"I mean, it’s just such a tragic set of circumstances," he said, sticking nervously to his guns. "There must be some way make an intervention, to break the cycle, to rehabilitate…some of them, at least," he said. "The children?"
Hook Nose and Mustache looked up at the ceiling and piously intoned the word intervention. Comb-over exhaled a cloud of smoke from his pipe, then leant through it and jerked his chin at Smiler.
"In our day, son, a Guard was supposed to marry a nurse, not fucking turn into one."
EVERYONE WAS TALKING about the Omega Man case, and everyone stopped talking about it whenever I got close. I decided it was better if I made good my escape. I was at the front door when Dave appeared at the top of the stairs and tiptoed down them. He raised a finger to his lips, then went around the rooms, turned the music off in one and brought the noise level down in the others, then reappeared at the kitchen end of the hall and unlocked the door that led to the converted garage. Dave had wanted this space to be a den, or a home office; Carmel had argued for a family room, or somewhere she could start one of the business ideas she had had but never pursued; eventually it had become a garage with plasterwork: old computers, a canoe, a cutting machine for dressmaking, a swingball set, a turntable, two VCRs, the kids’ old schoolbooks, Dave and Carmel’s old schoolbooks, you name it. Dave locked the door behind him and found a chair without turning on the light; I sat on a railway trunk in the dark.
"Thanks for coming, Ed," he said in a low, anxious voice.
"I wouldn’t have missed it. What’s up?"
"Sorry about the cloak-and-dagger, it’s just—"
"Sure, I understand. What have you got, Dave?"
"The latest from the postmortem. Hutton’s body was frozen. It still hadn’t completely thawed out. It means establishing a time of death is much more difficult, maybe impossible. They probably have to mess with entomology, what bugs were frozen when. But that’d take days in normal time: over Christmas in Ireland, it could be March. Both Hutton and Kennedy were killed elsewhere and moved to the scene. Each was strangled by hand: there are scars consistent with fingers digging into the neck; there’s some matter that may be fingernail debris, from which DNA might possibly be extracted, in the event that we ever get ourselves a suspect."
"And all of this applies to Jackie Tyrrell as well?"
"Except it seems as if the killer was wearing gloves this time: there are fewer finger tears at the neck. And one more thing. The bags of coins found on Kennedy and Hutton. There was another on Jackie Tyrrell’s body. Same kind of bag each time, leather pouch with a drawstring. And there were thirty coins in each, thirty single euro coins. Remember your gospel?"
"Judas. Thirty pieces of silver. That’s the last thing anyone remembers Patrick Hutton saying: ’I won’t play the Judas for anyone.’ And the tongues cut out: Does that mean the betrayal lay in telling someone something? In confessing? Or in not speaking up?"
"Either way, some kind of betrayal."
"And now someone is making people pay for that betrayal."
I thought of Father Vincent Tyrrell kissing me on the mouth this morning. After I’d gotten over the shock, I had thought it seemed at once deliberate and cryptic, a statement I was to interpret—a Judas Kiss?
"We still have no ID on the body, Ed."
"What do they make of the tattoos?"
"They’ve got hold of a few people from Trinity College, a professor of art history and someone who works in heraldry—they’re both writing up reports. But I don’t see it that way."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, a serial killer works at random, right? And then he does something to tie it all together, he only kills young women, or gay men, or whatever. And if he uses symbols or leaves tags, it’s a kind of taunt to the cops: I’m smarter than you. Come and get me if you think you’re good enough."
"Yeah?"
"But in this case, the victims are linked: they’re all connected to a horse race in 1997, to a stable, to a town and to a family. So there’s a different kind of logic going on. It’s like the killer is saying, understand why I’m doing this. I have a plan, and it has a logic, and you better work it out before…"
Before Miranda Hart is murdered, I thought. But the face I summoned up was not Miranda’s, but Regina Tyrrell’s daughter, Karen: I could see her eyes, one blue, one brown, shimmering in the dark.
"I laid it out for Geraghty, Dave. I gave him enough to connect Kennedy and Jackie Tyrrell, which gives him Hutton—not an ID, but at least the lead."
"He doesn’t want to see it that way, Ed. He wants his own serial killer, with biblical quotes and runic symbols. And he has enough evidence tending in that direction to ignore anything that doesn’t."
"And he lacks a wise senior colleague he trusts who’d be better able to advise him."
"Something like that."
"What about Vinnie Butler?"
"They’re running forensics on his van. He denies everything, including even being at the dump, but you’d expect that. My gut tells me no, but you never can tell with the Butlers."
"Anything on Don Kennedy?"
"There was a team trawling through his home office today. They’ve sealed it over Christmas, but I’ve got the key. I’ll slip out tomorrow."
"Okay. There’s an industrial school in Tyrrellscourt, St. Jude’s, I think it figures in this, too. I’m seeing someone tomorrow about it."
"Not your one off the telly? Fuck’s sake, Ed—"
"What do you want? She’s the expert. And fuck it, you might need the publicity badly this time, when you get the killer and Myles Geraghty insists on taking all the credit."
There was a long silence, and I could hear Dave breathing deeply, as if trying to keep a lid on something. When he spoke, it was in a tremulous, quavering voice, as if he was trying to sound happy about something and not making out too well with it.
"Sadie pegged out in my arms, she’s the only one in the house who still believes in Santa. I made a doll’s house for her, I was up nights most of November building the fucking thing. I always do November off the booze. Good to have something to do then. Otherwise you start noticing all sorts of stuff you wish you hadn’t. But you should have seen her little face tonight, Ed, I swear, looking at them when they sleep…you’d swear there wasn’t a thing astray, not a single thing in the world."
Dave did the breathing thing again, then got up and unlocked the door.
"Better leave it awhile before you go."
"Sure," I said. "Thanks, Dave."
I sat in the dark for five or ten minutes, and then I looked out, and saw no one in the hall, and made it to the front door again. I could hear low murmurs from the living room, and I thought I’d make a quick escape, but then I remembered Carmel had taken my coat and put it upstairs, so I went up to get it. As I climbed the stairs, I thought I could hear a noise from the master bedroom. I figured the boys were in there watching TV. I found my coat in one of the boys’ bedrooms. I stepped out onto the landing and the door to the master bedroom flew open and Carmel stood there, panting, her hair all mussed up and her lipstick smeared, and I had an intense flash of my mother in a doorway just like this one, in the house in Quarry Fields that was more like this than not; in the room behind my mother was a man putting on his clothes: the man who killed my father. In the room behind Carmel, who was smiling desperately, even though we both knew there were tears in her eyes, was a man adjusting his shirt: Myles Geraghty.
I’d parked around the corner near the hotel, and that’s where Carmel caught me up; I could hear her shoes clipping up the road after me; she must have kept her heels on, was the lurid thought, and image, that came unbidden and unwanted into my head. I didn’t want to look at her, but she tugged on my shoulder and spun me around. Her eye makeup had melted into two black smears across eyes prickling with what looked like desperation.
"Ed, please don’t…it wasn’t what you thought…" she said, the words fading in and out of range on the ebb and flow of her emotion.
"Don’t dem…all right, Carmel, what was it, then? Are we gonna agree to pretend it wasn’t what we know it was? Don’t—"
"Don’t demean myself? Is that what you started to say? Having demeaned myself already, I shouldn’t demean myself by lying about it?"
It was as if I’d hit her; the desperation flared into anger and defiance.
"That’s about right," I said.
She hit me then; she was shaking with rage and unhappiness and she hit me a few times across the cheek, but her heart wasn’t in it, and I grabbed her wrist and hoped she’d subside, but she didn’t; she wrenched it off me as if I had assaulted her.
"Don’t you judge me. You’re no one to judge me, you fucking…you’ve the morals of a beast in the fields, Ed Loy, you’d fuck your own shadow."
"I’m not judging you."
"You fucking are. The look on your face—"
"What do you expect? Dave’s my friend, and you betray him, fine, you’re right, I’m no one to judge, but you could pick your moment, Carmel, and you could pick your man: Jesus, of all people, Myles fucking Geraghty, talk about rubbing a man’s face in it, do you not know what a nightmare he’s made Dave’s life since he joined the Bureau?"
"No, I don’t know, how would I know? Do you think he talks to me about it? Any of it? Of course he tells you, men only, noble beasts grunt out your pain to each other, then down the next whiskey and get on with things, don’t tell the little woman, she’d only get upset, or worse, think you were human."
"He said if he brought his troubles home, you’d think he was weak."
Carmel’s face nearly gave, she looked so hurt; she twisted it into a snarl and a harsh laugh.
"Weak? Christ, he thinks that of me? And he said it to you? Who’s betraying who, Ed? Who do you think I am, Lady Mac-fuckingbeth? Let me tell you about Dave’s mother’s funeral: after the removal, I found him in the garage, crying his eyes out. I went to him, arms out, you know. He backed away from me. He left the house, he drove around, I don’t know where, he came back when I was asleep, that was the last tear he let me see. I’d think he was weak? I’d think he was a human being. It’s got worse since you came back. He thinks you’re…I don’t know what, he’s always sniggering like a teenager about what you get up to…it’s as if he thinks you’re cool, that’s what it is."
"I’m not cool."
"Do you think I don’t know that? Misery knows misery. I see you, Ed Loy. The same fucked-up woman in one guise after another. The booze, the fights. You’re so in love with your own fucking pain, you need to keep the wound fresh and flowing to feel half alive. Don’t take Dave down with you. He’s got like that: the job is everything, but he can’t talk about it, what he goes through, what he suffers, he removes himself from my life, from our lives. Absent. And then he shows up, expecting us to be like a family in a movie, he wants me to fuck him, the kids to adore him. Frolic along the beach with a big furry dog. We don’t even know him."
Carmel was shivering, maybe crying. I took off my coat and tried to put it on her shoulders, but she wouldn’t let me. She pushed me away, and then hung on my lapel, her hand on my shoulder. I knew that nothing like this happened for no reason, that making a family wasn’t easy, that Carmel and Dave were very far from the couple I’d idealized. But I’d seen her with Myles Geraghty, and I felt it in my gut, and I couldn’t let it go.
"I hear all that, Carmel, and fair enough, I don’t really know what it’s like…I was only married a short while, and I didn’t make a great go of it. But…sorry, I can’t get away from this, in front of all his colleagues, and if they didn’t see, you can be fucking sure they’ll be told, Myles Geraghty. I think Dave knows something is going on—"
"Of course he knows. There’s not much point to it unless he knows. Do you think I like Myles Geraghty? Do you think I want to do this? Turns out it’s all I have, after fifteen years of kids, these legs, these tits, and I won’t have them for long, not in this shape anyway. Getting old, Ed, and I don’t want to wait around to die. I’ve tried talking to him, tried warning him. Nothing. Calls for desperate measures. Rub his face in it? Yes. Demean myself? Yes. What next? I know what you’d do. Walk away. School of Ed Loy says, just walk away. But you don’t put twenty years into what I’ve built up to walk away. You can’t."
A breath at the corner, a foot snap on frost, and there was Dave. Carmel turned to him, and nodded, and turned back to me.
"I’m sorry if what I said hurt you," she said.
"That’s ’Happy Christmas’ in Irish, is it?"
"Some things are more important than who fucked who. You know that."
I thought of my daughter, how she hadn’t been mine, not in blood, yet I called her mine and always would and knew it to be true. I nodded, and Carmel gave me a kiss, and walked up to Dave and put an arm around his waist and put her head on his shoulder. Dave raised his hand in the air, and I returned his salute, and they walked back down to their house, and their family, and their life, about which, it turned out, I knew next to nothing.
The roads had frosted up, powder bright in the moonlight; I drove back slowly, wondering how this would affect the Leopardstown Festival: Irish racing did not like firm ground, and would cancel a meeting rather than risk the horses.
When I got back to Quarry Fields, I found Tommy Owens’s key on my kitchen table and Miranda Hart in my bed. Better than the other way round, I remember thinking as I got in beside her, trying not to wake her, but not trying too hard. She awoke, and her breath smelled of oranges, and the rest of her smelt just as good.
"Merry Christmas, Edward Loy," she said, and for a while, it was.
EIGHTEEN
The door creak again, and the rustle of straw, of paper, and the bolt run with a crack, and her dark head turning, Miranda Hart, and then the bolt again, or the sound of it, like a pistol shot, like the slam of a door, my Spanish girl, my ex-wife, now the rustle of straw, the pistol crack, the turning head, my mother, dark-headed, too, as she was when I was a boy, rustle, crack, door, turning head, Regina Tyrrell, fear in her eyes, and another, someone else, I can’t make out his face, rustle, crack, door, head turn: Karen Tyrrell, one eye blue, one eye brown, and the hand closing on her, the hand about to touch her, I can’t see his face, Karen, Miranda, Regina, my wife, my mother, rustle, crack, door, the turning head, the reaching hand…
I woke up alone, bathed in sweat, with Carmel Donnelly’s words burning in my ears. You’re so in love with your own pain. The same fucked-up woman over and over again. It didn’t have to be that way. I wouldn’t let it be that way. I went out on the landing, and smelt breakfast being cooked downstairs, bacon and eggs, or something that good. I remembered how I’d felt yesterday, before the trip to Tyrrellscourt, when I heard Miranda’s footfall and felt the promise of a future. But as I showered, it all came back to me: not just what Tommy had told me about her operating as a prostitute, not just the drugs, not just Bomber Folan or Jack Proby, but what it all amounted to: that she knew so much more than she had told me. What I saw in the bathroom mirror as I shaved was not promise; it was resignation, and something worse than that: betrayal, and the fear of betrayal. The Judas Kiss.
I didn’t think I owned as many pots and pans, plates and cooking utensils, as Miranda Hart had used to make a breakfast fry; she emerged from the debris with two plates as I sat down; I wanted to greet her smile with something more than the polite nod I managed, but found that I couldn’t. We ate in silence. Miranda broke it.
"I suppose Tommy told you, did he?"
I nodded.
"Well, he probably remembers it all better than I do. I was pretty far gone, most of the time. What did he say?"
"That you took money for sex. That you were available to a whole circle of men that formed itself around Leo Halligan and Jack Proby. He said he didn’t know whether you were doing it of your own free will or not. That you were doing so much heroin you maybe didn’t even know yourself."
I found myself trying to make it easy for her. To
her credit, she didn’t want that. She popped some gum in her mouth, lit a cigarette and exhaled.
"No, I wasn’t forced. The opposite. I was with Jack Proby at the time, nothing serious, just for laughs—funny how relationships that are just for laughs quickly run out of them—and we were doing a lot of drugs, too much coke, and then I got into smack to take me down, I couldn’t sleep, and then I needed the coke to get me back up, and that became a cycle. And that became expensive. And it had gotten so I didn’t much care what I did—I can’t quite explain how that happens, but when it does, it seems so simple and so realistic, you know: there’s a rich golfer, or a trainer, or a jockey, why don’t I just fuck him for five hundred quid, or spend the night for a grand. I won’t feel anything anyway, the smack guaranteed that, so why not make a profit, you know?"
"And what was this about? This was all after Patrick disappeared: Was it a kind of grief, a distorted mourning for him?"
She bowed her head, and I thought she was crying. When she looked up at me, there was laughter in her eyes.
"I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, it’s just…I didn’t really give you the full picture before, Ed. Not sure that I should have, worried I’d scare you off. ’I really like you, come in for coffee, but first listen to my life as a smackhead and a hooker.’ Above and beyond on a first date, don’t you think? But…I don’t know, is the answer. I don’t know what happened then. What I can tell you about is what happened with Patrick. What happened to By Your Leave."
"I thought you already had."
"That was a version."
"Let me try my version," I said. "Patrick Hutton was getting paid by Leo Halligan, possibly fronting for George, possibly acting on his own, to hold various horses back, dope them or otherwise interfere with them. At Thurles that day, Leo wanted a winner; F.X. wanted to lengthen the odds for Leopardstown; Hutton was caught between them, so he made it obvious he was holding the horse up to throw the blame onto F.X., but also to show Leo he couldn’t be bossed around."
The Price of Blood Page 18
