by L. J. Ross
“Why’s he here, then? I’m not a bloody lunatic—”
“Nobody’s saying you are,” Niall drawled. “Now, settle down, and tell me where you were last night, between the hours of five-thirty and ten.”
Reilly’s face cleared instantly.
“Oh, that’s easy. I took Kate out for a meal, after work. Her Ma had the kids for the evening, so we had the night to ourselves.”
Niall didn’t bother to hide his surprise.
“Ah, d’you mind me asking which restaurant, and when?”
“Sure. We were over at O’Feeney’s from around six o’clock until seven-thirty, then we walked over to The Olive Branch for dinner at quarter to eight.”
“I see,” Niall muttered. “And, I suppose there are people who could vouch for you?”
“Plenty, I’d say,” Tom replied. “The restaurant was full, and the staff know us. I saw Colm McArdle in the pub before we left. Laughing away with his pals, poor soul. God rest him.”
Niall asked a few more questions for good form, before turning to Claire’s murder.
“The last time we spoke, you told me you’d been out for a long jog from around eight o’clock in the morning until past nine on the day Claire died. Do you have anything you’d like to add? Any details you might have missed and want to tell me now?”
Gregory watched Tom Reilly closely for his reaction, and was astounded by the man’s ability to lie convincingly.
“It’s like I told you, I was out jogging all morning.”
“You weren’t with Claire for any of that time?” Niall pressed, but Tom shook his head.
“It’s like I said, things ended a long time ago between us.”
Niall made a note, then asked him to sign it for the record.
“Thanks for the chat, we’ll let ourselves out.”
“Listen,” the other man said, conspiratorially. “About Claire and me. You’ll not say anything to Kate, will you?”
“If it’s relevant to our investigation, we might have to,” Niall warned him. “But I won’t be calling her to spill your guts just for the fun of it, if that’s what you mean.”
They made for the door and Gregory took one last look at the school teacher before it closed behind them. He’d met all manner of pathological liars, during his time as a psychologist and—perhaps more importantly—as a citizen of the world, but few could match Reilly’s finesse.
“Well, subject to speaking to the staff at the restaurant and the barman at O’Feeney’s, it looks like Tom has a rock-solid alibi for last night,” Niall said, once they were back in the car. “Makes me wonder if you weren’t right, after all, Doc. Maybe he was out jogging, when Claire died.”
“If it’s the same person who killed both women, and I believe it is, then it looks as though he’s out of the frame,” Gregory agreed.
It was clear that Tom Reilly had chosen not to reveal his affair with Emma, which was understandable, since her husband was the man in charge of the town’s most high-profile murder case for the past century. If Emma hadn’t spoken to Niall about it herself, then Tom must have taken the decision to keep his own counsel to save her from embarrassment.
Just as Gregory had.
But then, head doctors such as he were good at keeping secrets.
CHAPTER 29
Father Sean Walsh was not at the abbey but was due back at around five o’clock. As that was only twenty minutes away, Niall and Gregory decided to wait, and were shown into the priest’s study by one of the young seminarians who was training for the priesthood. As he left, Gregory wondered what kind of willpower it took for a nineteen-year-old lad to make the kind of life-changing decision to turn his back on the prospect of sex, or a family, but he supposed the answer would be that they were drawn to a ‘higher calling’. When he thought of his own solitary existence and devotion to his patients and practice, he was forced to admit their two worlds were not so very different.
Except for the sex part.
“Ma will never forgive me for this,” Niall said, interrupting his train of thought. “I’ve been back and forth, thinking about the right thing to do. He’s a man of God, after all.”
Gregory didn’t think it an appropriate time to mention that men of God were still men and, therefore, more than capable of committing all manner of offences. As for Sean Walsh, he lived within striking distance of Claire and Aideen, had known them personally as their priest and, as they’d discovered, had grown up in the same miserable orphanage where Connor had spent the first six years of his life. Connor had been adopted, but Sean hadn’t been so lucky. That meant there was plenty of scope for childhood trauma, especially growing up without a mother figure. Indeed, by all accounts, the only female role models in his early life had been strict, authoritarian and often cruel—the kind of women that could lead a young person to fantasise about what it might be like to have a ‘real’ mother who was loving and warm.
At least, before he killed them.
“Regardless of what he does for a living, your first duty is to protect the people of the town,” Gregory said. “Father Walsh understands that, so I’m sure he’ll be willing to cooperate, with no bad feelings.”
Niall was pacing around the room. It was getting to that time of day again. The witching hour, when the sky outside started to turn dark and his thoughts turned to drink. Across the room, he spotted a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and felt his throat run dry.
Gregory recognised the signs of withdrawal.
“You’ve been putting in some long days,” he said, shifting his body so it blocked the decanter from view. “Long nights, too, I’ll bet.”
Niall nodded, and then sank into one of the chairs beside the faux-leather sofa Gregory remembered from the last time he’d been there.
“I’ll be glad when it’s over. We all will.”
“Declan must be missing you.”
Niall nodded, but a sadness passed over his face.
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t been myself, lately. I probably haven’t been the best father I could be, either.”
Gregory took a seat beside him.
“We all have bad days,” he said softly. “The key is to have a better day, tomorrow.”
Niall rubbed a hand over his forehead.
“What if you can’t see as far ahead as tomorrow?”
He glanced towards the door, then back at Gregory.
“I’ve been having these blackouts,” he said, under his breath. “I’ll wake up with no memory of how much time has passed, or where I’ve been.”
Gregory showed no sign of surprise, and his ability to keep a straight face was part of the reason people found him so easy to talk to.
No judgment.
“How often have you been experiencing these blackouts?” Gregory asked.
He knew there were three main clinical reasons for a person to suffer a blackout: the first was owing to a ‘syncope’, or sudden lack of blood supply to the brain caused by poor blood pressure or existing heart problems; the second was epilepsy; and the third was known as a ‘psychogenic blackout’ resulting from extreme stress or anxiety.
There was also a fourth potential reason…
Alcohol abuse.
“It’s happening two or three times a week,” Niall admitted.
Before Gregory could quiz him any further, the door opened.
“Well,” Father Walsh said. “This is a nice surprise.”
* * *
The priest took his time removing the long over-cloak he wore on top of his cassock, then rubbed his hands together.
“Turning cold out there,” he said. “Can I make you both some tea or coffee?”
“Only if you’re making some for yourself, Father,” Niall replied, and hated himself for hoping that the priest might have offered him a dram from the decanter.
“Simon tells me you’ve been waiting here a little while,” he said, turning the kettle on to boil. “I’m sorry to keep you, but I had an appointment to vis
it the Kelly family today.”
“How are they doing?” Niall asked.
“Well, now, I was pleased to find Liam in slightly better spirits than before. I don’t mind telling you, I’ve been worried for him this past month, and for the child. Claire’s death ripped a great hole in their lives. However, I’m pleased to say he’s booked a trip to see the Cliffs of Moher, as a sort of pilgrimage to remind himself of a place where he and Claire were happy. He tells me it might help him to remember her in happier times.”
“That’s good news,” Gregory said, and made no mention of it having been his suggestion.
“Indeed. Well, now. I think I can guess why you’re here.”
He handed them both mugs of steaming instant coffee.
“Why’s that, Father?”
“You’ve looked at my history and the surrounding circumstances, and you’d like to know where I was when Claire Kelly and Aideen McArdle were killed. Is that right, my son?”
Niall felt all kinds of guilt, but he nodded.
“I’d rather ask you under caution, Father. It’s been the same for everyone,” he added swiftly.
“Don’t berate yourself,” the priest said. “I quite understand.”
After the formalities were taken care of, Niall dived into his task. He was eager to get home, where he knew there was a bottle of single malt waiting for him.
“Would you mind telling us where you were last night, between the hours of six-thirty and ten?”
Walsh took a sip of his coffee.
“I was in here until about six, then I had an early dinner at home around six-thirty, following which I went for a walk along to the lough—oh, sometime around eight, I suppose. After that, I came home again, where I received a phone call from Maggie Byrne shortly after ten-thirty asking me to come along to see Colm, who’d suffered the worst kind of news. I believe you’re aware of the rest.”
Niall nodded.
“Was anybody with you, while you ate dinner or walked to the lough?”
Walsh took another sip of his coffee.
“No,” he said. “They weren’t. I’m afraid the same is true of the morning Claire Kelly died. On Saturday mornings, I use my time in quiet reflection, unless there’s a special service or something of that kind.”
“What about when Claire died? Where did you go—to reflect?”
“I remained here, in the quiet of my study,” Father Walsh said.
Niall was silent for a moment, caught between his duty to his badge, and to the man who was the living embodiment of his faith.
“When you walked to the lough, did you take the woodland path?” Gregory asked, never having trembled in fear of God’s wrath.
Walsh hesitated, then nodded.
“Yes, I did. I’m afraid I saw nobody suspicious as I passed by Aideen and Colm’s home.”
“I’m sure you could have handled any altercation, Father.”
Both Niall and the priest turned to Gregory in surprise.
“I guess you had to be fairly streetwise, growing up at the orphanage,” he elaborated. “Isn’t that right?”
“Ah, I see.”
Father Walsh set his cup down and linked his fingers over his stomach, in a relaxed gesture.
“You’ve read the news articles about what happened at St Hilda’s and you imagine I suffered all kinds of abuse at the hands of the nuns, which served as a blueprint for deviant behaviour during adolescence and into adulthood, culminating in the murder of those poor people. Is that it?”
Niall looked supremely uncomfortable, but Gregory was unmoved. Many of his patients developed defence strategies that relied on what he thought of as ‘British Reserve’—or, in this case, ‘Irish Reserve.’ Many people fell back on conventional manners so as to avoid an awkward social situation, such as the one they found themselves in now, which often allowed the wrong element to slip through the cracks.
“Did you?” Niall forced himself to ask, earning renewed respect from Alex in the process. “Did you suffer at the hands of the nuns, Father?”
When Sean closed his eyes, he could still feel the sting of their slaps, and the burn of their rods.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I did. As did many people, I’m sorry to say, in a scandal that brought shame on the Church I’m now proud to be a part of. I’m sure you’ve completed a thorough check of my background, so you’ll know that, in my teenage years, I was a bit of a tearaway.”
Niall merely nodded, and Gregory thought of the old juvenile reports he’d read about Sean Patrick Walsh, who’d spent much of his teens joyriding and engaging in petty theft.
“Until I found God, I had no direction in my life,” Walsh explained. “I felt it had no meaning or purpose, until I stumbled into the small church in Kenmare, where somebody showed me kindness and another way of life.”
“Do you know anything about your mother?” Gregory asked, and the priest nodded.
“I—yes, I do. The file they gave me when I left the orphanage listed my mother’s first name and home town, and explained that she’d been a young woman of fifteen when she had me out of wedlock.”
“May we see that record, Father?” Niall asked, but the priest shook his head.
“No,” he said. “It would serve no purpose to reveal her name, now.”
“Surely, Ireland’s a big place—” Niall argued.
“It is, but my mother was born and still lives here in Ballyfinny,” Walsh explained. “To reveal her name would be unfair to all concerned, especially as it has no bearing on the case you’re investigating.”
Gregory was struck by a sudden realisation.
“You know who she is, but she doesn’t know you?”
The priest gave a small smile, and finished the last of his coffee.
“Of course,” he murmured. “I’ve always known. Do you remember what I told you, Alex, about the sanctity of the confessional?”
Gregory nodded.
“It’s the same reason why I will never willingly tell you the lady’s name,” he said. “If she was ever to find out that I was the child she lost, it would cause her great pain.”
“And instead, you carry the burden of knowledge around with you,” Gregory said. “That’s an awfully heavy burden for any man, Sean. Don’t you wish you could know your mother, properly?”
“I do,” he replied. “More so than I might otherwise, for she tells me her secrets, her lies, her hopes and her fears each week, while I take comfort in the light of God.”
CHAPTER 30
By the time they left the abbey, night had fallen. Cold wind rushed through the quiet streets and whipped up the fallen leaves that covered the ground in a patchwork of gold and brown. Gregory watched them and remembered when he was very young, kicking his way through the leaves in Hyde Park. He heard his own childish laughter as they’d risen up and fallen like confetti all around him.
“Alex?”
Niall called him over to the car, and he hurried to join the inspector on his final house call of the evening.
“About those blackouts,” he said, once they were on the road. “Have you seen a doctor?”
Niall sighed.
“Look, forget I said anything,” he muttered. “I don’t need to see a doctor. I’ve just been tired, lately, and it’s taking a toll, that’s all.”
“I really think you should have a check-up—”
“Look, thanks for the concern, but I’ll see to it once this is all over and done with. Let’s leave it at that.”
Gregory fell silent, wondering what more he could do. Niall wasn’t his patient—or even his friend.
They’re all patients, aren’t they?
Bill Douglas’ words floated to the surface of his mind and he looked again at the careworn detective seated beside him.
“Where to, next?” he asked.
“Back to the hotel,” Niall said, shortly. “I want to speak to my uncle and Padraig. Two more of my mother’s favourite people, so that’ll make a hat-trick for the day.”
Gregory nodded.
“What did you make of Father Walsh’s revelations?”
“Far as I can see, he’s got no alibi for either murder,” Niall replied. “And there’s plenty of emotional baggage to play with, even for you.”
Gregory sent him a mild look.
“It’s never fun,” he said. “But I agree that Father Walsh fits squarely within the profile. What about Padraig?”
“Paddy lost both of his parents a few years back,” Niall explained. “He went a bit off the rails, with the drink and the drugs. My Ma helped him into a rehab program and he got himself clean again. Seamus gave him a chance working for the hotel. He seems back on track, now, but I can’t discount that sort of history. Before she died, his mother was a hard woman.”
“And he lives down near the hotel jetty,” Gregory said. “That’s less than half a mile away from Claire’s house, but a little further away from Aideen.”
“Aye, it’s the wrong way around, for your profile—”
“It’s just a guide,” Gregory reminded him. “Don’t stick to it too rigidly.”
Niall nodded.
“Paddy’s a quiet man, blends in and even works part-time as a postman,” he said, pulling a face. “He knows these streets and pathways like the back of his hand, and everybody knows him.”
“Has he ever been in a relationship?”
“Not that I remember,” Niall replied.
“Any altercations or criminal misdemeanours?”
Niall nodded.
“When he was caught up in the drugs, Padraig dabbled in a bit of shoplifting here and there,” he said. “He took a swing at a feller down at O’Feeney’s, a couple of years back.”
Gregory fell silent, considering the likelihood that the quiet, ruddy-faced man who worked at the hotel could be the killer they were looking for, and concluded that it was perfectly possible. He was a shy loner who’d missed having a mother figure in his life, and children like that often grew up to be teenagers looking for ways to escape. Drugs were one way of doing that, but building their own fantasy world was certainly another.
* * *
They found Padraig down by the boathouse, perched on the end of the small wooden jetty.
