by Paul Charles
Starrett thought all these things - or maybe re-thought them, because through his daily study of human beings, he often happened upon such thoughts – just like now as he wondered about exactly how Aoife Sweeney would look.
* * *
Meanwhile, down in Donegal Town, Romany Browne and Packie Garvey were about to discover the secret of exactly how Aoife Sweeney looked, if indeed maybe even discover if such a person ever existed, or she wasn’t merely a figment of Father McCafferty’s desperate imagination.
The address Garda Francis Casey had pinned down led them up a traffic-free alleyway and directly across from the Diamond (more like a rectangle someone had forced out of shape than a diamond) from Magees, producers of not just some of the best tweed jackets in the world, but also a line in some very eye-catching hats as well. The alleyway led to a courtyard surrounded with what looked more like offices than domestic dwellings. Surely not a brothel, Garvey wondered? The brass plate by the side of the address they were seeking proclaimed ‘The Freedom Practice (2nd floor)’. They walked up the narrow, but clean, staircase and through a door, also marked ‘The Freedom Practice’.
There was a small-ish waiting room with three men and two women sitting, pretending to read papers or magazines. If this is a brothel, Garvey thought, it must be quite liberal. Either the women can wait for their husbands, or maybe they were awaiting their own turn.
Strangely, none of the five people in the waiting room seemed particularly concerned with Garvey and Browne’s uniform. Another man, clearly past his peak, entered through the door just after them and he scrutinised the room like a man who’d just boarded a train and was hoping to spot the friendly face of a regular fellow-traveller.
Garvey marched up to the receptionist and introduced himself and Browne.
‘I’d like to speak to Aoife Sweeney please?’
‘Right,’ the friendly, middle-aged receptionist replied, ‘you mean Dr Sweeney, of course?’
Both Browne and Garvey clocked the large lettering on the wall behind her at the same time. ‘The Freedom Practice’ was once again written in large brass letters and then underneath in smaller, gentler, joined-up lettering: 'Good health gives you freedom.'
‘Sorry,’ Garvey whispered, ‘yes, of course.’
‘Is this official gardaí business or do I need to get youse to fill out two forms with your medical history?’
‘It’ll be gardaí business,’ Garvey replied, trying to sound as official as possible.
Even though it was gardaí business, Sergeant Packie Garvey and Garda Romany Browne were kept idling in the waiting room for nearly twenty minutes until Dr Sweeney’s next break between patients. They, too, pretended to read magazines, if only to protect the space around them. Packie got a few nods of acknowledgement, acknowledgement, no doubt, of his skills on the hurling field.
The first time Packie Garvey saw Dr Aoife Sweeney’s face his heart skipped a beat. The first time Romany Browne saw Dr Sweeney’s face he was distracted by the clock on the wall behind her as it busily chipped away at his Saturday.
‘Packie, it’s such a pleasure to actually meet you in person,’ she said, as she refused to stop shaking his hand and fluttering her eyelashes. ‘Sure, it’s the first time I’ve seen you with all your clothes on….’
This totally threw Romany Browne, who didn’t immediately twig what it was she was going on about.
‘…and caked in mud!’ she added, giving a further clue. ‘What can I do for the gardaí today?’
‘We’re here to talk to you about Father Gene McCafferty,’ Garvey said, moving along swiftly to the official business.
‘Ah yes, Gene,’ she sighed, ‘what’s he been up to this time?’
‘Sorry?’ Garvey said.
‘Well, I’ve never met any man so rich, either in monetary terms or in credits-in-Heaven terms, who could eat as many chocolates, burgers, steaks, chips, crisps, sweets, desserts, cakes, biscuits, fry-ups, and ice cream cones as he does, and not drop down dead. It’s dangerous, gentlemen,’ she said, as she swung around in her seat to nod in the direction of the wall behind her, and a blow-up drawing of the human heart and its servicing system. ‘The arteries are so easily blocked, but not quite so easy to repair.’
Garvey shuddered at the thought, promising himself to swap his daily fry-up at Steve’s for porridge.
‘Yes, we’re aware of his heart-condition,’ Garvey said, ‘we just wanted to ask you if you saw him this Wednesday past?’
Dr Sweeney quick-flicked back one page of her diary. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he was in for his bi-annual MOT.’ She paused to laugh. ‘The full service, as it were! We started,’ again she looked at her diary, ‘just after 3:15 and I’d given him the news just after 5:30. I had to keep him waiting a bit as I over-ran with another patient.’
‘How was he?’ Garvey felt obliged to ask, even though he realised Starrett’s case had come crashing down around his feet.
‘I said to him, “Gene, I’ve never met a man so rich they can afford to eat all the chocolate, burgers, steaks, chips, sweets, desserts, fry-ups, and ice cream cones they want to and not drop down dead.”’
They got the picture, and pretty vividly at that.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
When Starrett received the phone call from Sergeant Garvey informing him that the McCafferty alibi had checked out, he was pretty upbeat about the news. He’d always felt it was just as important to let the innocent go free as it was to catch the guilty.
For his part, Starrett was happy that he would no longer have to deal with Father Gene McCafferty. The Gardaí Fraud Squad would now take responsibility for the priest. They wouldn’t have much to do, as Starrett and his team had pretty much piled up the details of all of his scams on a plate for them. However, they still had a whole other plate to fill. ‘Sometimes I’d like to be able to take my eyeballs out of their sockets and give them a proper cleaning, just so I can go back to the case with fresh eyes,’ was how he had put it.
The inspector had instructed Garvey and Browne to remain in Donegal Town to see if they could finally grab an interview with Eimear Robinson’s husband, Gerry. He and Gibson would head back there themselves after making a quick stop at the Major’s, to see how he was doing.
As they drove to Ray Bridge with the rain literally bouncing off his windscreen, Starrett said, ‘It feels like it’s been raining for forty days and forty nights.’
‘What about Thursday afternoon, that was a wonderful autumnal afternoon,’ Gibson offered.
‘Yes, yes of course,’ he conceded and then added, ‘but I just said it felt like it had been raining for forty days and forty nights and I wanted to say something religious and that was all I could think of at the time.’
‘How long have you known Major Newton Cunningham?’ she asked.
‘He’s a good friend of my father’s so he’s been around for as long as I can remember,’ Starrett answered, regretting the fact that he’d been too transparent. ‘When I was growing up, he’d always be around the house and he and my father would reminisce about the war…’ Starrett said before stopping in a smile. ‘I remember this one story in particular that the Major had a habit of telling when there’d be a group of people around for dinner and he and my father were in their entertaining mood, reminiscing away.’
Then he paused as though he wasn’t going to continue.
‘Well, you can’t very well stop there,’ Gibson encouraged, ‘you have to tell me the rest of the story!’
‘Well, when they were in occupied territory trying to “take” somewhere or other,’ Starrett started up again enthusiastically, ‘that’s how they’d always start – “and then we had to take Caen Woods, so we…” – and off they’d go. Anyway, when they were on the march they’d always have to carry everything with them, on their person, as it were. They discovered that the driest place to store tea leaves was in fact in their underpants…’
‘This isn’t going to be rude is it?’ Gibson asked, as she trie
d to find a gear low enough to get Starrett’s trusted BMW up a precipitous hill.
‘Bejeepers, no!’ he replied, backsliding once again in his promise to avoid using that word. He figured trying to give up using a favoured word was a bit like trying to give up cigarettes; you’re bound to indulge from time to time. ‘Where was I?’
‘You were just telling me that the Major used to carry his tea leaves in his underpants,’ she said. ‘Goodness, I don’t think I’m ever going to get that image out of my mind.’
‘Right, so the Major and his troop were walking along, about to “take” somewhere or other, and they happened upon this deserted farm where they found a lot of chickens. They were chasing them around the farmyard, in search of eggs, and all of a sudden they came under a heavy mortar attack from the enemy. The Major would say “One minute we were chasing chickens about the beautiful farmland and the next we were being bombarded by heavy artillery and didn’t they only go and blow the hens to kingdom come. Through the force of one of the explosions”, he would say “I found myself flying through the air and landing safely in a haystack.” That’s when he really thought his number was up. Apparently, he quickly felt around for all his limbs to make sure everything was okay and apart from one little accident of nature he was a-okay. Then, he says, he remembered the tea so he shouted to the chaps “Has anyone got any milk? I’ve just wet the tea!”’
Starrett couldn’t help laughing as he’d often done at that story.
He looked at Gibson who looked like she was still processing the joke.
‘Ah jeez, no Starrett,’ she said. ‘Surely you don’t mean that he like…actually…wet the tea as in…ah, that’s gross…! Really?’ She burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.
They sat in silence for the remainder of the journey – silence, that was, apart from the rattle of Starrett’s engine.
When they arrived at the Major’s tree-protected property, he was in a medication-induced sleep. His wife reported that he’d had an okay night and a good morning.
‘He said he needed to speak to you about something,’ she said. Starrett studied Annette’s face; she looked weary while at the same time trying to remain upbeat for the people who came visiting her ailing husband.
‘Did he say what it was about?’ he asked quietly, as they both looked on at the Major sleeping peacefully.
‘No,’ she whispered back, ‘he was a bit delusional, asking if the people had taken to the streets yet. Saying it was only a matter of time; people weren’t going to put up with what the government, Irish Water, and the bankers had thrown at them. He figured the water rates would be the last straw. He felt it was only a matter of time before the people rose up and took to the streets, which he said he wasn’t sure would be a bad thing. He was worried about the Guards being in the front line. Then he asked about you, asked when you were coming again, said he really needed to speak to you. He told me to wake him up when you arrived. But you know, Starrett, he’s getting so little rest, I just can’t do that to him.’
‘Of course you mustn’t,’ Starrett whispered, raising his bent forefinger and shaking it from side to side to emphasise his point.
‘Your mum and dad were here this morning,’ Annette said, in a louder voice, after she’d gently closed the bedroom door behind them. ‘Maggie Keane was here, too. She’s so good, Starrett – she’s coming back later today to help me with the visitors. It’s funny, Starrett, most people who call don’t even get a chance to see him. He’s a proud man, but he doesn’t want to have visitors. But he’s right isn’t he? I can’t let people see him like this, can I?’
‘People understand, Annette,’ Starrett replied, thinking of Nuala Gibson. ‘They’re happy if they come into the house and support you.’
‘And then when he’s feeling better, all he wants to do is see you, your mum and dad and a few of our dear friends, but not someone he once bought a car off. He doesn’t particularly want…that’s not being snobby is it, Starrett?’
‘Not at all, Annette. I’ll put a garda on the end of your lane, help keep the proceedings respectful.’
‘Yes, that would be very helpful,’ she replied, noticeably relieved. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. It’s very sad that all his old cronies are long since passed, but he’d have liked nothing better than to have a bunch of them in with him, get the poteen out and have a good old chin-wag about their war adventures.’
Starrett was going to comment on how great a gang the Major and his mates were, but he stopped himself short for fear that he may sound like he was speaking about his boss in the past tense.
‘He had a good chat this morning with your father about the arrangements,’ Annette continued. ‘He seemed very relieved to get all of that off his chest.’
‘Ah good.’
‘You know, he still hasn’t acknowledged to me how bad he is, Starrett.’
‘He’s an old soldier, Annette, so he can deal with everything – everything, that is, apart from leaving you. You’ve got to be strong for him.’
‘He’s not going to get better, Starrett,’ she said, most likely forgetting that they’d discussed this before, or maybe she just needed someone to voice all her thoughts to.
‘I know, Annette, I know.’
‘I worry I’m being selfish now and I just want to keep him around for selfish reasons,’ she admitted, ‘but he’s not suffering.’
‘Please take this time with him,’ he offered in encouragement, leaving so much unsaid but hopefully understood.
‘There’s just never enough of it, of time, is there.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
‘You’ll never guess what happened back at St Ernan’s!’ Gibson said, a split second after they were back in the privacy of Starrett’s car.
Starrett was still trying to process his conversation with the Major’s wife, so he didn’t initially respond to the ban garda.
‘It’s the bishop, Sir, he just turned up out of the blue at St Ernan’s, half an hour ago,’ she said, reporting the news she’d heard from Garvey, via mobile phone, just a few minutes before Starrett had left the Major’s house.
‘Did he say where he’d been?’ the inspector eventually asked when his brain clicked into gear.
‘Said he hadn’t been anywhere, he’d just been going about his business. Said he still had enough friends on the gardaí to ensure the APB Starrett had put out on him was ineffective.’
‘It never rains but it snows,’ Starrett said, as he belted himself into the passenger seat and they set off in the general direction of Donegal Town, if only because that’s where all the action seemed to be.
* * *
Garvey had taken it upon himself not to interview Eimear’s husband, Gerry. He figured Starrett would never forgive him if they let Bishop Freeman slip through their fingers again. So he and Garda Romany Browne remained at St Ernan’s, in effect to ‘guard’ the disappearing bishop.
As Starrett and Gibson came to the end of the spectacular Blue Stack mountains on their right, Starrett started to feel uneasy about confronting Freeman. He put it down mostly to the mood he was in, having just left the ailing Major. Then he wondered, not for the first time in his life, why all people couldn’t be like the Major, or like his father, or the James Gang, or his Bridge Bar drinking buddies, or even like the very decent and upstanding Packie Garvey. Surely, Starrett thought, as they passed through the magnificent creation that is the rugged Donegal countryside, the world would be a much better place if all men were like them and not like Bishop Freeman? Yes, so he still hadn’t proven that the bishop had any direct involvement in the death of Father Matthew McKaye, but he knew from first-hand experience that there was evil in that man’s very soul.
Starrett wondered, and not for the first time, that if there was indeed a higher special being, a spiritual force, a God if you will, how on the one hand He could create countryside as inspiring as the Donegal landscape while at the same time claiming authorship of the likes of Bishop Cormac Freeman?
‘If he seeks any clarification,’ he continued, ‘tell him he’s assisting us with our inquiries. Please tell him he’s entitled to have his solicitor present.’
Packie, as ever, didn’t question the order, he acted on it.
‘Are you not just exposing yourself to a hornet’s nest there?’ Gibson said, showing that whereas she would never, ever disobey Starrett’s orders, or his requests, as the inspector preferred to refer to them, she might, on occasions such as this one, see if there wasn’t maybe a better way of going about things.
‘That’s as may be, Nuala,’ Starrett said, perking up a bit, ‘but I’ve found that while on your life path, sometimes, just sometimes mind you, what you choose to avoid is just as important as what you aim for. The former can certainly do you a lot more damage than the latter.’
Gibson, for her part, very subtly chose to avoid any further conversation on this matter.
‘Should we head back to Ramelton?’
‘Let’s head to Eimear’s house,’ Starrett said, ‘we’re very close.’
Exactly three minutes later they pulled up outside Mrs Robinson’s house, a new place with bare earth banked all around and hints of some fresh planting. In five years’ time the house and its surrounds would look natural and perfect, or as near enough perfect as it was ever going to be. Then they’d need to find another project to pique their interest. We always put ourselves in a position where we’re five years away from perfection, so, in practice, it’s always the point we never reach.
