‘Who was going with you for sherry that evening?’
‘Yes. Sam. Well, he’s poor Cecily’s son. He had discovered he was adopted.’ Gwen fidled with her hymn book, smoothing down the soft leather cover. ‘That compulsion, to find where you come from, well, it brought him here. ‘
‘To find his family?’
‘Yes, but there was no one. Poor Cecily, she died young. They said it was cancer, but I always thought it was a broken heart.’
The organ was loud now, a flourish of chords. There was the clatter of shoes on the wooden floor as the congregation stood. McLoughlin resisted the temptation to turn and stare at the small procession which he could see out of the corner of his eye. It was led, he realised, by a woman. She was tall and slim. Her long brown hair flowed down her back. She was wearing white robes. Her feet peeped out beneath them. Brown feet in sandals, with scarlet painted toe nails.
‘That’s our new rector,’ Gwen hissed, ‘isn’t she magnificent?’
The choir followed her up the aisle, singing. The congregation joined in. Gwen’s voice was high and quavering. He tried to follow, but he could hear how out of tune he was.
The choir took their places. The rector took hers.
‘Let us pray.’ The rector’s voice rang out. The congregation sank to their knees. McLoughlin buried his head in his hands. He heard the words of the prayers. They were, at one and the same time, unfamiliar and similar. The same words perhaps, but their delivery made him listen in a different way. As they finished Gwen grabbed hold of him and together they sat back on the pew. Then stood again. Gwen handed him a battered hymnal and pointed to the page. The organ rang out and the choir and congregation swung in behind it. Again he tried to follow the tune, but again he failed. Sunlight filtered through the windows, reds, blues and greens from the stained glass flickering across the tiles. The church was calm, the atmosphere serene. Members of the congregation came to the lectern and read the lessons. He knew the readings and the Our Father, or the Lord’s Prayer as they called it. But its ending was different.
For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever Amen.
There was no communion. One more hymn, another stirring tune, played with vigour by the organist. Then the rector got to her feet and climbed up to the pulpit. She cleared her throat. She began to speak.
‘Our verse today is from the gospel of John, chapter eight, verse twelve. He that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.’
McLoughlin listened. She spoke of witness, of living according to the tenets of one’s belief. Her voice was strong but not strident, powerful but gentle. Her gestures were expressive as was her face. As she finished she reminded everyone that the soup kitchen in the church hall next door, needed volunteers.
The organist began to play again. He recognised the tumbling chords of a Bach chorale as the rector, followed by the church wardens and the choir, walked slowly down the aisle. Gwen was slumped in her seat. He bent over and took her hand.
‘Are you all right?’
She looked up. He could see she had been crying.
‘What is it?’ He pulled her gently to her feet.
She smiled. ‘It’s nothing really, it’s just, it reminds me of my mother.’ She straightened herself and picked up her handbag. ‘She loved this church and that last hymn we sang,’ she gestured to him to move out into the aisle, ‘we sang that at her funeral.’
He stood back and let her pass.
‘I’d better go,’ he whispered, ‘the dog, you know?’
‘Not yet,’ she took him by the arm. ‘There’s someone here you should meet.’
The man was standing by the baptismal font at the back of the church. The heavy tweed overcoat, the shopping bag at his feet, the hat in his hands, which, even today with the sun beginning to break through the clouds, were gloved.
‘Sam,’ Gwen waved at him. ‘Sam, are you going for tea?’
He looked uncomfortable. He looked away.
‘Good,’ she touched his shoulder, ‘I want you to meet my new friend.’ She drew Michael towards him. ‘Michael, this is Sam Dudgeon. I’ve been telling you about him. Sam, say hallo to Michael. Michael’s bought the house, you know?’
The man looked at him. He didn’t speak. McLoughlin held out his hand. Dudgeon didn’t reciprocate. He turned away.
‘I’m not staying. I’m not well. I need fresh air,’ he pushed through the congregation, out through the large oak door.
‘Oh,’ Gwen’s face fell. ‘I am sorry. How rude. He’s not usually like that. He’s usually very sweet, very kind. Oh dear.’
McLoughlin watched the elderly man, the hat now jammed on his head, the tweed coat pulled tightly around him. McLoughlin moved slightly to get a better view. He could see now the railings where Ferdie was tied. As Sam Dudgeon approached Ferdie stood, his small body tense, alert, his face stuck forward and a sudden deep growl. Sam Dudgeon paused, then hurried through the open gate, onto the footpath, turning towards the seafront and disappearing from view. There was something about him. He remembered the photographs. There was one in particular. A group of men standing around the judge, glasses raised. The boy on the judge’s knee, naked and frightened. One of the men looking away. The same beaky profile. McLoughlin put his hand on Gwen’s arm.
‘Gwen,’ he said, pulling at her sleeve to attract her attention, so she turned away from the lady with the tight perm and gold-rimmed glasses with whom she was exchanging recipes for blackberry jam, ‘Gwen.’
‘Yes Michael, what is it?’
‘Gwen, how well did Sam Dudgeon know Judge Hegarty?’
She began to answer, but his phone rang. He looked down at the screen. He held up his hand in apology to Gwen and turned away.
‘Hi Min, what’s up?’
‘Mick,’ her voice was sharp, anxious, ‘glad I caught you. Listen, I need a favour.’
The End
McLoughlin stood in the doorway and looked into the hospital room. He recognised the man in the bed although he’d changed considerably since McLoughlin’s last sight of him. Fifteen years ago, as he was being taken away to the prison van, handcuffed to an officer, his face red with rage, his mouth open, invective spilling from it.
‘I’ll get you, you fuckers, you think I won’t, you think I can’t, but you wait. You’re all going to pay for this. And you, Hegarty, you smug bastard, your turn will come.’
Now Brian O’Leary lay back against the pillows, his eyes closed. His face was ashen. His freckles stood out against the pallor. There was thick grey stubble on his chin, all that was left of his once red hair. An array of monitors beeped and blinked. A tube fed into his left arm, something dripping from a bag on a stand. McLoughlin moved slowly towards him.
‘Stay where you are,’ O’Leary’s voice was low but strong. His eyes were still shut.
McLoughlin looked around. Inside the room there was no sign that O’Leary was a prisoner. Just the two armed guards in the corridor outside.
‘Get on with it.’ McLoughlin wasn’t going to be intimidated. ‘You said you wanted to talk to me, so I’m here. Get on with it.’
He pulled a chair towards the bed and sat down.
He’d asked Gwen to look after the dog, said he’d be back in an hour. Thrust the lead into her hand, then hurried away. Min had said she’d meet him at the hospital entrance. He couldn’t see her when he pushed through the swing doors and wiped his hands with the alcohol cleanser from the row of dispensers. He looked around. The large atrium was crowded and noisy. He moved further inside and saw her sitting at a round table, two mugs of coffee and a laptop at her elbow. She was on her own. She looked exhausted.
‘So, what’s this all about?’ He sat down.
She smiled. ‘Thanks for coming. Here,’ she shoved one of the mugs
towards him and opened the computer. She explained. The confiscation of the phones in the prison. It should have been a routine operation. There’d been too much publicity about the amount of access prisoners had to them. The Minister wanted it sorted. It turned into a fiasco. It got completely out of hand. There’d been a full-scale riot. O’Leary was just one of the casualties.
‘He got a bang on the head but that wasn’t the worst of it. He had a heart attack. He’s upstairs here. Waiting for bypass surgery. Lucky, isn’t he?’ she gestured around, at all the other people, young and old, fat and thin, healthy and unhealthy. There was a loud buzz of conversation. She raised her voice. ‘The fucker’s going to be fast tracked. Skipping the queue.’
‘Typical.’ McLoughlin picked up the mug and sipped. It was surprisingly good.
‘Anyway, there was a routine scan of all the phones. The usual stuff. Most of it was untraceable. Pay as You Go. But,’ she turned the computer screen towards him, ‘this was on O’Leary’s. You can see why he went mental when the officers tried to take it.’
She pressed the touch pad. McLoughlin leaned forward to get a better look. It showed a room he recognised. The sofa and chairs, the glass cabinet, the pale green carpet, the portrait on the wall, and the judge, on his hands and knees. A dog’s lead was around his neck. Min pressed the play symbol. The lead was jerked savagely. The judge fell forward. The lead was pulled tightly and the judge was up now, on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. His face was red, contorted. He was gasping for breath, his mouth open. A foot kicked him, forcing him to the floor. He rolled over on his back waving his hands and feet in the air, and again the lead was pulled, tightly dragging him up into the begging position.
McLoughlin sat back. ‘Incredible.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘So who’s holding the phone? Is it Stevie? Is that who you arrested.’
Min shook her head. ‘We don’t know who it is. We arrested Stevie before we got this. There’d been sightings of his car in the square. In fact outside your house, and when we showed his photo around there were a few tentative identifications. The old lady who lives across from you, she said she’d seen him. She was taken with his freckles.’
She paused and cleared her throat. ‘So we brought him in. But we’ve got nothing. We won’t be able to hold him for much longer.’
McLoughlin pointed at the video. ‘Pity, no sound. Is there none at all?’ He reached over and pressed play again and fumbled for the volume control.
‘Unfortunately no, nothing.’ They watched as the scene played again. ‘I’ve been trying to question O’Leary. The doctor won’t let me near him for more than a couple of minutes and the last time O’Leary would only speak to me in Irish, and to be honest, mine isn’t the best. And then he said, “ni labhróidh mé ach le Michael McLoughlin.”’
‘“I’ll only speak to Michael McLoughlin,” the slimy little bollocks.’ McLoughlin shifted on his chair. ‘It’s just a delaying tactic. He’s no interest in me. He just wants to string it all out.’
‘Yeah of course,’ she sighed. ‘We have the video, but it’s not much use. We don’t even know if the person who filmed what happened was the same person who shot the judge. It probably was, but,’ she shrugged, ‘it’s not evidence. So we’re still up shit creek. And so…’ she closed the computer lid.
‘You want me to try and work my charm on him, is that it?’ He finished his coffee.
She nodded, ‘He’s upstairs in the special care unit. I’ve cleared it with the docs. Look,’ she picked up her mug, ‘anything you can get out of him. Really, anything.’
McLoughlin sat beside the hospital bed. O’Leary hadn’t moved. He was lying still, the crisp white sheets tucked neatly around him.
‘So,’ McLoughlin straightened. ‘You told Sweeney you’d only talk to me. Get on with it.’
O’Leary stirred. ‘Tá tart orm. Tabhair dom braon uisce. ‘He lifted a hand.
McLoughlin stood. He picked up the plastic drinking cup, and leaned over. O’Leary’s eyes flicked open. They were large, bulbous and pale green. They reminded McLoughlin of a goat. O’Leary opened his mouth. McLoughlin held the spout to his lips. There was a gurgling sound as he sucked hard. Then gathered the liquid together in his mouth and spat. It just missed McLoughlin’s shirt front.
‘OK, I get it.’ McLoughlin replaced the cup on the locker. ‘I’ll just say slán abhaile and I’ll leave you to it.’
‘What’s your rush?’ O’Leary smiled. ‘Don’t be so fucking sensitive. Sit down. Let’s have a chat.’
‘About what precisely?’ McLoughlin hesitated, his hand on the back of the chair.
‘Oh you know, this and that. And the other.’ O’Leary made as if to push himself up on the pillows. His face contorted.
‘The other, I’d have thought we’d want to talk about the other,’ McLoughlin sat down. ‘Namely the murder of Judge John Hegarty. And what that bit of video was doing on your phone. And specifically who was the guy holding the lead. Now,’ he crossed his legs, ‘if you can shed some light on that I’m sure Inspector Sweeney would be very pleased and possibly even grateful.’
‘Grateful, now,’ O’Leary stirred and smiled. ‘I’d like that. Is cailín beag álainn í. A pretty little girl. That blonde hair, is it natural? I like pretty little girls. And I could do with a bit of gratitude. Lying here, all on my own, your thoughts turn to, well I’m sure you can imagine.’
McLoughlin said nothing. He looked at his watch. He’d give him fifteen more minutes.
‘Pretty, she is, like your niece, your Constance. Nice name, Constance. After the countess was she?’ O’Leary twisted around so he could see McLoughlin’s expression.
‘Constance, yes you’re right,’ McLoughlin knew better than to react. ‘The countess, Madame Marckievicz.’
‘A clever girl like her namesake. A great interest in the pursuit of justice. Looks after the underdog does your niece Constance. Very helpful.’ Again O’Leary smiled, this time drawing his fleshy lips back over his teeth.
‘Is that right? And how may I ask did you come by this information?’ McLoughlin gripped the edges of the chair tightly.
O’Leary tapped his forehead. A dull hollow sound. He giggled. The monitor beside the bed began to beep more quickly. ‘She’s a helpful girl, I’ll say that much for her. Funny, isn’t it? Mustn’t have much respect for her old uncle. She’s not on your side, that’s for sure.’
McLoughlin could feel his jaw tightening. ‘OK Brian, this is how it is. The cops have your little brother, little Stevie, and you can be sure they’ll squeeze your little Stevie until his pips squeak.’
‘Not for much longer. The clock is ticking.’ O’Leary held up his arm, the sleeves of the hospital gown falling back so McLoughlin could see his freckles and his watch. ‘I reckon he’ll be out any time now.’
‘You think? Tell me Brian, let me in on the secret. That video. That wasn’t Stevie, so who was it? My guess it’s more likely to be Martin. It’s more his style. A nasty little fucker, your Martin. Wouldn’t be enough just to put a bullet in an old man’s brain, he’d want to have a bit of fun while he was at it.’ McLoughlin’s voice rose.
‘Fun, you think that was for fun?’ Again Brian tried to push himself up and again the monitor’s beeping increased. ‘You’ve no idea the things that Martin went through before my Ma rescued him. My Ma, she was a real mother, not like that cunt who brought him into the world. Do you know what she did, she and that useless fucker she lived with?’
‘I don’t know,’ McLoughlin looked at his watch again. ‘But you’ll tell me I’m sure.’
‘You’re fucking right I’ll tell you. They pimped Martin out. One thing I’ll give them, they were fussy. None of your muck, only the best for their poor little boy. Top-notch nonces for Martin. The elites of our rotten world.’ He sank back again. ‘He’s a clever boy, my Martin. He’s done g
reat things for the business. The girls now, I’d never have got that together. But Martin, he’s always thinking ahead. Watching what’s happening in the world, politics, economics, who’s winning and who’s losing.’ Again the monitors beeped. ‘He’s tough too, I tell you.’ Boasting, McLoughlin could hear the pride in his voice. ‘You wouldn’t want to cross our Martin. Some people try to take him for a ride. Like that stupid bollocks, Ed Smith. Thought he could skim the cream off the top and Martin wouldn’t notice.’ He began to cough. A harsh rasping sound, sucking air into his lungs.
‘Smith, Ed Smith? Anything to Paul Smith?’ McLoughlin leaned closer.
‘A wonderful thing, paternal love.’ O’Leary tried to sit up. ‘Lucky his old da had something to save little Ed’s miserable skin. If he hadn’t they’d have been digging up bits of him all across north County Dublin.’ He sank back on the pillows. His eyes closed. ‘You think you’re so fucking clever, but I’ll tell you something and I’ll do you a favour. I’ll tell it to you for free.’ He pulled himself up again, trying to look McLoughlin in the eyes. ‘Whatever you think you know, you know fuck all. That stupid cunt of a guard, with her stupid fucking questions. Who does she think I am, that I’d finger one of my own? And as for you. Watch you squirm that’s what I want. You put me away. You thought you had me. You thought I was finished, but somehow you got it wrong. Me and my kind, we haven’t gone away you know. And your niece, the lovely Constance. We’ll have fun with her,’
His face flushed again, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. ‘She’s on our side now, Defender of the weak. ‘
He pulled himself up again, then collapsed back on the pillows. The alarm on the monitor shrieked. Lights flashed and the door burst open, two nurses followed by a young doctor.
‘Out, leave. Now,’ he shouted at McLoughlin as he bent over O’Leary. McLoughlin backed towards the door and into the corridor. Reaching for his phone. Finding Constance’s number. Remembering that day in the street as she was on her way back to court. She got a call. Martin, she said. He wants to appeal, she said. He reached the lift.
The Therapy House Page 31
