by Anne Crosse
“She seemed relieved if anything, James.”
“She is so delicate looking. Skin and bone, she is. You know what, though, I think she will get stronger now that she knows those two pests will not be coming back to pressurise her again. Although she seemed to have a bit of a soft spot for Pat, the failed priest,” James said.
“You want a drink, James?” Robert asked.
“I’ll get them. The usual for you, sir?” James offered.
“Yes, but I can’t expect a college guy to lash out so. Put it on my tab, and whatever you are having yourself.”
James returned ten minutes later with a brandy for Robert and an orange squash for himself.
“I thought you’d be a lager man,” Robert remarked.
“I don’t drink, sir.”
“That’s right, I’d forgotten that. Still no bad habits, eh?”
“We’ve all got our own little quirks,” James said, and laughed.
“Met someone at the bar, did you? I was going to send out a search party,” Robert said with a smile.
“I was talking to Mary.”
“Mary?”
“The woman who served me at the bar.”
“Chatting her up, were you?”
“She says the whole town’s talking about the Dillon brothers. Speculation is running rife, apparently, and there’s this.” James pulled a copy of The Crier out of his coat pocket and placed it on the table in front of Robert.
Robert stared at the headline – Ding Dong Bell, Pussy’s in the Well.
“Here we go again. I can’t even be bothered to read it. So, if you wouldn’t mind, tell me what it’s about, James.”
“It’s just a load of drivel about the ‘brothers grim’. Where they worked and all that malarkey. The tragic death of their father was mentioned too. The final sentence is interesting, though,” James said.
“Who put them in, was it little Johnny Thin? Is that the best they can do, quote a nursery rhyme?” Robert said.
“Probably googled it.”
Robert threw the paper back onto the table. “Get rid of that only-fit-for-fodder rubbish,” he said.
James folded the paper and put it back into his coat pocket.
“Do you want to hear the information I gleaned from Mary, who is, by the way, filling in for the receptionist and the official barman tonight?” James asked.
Robert took a huge gulp of brandy and immediately regretted not having ordered a large one. There was only enough to wet the bottom of the glass to start with.
“Well, here’s the deal,” James began.
“Would you mind getting me another drink?” Robert asked.
James ordered a double this time, from the double jobbing Mary.
“I’ve put a little extra drop in.” She winked.
Robert had drained the remains of drink number one when James returned with drink number two, which was possibly drink number three and more than likely drink number four all rolled into one, if Mary’s wink was anything to go by.
“Right, James, do tell,” Robert said. He had gravitated into a more relaxed state, and felt he could tolerate anything now that he was feeling nicely anaesthetised.
“It seems Dick Dillon got some young one up the duff. She was carted off to a mother and baby home by her uncle.”
“I thought those places didn’t exist anymore.”
“Mary will get me the address she said, if the uncle isn’t forthcoming.”
“This Mary has many talents.”
“As you say, sir, nothing like local knowledge,” James said.
“Was she carted off before or after the daddy ended up in the well? Did you think to ask the lovely Mary that?” Robert asked.
“I did, sir, and yes, it was after he disappeared, apparently, that the flight into Egypt happened. I would imagine that when it became clear there was no chance of a shotgun wedding on account of the potential bridegroom having gone missing, extreme desperate measures had to be taken,” James replied.
“You mean desperate as in making the problem disappear. In other words, sending the unfortunate girl out of sight and out of mind?” Robert asked.
“The final solution.” James laughed, before adding, “Sorry, sir, that was a bit insensitive.”
Robert fished his notebook out of his pocket and started jotting something down. He looked at his spider scrawl and realized he would have to take himself up to his room as soon as possible. He hadn’t eaten since the morning and the brandy was starting to take effect big time. He would humour James for a few more minutes though, then drink up and excuse himself before he made a right eejit out of himself.
“Motive there, wouldn’t you say, sir?”
“You didn’t glean the uncle’s name by any chance, did you?”
“Billy Barry is the man’s name, and he lives at number five, Rosanna Road. And the girl’s name, by the way, is Brigit.”
“Billy Barry: a man with a motive,” Robert said.
“But would you not think he would try and persuade the culprit to marry the girl though, rather than resort to killing him?” James remarked. “Wouldn’t Mr Dick Dillon be worth more alive than dead?”
“Wanted dead or alive,” Robert said, and laughed.
“It doesn’t sit well with me,” James said.
“Or else, to turn your theory the other way round, James, what if Uncle Billy didn’t want a waster taking up with his precious niece. So, the only way to go was to take him out?” Robert said.
“But why would he kill the brother as well, sir? Unless, of course, the poor bugger tried to protect his kith and kin?” James reasoned.
“I should send you to get the drinks from now on,” Robert said, and laughed. “We’ll have the case solved in no time.”
James remained silent as Robert drained his glass.
“Right, I’m off to my lonely bed in my lonely room,” Robert said, adding, “I’m sure someone’s written a song about all the lonely people in their lonely rooms.”
James watched as Robert walked away unsteadily. He would wait ten minutes before making his way up to his own room, by which time Robert would probably be lying in his bed wrestling with his demons. The night before, he had heard him cry out whatever it was that was going on in his head. He was a tormented soul and he really did feel sorry for him. Where the hell was Maggie Lehane? James wondered. She at least had a calming effect on him.
If he had her telephone number, he would ring her right now and give her short shrift. No, he would do no such thing, he knew, but it felt good thinking about performing such a brave act.
CHAPTER 6
“Do you have a few moments to spare, Mr Barry?” Robert asked.
Billy made to close the door in Robert’s face. “Listen, mate, I was born with one religion and I’m not interested in taking on a second one,” he said.
“Sir, he thinks we’re trying to convert him to...” James said.
“I know,” Robert cut in.
“Why don’t you try next door, she’s game for anything, that one. Just tell her you’ll pay all her bills for her and she’ll sign up immediately,” Billy said with a sneer.
Robert put his foot in the door and said, “We are investigating the death of a young man who is known to your niece. So, if you don’t mind, a bit of cooperation wouldn’t go astray, Mr Barry.”
“You’re talking about the Dillon fucker, aren’t you? Good riddance to him, as far as I am concerned.”
“So, you know what’s happened to him,” Robert said.
“Me and the whole town are in receipt of that information. Good news travels fast in this place, you know.”
“Good news?”
“Alright, ye best come in. I want to hear all the gory details.”
Billy led them to the kitchen. It was old-fashioned but clean, Robert noted as he looked around before plonking himself down onto the chair Billy was pointing to. James, on instruction, sat on the chair beside Robert.
Billy made his way to th
e worktop where a gleaming silver kettle stood in all its glory. He pressed the on switch and, facing his guests, he said, “Like my new kettle, lads? I decided to splash out, those cheap ones don’t last pissing time.”
“No tea for us, but if you want one yourself, do feel free to go ahead and make some,” Robert said.
Billy switched the kettle off and sat down opposite Robert and James.
“So, is it true what everyone is saying? Dickie bird and his sidekick, Pat a cake, were murdered?” Billy asked.
“It’s not confirmed yet,” Robert said.
“They could have been out there drunk, horsing around. Their father met an untimely death while drunk,” Billy said.
“So we were informed, by those who feel it’s their business to inform,” Robert replied.
“They were murdered. Go on, admit it, or you wouldn’t be here asking questions, would you?” Billy said.
“We understand your niece has had a baby,” Robert said.
“The good for nothing fucker interfered with her,” Billy said peevishly.
“We might like to talk to her,” Robert said.
“She’s down the country in a retreat place until she gets on her feet. The whole thing took a lot out of her, she’s a delicate girl.”
“Were you angry with Dick Dillon? I could really understand if you wanted to give him a good hiding.”
“He wouldn’t be worth doing time for. But I do hope he suffered before he died, him and his pansy brother. You don’t know the half of it,” Billy said, as he tried to put on a brave face.
How much did these two know? he wondered. When Brigit told him she was in the family way, he had freaked out. History repeating itself, he realized. Brigit’s mother, his sister, had got herself pregnant too, and the guy who did the dirty deed put it all over town that she was easy. The ‘town bike’ was the term he’d used to describe her. It all came to a head one night in the Criterion Pub.
The smarmy fucker was a little bit under the weather, and when he spotted Billy sitting in the corner minding his own business, he just couldn’t resist having a go. Up he staggered to where Billy was sitting and said, sneering into his face, “Billy lad, you should send that sister of yours out to make a living with what she’s got under her skirt. No, on the other hand, she wouldn’t make much, they’d be asking for a credit note.”
Billy saw red. He was sick of the rumours that were circulating around town. He didn’t exactly remember every detail of what happened in the pub that night because he was blind with rage. He did remember punching the smarmy git in the face and him falling backwards onto a table of glasses behind him. He was a snivelling wimp after all, because only a wimp would manage to die of a heart attack.
Judge Mangan had sentenced Billy to five years in prison for manslaughter. It was so unfair, but then the old goat got his comeuppance when he was killed by that South African fellow, Greg Joubert, two years ago.
Billy felt karma had kicked in, and the five years he’d done in prison all those years ago were worth it, after all.
Billy studied the two detectives, Punch and Judy they reminded him of. According to the local talk, the older one, Carroll, wasn’t worth a fuck. But the young one was clever. He was the one who’d solved those murders two years ago. Carroll, on the other hand, couldn’t solve a children’s crossword puzzle.
“You might give us your niece’s whereabouts, just in case we want to ask her a few questions,” Robert said.
“What can she tell you?” Billy asked.
“She may know the enemies Dick had, that sort of thing.”
“Everyone in town hated him, especially that young girl with the calliper. They were always bullying her, calling her names.”
“Are you talking about the McGrath girl?” James asked.
“Yes, I am. Marie McGrath got polio when she was small. Her mam and dad run the chipper on the main street.”
Robert beckoned to James to jot down the information.
“Although they might not be running the place for much longer, from what I hear,” Billy said.
“Why’s that then, selling up, are they? Moving away to start a new life, or whatever it is people move away for nowadays?” Robert asked.
“There’s a rumour going around that their chipper and the jewellers are going to be closed down. The houses in the middle are already condemned, so that just leaves the shops,” Billy replied.
“So, what happened to the owners of the houses in the middle? I’m sure you won’t mind filling us in, Billy,” Robert said.
“That poor fellow Mossie Harrington had to leave his home, and he had been living there all his life.”
“We must follow that up. Jot it down, James.”
Billy knew the best thing to do was to get the limelight off himself and talk about everyone and anything, just to distract these two foragers. “Imagine condemning those houses. They were solidly built, not like the cardboard excuses they are churning out nowadays. No, as far as I am concerned, that’s a bloody stroke if ever there was one,” he said.
“Ulterior motives is your reckoning, Billy; so, who would be in the frame for pulling that kind of a stunt?” Robert asked.
Billy didn’t like where the conversation was going, so he immediately changed the subject. “Here’s Brigit’s address, but I would really prefer if you didn’t have to talk to her. She’s very vulnerable at the moment. She had a very difficult birth, you know, and she’s not herself at all,” he said.
“We will tell you if we have to see her. And if we do, maybe you might like to come with us,” Robert suggested.
Billy rose to his feet. He was relieved the interview had come to an end without having it pointed out to him by the two bloodhounds that he’d done time. He could just imagine the meal they would make out of that. “I’ll see you out, shall I?” he said.
“Thanks, and we will be in touch if the need arises,” Robert said.
“I take it Brigit’s mother is no longer with us.” James made the observation as they reached the front door.
“She died two years ago. It was cancer that got her,” Billy replied.
“Sorry to hear that,” James said.
“Nice meeting you both,” Billy said.
“He couldn’t wait to get rid of us,” James remarked in response to the slamming of the door after they had stepped out onto the street.
“He looked shifty alright,” Robert said.
“What do you think, sir?” James asked as they made their way back to Dobbyn’s Hotel.
“I think he would have liked to have killed Dick Dillon, but then he didn’t have to, because someone else did it for him. There’s a possibility he might know more than he is letting on, though.”
“As you say, sir, everyone is a suspect at this stage.”
“Do I say that? I sound like one of those fictitious detectives on the telly. Not that I watch them, of course.”
James laughed.
“Look into the condemning of the houses and shops on the street, James.”
“It would be the council, would it not, who would have the power to do that?” James asked.
“You would imagine so, but do a bit of digging, James. You never know what might come to the surface,” Robert said.
“I’ve been digging all my life and I nearly got to hell, my uncle dug potatoes and he struck an oil well,” James said, and laughed.
“What?”
“It’s a song, sir,” James explained.
CHAPTER 7
James laid his purchases down on the counter and smiled at the pretty young woman as she checked them out.
“So, tell me this and tell me no more: are you having a party tonight as well?” she asked.
“As well as who?”
“You’re staying in Dobbyn’s Hotel, aren’t you?”
“I am, indeed,” James said with a grin. “And what else have you heard about me?”
“That boss of yours is a right grumpy old so-and-so, isn’t he?”
“You must have inside information.”
“I have, as it happens: one of the girls working in the hotel is a friend of my brother Gerry. Platonic, I hasten to add. Everything to do with Gerry is platonic.”
James laughed. Everyone knew everyone, and everybody knew everything about everybody in Magnerstown. They probably knew who killed the Dillon brothers too, but were naturally not going to furnish that information.
“He was in here earlier on, buying a bottle of brandy,” she said.
“Your brother?”
“No, silly. Your boss. And yes, my inside information was correct. He was rude to me, and he didn’t even say ‘thank you’. But then, of course, he probably thought he was doing me a favour keeping me in a job with his purchase,” she said.
“Yes, I should have picked up on the clue, brandy is a favourite of his alright. Should I be confirming my boss’s secrets, though?” James said, and laughed.
“I think he is a bit paranoid too, because, out of the blue, he said ‘isn’t a fellow entitled to have a drink on his birthday?’” she said.
“He is going to have a private party with just the one guest: himself,” James said.
“Speaking of parties, Mrs Dillon has been partying ever since those wasters of sons of hers went missing. She comes in here to get a few things on tick. Tick means getting stuff on credit, just in case you don’t know on account of you being a city boy and all that jazz.”
“Believe it or not, I do know what tick means. But I didn’t think shops offered that service anymore,” James said.
“Every penny counts in a small business like this, and another thing we have to do is to stay open when the Centro Supermarket is closed for the night. That’s when the money is to be made.”
“That Centro place is so small, I am surprised they have the tenacity to call themselves a supermarket,” James said.
“It’s bigger than this shop, isn’t it? Twice the size, so I suppose they could give themselves the supermarket title.”
