The Coast Road (Matt Minogue Mysteries)

by John Brady

  “Because of the drugs?”

  “Right. But then I put the other business to him, what the boy had told me. And I have to say, when I first heard it, I had my doubts. To me, that was impossible, just impossible. I couldn’t conceive of something like that. But then, the moment I heard Murphy telling it was the boy who started it, that even his parents knew there was something wrong with him, that’s when I knew. And that’s when I walloped him – right then and there. My hand just flew out by itself.”

  Minogue drew a circle around 15. When he looked up again, he saw that Twomey had been eyeing his notes.

  “How long after was this?” he asked him. “After that day out on Dalkey Island, I mean.”

  “It was three days. Yes, three days later I got that phone call from Tony Larkin. I was covered in paint, I remember. I had just bought a house out in Rathfarnham, and I was doing it up. Four minutes after ten o’clock that night, by the clock in the kitchen.” “Concerning Padraig? The incident with the neighbours?” Twomey nodded slowly, twice.

  “This little girl’s parents had found out, and over they’d marched to the Larkins. They were out for blood. I don’t know what the Justice told them exactly, but when I got there, he was very shook. He could barely talk.” “Padraig had a sister. Where was she?”

  “She was at boarding school. She only found out later, years later actually.”

  “So you spoke to Padraig.”

  Twomey pursed his lips and studied the back of his hand.

  “I did. I took him with me awhile. And I asked him what had gone on.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  “Oh he tried to wiggle around, all right. That it wasn’t as bad as they were making it out to be. That it wasn’t molesting – he had just wanted to look, he said. I told him it was serious, and that there were consequences. So then he tried to tell me it was drugs that made him do it, that he couldn’t make his mind stop. But then, when he saw that I wasn’t buying that, he starts telling me he couldn’t help himself, because Murphy had gotten control of him, of his mind, or something. So that’s when he told me what had gone on out at that old churchyard. ‘A Black Mass’ he called it. It was no such thing, but he’d been reading about the old Hellfire Club in the mountains. He was always interested in that stuff, I was told, the books, the history.” “There was more though, wasn’t there?” Twomey looked over at him.

  “Just like his uncle,” he said. “The same bad seed, turning everything bad. Getting inside something just to destroy it. Like a cancer. Tearing people down. Trying to tear God down too eventually.”

  “And Sister Albertina…?”

  “Yes,” said Twomey. “He told me about that then too. About Murphy and her.” “And did you believe him?”

  “He said he’d seen them. But no, I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to. But that’s human nature, isn’t it. It was only later on when I got Murphy talking, that I knew. That’s when I had to believe that it really had happened between them, that so-called priest and her I had to face up to then, I just had to…”

  His voice trailed off. He crossed his arms and studied the pattern on the bedspread.

  “So yes,” he murmured after several moments. “You’re right. It was me who had brought my sister over to the Larkins’ house in the first place. And it was me who introduced her to that family. Me who brought her, who delivered her, to Murphy.” Minogue resisted an impulse to ask another question.

  “I remember thinking how considerate the Larkins were,” Twomey went on. “I had let it slip one evening at a meeting that Bertie was home on leave. Nothing would do them then but to invite us around for a cup of tea. That’s the kind of people they were. So they must have asked Murphy over as a sort of a balancing out, maybe. I knew that he was Peggy Larkin’s brother, of course, but I had never met him in person by then. They were proud of him, of course. And why wouldn’t they be? They had no inkling either. That’s how it goes, I learned. That’s how it goes.”

  “How did all this end up?”

  A bewildered intensity had taken over Twomey’s face.

  “Don’t you know all that already?”

  “How would you describe it?”

  “That family was shattered. That’s the proper word. Tony Larkin? Dead by sixty-two. And poor Peggy? Ended up one of those behind-the-curtains drinkers. She blamed herself a lot, ’til her dying day actually.”

  “I meant how did it end up back at the time. From that time you found out.”

  “This is how: the Larkins got what they needed that day. That’s what happened.” “And what was that?”

  Minogue waited while Twomey seemed to weigh what he wanted to say.

  “I knew that Tony worried about that boy. He knew the boy was a bit odd. There was no shame in him asking me to do what needed to be done. He knew that he himself couldn’t do it, not to his own son. He trusted me to know the right thing.” “A favour, you’re talking about. Are you?” Twomey gave him a sudden, sharp glance.

  “There was no ‘favour.’ I went to the neighbours, is what I did. They were nice people. They were upset, they wanted things done. But eventually I was able to calm them down. They knew me, or they knew of me at least. There was trust then. I explained to them what was at stake. The damage that could be done. So, after a long chat, they left the matter in my hands.” “This was before you went to see Father Murphy?”

  “Nearly twelve o’clock at night? No, I went back to the house. I thought about the situation, about everything, and I prayed for guidance. There was no sleep that night, I can tell you, not a wink. But when the morning came, my mind was clear. First thing the next morning I went down to Sallynoggin parish church. It was right at the end of Mass. And in the door I go, and I say a prayer. Then I go around to the sacristy. He’s there. And when he saw me, and sure enough, he folded.”

  “‘Folded’ in what way?”

  “He bawled his eyes out, like the coward that he was. A great act, entirely. But he picked the wrong one to try and cod.”

  Minogue imagined a room, Twomey sitting in front to Murphy, staring at him.

  “Nothing to the tears that the Larkin family cried,” Twomey went on. “I told Murphy I knew about the session at the old church too. What he did with the young lad.” He paused and he eyed Minogue.

  “That was when he tried the routine I was telling you about. All somebody else’s doing, somebody else’s fault.” “And did he say the same thing about Sister Albertina?” Twomey stared at him. Slowly then, he raised his arm and made a circle with his forefinger and thumb. Looking through it at Minogue, he parted them slightly.

  “That’s how close I came. He got off easy, with the clout I gave him. It was only the grace of God held me back from worse.”

  He released the circle, but kept up his forefinger and slowly wagged it.

  “I told him about the young lad molesting the girl, and that he was responsible for that too. I wanted him to know what he had done to that family, to his own people.” Minogue let his eyes roam toward Sister Albertina again. “And even after all that,” he resumed. “I can see in his eyes the hatred he has, the contempt. I mean, what am I to him? Nobody. I’m just a Guard – a gom. I don’t have the seven years in the seminary, and all the finer points of things. And what’s a mere nun to him either? Nothing. I can see he’s thinking to himself there’ll be a discreet little chat between the bishop and the

  Commissioner. So I know what has to be done. And the man to do it is Tony Larkin.”

  Twomey let his forearms rest loosely on his lap.

  “The rest doesn’t matter. I just knew they’d come up with something. They had to. I told them that there was no way on God’s earth that that man was going to stay in that parish, or any parish in this country. He could leave the priesthood, he could go to Tierra del Fuego, he could even throw himself under the train – I didn’t care. I had gone out on a limb for Tony Larkin, and I wanted the ball coming back to my side now.”

  “Di
d you know he was sent on the missions?”

  “I didn’t, not at the time. But when I found out, I didn’t care. And God as my judge, I don’t care if he died roaring out there either.”

  The readout on the monitor flickered from one number to the next and back every now and then. Heart rate, pulse. Strong as an ox, Immaculata had said.

  “But it wasn’t over, that day, was it?” Minogue said. “You had to break the news to your sister, didn’t you?”

  Twomey’s dull stare had come to rest on the foot of the bed. Minogue tried to make out anything clear from the muffled sounds in the hallway outside.

  “My sister always liked to sing,” said Twomey then. “And she had a good voice too. And that was the draw that evening, going out to the Larkins. It was the night of the Eurovision. They had a new telly, a colour telly, one of the first. That’s what brought Murphy over too, and a few others. And when Dana took it, well the place went wild. It was Ireland’s big day at last.”

  “‘All Kinds of Everything.’”

  Twomey scratched at his neck, and sat back more in his chair.

  “She never had an easy mind after him. Betrayed, she was. I tried to explain it to her, but what good was that, coming from me? But I wasn’t her baby brother anymore. No. I was the one who came to her with that news. From then on, things weren’t good between us. She’d see me, or she’d get a letter, and it’d bring her back to that time. So I lost my sister because of that.”

  Minogue looked around the room again.

  “But look,” he said. “This is your doing here, isn’t it? You’re looking after her.”

  Twomey stared at him for several moments. Then, as though to discard some thought, he shrugged, and he looked away.

  “So, you and Padraig Larkin,” Minogue said. “You had dealings with Padraig, right?”

  Focused and grave, Twomey’s eyes had returned to lock onto Minogue’s.

  “I gave him a hiding, I told you, at the request of his father. He couldn’t do it himself.”

  “I’m not talking about back then. I’m talking about now, or six months ago.”

  “If that’s the answer, what was the question?”

  “What do you know about the death of Padraig Brian Larkin?”

  “Well, well, well,” said Twomey, his face clouded in thought. “So full of yourself.”

  “What do you know of the death of John Joseph McCarthy?” Twomey clasped his hands together.

  “I’m not complaining,” he said. “I’ve had my time.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Twomey gave him a slow, sidelong glance, and then he leaned sideways in his chair. Minogue’s back began to tingle.

  “What are you doing,” he said, rising. “What have you got there?”

  Twomey hesitated and opened his hand to reveal a knit nylon strap.

  “’We know not the day nor the hour,’” he said, with a faint smile.“You think I wasn’t expecting you?”

  From the corner of his eye, Minogue saw the door opening. Had he been shouting? Malone slid, more than stepped, into the room. Minogue saw now that Twomey was holding the straps of a bag, a worn-looking sports bag. Swimming, he thought, in the freezing sea out by the Forty Foot along with all the other fitness lunatics just like Pierce Condon has remembered him?

  Twomey gave Minogue an almost kindly look. He shook but didn’t flinch when Malone grabbed his arm, and his eyes did not leave Minogue’s.

  “He’s the other one?” he asked.

  “The other one of what?”

  “Save your guff for someone who’ll be taken in by it. You think I don’t know what’s going on?”

  “Well tell me then,” Minogue said. “Tell me what you know, or think you know. And we’ll see, won’t we?” Twomey tossed his head, and Minogue heard a quiet snort. “You and your ‘miracle,’” said. “You have no idea. Not one of you.”

  Malone swung the bag across to Minogue. Twomey let himself back in the chair again.

  The zipper slid back easily, and a scent of laundry detergent rose from within. Two well-thumbed books lay on top of a folded shirt. Wrapped in a plastic bag, a pair of shoes, polished. Shaving gear. A small pouch, ‘My Rosary’ from Knock shrine. “Have you found what you were looking for?” A trace of a smile remained on Twomey’s face, but the eyes were cold and dull.

  “What am I looking for? And where were you planning to go here?”

  “Where do you think I was going?” Minogue had no answer for him.

  “I was right. You’re no different from the rest of them these days.”

  Minogue pulled out one of the books. Thomas à Kempis Imitation of Christ. His own father had had one. He had found it after the funeral.

  “Read it,” Twomey said. “You’re the kind that needs to.” Minogue gave him a slow, empty stare.

  “If I do,” he murmured. “Will I turn out like you?”

  Chapter 37

  Kilmartin had given up trying to guess what Malone had meant in his email yesterday. Minogue had been copied the same message, of course: yes, Malone would make it to the monthly meeting of Club Mad in Ryan’s, the get-together for staff from the Murder Squad. The email also said that Malone might have ‘some news for youse.’

  Kilmartin had another hobby-horse to gallop on tonight, the court appearance and charges against Sergeant (Rtd.) Fergal Twomey. He took a sip of his whiskey, leaned back against the bar and repeated Minogue’s words back to him.

  “‘She wouldn’t stop talking afterwards.’ Nuns talk – that’s news to you?”

  Minogue looked in his wallet for another twenty. “This was different,” he said. “This was about when they were starting out.”

  “Herself and the other nun, in Africa?”

  “Albertina, that’s right. They did everything. An orphanage, teacher training, getting a farm up and running even.”

  “My, my,” Kilmartin said, with a trace of a sneer. “How the mighty have fallen.” “Who’s the mighty?”

  “You. I thought you were the antichrist entirely. At least you used to be. But now listen to you. Next thing we know, you’ll be back in the pews again.”

  Minogue knew it wasn’t worth arguing. Kilmartin would find some way to needle him over this. He took the top off his pint with a half-delicate slurp.

  “Look,” Kilmartin said. “What I want to know is this. Forget for a minute whether she’s gone a bit senile. Do you actually believe that she had no clue – no clue in the wide world – this would all lead back to you-know-who, to Twomey. Right to her best pal’s brother?”

  “I didn’t ask her that.”

  “Are you ever going to?”

  Minogue shook his head. Thwarting Kilmartin still gave him a kick.

  “Some copper you are. You told me earlier that you figured she was always holding back something. Is it maybe because she played for the other team. Was that it?” “Gay, you mean. A lesbian.”

  “Am I deaf? Why not buy a megaphone? She was holding something back though.”

  “She was. She was worried that somebody at Disciples had killed Padraig Larkin, that maybe an alibi wouldn’t hold up.”

  “Doesn’t she know right from wrong? I thought that was job one for the clergy.” “She was conflicted.”

  Kilmartin scratched the back of his neck, and gave a dry chuckle.

  “‘Conflicted.’ Oh, I love it. You mean ‘cracked’ – okay: senile maybe. But still.” “But still what?”

  “But still she went along with that low-down scheme of yours. ‘The big lie’ as I call it now. She set Twomey up for you, didn’t she? The miracle talk?”

  “No lies. There was suggestion at work there.”

  “Get serious, Matt. Dirty work is what it was! No need to feel bad about it. It was the lesser evil, and all that. It’s the real world we have to live in after all.” Minogue wasn’t going to let this one go.

  “Immaculata didn’t lie, and I didn’t ask her to. She wouldn’t have done it.”

>   “What are you getting excited over? Don’t get me wrong – I’m only saying well done, bucko. Me, I’d have had a hard time imagining the likes of Twomey still existed today in Ireland. As bad as a Redemptorist in Lent, with the hell fire pouring down from the pulpit. But fair play. You played him. You found his weak spot, and you went straight for it and you dug in – and you played her nicely too, after she sandbagged you. So me, I wouldn’t lie awake worrying about it.”

  “I’m not.”