by David Mark
McAvoy considers this. “You really think that? You don’t think that priests are just men in funny uniforms? Men with the same needs and hungers and wants as the rest of us?”
“The Church has had a lot of shit,” says Valentine. “All that pedophile stuff. It’s horrible. Sick. Evil, even. But they’re just a tiny few, mate. Priests I know are good blokes. Like their whiskey and give good advice. They want us to be nice to each other.”
“Really? What about if you’re different? If you’re not Catholic? Or if you’re gay? Or if you can’t afford to bring your new baby into the world . . .”
“Would you want to be the one making up the rules? At least they know what they stand for.”
McAvoy bites his cheek. He feels irritated. Feels unsure of his opinions or even his suspicions.
“I’m going to call this in,” he says, making up his mind. “I’ll just phone 911 and tell them there’s signs of disturbance. They can take over. I’ve got no bloody idea what I was even thinking.”
Valentine looks at him kindly. “Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. You’re doing a grand job. You got me away from those Russian wankers.”
“You could have walked whenever you liked.”
“I don’t know,” says Valentine thoughtfully. “Maybe. Maybe not. When I tell Roisin I’ll make you sound like Johnny Big Bollocks.”
McAvoy smiles, despite himself. “I should really use a pay phone,” he muses, looking at his phone. “I’m going to forward this video clip to Alto, then that’s us done.”
“Really?” asks Valentine, disappointed. “Shall we go see Brish at the hospital, then? Maybe Molony’s there. He might just have cut himself and gone to the hospital. Maybe all the mud and ash in the loft is for a herb garden. Shay’s name on the wall . . . a face in a bag . . . I’ll grant you, it’s creepy, but . . .”
McAvoy is about to respond when his phone lights up. He recognizes the number of Courtland Road Police Station in Hull and it has the same effect on his spirits as the sight of a giggling baby. He smiles as he answers.
“Now, then,” says Pharaoh breathlessly. She sounds as if she has been running, which McAvoy finds unlikely. Pharaoh believes that people should only run when being pursued by psychopaths or if the prize for being first across the line is a bottle of Nero d’Avola.
“It’s good to hear from you,” says McAvoy.
“I’m sure it is,” says Pharaoh, and starts coughing. “Those bloody stairs. Took them two at a time.”
“How did you manage that?”
“My legs aren’t that short,” says Pharaoh. “I’m still quite bendy.”
“Why were you running?” asks McAvoy, refusing to consider Pharaoh’s alleged suppleness.
“I had a Skype chat with a contact at the NBCI. Had to take it in the ACC’s office, as he’s the only one with clearance.”
“Was he there?”
“Of course not. He’s got his password written in his contacts file. Calls him Mr. Password.”
“Really?”
“Really. If you’re interested I’ve also got the digits for Mr. Account Number, Mr. Sort Code, and Mr. Long Number Across the Middle of the Card.”
Sitting in a house he has no right to be inside, surrounded by paper, glass, ash, and blood, McAvoy finds himself grinning. He would give anything to have her here.
“What have you got?” he asks. “I’m at Molony’s place. It’s been ransacked. There’s blood on the floor.”
“His blood?”
“I presume so.”
“Chances are high,” says Pharaoh. “From what I’ve just found out, he’s been making enemies out of powerful friends.”
“Father Whelan?” asks McAvoy. “The Italians?”
“Just hang on. Let me sort my brain out.”
McAvoy waits. He hears the familiar soft crackle as she pulls on her cigarette. He imagines the tip glowing red, the smoke trickling from her lips as she talks.
“He’s not a well man,” says Pharaoh. “Cancer. Started in his pancreas and has spread to his liver, bones, and brain. He hasn’t got long.”
“This from the NBCI?” asks McAvoy. “Where did they hear it? And what’s it to do with them?”
“Alto’s been busy on your behalf. A lot of old files have been dusted off. It seems questions have been asked about some of the so-called charitable institutions that have been benefiting from donations at the churches where Father Whelan has any influence. Charities that might not be totally legit. The paper trails are a labyrinth but we’re getting there and I tell you this much—if anybody leans on me and tells me to stop, they’ll be going home with their bollocks in their pockets. Anyway, don’t fret on it. We’re getting help for you on all sides right now, even if nobody is saying anything official. And the simple fact is, Molony’s dying.”
“Poor man,” says McAvoy without thinking.
“Aye, maybe. I’m not going to start blubbing for him just yet. The feds have a recording of him made earlier this year. They’ve got informants all the way through Pugliesca’s crew. They’ve got a wiretap on Paulie’s personal mobile phone. Normally it’s just chats with his mistress, his wife, his kids and grandkids. There’s nothing relates to business. But a while back he took a call from Peter Molony.”
“Go on.”
There is a rustle of paper and Trish reads from the transcript. “It’s Peter. Why you calling this number? Give me a moment, I’ll call you back. No, I need to say this now. I can’t do it. The tests have come back. It’s all through my body. I’m rotting. I’m dying. I need to put things right and that means I have to stop doing what I’ve been doing. I know it leaves you in trouble and I wish there was another way but I have to say no.”
“That’s all on tape?” asks McAvoy.
“That, and Pugliesca’s response. He tells him to stop talking and to listen to him. He’ll pay for the best doctors. He won’t let him die. He’s too important. He tells him to think things through clearly. Then Molony hangs up.”
“What did the feds make of it?”
“That’s when they started looking into him properly. And they found that a certain Detective Alto had been trying to make connections long before, only for him to be warned off by people with powerful allies. Whatever. You were right in your hunch. He’s been laundering Pugliesca’s money for years. Benzano, too—the old boss in jail. Fraudulent charities. Dozens of them. Some exist for real and provide help for orphans and widows and all manner of good and deserving people. Others just exist on paper. There’s a trail of false accounts and false addresses and made-up trust funds, and it’s damn complex. The feds have been trying to disentangle it all so they can fold the whole lot into one big RICO indictment against Pugliesca. If they can prove the connection, they’ll be able to seize millions, but to do that they risk having to ask for money back from some legitimate charities, so you can imagine why they’ve been cautious.”
“But they know this? They know he’s been doing it?”
“There’s more,” says Pharaoh, ignoring him. “The information they have concerning the Chechens and the Ukrainians and the Russians and every bugger coming out of the old Eastern bloc—it seems that as part of their new arrangement with Pugliesca, Sergey’s men want access to their money-laundering operation. Molony’s been asked to expand.”
“And that’s what he’s said no to?”
“That’s the assumption.”
McAvoy frowns. He looks at Valentine, who has crossed to the window and is looking out across the rooftops of Manhattan at the darkness and the snow.
“This is the same Molony who trained as a priest? The same Molony who is sacristan of Saint Colman’s? The one who’s best friends with Father Whelan? The one who castrated himself and spent time in a mental hospital?”
“He’s led a colorful life,” says Pharaoh. “Feds have his medical re
cords, too. Doctors treating him for the cancer made a note in his file about the extensive scarring to his body. Evidence of continued self-harm.”
“From years back?”
“No, continued self-harm right up to the present day. They wanted to photograph his injuries. Were sufficiently concerned to ask for a psych consultation. He refused.”
“Can he do that?”
“We get the impression somebody leaned on somebody else because nothing more came of it. Like I said, powerful friends.”
“And you think Pugliesca may be trying to persuade him to carry on cooking the books?”
“If the friendship with the Russian Mob is at risk, Pugliesca may need to have all of his aces in play. The Italians get all sorts of muscle and resources out of their partnership with the Russians. If the Russians want a money launderer in return, you have to hope that he’s willing to do the job.”
McAvoy lets out a long, deep breath. “So what had Brishen done to warrant someone trying to kill him? Why were they sent?”
Pharaoh gives a little growl. “Maybe they saw his dirty secret? Maybe he gets precious about his urns. Called his paymaster and asked him to step in. Chebworz got in the way and it turned to shit.”
McAvoy gives a grunt of assent. “I was just about to call 911 and report the disturbance at the apartment. The place has been turned over. It looks like somebody has lost their mind in here—like a whirlwind has come through. There’s blood . . .”
“Don’t call it in,” says Pharaoh immediately. “I can tell our friends at the NBCI. They can tell the feds. That way, you get the credit for helping rather than the flak for interfering.”
McAvoy nods at the sense of this. She is far better at the politics of being a police officer. It has helped her rise to the rank she wears like both sword and shield.
“Molony could be in danger,” says McAvoy.
“He might, yes. But they can make a decision on how to play things.”
McAvoy bites his cheek again. He looks down at the tattered paper and discarded pictures. He looks at the blood on the foldout leaflet. Squinting, he makes out the words. It advertises the St. Anthony House of Prayer. On the front is a sketch of a pleasant woodland property, all wooden panels, ornate eaves, and ornate windowsills. It looks familiar, but McAvoy cannot place it.
“What about his connection with Whelan?”
“The nice sergeant at the Guards said Whelan’s currently staying with the Teagues at the site in Galway. He’s arbitrating the dispute. We knew that already.”
“Valentine’s with me,” says McAvoy in a rush.
“You got him? Bloody hell. Bet Roisin’s relieved.”
“I haven’t told her yet. I tried to ring and Whelan answered her phone.”
“Yeah? So you told him, then.”
McAvoy clears his throat, coloring. “Not yet. I thought I’d wait until I knew more.”
Pharaoh stays silent for a moment. “You wanted to hear her voice, you mean,” she says, and some ice enters her own voice. “You wanted to hear her tell you how great you’d done.”
“No, that’s not it—”
“Yes, it is,” says Pharaoh. “I don’t blame you. You’ve done incredibly. But there are people at risk. Your own family, for God’s sake. They need to know.”
“But just because he’s safe doesn’t mean the Heldens will believe he didn’t kill Shay.”
“Hector, I’m going to phone Roisin myself if you don’t do it.”
McAvoy feels chastened. His cheeks burn. What the hell had he been thinking? He pulls himself out of the chair and runs his hands through his hair. It stays sticking up.
“I thought I was doing things right,” says McAvoy, and his voice has gone small.
“You are. You have. Look, don’t beat yourself up. It will all work out. You’re going to be getting backslaps on two sides of the Atlantic. And the stuff you found in his loft? Who knows where that will lead?”
McAvoy concentrates on his breathing as he paces back and forth on the square of floor not covered in paperwork and glass. He starts shuffling the documents into some kind of order. Last wills and testaments. Architectural plans. Deeds of transfer. Minutes of committee meetings from fraudulent charities. He looks up to see if Valentine is still listening and sees the square hole in the wall. He crosses the room and peers into the empty space. Angling his head, he notices the larger rectangle of discoloration around it. A picture hung here until recently.
McAvoy looks around him, trying to work out which one of the discarded frames seems the right size.
“What are you doing?” asks Pharaoh. “You’re rustling.”
McAvoy finds the gold-edged frame propped behind the sofa. The picture faces away from him and the back is bare wood. He turns it around and looks at the image. It is a blueprint, an architectural sketch of a church, created in blue ink on quality paper. The dimensions of the building are inscribed in a neat hand. A cross-section of the nave and cloisters has been sketched in the upper left-hand square of the plan. The image suggests something medieval in origin. Something European. McAvoy wishes he knew more about church design, whether it is Gothic or Norman or Saxon in style. He just knows that it looks like something from home. He leans in closer. The numbers showing the length and breadth of the central aisle must be measured in some archaic unit. The digits make no sense.
He looks down at the papers on the floor around him. Molony’s neat handwriting is a match for the words on the blueprint. He looks at them more closely.
Transept.
Cloisters.
Sacristy.
Crypt.
McAvoy focuses on this last. The crypt has been sectioned off on the plan. A dozen neat lines divide the floor space. In eight of them, a tiny X has been placed in the bottom right-hand corner. In the ninth is a faint symbol, faded to almost nothing. It is a delicate pencil sketch of a rose.
“Hector?”
McAvoy takes a step back and holds up the frame. He tilts it to better see the glass. With the light at a certain slant he stares at the writing, inscribed in such tiny, perfect lettering that it could only have been written using a magnifying glass.
He reads the words aloud, squinting so hard his face hurts.
“Now I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I complete what is lacking in Christ’s affliction for the sake of his body—that is, the church.”
“Cheery,” says Valentine, nodding.
“This matters to him,” says McAvoy quietly. “Center of the room, covering his safe, his secrets. The digits don’t make sense. They aren’t the right measurements . . .” He peers again. “Dates!” he says sharply. “Look. Along the boundary wall: 110176110976. Split it down the middle. They’re dates.”
He fumbles with his phone. Hears Pharaoh protest at the beeping in her ear. Brings up the information Ben had sent him. Missing girls. Names on the wall of gold leaves in Molony’s loft of atonement. The dates of disappearances. Dates of deaths. He looks again at the image and the tiny crosses in the crypt.
“I’ve found something,” says McAvoy. “Can I call you back?”
“Hector—”
He ends the call.
“What you found?” asks Valentine. He takes the frame from McAvoy and turns it over. “Pretty church. Galway, is it?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“That looks like the church outside Tuam. We fixed the roof there, years back. Father Whelan was priest there for a time. Saint Anthony’s. That’s where Siobhaun’s baptism is. The one we missed. That Ro came over for . . .”
“Saint Anthony’s?” asks McAvoy, scratching the crown of his head. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He’s tired. Wrung out. But he can sense the tail of something vile and slippery scuttling away from him and he reaches out in his mind to haul it back.
; “You okay, Aector?” asks Valentine, concerned.
McAvoy crosses to where the leaflets have been tossed to the floor in a chaotic pile of loose papers. He bends down and looks at the hand-drawn image on the front. It shows a pleasant, decent-sized cottage in a quiet wooded copse, a stream running through the grounds and a simple cross hanging from the quaint eaves above the doorway. McAvoy turns it over. Scans the contents: “a place of healing . . . quiet Christian reflection . . . an opportunity to heal the soul . . .”
McAvoy flicks to the back page. Alongside the request for charitable donations is an address for the charity that runs it. The address is Molony’s own.
“Saint Anthony’s,” he says to himself. He closes his eyes and begins to see the connections. The poor bastard from the institution who spent time with Father Whelan and Peter Molony up at St. Loretta’s. The lad who got caught in the blast that took out Sal Pugliesca. Molony was the family lawyer? He would have taken care of Sal’s estate after the blast in ’81. Molony, who has been setting up fake charities and bogus religious institutions for years to help launder the Mob’s cash. Would he have printed leaflets for a place that didn’t exist?
“Arrogance or pride?” mutters McAvoy, opening up a search page on his phone. He keys in the name of the retreat and finds no relevant hits. The only suggestion that there is a Catholic retreat near where Shay was killed is on the leaflet he holds in his other hand.
McAvoy rummages on the floor, looking for deeds of title. He grabs for a yellowing document: black typewritten ink. The sale of Molly’s Farm in Crow, Schoharie County, to SP Holdings Ltd. in 1976. He begins picking up pieces of paper and scanning them. His movements are jerky and frantic, as though he is afraid that if he rests, the thoughts will slip away.
“SP,” he mutters to himself. “SP Limited. No, no. Yes!”
He brandishes the paper as if having discovered gold. “SP Limited. Company established in nineteen seventy-six. Joint partners, Salvatore Pugliesca and Tony Blank.”
