“I suppose you’ll be the boss now?” Bella said.
“Do you think so?” He cast a crooked smile at her and she saw that flash of mischief she remembered from the old days, that look of a boy who has got his first kiss and means to have more.
“Isn’t it what you always wanted?” she said, smiling in her turn.
Her warm haunch was pressed against his leg, and there was a look of slightly unfocused merriment in her eye—she never could hold her drink; it was something that had always amused him. In a minute she would be swarming all over him again. He made to stand up, but she put a hand in the crook of his elbow and held him back. “Don’t go,” she said.
“Got to,” he said. “I’m expected.”
Yet he lingered. He did not want to go home, did not want to face Sylvia, did not want to meet that look she would give him, anxious, soulful, searching. How much did she know, how much did she guess? All this past year he had been sure she knew he was up to something. She did not trust him, never had; he could hardly have expected that she would. He did not trust himself, anymore.
“How is the widow?” Bella asked. “What’s her name—Monica?”
“Mona.”
“He was about twice her age, wasn’t he?”
“She’s young, yes.”
He felt a sort of ripple in her thigh, and she sat forward and swiveled about to look closely into his face. “Oh, Jack,” she said softly, “I hope you haven’t been a naughty boy, have you? Haven’t been putting in your thumb there and pulling out a plum, as you always do?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said.
She wagged her head at him, making a tut-tutting sound with her tongue. “Oh, Jackie-boy. I see now the reason for your sudden appearance on my doorstep. It wouldn’t be the first time you came running to Bella for shelter when the Hound of Heaven was at your heels. Or just a husband on the warpath.”
He sighed. “Shut up, Bella,” he said wearily. “You have a one-track mind.”
“Yes,” she said, and made a grab at the crotch of his trousers, “and you haven’t, I suppose.”
He batted her hand aside and held out his glass. She groped for the bottle on the floor and poured another go of wine.
“I hope you’re not intending to make a lamp out of that, are you?” he said, indicating with his chin the bulbous bottle in its straw jacket.
“Is that what you think of me?”
“Oh, yes, I forgot—you’re an artist.” He had not meant it to sound so sour.
“Dear me,” she said, “we are on edge today.” She put the bottle on the floor again and sat back, holding her glass in both hands and nursing it against her breast. “Were you that fond of your late partner?”
He did not respond, only drank his wine and gazed before him, frowning. “David was on the boat with him,” he said.
“Who?”
“My son, Davy.”
She stared. “My God. Why?”
“He asked him to go with him—Victor, that is, asked Davy. The night before, when we were all in the pub, he invited him to come out. Davy hates the sea, but he went, all the same.”
“My God,” Bella said again, more softly this time, more wonderingly. “Did he—did he see him do it? Did he see him shoot himself?”
Jack watched one last, anxious-seeming bubble crowding at the brim of his glass. “Yes,” he said, “he saw it.”
“But—but why?”
“Why did he take Davy with him? I don’t know. Maybe to get back at me.”
“For what?”
The wine bubble burst.
“I don’t know.”
She was watching him, staring at his profile. “I think you do know,” she said, in a voice that made her suddenly sound sober. “I think you’re lying.”
He put a hand over his eyes and massaged his temples at either side with a finger and a thumb. “There was a—there was a problem, in work. In the business.”
“What sort of problem?”
He took the hand away from his face and turned towards the window. She saw the pulse working in his jaw. He was still good-looking, with that small neat head, that strong nose, those broad lips that had a twist to them at once humorous and sly. There used to be something about him, something weak and furtively vulnerable. Now that was gone, that youthful defenselessness, but what had come in its place was not strength, only hardness. She put her glass on the floor beside the wine bottle. She should not drink so early in the evening; it always went straight to her head. It was not an occasion to be tipsy; a girl had to watch herself around Jack Clancy.
“He could never let go of anything,” he said, with a distant look now, talking to himself. “He could never relent. Always had to be top dog, and have everyone around him acknowledge it. Got that from his father, of course, Old Ironsides himself. A pair of them in it—overbearing and ruthless yet still expecting the rest of us to treat them like proper gentlemen of the old school. And all the time they’d cut your heart out for a farthing.”
He stopped. She had an urge to put her finger to that pulse in his jaw to stop it twitching. “Did you know?” she asked.
“What?”
“Did you know he was going to do it?”
“No. How could I? If I had, do you think I’d have let Davy go out with him? Do you think I’d have let my own son’s life be put at risk?”
She picked up her glass again from the floor—what good would staying sober do? “Tell me what was going on in the business,” she said. “Were you fiddling the books?”
He said nothing for a moment, then laughed harshly. “Fiddling the books? For Christ’s sake, Bella.”
“Then what was this ‘problem’ that you’re so concerned about?”
He shrugged, and looked away from her again. “Nothing,” he said. “Forget I mentioned it.”
“Had he found out about it, your partner, Delahaye—had he found out what you were up to, whatever it was?”
He shook his head as if amused. “What I was ‘up to’—as if I was an office boy, stealing the tea money.” He lay back against the sofa, suddenly weary-seeming. “You don’t know what it’s like, having something going round and round in your head, round and round. I don’t sleep, I just lie there, thinking.”
She waited, but he had lapsed into silence. His eyes were closed. She could hear him breathing; he might have been in a fever, or asleep and having a bad dream. She felt sorry for him, but she was apprehensive, too. She realized that she did not want to know what it was that was going round and round in his head. Some things it was better not to know, especially when they were things that Jack Clancy knew. It had been a long time since they had seen each other but it might have been yesterday, so familiar was the sense she had of his resentment and pent-up anger. He was a dangerous person. Not violent, not menacing, even, yet in some way dangerous, all the same. That was why she had let him go, before; he had been too much for her. She stood up, not looking at him. She wanted him to leave. Something had come into the house with him, the presence of which she felt only now; it was as if some animal had loped in silently behind him and hidden itself and now was getting ready to spring out at her. She felt suddenly vulnerable. It was catching, whatever it was that was tormenting him.
“I have to change,” she said. “I’m going out.”
“Where?”
“Just out.”
“A date.”
“Yes. A date.”
It was a lie, but it did not matter, he was not listening. A dense shadowy glow had come into the window now, as it always did at this time of day. She felt like shivering. That strange light was on Jack’s face, a phosphorescent sheen. What did you do, Jack? What did you do that made your partner shoot himself?
5
Quirke had no birthday. He had been an orphan—he was an orphan still, he supposed, though it was odd to think so—and his records, if there had been any, were lost. Not knowing his date of birth, and therefore having no particular day on which to celebrat
e the annual crossing over as others did, was not something that troubled him. He knew his age, more or less accurately, though he did not know how he knew it. Someone, at some time, long ago, when he was a child, must have told him, and the figure must have impressed itself on his mind, though he could not remember being told, or having been told. It was just there, an accumulating number, as meaningless as any other, and as lacking in significance for him. Each New Year’s Day he took down mentally another used-up calendar from his inner wall, and lifted a glass in a sardonic toast to himself. It amused him, especially when he was in his cups, to picture his gravestone and the lopsided legend on it: a blank, a dash, and then a date. Of course, they could count back, his relicts, and put in a notional year of birth, but it would not be certain they were right: whoever it was who had told him how old he was might have lied, or might have been mistaken.
Phoebe, of course, insisted he should have a birthday, and would pick a date each year and surprise him with it. This year she chose a random day in June, just because it was summer and the sun was shining. She and David Sinclair, Quirke’s assistant and her boyfriend, took him to dinner at the Shelbourne Hotel. She had reserved his favorite table, in the corner by the window to the left that looked across the street to the trees in St. Stephen’s Green. The evening was overcast and muggily warm, but Quirke nevertheless was in his black suit, the jacket fastened tightly and his white shirt cuffs on show. Phoebe wished he would let her take him over and smarten him up a bit, get him fitted for a good three-piece tweed suit in Brown Thomas and buy him a shirt or two of some shade other than white. It was not that he did not spend money on his clothes—that suit was Italian, his shoes were handmade—but he always managed to look dusty, somehow. Not dirty, or unlaundered, or shabby, even, but as if he had been standing for too long in some spot where a very fine silt had settled on him, out of the air, without his noticing. Her present to him this year was a tie of shimmering green silk. She apologized for being so unimaginative, but he said no, it was very handsome—he took it out of its cellophane wrapper and held it up to the light from the window and turned it this way and that, an emerald snake, and thought of Mona Delahaye—and besides, he said, he had been in need of a tie for ages, most of the ones he had being old and greasy by now. Sinclair had bought him a book, Yeats’s Autobiographies in the handsome new Macmillan edition in its smart cream jacket. Quirke, to hide how touched he was, pored over it for so long, with his head bent, that Phoebe in the end had to take it away from him.
They had ordered Dover sole and a Sancerre that when it came was interesting enough though almost colorless. Quirke was fussy about his wine. Tonight he was making himself drink slowly, his daughter saw, and she wanted to tell him she appreciated it—Quirke with drink taken could be difficult, especially on occasions such as birthdays or other supposed celebrations—but she said nothing, only filled his water glass to the brim and passed him the plate of bread rolls. She felt sorry for him. He seemed slightly lost, in the awkwardness of the moment, suffering smilingly the enforced gaiety that none of the three of them could quite carry off. She supposed he found it difficult to make the adjustment between work and here, and probably David’s presence made it more difficult still. But then, David too was being required to adjust. How strange it must be for both of them, dealing with the dead all day and now being here with her, marking an invented day of birth, with the elegantly crisp wine and the fragrance of the food and the glint and shimmer of that suddenly sinister-seeming tie.
“I met someone yesterday who knows you,” Quirke said to Sinclair, looking at him over the rim of his glass.
Sinclair’s expression turned wary. “Oh, yes?” he said.
“Young chap, name of Delahaye. Jonas Delahaye.”
For a moment Sinclair looked as if he would deny knowing any such person, thinking himself the victim of one of Quirke’s odd jokes; Quirke had an unpredictable sense of humor. But then he nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said again, more flatly this time.
Phoebe was looking from one of them to the other with lively interest. She enjoyed watching them together, though in a slightly guilty way. They made her think of two highly strung but excessively well-behaved prize dogs, Quirke a black boxer, say—were there black boxers?—and David one of those purebred terriers, aloof and watchful and not averse to showing a fang when the occasion required. David’s attitude to Quirke was always circumspect, and Phoebe wondered how they managed to work together. But then, the Saddle Room in the Shelbourne was bound to be a far cry from the pathology department of the Hospital of the Holy Family. Or so she supposed, looking doubtfully at the half-eaten fish on her plate.
“Delahaye,” she said. “Why do I know that name?”
“The father … died,” Quirke said.
Phoebe frowned. “Yes, of course, it was in the papers. What happened?”
“Shot himself.”
She flinched. “The papers didn’t say that.”
Quirke shrugged. “Well, no. Our fearless purveyors of the truth in the news don’t report suicides.”
Sinclair with his fork was picking over the bones of his fish with fastidious thoroughness. “How was Jonas?” he asked.
“Very calm,” Quirke said drily. “And the brother, the two of them—very calm and collected.” He turned to Phoebe. “They’re twins, Jonas and—what’s the other one called? James? Have you met them? Replicas of each other.” He turned back to Sinclair. “You know both of them?”
“Hard not to—they’re never apart. I see them in Trinity now and then—they play cricket. Tennis, too, championship standard. I had a match against Jonas once.” He shook his head ruefully. “Never again.”
“Yes,” Phoebe said, “I remember that. He did trounce you.” Sinclair looked at her dourly and she smiled and touched the back of his hand.
“They work—worked—for their father, yes?” Quirke said.
Sinclair turned to him. “I believe so. One is in the shipping end, the other in road freight, I think. Don’t ask me which does which—they probably swap around and no one notices. I doubt they actually work. It wouldn’t be quite their style.”
Quirke was looking out the window at the trees across the road. Their tops were touched with the last copper glints of evening sunlight. Since he had met them, the Delahaye twins had been on his mind. Their manner, especially Jonas’s—cool, amused, faintly insolent—had fascinated him, and unnerved him, too, a little. Theirs was not the demeanor of sons suffering from the shock of their father’s sudden death, as Hackett had charitably suggested might be the case. Quirke knew about shock. In his work over the years he had dealt with many people in various distraught states. In some cases, it was true, the bereaved, especially sons, behaved in what might have seemed a callous or uncaring fashion in the immediate aftermath of a death, but that was the result of bravado mixed with helplessness. For sorrow does baffle, especially the young. The Delahaye twins, as far as he could see, were not baffled, they were not helpless.
“Is it known,” Phoebe asked, “why their father killed himself?” She had been watching Quirke. She knew that look, of concentration and faint vexedness, as if he were trying to scratch an inner itch and failing. “Or do you think,” she said, “that it wasn’t suicide?”
He stirred, and turned to her. “Why do you ask?”
Sinclair held up the wine bottle, but Phoebe covered her glass and shook her head. He was lacking one of the fingers of his left hand, the result of his involvement last year with one of Quirke’s more calamitous attempts to scratch an itch.
“I ask,” she said to Quirke, “because I can see there’s something in this business that interests you. What is it?”
He put down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Ah, you know me too well,” he said. Their history together had been fraught—for most of her life he had denied she was his daughter and had let her be brought up by his adoptive brother and his wife—and only lately had Phoebe allowed them to come to some kind
of laying down of arms. She loved him, she supposed, for all his shortcomings, all his sins. She took it that he in turn loved her, in his hesitant and fumbling fashion. She would assume it to be so. It was the best she could hope for, the best she could do. Quirke was not lavish with his emotions. “I can see you’re half involved already,” she said.
He looked away, and busied himself with his food. “I don’t like to leave questions unanswered,” he said.
“It’s you who ask them in the first place,” his daughter replied sharply.
David Sinclair leaned between them tactfully, like an umpire, pouring the wine. This time Phoebe did not cover her glass, and when she lifted it she realized her hand was trembling slightly. It rather appalled her, the almost instantaneous way in which she and her father could come to the edge of a fight. “I’d have thought,” she said, “your friend Inspector Hackett is the one who should be asking the questions and doing the investigating.”
Quirke said nothing to that, only went on mopping up the last of his peas and mashed potatoes. He cast a glance from under his brows at David Sinclair. Odd fellow, Sinclair, he thought. They had been working together for—what was it, five, six years?—but Quirke knew not much more about the young man now than he had at the start. He switched his glance to Phoebe. What were they to each other, he wondered, she and Sinclair? They had been going out together for more than a twelvemonth now, but what, these days, constituted going out? He looked at his daughter’s long pale hands, her dark head bent over her plate, her neat little jacket, like a toreador’s, the cameo brooch, the bit of white lace she always wore at her throat. There was something irredeemably old-fashioned about her, which he liked, but which he imagined might irk a boyfriend. Not that Sinclair was exactly a rake. Perhaps they were better suited to each other than it might seem. If so, how serious was it between them? Were they—he shrank mentally from the thought—sleeping together?
Vengeance: A Novel (Quirke) Page 7
