He knew I had to take that, and I did.
“I think her and Steno are into the fucking Tyrells for some fucking score, I don’t know what it is.”
“How do you know?”
“Good question. Because she told me: which almost guarantees it isn’t true. Steno always was a sly cunt, mind you.”
“Did she know about the bodies?”
“She knew about Kennedy. And she said she thought the other body was Pa Hutton. She said it was nothing to do with her, but she couldn’t stop it. Wouldn’t explain that. Father Vincent said she needed to call the cops and tell them. She said there was no way she could get out of it. All this, and of course she’s crying and wailing and looking up out of her big eyes like a fucking panda, oh poor her.”
“What do you think?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I don’t know.”
“What about Steno? He’s beginning to sound like an interesting character.”
Leo drew his narrow lips farther into his mouth.
“Steno was a nasty piece of work. People talked about St. Jude’s, you know, the abusers on the staff. The one I remember, going around, you had to watch your back, was one of the boys: Steno. And later, when he was dealing smack, he’d take his pick of the junkies. When Miranda Hart was at her worst, that was Steno she was running around with. Pair of them suited each other.”
I thought of Hutton’s dumb show of rape and abuse.
“Did Steno ever attack Hutton?”
Leo looked astonished at the question.
“How the fuck d’you know that? Did Father Vincent tell you? Fuck, I don’t think even he knew.”
“He raped him, didn’t he?”
“I always blamed him. Pa never knew for sure, said he had a blindfold on. I don’t think Pa ever really got over it. Seriously, how do you know? Is Pa Hutton alive? Have you seen him?”
George cleared his throat in aggressive distaste.
Leo flung a look at George, and I thought for a moment he was going to show him what aggressive meant; then he turned back to me, his dark eyes suddenly desperate for a word from beyond the grave.
“I think he may be, yes. The more you can tell me, the closer I’ll get to him. What about back in the day, you and F.X. Tyrell?” I said. “Was F.X. interested in Hutton too?”
“Pa was never into that.”
“Vincent Tyrell said the pair of you were about to be expelled from St. Jude’s for indecent conduct. He said at first, F.X. Tyrell had his eye on Patrick Hutton.”
“Father Tyrell is a devious cunt. Father Tyrell wants you to find things out, but he doesn’t want to help you. Father Tyrell must think you’re going to get divine inspiration.”
“How could he have helped me?”
“He could have told you that I was the one F.X. wanted. Sure he had a notion of Pa as a jockey, but I was the one he wanted all along.”
TWENTY-TWO
One of the construction workers drove me back to Quarry Fields, and Leo sat in the backseat beside me. For some reason, the physical threat seemed to have receded, or at least that was what my gut told me. My gut had been wrong before, but this late in a case, it was almost all I had. When we got to the house, he put a hand on my arm.
“As long as Bottle of Red loses tomorrow, George’ll be happy. Don’t fuck that up, all right?”
I said I wouldn’t.
“It might all sound very seedy and fucked up at this distance, you know, industrial schools, abuse, all this. And then F.X. Tyrell…as if he came in and said, I’ll have him over there, that one. But it wasn’t like that, you know?”
I looked at Leo, and by reflex at the driver.
“He’s Ukrainian. Fuck-all English. Apart from beer, isn’t that right man, beer, beer, voddy vodka and beer?”
The driver nodded dutifully, a grim smile on his wide mouth. Leo turned his dark eyes back to me.
“It was…he’d chosen me, but I was willing. He was a serious guy, F.X. Tyrell, he was a fucking legend. I mean, say you were sixteen and I don’t know who asked for you, some older one, Michelle Pfeiffer, or Ellen Barkin, or fuckin’…your one…who would you have liked?”
I shrugged.
“Your one,” I said, and Leo giggled.
“I can’t remember her name, the English one who’s always in the nip. But I mean, you would have said, fucking sure, wouldn’t you? And that’s what it was like, he was a charismatic guy, a suave fucker, and we were always into the ponies so he was like a fucking hero: I said, which way do you want me? I’m not sayin’ there was no shit at St. Jude’s, there fucking was, and it was always the weaker kids that got fucked, in every way. But I wasn’t one of them. I was older anyway. And I was looking out for Pa, too, I…I loved the guy, you know? Mates. Not that there was anything between us, I mean, he was never that way, though I gave it a decent go…but we were like brothers…only, not like my fucking brothers…no need to mention Podge, I should pay someone in Mountjoy to shank the fat fuck…and as for fucking George, since I got out, I don’t know who the fuck he thinks he is, always shitein’ on about fuckin’ business lunches and helipads and fucking interest rates, I’ve a pain in me hole listening to the cunt, I’m not coddin’ you…I knew Pa needed a helping hand, you know, but he was a class jockey…so anyway, we were both getting what we wanted, that’s how it was.”
Leo lit a Gauloise and exhaled and sat in wistful reverie for a while.
“That was the time of my life, know I mean? The time of my life.”
“And then when Miranda Hart came back from school…”
“Mary Hart as was. That was Jackie as well, claiming her, using her as a pawn against Regina. The politics of the house.”
“And she made her play for Patrick Hutton.”
“Yeah, they just, they got together, they got married, we were all working at the stables, getting our first rides, so forth. Then three things really: Patrick’s career took off, and mine didn’t, and F.X. lost interest in me.”
“This would be coming up to the By Your Leave incident?”
“This would. Because Pa rode By Your Leave. And because…I was gonna lie about this even now, I was gonna say it was George’s idea, but it wasn’t, it was mine.”
“To blackmail F.X. Tyrell.”
“Yeah. I suppose I felt a bit excluded, know I mean? There they were, on the gallops, in fucking Cheltenham, and where was I? Back up in fucking Seafield sorting out Podge’s mess. Dealing to skin-popping scobies. George looking at me like I’m some kind of fucking burden. So I decided to cash in.”
“You had photographs.”
“I had videotape. I took it without F.X. knowing.”
“Planning ahead.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I was. Maybe deep down I’m a double-dealing scumbag. I thought I wanted a record of it, to believe it myself, to get off on it all. So I’d never forget. Maybe I’m lying to myself. You look back on what you were like, and you can’t swear to anything, can you? Anyway, I took the tape to George. I made him watch it first. That was funny, seeing him sit through it, watching him squirm. And then he got his hooks into the Tyrells.”
“A lot of money over the years?”
“I wouldn’t let him take it too far. I mean, Podge never knew about it, can you imagine? Podge and his crew swarming around the country club, the whole thing would have collapsed. Nah, George took it steady. A race here and there, and the opportunity to get all the money laundered.”
“That was Seán Proby, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. Well, once I had F.X. on board, I figured, may as well get stuck into Proby. I knew he was up for it, he was always panting around Tyrellscourt hoping for action, too shy to do anything about it, so it wasn’t too hard to set him up with a couple of nice-looking young fellas and record the results. And bingo, Proby was the route for clean cash.”
“And after By Your Leave, after Thurles, you went back down to Tyrellscourt, dealing. What happened to Patrick Hutton then?”
Le
o grabbed my arm.
“That’s what I want you to find out. Steno…I kept in touch with Steno, but I never trusted the cunt. You bring smack in, say good-bye to business, it’s a fucking fire sale. I mean, Pa Hutton and me, we weren’t really close anymore, not with your woman around…the guy had lost it anyway, he was on heroin. And the baby could have been anyone’s, Miranda’s baby, Jack Proby’s, Steno’s, anyone’s.”
“Bomber Folan’s?”
“Bomber didn’t last long with F.X., fuck sake. Out on his ear, he had no discipline, the stupid cunt. I told Steno, I said the fucking smack was more trouble than it was worth. I got out, and he wound it down and reefed them all to fuck. And that was the last I heard until I got the phone call on Saturday night.”
Leo still held my arm; it reminded me of Vincent Tyrell’s grip the morning I took the case. He brought his other hand around and clasped my hand and locked eyes with me; his breath came through his mouth in sodden gusts.
“You want to get that seen to,” I said.
“Where d’you think Boris is taking me after this? Christmas night at the A&E in St. Anthony’s, fuck sake, I should have you killed.”
“Don’t start that again.”
“You could do with a checkup yourself.”
“In the New Year.”
“You think you’ve seen him. How does he look?”
“If it’s who I think it is, he looked fit, but he didn’t look well. Not in his head. I’m sorry.”
Leo gripped me harder, and tears brimmed in his eyes.
“Try and keep him alive,” he said.
“I can’t promise anything. He already looked pretty out of control. If he’s the killer…”
I didn’t have to spell it out. Leo nodded, then rolled up his sleeve and showed me his forearm. The tattoo there was a familiar one, a crucifix and an omega symbol: † ?
“I know there’s all this, the Omega Man going on in the papers, like he’s some Mister Evil fucker, yeah? And I read how the crucifix represents whatever, Christmas, or it’s the killer pleading for forgiveness. But that’s all bullshit man, it’s not an omega, it isn’t even a crucifix. It’s, we all got them done in McGoldrick’s that time, there was all raggle-taggle tradheads and eco cunts with dogs on strings and this cornrow chick used to do tattoos and we all got them, or I can remember everyone getting them anyway.”
“And what does it mean?”
“No big mystery. Just T and C, a fancy way of doing a T and a C.”
“T and C standing for—”
“Tyrellscourt.”
THERE WEREN’T MANY people on the road, but those that were out were mostly drunk, so I had to take it easy on the drive, which I would have anyway, since my right eye had almost closed now, and it was past midnight when I arrived in Tyrellscourt. I had showered before I left, and cleaned my wounds, and gobbled some Nurofen Plus, and resisted the call of my bed, although not without difficulty: What could eight hours change? I asked myself, and answer came there: Absolutely everything.
An unshaven security guard in a black uniform was on duty at the gates to Tyrellscourt House, which was surrounded from the roadside by high granite walls; I gave the guard my name and he went back into his booth and opened the gates. I drove up the long gravel drive and came to a crunching halt in front of the imposing house, whose stained-glass windows and glittering granite stonework and Victorian Gothic features gave it the look of a haunted house in a child’s storybook. I could hear the whinny and snort of horses in the yard beyond. Snow was falling lightly in the moonlight as I climbed the steps of the house. Before I had time to knock, the great black front door with the stained-glass panels depicting horses in full flight opened, and the fairy tale was interrupted by Tommy Owens, standing there in tan brogues, red cord trousers, a check shirt and a sleeveless pullover, his face flushed and his hair wet. He looked at the new map Leo had kicked onto my face and shook his head, as if my brawling ways would someday drag his squeaky-clean twenty-first-century operation down. I heard piano music, and the wow and flutter of a television or computer game. Tommy looked at his watch and shook his head again. I always liked it when Tommy began to think the case was slipping away from me, and he had to pick up the slack.
“Come on,” he said, his voice prim and impatient, and led me briskly across a flagstoned hall, along a corridor and down a flight of stairs. We walked through a passage stuffed with riding hats and boots and Wellington boots and red coats and Barbour jackets and dog baskets and into a darkened conservatory with walls of glass on three sides. Once your eyes adjusted, you could see right across the valley in the moonlight: to the right, the lazy S and straight green band of the gallops; centre bearing left, the river and the golf course to the rear of the country club, and at the extreme left, the tip of a mobile home that was part of the old Staples property.
Tommy had a MacBook laptop set up on a low table by a cane sofa; a videotape was recording the signal from a wireless receiver not unlike the one I had set up for the Leonard family to trap their neighbourhood dumpers; on a side table there was turkey and ham and lettuce and tomatoes and French bread and mayonnaise and mustard and chutney and pint bottles of Guinness and a bottle of Jameson and a flask of coffee. If this was an all-nighter, we were travelling first class.
“Miss Tyrell said if you came in at a reasonable hour, you should go up and see her,” Tommy said. “She’s a class act, that one.”
“Miss Tyrell?”
“Regina. Miss Tyrell, I call her.”
“What’s with the young-country-squire outfit?”
“I needed a change of clothes. Miss Tyrell kindly—”
“Sounds good. So take me through what you’ve been up to.”
“Go up and see her first. She’s playing the piano up there, I think.”
“Tommy, you know conventional wisdom? It’s always incomplete. Never keep a lady waiting—provided you know what you’re going to say or do to her when you meet her. I don’t, and I’m relying on you to help me.”
I made myself a turkey salad roll, poured Guinness into a glass and sat back on the sofa. Tommy looked at me in dismay.
“What do you think this is, a fucking picnic? That lady up there is at the end of her tether.”
“Really? How did that happen? She struck me as a pretty cool customer when I met her. What’s happened to get her so panicked?”
“There’s no one she can turn to. And the situation is sinking in, you know? And I think someone’s been talking to her.”
“Who?”
“Your one.”
“Miranda? Say her name at least, Tommy.”
“Yeah. So…I mean, some of us have been…while you…”
Tommy waved dismissively at me, as if I’d arrived in white tie and tails with two strippers and a big bag of coke. The pain around my right eye suddenly shot out of the gates, neck and neck with the pain in my liver. It was hard to call the odds on which would romp home first: a joint favourite photo finish was my conservative forecast. I popped a few more Nurofen, tipped some Jameson into a glass and threw the lot back. When that didn’t immediately help, I turned on Tommy.
“This face came from Leo Halligan, one of your little drug-dealing friends, Tommy. Whose attack was a result of Podge Halligan, who again was a business associate of yours, just like the fucking Reillys or any other number of thugs and scumbags whose affairs you get embroiled in and I end up dealing with, usually with my fucking chin, because you can’t cope and come crying to me like the fucking…so I really don’t fucking need—”
I stopped then, because Tommy didn’t have the heart to take what I would have said, or because I didn’t have the heart to say it. I put a hand in the air, and he matched it, and he pointed at the red-and-green Jameson bottle, and I poured us both whiskeys and we knocked them back and that was that. So while I ate my sandwich and drank my beer, Tommy took me through what some of us had been doing.
TWENTY-THREE
First off, they’ve no servants
here since Christmas Eve until after Stephen’s Day, they give them Christmas off, Miss Tyrell said it was so Karen can see how Christmas should be in a proper family, without being waited on hand and foot like,” Tommy said. “So security-wise, all there is is that fat fuck at the gates. I suppose if they wanted anything, they could send over to the hotel for it, but they haven’t, or at least, not since I’ve been here; there’s a big kitchen with an Aga and all in it and Miss Tyrell was going at it there since eight this morning. I got down here just as they were about to eat and they made me join them, insisted on it. F.X. wasn’t around then, I didn’t see him until later. Miss Tyrell just said Christmas Day was always a working day for him, on account of Leopardstown, and horses had gone to Chester as well: he does be out and about all day, checking up on the work, the horses, the boxes, so on. And then it’s an early start, he has a lodge over near the stables so he sleeps there.
“Anyway, it was a beautiful dinner, and little Karen said grace and all, and I was dreading it, on account of it’s the first time I ever ate Christmas dinner without me ma, know what I mean, and Regina—Miss Tyrell, I told her about it and she was very…she understood. Wine and pudding and hats and crackers and everything. They were both giddy then, playing games and so forth, but I said I needed to get some work done. I don’t know if Miss Tyrell took me entirely seriously, but that didn’t matter, I’m used to that. Anyway, she was kind, and she’s a real lady. No question.
“I had the Range Rover in my sights, first off. I counted three around the stables alone. Two of them had UK plates; neither of the registration numbers matched. I had a run-in with Brian Rowan, he’s head man here, getting the horses settled for the night. Big curly top, thought I was some skanger on the loose, or a bookie’s spy, but he called the house and Miss Tyrell set him straight. I went through, there’s a couple of garages with horse boxes and transporters and so on, but I didn’t see any more Range Rovers.
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