’Connor House project.’
‘Gullible?’
‘I mean very gullible,’ Gibson offered. ‘At first, when we went into her house yesterday evening and she started to tell us about Father McCafferty’s actions I was thinking to myself, how could you possibly have been taken in by such a transparent scam? But then I saw her with Sean and I thought, well I can see it clearly now.’
‘Yeah, but don’t you see, people like Father McCafferty are professional, they know exactly what they’re doing, and equally, they know who to hit on and who to leave well alone. They’re prepared to cultivate their victims over a long period of time, if they feel there is a need to. And then people like Orla, well, they are old and lonely and vulnerable and desperately feel the need for their lives not to have been in vain. They have their money, they have their grand house, their fine clothes, but they still need something more. They need their lasting testament not just to be their name on a headstone. They need a reason for them to have been here on this Earth and they will gladly spend every cent they have if they can find a way to be remembered after they’re gone.’
‘Oh yes, I nearly forgot,’ Gibson gushed, nearly, but not quite, cutting him off. ‘Francis wanted me to tell you that he’d tracked down the two priests from St Ernan’s, you know, the two who are out on a research trip.’
‘He found Fathers Clerkin and Casey?’ Starrett shouted in excitement, bolting upright in his seat again, ‘Where are they?’
‘In Bandon Town in County Cork,’ she said proudly.
‘How on earth did he manage to track them down, Nuala?’
‘It was Bishop Madden, the very man who told him the day before why Father McCafferty had been moved from St Anne’s. They’re aware of the movements of all visiting priests to their diocese.’
‘Clever man, that Francis,’ Starrett declared, thereby claiming some ownership for himself. ‘You want to make sure you keep hold of him.’
‘That’s what Maggie is always telling me as well, but she says, “he’s a keeper that one,”’ Gibson admitted. ‘Anyway, be that as it may, the research priests were actually basing themselves in Bandon Town. Apparently they made some important historical discovery in the Church of St Patrick and the Immaculate Conception. Francis contacted the church. The priests weren’t there but apparently they were known to call into Warren Allen, (a local coffee shop about a three-minute walk away), now and again to update their notes over numerous cups of coffees and wee buns. Francis rang Warren Allen, spoke to the friendly manager, Sean Kennedy who said that, yes, they were there at that moment but, more importantly, they had been in there on Wednesday, from about three o’clock until they closed at six. He remembered it because it rained all afternoon and Michael and Peter had asked permission to stay there to work, until the rain had passed. He also said the priests tipped very heavily for the privilege.’
‘So at long last we can remove two of the priests’ names from our suspect list. Now that is good progress, Nuala.’
‘Unfortunately, Francis has had no joy yet on the APBs he put out on both Father McCafferty and Bishop Freeman,’ Gibson admitted to her superior, who was still so high on the news from Bandon Town, he’d ignored what he considered to be a temporary set-back.
Before he knew it, they were driving over the causeway leading to St Ernan’s, and he noticed how much cheekier the army of rabbits were getting now they were growing accustomed to the gardaí and their vehicles’ comings and goings. It was surprising that more of them didn’t get run over, thereby saving the priests the bother of popping them off. The other thing he noticed was the stale smell he experienced now, every time he walked into St Ernan’s House. Once he’d been in there for a while it always seemed to disappear, but that probably had something to do with his very keen nostrils growing accustomed to the less than pleasant smell. Could it have something to do with the absence of the St Ernan’s housekeeper, Mrs Eimear Robinson? She hadn’t been around since before the death of Father Matthew, and none of the priests seemed interested in taking up her mantel.
After the initial high, the first part of that Friday went downhill very quickly, with Garda Francis Casey’s APBs continuing to produce zero results. Garda Romany Browne was busy working away on something, Starrett knew not what, but he seemed so industrious the inspector thought it best to leave him at it. Then he spoke at length with Father O’Leary, but learned nothing new. Garvey and Gibson, with Starrett and Father O’Leary’s permission, searched both Bishop Freeman’s and Father McCafferty’s rooms, two long and unrewarding procedures, which produced no information apart from the facts that the bishop had enough gowns to clothe Ramelton’s excellent pantomime cast and Father McCafferty must have another storage place, for he did not have a single personal item in any of his rooms. Surely there should be at least a paper-trail for the sale and distribution of the garden produce, pies, buns, and poteen, but then he remembered it was Father McIntyre, aka Tubsey, and not McCafferty who Father McKenzie had claimed was his front-man for St Ernan’s commercial (and bootlegging) enterprise.
Starrett was less surprised by the lack of evidence – as in none – discovered in the bishop’s rooms. St Ernan’s was not the bishop’s main residence, that was over in Sligo, and he figured that Father Patrick O’ Connell could very safely have bet all of his money on the fact that there would be no incriminating evidence found in Freeman’s temporary quarters in the house.
Yes, after such a disappointing Friday, he was beginning to feel that his time might have been better spent popping off a few of those rabbits, to help St Ernan’s with its vermin control. He was, of course, thinking about the other vermin outside of the house.
Chapter Thirty-One
At just after 3:30, Starrett and Gibson left Garvey and Browne diligently working away and headed into Donegal Town, back out the other side and onto the hilly Balleyboffey Road, to Eimear Robinson’s house.
As luck would have it, Eimear, Julia, and Jessica were all at home. Gerry, the father and husband, was not.
‘He’s most likely working late,’ Eimear offered.
‘Or down the wine bar with Enya?’ Julia, the youngest sniggered.
‘Or snogging Beyoncé in the back field,’ Jessica suggested, to chuckles from Julia.
‘Or giving Bono advise on how to dump his Facebook shares,’ Julia offered to all-round laughter.
‘Far be it from me to put words in anyone’s mouth,’ Eimear said, with a voice total
ly different to the one she’d used during her interview with Starrett a few days prior, in that this time she wasn’t starting her sentences off loudly and then petering them out, ‘but could someone please say something nice about my husband, your father, and, by the way, just in case no-one has noticed, the bleedin’ guards are here.’
‘Dope,’ Jessica said.
‘Jessica, don’t be so rude, what are you on about?’
‘Mum, don’t you remember Jessica explained it all to you,’ Julia, acting as friendly translator said, ‘“dope” means “cool”.’
‘No,’ Eimear said, in disbelief. ‘Last night she clearly said that “sick” means “cool”.’
‘Mum,’ Julia screeched, ‘“sick” is sooooo yesterday!’
Starrett and Gibson were getting into the spirit of the family humour when something strange happened. The inspector was viewing the above scene by looking in the large mirror hanging above the fireplace. He found that, while interviewing, he frequently picked up more that way, because people behave differently when they think you’re not looking directly at them. And all of a sudden he saw a vision of long blonde hair and shapely legs fly across the mirror. He immediately turned to look at the open door behind him and whatever, or whoever, it was had gone.
At the precise moment this was happening, Julia concluded her conversation with, ‘At least you didn’t say the dope was cool to call it sick,’ which drew enough laughter, polite though it was, that Starrett couldn’t hear whether or not the hallway door had opened and closed.
Jessica Robinson looked older than her reported 18 years of age, even though, on first impression, she was the least confident of the two sisters. She wore a large floppy, blue, woollen jumper, a pair of baggy white jeans and white trainer-liner sports socks. She wasn’t exactly overweight but she looked like she was either just putting on some weight or just losing it. Starrett’s mum always explained that particular syndrome as someone being ‘on a cake diet’. Her hair was blonde, which didn’t look her natural colour, and was straight, parted on the crown and very, very long, down way past her shoulders. She continuously played with it, flicking it around with her right hand and placing it behind her right shoulder. She didn’t seem overly keen to make eye contact with Starrett.