‘So it suited both of you, the arrangement?’ McLoughlin could see his face reflected in the polished wood.
‘Ah yeah, it was grand. Bit of extra money, and sure what else would I be doing?’ She was fluffing up the cushions on the sofa, moving them around, then standing back to see how they looked. ‘I’d get the bus down to the town every day. Into the shopping centre. Bit of a gossip. Then I’d come here for a couple of hours.’
He asked her then, about her observations of the house. Was it really so obvious that it had been cleaned?
‘Oh yes,’ her expression was certain. ‘Now, don’t get me wrong. I loved Mr John. I really did. But he was an awful man for the mess. Weekends he’d always have takeaways and stuff. And there’d be bottles, beer and wine.’ She looked up at McLoughlin, and he could read it in her face. Shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have mentioned any of that.
‘Well,’ he paused, and he could see her waiting for his response, ‘isn’t it great he had you to look after him?’
They walked back down through the house. McLoughlin carried the hoover. Mrs Maguire stopped for breath every few steps. When they reached the hall she pointed to the cupboard under the stairs and he opened it and pushed the hoover inside.
‘The basement,’ he gestured to the other door beside it. ‘The stairs, I’d say they’re steep. Do you find them a bit of a struggle?’
‘The basement? Sure there’s nothing down there. I’d never go near the basement. Not part of my job.’
She turned away. He looked at her. She was tired. He could hear the rasp of her breath in her chest. A lifetime of smoking, he thought, although he couldn’t smell it. Just the all-pervasive scent of the lavender polish,
‘Tell me Mags,’ he took her by the elbow, ‘his friends, did you know any of them?’
She didn’t reply.
‘Legal types, big shots, I suppose they’d be.’
She began to limp towards the kitchen, the duster in her hand. She bent down to wipe the skirting board.
‘Here, let me.’ He tried to take the cloth but she pushed him away.
‘None of my business, the judge’s friends.’ Her voice was brusque. She straightened up.
‘No, of course not,’ he held the kitchen door open, ‘but you would wonder, you couldn’t help but wonder, what happened to the judge.’
She began to limp towards the kitchen. Then stopped. She was close to tears again.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ her voice was quiet, ‘I should have told the guards, that nice lady, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.’ She put her hands over her face and began to sob. McLoughlin put his arm around her shoulder.
‘You can tell me,’ he said, ‘I was a guard once. Tell me and I’ll know whether you need to tell anyone else.’
It was Vince, her grandson, that was the problem. He was always in trouble. He stole her TV once and sold it to pay for his drugs. His own father, her son and his wife had died from AIDS. She tried to look after Vince but it was no good. He’d called in to see her on the Friday before the judge was killed. He wanted money. He said he was in trouble. She said she had none. He swore at her, said she’d be sorry that she hadn’t helped him. He’d have to do something, he said. After he left, slamming the door so hard it nearly fell off its hinges, she’d gone out to visit her friend Rita, who lived down the road. They went to bingo. When she came back someone had broken in through the kitchen window, taken her savings from the tea caddy in the cupboard. The place was a state, everything thrown everywhere. Except the keys to the judge’s house. They were on the hook by the door where she kept them.
‘He knew where I worked. He knew I had keys. Maybe he took them, got them copied. He could do that. He was clever like that.’ She was sobbing now, her whole body shaking. ‘Maybe he went to the judge, tried to get money from him. And then,’ she couldn’t finish her sentence. She gasped for breath, then carried on. ‘I went looking for him. No one knows where he is. What’ll I do? I know he’s bad but he’s, you know, he’s…’
McLoughlin reached over and put his arms around her. He pulled her close.
‘Look,’ he rubbed her back, ‘I know the detective in charge of the investigation. Would you like me to give her a call and tell her what you told me? They’ll want to talk to Vince. He might have wanted to do a bit of thieving, but I don’t think he’d have done anything more than that.’ He moved away. He fished in his pocket and brought out a clean tissue. He wiped the tears from her face. ‘And you don’t either, do you?’
She didn’t answer him. She looked down.
‘Will I call her?’ He took out his phone. She nodded. ‘Get it over with?’ She nodded again, the breath coming out of her body in shudders. He took her by the hand and led her into the dining room. He sat her down at the shiny mahogany table. He flicked through the numbers until he found Min’s. He pressed the call button.
It was late by the time he got home. He had brought Mrs Maguire down to the station. They had sat in the canteen, drinking strong tea while Min questioned her. She had given Min her grandson’s address, his phone number, told her all about him.
‘That’s Vince Maguire, isn’t it?’ Min had opened up her lap top.
‘Yes, I ‘spose you know him.’ Mrs Maguire’s expression was resigned.
‘Since he was a little fella.’ Min smiled at her. ‘His father, well that was sad. Your son?’
Mrs Maguire nodded. ‘His anniversary, his fifteenth, is coming up soon. We’ll have a mass for him. We always do.’
Min reached out and squeezed Mrs Maguire’s hand. ‘I knew Tommy, and Philomena, his wife, too. They had another son, didn’t they? Where’s he?’
‘That’s Eddie. He’s in Australia. Went to school. Did his Leaving Cert and then he emigrated. He’s doing great. I wanted Vince to go out to him, but he couldn’t get a visa. He’d been in too much trouble.’ Her eyes filled with tears again. ‘You won’t tell him, will you? That it was me.’
‘Well, as it happens Mrs Maguire, you don’t need to worry about Vince.’ Min fiddled with a biro, twirling it between her fingers. ‘We’ve already checked him out. His name came up a few times. He has an alibi for the whole of that weekend. As you probably know he’s been out on temporary release for the last few months. He was arrested on the Friday night, in town. Threatening behaviour and assault. Breached the conditions of his licence, so,’ she shrugged, ‘he’s back inside and you don’t need to worry about him any longer. He definitely wasn’t involved in the judge’s death.’ Min smiled at Mags. She gathered together her files and pushed back her chair.
‘Min, just a minute.’ McLoughlin stood too. ‘The plumber, any luck?’
She stood. She shook her head. She looked worn out. ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ She smiled, a wan smile. ‘Actually, now I have you here. Perhaps a couple of things.’ She looked at Mrs Maguire, ‘Would you mind, would it be all right if you took a seat in the hall for a minute. I just need to have a quick word with Mr McLoughlin and then he’ll take you home. Won’t you Mick? Make sure Mrs Maguire is OK?’
They sat again in the canteen.
‘So?
‘I’ve been thinking about Brian O’Leary.’
‘Yes?’
‘You knew him well, didn’t you?’
McLoughlin pondered. Did he? He remembered him of course. Vividly. There had been times years ago when every waking and some sleeping moments were taken up with thinking about Brian O’Leary. The first of the really organised Dublin criminals. The first to take drugs seriously, to work out how to make big money.
‘I remember …’ McLoughlin drained the last of the tea from the polystyrene cup, ‘…his mother, I remember her really well. She was an extraordinary woman.’
‘Yes?’ Min looked impatient. This wasn’t what she wanted.
‘Did you ever meet her?’
Min shrugged. ‘Not sure.’
McLoughlin smiled. ‘Not the right answer. If you’d met her you’d remember. Boy you’d remember.’
All those pro-life marches, back in the eighties. When the pro-life movement was stoking the fires, priming the political parties to amend the constitution to guarantee the right to life of the unborn. O’Connell Street overflowing with protesters, shouting and praying. Waving placards, grainy black and white photos of dead babies and scraps of foetus. Enough to chill the blood. And Cáit, Bean Uí Laoghaire, a mountain of a woman, her red hair streeling down her back, her rosary beads entwined through her large white fingers, leading the pack.
‘She was an Irish speaker, a devout Catholic. She had every TD in her constituency cowed into submission.’ McLoughlin picked at the plastic cup.
‘And her son? How did he fit in?’ Min was scanning her phone.
‘They were devoted to each other. I remember when he was a kid, when he first got into trouble. Small acts of thievery. Sweets, cigarettes, alcohol. He was picked up with pockets full of contraband. Brought into the station. She arrived. Not alone. Even then he had the best legal advice. His arse didn’t touch the seat in the interview room.’
‘And now, what do you think about him now?’
‘Well,’ he clasped his hands, then unclasped them. The dog bite still hurt. ‘I think he’s in prison, he’s been there for years and he’s years left on his sentence. But,’ he inspected the dressing. It looked dirty. He should change it when he got home. ‘From what I can gather he’s still running his own show. We might have put Brian away, but we haven’t cleaned out the nest. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you. Nothing moves in this town without Brian O’Leary’s say so. Prison or no prison.’
‘So,’ she put down the phone and looked at him. ‘You think, then it’s possible, the judge?’
McLoughlin nodded. ‘It’s possible. One other thing to remember about Brian. He’s vain. If he was involved he’d want people to know. He likes to leave his mark. There was one kid I remember who fell out of favour. When we found his body, he’d been branded. A picture of O’Leary right across his stomach.’ He swallowed hard. ‘A nasty bastard.’
‘Makes me wonder. The disfigurement of the judge’s face, there must have been a reason for that.’
‘Or no reason at all. Purely for the fun of it. ‘
‘O’Leary’s trial, the last one?’
‘Had to be the Special Criminal Court. Too much intimidation of jury members for an ordinary court. And even then we had to increase security on the judges. And after he’d gone to prison there was a spate of killings. Young men. All had been stabbed, mutilated. Ears hacked off, eyes gouged out. Just letting everyone know. He might be in prison, but nothing else would be different.’ He remembered. He’d gone to Portlaoise to question him. O’Leary had sat stock-still throughout the session, his eyes fixed on a crack in the wall and said nothing. Then as he was going back to his cell he’d turned towards McLoughlin and giggled. Hitched up his trousers and winked. ‘Slán abhaile,’ he’d said.
He got to his feet. ‘If you need anything else let me know.’ He turned to go. ‘I’d better get Mrs Maguire home.’
Home to the corporation estate at the top of the hill. Where his Aunt Bea had lived with her poodle and her dahlias. Where his father had grown up. He helped Mrs Maguire from the car. She winced as she swung her legs onto the ground. Her limp was even more pronounced now. She clung to his arm as he walked with her to her front door.
‘I’m waiting. For the new hip.’ She rooted around in her bag and pulled out her bunch of keys.
‘Will you be all right here, on your own?’ He couldn’t help but feel worried for her.
She nodded. ‘I didn’t know about Vince. No one told me he was back in prison. He didn’t phone.’
‘Well, maybe he felt bad about taking your money.’ McLoughlin took the keys from her and opened the door. He helped her inside.
‘Just a minute,’ she held onto his wrist, ‘I knew it would come back to me.’ A triumphant smile on her plump face.
‘Yes?’
‘The name of the people who used to live in your house. The ones with the piano.’
‘Yes?’ McLoughlin fiddled with his keys.
‘Lane, that was it. Their name was Lane.’ She smiled at him and patted him on the arm, then turned away.
McLoughlin walked down the narrow path and got into his car. He sat and looked at the house. He watched her lights turn on, shining faintly through the net curtains. He watched them turn off and then come on upstairs. He sat in the car until the upstairs lights, too, turned off. He checked his phone. A missed call and a message from Johnny Harris. A name, Derek Green, and a phone number.
Call him now. He’ll see you tonight.
Almost dark, but still warm, heat radiating up from the footpath as he walked quickly from the square, where he’d left his car, the dog trotting at his heels, towards the address the man called Derek Green had given him on the phone. He stopped off at the wine shop and bought a bottle of the Sicilian red. He tucked the bottle, wrapped in tissue paper, under one arm.
It wasn’t far to Derek Green’s apartment. McLoughlin had walked past the high gates many times. From the street the apartments were barely visible. A long drive with mature trees and shrubs and behind them red-tiled roofs. The name ‘Ballyroan’ was cut into the imposing granite gateposts. Once there must have been a house of that name with a large garden. But like so many of the old houses around here, it had been bought, demolished and the land built on. High density, that was what the council wanted. High density, that was how the developers made their money.
McLoughlin pressed the buttons on the intercom beside the gate. He noticed the small camera lens. He smiled into it, hoping he looked friendly and unthreatening. He waited. The lock on the gate buzzed loudly and clicked. He pushed and it opened. He moved through. It clanged shut behind him. He turned away and began to walk along the path towards the apartment blocks behind the trees. Light from tall lamps cut through the twilight. House 2, bell 5, Derek Green had said.
They walked on, Ferdie keeping to McLoughlin’s heels. House 2 was set back from the path. Three wide steps led up to the front door. More buzzing, more waiting. Good security, McLoughlin noticed. Cameras everywhere and heavy external and internal doors. A small lift which creaked and clanked. Another camera. He wondered if they were just for show or if they were actively monitored. You never knew these days.
Number 5 had no name below its bell. But McLoughlin noticed the small ceramic scroll to the right of the door. He reached out to touch it, just as the door opened. The man standing in front of him smiled. ‘The mezuzah.’ He too touched the scroll, then put his fingers to his lips.
‘Come in,’ he stepped aside. McLoughlin walked ahead into a large room which smelt strongly of cigarette smoke. It was dark, just one small lamp turned on. The walls were painted white. A striking abstract hung over a gas fire, modern, polished metal and stone. The furniture was also modern, a chrome and leather sofa and two chairs and a couple of steel and glass tables which McLoughlin recognised as copies of Eileen Grey’s work.
‘Nice,’ he gestured towards them, ‘where did you get them? The job on my house, it’s nearly finished and I’m in the market for some new stuff.’
Green hooked his thumbs in his belt. He was thin, McLoughlin noticed, angular, his face in the lamp light, all planes and sharpness. Black hair slicked back against his skull, dark brown eyes, a fleshy mouth, his lips full and curved. Stubble showed on his chin and jaw.
‘A shop in the city,’ he moved towards the table.
‘Expensive?’ McLoughlin joined him and the two stood side by side looking down at the circle of glass and its simple but efficient steel frame.
‘No,’ Green shook
his head, ‘surprisingly cheap. They’re probably knock-offs. I looked online and the ones from the licensed suppliers are four times the price I paid. Still,’ he trailed one hand across the table’s shiny surface. ‘They do me, I like them. Now,’ he turned away, ‘enough of the small talk. Sit down, why don’t you. But if you don’t mind perhaps you’d put the dog on the balcony. Outside is where dogs belong.’ He took a couple of steps towards the houseplants, reached behind and slid open the door. Ferdie, without being told, trotted after him. He lay down on the tiles, his head on his paws.
They sat, McLoughlin on the sofa, Green on the chair facing the huge flat-screen television. His usual seat, McLoughlin reckoned, the ashtray on the table beside him, a packet of cigarettes and a lighter along with the collection of TV and DVD remote controls and a pile of books. McLoughlin noticed the sophisticated sound system. Bose speakers and a small neat CD player and tuner on a shelf on the wall.
‘I brought this,’ McLoughlin proffered the bottle of wine.
‘I don’t drink,’ Green didn’t smile. ‘It’s the one bad habit I don’t have.’
McLoughlin felt distinctly uneasy. He had been counting on the wine to loosen things up. He waited for Green to offer tea or coffee or even water but no offer was forthcoming. Green sat perfectly still. He lifted his head slightly and looked up at the ceiling, the tips of his fingers gently rubbing the chair’s arms.
‘Well,’ McLoughlin shifted uneasily.
‘Yes?’ Green didn’t look at him.
‘I’m not sure what Dr Harris has told you.’
‘Ah,’ Green folded his hands together and crossed his legs. His feet were bare, brown and bony. ‘The doctor. A brave man. One of the best.’
‘Yes, he is. I’ve known him for years. His work is always first class. He’s a good guy too.’ McLoughlin crossed his legs and folded his arms. He was conscious of how awkward he felt without a glass in his hand.
The Therapy House Page 17
