It was only then that Doyle noticed Conor in the corner pressed against the wall. For a moment, he regarded him. ‘Conor, do you know what happened here?’ he asked. ‘Did you see it?’ The boy shook his head.
‘Were you here?’
Again he shook her head.
‘How did the stuff get in the wine bottle? Your auntie says it was in a tin.’
Still Conor did not look at him.
‘Conor?’
‘Mam did it,’ the boy said quietly. ‘The tin me auntie bought went rusty. She thought it was going to leak, so she poured it into that bottle.’
‘How do you know?’ Doyle asked him. ‘How do you know she did that?’
Again he was silent.
‘Conor, how do you know she did that?’
He shrugged. Eyes downcast, he wouldn’t look at Doyle, and he wouldn’t look at his mother lying prostrate under the blanket. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘She must’ve told me, I suppose. I don’t know. I don’t remember.’
Tuesday 2nd September 10.35 am
Frank Maguire drove quickly back to the Square, Dublin’s roads choked with traffic, as they always were. He had the blue light going on the roof, and now and then he’d flick on the siren. Doyle had phoned to tell him that Maggs was back in Ireland and that he was on his way to the Tom Kelly flats to pick him up. It was a breakthrough, there was no doubt about that, but Doyle had a history, and that was why Maguire was scuttling back from his briefing with the commissioner.
As he crossed the river, his phone rang. Clipping the Bluetooth earpiece in place, he answered.
‘Superintendent Maguire.’
‘Hello, Frank, it’s Paddy.’
‘Patrick, what’s going on?’
‘I’m on my way to Limerick,’ his brother told him. ‘I was with Moss last night, but I’ve not seen him today. Is there any news?’
His brother sighed. ‘I’m afraid not – not as far as where she might be, anyway.’
‘God, I was hoping you’d turn something up by now. How is Moss this morning? He was getting through the Jameson when I saw him.’
‘He’s all right. He’s re-looking at the Mary Harrington case.’
‘Yeah, I know. He had the file with him when he got back last night. I suppose it makes sense, given the phone call.’
‘He told you about that?’
‘We’re buddies, Frank. And I was counselling Eva, wasn’t I.’
‘There is a snippet of a lead,’ his brother told him. ‘Conor Maggs is in Dublin.’
Patrick gave a hollow laugh. ‘Of course he is; I knew he would be. I’m with Doyle on this, Frankie. I saw Maggs the night Mary was abducted, remember, and he wasn’t the Maggs from before. Did Moss tell you he’s been on the phone to Eva since the trial? She told me he called a couple of times trying to meet up with her, but she wouldn’t see him.’ He was quiet for a moment and then said: ‘Listen, big brother, there is something I want to ask you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Were you checking up on me again yesterday?’
Frank didn’t reply, but he caught a glimpse of his sudden embarrassment in the rearview mirror.
‘I’m thirty-eight years old, Frank. You don’t need to worry about me.’
‘Not on the phone, Pat, eh.’
His brother laughed. ‘You don’t change, do you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you’re so terribly concerned about what people think: about you; about us. You and me, Frankie: where we came from; who we really are.’
‘Pat, please, I just said not on the phone.’
‘Nobody’s listening, you idiot. Since when did Phoenix Park start bugging your mobile phone?’
‘That’s not the point, you know it’s not. What people think matters, Paddy. How do you suppose I’ve got this far without worrying about what people think?’
‘You’re a politician, Frank, and a consummate one at that. That’s how you’ve got as far as you have. But listen now, would you. I’m a grown man. We’re through the difficult years: you don’t need to keep going into my flat.’
His brother was silent.
‘You were there yesterday. You picked up my post and left it on the table. You were looking at the photo you’re always telling me you despise. I know you were, Frankie. You being a copper and all, it’s taught me to pick up the details.’
‘Paddy, I’m not checking up on you. The truth is I had every reporter in Ireland wanting a piece of me. I needed five minutes to think, and your place was close by. Look, if you want your key back, you can have it. I only kept one for security reasons anyway.’
‘OK, I understand. You’ve a lot on your plate just now, which is why you don’t need to be worrying yourself about me. I’m just fine, Frankie. I go my own way, and I can look after myself.’
‘I know you can.’
‘Good, just so long as we understand each other. Everything will be fine, Frank. Everything will be fine.’
Tuesday 2nd September 10.35 am
Exhausted from forcing herself onto her knees, Eva had slithered over, and she lay in a kind of claustrophobic delirium where now and again screams of panic leapt to her throat, only to be lost in a mouth too dry to utter a sound.
She was slipping in and out of dreams; her mind wandering; thoughts; words; the tick-tock of that clock.
Macabre images plagued her. The blindfold had slipped, and when her eyes were open she could see cracks of light; when her eyes were closed, the darkness melted into the past. That first night with Moss in Listowel, the curry house on the corner: hot food and jugs of iced water.
*
Although Patrick was sitting opposite Corin, it was obvious he wasn’t interested in her. He only had eyes for Eva, just as Moss only had eyes for Eva. Afterwards, Corin told her it didn’t matter; that after all these years she was used to it. But it was embarrassing nonetheless. Eva spotted Conor through the window. He walked past with his head down, as if he didn’t know they were there. Half on her feet, she watched as he crossed the square and took up a position like some kind of unwanted sentinel outside McMahon’s solicitors.
‘That your man again, is it?’ Moss asked her. ‘He seems to have it very bad for you.’
‘He’s all right. My Uncle Joe gets on his case all the time, but he’s not that bad.’
‘He’s sort of got that look about him. You know, when a person thinks they’ve a call on somebody else.’
‘I was friendly to him when we were kids, that’s all.’
‘Soft bitch, so she is,’ Corin muttered.
Eva looked sideways at her. ‘He’s not a bad person, Corin. He has his moments, but he’s not like people say. He’s had a hard time, that’s all.’
‘That’s not what your Uncle Joe says,’ Quinn told her.
‘Yeah, well my Uncle Joe thinks he’s my dad these days, though he’s never been married and wouldn’t know the sick end of a babby from the shitty one.’
*
Awake again, the whole of her left side was numb. From the cold, from the stone or the damp soil – whatever she was lying on under the broken boards. The horror of her plight hit her suddenly: she was buried under a floor, just as poor Mary Harrington had been. Only he’d been back to look at her. She knew he had. She had seen nothing and she’d heard little save the sound of that clock, but every now and again she’d swear he was standing above her.
*
There had been quite a crowd gathered for the last match of the tour, Eva on the sidelines with her pals, cheering on the locals, although she only really had eyes for the Dublin number ten. He kicked every penalty and every conversion, and he scored an individual try when he ran it into the corner.
Man of the match, they gave him a bottle of champagne. Instead of opening it, he shoved it in his coat. Later, when everyone was deciding where they would eat, he took Eva to one side and they got in her mother’s car.
Patrick watched them go. There was something in h
is eyes maybe – a hint of envy – and across the car park Conor watched them too. He hated rugby, hated all sports, and Eva knew he was only there because she was, and she was wondering now whether he took a masochistic pleasure in seeing her with another man.
She was with another man, though the reality was that she’d never been with Conor in the first place. She was with Moss Quinn from Dublin, and that first night he’d walked her home and they’d talked about his job, his flat; the opportunities for a girl up in the capital. Eva was not yet nineteen, and she was just working locally. She’d talked about college, she’d talked about redoing one of the A levels she’d flunked and perhaps going on to university. She’d known the moment he kissed her that it wasn’t going to be just a fling.
They drove to the river. It was a warm night and hadn’t rained in a week now – which was unheard of for this part of the country. Her mother kept a rug in the boot of the car; they spread it on the grass and Moss cracked open the champagne.
They had no glasses so they swigged straight from the bottle.
Eva could smell the water; she could smell the rushes that gathered along the bank where terns nested, and she could smell the hint of Moss’s aftershave. He kissed her. He kissed her again and again, sending shivers across her skin.
He kissed the tops of her breasts through her blouse, and she could feel the flight of a single butterfly inside her chest. She let her hand slip from his shoulder to the flat of his stomach. Her blouse was off, her bra, sending a thrill through her as the breeze began to pick up. It was cooler now. No cloud tonight; the hint of a moon, perhaps.
Moments later, she was completely naked and he was kneeling, his hands, his lips, his tongue probing, caressing.
Gasping suddenly, Eva locked fingers deep in his hair.
Opening her eyes, she caught a glimpse of Conor half-hidden among shadows on the bank. She couldn’t tell whether he knew she could see him, but she could: he was spying on them. She didn’t say anything to Moss. She didn’t call out or try to scare him off: she just lay back while Moss pressed his tongue against her.
She was toying with him and she knew it; she was punishing Conor for following them, for taking things too far. She was punishing him for his foolishness, his loneliness; for believing things that could never be. The moonlight danced on the black water; tugging off Moss’s shirt, she kissed the ridge of muscles across his stomach. Then, with a glance once more to the bushes, she began to unbuckle his jeans.
*
She opened her eyes, and vividly she remembered not just Conor but Patrick. She hadn’t seen him, but suddenly she’d heard him yelling out. It had all kicked off: Moss pulling on his jeans, and Eva covering up; Patrick accusing Conor, and Conor denying everything.
That had been the last time she’d seen him for ages: a few weeks later, she moved to Dublin, and though she and Moss had been married in Listowel, there had been no sign of Conor anywhere.
She was muddled now, her mind wandering, and she wasn’t sure if the whole thing had been a dream or not: she and Moss, Conor and Patrick, the four of them on the banks of the river so many years ago.
She was slipping away, her eyes closing. She had no strength, and no sooner did she decipher a thought than it was lost again.
Tuesday 2nd September 10.45 am
Sitting at Quinn’s desk, Frank Maguire mulled over the conversation he had had with his brother.
They had Jane Finucane waiting downstairs, and Doyle, God bless his cotton socks, had taken Maggs to the same Rathfarnham garda station where he had coaxed a confession from him.
Taking a moment to think, Maguire worked a hand across his scalp. He was trying to figure out whether to make this public – at least the fact that somebody was being questioned. If he didn’t, and Maggs asked for a solicitor – which he undoubtedly would – it might look bad if that was how the news came out. As it was, he had the world’s press camped across the street: they’d taken rooms in the Harcourt and other hotels.
‘Superintendent?’
He looked up to see a young detective from the country at the door. A fresh-faced lad, he hardly looked old enough to have done the training.
‘Detective McMichael,’ the man said by way of explanation, ‘from Wicklow.’
Then Maguire saw the envelope he held edgewise between two fingers.
Grabbing a couple of Kleenex, he spread them out and McMichael laid the envelope down. Behind him the doorway was full of guards. Murphy pushed her way through and was about to speak when she saw Quinn’s name in bold, hand-printed capitals.
Maguire took a pair of surgical rubber gloves from a package in the top drawer, then turned to McMichael. ‘Who’s had contact with this, besides yourself?’
‘Only the post room, sir, but they were instructed not to handle anything that was addressed to Inspector Quinn.’
Maguire peered at Murphy. ‘Where is Quinn? I thought he was coming here.’
Murphy coloured slightly at the fact that he was addressing the question to her, but she looked him in the eye and told him that Quinn had gone to Rathfarnham to meet Doyle.
‘Has he, by God?’ Maguire muttered. ‘That’s all I need. Get him on the phone, would you?’
He slit the top of the envelope and withdrew a piece of lined A4 paper that was folded in half. Looking up, he saw that Murphy was still there.
‘Now, Keira, please.’
Picking up the phone, she punched in the number, all the while watching the superintendent. She saw him unfold the paper and touch his lips with his tongue, a line of perspiration creeping across his brow. Quinn answered, and Murphy passed Maguire the phone.
‘Moss?’ Maguire said. ‘This is Frank.’
‘Hello, Frank. What’s happening?’
‘Have you spoken to Maggs yet?’
‘No, but I plan to.’
‘I ought to tell you to back off and have somebody else do it.’
‘Frank, I’m here to keep a muzzle on Joe Doyle.’
‘Listen, there’s something you need to know before you go in. We’ve just received a note: hand-printed capitals, and addressed to you again.’
‘What kind of note?’
‘Two, two, the lilywhite boys, clothe them all in green, ho, ho.’
On the end of the phone, Quinn seemed to force a breath. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. But a Polaroid, Moss, two phone calls and now this little message. Quite the cryptic, isn’t he?’
‘He’s playing with us,’ Quinn told him. ‘Dangling me on a bit of string. The bastard: he’s no intention of us ever finding Eva.’
Tuesday 2nd September 10.55am
Doyle sipped weak machine coffee from a plastic cup, watching his partner, who was on his mobile phone further along the corridor.
Waiting in the interview room, Maggs seemed to have recovered his composure. He wasn’t quite the gibbering wreck he had been when he saw Doyle at the door; in fact, he’d been calm and measured all the way here in the car, and as of this moment he hadn’t asked for a solicitor.
Doyle was tapping his foot and chewing on the lip of the plastic cup. ‘Come on, Mossie, would you? Get off the fuckin’ phone.’
As if he heard him, Quinn pocketed his mobile and walked back down the corridor. He told Doyle about the note.
‘Lilywhite boys,’ Doyle said. ‘What the hell is all that about?’
‘It’s not about anything,’ Quinn stated grimly. ‘It’s all bullshit, designed to give you and me the run-around.’ At the door, he paused. ‘Did he change his mind about the lawyer?’
Doyle shook his head.
‘Are you happy about how we’re going to play this?’
‘I’d be happier bouncing him off the wall.’
‘Course you would, but that’s not going to get us anywhere.’ With a shake of his head, Quinn pushed open the door.
Maggs was sitting at the table looking pensive. He glanced at the tape recorder and the video camera, and then at the
two police officers.
He smiled nervously at Doyle. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, sergeant,’ he said, ‘but could we make sure we film this interview, please? You told me I’m not under arrest and I don’t need anyone with me, but there are two of you and one of me, and we have a bit of a history, don’t we.’
‘It’s being taped, Conor, don’t worry.’ Quinn sat down opposite him. ‘And you’re right: you’re not under arrest; not at the moment. Jane told us you were with her on Sunday night.’
Maggs sat up straighter now. ‘And you believe her? You’re not going to try and persuade her she’s lying, like you did the last time?’
Pursing his lips, Quinn cast a look at the digital clock on the tape recorder. ‘The sergeant thinks she’s lying,’ he said. ‘She’s Johnny Clogs’ cousin, and that - in Doyle’s black book - makes her a liar by nature.’
‘It’s in the genes,’ Doyle added.
‘He also believes you murdered Mary Harrington,’ Quinn went on, ‘and the fact that you claim he beat the confession out of you has no bearing on the truth of anything.’
Maggs raised his eyebrows. ‘That sounds like Sergeant Doyle. No doubt he still believes I killed my mother too. And while we’re at it, I’m sure he thinks I was giving myself a hand-job when I saw you and Eva down by the river.’ He seemed to grow in confidence. ‘But that wasn’t me, Moss. That was Patrick Maguire.’
Quinn stared at him and, with a slow nod, Maggs added: ‘Have you never asked yourself what he was doing there? Have you never thought it just a mite coincidental that Patrick should turn up like he did and start lipping off?’ He looked bitter suddenly. ‘I saw them together the night of the fleadh cheoil, remember: long before the pair of you made it down. I could see how he was then, all loved-up sitting next to Eva; wishing it was him that had married her instead of you. The truth of it is I could see how it was that very first night in the pub when he had to make do with Corin.’ With a shake of his head, he added: ‘Moss, Patrick’s had a thing for your wife for almost as long as I have.’
The Gathering of Souls Page 14