by Erin Hart
“Mammy?” came a small voice from above. Aoife stood at the top of the staircase in her nightdress. “Mammy, what’s happening? I’m afraid.” Una sprinted up the short flight of steps and knelt to hold Aoife tight.
“It’s all right, my love,” she said, smoothing her daughter’s hair. “The boys had a bit of a row, but it’s over now. It’s all over.”
15
Tiny beads of perspiration were beginning to form on Nora’s forehead as she walked on the treadmill. She had sublet this flat from a Trinity colleague off in America on a visiting professorship. Although she loved its location on the Grand Canal, and the large windows that looked out over the southwest sector of the city, she had never warmed to its spare, modern space. She did like the treadmill, though; walking put her in a meditative state. She had been at it nearly forty minutes now, relaxing into the steady rhythm, feeling the blood coursing through her muscles, focusing her vision on a place far outside the large plate-glass window. Dublin was still an astonishingly residential metropolis, and she could see far beyond the canal onto the roofs of Harold’s Cross and Crumlin, watching the blinking lights appear in the gathering dusk over the city. It was this time of day, and particularly the memory of the setting sun over the Mississippi River bluffs around Saint Paul, that made her homesick for her own home and family. Her parents would both be working right now. She imagined her father checking some experiment in his research lab at the university medical school, her mother listening to the heartbeats of East African women and children, who made up the bulk of her clientele at the community clinic. She hadn’t spoken to her parents in more than a week; she should try to remember to phone them before it got too late.
For some reason, she was also remembering a remark that Evelyn McCrossan, Gabriel’s wife, had made one evening when they were discussing the progress on the catalog of bog remains. When I see those people in the museum, Evelyn had said, I always think it’s a pity they have to be on display like that. I mean, they’re human beings, aren’t they? Or were. I always say a little prayer for them. Nora thought about the cailin rua’s matted hair drying against the surface of the examination table. Those tangled strands would remain forever just as they’d been found, wild and uncombed. The circumstances of the red-haired girl’s death, combined with the accident of her preservation, meant that she had somehow ceased to be a corpse like any other; she had become an artifact.
After the exam this afternoon, Nora had buttonholed Niall Dawson from the museum to ask him about the inscription they’d found in the ring.
“Well, for one thing, it tells us that whoever owned the ring was most probably a Catholic,” Dawson said.
“How do you figure?”
“The ‘IHS’ in the center of the date is a liturgical symbol pretty distinctly associated with the Catholic Church.”
“What does it stand for?” Dawson raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t really raised in the Church,” Nora explained.
He smiled. “The Christian Brothers used to tell us it meant ‘I Have Suffered.’ But if you want the real story, it was actually a miscopying of ‘IHSOYS,’ the Greek word for ‘Jesus,’ translated into Latin and eventually adopted by the Church as a sort of acronym or monogram. They put various interpretations forward over the years, if I could only think…” Dawson scoured his memory. “The only one I can recall is Iesus Hominum Salvator—’Jesus, Savior of Men.’”
“I’m impressed.”
“Yes, well, all that drilling on Christian doctrine obviously made more of an impression than I’m willing to admit.”
“And what about the other initials?”
“I’m guessing it was a wedding ring,” Dawson had said. “At that time it was the custom for a man to give his own ring as a pledge of marriage. And the two sets of initials with a date would seem to bear that out.”
So if the ring did belong to the red-haired girl, and it was indeed a wedding ring, where had her husband and protector gone? Off to war somewhere? Perhaps he was in the bog beside her, and sooner or later some turf cutter would eventually uncover his remains as well. The inscription was a break; with a date and a set of initials, maybe Robbie McSweeney could find something more specific.
Nora checked her distance on the treadmill’s display; she’d done nearly three miles already, but didn’t feel like stopping now. Her thoughts strayed to the notion of marriage, and the custom of rings given as a pledge. What were the words? To love, honor, and cherish. As if it were as simple as a promise.
Devaney had used the phrase “perfect marriage” to describe Hugh and Mina Osborne—false and reductive words that had also been used to describe Peter and Triona. Of all the mysteries in the universe, how two people could find continuing joy and satisfaction in one another was one of the greatest puzzles. Even the sincerest attempt at pairing with another human being was bound to involve a delicate balance between conflicting egos and desires, a process that had to be at least as complicated as the two individuals, and perhaps even more so. Who might be able to tell her more about Hugh and Mina Osborne?
A droplet of sweat trickled down and stung Nora’s eye, interrupting her train of thought. Why the hell was it that every time she tried to concentrate on the red-haired girl, she always came around again to Triona—and to the missing woman in the photograph? And why was she so anxious to see Hugh Osborne guilty of murder? She knew next to nothing about the case, only what Devaney had told them, and she wasn’t likely to learn any more. She couldn’t let another piece of unfinished business chase after her the rest of her life. She pushed the buttons to gradually slow her pace. The dusk was gone, replaced by darkness, and she could see herself reflected in the window. Leave this, said the voice in her head. She watched the outline of her shoulders rise and fall with each breath. Let it go. She stepped from the machine, feeling as she always did after a long workout: buoyant, as if she walked on air. An answer to the internal voice floated up inside her: I’ll try. I can’t promise, but I will try.
16
Devaney sat in the car parked just outside the gate of Bracklyn House. This couldn’t really be considered proper surveillance, but it was the best he could do. He’d managed to persuade Nuala to lend him her car, provided he got it back in time for her to meet some clients for a drink. She’d picked out this car on her own, paid for it herself as a point of pride.
He’d never used the car phone, and was fiddling idly with the buttons when a dusty black Volvo wagon came out of the gate. It was Osborne. Devaney waited a few seconds, then pulled out behind the Volvo. He could keep his distance around Dunbeg, aided by the fact that there were not many roads in this part of the countryside. Osborne seemed to be heading north, toward Loughrea. Devaney checked his watch. Seven o’clock. He’d break off when he had to in order to get home by half-nine.
At Loughrea, Osborne turned onto the N6 heading west. There’d be more traffic on this road, less chance of being spotted. He eased onto the highway after the black Volvo, leaving a couple of cars between them. Osborne continued into Galway, following the signposts for the city center. Devaney nearly lost him on the first roundabout, but caught sight of the car and made the turn at the last minute. He checked his watch again. Nearly a quarter past eight. He should try to call Nuala, let her know that at this rate he might be a few minutes late. She could always take his car, a point he’d brought up when they’d made the switch. To pick up clients? she’d said. He’d gathered it was out of the question.
He lifted the car phone from its cradle, but slammed it down again when he had to turn a corner to keep the Volvo in sight. No use trying until he was stopped somewhere, if that ever happened, unless he wanted to crash the car in addition to being late. He followed as Osborne edged his way around Eyre Square, then pulled into a tiny side street near the docks.
Hugh Osborne parked his car, then entered an unmarked doorway on street level. Devaney would have to drive closer or approach on foot, but either way he’d run the risk of being spotted. He parked about t
hirty yards away, and waited. He peered up and down the street. No fucking chance of a phone box when you needed one, was there? He looked down at the mobile, and felt the sleek black case with its tiny red and green lights mocking him. How was it Nuala could just figure out all this technology, make it part of her life as she went sailing forth into the world, and leave him standing on the dock? He picked up the handset, held it to his ear. Silence. Maybe you had to press something to turn the bloody thing on. He pushed gingerly on a tiny button marked “Speak,” and a loud dial tone filled the car. He slammed the phone down, pushing buttons furiously to cut off the noise, which must have been audible all up and down the quiet street.
Just then, Osborne emerged from the doorway, looking shaken. He went to his own car and opened the door, but before getting in he seemed to have some sort of a spell, grasping the car door for support, and lowering his head, as if he were going to be sick. And he doesn’t even know anyone’s watching him here, Devaney thought, unless I’ve completely blown it. As he retraced the journey, trying to remember if there were any points at which Osborne might have caught a glimpse of him, the Volvo’s engine started, and it pulled abruptly away from the curb. Devaney put his car in gear and followed, hoping Osborne hadn’t gotten too much of a head start. When he rounded the corner, there was a lorry dead ahead, maneuvering its way into position to drop off a load of empty Guinness kegs. Devaney slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing the man who was directing the lorry, and came to a stop about eighteen inches from its rear end.
“Watch where ye’re going, ya dowsy bollocks,” shouted the man, pounding the nose of the car with his fist. “You could have fuckin’ killed me.” Devaney reversed out of the side street, and went back the way he’d come. Osborne was lost. There was no way to find him again. It was nearly half past eight. If he left now, he could head home and not be more than a quarter of an hour late. But what had happened when Osborne went into that building? He pulled up near the doorway to have a closer look. A thirtyish, sandy-haired man in a leather jacket stood at the door, evidently having trouble with the lock. He tried a second key, and was just trying the third when Devaney came up behind him.
“Closed for the evening, are you?” Devaney asked. The man looked up, startled. His face was narrow, slightly ruddy, and there was a shaving cut just below his right ear. The plaque beside the door read “Eddie Dolphin, Private Investigations.” Mustn’t have had the place for long, Devaney thought, if he’s still fishing for the key.
“Why don’t you open up again, Eddie, so we can have a bit of a chat?” The man’s startled look transformed to wariness, then took on an air of forced nonchalance, the mark of a bad actor. There was something else in the set of his jaw; he didn’t want to lose a job, if that’s what Devaney turned out to be.
“I was just headin’ home. Why don’t I give you me card, and you can ring me or come round in the morning—” His manner altered visibly once more, to nervous agitation, when Devaney produced his identification.
“Let’s do it now, if you don’t mind. While I’m in the neighborhood.”
Eddie Dolphin opened the door again, and led the way up the wooden steps. He might as well have been climbing to the gallows. When they entered the office, he slumped into his office chair, staring glumly at the cluttered desktop.
Devaney studied Dolphin’s demeanor, then looked about, gathering the facts of his surroundings. He took his time, partly to get a firm grasp of his bearings, and the better to prepare Mr. Dolphin for questioning. The building had the look of an old barracks: two stories, single windows at regular intervals. Dolphin’s tiny office had two windows, one facing the street, one overlooking warehouse loading areas to the rear, its grimy surface barely admitting a slanting shaft of light from a street lamp. The place smelled of dust and faintly of mildew. The coat of paint on the walls and window sashes was fresh, but carelessly applied. The closet in one corner had evidently been set up as a makeshift darkroom: a large bottle of developer stood inside the door, along with several brand-new computers still in cartons. The trash bin was overflowing with empty pint bottles of Guinness and take-away containers. Late nights, Devaney thought as he turned once more to Dolphin, who had begun picking nervously at one of the several piles of papers that seemed to have randomly accumulated on his desktop.
“Has Osborne been a client for long, Eddie?” Devaney asked, crossing his arms and leaning back casually against the door frame.
“Look, I don’t have to answer any questions. There’s such a thing as confidentiality, you know.” He spoke as if he’d only just learned the word.
“If you’re a priest, or maybe a solicitor,” Devaney said. “You a solicitor, Eddie? I know you’re not a priest.” He kept perfectly still, looking mildly at Dolphin. The silence grew.
“About six months.” Dolphin’s look was apprehensive, as though he now expected an onslaught of questions. His jaw worked nervously. Devaney kept quiet and waited.
“He came here last winter. Said he wanted me to help him look for his wife and kid. Gone missing. I told him it didn’t look good, but—” Dolphin looked up briefly. “He was a steady client, paid up regular, and I took the job. I did some checking, went around a few places with photos. I’ve got four kids already, and another one on the way,” he said, a new note of pleading in his voice. “I needed the work. And there’s no one better at finding people. I’d have come up with something.”
“So what was he here for this evening?”
“Somebody sent him a package.”
“What was in it?”
“How should I know?” Dolphin said, contriving to look injured at the suggestion. “I don’t go round opening up packages addressed to clients.”
“Well, and what sort of a detective does that make you, Eddie? Of course, if I wanted to know the answer to that, all I’d have to do is get in touch with my friend Michael Noonan in the collator’s office down at Mill Street Station. I’m sure he has a little card in his file with all sorts of information about you.”
“I’ve done nothin’ wrong. For fuck’s sake, you can’t just come barging in here—” Dolphin spluttered, glancing nervously at the open closet door.
“I’ve been meaning to give Michael a ring. Haven’t seen him in ages. That fella has the most phenomenal memory—never forgets anything. He could give you chapter and verse about every sort of robbery, large and small, that’s been perpetrated in these parts over the past five years. Isn’t that amazing? You’ve never seen such a memory.”
“All right, all right,” Dolphin said. “It was just a fuckin’ letter, all right? A couple of pages, handwritten. Going on about ‘I know what ye’re up to, ye bastard, and ye’ll never get away with it,’ and like that. There was something else as well, some sort of metal yoke, I don’t know what it was. But he fucked off out of here as soon as he read it. Forgot all about my retainer that was due.”
“Never mind about the retainer, Eddie. Describe this metal yoke for me.”
“It seemed like—I don’t know, a brooch or something. Two elephants, like this,” and he pushed his fists together, “buttin’ heads, like.” Devaney froze. Mina Osborne’s hair clip. What else could it be?
“How would anyone know to contact Osborne here?” Devaney asked.
“Must have seen one of my adverts. They’re not cheap either, them, and it’s all come out of my pocket so far.”
Osborne’s reaction to the body at the cutaway pushed its way to the front of Devaney’s mind. If there was no way to search a whole bog, there had to be some way to force Osborne’s hand. He’d put the pressure on around Bracklyn. Lucy Osborne knew more than she was willing to tell. And the lad—Devaney had seen him often enough at Lynch’s—might speak out of turn if pressed.
“Look, I’ve got to get home,” Dolphin said. “The wife was expecting me ages ago.”
Wife. Jesus. Devaney checked his own watch. Nearly nine o’clock, and he was an hour away from home at least. “I’ll be in touch,” he sai
d to Dolphin. He might be able to find a phone and try to patch things up at home.
He jammed the keys into the ignition. How had it gotten so late? He darted through the city traffic, keeping an eye out for a phone box, seeing none along his route. Finally, at the outskirts of the city he saw one standing alone at the roadside. He pulled up and leapt from the car, fumbling for coins in his pocket. He lifted the telephone and was greeted by silence in place of the usual buzz, and only then noticed that the cord had been severed. He slammed the receiver down, and trudged back to the car. When he lifted the handle, it took him a split second to realize what had happened. Of all the fucking stupid—the car’s security system had locked the doors automatically. This whole adventure was turning into a colossal disaster. He landed a vicious kick on the nearest tire. Just then a fat droplet struck him in the left eye, then another, and another, and in the space of a few seconds he was wet to the skin in the pelting rain.
It was close to midnight when he reached home. He’d been able to flag down a couple with a mobile within five or ten minutes, but waiting for the locksmith to open the car took a good hour and a half. He’d tried phoning home on the borrowed mobile as well, but no one answered. He was still soaking, and must have been a bedraggled-looking sight when he pushed open the kitchen door. Nuala was sitting at the table with a cup of tea. She gave him a reproachful look that had become all too familiar.
“I had to cancel the meeting. You know, Gar, I’m not angry for myself,” she said wearily. “I’m really past that. But you completely forgot you were to take Roisin out to look at that fiddle tonight, didn’t you?”
Christ. That’s what had been niggling at him all day, the one thing he knew he was forgetting. He sat wearily in the chair opposite Nuala, but she rose from the table, and her look might as well have been a slap.
“She’s in bed, but I don’t think she’s asleep. You might tell her you’re sorry.”
