The Gathering of Souls

by Gerry O'Carroll

  Quinn shoved the door open and for a moment the two men just stared at each other, the silence between them brittle.

  ‘I hear you want to talk to me.’ Patrick’s tone was terse, the look on his face almost angry.

  His brother opened his mouth to speak, but Patrick waved him down.

  ‘I don’t need any help,’ he asserted. ‘There’s nothing here I can’t deal with.’ He turned again to Quinn. ‘Just because I had a shitty upbringing, and you think I fit the psychological profile, doesn’t mean anything.’ Pausing for a moment, he glanced briefly at his brother. ‘Now, do you want to talk in here with all those detectives watching, or shall we go somewhere where it won’t embarrass Frank?’

  They went down the hall to a meeting room, Frank’s face the colour of slate. Patrick was defiant as he turned once more to Quinn. ‘So tell me, Moss, what is it you think you know, exactly?’

  Quinn considered him carefully. ‘I know you cared about Eva,’ he said. ‘I know you wanted her and I know you put all that aside to counsel her.’

  Patrick lifted one eyebrow.

  ‘If you have any idea where she is, then please, for the sake of all that, just tell me.’

  ‘I have no idea where she is. Of course I don’t. Why should I?’

  Quinn stepped a little closer to him. ‘Because she’s a single mother like Janice and Karen, and just as you counselled Eva, you counselled their husbands.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You counselled Willie Moore, the drug dealer who calculates every equation, be it financial or emotional, down to the last penny. Tell me, why didn’t you let anyone know he’d told you Mary was pregnant?’

  ‘Moss,’ Frank butted in, ‘we’ve got Jimmy Hanrahan for that.’

  ‘Shut up, Frank.’ Quinn bristled suddenly. ‘Your brother said he’d talk to me, so let him talk, will you?’

  ‘Mossie,’ Doyle said, laying a gentle palm on his shoulder. ‘Easy boy, that’s the super you’re talking to.’

  Quinn threw off his hand. ‘Right now, I couldn’t give a fuck if it was the commissioner.’ He turned back to Patrick. ‘Answer the question, Paddy.’

  ‘It was confidential. I told you, client confidence.’

  ‘You’re not a doctor, you’re not a lawyer, and you’re not a fucking priest. You’re not even a monk, are you? You blew any chance of that when you took a piss on the Virgin.’

  Patrick held his gaze. ‘I was eighteen and I was drunk.’

  ‘Drunk, were you? Is that how it was: so shit-faced you didn’t know what you were doing? Maybe you were, Paddy; maybe you were. On the other hand, maybe you did it because you imagined you were pissing on your own dead mother, who’d never given a shit about you.’

  Patrick sucked breath. ‘Now I told you I’d talk to you, but you’ve the charm of a peat bog, so you do. You’re out of order, Moss. She may not have got along with me but she was my mother, and no matter what any of you says, I got along with her.’

  ‘Bullshit. You hated her, you despised the drunken bitch.’

  Patrick levelled a finger at him. ‘You keep on and I’m going to knock you flat on your arse.’

  Frank stepped forward, but again Patrick waved him away. ‘Stay out of it, Frank,’ he snapped. ‘I told you, I can fight my own battles.’

  He looked darkly at Quinn. ‘Now, I know you’re under pressure, Moss, and I know time is running out. But I came here of my own accord, so if you want to talk, keep it civil. If not, you can charge me with something or you can shove it. It makes no odds to me.’

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ Frank butted in. ‘Moss, you get a hold of yourself, or you can get out of here. Shouting the odds is not the answer to anything.’

  Quinn was in his face then, spittle flying from his lips. ‘I want a warrant to search his flat,’ he demanded, ‘If you won’t get it, I’ll go down to the Bridewell and put a case to the judge myself.’

  Fumbling in his pocket, Patrick brought out his house key. ‘You don’t need a warrant, inspector. Be my fucking guest.’

  Doyle took Quinn outside while Frank spoke to his brother. Lighting a cigarette, Quinn squatted against the wall and drew smoke into his lungs. ‘Sorry about that, Doyler,’ he muttered. ‘I lost it there for a moment.’

  ‘Course you did, lad. Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘I’m thrashing around, I know I am. I suspect everyone. Call myself a policeman? Jesus, am I fuck!’

  ‘You’re personally involved, that’s all. It’s hard to be objective – no, it’s nigh-on impossible to be objective – when the clock’s almost to zero and you’re personally involved.’

  ‘Jimmy Hanrahan,’ Quinn stated, staring across the car park to where a large black cat sauntered from bonnet to bonnet. ‘I can see him for Mary, no problem: I can see him stuffing her in his car and taking her home. I can see him taking that photo.’

  ‘But you can’t see him abducting Eva, and you can’t see him being responsible for the others.’

  ‘No, and whichever way we look at it, Patrick’s the only person who knew Mary was pregnant.’

  ‘But would he smuggle her into the old man’s house and take a snapshot of her?’

  ‘He might if he was trying to frame Jimmy. He knew the history. He knew about the old man and his ghosts: everyone did. Doyler, if he wanted someone to take the fall, Jimmy the Poker was perfect. Short of that, there was the Maggot, only he crawled away.’ Getting to his feet, he stamped on the butt of the cigarette. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. Jesus, fuck this.’ He stared at the cat, which was sitting on the roof of one of the cars now, looking back at him. ‘Talking of maggots, Doyler, has Johnny Clogs been in touch?’

  Doyle shook his head.

  ‘The bastard. When all this is over, I’m going to remember how helpful he was.’

  Doyle paced the yard with his hands in his pockets, ignoring the rain, which was falling more heavily now. ‘It wasn’t just Willie Moore or Janice and Karen, was it?’ he said. ‘Whoever said what and whoever asked to see who, there’s no getting away from the fact that when Maggs was in Mountjoy, he and Patrick were face to face.’

  Quinn was looking bitter. ‘He’s been my friend for twenty years. But the dog that bites you, Doyler, is the one you least expect.’

  Murphy came outside then. Looking up and down the drive, she spotted them, threw a raincoat around her shoulders and walked over.

  ‘Moss,’ she said, ‘we’re going to search Patrick’s flat, and the super wants to know if you’re coming with us.’

  Wednesday 3rd September 3.30 pm

  A handful of cars made their way along the canal, with Quinn and Doyle following Murphy and Maguire.

  The two detectives were silent. Soon, Eva would have been missing for seventy-two hours.

  Quinn had confirmed the reality of her situation with Doctor Ahern before they left his office that morning. It was as he feared: much longer, and his wife would go into a coma which she would be unlikely to come out of.

  In Kerry, he’d spoken to Laura and Jess and to Eva’s mother and sisters; the whole town was keeping a vigil for her safe return. It wasn’t just them: her plight had captured the hearts of the nation, and it seemed as though everyone was looking for her.

  Quinn felt nauseous with worry; the weariness lined his face and dulled his senses; he could no longer think clearly. As they pulled into a parking space, he turned to Doyle in the driving seat alongside him.

  ‘What’re we doing?’ he spoke, as if he was asking the question of himself. ‘This is Paddy we’re talking about: my mate, for pity’s sake. So his brother kept their past to himself. If I was the super, so would I, probably.’

  Inside the flat, the atmosphere was electric, static bouncing almost visibly between Quinn and Patrick as they faced each other across the tiny living room.

  ‘Here we all are then,’ Patrick said. ‘It’s not very big, so it shouldn’t take long.’ He indicated the photo on the mantelpiece. ‘There she is, Moss, the drunken bitch. J
ust like Maggs’s mammy, only ours didn’t open her legs but for a couple of fellers, eh Frank?’

  ‘Shut up, Patrick,’ Frank told him. He went through to the bedroom.

  Patrick called after him: ‘Don’t worry about what anybody thinks, you already made superintendent, and you were never going to make commissioner.’ He turned again to Quinn. ‘The truth will out, eh Moss? The truth will always out.’ He looked bitter suddenly. ‘By the way, while we’re here, what else did the Maggot tell you – apart from accusing me of murder? Did he say it was me giving myself a hand shandy while you and Eva were at it?’ He winked then at Doyle. ‘Good-looking girl, your niece; worth a shuffle she is, for sure.’

  Frank called from the bedroom. ‘Patrick, shut your foul mouth or I’ll kick you down the stairs myself.’

  Patrick slumped into a chair. ‘By the way, Moss,’ he said, ‘who’ve you been talking to over at Islandbridge? Peter Farrell, is it? When he was younger, he had the hots for me: used to walk around with no underpants under his cassock because the material rubbing his cock gave him a hard-on. Did you hear that, Frankie? Our mam only threatened to send us to the men in black dresses, but you had the beating of her.’

  Again his brother appeared in the doorway. His face was hard as stone now; he had one hand thrust in his pocket and the other fisted at his side. For a long, chill minute, he stared at Patrick where he sat in the chair. ‘You’re letting yourself down, Pat. You’re letting yourself down.’

  Patrick made a face. ‘Well bugger me, there’s the shame of it.’

  Still Frank held his eye.

  Patrick was about to make another crack but he caught himself. He stared at his brother now, and his face gradually lost its colour. Lifting his closed fist, Frank uncurled fingers to show what he held in his palm. ‘In the shoebox under your bed.’

  Patrick stared, Quinn stared; Doyle took a couple of paces towards Frank, then stopped.

  ‘What the hell are you doing with it?’ Frank demanded. ‘Why was it under your bed?’

  The silence that followed seemed to echo from the walls.

  The Sacred Heart in tarnished gold; there was no chain.

  Quinn’s mouth was dry. In his mind’s eye, he could see Eva lying on Danny’s grave.

  Patrick didn’t say anything. His mouth was open but he uttered no words; he just sat there, his face white and both hands pressed between his legs.

  Trembling, Quinn turned to him. ‘If she’s dead when we get to her, I’m going to kill you,’ he said. ‘Do you understand? I’m going to put my gun in your mouth and blow the back of your head off.’

  Patrick was on his feet suddenly, crossing the room, but his brother was in the way. Grabbing him by the wrist, he bent it back and forced him onto his knees.

  ‘It’s not hers,’ Patrick cried. ‘It was our mother’s, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Our mother’s went into the ground with her.’ Frank spat out the words so violently that a string of saliva flew with them.

  ‘No it didn’t: I took it.’

  ‘I was there, you bastard. I was fucking there.’ Frank was shaking; still holding Patrick, he pressed him closer to the floor.

  Patrick wailed in pain.

  Eyes closed, Frank drew a shortened breath. ‘Patrick Pearse Maguire,’ he stated, ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of abducting Eva-Marie Quinn. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say …’

  ‘Frankie,’ Patrick interrupted. ‘For Christ’s sake, it’s me. It’s Patrick, Frank. You’ve got the wrong man.’

  Wednesday 3rd September 7.30pm

  The mood in the incident room was somber, to say the least; the time ticking away and the tension tinged with shock now that Superintendent Maguire’s brother was in custody. The pendant had gone to the lab, so that the linking ring could be compared with the chain links that had been recovered from Danny’s grave.

  Frank was personally involved now, and he wanted to draft in another senior officer to interview his brother. The deputy in charge of operations was on his way from Phoenix Park to discuss exactly how they were going to move forward.

  ‘There’s no time to bring in anyone else,’ Quinn was saying. The three of them were in his office with the door closed and the blinds pulled down. He indicated the clock. ‘Every second is precious, Frank. We can’t waste time briefing somebody else now.’

  ‘You can’t go near him if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Frank told him. ‘I’ve bent the rules enough as it is.’

  Doyle sat on the edge of the desk. ‘Moss is right, Frank,’ he said. ‘There’s no time, and the best person to do any talking to Patrick is you.’

  Frank didn’t look very encouraged. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Of course. The lad looked up to you. When he was a kid, you were his rock; you were all he had.’

  ‘That’s right, I was,’ Frank said, nodding. ‘Up until he was eleven, at least.’ His eyes reddened suddenly. ‘Then it all went to pot.’

  ‘Frank,’ Doyle said, ‘you can’t blame yourself. Even if you’d not been intent on joining the police, there’s no way the social services would have let you bring up your brother. He’d have been in some home or other, regardless. Better it was Islandbridge, where at least you knew the monks. And for all his taunting just now, they’ve no history of anything even vaguely dodgy at Islandbridge.’

  Frank took his head in his hands and for a moment he looked as though he was going to weep. But he gathered himself and cleared his throat, then turned to Quinn.

  ‘That necklace … Our mother was wearing one just like it when she was dressed for her funeral. Paddy and I went to see her in the chapel of rest.’ He worked the points of his fingers into his eyes.

  ‘Did you speak to Liam Ahern about any of this?’

  ‘We did,’ Doyle answered, ‘though we didn’t mention your brother by name. He fits the profile, Frank: you don’t need us to tell you.’

  Pushing back his chair, Frank got to his feet. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘the only person who can talk to him is me. When the deputy commissioner gets here, let him know what’s going on.’

  Grabbing his jacket, he left them, and they watched him cross the incident room with his shoulders square and every eye upon him.

  Murphy tapped on the open door. ‘Moss,’ she said, ‘I thought I’d mention it: we just had word from Scene of Crimes. The phone box in Harold’s Cross; there are prints all over it, but nothing we can match.’

  ‘Thanks, Keira. It was worth a try.’

  ‘Now that Patrick’s been arrested, what happens to Jimmy Hanrahan?’

  Quinn exchanged a glance with Doyle. ‘That’s a good question. He’s not out of the picture – not until we know what we’ve got. Leave him where he is, Murph: it won’t do him any harm.’

  He walked to the window. The images were blurred in his brain: Patrick’s venom; old man Hanrahan with his horse and cart; Eva slipping away. He turned to the clock. The hands seemed to tick and tick as if they were mocking him.

  He thought of the note, the final communication. His wife was alone, and if Patrick didn’t tell them where to find her … she ever more would be so.

  Wednesday 3rd September 9.30 pm

  Frank Maguire sat down with his brother in the same interview room where they’d spoken to Jimmy Hanrahan.

  Patrick was across the table, his anger gone. He looked forlorn, lost, confused – like the frightened child Frank had spent eleven years bringing up.

  ‘Paddy,’ he said softly, ‘do you not want a solicitor?’

  Patrick looked up at him. ‘Do I need one?’

  ‘You’ve been arrested.’

  ‘I know – and by my own brother.’

  ‘Do you want a solicitor?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t. I haven’t done anything, and I’m sitting here trying to get my head around quite how I got here. But I had a right pop at you just now, and at Moss too, and I’m sorry for that. Jesus, but it got my g
oat though, what you were doing. And Moss …’ He paused for a moment. ‘I suppose he’s just worried to death, isn’t he? Of course he is; who wouldn’t be in his position?’

  Frank studied him: his kid brother, his comrade in arms when they were growing up.

  ‘Where is she, Pat? You have to tell us. You don’t want her to die, I know you don’t. Not Eva.’

  Patrick didn’t say anything.

  ‘Did she remind you of our mam? Is that what this is about? Did they all remind you of her?’

  Patrick peered across the table. ‘Do you really believe I did this, Frankie? Do you really believe I could?’

  ‘You had no love, Patrick; you had no mother. She never loved you, and it’s bothered you all your life. Do you remember how you’d fiddle with her necklace? When she was so drunk she’d pass out, and you’d clamber up in her lap and sit there for hours just playing with it? Was it the way it sparkled, the gold maybe? Or was it just that when you were up there, you were close to her?’

  Tears had worked their way into Patrick’s eyes now. ‘She hated me,’ he mumbled. ‘Didn’t she, Frankie? She hated me so much it was you who gave me my name. You looked after me; you made sure I had something to eat. You were all I had. But then you put me with the Brothers and …’

  Reaching across the table, Frank took his hand. ‘I know, I know. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but what else could I do?’

  ‘I hated it there,’ Patrick said. ‘She told us that the boys who went there were never seen or heard from again. Frankie, for the first year almost, I slept on the floor under my bed.’

  He gazed into space. ‘Moss is right: I was always in love with Eva. That first time we met her she was over by the window, but Moss was in there before I could get a chance. She looked at me, though; she looked at me in a certain way. I reckon in any other circumstances, it could’ve been me instead of him.

  ‘She turned to me when Danny was killed. She couldn’t deal with Moss: she was so angry; so very, very angry. It wasn’t rational of course, she knew that: it wasn’t his fault that Danny got run over. But she watched how Maggs had been accused of murder, then confessed to Doyle, quick and simple, the kind of police work she didn’t see when it came to Danny. I suppose it was a combination of those things – Maggs and Danny – that got her so confused that she pushed her husband away.’