The Good Turn

by Dervla McTiernan

  Cormac shook his head. That was . . . crazy. It was the obvious first step.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Deirdre, warming to her theme. ‘And on top of that we spent an hour this morning grilling poor Fred Fletcher, trying to get him to change his story about the video he took. She kept at him and at him, suggesting that he’d imagined seeing the abduction, that he’d taken the video of the car on another occasion, until finally Fred’s mother lost the rag and kicked us out.’

  Cormac rubbed at his forehead, pushed his hand back through his hair.

  Deirdre spoke again, disrupting his train of thought. ‘I know this sounds paranoid, but I can’t stop thinking about Fred’s tablet going missing. I mean, what are the chances of that? It was delivered to the technical guys in Phoenix Park, signed in, and then suddenly it disappears. And it’s all over the papers about Peter shooting Jason Kelly. And you know, they’re hammering him. Suggesting that Kelly was a blameless bystander and Peter a trigger-happy eejit. Look, I’m not saying what Peter did was right. But if the papers are suggesting that the gardaí might be covering for him, what I’m seeing is the exact opposite. It’s as if Moira wants to bury or ignore every bit of evidence that suggests Kelly’s guilt. And then we’re chasing down random remote connections to distant family members in the Middle East, as if the mere mention of a Muslim-sounding name is enough to implicate them.’

  She stopped talking abruptly, looked at him as if she expected him to be able to hand her a solution, preferably wrapped up and tied with a bow.

  ‘You know I’m on suspension,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t know who else I could talk to,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know who I could trust.’

  ‘I’m doing my best to resolve my own situation. Until I do, there’s a limit on what I can do to help.’

  Her face fell.

  ‘I’m not saying there are no options,’ he said. ‘Listen, the day that Peggah was abducted, and you and Peter were chasing down leads, who did you speak to about Jason Kelly? I mean, who did you speak to that knew him personally?’

  ‘I don’t know. That was all Peter. I was on the other suspect.’

  ‘Can you find out? Peter would have been debriefed, after the shooting. The information should be in the case file.’

  She nodded slowly, her eyes very serious. ‘I could,’ she said. ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘If Kelly abducted Peggah, then he let her go for a reason. I think he might have been tipped off. Maybe Peter spoke to someone who called Kelly, told him the gardaí were looking for him. It might have spooked him enough that he dumped her.’

  ‘I’ll find out,’ she said. ‘And then what?’

  ‘Leave that to me, all right?’ Cormac said.

  Deirdre stood up. She looked replenished, as if the little bit of hope he’d given her had had the same effect as twelve hours’ solid sleep and a good breakfast. Cormac suddenly felt every one of his forty-two years.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘Let you get to bed.’ She was nearly at the door when she turned again. ‘Why are they doing it?’ she asked. ‘It seems mad. All this, letting a child abductor off the hook, just to get at Peter? What did he ever do to anyone?’

  ‘I don’t think they see it that way,’ Cormac said. ‘Kelly’s dead. There’s no risk of him going after another child. And maybe they don’t want Peter back in the station. They want him isolated.’

  Her brow was furrowed. ‘Who is they?’ she asked.

  Cormac had no answer to that question.

  After Deirdre left, he took a quick shower and fell into bed. He saw his phone only when he went to plug it in to recharge, realised he’d missed two calls from Emma. It was much too late to call her back now. It would have to wait until the morning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The front door of Maggie’s cottage was ajar when Peter reached it. He pushed it open and went inside, heard hushed voices coming from the living room. He knocked on the living room door and opened it. Maggie was half sitting, half lying on the couch. She looked flushed and dishevelled. The young woman he’d seen arrive by bicycle sat by her side, holding her hand – this must surely be Anna. She didn’t look at all as he had expected. She was slight, with an anxious little face and mousy hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She was pretty, certainly, but not in the generous, rounded way that Des liked, and she couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. And the mysterious Tilly must be the little girl he’d seen arrive with her – a daughter, then, not a tag-along friend.

  There was a man sitting in the armchair. He was in his forties, wearing neat slacks and an open-collared shirt, and had a medical bag at his feet. He was leaning forward in his chair, speaking in a low voice to Anna.

  Peter cleared his throat. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  Anna and the doctor turned to look at him, but Maggie didn’t seem to notice his arrival.

  ‘Sorry. We haven’t met. I’m Peter Fisher, Maggie’s grandson.’ Maggie’s eyes weren’t quite focused. ‘Everything all right, Mags?’ he asked. He wanted to take her hand, but Anna was in the way.

  The doctor stood, offered a hand. ‘Richard Barrett,’ he said. ‘Maggie’s doctor. I called by to see her today, and I’m afraid she’d had a bit of a fall. I found her here, on the floor.’

  ‘What happened, Maggie? How did you manage to fall?’ Anna asked. She spoke with a strong north-Dublin accent.

  ‘It could have been one of a number of reasons,’ Barrett said. ‘Maggie’s blood pressure is quite low, but there are a few other potential causes that we should talk about.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Maggie said weakly. ‘I’m just fine. I don’t like a fuss.’ She pulled her hand from Anna’s.

  ‘I think the best thing now would be for Maggie to take a rest and, ideally, have a good meal,’ said Barrett. ‘Not too much talk. She might be better off going to bed. A good night’s sleep is what she needs now. And I can come by and check on her again tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Peter said.

  ‘But you were fine when I left you,’ Anna said. ‘You were fine.’

  ‘It isn’t anyone’s fault, Anna,’ Doctor Barrett said gently. He put a hand on her shoulder but his eyes went to Peter. ‘These things happen to the best of us, don’t they? And you’re feeling better now, aren’t you, Maggie? I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, all right?’

  Barrett gave Peter a discreet nod, and Peter walked him out.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the doctor, when they were outside. ‘These are difficult circumstances to meet for the first time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Peter said. He pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘I’ve never seen Maggie like that. I mean, she was a little confused, maybe, when we spoke the other day. But not like this.’

  Barrett nodded. ‘I’ve been worried about her for a little while. For a woman of her age, we might expect some confusion, but she’s been losing weight lately too, and her blood pressure is consistently low.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Peter asked.

  The doctor gave a small frown. ‘It’s difficult to know, really. Sometimes people lose their appetite when they age, or they simply forget to eat. If she’s not eating enough, if she’s getting insufficient nutrition, that could cause her low blood pressure. These things, in the elderly, they can fall into something of a dangerous circle.’ Barrett hesitated. ‘I do feel that Anna’s doing her best. She seems to genuinely care about Maggie. But of course, she can’t be there all the time.’

  ‘Right,’ Peter said. He glanced back towards the house. ‘I’m sorry. I feel like I’m new to all this. I’ve just come back to Roundstone. It’s a while since I’ve seen Maggie in person, but still . . . I can’t get my head around how much things have changed. Are you saying that Maggie needs more help?’

  ‘It’s a lot to take in, and you don’t need to make any immediate decisions. Take some time to think about things, and maybe we can discuss it again in a few days. I’ll come and check on her again tomorrow, see how she’s doin
g.’

  Barrett opened his car door, put his bag inside.

  ‘Thanks,’ Peter said. ‘Thanks for everything.’

  ‘Most welcome.’ The doctor gave him a sober nod and departed.

  Peter went back into the house. Maggie was drinking a glass of water, Anna hovering beside her. And there was the little girl, about nine years old, curled up on the couch beside Maggie and holding her hand. She had thick, sandy-coloured hair, a bit paler than Anna’s, tied in two long plaits, and brown eyes. She froze when Peter came into the room, looked for a moment like she might run, then curled herself closer to Maggie.

  ‘Hi,’ Peter said.

  ‘Hi yourself,’ Anna said. She barely glanced at him. He wasn’t imagining the hostility there. For whatever reason, she didn’t want him around. Maggie finished her drink and Anna took the glass from her. ‘Are you hungry, Maggie?’ she asked.

  Maggie shook her head. Her eyes were half closed. She looked like she was drifting off.

  ‘You must be Anna,’ Peter said. ‘Maggie told me all about you when I came to see her the other day.’

  ‘Did she?’ Anna said. Her shoulders were tense.

  ‘She told me you were living here, taking care of her.’

  ‘I think she needs to go to bed,’ Anna said. ‘Will you help me get her upstairs? If she sleeps for an hour, maybe she’ll be hungry later.’

  ‘I . . . sure.’ Peter came forward, and Tilly scooted back along the couch as he approached. Peter slid an arm under Maggie’s shoulders, tried to encourage her to stand, but it was clear very quickly that she had little to no power in her legs.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I can manage today,’ Maggie said politely. From the way she looked at him, he wasn’t quite convinced that she knew who he was.

  ‘That’s all right, Mags,’ he said. ‘Why don’t I just pick you up?’

  Maggie considered, then agreed, and he scooped her up easily. Too easily. He carried her upstairs to her bedroom, Anna trailing in their wake. Anna flipped the quilt and top sheet out of the way. Peter laid Maggie gently down on the bed, then tucked the covers over her again. Anna stood at the end of the bed.

  ‘Can you give us a minute?’ Peter asked.

  Anna gave him a sharp look. ‘Don’t keep her awake,’ she said. ‘She needs her sleep.’ Then she retreated, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Peter sat beside Maggie on her bed and took her hand. She smiled at him.

  ‘Thank you, Peter. It’s very good of you.’

  He felt a sudden, unexpected wave of guilt, and had to swallow hard to keep tears back.

  ‘How have you been getting on with your father?’ she asked unexpectedly.

  ‘Grand,’ he said. She gave him a measuring look that was suddenly all Maggie. ‘Fine, seriously, it’s all fine.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said. She let out a breath, closed her eyes. ‘Will you come and see me again?’

  ‘Of course, of course I will.’ He stood up and kissed her forehead. Had to blink hard. ‘Do you need anything else?’

  But she was already asleep.

  He found Anna in the kitchen. She was at the sink, peeling vegetables.

  ‘Maggie’s asleep,’ he said.

  She turned to face him, carrot still in one hand, peeler in the other. ‘What did he say to you?’ she said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The doctor. He said something to you, didn’t he, when you walked him to the car?’

  ‘He’s worried about Maggie,’ Peter said slowly. ‘Her blood pressure is too low. He said there have been other problems. Has he not said anything to you about it?’

  Anna’s face was tight. ‘But she’s fine, most of the time.’

  ‘Maybe it seems that way,’ Peter said. ‘But if she’s falling, or fainting, then she’s not fine. If she falls again and breaks something—’

  ‘I won’t let that happen,’ Anna said, cutting him off.

  Peter shook his head. ‘Look, Anna. With the best will in the world you can’t be here twenty-four hours a day. You weren’t here today.’

  She took a step forward, the potato peeler still clutched in her right hand. ‘I had to work. I have a job, you know, outside of this place.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. He didn’t know the first thing about her. Where had Des picked her up anyway? And was she remotely qualified to be taking care of an elderly woman who clearly had medical needs? He could see that the cottage was clean and tidy. She obviously bought and prepared food, but if Maggie was losing weight, was she eating any of it? Christ, for all he knew Anna could be stealing every penny Maggie had. How could he find out? He didn’t know the first thing about Maggie’s financial arrangements. Anna was looking at him as if he was about to throw her out onto the street. Shite.

  ‘Was that your little girl?’ Peter asked. ‘Here, I mean, earlier.’

  Anna nodded. ‘That’s Tilly,’ she said. ‘Matilda. Don’t take it personally. She’s afraid of cops.’

  Peter raised an eyebrow, and Anna flushed.

  ‘How did she know that I’m a garda?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Maggie mentioned it,’ Anna said.

  They stood in silence for a long moment.

  ‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. To see how she’s doing.’

  Anna nodded, a single jerk of her head.

  He hesitated. ‘And you’ll bring Maggie dinner later?’

  Anger flashed in her eyes, but her voice was controlled when she responded. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Right,’ Peter said. ‘See you tomorrow so.’

  Peter was thoroughly depressed by the time he left Maggie’s cottage. He was also starving. He desperately wanted something other than reheated sausage rolls from Horan’s shop, but he still hadn’t been into Clifden to buy groceries. That left only the pub. His bank balance would just about stretch to fish and chips, but the thought of seeing Des there put him off. He couldn’t face another loaded conversation right now. So it was Horan’s again, to see what he could glean from the little freezer in the back. For once it wasn’t Sharon behind the counter, but an older man. He had greasy hair that hung into his eyes, and his T-shirt was stained. He watched Peter browse the aisles with suspicious eyes. Peter found a microwavable dinner in the freezer, picked up two bags of crisps and a Wispa bar to go with it. It was going to be that kind of night. He nodded a greeting to the man, put his purchases up on the counter. His eyes fell on a small pile of newspapers stacked to the right of the till. The front cover had a stock photograph of a garda wearing a tactical vest. The headline screamed up at him: QUESTIONS ASKED ABOUT GARDA TACTICAL TRAINING IN WAKE OF FATAL SHOOTING.

  Peter picked up the newspaper, unfolded it and his heart sank. A photograph of a smiling Jason Kelly stared up at him. The piece took up most of the front page of a national broadsheet. Sub-headings and quotes jumped out at him. Kelly was alternatively ‘well liked’, or he ‘kept himself to himself’. He was a good neighbour, a hard worker, a volunteer, an avid fisherman. The only reference in the whole piece to Peggah Abbassi was a one-line reminder that the girl had been found, unharmed, some distance from Kelly, and as yet the gardaí had not reported any evidence linking Kelly to Peggah’s abduction.

  ‘Isn’t that just more of it?’

  Peter looked up. The man behind the counter was nodding at the paper.

  ‘Bloody cops. They’re useless when you need them for something, and trigger-happy the rest of the time.’ He leaned forward, across the counter. ‘You know, they’re all corrupt, every fucking one of them.’ He pointed with a dirty fingernail to a jagged scar at his left elbow. ‘See that? They gave me that. Broke my elbow, just because I was exercising my protest rights.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  He jabbed his finger at the photograph of Jason Kelly. ‘That poor fucker got on the wrong side of them, and this is what he gets. Wait ’til you see. It’ll all come out in the end.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Peter said. ‘You’ve got it
wrong.’

  The man looked at him with mingled contempt and pity. ‘You’re a believer, are you? You should open your eyes, man. The police force in this country is corrupt.’

  ‘That man, Kelly. He took a child,’ Peter said. He knew he shouldn’t be having this discussion. Shouldn’t engage with the other man at all, but he couldn’t help it.

  ‘That’s their excuse all right. And it’s not a very good one, is it? Not up to the standard of their usual lies. That girl was found miles away.’ He jabbed at the paper again, this time with satisfaction. ‘You mark my words. It’ll all come out this time. The people of this country are sick of it all. They won’t stand by this time.’

  Peter leaned forward on the counter. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You haven’t a clue.’

  The other man sniffed. ‘That’ll be sixteen forty-six,’ he said, and he held out his hand for Peter’s card.

  Peter drove home to the flat. His hands were shaking. He’d wanted to punch the paranoid old fucker, but he couldn’t help but wonder, who else was reading these articles and drawing their own conclusions? And would pressure start to build again on the ombudsman’s office to take things further? He’d thought being stuck in Roundstone with his father for company was the worst that could happen. Peter dropped his food on the kitchen counter and took the newspaper to the couch. He sat, read the front-page article, then the follow-up section in the back pages, then the opinion piece. Then he lay back on the couch and thought.

  Anyone reading the article would be at least halfway convinced that Kelly was innocent, the victim of misidentification. But that wasn’t what had happened. Fred Fletcher, at least, had identified him. So why hadn’t the garda press office told journalists that there was an eyewitness? That Kelly had been seen? Were they trying to protect Fred? If so, fair enough, but that left Peter being hung out to dry in the papers. And Kelly’s family were clearly falling over themselves to give interviews. About how Jason had loved to fish. That he’d loved the boathouse, had been working on it, upgrading and repairing it for months. Jason’s mother claimed that was why he had been there late that evening. Despite himself, Peter felt the first doubts creeping into his mind. Could he have fucked it up that badly? Could he have killed an innocent man?