Close Ranks

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘What now?’ Jarvis asked in a hushed whisper. ‘McGrath is probably teaching.’

  Andrews looked at him. ‘We go cherchez someone in charge,’ he grinned and headed down the corridor, slowly, his eye drawn to the photographs that dotted the walls, searching for Greg McGrath.

  ‘There he is,’ Jarvis said quietly, stubby finger pointing.

  And so he was. A group photograph. Innocent of anything apart from bad seventies haircuts, broad shouldered jackets and wide ties.

  Half-way down the corridor it opened out into a small hall, a set of double doors on each side. One set bore the designation Assembly Hall but the opposite doors had the men nod in satisfaction. Administration. Jarvis, pushing open one of the doors, held it as Andrews followed.

  The first thing that they noticed was the back of the front door they had approached minutes before. ‘This must have been a hallway, originally,’ Andrews muttered. ‘Shame really, it must’ve been nice.’

  The large hallway, over the years, had been sectioned into offices for the increasing needs of the school. Three offices were squeezed in, filling the space between the double doors and the almost redundant front door which served now, according to the posted red signs, as a fire door.

  The two men heard voices coming from behind one of the doors, the sound drawing them nearer. A small sign on the door gave limited information. Head, it read. No name.

  ‘Maybe they go through a lot of Heads and it saves money,’ Jarvis said with a grin.

  Andrews gave him a grin-withering look and knocked on the wooden door.

  Voices within went quiet. Then there was audible muttering before steps approached the door and it was opened by a tall thin man who immediately reminded keen classic movie fan Andrews, of Fred Astaire. He stood with a long thin hand holding the door and looked down his bony nose as if a naughty pupil had dare intrude on teacher time. When he saw the two men his regard changed only slightly. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, frigidly.

  Andrews took out his warrant card and held it up. ‘My name is Garda Peter Andrews. This is Garda Sam Jarvis. We’re making inquiries into the murder of a relation of one of your staff.’

  The long hand pulled the door closed behind him as he stepped out of the room, a frown appearing between brown eyes that looked them up and down. Then he sighed and asked, ‘Greg McGrath, is it?’

  Andrews had been a Garda for twenty years. Being suspicious was part of his nature. He’d learnt over the years to evaluate what was said, what was left unsaid. Sometimes it was the dichotomy between the words and the facial expression that was important. It was often simply, like now, an inappropriate sentence. After all, how many staff had had a relation murdered in the last week that he had to ask was it McGrath?

  Andrews saw it for what it was. Classic delaying technique. Giving himself time to think. And why did he need that, eh?

  It was times like this that Peter Andrews loved what he did. Unpicking the nitty-gritty of what people thought they could hide. Because they couldn’t. Not really. Somebody always found out. And whatever it was this man was trying to hide. Whatever Greg McGrath was into, whatever connection there was with this man. Andrews wasn’t leaving till he found it. He’d had enough of mysteries recently.

  ‘Perhaps we could talk inside?’ Andrews said. ‘Can I assume you are the Head?’

  The man hesitated, his hand now on the door knob, keeping it shut tight. ‘Yes, I am. James...Jim...Reilly. I’m just in a meeting, at the moment. A parent of one of my girls.’ He looked back at the door, appeared to come to a decision and, still holding the door shut with one hand, raised the other and pointed to another door opposite. ‘If you would take a seat in the secretary’s office, she’s off today. I will join you in about five minutes.’ He waited until the two men had done as he asked before opening his office door.

  ‘Just in case his precious darling’s parent is contaminated by our presence,’ said Jarvis as they opened the office door and went in. ‘He reminds me of the headmaster we had in school. God, I hated that guy.’

  Andrews took the secretary’s seat, one that faced the door. Jim Reilly would expect him to have sat in one of the other chairs in the room. He hoped it would shake him a little. It would certainly put him on the back step. Andrews was determined to keep him there, keep him unsettled. Much more likely to spill whatever beans he had. He sat back in the comfortable swivel chair and waited.

  It was nearer to fifteen minutes before they heard his door open and close, a murmur of voices, a firm footstep and the door opened. As Andrews had hoped, the head was taken aback to see him sitting there facing him. He quickly rearranged his features, put a mask firmly in place and with a condescending nod, took one of the other chairs.

  ‘How can I help you, gentleman?’ he asked, his voice slightly warmer than it had been as if he were trying very hard to show a spirit of helpfulness.

  Let’s see how long that lasts, Andrews thought, prepared to go straight for the jugular. He was tired of being messed around and there had been a lot of that recently. West would have pushed for discretion but... ‘As you are aware, Greg McGrath’s brother-in-law was murdered last week. As yet,’ he admitted, ‘we have no suspect and we have been unable to find a motive for this quite gruesome murder.’ He watched the Head wince, wondered if he knew the details. ‘We have interviewed those nearest to Gerard Roberts and are now taking our investigation a little deeper, asking a few more questions.’ Andrews hesitated before adding, ‘Digging a little deeper.’

  Jim Reilly raised his chin and met Andrews’ gaze. ‘In my experience, if you dig deep enough there is always something to be found. But it’s rarely what you are looking for.’

  West, had he been there, would have said touché. Andrews just nodded and smiled in acknowledgement of a worthy opponent and then said, ‘You can dig, find a penny, put that penny in a slot machine and win the jackpot, Mr Reilly.’

  Stand-off.

  Jarvis, too young and inexperienced to have learnt the secret of mental duelling looked puzzled.

  It was the Head’s turn to smile and when he did so his whole face changed. He looked younger, less strict-disciplinarian, more approachable. Then the smile faded and the severe look was back. ‘So how can I help you? My relationship with Mr McGrath is purely professional; I know nothing about his family. I did meet his wife, once, at a staff Christmas do. But that is the sum total of our dealings.’

  ‘How long has Mr McGrath worked here?’

  ‘Fifteen years.’

  ‘No problems? Arguments with colleagues?’

  The Head raised his eyes to Heaven. ‘Garda Andrews, I am sure it is the same in any organisation. There are always arguments.’

  ‘I mean out of the ordinary, Mr Reilly. There are arguments that pass, and ones that turn bitter and rancid. They’re the ones we’re interested in.’

  Jim Reilly shrugged. ‘Not that I’m aware of. And I generally get to hear everything. Eventually.’

  ‘What about with a student or a student’s family?’

  The Head shook his head emphatically. ‘Absolutely not. That would certainly have come to my attention. And quickly.’ He gave a half-smile, ‘Anyway we have very little interaction with parents. Parent-teacher meetings aren’t what they used to be. Everyone is too busy. And when they do occur it’s a manic round of short conversations. Very little time for acrimony, I assure you.’

  Andrews was clutching and he knew it. And yet. There was something. Something in Jim Reilly’s eyes. ‘What about you, Mr Reilly,’ he asked. ‘What was your relationship with Mr McGrath like?’

  And there it was. Something ineffable. It was there in the sudden tightening of the man’s mouth, a dilation of his pupils so that what were brown were now black and empty. Andrews throwing caution into the whirling wind, risked it and said gently, ‘What was it, Mr Reilly?’

  The man sat, hands clenched, knuckles whitening. He dropped his gaze, hung his head. And then he sighed, a long hiss of breath that
seemed to come from his very soul. His voice when it came was a whisper and held none of its previous coldness, none of its arrogance.

  ‘Three weeks ago,’ he said slowly, ‘I came over here to this office. Mary, the secretary was off. She generally only works three days a week. Anyway, I was looking for a letter so came over, thinking she might have a copy in her filing cabinet. I wasn’t trying to be quiet, it’s just the way I am. I’m always telling the pupils to be quiet, you know, so I suppose I try to lead by example.’ He sighed again. ‘I opened the door and Greg was sitting where you are sitting, right in that chair.’ He looked up and met Andrews gaze. ‘He had his eyes shut, so engrossed in what he was doing that he didn’t hear me.’ Disgust laced his voiced as he continued. ‘He was watching a pornographic movie and wanking. In my school. In that chair. He hadn’t even had the common sense to lock the damn door.

  ‘Of course, he was horrified. Tried to say it was a once off that it would never happen again. But, of course, it’s not something I could close my eyes to. I told him he was suspended. That I would make sure he would never work in a school again.’

  Jim Reilly fell silent. He dropped his gaze once more and his voice dropped even lower so that Andrews, on the other side of the desk, struggled to hear.

  ‘I’ve been the Head for only two months. My probationary period is three. Mr McGrath told me that if I didn’t turn a blind eye, he would make sure the Board found out I was a homosexual.’ He lifted his chin and smiled sardonically. ‘People say it’s all changed. That it’s totally acceptable now. Try telling that to the board of a Catholic girl’s school.’ He rubbed his eyes, wiped a hand over his face and then said quietly, ‘I’ve worked here for nearly twenty years, given blood, sweat and tears, I deserve this position.’

  ‘How did he find out?’ Andrews asked.

  Reilly’s smile was bitter-sweet. ‘My partner, George, and I decided we were going to get married. Properly, you know. We’d been for a meal and when we came outside, George turned and kissed me. It was a very romantic moment. And then I saw him. Across the street and he was looking straight at us. I thought he’d say something the next time we met, but, apart from a knowing look which I ignored, he said nothing, until...’

  ‘Until you caught him here?’

  He nodded. ‘He promised me he wouldn’t do it again, on school property anyway. I remember he smirked when he said that. Then he pulled the old you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours and he gave me a knowing wink. A wink. As if we were in some club for perverts.’ An ugly look came into Jim Reilly’s face. ‘I hated him then,’ he said bitterly. ‘Hated him for making something precious feel dirty, for equating his grubby little habit with my relationship with George.’ His face softened, the bitterness fading to be replaced with a look of determination. ‘My relationship with George. Something so precious isn’t worth wasting. Isn’t worth hiding. I will make an appointment with the board and tell them. If they don’t offer me the permanent appointment after my probationary period,’ he sighed sadly, ‘well, so be it.’

  Andrews considered a moment, his eyes never leaving the man’s bowed head. ‘Are you a good Head?’ he asked.

  The other man lifted his eyes and looked at him. ‘Yes, I am. And I’m not being arrogant or big-headed. In the two months I’ve been in charge there is more positive energy. The pupils are better behaved, thanks to a number of initiatives I’ve started. Parents are complimentary, interested. The attendance at parent-teacher meetings has risen. And I have plans...’ His voice, infused with enthusiasm, faded quickly and he became silent.

  ‘Homosexuality isn’t against the law, Mr Reilly.’ Andrews said quietly. ‘Blackmail is. I think you should tell the board. There will always be somebody to see, somebody to tell a tale. And you are right, something so precious isn’t worth wasting.’ He waited a moment, allowing his words to sink in. ‘But wait, Mr Reilly. Wait until your probationary period is over. Wait, more importantly, for them to realise the asset you are to the school. You leave Mr McGrath to us. He will be way too busy to bother with you.’

  Relief mixed with disbelief and the resultant look on Reilly’s face was pure confusion. ‘You are a strange policeman, Garda Andrews. Do you mean what you say?’

  ‘Strange? No, Mr Reilly. I’m just doing my job. Dealing with the bad guys, protecting the good.’

  For the first time, the Head’s smile was genuine and relaxed. Relief sparkled his eyes, softened the lines around his mouth. ‘Good isn’t generally a word used to describe me, at least not in the context you are using it.’ He stood and held out his hand. ‘I’ve not had many dealings with the Garda Siochana. I must admit, it has been an unexpected pleasure.’

  Andrews stood and nodded, ‘We’ll keep you apprised of the situation. If you have any problems with Mr McGrath give me a ring.’

  Another nod and he and Jarvis left the office, a bemused Jim Reilly still smiling.

  18

  ‘ So that’s the story.’ Andrews finished, sipping the mug of coffee he needed after a long, slow drive back across the city. ‘Our Mr McGrath is a piece of work.’

  West sat in his usual position, chair balance on its back legs, rocking pensively back and forth. ‘Blackmail is nasty business, Peter.’

  Andrews nodded. ‘I think we’ll have to look very closely at McGrath. He has secrets to hide. Maybe Roberts found them out.’

  ‘And he killed him?’ West didn’t sound convinced. ‘I don’t know, Pete. It sounds like this blackmail business was reactive. He panicked when he was caught in a compromising situation, used what he knew to redress the balance.’

  ‘You make it sound perfectly acceptable.’

  ‘Just the reaction of a stupid man, Peter. You saw McGrath in the graveyard. If he hadn’t come to us we’d never have found out. A stupid man. But Gerard Roberts’ murder is a different story. Cleverly planned and vicious.’ He dropped his chair onto its four legs with a bang. ‘But let’s not rule him out. Have a look at his finances. If he could blackmail the school Head maybe he’s done it before. Maybe you’ll find regular deposits from some nefarious character. Maybe Roberts did find out and McGrath had him killed. We’ll arrest the lot and that will be that.’

  ‘It happens that way in films.’ Andrews said with a shrug.

  ‘And in the best novels,’ West added.

  They looked at one another and grinned.

  Andrews stood. ‘Enough time wasting. What are we going to do about this school situation?’

  ‘You liked this Jim Reilly?’

  Andrews nodded. ‘A decent man who loves his job and his partner. The likes of Greg McGrath shouldn’t be allowed wreck any of that.’

  West agreed. ‘I think we should seize his home computer. We need to find out precisely what kind of porn he’s into. We’ll have no problem getting a warrant, all we have to do is put the words pornography and school in the same sentence.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Andrews asked.

  ‘We need to be considerate of the family’s grief. Mrs Robert’s sister looked distraught. It might be best to contact McGrath directly, once you have the warrant.’ West reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a card. ‘He was kind enough to give us his number, after all, let’s use it.’

  Next morning, Andrews and Jarvis were once again crossing the city, at what Jarvis considered a ridiculously unreasonable hour. Andrews determined not to get snarled up in rush-hour traffic that would have made the journey unbearable, picked him up at six a.m.

  The McGrath’s lived in Clontarf; a semi-detached house near St Anne’s Park. The sun was shining as they drove along the seafront, passing Dollymount where Jarvis told Andrews he used to go swimming when he was a child.

  ‘We used to run up and down the sand-dunes, get sand everywhere,’ he reminisced. ‘Then we’d walk out to find the sea. Jesus, it felt like we’d walked forever and then it would be too shallow to do more than paddle. Not that any of us could swim, you know. We’d just mess around, splash water over one another.
Dad would pick up pieces of seaweed, and chase the sisters, making them squeal. Mum used to say she could hear us from the beach. Then we’d go back and she’d have this great picnic ready. There’d be sand in everything but we never minded.’

  ‘And I bet the sun always shone,’ Andrews said with a smile.

  Jarvis snorted. ‘There were nine of us, my mum didn’t care if it rained or shined. She just wanted a bit of peace. It was hard to get that in a three-bedded semi.’

  Andrews had never heard the younger man speak about his family. Curious now, he asked, ‘You came from around here?’

  ‘Yea, not too far away. Raheny.’

  ‘Parents still live there then?’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Stopping at traffic lights that were giving green lights to an empty cross-road, Andrews glanced over at his passenger, his head turned to look out the car window. ‘Jarvis?’

  Jarvis looked back at him. ‘Sorry, lost in thought. No, my parents were killed. A car crash. Several years ago. We were going to keep the house till our youngest sister finished college but she didn’t want to stay there. Said she kept hearing mum call her name. So we sold it, divvied up the money and we all bought something small. Funny though, nobody stayed around here. Too many memories I reckon.’

  The lights had obviously been green for a while because the car behind, having flashed its lights a number of times, gave up and overtook the stationary car, sending a look of annoyance their way as he passed, the middle finger of his left hand raised in salute.

  ‘I don’t come this way often,’ Jarvis said apologetically, ‘Strange how memories come flooding back, isn’t it?’

  Minutes later they drew up across the road from the McGrath house. Curtains in an upstairs window were edged with light so somebody was awake. As they watched, glass panels around the solid wooden front door lit up as someone switched a hall or landing light on. The household was up and about.