At the barrister’s lectern, Phelan was speaking again. ‘Your honour,’ he said, ‘the photographs show that my client was beaten so savagely the muscles were detached from his ribs.’
Quinn watched as the judge considered the pictures. He saw his eyes darken and the tip of his nose grow white. He could see Maggs watching the way the judge’s gaze began to narrow under the powdered wig; the way he regarded Quinn and Frank Maguire, Patrick’s brother, the senior investigating officer. Doyle sat impassively, his thick fingers spread in his lap, his cropped hair almost transparent under the courtroom lights. His eyes were as blue as Maggs’s were black, and Maggs was staring at him.
‘Coercion, your honour,’ Phelan stated, ‘Coercion, brutality, torture.’
*
Getting up from his desk, Quinn closed the file. Thanks to the medical reports and the photographs Maggs had taken in advance of his arrest and interrogation, the case collapsed. The judge tore into the police and the prosecution for bringing the case in the first place. For Quinn, it was as vivid a memory now as Maggs on the witness stand.
*
Staring coldly at Doyle, the judge demanded an investigation.
The court emptied, but Quinn remained where he was. Frank Maguire remained where he was too, his face ashen, the nausea of the moment etched deeply into his skin. Only Doyle got up. He stood for a moment, working saliva into his mouth, then turned on his heel and stalked out.
Gathering up his papers, Phelan threw a glance at Quinn. ‘Moss,’ he muttered, ‘what the hell was all that about?’ He turned to Maguire. ‘And you, Frank, what were you thinking, bringing such a ragtag of a case to court?’ He grinned then. ‘Still, I’ll chalk it up as a victory nonetheless. Word of advice to the both of you: if I were you, I’d get the Doyler out to grass and do it quickly. Did you not know we’re in Europe, lads? We have been for a while now.’
Outside, Quinn paused as Maggs made a statement to the press. He could smell the Liffey, that particular scent that was part city, part salt and part history, maybe. Jane Finucane was holding Maggs’s hand, and across the road Doyle was leaning on the wall, gazing upriver.
‘I’ve only a few words,’ Maggs was saying. ‘All this has taken its toll, and I want to move on – and quickly. My life has changed; nothing is as it was before. What I want to tell you is that no matter who you are, no matter that you’re in the darkest moment of adversity, never forget that just around the corner there’s a moment of triumph waiting. I had nothing to do with Mary’s death, but the police had targeted me long ago. I ought to sue them; I ought to take them for every penny I can; my lawyer advises me to do just that. But that night in the cell, the Lord himself came to me, and his suffering was far worse than anything I’d been through. Christ didn’t seek revenge; instead, he offered comfort to his enemies; he offered forgiveness.’
Maggs broke off and looked down the road, to where Doyle had turned and was watching him. ‘I want to tell you that God is alive and well and is living among us, just as he always was. I know, because I’ve seen him with my own eyes. I will not bear a grudge, I will not seek retribution. I forgive Sergeant Doyle for what he did to me. I forgive An Garda Síochána – a misguided police force perhaps, but not one that’s morally corrupt.’
He clutched Jane’s hand. ‘This woman believed in me. When I was at my lowest ebb, she came to me, and we’re together now. We’re leaving Ireland. We’re going to London to start a new life. My story is one of salvation, and my only desire now is to be able to tell it. Thank you; that’s all.’
As Maggs finished speaking, the scrum of reporters and cameramen flocked over to Doyle. He stood where he was with his arms folded, staring at Maggs, before briefly glancing at Quinn.
He said nothing, and ignored the questions. Quinn watched him walk away from the cameras and walk over O’Donovan Bridge. He’d left his car on the other side of the river; no doubt he was heading for Jocky O’Connell’s on Richmond Street and a couple of quiet pints. Quinn saw Maggs and Jane Finucane get into a car. He saw Molly Parkinson with a bitter look on her face. He saw his wife cast a glance his way before ducking her head and hurrying to the corner, where a taxi was waiting.
*
Crossing the detectives’ suite with his hands in his pockets, Quinn could see Eva again as she had been that day. His mouth was dry suddenly; he’d been pushed aside, and there was nothing he could do. At least Maggs had left the country for good: he and his new girlfriend had gone to London, as he’d said they would, to spread the Gospel – or whatever it was they planned to do. According to a couple of contacts Doyle had in the Met, they were living in Muswell Hill.
Doyle had been in the job for three decades. He had never married, and was living in digs with his landlady, Mrs Mulroney, as he’d been doing for twenty years. His life was the job, the pub, the dog track – the streets of this old city, which had seen so much from so many.
Pausing at the window, his thoughts drifted. The office looked out on Harcourt Street and, beyond it, St Stephen’s Green. A stone’s throw to the north-west was Dublin Castle, from where the British had ruled until 1922. For a moment, Quinn reflected: the old building was where the Archbishop of Cashel had been tortured in the days of Elizabeth I. His jailers had fashioned a metal boot for his leg, then filled it with oil and salt and ‘cooked’ it over an open fire.
Downstairs, Sergeant Dunne was on duty. Dunne, originally from the country, was a long-time crony of Doyle’s. He was unkempt, with a large belly and a shiny, bald head. He looked up as Quinn opened the security door.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Dunne asked. ‘Coming in of a Sunday night … I’m not sure that could be classed as conscientious so much as masochistic, maybe.’
Quinn half-smiled. ‘Are you still here, Davey? If you must know, I came looking for a packet of smokes I was hiding after telling myself it was time to knock it on the head.’
‘Took me a year and a day to quit,’ Dunne observed, ‘but I got there in the end.’
‘So there’s hope for me yet, is there? Thank God for that. Night, Davey.’
‘Goodnight, Moss. Take care of yourself.’
At the gate, Quinn felt in his pocket for the cigarettes, but he needed a drink, and with the hotel only across the street, there was little point in lighting up. He had to wait for a couple of taxis to trundle past, then an old man and a handful of tourists. Dublin was like a magnet for tourists these days, and Quinn could spot the ‘blow-ins’ a mile off. ‘Too long in one city,’ he told himself. ‘Your whole life in the one place … it’s not good for you, Moss.’
Sitting at the bar he ordered a Guinness, and while it was settling the barman gave him a small glass of Jameson. Quinn nursed it, his mobile phone on the bar and Murphy’s number at the top of the list. His palm itched. The Guinness settled and he watched as Billy topped it off.
‘No Doyle tonight, then?’ Billy asked him.
‘It’s Sunday: you’ve no music and the old buzzard will be on Talbot Street, most likely.’
Quinn sipped the Guinness, still conscious of Murphy’s number. Billy wiped the polished bar, flipped the cloth over his shoulder and wiped it again.
‘Is it right you and Doyle had a bit of a falling-out?’ he asked. ‘After that case was in all the papers, I heard that the two of you had words.’
Quinn sat back. ‘That was six months ago, Billy. But yeah you’re right, we did. Sometimes the Doyler has the subtlety of a flying house brick, and I reminded him of as much after a few pints when we were toe to toe on Abbey Street.’
‘That’s what I heard: the two of you going at it, with Daniel O’Connell watching.’
‘It didn’t come to blows, Billy. I’m not so stupid I’d mix it with the old mouldy-arse.’
He felt a strong urge to call Murphy. She was young and she was attractive and, like him, she was married. Since the Naas inquiry had been ordered, the two of them had been working closely together. They shared the same car, sometimes
the same desk, and they had pored over those five missing-person files sitting side by side. He had never strayed from his wife, had never intended to. But then he’d never imagined he’d be living above the Garda Club either, a year after his son’s death.
He stepped outside for a smoke and, leaning back against the railings, gazed across the road to the flat roof of Harcourt Square – like the head of an insect bristling with antennae. In the palm of his hand he held the mobile, Murphy’s number still showing. Thinking about her now, the saliva was draining. It was only when she answered that he realised he’d even dialled the number.
‘Hello Moss.’ Her voice sounded soft and warm and inviting.
His sounded thick in his throat. ‘Keira,’ he said, ‘what’re you doing?’
*
When he got to the corner of Harrington Street, she climbed out of her car. He noticed her dark hair and olive skin; she considered him with a smile. Quinn realised that he was trembling. The anticipation of being alone with this woman, when he’d spent the last six months trying to save his marriage, was suddenly intoxicating.
All was quiet: nothing going on at the club tonight, no function, no Brazilian dancing or whatever the samba sound he heard so often was. Across the way, St Kevin’s Church dominated, and as they stood there among fallen autumn leaves the rain began to fall.
‘What did you tell your husband?’ he asked her.
‘I didn’t tell him anything. He’s not at home. He’s in Wicklow playing golf with his brother: they’ve been away all weekend and won’t be home till tomorrow. I was going to mention it on Friday, when we were packing the stuff for Naas, but …’
They entered the building by the side door. It was as if Quinn’s senses were suddenly heightened: he could hear every rustle of her clothing; he could hear the beating of his heart. He could scent her womanhood like a hint of perfumed gossamer.
She walked in front of him wearing jeans and a tight-fitting top. He watched the way the denim hugged the contours of her thighs and he could feel his breath grow short. At the door she turned so he could fit the key in the lock, and her breasts brushed against him. He could see his wife, only she had pushed him away; he could see the son he wasn’t allowed to grieve.
The flat was the last one the Garda retained. It was no more than a living room with a kitchenette and a bathroom. Through the open door to the other room, he could see the bed, which was still unmade.
Murphy perched on the settee, her gaze almost unnervingly on his. Her hair was drawn back, the gold loops of her earrings piercing the exact centre of each lobe. Quinn studied her openly now as he’d done covertly for more than a couple of months. There was something about this woman that touched the loneliness that had first engulfed him twelve months previously. He had a bottle of wine in the fridge. He poured two glasses, fetched an ashtray and produced the half-packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Deliberately, he switched off his phone.
‘You know, I was in the office earlier,’ he said. ‘I was kicking my heels, and we’re moving tomorrow and …’
‘Are we taking Mary Harrington’s file with us?’
He pushed out his lips. ‘You asked me that on Friday and I said no. I dug it out just now because today at the memorial, Eva was still wearing the necklace Maggs gave her. She put it on after Danny was killed and she’s been wearing it pretty much ever since.’ He lifted his shoulders. ‘I don’t know why: some comfort in what she used to believe, or something.’
‘So have you changed your mind then?’
He thought about that for a moment. ‘About Mary, no. They were single mothers, Murph: that’s the common factor. We know Mary was pregnant, but only because of an autopsy.’
Murphy sat back, her wineglass cupped between both palms, and the faintest imprint of her lips around the rim. Neither of them spoke now; there was an awkwardness between them that he’d not been aware of before.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come,’ she suggested.
Quinn studied her. ‘You could’ve said no.’
‘I know I could.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
She laughed then. ‘Because I wanted to see you: I’ve been wanting to see you since the moment I was assigned.’
‘Doyle suspects there’s something going on between us; you know that, don’t you. Jesus. I might be the DI, Murph, but he still behaves like I’m fresh out of Templemore.’
Suddenly the awkwardness was gone. Quinn didn’t care anymore. Murphy didn’t care. Setting down her glass, she got to her feet. Then, slowly, she bent to where he was sitting and, cupping his cheek, she kissed him. The touch of her lips – forbidden, unlooked-for but suddenly sublime. It was wrong, it was too complicated, and yet there was a simplicity to it as well that sent a shudder through him. Hand in hand now, they went through to the bedroom.
Naked, he lay against her.
This was more than sex, this was more than lust or desire or loneliness: this was the culmination of six weeks working together so closely that they knew the sound of each other’s footsteps. This was more than frustration or relief, it was more than anger. For the last year, almost, he’d been helpless.
He had witnessed the look in his wife’s eyes when their son was taken, and he’d had to watch as the light that burned for him had quietly faded. He’d seen her reaction when they set the date for Maggs’s trial and she’d told him he was looking for a scapegoat. She’d told him it wasn’t about Maggs at all; it wasn’t even about the murder of Mary Harrington. It was about Moss Quinn, Dublin’s finest: the copper who couldn’t catch the man who killed his son.
Sunday 31st August 10.10 pm
Eva’s hands were bound, her feet tied at the ankles; with the tape across her mouth, she was unable to speak. He peered into her eyes. She was quaking, quivering – muscle spasms caused by fear and confusion. The incomprehension of what was happening showed in her face. Did she know him?
Did she think she knew him? Did she recognise his voice?
Crouching beside her, he rested the flat of a forearm across his thigh and cocked his head to one side. His voice rattled like water over stone. ‘Do you want one last word with him? Do you wish you’d had the chance to tell him you loved him? Do you wish you could’ve said goodbye, instead of coming upon him as you did, with his skull smashed and his brains all over the pavement?’
With tears in her eyes, she just stared at him. ‘There was no one to take responsibility; no one to blame. No one except your husband.’ He fell silent then for a moment. ‘Of course, it means you’re on your own now. It’s what you asked for, but I wonder - is it what you wanted?’ He peered at her through the ski mask. ‘You don’t know, do you? You’re so confused. Of course you are. It is confusing.’ He got to his feet and looked down, silhouetted against the trees. ‘But it’s too late. You understand that, don’t you? Too late, Eva: too late to change it now.’
Eva couldn’t move: all she could think about was Laura and Jess at home by themselves; desperately, she tried to free her hands. She tried to get up but her ankles were so tightly bound she could no longer feel her feet. She tried to scream but a swath of sticky tape covered her mouth. Tears streamed; her panic was absolute. There was nothing she could do. He hoisted her over his shoulder and, with her head hanging down and blood rushing to it, he carried her into the trees.
Sunday 31st August 10.17 pm
John Hanrahan knew his son wasn’t home. He was lying in bed in his dilapidated house on the banks of the Shannon estuary, a flattened expanse of reed and water where fishermen liked to trawl. Jimmy hadn’t been home all day: he’d been in late last night and was gone again this morning. It was late now, and old John knew the boy wouldn’t be home.
He lay in the dark and listened. Every night he listened. But when his son was home, when Jimmy was there, it wasn’t quite so bad. Jimmy never got up to go downstairs with him; Jimmy never witnessed anything. But just knowing he was in the house made the task a little easier.
Whe
n John was alone, however, and the wind howled, it was almost impossible to climb out of bed.
When he did finally get up, sometimes the fear was so intense that it stopped the blood from flowing. His legs would seize before he was halfway down the stairs. Then he couldn’t go down at all and he’d have to wake Jimmy, and the lad would come out shouting the odds about the old man and his ravings. But he wasn’t mad; whatever they said, John knew he wasn’t mad.
He saw the dead in his kitchen; they’d be sitting at his table when the devil came to cut cards for their souls. They all said he was mad; Jimmy said he was mad. But old John knew how it was: this wasn’t madness, it was penance for all he had never been to Lizzy. His poor wife, she’d taken her own life and was in purgatory now, and it was his task to plead for her. In all these years, he’d not seen her. He’d seen that girl, though. He’d told them he’d seen her when they dug her up across the way, but they didn’t believe him. The coppers, they just gave him a pat on the back and said ‘Thanks, John’. But that was all they did. He’d not seen her again, of course; he rarely saw anyone twice.
He heard them all the time, though. And he could hear them now, and the knowledge that they were down there sent a shiver down his spine. He had to get up. He dare not stay in bed, because if he didn’t get up and Lizzy came and he missed her, the torment would go on and on.
He could hear them in the kitchen.
He could hear them all the clearer because his son wasn’t home. Voices they were, low and hoarse, whispers almost; one by one, they called him.
Monday 1st September 3 am
Waking from the dream, Patrick Maguire could still see her face. He could hear her voice, almost smell her cigarette: he could picture the way a single line of smoke would eddy to a ceiling stained yellow by years of the same. Sitting upright, he could hear her again as if she were in some darkened corner of the room. But the voice was inside his head; the way she spoke to his brother and never to him. He could picture her refusing even to look at him.
The Gathering of Souls Page 3