Two Kinds of Blood

by Jane Ryan

  ‘You’re sure you need nothing else, DCS Muldoon?’ she said.

  ‘I’m fine. You hold the fort. Is Joe ready?’

  ‘Downstairs and waiting,’ she said. Each word a nod.

  I wasn’t part of this conversation and had no death wish, so kept to the side and looked at our little tableau in the gleaming lift doors. They opened and disgorged a creosote-coloured DS O’Connor. He spotted Muldoon and opened his mouth without thinking.

  ‘What’s Clarke doing sitting in reception like he’s off on an outing?’ he said.

  It wasn’t how I’d have started a conversation with DCS Muldoon and I smothered a smile of satisfaction.

  DCS Muldoon’s face didn’t register DS O’Connor’s presence or his remark. The oaf was unseen.

  ‘After you, Detective Garda Harney,’ said DCS Muldoon.

  O’Connor’s trapdoor mouth hung open.

  ‘You’ll be briefed in due course, Detective Superintendent O’Connor,’ said the redoubtable Ms Goddard.

  The doors closed on O’Connor’s face.

  I won’t lie, it was a sweet moment and would have been enough, if not for the curiosity tickling me about what I was doing with DCS Muldoon going to the ground floor to meet Joe Clarke, who by all accounts, was waiting in the foyer when he should have been in the cells.

  We arrived at a convent in Glasnevin and DCS Muldoon parked by the gate lodge. I hadn’t spoken throughout the journey – other than to salute Joe – by his grin my astonished silence was amusing him.

  The builders had gone home for the day and we were out of sight of the main building. A russet Virginia creeper grew up the side of the cottage and into the eaves, a selection of roof tiles in its fiery teeth.

  ‘Joe, why are we here?’ said DCS Muldoon.

  Joe sighed. ‘It’s not going to change much. I’ll be investigated for owing money to a loan shark and no doubt will be charged.’ He raised his eyes to skyward, but got no further than the car headliner fabric. ‘I wanted you pair to know the truth. I’ve no way to prove it, but will you listen?’

  He had our attention.

  ‘Bridge, you’ve been a great officer and I don’t know what Flannery told you, but I lied to you and that was unforgiveable.’

  Words wanted to tumble out, but it wasn’t about me comforting Joe. My heart knocked in my chest at the sound of his voice. He was broken.

  ‘Never heard you so quiet,’ he said.

  ‘I missed the briefing so for once in my life I’ll hold fire,’ I said.

  Joe put his left hand up to his head and pressed until his fingernails were white.

  ‘Will you keep questions until the end, please?’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ said DCS Muldoon.

  ‘Up there,’ he indicated to the convent’s main building with a steady hand, ‘is where my sister lives. Ellen Clarke her given name, but Sister Assumpta when she took her vows.’

  The car blurred around me as cogs slotted into place. It was all I could do to keep my promise.

  ‘Ellen’s ten years older than me. She was born in 1959.’ Joe’s shoulders hunched up to his neck. ‘It was a different world back then, no internet, no mobile phones, people lived and worked in their own parishes. The State of Emergency had ended thirteen years before. We weren’t well off,’ he gave a snort, ‘in fact we were dirt poor. Small holding and never enough of anything. My parents wanted a vocation in the family and it fell to Ellen. I believe they thought they were giving her a better life. When I was eight she went off to Clarendon House, the Mother and Baby home. I don’t know if Ellen wanted to be a nun. She was a great woman for . . .’ He grappled with something. ‘These short-lived bursts of affection, hugging and making a pet out of me, but it was play-acting, there was nothing behind it. She and my parents had so many rows growing up, but it didn’t knock a whit out of her. She could have a blazing row one minute, Mammy in tears, then ask you if you wanted to go out and pick berries off the hedge or bring in the cows. Things didn’t stick to Ellen, but Jesus she was fearless. Run into a field and ride a horse bareback, while all the local kids watched.’

  Joe was quiet for a moment, lost in a reel he had exclusive access to.

  ‘Either way, Ellen and I weren’t close and she didn’t see Mam and Dad that often. Dad died when I was about twelve, so Ellen visited us more. But she’d changed. Hard and hot with self-righteousness, a poker stuck in the fire too long. Mam wanted us to be closer. When I finished up in Templemore and got stationed in Drumcondra I’d go up to her on a Thursday evening in the convent for a bit of tea. Ellen could be charming when she wanted. It got to be a habit and I’d tell her about my day, what I was doing. At first to have something to say, but Ellen was a good listener and a nun. She wouldn’t tell anyone anything.’

  I chanced a squint over at DCS Muldoon to see what he was making of Joe’s story. He was fascinated. It was a glimpse into an Ireland I never knew, of rosaries at tea time and Ireland’s Own magazine setting your world view.

  ‘So it went on. I found myself unburdening to Ellen. I couldn’t talk to my wife about my work and she was focused on our girls. When Ellen asked me to look out for a little lad I couldn’t deny her.’

  Joe’s face was flushed.

  ‘It was Seán Flannery. He was a small, even by standards back then. That fucking pervert priest – God forgive me for swearing, I’m letting myself down – was taking an unhealthy interest in him, I swear.’

  He made the Sign of the Cross.

  ‘If I’d known what Father O’Mahony was like I’d have killed him myself. But no one had any idea what went on in those homes. We’re not even getting the full story now, despite all the investigations.’

  The hurt in his voice was raw.

  ‘Seán was a good little fellah. Full of chat when you’d take him anywhere. Me and Ellen used take him out by Bullock Harbour – he was mad for the boats. Even at that age. It’s fair to say I was fond of him.’

  Joe waved a hand in the air at his sentimentality.

  ‘Either way I kept an eye on him, but when he went to St Augustine’s he didn’t want to meet me anymore, thought the other lads would give him a hard time for knowing a shade. St Augustine’s was a one-way ticket to Mountjoy for many of the residents. But not Seán, he was clever – in truth I never knew how clever until he was older – and times were changing. The system of Mother and Baby Homes was unravelling with the likes of the Single Parent family allowance. Clarendon House closed and Ellen was moved back here. Seán didn’t keep in touch with her, but he kept in touch with Richie Corrigan.’

  I couldn’t stay silent. ‘How did he meet Corrigan?’

  ‘Ellen. Richie Corrigan came to Ellen in the seventies – she wasn’t long in Clarendon House then. He wanted to sponsor a boy. Not adopt but help him out in life.’

  ‘She gave him access to a child like he was a rescue dog?’ I said.

  Muldoon, who had been silent through all this, made a rasping sound as his hand connected with the bristles of his five o’clock shadow.

  ‘Not in the way you think,’ said Joe. His mouth was a harsh knot.

  ‘It was a different time,’ said DCS Muldoon. ‘Many of the more prominent families in Irish society would have given donations to the nuns and priests for orphans.’

  Joe was nodding. ‘And nothing untoward ever happened with Corrigan – I’ll stake my life on that – he financed the boating trips, gave the convent money for clothes, schoolbooks for the children and the like. Richie had access to Seán all his life. He always asked me to say nothing about my association with the boy, I wasn’t sure why but I accepted it. God help me, I thought Richie was a benign influence, in particular when Seán turned to criminality.’

  Joe’s hope hung in the air, so much stale smoke after a cigarette has been extinguished.

  ‘I never covered up anything for Seán. That time Gavin Devereux was pinched for drugs Seán wasn’t with him.’

  I wasn’t sure if I believed that, but let it slide.


  ‘I-I told Ellen what the gardaí knew about him in our weekly chats. I never thought for a second that she’d pass on any information, but she might have.’ He looked sheepish. ‘Ellen’s a bitter woman, but it’s twisted in on itself now. You’ll see when you meet her.’

  Chapter 62

  The convent smelled of Holy Thursday, altar candles and obligation, a lonely ritual for its own sake.

  Sister Assumpta, or Ellen Clarke hadn’t changed.

  ‘You’re looking a bit dishevelled, Joe. Got yourself in trouble? I’ll wager it’s that wife of yours and the fine style she likes to be kept in,’ she said.

  She gave a curt laugh, not insensitive but unafraid to show what she thought of her sister-in-law.

  ‘Come in.’ She walked at a brisk trot across the shiny parquet flooring into the formal parlour at the front of the convent.

  We followed.

  Sister Assumpta sat facing us, with quiet composure, her workman-like hands folded.

  ‘I can’t say your visit is unexpected – what has Joe done?’ she said.

  ‘Detective Garda Harney,’ said DCS Muldoon. A clear indication to start.

  ‘Sister Assumpta, you worked in the Mother and Baby Home where Seán Flannery was born. How well did you know him?’

  ‘Detective Garda Harney? You’re back at detective now, are you? Joe told me you had a little problem with planted evidence he sorted out for you.’

  Her statement was heated by Joe’s discomfiture. If she was waiting for DCS Muldoon to react she’d have better luck with a lottery ticket, but the raising of her eyebrow showed she enjoyed humiliating me.

  ‘Answer the question please, Sister Assumpta,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I knew Seán Flannery when he was a youth.’

  ‘I’d say you knew him for most of his life, Sister Assumpta. You lost contact with him during his time at St Augustine’s but he found you again. How?’

  Emotions flitted across her face, an inner debate we weren’t privy to.

  ‘He wanted to find his mother. He came looking for me when he was eighteen. I didn’t know who his mother was. The records are a bit sketchy, but I told him it was a woman who’d married a rising barrister.’

  ‘Is that true?’ I said.

  She gave a cruel little snort. ‘Not at all, but he wanted to believe it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No doubt,’ here she looked at Joe, ‘my squealing little brother has told you of our association with Seán Flannery. Richie Corrigan met me when I was in Clarendon House and asked for a baby boy. Richie wanted him to use the surname Flannery.’

  ‘So you changed a child’s name?’ The enormity of their actions was chaos-sized.

  ‘Detective Harney, you imagine these children had surnames? Most of the girls ran out of the convent and didn’t want their names on birth certificates or documentation. Look at how difficult it is to trace these women even now – do you think that’s because of the nuns?’

  The facts in her words were serrated rocks on the shoreline when a wave pulls out.

  DCS Muldoon spoke into the silence.

  ‘Did Richie Corrigan specify anything else?’

  ‘He wanted the boy told his mother had married a rising barrister and showed me a picture of a woman the boy had to resemble.’

  I fumbled around in my phone, trying to bring up some of the old photos of my mother.

  ‘This woman?’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’ Sister Assumpta gave a bob of her head. ‘That could be her, but the photo Richie had was of a younger woman, an old-fashioned studio portrait.’

  ‘Why did he want a boy that looked like this woman?’ I wasn’t telling her about my mother, she didn’t deserve that level of transparency.

  She tilted her head to one side, the way a predatory bird moves to get a single view of its quarry.

  ‘That’s your mother, isn’t it? You’re the image of her. How amusing, Detective Harney. I remember when I first met you, when you were trying to find out if I knew Seán Flannery. I knew there was something familiar about you.’

  I wouldn’t let her distract me. Muldoon eyeballed me with the same message.

  ‘Richie Corrigan. Why would you help him?’ I said.

  ‘The church needed funds, always needs funds, to build convents, places of worship, send missionaries out to the world. Richie donated thousands to Clarendon House – we built grottos all over the country, helped build the Church of the Assumption in Walkinstown –’

  ‘That’s what you spent the money on? Statues and buildings! What about the children?’ My voice was loud, but the room absorbed it. Not the first voice to express discontent here.

  Sister Assumpta shrugged. ‘We did what was right. Those children were born of original sin. It was a stain they could never wash off, even though we baptised them.’

  ‘Did you care about any of them?’ I said.

  A momentary chink, then she got back inside her religion, sitting in the fortress her church had built. ‘They were our burden, begotten of sin.’

  Despite evidence to the contrary I had always believed I was safe with nuns, the women who had educated me. They were kind and good, as though God had given them a store of grace and their job was to share it with the children they educated. Sister Assumpta’s seasoned cruelty to the children put into her trust shocked me to the point of speechlessness.

  DCS Muldoon intervened.

  ‘Let’s not get side-tracked,’ he said. ‘Sister Assumpta, Richie Corrigan paid the convent for access to Seán Flannery, correct?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not correct. Richie Corrigan gave a donation to the convent – as was proper – he sponsored Seán.’

  ‘Was Richie in touch with Seán when he was in St Augustine’s?’ said DCS Muldoon.

  ‘Yes, he never lost touch with Seán.’

  ‘So Seán got in contact with you when he was eighteen and that contact continued for the rest of his life, correct?’

  ‘On and off,’ said Sister Assumpta, her mouth hard as a mechanic’s vice.

  ‘Here’s the crux of the matter – did you pass information on to Seán of a sensitive nature? Information you gleaned from Sergeant Clarke?’

  ‘Loose lips, eh, Joe?’ said Sister Assumpta. She was diverted.

  Joe perched on the edge of his seat as though the couch were made of cactus prickles.

  ‘You should know Joe was compromised the moment he married a woman he couldn’t afford.’ Sister Assumpta turned on him. ‘You knew she’d want more than you could give. God forgive me, the hours you sat in here moaning about how you’d make ends meet and the amount of overtime you had to do to keep her in Spain. If I hadn’t switched off from your mindless patter I would’ve gone mad. The boredom was excruciating.’

  Joe looked awful, a beaten dog. My heart went out to him, but I had to press her.

  ‘Did you tell Seán Flannery about a shipment of cocaine being tracked from overseas in November?’ I said.

  ‘Who’s to say?’

  ‘Christ, you’re in full disclosure mode now, aren’t you, Ellen?’ said Joe.

  ‘Did you contact Seán Flannery and tell him we were tracking that shipment?’ said DCS Muldoon.

  She made a hacking noise, turned out it was laughter. Discordant and ugly.

  ‘You’re idiots! I never told Seán Flannery anything. If he was to meet his end down the barrel of a gun it’s what God intended. Joe’s information was never any good. It was all nod-and-wink rubbish. The fool thought he was spilling his guts, but it was never clear who was doing what.’

  ‘But you said you did! Why did you lie to me?’ said Joe.

  ‘To fuck with you,’ said Sister Assumpta.

  A swearing nun was rare and despite my ideas of how cosmopolitan I was, it shocked me.

  Sister Assumpta laughed. ‘Joe thought we ‘owed’ Seán. He was’ – she paused – ‘abused by a priest. But you must remember these children were tainted with original sin. Born out of wedlock from wome
n who were unchaste.’

  She had a skein of normality, but below the dermis bitterness had honed itself into madness.

  ‘I kept my vows,’ said Sister Assumpta, ‘unlike those girls.’ She pointed a long finger at me. ‘They will be judged by God and I will sit at His Right Hand!’

  Her voice rang around the cavernous room. A sheen of sweat on her face, delusion shining out of her eyes and caked into the spittle on her lips.

  ‘Why now?’ I said. ‘Why are you telling us this now?’

  Joe looked at her and leaned forward, tapping her knee.

  ‘Are you ill?’ he said.

  ‘Well, aren’t you the quick one, Joe?’

  ‘Colon cancer? Same as Daddy?’

  ‘Give him a sweet from the jar,’ said Sister Assumpta. ‘You would’ve made a great detective, Joe.’

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘Six months, maybe less.’

  Chapter 63

  Sister Assumpta had shaken me – to see such a lack of empathy in someone who had children in her care pared me to the bone.

  My father texted me saying my dinner was cold and being eyed up by the dog. The smart move was to call it a night, go home and eat, chat to the Judge – but I was no good at taking advice, especially my own.

  I sat in Harcourt Square’s car park and rang the bug in Gavin Devereux’s car. He was on the move and not alone.

  ‘Why did you contact me now? We’ve never met before.’

  ‘I’d no choice.’

  A woman’s voice, somewhat familiar, but coated in anger.

  ‘Does Richie know you’re meeting me?’

  ‘No, Gavin, you’ll inform him when we’ve finished. I’m not meeting Richie again. Go out the back roads to Delgany.’

  ‘Where the fuck’s that?’

  ‘I’ll thank you not to swear at me, Gavin Devereaux.’ ‘Go right up here onto the N11, I’ll tell you what exit to take.’

  ‘OK. Why are we meeting?’