The Good Turn

by Dervla McTiernan

  ‘I’d heard we had another garda in town,’ he said, giving Peter a friendly nod. ‘It must be good to be back in the home town, working with your da.’

  Des laughed. ‘Oh, he’s too good for the likes of us, Mike. He wants to be up in the big smoke, dealing with all the murders.’

  ‘Is that right?’ The barman smiled as he handed over the pints. Peter felt a surge of irritation.

  ‘Actually, Mike, speaking of murder,’ Peter said. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a chat with you about Carl Lynch, if you have a moment.’

  The barman raised an eyebrow. His eyes flicked briefly to Des’s face. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I can be much help, though.’

  ‘He wasn’t a regular?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘He’d come in from time to time, a couple of times a month. But he wasn’t social. He came in for a meal, a pint. He’d sit by himself at the front.’

  ‘What about his uncle?’

  ‘Miles hasn’t been in for years. I think he wasn’t in good health.’

  ‘Was there much talk, then, after the murders? How did the farming community react? They must have been worried that it might happen again.’

  ‘Well, I suppose there was a bit of worry, in the beginning. But then the word went around that it was a Dublin gang, and . . .’ He lowered his voice, his eyes again going to Des. ‘We heard it was a one-off, you know yourself.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Peter asked.

  ‘You know. That it was probably to do with Carl’s gambling.’

  Peter’s attention sharpened. This was the first he’d heard about gambling.

  ‘Never mind it, Mike,’ Des said. ‘The young fellas are always a bit overenthusiastic. They want the danger. They’re devastated when they find out the job is all speed traps and passport applications, instead of drug dens and murder sprees.’

  Mike smiled a little, and moved away.

  ‘There’s nothing about gambling in the file,’ Peter said.

  ‘Isn’t there?’ Des said mildly. ‘Well, it was only one of a number of theories. Maybe it was never documented.’

  ‘He seems to think it was pretty much certain,’ Peter said, nodding in Mike’s direction.

  Des shrugged. ‘Some stories have a way of growing legs. People believe what they want to believe. Whatever makes it a bit easier to get through the week.’

  Peter struggled to keep his expression neutral. There was a strong whiff of bullshit about what he’d just said. ‘You didn’t encourage them a little? Give that story a gentle push?’ he asked.

  Des just smiled, sipped his pint, and Peter suppressed another flare of irritation.

  ‘I’d better go,’ said Peter. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night. Want to make an early start.’

  ‘Stay where you are for a minute,’ Des said. ‘I want to talk to you about something.’

  Peter let out a sigh. He wanted to be gone. The American family had departed, but there was more noise coming from the back bar. The barman was busy with his regulars, pulling pints and exchanging banter.

  ‘Cormac Reilly,’ Des said. ‘I’ve never met him, but I know the type.’

  ‘What do you mean, the type?’

  ‘I’ve heard the stories. Two years ago, he shot a garda, a fellow officer.’ He held up a hand to forestall Peter’s objection. ‘I know what you’re about to say. I know all about the circumstances. But the shooting, that’s just an indication of the kind of man he is. He’s an outsider and he’s a troublemaker.’

  Peter shook his head. ‘You’ve got him wrong.’

  ‘He’s lost the run of himself, Peter. He builds bridges only to burn them down. Look, I grant you, he’s been effective in the past. He’s smart, and when he’s pushed to it, he can get things done. But men like that only last for so long. And he’s on his way out.’

  Peter felt sick. The words were horribly close to what he’d thrown at Reilly in their last argument.

  ‘You need to stay away from him if you want to keep your career.’ Des sounded as sincere as Peter had ever heard him.

  ‘Reilly’s been a good boss,’ Peter said. ‘I’ve learned a lot from him.’ Peter’s discomfort was growing. It was true that he’d learned a lot from Reilly, but that didn’t make him perfect. Des was only giving voice to some of Peter’s darker thoughts. On the other hand, Des was a toxic, selfish, lying bastard, and Peter should treat every word out of his mouth with suspicion.

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ Des said. ‘But Reilly’s a black-and-white operator in a world that’s all grey. And that just doesn’t work.’ Des sighed. ‘Look, there’s more to community policing than bashing people over the head with every minor little misdemeanour. I’m not here to make money for the government, fining working people the minute they put a toe halfway over the line. Do you get me? Maintaining a healthy community, that takes a bit of discretion. You have to leave room for people to be human. To make the odd mistake. You have to be able to tell the difference between someone destructive, or dangerous, and someone who’s generally a contributor, and who just wanted to let off a bit of steam.’

  You couldn’t argue with that, and Peter didn’t want to. He just wanted to go. He gave a small nod, and Des leaned back, satisfied.

  ‘But working in the grey, it can get messy. People make mistakes. Even the best of people. So we have to look out for each other. We’re caught between a rock and a hard place. Government doesn’t give a shit about us. We’re a political football, given a kicking one day and held up as paragons of vote-winning virtue the next. And then there’s the public, with their mobile phone recordings and their compo claims. Nobody gives a shit if a garda loses an eye to some scumbag glassing him on a Friday night. But god forbid little Johnny should get a bump when we arrest him for beating the shit out of his under-age girlfriend. We are on the back foot, every day. You need to have friends in this job if you want to survive it.’

  ‘I don’t disagree with you,’ Peter said. ‘But it’s not . . .’

  ‘You have to have complete confidence in the men – and the women – that you work with. You’ve got to have the trust. If you haven’t got that, if you start looking over everyone else’s shoulder, who’s going to have your back when you need it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Peter said. ‘But there’s a limit to everything.’

  Des snorted. ‘That goes without saying. I’m not suggesting that we go around beating up prisoners or covering up each other’s misdeeds. But I’m talking about an attitude. A way of seeing the world.’

  Peter rubbed at his forehead. This was just . . . bizarre. It was like getting a lesson in ethics from Sepp Blatter. The worst bit was, Des wasn’t saying much he could argue with.

  ‘Do you know how close you came to a Section 98 investigation?’ Des asked, conversationally.

  Peter’s breath caught inside his lungs and he went very still inside. He turned on the stool to look at his father, but Des kept his eyes forward. ‘What do you know about that?’ Peter said.

  ‘I know enough,’ Des said. ‘I’m wondering what you were told.’

  ‘I . . . met with the Superintendent. He said that it wasn’t going to go that way.’

  Des laughed. ‘Your Super sent your case to the garda ombudsman with a recommendation that no further action be taken for one reason only – because he owes me a very big favour. He owes me such a big favour, because over the years I’ve done lots of little favours for him and his. And you needn’t look at me like that, Peter. I’m not talking about anything illegal, though god knows we sailed close to the wind to pull your feet out of the fire. I’m talking about relationships. I’m talking about trust. I’m talking about what makes the world go around.’

  Peter opened his mouth, and all that came out was, ‘I didn’t know . . .’

  Des nodded, and there was satisfaction in his eyes. The look of a man who is getting long-overdue recognition. ‘You’ve been a garda for a few years now, Peter. We’re not close, no point pretending otherwise, but I’ve always ke
pt an eye out for you. I’ve been in the force a long time. I’ve made friends. You’re my son, so my friends are also your friends. Up to a point.’

  ‘Up to a point . . .’

  Another nod. ‘But you need to cut whatever ties you have left with Reilly. He doesn’t belong, and he’s on his way out.’

  It took Peter a second to respond. It was all coming at him too fast to fully process. ‘Are you telling me that someone’s going after Reilly?’

  Des rolled his eyes. ‘For a bright lad, you’re slow on the uptake here. What I’m saying is that no one needs to go after him. He’s doing it to himself. He’s worn out the few friends he had and now he’s looking for trouble where there’s none to find. Maybe he used to do good work. I’m not saying he wasn’t a good detective. But something’s gone wrong in his head. Maybe he never recovered from that shooting. Whatever the cause, the man is paranoid.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Peter said. ‘You’re wrong about him.’

  ‘Reilly isn’t a complete fool,’ Des said. ‘I’ll give him that much. He’s visiting friends overseas, angling for a nice desk job in Europe, I’d imagine.’

  That hit hard. Peter took a deep pull from his pint, thought of Emma Sweeney, working away in Brussels. It would make sense for Cormac to go after a job at Interpol. Better for him to do that than for Emma to move back to Galway, after everything she’d been through. But where did that leave Peter? This purgatory in Roundstone was only bearable because he had believed that Cormac was working on a solution in Galway. Working on getting him back. What if he wasn’t?

  Des drained the last of his pint. Peter looked down at his glass, realised that somewhere in the conversation he’d picked it up, and it was now all but finished.

  ‘That’s all I wanted to say to you, Peter. Just put a word in your ear that the sooner you pull away from Reilly, the better. Take a step back and do a bit of ordinary, decent police work for a while, and all will be forgiven.’ Des stood up, dropped a few notes on the bar. ‘Don’t be late tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ve a few bits lined up for you.’ He left without a backwards glance.

  Peter looked down at his empty pint. He’d had two, that put him over the limit. Shite. He made for the bathroom, took a piss and tried to make sense of the conversation he’d just had. Cormac Reilly, the bad guy, and Des, his guardian angel. Bullshit. And yet . . . he’d come close to prosecution, sickeningly close. And his father had stepped in to pull him out of it. By calling in a major, maybe once in a lifetime favour. A price, it seemed, he’d been willing to pay. Whereas Reilly was off in Europe, trying to lay down an escape route.

  Peter washed his hands, retrieved his coat and left the pub. It was dark now, and bloody freezing. He zipped up his coat, wished he’d thought to bring his hat and gloves. He put his hands into his pockets, wrapped his right hand around his car keys. The car was just sitting there, waiting. Cursing his father, he started walking.

  Thursday 5 November 2015

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Cormac woke on Thursday morning to find Emma already dressed.

  ‘Work?’ he asked.

  She came to sit on the end of the bed, held his hand. ‘Actually, I’ve already called to tell them I won’t be in,’ she said. ‘I thought we could spend the day together.’

  They went out for breakfast, buried themselves in menus, food and newspaper headlines. He hadn’t missed her change in mood. She was sober, quieter than usual. Afterwards they walked in the Bois de la Cambre. The park was all but empty on that cold November morning. No kids this early in the day, just dog walkers doing their laps, the older of them smiling and friendly, the younger ones headphoned more often than not.

  ‘You’re not coming back,’ Cormac said into the silence.

  Emma hesitated for so long that for a moment he thought she was going to deny it. ‘To Galway, you mean?’ she finally said.

  He nodded.

  She said nothing for the longest time, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to give the answer he knew was coming. ‘No,’ she said.

  He’d sensed it for a while, on some level, but it still came as a shock. Knocked the breath out of him. Over the past three years he’d built an image of his future in his mind and Emma was at the centre of that. She was its foundation.

  ‘Is Dublin an option?’ he said. She was still holding his hand, her hand warm and dry in his.

  Emma stopped walking, turned to him. ‘I want to stay here,’ she said. ‘Or if not here, somewhere in mainland Europe. Maybe the States. Ireland is . . .’ She shook her head. ‘It’s just misery, Cormac. Bad memories and bad-minded people.’

  ‘Emma, come on . . .’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please won’t you come here and live with me? It’s such a beautiful place. Really it is. You’ve only seen scraps of it. Just stay here with me now. Don’t bother going back. We’ll hire a lawyer to represent you in whatever disciplinary farce the gardaí come up with, make sure you come out of it with your name intact. They won’t care anyway, once they know you’re leaving. Just imagine, Cormac. You could be done with it all by the end of the day. Free of the lot of them.’

  He thought of their little house on the canal, how much he’d loved it there once, the loneliness of it without her.

  ‘And then what, Em? I come here and do what?’

  ‘There’s no rush to figure that out,’ she said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘You mean that you’ll pay the bills while I sit on my backside.’

  She stiffened. ‘Money isn’t important,’ she said. Then, at his look, ‘We’re lucky enough that we don’t have to worry about it. If you let money come between us, I’ll—’

  ‘It’s not about money, Emma. I’m thinking about later. When I’ve had my time to settle in and you’re caught up in your work. What about then? What sort of work will there be for a 42-year-old former garda in Brussels, an ex-police officer who left his old job with a disciplinary action hot on his heels?’

  She opened her mouth to object, but he kept talking.

  ‘And after that. When I’ve got my job as a security man in some Belgian shopping mall, or personal security for some sociopathic CEO who went too far and made a few enemies, what then? Would you feel the same way about me then?’

  ‘Of course I would,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think you would, Emma, and I wouldn’t blame you because the truth is I wouldn’t be happy. That isn’t what I want.’

  They were silent for a long moment, then Cormac spoke again.

  ‘Do you want children? We’ve never much talked about it and I think I assumed that was down to me. But . . . do you, Emma? Do you want kids?’

  She was so pale, so quiet. There were dark shadows under her grey eyes, and he thought now, looking at her, that she’d lost weight. Had she been happy at all, in all the years they’d been together? Had he ever made her happy?

  Emma slowly shook her head. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I thought . . . maybe I just hoped, that you felt the same way. You never brought it up.’

  ‘I know. I should have, maybe.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’ she asked. ‘Two point four children? The whole nine yards?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t even know, really. I think some part of me thought that that part of my life was ahead of me. But then one day I woke up and I was forty-two and the day still hadn’t arrived. I’m still not sure . . . but it would give it all some meaning, wouldn’t it? If I moved here so we could be together, maybe I wouldn’t mind working a job I didn’t care about if there was something else, something bigger to focus on.’

  ‘I’m not enough?’ Her eyes were dry, the words were softly, sadly said.

  He wanted to hug her, but there was a distance between them already, and he didn’t know how to cross it.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t love children,’ she said. ‘I just . . . I don’t see myself that way. I don’t get excited when I think about it. Not the way I get excited about my work. And I don’t think t
hat’s a good starting point for making a family.’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  They walked on. After a while she reached out and took his hand again. He wanted to ask her again if Dublin could ever be an option, but he didn’t want to hear her say no. The inevitability of what would happen next was settling inside him like a lead weight, and he wasn’t ready for it.

  He looked away from her, across the ornamental lake. The air was crisp and cold, the sky a clear blue. He wanted to tell her that he knew her work was important to her, that he had no interest in holding her back from what she wanted to do. It was part of what he loved about her, her drive and her passion to create something greater than herself. The trouble was, he didn’t have any solutions to offer. He was a police officer. He didn’t speak Dutch or French, and even if he did, even if he was able by some miracle to get work in policing in Belgium, how long would she stay here? Her next project could just as easily be based in America, or the UK, or Germany. What would it do to him, to follow her like a puppy around the world? What would it do to them?

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked, looking up into his face. He’d been quiet too long.

  ‘I had a phone call. This morning, when you were in the shower. I need to get back to Dublin. I’ve been asked to come in for a meeting. Something about an old case they need a bit of background on.’

  She knew he was lying, but she went along with it. Maybe she wasn’t ready to face things either.

  ‘When will you be back?’ she asked.

  ‘As soon as I can,’ he said.

  They left it at that.

  Cormac went back to the apartment just long enough to pick up his bag. Emma sat on the couch, waiting for him. He called a cab, slung his bag over his shoulder – he’d never had a chance to unpack it – and joined her in the living room.