by Paul Charles
Chapter Forty-Seven
Day Six: Monday
The remains of Father Matthew McKaye were removed to St Ernan’s.
By the time Starrett and his team arrived at 9:30 on the Monday morning, the priests and the local undertaker had prepared Father Matt for his final journey.
In the intervening days since the body was discovered they had lost two of their number: Father Gene McCafferty and Bishop Cormac Freeman.
Fathers Patrick O’Connell, McIntyre, Fergus Mulligan, Edward McKenzie, and Robert O’Leary were all in attendance and decked out in their Sunday best. Fathers Michael Clerkin and Peter Casey were still missing in action in Bandon town and the fourth Master, Father Peregrine Dugan, was in his rooms, no doubt still working away on his masterwork, The History of Ireland.
Father O’Leary advised Starrett and his team to go in, one by one, to pay their last respects. The remains were in the little-used first room on the left-hand side as you entered through the front door. Unlike previous visits, St Ernan’s now smelled of scented candles burning and heather-infused air freshener. The shutters were closed and Starrett noticed how they inadvertently created two crosses of light as the sun broke through the folding breaks.
The light from neither cross reached the coffin.
When it came to Starrett’s turn to pay his last respects, he was really amazed by the work the undertaker had done. He looked at Father Matthew, so still and so peaceful, but yet he didn’t look like he was sleeping. Starrett remembered, that when he was young and growing up and he went to the cinema, or when he saw a Western on the TV, he would always study the ‘extras’ who’d been shot and were meant to be dead, which obviously meant showing no visible signs of life. Actors can’t hold their breath forever and it was his little game to see which of them stole a breath or two, when they thought the camera wasn’t on them.
What was once the body of Father Matthew McKaye offered none of those signs.
Starrett thought of the Major’s words from the previous night and he had to leave the candle-lit room.
Later, when Father O’Leary was presiding over the prayers, Starrett stood outside the door, looking in. Father O’Leary had decided that as there was no family, other than his fellow priests, he would officiate over the burial service in St Ernan’s, but as decorum dictated, in the presence of the local priest. It was, therefore, brief and the only thing Starrett could remember of it was Father O’Leary concluding by saying, ‘We have to try to ignore what we cannot change in the hope that we will enjoy a better chance of changing that which we can.’
Starrett got directions to the graveyard from Father Fergus Mulligan. He kind of wished he hadn’t because the priest’s permanently breaking voice sounded like every single word pained him.
Starrett and Ban Garda Nuala Gibson drove straight over to the nearby picturesque graveyard. Starrett figured that most of the funerals he’d attended seemed to have been held on stunningly beautiful days. What cosmic reason could be behind that statistic? That thought only served to bring him back to Mark Mooney. He couldn’t help but wonder what Mooney looked like when he was at work, all decked out in his suit jacket and trousers. No doubt it would certainly make a big statement in contrast to the Mooney he’d interviewed. And what did PayPal think of Mooney’s tattoos?
As he waited for the funeral procession to arrive, Starrett’s thoughts drifted to Mary Mooney, and her sleeping with her husband’s brother, the aforementioned Mark Mooney and her sleeping with her sister’s husband, Gerry Robinson, and her sleeping with Father Matthew McKaye. Then he remembered the very same Mary Mooney whispering to him to give her a call. Had she also been trying to sleep with him? He laughed at himself, not at her, for the ridiculousness of such a thought. Would she be at the funeral in this very steep graveyard?
And just why were graveyards invariably on such difficult terrain, terrain so awkward that six men had to struggle to keep their footing as they carried the coffin upon their shoulders to the grave? Was it because in the old days, when farmers would be ‘asked’ to donate some of their land to the Church for such purposes as graveyards or building a church, would they invariably pass on their poorest land? (Perhaps he was being a wee bit too uncharitable with that one). And when was the last time a coffin had been carried on the shoulders of six priests? He ticked the priests off on his fingers: the ukulele playing capitalist McIntyre; Mulligan, with the still breaking voice; the kind O’Leary; O’Connell, the gambler; and the Ginger Beatle, McKenzie. By Starrett’s count, that left them one short. Would the ageing father O’Leary be fit to support one-sixth the weight of the body and the coffin? If he wasn’t up to the task, they’d be two men short. Would the undertaker’s two assistants act as stand-ins?
The sun was out, but nonetheless the wind rustling through the withering leaves of the graveyard’s perimeter of trees was chilling Starrett’s cheeks and ears. He stooped back into the car and rescued his seldom-used hat. The problem was that it was now so battered, it looked more like he was off to the races himself, to put on a few bets. Perhaps he should check in with Father Pat O’Connell as to the safest nags to carry his money.
He and Gibson hadn’t spoken since they arrived at the graveyard. It didn’t seem right to discuss the case at that moment. Starrett scoured the graveyard and eventually, at the far end and down a difficult slope, he found what he was looking for: the freshly dug grave. They strolled in that direction to discover the grave was neatly dressed with boards and tailor-made sections of green, astroturf covered, tarpaulin.
Another car pulled up and was abandoned at the main gate. The Irish Family Robinson slowly climbed out of their battered Ford. Starrett remembered Eimear Robinson’s genuine tears when he’d first spoken to her about Father Matthew. He was heartened that someone other than the St Ernan’s priests had turned out to acknowledge Father Matthew’s life.
As a male exited the driver’s seat, Gibson said, ‘That’s Eimear’s husband, Gerry.’
Mr Robinson wasn’t exactly dressed for a funeral. In fact, he wasn’t dressed for a funeral at all. His overalls testified to the fact that he’d most likely been forced to leave his work to attend the funeral with the rest of the family. As the Robinsons made their way over to the graveyard, Julia walked beside her mum whereas Jessica seemed to favour her father.
Before Starrett had enough time to study the Robinsons any further, the hearse pulled up at the main gate, which was still partially blocked by the Robinson’s family vehicle. Gerry ran down the graveyard and moved his car to the car park, on the opposite side of the road, as Eimear was heard tutting after him.
Within seconds of the hearse the St Ernan’s priests all arrived in a six-seater people carrier. Luckily enough for the ancient priests, the hearse was able to drive right up beside the open grave. In her father’s absence, Jessica Robinson stood in the graveyard by herself until Nuala Gibson went and joined her. Eventually her father made it back and Gibson returned to Starrett’s side of the grave.
Starrett had been correct in that the undertaker, now known as the ‘burial director’, had supplemented the five priest’s shoulders with one of his assistants. A second assistant steadied and directed the coffin to its final resting place.
Father Robert O’Leary conducted the graveside proceedings, once again in the company of the local priest, and it was difficult to make out what he was saying as a result of the wind gathering strength and pace. Should Father O’Leary resort to air-writing, would Starrett have been able to understand the priest from the combination of sounds and signs, he wondered?
As the coffin was lowered into the ground, it appeared that Jessica Robinson was the funeral attendee most visibly upset. Her sister seemed upset as well, but Starrett figured she was more upset on her sister’s behalf. Eimear looked like she was getting upset on behalf of both her daughters, while Gerry, who kept gawking at his watch, looked like he really needed to get back to work.
All the priests threw a fistful of dirt into the grav
e on top of the coffin. When Father O’Leary invited Eimear, with a nod of his head, to do the same, she shook her head to the negative. Jessica stood away from her father and threw the handful of soil she’d been grasping in her fist, down into the grave and quickly returned to her father’s side.
She stood biting her bottom lip, seemingly preoccupied with Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave.
Chapter Forty-Eight
After the remains of Father Matthew McKaye were finally laid to rest in the picturesque graveyard, the small group started to break up. Starrett didn’t feel it appropriate to doorstep anyone in the actual graveyard, An Garda Síochána business or not. Eimear had a quick chat with Father O’Leary out of Starrett’s earshot. She made a detour, from her exit to join her waiting husband and daughter, to say goodbye to Starrett.
‘I need to check a few other things with you,’ Starrett said, as they shook hands.
‘Yes, yes of course,’ she replied, once again starting her sentence loud and letting if fade down to half volume. It was as if when she started speaking she didn’t realise just how loud her voice would be so she had to pull back on the volume. ‘We just need to leave quickly now as Gerry has to get back to work.’
‘We could give you and the girls a lift back if it helps?’
Eimear looked like she was going to accept and then thought better of it, ‘No, it’s fine, Gerry will drop us off at the house. Why don’t I meet you in town for a quick coffee, say half an hour at the Blueberry?’
* * *
Twenty-eight minutes later Eimear was rushing into the Blueberry as though she was half an hour late. She searched all around the busy restaurant like a chicken searching for food and Starrett was convinced that she actually looked through him a couple of times. He stood up and the second he did she finally spotted him and Gibson.
Gibson went off to the counter to order an additional coffee.
‘Very sad wasn’t it?’ she whispered.
‘Yes, very sad.’
‘Poor turn-out, particularly for a Donegal funeral,’ she said, still whispering in the reverential tones reserved for funerals. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been to a funeral with so few people turning up.’
‘Because of all the recent publicity, the St Ernan’s priests didn’t want it to become a public spectacle, so they kept the arrangements private,’ Starrett offered, by way of explanation.
Eimear just nodded.
By which point Gibson had returned with the café latte for Eimear and three pieces of carrot cake, at Starrett’s request.
‘So,’ the inspector said, as Eimear took two packs of sweetener from the sugar bowl resting centre table, ‘you didn’t tell me that you’d an affair with your brother-in-law, Mark.’
Eimear looked up from the sweetener to Starrett, as though he’d just betrayed a friend. At first he thought she was going to cry. ‘So you know all about the whole sordid mess by now I reckon,’ she said, as she neatly lined the two packs of sweetener together and then tore the corner off them simultaneously, pouring the contents into her coffee in one go. The thing that caught Starrett’s attention was not so much this trick, but rather why was someone who was trying to wean themselves off sugar doubling up on the sweetener?
‘I said to our Mary, I said, “Mary, let that be a lesson to you. A shot over your bow, a warning if you will; the next time you sleep with Gerry or even look at him that way, I’ll sleep with Callum.”’
Starrett nodded and was about to speak when she continued.
‘And that’s not all I told her,’ Eimear said, looking around the neighbouring tables to see if anyone could overhear them. ‘I said, “Mary, and I’ll tell you this for nothing, once your Callum has slept with me, he’ll never ever sleep with you again.”’
Eimear Robinson was still dressed in her funeral clothes: white shirt; long, belt-less black dress; black boots. With her straight black hair, subtle hints of make-up, and verbal claims that she could transform from a worried mother of two into a proud vamp who’ll stop at nothing to keep her man, she was making it look quite convincing.
‘The thing about our Mary,’ she continued, as she cut off a good chunk of the cake with her fork, ‘is that she seems to believe that the only way she can justify her existence is by knowing that men – all men – are attracted to her in a carnal manner. And you know what, Inspector? I’m not even sure that our Mary even enjoys sex!’
She forked the piece of cake she’d cut off and popped it into her mouth, delicately munching on it and glaring at Starrett in a semi-suggestive way.
Or at least that’s what Starrett thought. This woman had morphed from the mousey, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth mother he’d met the first time round, to a supposed temptress, a predator even.
‘And then, didn’t poor Callum only go and get ill,’ Eimear continued, without the slightest sign of sympathy, ‘and so Mary needed to play away from home all the more.’
‘We spoke to Callum,’ Starrett started, ‘you know you suggested he might be the one who was most upset with Father Matthew?’
‘Starrett,’ she protested, so loud that she drew the attention of several of their fellow diners, so she made sure to drop her voice back to a whisper to continue, ‘I said to you, “Starrett,” I said, “Mary has her family to protect her.” I was trying to be subtle. Fat lot of good it did me. By saying “family to protect her” and not “Callum to protect her”, I was trying to discreetly tell you that it was Mark you should be checking out as the one with the motive, the motive of jealously.’
‘Sadly, Mark has an alibi,’ Starrett admitted.
‘Really?’ Eimear said, almost suggesting it rather than asking.
‘Yes,’ Gibson confirmed.
‘Does his alibi 100 per cent check out?’ Eimear Robinson inquired, again as though butter wouldn’t melt. Butter maybe not, but all that remained of her tasty carrot cake were crumbs so few, even birds would give them a miss. Birds might, but Eimear couldn’t; she moistened her forefinger and moved it around the plate to pick them up, totally cleaning its surface.
Neither Starrett nor Gibson had answered her.
‘Does his alibi 100 per cent check out?’ she asked again.
‘Mark Mooney claimed he flew into Dublin airport and drove up to Donegal,’ Starrett said. ‘He said he stopped for a rest. I suppose if he had caught an earlier flight?’
Starrett and Gibson looked at each other in a Keystone Cops kind of moment. As in: Did you check that out? No, I thought you were checking it out? Well, I thought you were checking it out.
‘I’ll ring Garda Casey, get him to check it out,’ Gibson eventually said.
When Starrett asked Eimear for Mary’s phone number she looked at him with a disappointed, definitely judgemental, ‘What, you too?’ kind of look.
With Gibson absent from the table at that moment, Starrett realised what was behind Eimear’s disappointment, but he decided against confirming it. He didn’t want to reveal that Mary had asked him to ring her.
‘Have you had a chance to think of anyone else who Father Matt was seeing after Mary?’ he asked.
‘Does there need to be anyone? What I mean to say is, he was a priest, maybe he just saw the light, realised what he was doing was wrong and returned to the celibate ways of a priest.’
‘Mary reckons the only reason Father Matt stopped seeing her was because he was seeing someone else. She implied that he needed to be with someone.’
‘That would be our Mary, everything starts and ends with sex. Every part of her life is focused on that one thing,’ Eimear said, before glancing around the dining room, either to check if anyone could overhear them or if Gibson was returning. Appearing content her conversation was private, she continued, ‘Look, Inspector, I’m a woman – I’m a fine woman, believe you me – and I have my needs…’ she left it hanging there for a few seconds before continuing ‘…but my children also have their needs and my children’s needs are more impo
rtant than my own. And I’m not moaning, I’m not begrudging anyone, nor saying “I’ve made my bed and I’ve got to lie in it.” I’m happy to put my children first. Children are the making of a person. Perhaps our Mary would have turned out differently if she and Callum would have had kids when they’d the chance, but she said to me, “Eimear,” she said, when I was eight months pregnant with our Jessica, “God, I’m never going to do that to my body!”’
Starrett wondered if there was a chance that Mary could be so body proud and sex-conscious that she might have murdered Father Matt just because he shunned her. Yes, she claimed to have been working in the salon, and her alibi had checked out. But could she, would she, have hired a hit-man? Starrett had heard of a woman in Navan offering her lover a thousand euro to kill her husband, and when he’d said no, she’d continued searching for another man to do the job. Could that possibly explain the mysterious circumstances of Father Matt’s death? Dr Samantha Aljoe still hadn’t fully explained the method of murder. Was there a possibility that this was some new Eastern European method of assassination? Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Yet another item of research to set Francis Casey upon.
‘And Gerry and me,’ Eimear continued, ‘we steal whatever special moments we can. Some wise man once said, or maybe it was printed on a beer mat or something, I don’t remember, but anyway this wise man said, “Where there is no love,” he said, “put love, and you’ll find love.”’
