‘We’re full,’ the owner announced. ‘We have no rooms. Sorry.’
Beck decided to get into character. He looked at them both, but neither held his gaze. He leaned on the counter. The owner took a step back, swallowed once. Beck waited, then, one, two, three, ACTION:
‘BOO!’
* * *
Beck was lighting a cigarette on the street outside when Superintendent Wilde rang.
‘Where’ve you been, Beck?’ Wilde asked as Beck turned into an alley. Beck was beginning to understand how Ned must have felt.
‘Didn’t you know?’ Beck said. ‘The instructions were clear. Do not return to the station.’
A weak ray of sunlight washed the top half of the buildings on one side of him. The bottom half of the alleyway never received any sun, and the air was permanently cold and damp.
‘Yes, yes, that’s all changed now,’ Wilde said.
‘It has?’
‘The press office has taken control. They want you back here. A press conference is scheduled for five o’clock, and they want you at it. If you’re not, it will raise all sorts of questions. Look, Beck, no one is seriously considering the notion that you killed your landlady, except the press, that is.’
‘That’s reassuring.’
Beck could hear an intake of breath at the other end.
‘How are you… coping, that is?’
‘By not thinking about it,’ Beck replied.
‘Beck, listen, you and your landlady. I mean, she wasn’t a bad-looking woman, all things considered, did you and…’
‘I have something to do,’ Beck said abruptly. ‘I’ll be there by five thirty.’
‘It’s five o’clock, Beck, it’s five o’—’
Beck finished the call, took a last draw on his cigarette and emerged onto Bridge Walk.
Seventy-Eight
The life of a sperm cell. Fighting its way upstream like a spawning salmon, programmed for one thing and one thing only: to reach its destination and spark life. If it’s lucky, that is, if it’s very, very, very lucky indeed. Because millions of other sperm have the very same objective. And only one can survive. Only one! The rest die, to be soaked up on wads of tissue paper and flushed down the toilet.
So arbitrary.
He remembered he’d been thinking this the day he’d held his breath, watching through the keyhole of their bedroom. Fleeting images: his stepfather’s narrow back, his mother, sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing the long white nightdress he’d seen hanging from the washing line countless times.
Crept to his bedroom. Made too much noise. Her voice following him down the hall, asking was he alright, why wasn’t he in bed?
Said nothing. A door opening, footsteps, stopping outside his bedroom.
‘What is it, Benedict?’
Said nothing.
The doorknob turning.
Got ready, time like a concertina, opening out, a brief second becoming an eternity, contracting, an eternity gone in one second. She rattled at the lock and then he heard her footsteps retreat back down the corridor. Then the sound of her bedroom door closing. After this, sometimes, he could hear the creaking of bedsprings. Slowly at first. Then faster, faster, faster. He would cover his ears and chant the words to block the sounds out: ‘Your time will come. You will die. Your time will come. You will die…’
Seventy-Nine
The cathedral, The Cathedral of St Jude and Malachy, to give it its full title, was by far the largest building in Cross Beg, a huge neoclassical grey stone structure built in the mid-1800s.
‘I was in the vicinity,’ Beck said to the dour young priest sitting in the parish office opposite. It was dimly lit with heavy dark wooden furniture, a reception desk in one corner, a carpeted floor. There was no one else present but himself and the priest. ‘I thought I’d enquire on the off chance that Father Clifford might be about.’
The dour young priest did not question him, it no doubt being normal for people to call in unannounced seeking the parish priest. He smiled, and the dourness temporarily disappeared from his face. ‘The Father wasn’t feeling well earlier. I think he is somewhere about in the cathedral. Or the presbytery. The presbytery is right there.’ He pointed.
Beck followed his outstretched hand and could see through the glass panel in the door a square brick house on the other side of a low hill at the back of the cathedral. The house took him by surprise; he’d never seen it before, hidden as it was by both the cathedral and the hill.
‘Thank you,’ he said and left, walked across the car park and entered the cathedral through one of the vaulted side doors. It was silent inside, like cold static energy you could almost touch. Amongst the rows of pews were lone figures bent in prayer. The light filtered through the stained-glass windows and gave a surreal otherworldliness to the place, which was the whole point, really, Beck considered. He hadn’t been in a church in years, not even for funerals, which he didn’t see the point of. He’d been an altar boy for a time, and he remembered climbing creaky stairs that twisted their way inside the spire to the bell tower, the floor littered with the carcasses of dead birds that had squeezed through broken air vents and were unable to get out again.
Someone coughed, and the sound pierced the silence and rumbled through the expanse of the cathedral. Beck did not linger. He left again, making his way to the presbytery, passing the well-tended flower beds to the front door where he pressed the doorbell. No one answered. He was about to press it a second time when a window above him opened and a face appeared, looking down at him.
‘Father Clifford, sorry to trouble you,’ Beck said, peering up.
‘Yes?’
‘I was hoping to have a word.’
‘Yes. I’m in bed, though. The flu. If you still want to come up, feel free, push the door and come through.’
Beck did and stepped into the hallway; there was a frayed floral carpet, a large mirror in a heavy wooden frame, edges faded with age, and the musty smell of damp in the air. He went up the wide stairs. ‘In here,’ a voice called, and Beck saw a door slightly open.
The curtains were drawn, a lamp on a bedside table throwing off a feeble light. Father Clifford was partially sitting up in bed, his head resting against some pillows. A collection of medicine bottles were scattered on the table next to him. Father Clifford coughed and pulled the blankets tighter around him.
‘I’m sorry,’ Beck said. ‘This is a mistake. I can come again another time.’
‘No, no. You’re here now. You’re the police officer I met at Frazzali’s the other day, aren’t you?’
‘Detective Inspector Finnegan Beck.’
‘A policeman. Yes. What do you want?’ The priest coughed again.
Beck stood awkwardly, feeling the intrusiveness of his presence in the room. There was no chair.
‘What do you want?’ Father Clifford repeated. ‘Bring a stool in from the bathroom and sit down. It’s next door.’
‘I was speaking with a retired sergeant,’ Beck said when he was sitting. ‘About an historical crime. Remains found at a local beach.’
Beck noticed the change immediately. The priest’s hands, which had been resting on the outside of the drab grey blanket, twitched and came together, squeezing against each other tight.
He was younger than Beck had imagined, his black hair streaked with grey, combed back on his high, steep forehead, with skin that was almost boyishly fresh, and small, thoughtful eyes that suddenly carried a heavy pain.
The priest dropped his head onto his chest.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Remains were found, were they?’
‘Yes,’ Beck said. ‘They were.’
‘And… what did he tell you, the sergeant?’
Beck was uncomfortable on the small stool, his legs spread before him, his upper body angled forward to relieve the pressure on his neck.
‘That the body, the remains, are probably going to be those of Jimmy Reidy.’
The priest was quiet, and rock still. He e
ven seemed to have stopped breathing. In a low whisper he repeated, ‘Jimmy Reidy,’ and louder, ‘you know then, don’t you? Yes, you do.’
Beck said nothing.
‘You know that I have a son.’
‘The way I heard it, it was merely a rumour.’
‘Humph. I have a son. I gave in to temptation, the devil got his reward.’
The priest rested his head into his pillows, staring at the ceiling, the knuckles of his right hand pressing into his neck. At that moment he looked very old. He lowered his eyes, focusing on Beck.
‘It breaks my heart to say it. Yes, I have a son. And I abandoned him. And his mother, too. I deserve to be punished for what I have done.’
The priest closed his eyes and blessed himself quickly.
‘Have you heard from your son?’ Beck asked.
‘I have gotten letters and emails. Splurges of vile filth and hate. The product of a sick, deranged mind. They have worn me down. Look at me. They have made me ill. To think that someone could hate so much. I was in the Congo, you know, The Republic of the Congo… for over thirty years. Every day was a scene from a dystopian horror, life cheaper than a matchstick. But it was easier than reading those words of his, to put up with that. I went to the capital Kinshasa more than once, to see my superior. I always felt my son was close by. I felt he was watching me. And it frightened me. I wanted to be sent somewhere far, far away, further away than Kinshasa, to the furthest reaches of the earth. But they told me I was suffering from the delusions of stress and guilt. It was why they allowed me to return back here. But he is still close by. I know he is. And yet I wonder, am I deluded?’
The priest bowed his head again, and tottered on the verge of tears.
‘When you say your son is close by,’ Beck said, ‘where specifically? Would you know?’
The priest knotted the blanket in his hands, pulling it down for the first time. His hands flew to his neck.
‘Sergeant Molyneaux told me of his strange behaviour all those years ago,’ Beck said.
‘It was a dreadful time. And dreadful times have returned, have they not? But now they are much worse.’
‘Do you think your son could be…?’
‘Responsible? For the spate of murders? Yes, I do. It breaks my heart to say it. But it is possible.’
‘Why didn’t you come forward and inform us before now?’
‘And say what? That my son is responsible? A son who hasn’t been seen in the best part of thirty years? When I have no evidence? They told me it was delusions caused by stress the first time. I haven’t forgotten that, by the way.’
Beck wondered. Was this the fanciful tale of a tormented soul? Or was there some truth to it? He didn’t know. He just didn’t know.
‘Why do you shake your head?’
‘Was I?’ Beck hadn’t realised that he had.
‘Yes… You don’t believe me, do you?’
Beck looked at the priest, noted the way his small blue eyes seemed to radiate with what little light there was in the room.
‘I don’t know what the truth is. But I intend to find out.’
Eighty
No one had told Beck. He went through the station’s front door to find the foyer filled with press. They surrounded him immediately. A hand wrapped itself around his wrist and yanked him away into the public office. She seemed far too petite to have the strength to have just done that.
‘Victoria Plaistow, Press Office, we need to speak.’ Her voice was smoky. She had sunglasses pushed up onto her coiffured blonde hair, and wore a tight pink dress under an expensive-looking leather coat tied loosely at the waist.
Beck finally spoke. ‘Are you actually a guard?’
‘No. I’m from Ogliby, Hegarty and O’Mara, public relations consultants. Listen up. The conference will be held in the foyer. Sorry we couldn’t get word to you in time. They wanted to hold it in the Ops Room. I couldn’t believe it. They’d go through every desk in there. Nothing would be private. So it’s the foyer. Beck…’
‘Yes.’
‘Answer their questions but don’t elaborate. They will want to question you. You’ve seen the headlines. The top brass at Phoenix Park are concerned. This is your chance to put an end to it, okay? Before we go out there, honestly, is there any reason you know of why that woman was found under your bed?’
‘No.’
‘Good. I’ll be right behind you.’ She reached out to open the door of the public office.
‘Wait,’ Beck said.
‘What?’
‘Give me a minute. I’m not ready.’
‘You’re ready.’ She handed him a sheet of paper.
‘What’s this?’
‘Your statement.’ Her hand was on his back now, pushing him towards the door.
The TV camera lights stung his eyes. He lowered them, stared at the statement in his hands. An eruption of voices around him, excited and agitated, one louder than the other, all asking different questions and all at the same time.
Victoria Plaistow’s voice behind him: ‘Give the inspector a moment, please. Please. Let the inspector speak.’
Beck began: ‘My name is Inspector Finnegan Beck. In the early hours of this morning I awoke in my home to find the body of a female underneath my bed. This female was my landlady, Mrs Sheila Claxton. I rented the property from her. I do not know how she got there or who might have done this. I am not responsible. Speculation that I am does nothing but divert attention away from the investigation into the multiple murders in Cross Beg. I am as shocked by her death as anyone else, more so because, as I said, she was my landlady. I am not the killer. I repeat: I am not the killer. The state pathologist, Dr Derek Gumbell, has now confirmed that time of death was at least six hours prior to my finding the body. Please note that for the preceding thirty-six hours I was not in my home in Cross Beg. I was in Dublin attending a work-related meeting and had stayed in the city the night before. I travelled back to Cross Beg after this meeting and went directly to Cross Beg Garda Station, where I remained on duty until 11.37 p.m. last night. This is the logging-off time on my computer. I did not have an opportunity to kill Mrs Sheila Claxton, even if I had wanted to. I did not want to kill Sheila Claxton, and I did not kill Sheila Claxton. End of statement. Thank you.’
The reporters began shouting out a flurry of questions, but Victoria Plaistow stepped in and led Beck back towards the Ops Room. Behind him, he could hear Superintendent Wilde speaking. ‘Any operational questions concerning the investigation can be directed to me now. Inspector Beck will not be taking any questions. He is returning immediately to the active investigation. Yes, you, Bobby, go ahead…’
* * *
‘Perhaps you could somehow lend the same efficiency to this investigation,’ Beck said when they were in the public office.
Victoria Plaistow smiled. She was a life-size Barbie doll straight out of the box. He could see the duty sergeant had his chair turned towards her.
‘I’m sure you know better than anyone else what you’re doing,’ she replied.
The fact was, Beck didn’t, not really. He knew that floundering investigations depended on information supplied to push them over the line, most often tip-offs from members of the public. Results of investigations from legwork, despite advancements in forensics and the increasing sophistication of available tools, ran a very distant second to plain old information supplied, and also, good luck.
Eighty-One
The glass of red wine Lucy had poured remained untouched. Their apartment was in the Claddagh, the oldest part of Galway city. The kitchen area they were sitting in was separated from the living area beyond it by a low partition wall. From where Beck was sitting, he could see into it: the TV in one corner, a brown leather settee and a matching armchair, framed photographs on the wall, group photographs of smiling faces, family probably. A section of wall beside it was taken up by a large framed print of Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night.
‘I worry,’ Lucy said. ‘How do you
know he’s not going to come for me?’ Her eyes widened. ‘I mean, he could.’
To hell with it, Beck thought, and reached for the wine. He took a polite sip, tasted the delicious tangy afterglow as it went down his throat, forced himself to put the glass back onto the table.
‘I don’t think he’s going to come here or anything, babes,’ Claire said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘But I do worry about it. I feel so… vulnerable.’
Claire reached across and squeezed her wife’s hand, stroked the back of it. Beck noted the dynamic between the two.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said again, ‘it’s going to be alright.’
‘If you’re sure,’ Lucy said, and looked at Beck.
He got the feeling she wished he wasn’t there.
‘I’m sure,’ Claire repeated.
Which was a lie, because no one could be sure of anything.
‘Make certain everything is locked,’ Lucy said. ‘And don’t forget the windows.’
‘I won’t. I’ll look after everything,’ Claire said. ‘I promise.’
Lucy stood. ‘I’m going to bed. Please don’t be long, Claire.’ Her voice took on a distinct formality. ‘Good night, Inspector Beck.’ She turned to leave, but paused, looked back over her shoulder. ‘See, I’m more sensitive that I first appear, aren’t I? Quite fragile, really.’ She looked at Claire. ‘Thank you for looking after me, darling.’
‘She is quite fragile,’ Claire said when they were alone.
Beck thought: So is the Spanish flu virus.
‘But no one is what they appear on the outside,’ Claire added. And looking into Beck’s eyes: ‘Are they?’
Beck rubbed his eyebrows between two fingers, feeling suddenly very tired. ‘Thank you again. For putting me up for the night.’
Claire waved her hand in an ‘it’s no problem’ gesture, said, ‘Why did he come back? Father Clifford.’
Where She Lies Page 22
