The Gathering of Souls

by Gerry O'Carroll

  The garda didn’t need to use him very often, though he had been asked to assess some people who had been victims of child abuse at the hands of Catholic priests.

  Quinn knew him through discussions they had had about the five missing women; Dr Ahern had created a ‘suspect profile’ for him.

  Dr Ahern wore an open-necked shirt under a designer jacket and reclined in a handmade leather chair. ‘Are we talking about your wife, Moss?’ he asked.

  Quinn held his gaze. ‘Is it possible that someone with the kind of profile we discussed before could consider Eva in the same fashion as the others?’

  ‘It’s possible, yes. Given that you and she were estranged – and from what you say it was at her instigation – if someone was aware of it, they could stretch it, maybe, if they were of that mindset.’

  ‘In two of the other cases,’ Quinn went on, ‘the fathers were doing time in Mountjoy. They were in the process of getting divorced, Liam, remember? By getting rid of their husbands, both Janice Long and Karen Brady became single mothers. With me and Eva, it’s not that dissimilar, is it?’

  ‘Moss,’ Ahern looked closely at him, ‘I’ve just said: if we’re talking about that kind of mindset, it’s possible. Now, I’ve been as worried about your wife as the rest of lreland. What’ve you found out that I don’t know about?’

  Quinn sat forward. ‘A woman gives birth to two illegitimate sons. She kills them and buries them. Then on the way home, she sees two boys playing and tells them that if they were hers, she would dress them in good clothes and take care of them. The boys tell her that when they were hers, she didn’t take care of them; she murdered them. They tell her she will be damned for it.’

  For a few short seconds, there was silence. Considering Quinn for a moment, Ahern gazed out of the window. ‘The Ballad of the Cruel Mother’, he said:

  ‘She sat down below a thorn,

  Fine flowers in the valley,

  And there she has her sweet babe born

  And the green leaves they grow rarely.’

  ‘She has taken out her penknife,

  Fine flowers in the valley,

  And robbed the sweet babe of its life

  And the green leaves they grow rarely.’

  He turned again, and Quinn sat forward in his chair. ‘There was once a boy who in his mother’s eyes barely even existed. She never fed or changed him; she didn’t even give him a name. She never bothered to load any of the software you talk about. That, along with everything else, was left up to his elder brother. But his brother was only seven when this second lad was born. When he was eighteen, their mother died and the younger brother was placed with the Society of Christian Brothers. Big brother went off to join the police force, and everything seemed to be all right – that was, until his little brother reached eighteen. Then he went into the chapel and pissed on a statue of the Virgin.’

  Wednesday 3rd September 10 am

  Murphy was at her desk when the superintendent walked in. He looked drawn and pale, the fatigue of the past couple of days seeming to hang like weights from his shoulders. He didn’t speak to anyone, just went into Quinn’s office and draped his jacket over the back of the chair.

  Grabbing the notes she’d made, Murphy knocked on the door.

  ‘What is it?’ Maguire said.

  ‘The call, superintendent: the one to Inspector’s Quinn’s house. The Eircom team just told me it came from a phone box in Harold’s Cross.’

  Maguire sat back then, looking thoughtful. ‘Where was Maggs when Quinn and Doyle picked him up?’

  ‘He was attending a prayer meeting at the school next door to the hospice and Mount Jerome Cemetery.’

  ‘And they interviewed him at Crumlin Road?’

  She nodded.

  ‘OK, thank you.’

  ‘Jimmy Hanrahan was interviewed at Terenure, superintendent,’ Murphy added. ‘When the results came in, he was given the bus fare home and told to get across the river to Amiens Street.’

  Again, Maguire looked up at her. ‘A route that took him through Harold’s Cross.’

  ‘That’s right.’ She glanced briefly at the papers she was holding. ‘There’s one more thing, superintendent, something I mentioned to Sergeant Doyle.’

  Perching on the chair opposite, she told him about the idea she’d had about the lost mice being blind. ‘I did some investigating into the origins of the “Three Blind Mice” nursery rhyme,’ she said. ‘And most commentators think it’s quite modern – a couple of hundred years old, maybe. But there is one theory that claims it’s much older.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘There’s a school of thought that believes it refers to Bloody Mary, Mary I of England: Henry VIII’s daughter by Catherine of Aragon. She came to the English throne in 1553 when her half-brother died of TB.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So she was a Catholic like her mother, and she began to repeal the changes her father had made when he split from Rome. In 1555, she blinded and then burnt three men at the stake: Hugh Latimer, Nicholas Ridley and Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury.’

  Maguire considered her. ‘A bit of English history, eh? It doesn’t tell us a whole lot, does it?’

  ‘Not on the face of it, I suppose, no, but it’s all I managed to come up with. I don’t know, I just thought I’d mention it.’

  ‘Well thank you, guard.’ Maguire took a moment to think. ‘Tell me more about the phone box.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell, really. I organised forensics; they might get a latent print.’

  ‘Get hold of Moss, Keira, and tell him it was Harold’s Cross.’

  *

  Quinn and Doyle left Ahern’s office and walked back to their car. As Quinn opened the driver’s door, his mobile rang. ‘Keira,’ he said. ‘How’s Frank this morning? Is he looking for us?’

  ‘He asked me to phone you,’ she said. Then she told him about the call box.

  ‘Harold’s Cross?’ Quinn was squinting at Doyle.

  ‘Just before seven o’clock. I’ve got a forensics team on its way, and I’m heading down there myself.’

  ‘Maggs was in Harold’s Cross,’ Quinn stated.

  ‘So was Jimmy Hanrahan: that’s why the super wanted me to tell you. He asked that I call you specifically.’

  ‘OK, we’ll get down to Tom Kelly and see if Maggs is in. Stop off on your way, Murph. Meet us at the flats.’

  There was no one home when they pulled up behind Richmond Street. Staring at the darkened front door, Doyle blew out his cheeks.

  ‘What the fuck is going on here, Moss? First the Maggot, then Jimmy the Poker and Paddy bloody Maguire, now Maggs again. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, are we dancing to our own tune or is somebody pulling our strings?’

  Quinn shook his head. ‘I’m buggered if I know. Every time I think we might be getting somewhere, something else crops up.’

  Doyle thought for a moment. ‘So now we’re in this neck of the woods, shall we nip along the canal and see if your man is home?’

  ‘Let’s wait for Murphy: she can give us the lowdown on Frank. He’ll have spoken to Paddy by now; he’s bound to have done the business by now.’ He was leaning on the rail looking down at the spiked railings two storeys below. ‘You know what?’ he muttered. ‘We’re not going to find her in time. For all our efforts, Doyler, we’re not going to find her in time.’

  Doyle didn’t say anything. Earlier he’d been encouraging, but now he wasn’t so sure. Quinn looked round at him. ‘We’ve no time left, and we’re no nearer finding out where she is. For God’s sake, what am I going to say to the kids?’

  They sat in the car with the window rolled down and Quinn trailing cigarette smoke. He glanced at his watch. ‘Twelve hours,’ he said. ‘That’s all we’ve got left.’

  Doyle didn’t say anything. In the door mirror, he saw Murphy pull off Richmond Street behind the wheel of a Ford.

  They all three got out, and they asked her if Frank had said anything about Paddy.r />
  ‘Not to me,’ she replied, ‘but then he’s not saying very much to anyone right now.’

  Lips pursed, Quinn cast a glance at Doyle.

  Murphy looked puzzled. ‘Is there something I don’t know?’

  ‘I need to call the kids,’ Quinn said. Taking out his mobile phone, he wandered towards the main road.

  Murphy turned to Doyle. ‘Sarge, what’s going on?’

  Doyle drew breath through his nose. ‘You look knackered, Keira. Have you managed to get any sleep?’

  ‘No, but then who has?’ Still she peered quizzically at him. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Did you turn anything up with that theory you told me about?’

  ‘I had a look, but there wasn’t much to be found. A bit of English history: how Bloody Mary blinded three Protestant martyrs. Put their eyes out, then burned them at Oxford University. I told Maguire but he didn’t think there was anything to it.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose there …’ Doyle seemed to freeze where he stood. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he murmured.

  ‘Sarge?’

  Whirling around, he called to Quinn. ‘Moss, get off the phone.’ Yanking the car door open, he was behind the wheel in an instant. ‘Murphy,’ he said, ‘get the helicopter scrambled. Tell them to land at the sports ground on Crumlin Road.’ He craned round in the seat. ‘Moss!’ he yelled again. ‘For the love of God, man, will you get in the bloody car?’

  With the passenger door open, he slewed the car around and screeched to a halt beside Quinn.

  ‘What is it?’ Quinn demanded, sliding in beside him. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  Doyle slapped the magnetic light on the roof. ‘I know where she is, man. I know where Eva is.’

  Wednesday 3rd September 10.25 am

  With the siren screaming, Doyle pulled onto Richmond Street heading for the bridge. Across the canal, they were racing west following the water towards the Crumlin Road.

  ‘Doyler, for God’s sake!’ Quinn demanded.

  ‘It’s Carrigafoyle, Moss. Eva is lying right where he dumped Mary Harrington.’

  In his mind’s eye, Quinn could see the ruins of the cottage across the estuary from the old castle.

  ‘Three mice who couldn’t find their way,’ Doyle gesticulated. ‘Murphy was right: they couldn’t find their way because they were blind.’ He overtook a lorry on the wrong side of the road. ‘Three blind mice: she looked it up and found three Protestant martyrs blinded and burned by Mary I of England.’

  He glanced sideways now. ‘One of them was Cranmer, Henry VIII’s archbishop.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So Lislaughtin Abbey: 1580, Sir William Pelham, Elizabeth I’s man – Elizabeth who was Mary’s half-sister, and Henry’s daughter by Anne Boleyn. First he battered the O’Connor keep at Carrigafoyle, then he burned the abbey and hanged all the monks, including three old fellers in their seventies. They were blind, Moss, they were blind.’

  Quinn sat there taking it in. Then he felt a shiver of hope rush through him. ‘Jesus, Doyler,’ he said.

  ‘But Carrigafoyle, why would he go back there?’

  ‘Why not go back there? Would we think to look there when Eva was abducted in Dublin? The photo, the picture: it’s not sandstone, and it’s not a stone on the sand. It’s a stone in the sand. It’s in an indentation, a hole: a rock in a hole. The rock in the hole, Moss. In Irish, that’s Carrigafoyle.’

  ‘Only Mary knows,’ Quinn muttered. ‘Only Mary knows because Eva is lying right where Mary lay.’ He slapped the dashboard. ‘Christ, man, you’re right.’ Grabbing his phone, he dialled Harcourt Square.

  ‘Frank, it’s Moss. Is Murphy back there?’

  ‘No, but she’s been on the phone. The chopper is on its way, Moss. What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘She’s in Kerry, Frank. Eva’s at the dumpsite where we found Mary Harrington.’

  Wednesday 3rd September 11 am

  Old John Hanrahan heard the commotion from his living room, sirens howling from the Ballylongford Road. He had a mug of tea at his elbow and had been watching children’s cartoons on the satellite TV system that Jimmy had got hold of. John loved cartoons; it was the simplicity, the way everything worked out, that made him happy.

  Sirens meant trouble for someone, though, and he could hear them getting closer. He hated the sound; twice now he’d heard it along this stretch of water, and twice the guards had spoken to him. The first time had been to tell him his wife had been dragged from the Shannon; the second was a couple of years back, after he saw the girl in his kitchen.

  They found her across the way in the old turf-cutter’s cottage that nobody had lived in since before he could remember. He knew it was her as soon as the guards showed up, and he’d harnessed the horse to the cart in case they needed help to bring her out. He told them he’d seen her sitting at his kitchen table waiting on the devil, but of course they didn’t believe him. Listening to the sirens, he could see her again; he could see her as if it was yesterday.

  *

  Whispers, that’s what he heard: whispers and the sound of footsteps. He saw a flash of light and bit his tongue so hard he thought he’d draw blood. Then the whispers died away and he heard a scraping sound coming from the kitchen. The old fear gripped him; the fear and the anticipation. The gathering of souls in his kitchen. He might see his wife, he might see Elizabeth; he’d been waiting for her for so long; he knew he had to go down.

  Lying in the dark with sweat prickling his brow like the legs of a hunting spider, the terror was all-consuming. He could feel the sheets sticking to him; the darkness of the bedroom was total.

  But he knew he would have to get up.

  Reaching for the bottle of water the priest had blessed, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

  The house was suddenly silent; if Jimmy was home, he was in bed and not stirring: Jimmy never stirred for the dead.

  The chill worked from his shoulders into his neck; it worked into his hair, fingers of fear plucking senses strung tight as strings on a violin.

  He faltered, the door still closed, wishing he didn’t have to do this. After so many years, he had never got used to it, and his nerves were frayed to the point where the slightest sound made him jump. The doctor, the priest: they told him he should leave this house and move into a care home, where the demons could no longer haunt him.

  But he couldn’t do that: this was his task, his duty, his penance for the years of neglect.

  On the landing, he hesitated. The only light was now that spreading from the bulb outside the front door. It bathed the hall in a kind of distant gold. He could hear no sound but his footfall. One step at a time: his legs were not what they were. He gripped the banister tightly.

  In the hall, he paused again.

  He moved into the kitchen. His heart was high in his chest; he could hear every hollow beat; he could feel the moisture on his palms; the knot that twisted his stomach so badly sometimes he pissed blood.

  She was sitting at the table: long, dark hair; her head was bowed and he couldn’t make out her face.

  *

  He could not make out her face, but he remembered that night as vividly as he remembered anything: he’d sprinkled water all around the room, but still she sat there waiting. He’d gone back to bed. Like a child, he lay down and pulled the covers up to his chin. A few minutes later, he heard a door creak and then the pad of someone on the stairs. The footsteps halted on the landing, and then Jimmy’s door opened. He breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t alone. He must’ve fallen asleep, because he heard no more; later, when they dragged the poor girl from across the way, he knew it was her he had seen. He told them: the guards. Not only had she been murdered, she’d had to cut the cards for her soul.

  Shuffling to the window, he gazed across the water. It was a cold morning, rain brushing the coast from the Atlantic. He could see police cars driving past the castle. They didn’t stop: they rounded the point and pulled u
p at the five-bar gate just as they had before.

  Wednesday 3rd September Midnight

  From the air, they could see the ruins of the ancient O’Connor stronghold. The windscreen was smeared with rain; the grey clouds were low and oppressive, as they had been all the way from Dublin. Quinn hunched in his seat as the pilot brought them into a hover. Below them, the grass, and the water that edged it, rippled as one in the downdraft. He could see where the British had breached the castle walls; he could see the old abbey and the graveyard where the monks had been hanged or put to the sword.

  As they landed, Quinn’s gaze was fixed on the almost-roofless cottage. It looked as though it had half-sunk in the sea of boggy grass. This was where they had found Mary. Looking down now, he could see guards in uniform wearing wellington boots; he could see spotters with dogs; he could see search specialists gathered in paper suits.

  They hadn’t been able to get anybody on the radio; either the helicopter system was playing up, or it was atmospherics, but right now he and Doyle were blind. They had no idea what the locals had found, but he could see from their body language that any urgency in the search was gone.

  There was an air of defeat, of resignation. As the chopper descended, a chill seemed to surround him.

  Doyle felt it too: the big man was almost rigid in his seat, grey stubble grazing his jowls, his iron-coloured hair sticking up at the back of his head.

  ‘I’m not going to set her down,’ the pilot told them. ‘The ground’s too wet: I’ll be sinking in mud before I know it. I’ll drop as low as I can, and you two will have to jump out.’

  With a nod, Quinn opened the door. He could see the faces of his colleagues; the dogs held on shortened leashes snapping and barking soundlessly as the noise from the chopper drowned everything out. The rotors seemed to splutter and the aircraft dipped a little, then the pilot gave them the signal. Unclipping their safety belts, they dropped into the grass.