The Disenchanted Widow

by Christina McKenna

  “This is ridiculous!” Cassidy jumped to his feet. “I demand a solicitor. I’ve nothing to hide. I’ve tried to reason with you but it isn’t working. I will not be bullied by the likes of you. You think that uniform gives you the right to insult me. Well, let me tell you, Sergeant, no one bullies me. Mrs. Halstone had access to that room as well as those lads—or are you conveniently forgetting that? Why aren’t you interrogating her?”

  “Oh, tryin’ to drop that poor woman in it again, are ye? Ye’ve pulled that one before. We checked her out. The husband was a hoodlum, but not her. Maybe that’s why ye give her the job in the first place. Stranger from Belfast, tryin’ tae start over, desperate for a wage. Could use her as a stooge later on, if things got rocky.” Ranfurley shook his head slowly and tut-tutted. “And you a man of the cloth. Who could—”

  A timid knock on the door.

  The newcomer, a young woman in uniform, spoke in low tones to Constable Johnston.

  “Sarge, there’s a call for ye.”

  “Not now, Johnston!”

  “I think you should take it, sir. The chief super’s on the phone. Says it’s urgent.”

  Ranfurley, reluctantly, thrust back his chair, eyes still on Cassidy. “Keep an eye on him till I get back. This isn’t over yet—not by a long shot.”

  At Rosehip Cottage, Lorcan was guiding a fire engine into the yard. An ambulance was already standing by.

  “Ma, would the Dentist be in China now?” Herkie at the window, looking out.

  “Listen, son, how many times have I to tell you, stop lookin’ out that bloody window.” She pulled him away and marched him into the living room. “Now sit down there.”

  She switched on the television. “Watch something on that. And I’m warnin’ ye, son, if ye move again, ye’ll go upstairs tae the bedroom and I’ll lock ye in for the rest of the day.” She began flicking through the channels.

  “Stop, Ma! There’s Basil Brush!”

  “Good, now you watch that crazy fox and give my head peace. I’ve been through enough this mornin’.”

  She shut the door on one of Basil’s silly jokes: “Hey, get me a crocodile sandwich, buddy, and make it snappy. Boom, boom!” She allowed herself a brief smile. It must have been the first time ever that she’d had to order the boy to watch television.

  At the kitchen window she lit a cigarette and gazed out at the unreal activity beyond the glass.

  The fire brigade was lowering a long ladder into the well. The team worked wordlessly, as though obeying unspoken commands.

  The ladder was hooked over the side and anchored in place. A rope was secured to a tow hook at the rear of the engine and coiled around the waist of one of the crew. He donned a miner’s helmet and switched on the light. Having checked his gear, he gave the thumbs-up sign, stepped onto the ladder, and began his descent into the well.

  Bessie drew hard on the cigarette as she watched the beam of the miner’s lamp fade from view. She was torn with indecision. Would she bear witness to the ignominious retrieval of the monster who’d caused her so much anguish? Or avert her eyes, thereby sparing herself a final—and unnecessary—trauma?

  She stayed put. She had to be sure he was gone. Gone for good.

  Lorcan was conversing with one of the fire crew. As if sensing her turmoil, he looked her way and gave a reassuring nod. She raised her hand self-consciously, suddenly ashamed of her earlier outburst.

  “Here he comes!” a man by the well shouted.

  Two paramedics pulled open the ambulance doors, slid out a gurney, and wheeled it into position.

  A signal to the fire truck had the winch turning.

  The rope was being hauled up.

  Bessie flinched as the Dentist’s head came into view. Then, bit by cumbersome bit, the bulky, waterlogged corpse emerged from the well, trailing a nylon cord. It took four men to lift it.

  Finally the body was laid out on the ground and a firefighter was disentangling the cord.

  A medic felt for a pulse—procedures had to be followed. Bessie’s heart did a somersault. Jesus, what if he’s still alive? Impossible! She checked her watch. It had taken the emergency services nearly half an hour to arrive. Could anyone survive in the water that long?

  Oh, Jesus, he has to be dead. Oh, please, God, please!

  She couldn’t stand it. She looked away. When she turned back it was to see the ogre of her nightmares being zipped into a body bag and lifted into the ambulance.

  Her torment was at an end.

  She gripped the windowsill hard and sobbed with relief.

  Chapter forty-four

  Ranfurley picked up the phone in his office in buoyant mood. He couldn’t wait to tell his superior the news regarding Cassidy, and what he and Johnston had turned up during their search of the parochial house.

  “Chief Superintendent Ross, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant. You’ve arrested Cassidy, I take it?”

  “Too right I have, sir. We—”

  “I’ll come straight to the point then. I—”

  “Sorry tae cut across ye, sir. Yes, we have the good priest bang to rights. Caught him red-handed. Not only is he runnin’ a bomb factory right under our noses, out of the parochial house, but it transpires he was behind the theft of the bingo money as well.”

  “I’m aware of all that—”

  “What?” Ranfurley was nonplussed. “Pardon me, sir, but am I missing something here? How could ye be aware of any of it? Johnston and me have just been to the parochial house and seen it with our own eyes.”

  “You have him in custody then?” The superintendent’s tone sounded disapproving.

  Ranfurley was not a little incensed. Where were the congratulations, the well-deserved pat on the back?

  “Well of course he’s in custody! Or would you rather I’d said, ‘Father, this doesn’t look very good for ye now but I’ll tell ye what: You say another Mass, ’ave yerself a good night’s sleep, and we’ll be back tae collect ye in the mornin’ ?”

  “I don’t like your tone, Sergeant.”

  “Well, that’s good, for I don’t bloody well like yours, either.”

  He heard Ross sighing. “Look, I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark. But this is a dirty war we’re fighting.”

  “Damned right it is.”

  “Cassidy has been on the radar for some time. Those robberies—the break-in at the parochial house, and the bingo theft—were the tip of the iceberg. We have reason to believe the money was being used to fund terrorist activities.”

  “Pardon me?” The sergeant couldn’t believe his ears.

  “We have an informer on the inside, a very useful lad…has saved many lives in the past few months.”

  “Have ye, now?” Ranfurley’s grip tightened on the receiver. The import was clear: You’re only a plod. A sergeant, bottom rung of the ladder of command. We don’t entrust the finer details to the like of you. “Would be mannerly to keep me abreast of things from time to time.”

  “Now, hold on, Sergeant, I’m—”

  “Would it be presumptuous of me to ask who this fine, upstandin’ lad is, Chief Superintendent?”

  Ranfurley heard a sigh of resignation down the line.

  “Sproule…Charlie. Gets ‘Chuck’ for short.”

  He had to digest this. Chuck bloody Sproule. He couldn’t get his head around it. “That drunken ass! MI6 is really scrapin’ the barrel, employin’ the likes of him.”

  “That’s just it, Sergeant. Dirty war, dirty tactics—depending on where you’re standing. This is a dangerous game. You don’t need me to tell you that. We needed to be sure Sproule was passing us the correct information. There were insufficient grounds for searching the parochial house until we received that call on the confidential line. It was traced to the Crowing Cock pub on High Street. Voice analysis matched it with the owner’s son: Lorcan Strong. We checked him out…entirely aboveboard. Not a blemish on his character. D’ye think that search warrant would ha
ve been granted on the say-so of just any Tom, Dick, or Harriet?”

  “So what are ye sayin’, exactly?”

  “You have to release the priest. We have our evidence. He’s a liability we can do without.”

  “You must be jokin’.”

  Ranfurley loosened his tie. He was sweating. The golden chance of a promotion to inspector disappearing in a fog of fury and resentment.

  “Release him. Immediately. That’s an order.”

  He could not bring himself to answer. Too angry for words, he retorted with a blatantly hate-filled silence.

  “If it’s any consolation, Sergeant, I’m as appalled as you are. But it’s way over our heads. We can’t risk arresting him. Especially not now, with the hunger strikers dying by the day. The whole nationalist population would join the IRA in revolt. It would be all-out war. No, the Church have assured us they’ll deal with him. And we must be satisfied with that.”

  “Oh, will they now? A law onto themselves, are they, the Roman Catholic Church?”

  “More or less. He’ll be moved over the border. We have the assurance of the bishop. A parish in Donegal—out of harm’s way.”

  “Ye mean he’ll still get to practice?!” Ranfurley could barely contain himself.

  “Probably. But that’s their problem, not ours. And on their conscience be it. The important thing is that he’ll be moved out of harm’s way. We’ve got Sproule and Lorcan Strong to thank for that. And of course the Lawless woman. Her curiosity was his undoing.”

  “I see.” The sergeant, still very, very angry, prepared to hang up. “Right, I’ll go now and do the dirty work of releasing the bastard for ye.”

  “Just a minute, Mervyn.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You’ve done well—you and Johnston. I’ll put in a good word for you. Have no fear of that.”

  Ranfurley grunted. He put the phone down very slowly and sat staring at it for a long while. He was still staring at it, his mind in turmoil, when Constable Johnston rapped on the door.

  “Coming, Constable.”

  Slowly he made his way back to the interrogation suite.

  Cassidy, seated at the table in the same position he’d left him in, did not stir when the sergeant entered. He had opened his breviary and appeared to be praying.

  Ranfurley contemplated the bizarre tableau—the prayer book opened alongside the bomb-making effects—and shook his head. The priest, eyes cast down, was studying the page, lips moving over the words with a look of reflective reverence. Convincing, thought the sergeant—convincing enough to rival the acting skills of a Spencer bloody Tracy.

  “Get out of my sight!” he barked. “You disgust me.”

  Cassidy didn’t flinch. Instead, he smoothed down the silk bookmark and carefully closed the prayer book. Only then did he feel moved to push back his chair and stand up.

  “Are you addressing me, Sergeant?”

  “Damned right I am.”

  “I take it I’m free to go.”

  Ranfurley, outraged by the clergyman’s insouciance, reached out, grasped him by the dog collar, and thrust him up against the wall. The breviary fell to the floor.

  “Now, you listen tae me, ye goddamned hypocrite. You’re the worst kind—absolutely the worst kind—I’ve ever come across in all my entire workin’ life. And I’ve met many’s the psycho in my twenty-three years on this patch, believe you me. You make Ted Bundy look like Mary friggin’ Poppins. Takin’ holy orders so ye can skulk in the dark and bomb the life out of innocent people, while stupid young lads take the rap. Have ye ever seen what a bomb can do to a human being?” He shook him. “Have ye? I thought I’d seen it all in this job, but you, you take the bloody—”

  “Sergeant.” Johnston had a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. “Sarge, don’t waste your energy.”

  “Aye, yer right, Johnston. He’s not worth the bloody energy.” He released his grip. “Get the hell outta here.”

  Cassidy righted his collar, bent down, and retrieved the missal. He straightened himself and smoothed his hair into place.

  “May God forgive you, Sergeant,” he said.

  With that, Father Connor Cassidy walked—a free man—from the room.

  Chapter forty-five

  Bessie had just finished setting the table when she saw the emergency services depart. She’d remained by the kitchen window, not allowing herself the luxury of relaxing—of immersing herself in the tried-and-trusted ritual of setting out the china, cutting slices of cake, arranging biscuits on a plate—until she’d seen the last of Blennerhassett with her very own eyes.

  It was only when the body bag had been zipped over his face and his carcass shoved into the ambulance that she could finally breathe more easily. The villain who’d made her life hell—the accursed IRA enforcer who’d terrorized her weak-willed husband and, as a sorry consequence, herself—was no more.

  It was over.

  She’d never have to hear his horrid name again, set eyes on his horrid face.

  The back door opened and Lorcan came in.

  They stared at each other. He shrugged, his look unreadable.

  “I’m sure you need a cup of tea after all that,” Bessie said, teapot in hand.

  “Yes, please.” He took in the beautifully laid table, the sugary fare he certainly had no stomach for.

  He sat down. She poured the tea. An air of sadness hung over the room.

  “This could be the wake,” he said.

  Bessie laughed mirthlessly. “I doubt many will be mourning him. Celebratin’ more like.”

  Lorcan ignored the comment. “Where’s Herkie?”

  “Watching TV.”

  “He didn’t see anything?”

  “No…not that he didn’t want to, mind. Wanted to know if the—” She couldn’t bring herself to utter the nickname. “If he’d be in China by now.”

  Lorcan gave a small smile. She offered him a cigarette. To her surprise, he took it.

  “No, I can’t eat, either,” she said, surveying the spread. “Don’t know why I bothered putting all this stuff out.”

  “Force of habit.” He drew on the cigarette. “We all have our ways of coping.”

  “You’re…you’re not sorry he’s dead, are you?”

  He shook his head.

  “What I can’t understand is, how the—” She was going to use the B-word but checked herself in time. “What I mean is, how on earth did he find me? Here, of all places.”

  “My fault, I’m afraid. All my fault. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to worry you. It was the wrong decision. I’m sorry. I thought I was protecting you and Herkie.”

  “But how?”

  He went on to explain his involvement with Blennerhassett, beginning with his abduction on the Antrim Road; being coerced into replicating the portrait of the Countess; the threats against his mother. And finally the misfortune of being made to take a leave of absence by his supervisor at the museum, thus affording Blennerhassett the opportunity of visiting Tailorstown.

  “When he came to the pub I wanted to tell you, to warn you. It was on my mind to tell you not to park your car at the front of the cottage, but…”

  “My God!” Bessie was gobsmacked. “I had no idea.” She got up, went to the window to gaze out at the well. The well that had ended their troubles—both hers and Lorcan’s—so neatly. “And…and after all that…what he put you through, you…you wanted to save him.”

  “Save him, yes. But, only so he could be held to account. I would have turned him in—have no fear of that. I’d had enough of the blackmail.”

  “What are the chances, huh?” Her smile was grim. “I leave Belfast to get away from him, and end up running into him ’cos of you. Ye couldn’t make it up.”

  She paced the room, arms folded tight. “God, what about the RUC? They’ll be wanting to question me again. I can’t face Ranfurley. Once was bad enough.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll deal with that. I’m sure they know all a
bout him. They’ll be glad he’s been taken out—to use the vernacular.”

  Lorcan leaned across the table and extinguished the half-smoked cigarette. “What will you do now?”

  “Well, I can’t stay here…my sister, Joan, in Sligo, I s’ppose…till I get meself a job. Don’t want to—we don’t really get on—but it’s somewhere to stay till we get back on our feet. Don’t have the money to rent another place. Gusty was very kind to let me rent this place so cheap.”

  “You wouldn’t stay on here?”

  She jerked a thumb at the window. “Knowin’ that psycho met his end in that yard? Don’t think so. Every time I looked out there I’d see him. Even sitting here in this kitchen gives me the creeps. I could’ve met me death in that chair you’re sitting on.”

  A door opened and there was Herkie, bounding into the room and swooping down on the cake stand.

  “Where’s your manners, son?” Bessie grasped the cake-laden hand before it reached his mouth.

  “Sorry, Ma. Aye…hello, Mr. Lorcan. I finished the pitcher last night. Canna get me money now?”

  Lorcan ruffled his curls. “The hero of the hour! Of course you can, Herkie.”

  Herkie beamed with pride. Bessie pinched his cheek.

  “Did I kill the Dentist, Ma?”

  “No, you did not indeed, son. And for God’s sake, don’t go round sayin’ that to anybody or you’ll get the pair of us arrested. D’ye hear me?”

  “Ma, mind when you were in the chair…all bleedin’ ’n’ all…and I was cuttin’ the rope?”

  “How could I forget it?”

  “Well, you said ye’d buy me a new Action Man and a hundred Nicky Bocker glories.”

  Bessie sighed. She wanted desperately to lie down. “Tomorrow, son. Yer ma’s tired.”

  Lorcan stood up. “I’ll take you for your well-deserved reward, Herkie. No time like the present. A hero can’t be kept waiting.”

  Herkie looked up at Lorcan. Bessie mouthed a “thank you” over the boy’s head.