Dead Man's Sins

by Caimh McDonnell

“So it was money?”

  Marshall looked offended. “No, sir. According to McGarry, the bet had been that the loser would run from one end of the training college to the other. Completely naked.”

  Ferguson raised his eyebrows. “Well, well, well. And who won?”

  “That is irrelevant, sir. I have no recollection of the bet and, more importantly, I don’t believe such a wager could take place while both parties were inebriated.”

  “At a wild guess, did Cork win the match?”

  Marshall pursed his lips and gave a terse nod.

  Ferguson scratched his chin. “So, you made a bet, and then you backed out of it?”

  “That’s very much not how I would see it, sir.”

  Ferguson nodded. “Has he finished yet?”

  “I’m sorry, sir?” asked Marshall.

  “The dog. Has he finished? I’m noticing an absence of grunting noises from behind me.”

  Marshall peered towards the corner. “Yes.”

  “Thank God for that. I need to dictate a letter after this and I can’t bring my PA into the room while Kevin’s still at it. I think that would technically qualify as sexual harassment in the workplace. So, what’s the next move with McGarry?”

  “I’m asking him to come in today for an interview, so that we can eliminate him as a suspect.”

  Ferguson ran his tongue around his mouth. “Yes. I entirely believe that is your objective, Inspector. Let me know how it goes, and if you need any further assistance. That is all.”

  Marshall got to his feet. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Would you please ask Ms Willis to step in as you leave?”

  “Certainly, sir.” Marshall turned and walked to the door. As he placed his hand on it, Ferguson spoke again.

  “Oh, and off the record, Tommy Boy. If you’d backed out of the bet with me, I wouldn’t have pulled your pants down.”

  “Sir?”

  “No. I’d have set them on fire, with you still wearing them.”

  The dog barked.

  “Shut up, Kevin!”

  A Lost Soul

  Hand on heart, Bunny really couldn’t say why he was here. He couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, in the middle of all this, as well as everything else, Angelina was in trouble. Perhaps he was hoping that her father could throw some light on what was going on? Or maybe it was just good old-fashioned Catholic guilt?

  Until Angelina had mentioned her father, it had been years since Bunny had even thought about John Quirke. Back in the early days, when he’d first been on the beat, they’d seen one another regularly. These days, Bunny hoped some things had changed for the better, but back in the late eighties, more often than not John Quirke and people like him were just dismissed as being “mad”. There was no bad in him, the man just wasn’t well.

  His wife had been the glue that held him together and things got a lot worse after she died. The unexpected death of anybody in the prime of their life is a terrible thing, but Fiona Quirke’s passing had been cruel. She left for work one day and collapsed at a bus stop, leaving behind John and Angelina, an ill man and a confused kid trying to take care of each other.

  Things hadn’t always been that way for John Quirke. To hear others tell it, back in his teenage years, John had been the life and soul of the party. Blessed with good looks and charm, Fiona had been regarded with jealousy for snagging him. However, John’s youthful behaviour – him being a bit of a messer, a bit wild, call it what you will – began to manifest in other ways as he grew older. It was the difference between a teenager jumping into the local pond at the height of summer to impress his friends, and a lone man doing the same thing on a cold winter’s morning. There were bursts of manic energy followed by the inevitable dark depths of depression, and the whole pattern inevitably intensified after he lost his wife.

  No longer able to hold down a job, he slipped in and out of care. Angelina would sometimes stay with an aunt or, as she got older, with friends. The truth was that Angelina Quirke was raised by the whole estate – neighbours quietly chipping in, dropping food over, making sure the house was kept in good order. It takes a village and all that. When the Gardaí received reports of John behaving erratically, they’d collect him and, most of the time, drop him back home.

  On some occasions, when he was really bad and they couldn’t calm him down, they had to hospitalise him for his own safety. Bunny remembered the time he had to convince a colleague not to file a report that John Quirke had hit him. If John had been perceived as violent, he’d have inevitably ended up in court, a prison sentence would have followed, and Angelina could have wound up in care. Besides, John Quirke wasn’t swinging at anybody except the demons in his own head.

  Bunny also remembered dropping round several times himself, and the look on Angelina’s face when the poor kid answered the door – a mix of concern and embarrassment as he explained where her father was and checked that she had somewhere to stay. This wasn’t to say that John didn’t have his good days too – there was the incredible treehouse he managed to build for Angelina and her friends, which, as much as anything, was a work of art and a hint of what the man could have achieved in life if the cards had fallen a different way.

  While he might not have received the care he needed back then, it looked as if things had improved for John – at least they had if you were to judge by looking at the Cedarwood Hospital from the outside. As Bunny drove into the grounds, he stopped and double checked the sign to make sure he hadn’t pulled into a golf course by mistake.

  Undulating manicured lawns, stretching into the distance and dotted with mature trees, surrounded the cluster of buildings. What was referred to as the mental-health clinic was only one part of the complex. There were other units with euphemistic titles, such as the well-being centre, rehabilitation spa and sports medicine clinic. He’d never been here before, but Bunny had heard of the place. If you were a sports star who’d blown out your knee, a musician who’d snorted your way into needing “some time away”, or anybody who had the money and desire to select their nose from a catalogue, then Cedarwood was where you ended up.

  The complex was surprisingly busy. Bunny followed the signs that directed him into an underground car park. He hated these places, not least because he was driving a rental car and, on principle, he’d refused the excess cover because it was, well, excessive. He found himself corkscrewing down a ramp designed by a sadist – or, at the very least, somebody who owned a body shop – desperately trying not to scratch the bloody thing. He breathed a sigh of relief as he eventually arrived at the designated parking area for the clinic on the -3 level.

  He got out and checked the sign on the wall, then read it twice again to make sure he had got it right. He then he looked around to confirm somebody wasn’t trying to pull some kind of elaborate practical joke. He had to either get his parking validated or take out a second mortgage to pay for it. He found the lift and rode up to the ground floor in the company of a woman he vaguely recognised but whose face he couldn’t place. His best guess what that she either read the news or had somehow been in it. She turned right as Bunny turned left, following the signs to their very different destinations.

  If you didn’t know where you were as you stepped into the reception at the mental health clinic, you could be forgiven for thinking you were in an upscale hotel. An indoor water feature burbled away in one corner, and abstract and expensive-looking art graced the walls while muzak softly Kenny G-ed for all it was worth in the background. Bunny had to concede that at least it was better than the music inflicted on people at the gym. A few days of that, and Bunny would end up here himself.

  As he approached the reception desk, Bunny was favoured with the kind of dazzling smile you were only blessed with if you worked for an organisation that had two of the most expensive dentists in Ireland on its books and could avail of a sizeable staff discount.

  “Hello, sir. How can I help you?”

  “I was hoping to have a chat with one of the p
atients, please. John Quirke.”

  “And you are?”

  “Bernard McGarry. I’m an old friend of the family.”

  The receptionist ran a finger up and down the sheet in front of her. “I can’t see you here. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, sorry, I don’t.”

  “I’m afraid we do have a strict appointment system here.”

  Bunny took out his ID. “I am honestly a friend of the family, but this isn’t just a social call.”

  She nodded. “I understand. Let me call Dr Fitzgerald.”

  Bunny took a step back as the woman made a brief phone call then smiled up at him. “She’ll be right out.”

  “Thank you.” Bunny glanced at the comfortable-looking sofas opposite the reception desk but stopped short. He remembered himself and reached into his inside pocket. “Oh, before I forget – is there any chance you could validate my parking?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Bunny handed her the card gratefully. “Thank God for that. I thought I was going to have to drop over the road when I was done here and see if I could convince somebody to buy a kidney.”

  She laughed as she fed the card in and out of the machine on the desk. “I know,” she sympathised. “Between you and me, it’s absolutely ridiculous, isn’t it? The guard who called around yesterday said exactly the same thing.” It was noticeable how the woman’s accent had become considerably less posh now she realised he was just a copper and not a relative of one of their patients.

  “Oh right,” said Bunny. “I imagine they were just in confirming Mrs Hannity had been here on Tuesday night?”

  The receptionist nodded. “Yeah. I just showed him the records in the book and then he had a brief chat with Dr Fitzgerald. He asked to speak to the patient as well but she talked him out of it. I guess that’s why you’ve come back?”

  “I’m afraid so. We just have to be seen to be ticking all the boxes – you know how it is. Does John Quirke get many visitors?”

  “No,” said the woman. “Just Princess Grace.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The woman looked embarrassed when she realised what she’d just said. “Sorry, I … Nothing. Don’t mind me.”

  Bunny gave her a smile. “Why do you call her that?”

  She looked around nervously.

  “Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble. I was just curious, that’s all.”

  “It’s just,” started the woman “every time she comes in, she’s very aloof. We take turns covering the later shifts, me and the other girls, and Carol came up with the nickname. Always looks so glamorous. Gucci this, Armani that. Big sunglasses. Never chats.”

  Bunny nodded.

  “I mean, to be fair to her, it can’t be easy, can it? I mean …” She went quiet as a brown-haired woman in a neatly pressed white coat appeared through the doors and made her way across to Bunny.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Dr Amanda Fitzgerald, the lead specialist here.”

  “Detective Bernard McGarry.”

  “I believe you’re enquiring about John Quirke?”

  “Yes.”

  “As I told your colleague, there is no benefit to him being interviewed, and it wouldn’t be good for him.”

  “I appreciate that, Doctor, but as it happens, I’m actually an old friend of the family. I’ve known John for years.”

  Dr Fitzgerald pursed her lips before nodding back in the direction of the door through which she had come. She led Bunny down a hallway and into a room where a bored-looking nurse was seated, watching a bank of a dozen or so monitors.

  “Hi, Claire,” said Dr Fitzgerald.

  The nurse sat forward instinctively, trying to look more alert.

  “Is everything OK?”

  The nurse smiled. “Absolutely, Doctor.”

  “Where is John Quirke at the minute?”

  The nurse scanned the monitors and pointed to the one at the top left. “He’s in the lounge.”

  “Could you zoom in, please?”

  She dutifully hit a couple of buttons and manoeuvred the joystick on the control panel. Bunny watched as the screen filled with the image of a man he barely recognised. John Quirke, even on his bad days, had been a good-looking man. Now, bloodshot eyes sat in a gaunt face. His hands tugged nervously at his raggedy beard as he rocked back and forth, staring at the ground, mumbling to himself.

  “Jesus,” said Bunny softly.

  “Yes,” said Dr Fitzgerald. “I’m afraid there is a degenerative element to John’s condition. He has good days and bad days, but I’m showing you this to emphasise my point: nothing he could say would be of any use to law enforcement and, frankly, the experience of being interviewed would be very upsetting for him.”

  “I understand,” said Bunny. “As I said, I honestly do know him, but we’ve fallen out of touch. I didn’t realise it’d got this bad.”

  “I’m afraid so. The only person who sees him now is his daughter. And honestly? On the bad days, he doesn’t even know who she is. He had an episode a couple of weeks ago, when he started screaming at her and had to be restrained. As part of his condition, his paranoia can spiral. He’s accused us of trying to poison him, her of being an impostor, and one of the orderlies of trying to steal his teeth in the night. As his doctor, I strongly suggest you leave him alone.”

  Bunny took a last look at the man on the screen. “Right. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

  He walked back to the car lost in his own thoughts. Such a cruel situation. There but for the grace of God. But he couldn’t imagine how hard it was for poor Angelina to visit week after week and see her father slipping further and further away from her.

  It was only once he’d got back into the car and carefully negotiated his way up to the ground-floor exit that Bunny realised he’d left his parking ticket with the receptionist.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

  A Walk in the Park

  As she walked along the path, the sharp March breeze slashing through the bare branches of the trees towering above her, Angelina could feel eyes on her. A couple of new mothers pushing prams, chatting away a mile a minute. An older gentleman sitting on a bench, tossing stale bread to ravenous pigeons. A sweat-soaked jogger trundling grimly by, his gait telling the tale of ambition outweighing capability. They were all busy in their own little worlds, but their eyes still invaded hers.

  Not that she wanted to, but Angelina could chart the phases of her life by how she felt about people looking at her. Ballet dancing as a child, and enjoying the feeling of being the best at something – at least in the tiny universe she’d lived in – she’d revelled in the thrill of recognition. Then, as she’d become an awkward motherless teenager, she became a typical mix of wanting to be both noticed and ignored. As she grew older still, and the modelling dream became her way out, her chance at something better, she’d needed to be noticed. Being noticed had come to be the be all and end all, her very reason for living. Near the end she’d hated it, hated it so very much. It had taken her to some dark places and moments when things could have gone very differently.

  She’d eventually come home and made her deal with the devil, and, for different reasons, once again she hated the feeling of people’s eyes on her. She could feel their judgement, knowing what she was. She had done what she’d had to do to protect herself and her father, and those looks were part of her punishment. The subtle drip, drip of accusation and judgement. Nothing was ever said, of course – the Hannity name carried far too much fear for anyone ever to actually say anything, but people couldn’t keep that look out of their eyes and she had seen it. Maybe because she’d been looking for it. As confirmation of her own self-image.

  None of that mattered now. Everything had changed. She had more important things to worry about than herself.

  She took a deep breath and tried to relax. Logically speaking, she knew that none of these people were really looking at her – they were gawping at what was behind her. Samoan Joe, immense as
he was, inevitably attracted attention, even without the conspicuous bandage wrapped around his head as evidence of the injury he’d suffered a couple of nights ago.

  When she’d announced that she was going to Santry Park for her regular walk, he’d insisted on coming with her. In fact, since he’d checked himself out of the hospital the day before, Joe had rarely left her side. Perhaps she should stay home, wear black, mourn – for the look of the thing, but she was royally sick of keeping up appearances. She also found herself irrationally irritated by the fact that Joe cheerfully greeted everyone they passed as they looked at him. He was just so infuriatingly comfortable in his own skin.

  She checked her watch: 12:13pm. Her walk around the park, following the route she always did, had taken precisely forty-eight minutes. Usually it took fifty-one – she assumed the increase in her speed was down to nervous energy. While she hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours in days, there was enough caffeine surging through her body to leave her feeling jittery and wired.

  She stopped, bent down and started to tie her shoelaces. A shadow loomed over her, blocking out what little warmth there was in the spring sun.

  “For Christ’s sake, Joe. You don’t need to stand over me.”

  “Is everything alright there, Angelina?”

  “Yes. I’m tying my shoelace. I’ve been doing this since I was a kid, and if I couldn’t, I’m not sure you’d be the first person I’d call.”

  She noticed the old man look up from his pigeons and give her a concerned look, his attention attracted by her irritated tone, then felt the sun again as Joe took a step back.

  “Alright. No need to get snippy.”

  Angelina straightened up and headed for the exit. She turned left on to the Swords Road and increased her pace. To her right, traffic flowed by at a steady speed. This road would be at a crawl in the morning and evening rush hours, but just after midday it flowed as God and town planners had intended. A bus whooshed by in the lane beside her, causing her to jump. She resisted the urge to look behind, denying Joe the opportunity to roll out his big goofy smile and ask her to slow down.