Silence

by Anthony J. Quinn

  Father Walsh’s destination that night had been the Clary Lodge. Why had he not shown up? Daly asked himself. Why the discrepancy between his planned journey and his actual movements? The displacement had brought about his death. And for that reason, Daly’s curiosity was further aroused. Irwin’s appearance at the crash site only sharpened it.

  He looked up the scene-of-crime officers’ findings. The initial pathology report would take another day or two at least. The scene-of-crime officers had been unable to recover a clear set of fingerprints from the traffic cones. He noted that Irwin had instructed the officers to search for Walsh’s mobile phone. However, they had found no trace of it at the crash site.

  Daly was surprised to see that Irwin had already written the preliminary report. He read the facts he had outlined. It all seemed perfectly simple and straightforward. Daly sipped from his cooling cup of coffee and stared at the screen.

  ‘The photographs of the crash scene demonstrate Fr Walsh was the unfortunate victim of a dangerous prank,’ the Special Branch detective had written. ‘It is recommended that the investigating detective send a file to the prosecution service outlining the case for manslaughter and criminal-damage charges against the guilty individuals.’

  Daly had no dispute about the method or the timing of the killing. It was the suspicion that the priest was the intended victim of the prank that bothered him. However, he felt at a loss as to how he could reinterpret the findings uncovered so far at the crime scene and present a case for murder. Everything depended upon the eyewitness statements of the police officers at the roadblock, and they were watertight.

  He decided to visit the abbey where Walsh lived. He had no clear motivation as to why he should begin probing the priest’s private life, just a desire to get at the truth. There had been something metaphysically disturbing about Walsh’s death. A priest his age should not have ignored a police warning, unless he had something criminal to hide. His destiny ought to have been fixed, his death part of a settled pattern of priestly duties, while reading his daily breviary in a monastery, or on a hospital bed surrounded by relatives and devoted members of his flock.

  To his annoyance, he bumped into his former commander, Ian Donaldson, on the way out. These days the semi-retired chief was more like a grey-haired refugee from the past, spending most of his time teaching intelligence handling to new recruits. He seemed to regard Daly as an outcast like himself, bending his ear about the good old days, the cabals of reliable officers, and the drinking expeditions at weekends. Daly could pick him out at a distance with his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, his slightly dishevelled appearance at odds with the ranks of fresh-faced officers. His restlessness and anxiety also showed in the way he always hung around the wing that housed the Special Branch team.

  The disbandment of the old police force, the Royal Ulster Constabulary, had instilled a sense of paranoia in the ranks of men like Donaldson, another downside to the idyllic future dreamed up by the Good Friday Agreement and the peace process. Donaldson floundered around the corridors and lecture rooms like a man who had lost his bearings, on home turf one moment, in bottomless water the next. He was forever taking his former detectives aside and whispering about unsolved murders and investigations from the Troubles, worried about media or legal intrusions that might damage his reputation and ruin his chances of some day appearing on the Queen’s honours list. His air of neglect had increased after his wife had ended up as a patient in a nursing home; she had suffered a debilitating stroke shortly after she retired from her post at the local council offices. The word was that she would never recover, and Donaldson’s domestic life was a mess.

  However, on this particular morning his appearance was different. There was still the shabby suit, the slightly askew tie, the deep-set eyes, but somehow the elements were more carefully assembled. Daly noticed he was wearing a new watch, and there was a hint of menace in his facial expression.

  ‘Daly, I wonder if I might have a word with you,’ he said.

  The detective sidestepped him.

  ‘Not this morning. I don’t have much time.’

  ‘Hold on, I’ve even less than you.’

  Daly noticed that Donaldson was perspiring. Before he could object, his former commander frowned and posed a question that put him immediately on the defensive.

  ‘Why do you maintain this childish feud with Detective Irwin?’

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  Donaldson sighed.

  ‘Personal grudges don’t lead to successful police work. They’re bad for investigations, and good for criminals.’

  ‘Has he made a complaint?’

  ‘No, not at all. But he has asked me to mediate. To help bring the two of you closer together. So you can work as a team.’

  ‘What has the investigation got to do with you? You’re no longer my commanding officer, or Irwin’s. Why should you care if we cooperate or not?’

  ‘Of course, you’re right.’ Donaldson’s eyelids lowered, and his demeanour relaxed.

  Daly edged away but the former commander reached out to grab him by the arm. If the corridors had been busier, it would have been much easier to escape.

  ‘Wait, Celcius, hear me out,’ he said. ‘Have you taken a good look at this bloody building?’ Donaldson glanced around him like an old beast surrounded by hunters. ‘The force has changed beyond recognition,’ he complained. ‘You can see it in the faces of the new recruits. They’re always laughing. In my day, the spirit was more serious. More vehement.’ He bared his teeth in a grimace. ‘Their lack of loyalty is where the key to the change lies. And their new uniforms. These T-shirts and open-necked shirts, and the new emblem, make them look like laughing stocks. Look at the footwear they’ve been given, for God’s sake. I still remember my first pair of boots. Handmade, they were, and so waxed and buffed you could see your face in the polish.’

  Daly frowned, wondering where Donaldson was taking him with this digression.

  ‘Pulling those boots on you felt sure of your place in the world. We belonged to a force dressed in the best-polished boots in the United Kingdom. In those days, Daly, you looked after your colleagues like you looked after your boots. You took care to make them last. You watched out for each other, covered each other’s backs. None of this jostling for precedence and fighting over how to handle investigations.’

  ‘Is that it? Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘I just want you to remember the spirit that once held this police force together.’

  ‘What spirit was that?’ All Daly could think of was the sectarianism of the old days.

  Donaldson did not hesitate.

  ‘The spirit of loyalty.’

  ‘Loyalty is neither here nor there. The loyalty you talk about belongs to the past, to another world completely.’

  ‘I’m just asking you to cooperate with Irwin and not make this investigation difficult for him.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t promise you that. I have to follow my own lines of inquiry. You are asking me to ignore my instincts, and that is asking too much.’

  ‘You misunderstand me. I’m not asking you to ignore what goes on in the darkness of your mind. That’s your own business. All I’m asking is that you conduct yourself in a professional manner and share your information with Irwin.’

  ‘My suspicions shape my detective work, and right now they’re telling me that both you and Irwin want to muddy the waters of this investigation. That’s all you need to hear from me.’ Daly moved off down the corridor.

  ‘I have to warn you that unless you rethink your attitude you’ll be hearing from Inspector Fealty.’

  ‘So be it,’ replied Daly.

  4

  Clutching his empty briefcase, Daniel Hegarty sat in a corner of the hotel bar, waiting for the arrival of the priest. He had been waiting since the previous evening and was rattled by the delay. He had concentrated his mind on meeting the priest. Thwarted, he could not bring himself to leave, even though a wedding pa
rty had overrun the hotel, spilling from the lounge and function room into the foyer, blocking his view of the hotel entrance doors. He hoped that if he stayed quietly in the background, the truth might reveal itself, that he might work out the reason for Walsh’s worrying absence.

  The arrival of the wedding crowds had been not so much a distraction as a comfort. Somehow, it was less humiliating to be surrounded by people who did not know how long he had been waiting. He limped back to the bar, firmly gripping his case, which felt uncomfortably light, ordered another whiskey and returned to his seat. He mulled over his drink as the noise in the room intensified. The priest had him dangling on a hook. The realization left him feeling helpless, angry with Walsh for his secretive manner and reluctance to discuss his schemes on the phone, and now this prolonged delay.

  A fresh wave of relatives swelled into the room, compacting the several generations already squeezed there. He scanned their faces and their clothes, laughing men and women who looked as though they only saw each other at weddings and funerals. He observed the way they shook hands and bought drinks for each other, flashing their new suits and dresses. He did not know what to think of such gatherings, these rituals of family life, which represented everything he had left behind and never experienced because of his long career as an IRA informer. Was it a blessing or a curse to have been spared these gaudy events, the freshly made in-laws burdening the family tree, the troops of unruly children pushing their parents onward into middle age? He stared at the newly married couple steering through the room, shaking hands and receiving embraces. Nearby a woman picked up a baby and made gabbling noises at it. Soft-headed from the whiskeys and the suffocating cloud of goodwill in the air, he almost slipped into a daydream of what his life might have been.

  He returned sharply to reality with the appearance of a young woman in a dark coat and grey trousers. He only had to glance at her to know she was not part of the wedding party. She walked into the bar with a measured pace, and then stood, rooted to the spot. A pretty woman with a striking face and black hair, letting her eyes roam over the crowd. He recognized her as the journalist who had been working with Father Walsh. For a moment, he felt rescued from the noise and happy confusion. He waited, expecting Walsh to appear behind her, but there was no sign of him. He realized that she was alone and searching the room for company. He leaned back into the shadows.

  Her eyes briefly met his, but then flicked away. He noticed the subtle change in her face, the slippage in her blank expression. She tipped back her head and ran her hand through her dark hair. She looked interested. For the next ten minutes, she followed him with her gaze, seating herself at the bar to get a better view of him. He moved into the lobby, through the throng of people, and she trailed after him. He felt like a fugitive, chased from corner to corner of the hotel by this young woman with the eyes of a hunter following its prey.

  Eventually he gave up the game they were playing and walked right up to her. He was impatient for everything now, another drink, the priest, their secret deal, the betrayal of his former employees in British Intelligence, the setting up of his enemies, but he knew that he had to hide his restlessness.

  ‘I’m here to see the priest,’ he said.

  ‘He told me he was expecting someone.’

  ‘You know my name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why has he kept me waiting?’

  ‘I’m as much in the dark as you are. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. He’s stopped answering his mobile phone.’ She looked genuinely worried. ‘Father Walsh said you had some important documents to offer.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  She glanced at his briefcase sceptically. He wanted her to know he was someone important, a stranger with a secret to tell, but she kept looking at him as though she didn’t quite believe him, this lonely old man with a limp and an empty-looking briefcase.

  ‘I’m his assistant. Why not let me handle it?’ She glanced at his briefcase again. ‘You’ve wasted enough time hanging around the hotel.’

  ‘I made a commitment to deal only with the priest,’ he replied. ‘These documents require the utmost delicacy. The risks are considerable if they fall into the wrong hands.’ He flinched a little, thinking of his empty briefcase. Had she guessed his deception?

  ‘If the documents are as important as you suggest, then the risks are considerable to Father Walsh, too.’ She sighed as though she was tired with the preamble. ‘That’s the problem with trying to dig up the past. Everyone has his or her pet conspiracy theories. It takes a while to work out which ones are the liars and fantasists and which are telling the truth.’

  Her probing look disarmed him.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘You’re a strange assistant for an elderly priest.’

  ‘I’m a writer. A journalist. Father Walsh and I are working on a book about murder. Mass murder, in fact. A series of killings organized by a secret committee of police officers, judges and politicians during the Troubles. The exposé of the century, you might say.’

  There was something childish about the excited look in her eyes.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The only problem is we’ve hit a dead spot.’

  ‘Writer’s block?’

  ‘You could call it that. We need someone to fill in the blanks. Provide some fresh leads. Someone with access to old Special Branch files from the 1970s.’

  Hegarty tightened his grip on the briefcase, shifting it slowly, anything to disguise its emptiness.

  ‘First I need to find out what has happened to the priest.’

  ‘Why is it so important to see him?’

  Her question made him wary. He wondered whether her talk about being a writer was a lie. She behaved more like an investigator or an intelligence agent with her probing questions.

  ‘I need to talk to him before I work out my next step. In the meantime, no one else apart from you and the priest know I’m here. So I’m going to stick tight until he shows up. Right now, this is the safest place in the country for me.’

  In truth, however, he knew there were no completely safe places for him any longer.

  She leaned towards him.

  ‘Who are you hiding from?’

  ‘People who ask questions like that.’

  She smiled. She offered to buy him a drink but he refused.

  ‘I’m glad you came over.’

  ‘Why?’ If her behaviour was meant to reassure him, it wasn’t working.

  She shrugged and finished her drink. She glanced at her watch, and a stillness settled over her features. She was waiting for something to happen, thought Hegarty, but what exactly? A fear rose in him that he was not safe at all, and that he was trapped in a strange hotel with a dangerous woman. It had been a mistake, he realized, striking up the conversation in the first place.

  Her phone rang and she answered it briefly. She slipped it back into her handbag with a smile.

  ‘Good news. Father Walsh has returned.’ She stared unblinkingly into his eyes. ‘He’s in his room right now. You can come up with me if you want.’

  ‘What was the reason for the delay?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘But surely he owes us some sort of explanation.’

  ‘No, he does not,’ she said curtly. Before he could protest, she stood up and waited for him to follow.

  ‘You must excuse me for a moment. I need to visit the bathroom.’ He grabbed his briefcase, its lightness reminding him of his vulnerability.

  She flashed him a look of impatience.

  ‘You have to hurry.’

  ‘I’ve waited for him since last night. I’m sure he can hold on for a few more minutes.’

  He limped into the toilets, locked himself in a cubicle and stared at the creases in his trousers and his shoes. He took out his phone and tried Walsh’s number. It went straight to a recorded message. Why didn’t he answer if he was ready to see hi
m? His sense of anxiety increased. He removed his handgun from his jacket pocket and rubbed its cold metal along his sweating temples. He inspected the firing mechanism, and fingered the shiny litter of bullets. He lifted the safety catch and peered down the barrel as if it was a keyhole into a hushed, dark little hiding place. The mouth of the weapon exhaled the reassuring smell of metal and grease, the sweetness of death. He pressed the barrel to his forehead and caressed the trigger. His forehead dripped like a wet cloth and his hand shook slightly.

  He had held the weapon this way countless times before, whenever he felt trapped. Somehow, the pressure of the gun against his temple always returned his self-control, easing his sense of empty panic. His heart flooded with an appalling pleasure, the contemplation of how much power and destruction the gun wielded, this little black idol nestled in his hand. His finger tightened on the trigger, but before he could pull it his craving to live returned, his will to keep on seeking revenge in a world full of violence and stupidity. His breathing relaxed but he still held the gun firmly to his forehead.

  Someone shook the handle of the cubicle violently. Hegarty was rattled. Instinctively, he pressed the gun to the door lock. An elderly sounding man complained bitterly at the other side. He took out the silencer and screwed it on to the muzzle. The weapon felt forceful and whole. He slipped it into his briefcase, and unlocked the door.

  5

  The lane to the abbey looked old and seldom used, overshadowed by a tunnel of oak and beech trees. Daly half expected to encounter fences and closed gates but there was nothing to impede his approach to the weathered-looking entry doors. It took him a while to find the button for the bell. It was rusted and almost covered in ivy. When no one answered, he ignored the feeling of trespass, pushed open the door and walked inside.

  The abbot, Father Graves, had been informed of his visit. Daly found him peeking out from a room full of leather-backed books.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Inspector,’ he said, slowly nodding, as though he had been searching for him. He set off at a brisk pace down a corridor, and Daly, succumbing to the childhood rules of obedience, fell into pace behind. They passed into a side room with a large desk and chairs, which must have been the abbot’s private office.