*
With Maggs sitting awkwardly on the periphery, they’d fallen into conversation, Quinn telling tales about Doyle that made Eva laugh out loud, and Maguire chipping in with the odd comment about how the old bog man had no real mates and that was why he’d tagged along with the rugby tour.
Eva assured him that her uncle had plenty of mates and that he’d tagged along because the tour was in Kerry and it gave him an excuse to do the stations in his home town rather than crawling the pubs in Temple Bar, or wherever he drank up in Dublin.
‘He drinks everywhere in Dublin,’ Quinn assured her. ‘He’s like a student, for Christ’s sake: fourteen pints in fourteen pubs on a Thursday night, and that’s before he settles down for a real drink.’
‘You’d know all about it, wouldn’t you?’ Corin said with a laugh. ‘From what I’ve seen, you two can down a pint yourselves.’
‘I’ve been known to have a tipple,’ Quinn said, trying his best to imitate his mentor. ‘That and the odd pinch of snuff – though it’s a habit that went out with my grandfather.’
Eva fell about, and Corin was laughing too. At that moment, Doyle placed a very large fist in the middle of the table.
‘What’s with all the racket?’ he growled. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, can you not see there are people in this pub trying to have a quiet pint?’ Then he looked at Maggs. ‘And how are you, Conor lad? How’s yer auntie? Keeping well, is she?’
If Maggs had felt uncomfortable before, he felt even more so now. Getting to his feet, he smiled briefly at Eva. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later, will I?’
‘I’m taking her out to dinner,’ Quinn told him. ‘Me and Eva, Patrick and Corin here; we’re on a double date. Maybe she’ll see you another time, but Eva’s busy tonight.’
Maggs’s face seemed to fill with blood. He looked at Eva as if waiting for her to refute the statement.
But she didn’t.
Something seemed to die in his eyes then, as if a little of the life literally went out of him. He sucked his lip like a child and, muttering again about later, he pushed open the swing door. Eva looked after him, red all at once in the face. ‘Shit,’ she said, ‘that wasn’t right.’
Doyle twisted his mouth at the corner. ‘Don’t worry about it, Eva. Conor’s a big boy.’
‘Uncle Joe,’ she said. ‘I know what you think about Conor. You’ve told me a million times. I don’t need you to look out for me, so why don’t you fuck off back to those who want to listen to you?’
Doyle wagged his head sadly. ‘Just like her mother: angelic to look at, yet a gob on her like a fishwife.’ With a grin, he patted Quinn on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see you later, lad. Let me know if you need backup.’
Tuesday 2nd September 8 am
Doyle had been on the street most of the night, only going home to his digs now to change his clothes. Mrs Mulroney, his landlady of twenty years, made him a bowl of porridge, which he shovelled down gratefully, eating it with one eye on his watch and the other on his mobile phone. All night he’d been kicking arse, shaking down as many people as owed him favours, and as many others who didn’t. But for the first time in thirty years, nobody seemed to know anything. He’d been from Finglas to Tallaght and Poolbeg to Ronanstown, tapping up touts, tack-heads, bank robbers and brassers. He’d spoken to Grace O’Malley; he’d spoken to Lorne ‘the Thorn’ McGeady. He’d even roused the Monk, a player from the old days of Gilligan and Cahill.
‘’Tis a terrible business, Joseph,’ Mrs Mulroney said to him. ‘Really it is.’ She crossed herself. ‘I’ve never known anything like it, not in all my days. Your niece an’ all.’ She was almost in tears.
‘There now,’ he said, placing the bowl on the kitchen surface and patting her a little awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Eva’s tough, Mrs M. she might look delicate, and she’s the sweetest-natured woman a man could lay eyes on, but she’s her daddy’s girl and my brother was no man’s patsy, I can tell you.’
His phone started ringing. Squinting long-sightedly at the screen, he saw there was no number registering. ‘Excuse me, Mrs M,’ he said. Wandering through to the lounge, he answered the phone.
‘This is Doyle.’
‘Joseph, lad, how are you?’
Doyle recognised his elder brother. ‘Cahal, how’s things? How’s the craic?’
‘Things are fine, and the craic is ninety. I’m sitting here in a bar on the lower east side with a couple of lads from the old days.’
‘Are you, now? Anyone I know, is it?’
‘I’d imagine it might be, yes. But listen, I’m watching Fox News and they’ve just now broadcast from Harcourt Square. Fuck it, Joseph, is what I’m hearing right: some gobshite’s made off with our Tommy’s babby?’
‘It is right, yes. We’re pulling up trees looking for her.’
‘Great God almighty. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Not from there, there’s not.’
‘I know that; I mean from Dublin. I’ve plenty as still owes me. Do you want me to call in a couple of favours?’
‘Call them in, by all means, Cahal; time is running out.’
Hanging up, Doyle went back to the kitchen. ‘That was my brother, Mrs M – from America.’ She looked at him then with the maternal expression she liked to keep especially for him.
‘You must be hurting, Joseph: you’ve been like a father to that girl, I know you have.’
He blew out his cheeks. ‘In my way, maybe – cack-handed though it probably is. I promised her mother I’d look out for her, but you know the poor woman never forgave me for introducing Eva to Moss Quinn.’
Mrs Mulroney looked a little shocked then. Almost sixty, she had been widowed for twenty years; she was short and round and she wore cat’s-eye-style public health glasses.
‘I’m joking, Mrs M,’ Doyle grinned.
He was interrupted by the phone ringing again. This time it was Uttley. ‘Jug,’ he said. ‘Not before time. For Christ’s sake, tell me you have something for me.’
‘Oh I do, Mr Doyle, I do. I’ll meet you at the usual place in half an hour.’
‘Talk to me on the phone, Jug, will you?’
‘No, no, we’ll make it the usual place. I never conduct business on the telephone, Mr Doyle, you know that.’
‘Jug,’ Doyle said with a sigh, ‘it’s eight o’clock in the morning; the usual place isn’t open.’
The water rat seemed to think about that. ‘No, you’re right; of course. Best make it the church, then. St Peter’s in half an hour.’
Doyle met Uttley in the church that dominated the fork between the Cabra and North Circular Roads. Normally they met in the bar of the Conan Doyle pub, just a stone’s throw from the gates of Mountjoy Prison. The tout was sitting facing the altar with a bag between his feet and his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. From behind, his ears were very pronounced, and even more distinctive because of the thick, curling hairs that sprouted from them. Doyle crossed himself with a dab of holy water and sat down.
‘Make it snappy, Jug,’ he said. ‘What’ve you got for me?’
Without looking behind him, Uttley lifted a sweaty palm and worked fingers and thumb together in a gesture that told Doyle he wanted money. Taking a short breath, the detective reached over the back of the pew, grabbed his fingers and squeezed so hard the old man yelped.
‘You’re on a fucking retainer, you mouldy-arsed gobshite. Now, what is it you want to tell me?’
Uttley prised his fingers free, then rubbed them with his other hand. ‘Mr Doyle,’ he said, ‘the retainer doesn’t cover this kind of information.’
Doyle looked wearily at him. ‘You know what, if I had the time I’d extract it from you tooth by fuckin’ tooth. For months now, you’ve told me nothing I don’t already know. I swear you’re as much use as an old nun’s fanny.’ He shook his head, cursed under his breath and peeled thirty euro from his wallet.
‘Fifty, Mr Doyle, if ya don’t mind; I’m wanting at least fifty.’
Cursing softly, Doyle found another twenty and handed it to him. Uttley took the notes and slipped them into his pocket. ‘Your man’s in town,’ he said gleefully. ‘Him that’s walking out with Johnny Clogs’ cousin. He’s staying with her, back of the Portobello.’
Tuesday 2nd September 8.30 am
Head bowed, Maggs stood in the shower. He and Jane were so loved-up they’d spent much of yesterday in bed, and when he’d woken this morning he could feel her pressing against him.
She was not attractive – she was too chubby and a little too pale – but she was a good sort, and one of the things he really liked about being with her was that she too had had a difficult time. The second cousin to the gangster Johnny Clogs, her story of life in the shadow of Dublin’s underworld tallied with his own troubled childhood.
They kept quiet about the fact that they were living together, because some of the evangelicals didn’t appreciate that, in this day and age, it wasn’t actually living in sin. Jane had been unsure about a sexual relationship to begin with, but when he explained that all they were doing was celebrating the fact that God had brought them together, she was fine with it. The pastor at Harold’s Cross was a stickler for a literal translation of the Bible, though, and didn’t believe in sex before marriage. That was why Maggs had decided to be out when he popped round for a visit on Sunday night. Maggs was trying to establish himself as a speaker: an evangelist; the man who, while lying in a police cell, had been visited by Christ himself. That kind of conversion was very powerful, and people wanted to hear about it.
Jane was glued to the TV news. The television hadn’t been on at all yesterday, and anyway, they’d not bothered with anything much, they’d been so into each other. But now she was watching a press conference coming from Garda HQ in Phoenix Park, and it looked manic. There were numerous TV crews – not just Irish channels but stations from all over the world – gathered outside the old building. The deputy commissioner for operations was speaking to the media, reiterating the fact that on Sunday evening, Eva, the wife of Detective Inspector Moss Quinn, had been abducted from Glasnevin Cemetery.
Mouth agape, Maggs stared at the screen.
It was ‘unprecedented in the annals of crime in this country’; whoever had her might as well have abducted the president. The deputy commissioner made it clear that there would be no hiding place. The broadcast cut to the Dáil, where Ivan Chambers, the justice minister, echoed the deputy commissioner’s sentiments.
Back at Phoenix Park, the deputy commissioner was fielding questions: no, the guards were not ruling anything out, but as he’d already stated, they weren’t necessarily linking this abduction with the other cases of missing women either. He did point out that a brand new unit had been set up in Naas. It was operational as of yesterday morning; ironically, DI Quinn had been tasked to lead it. The fact was that they weren’t necessarily linking the abduction with any other case at all – including, as one reporter repeatedly asked, the murder of Mary Harrington.
Maggs sat down heavily on the arm of the chair. ‘Are you all right, pet?’ Jane asked him.
He didn’t reply. He was still staring at the screen: he recognised the plain-clothes officer standing next to the deputy commissioner.
‘Frank Maguire,’ he said softly. ‘My God, that’s Frank Maguire.’ Dropping to one knee, Jane took his hand. ‘Conor, what on earth is the matter?’
‘That’s Frank Maguire. He was the senior officer when Quinn and Doyle came after me.’ He touched his ribs as if they were black again with the memory.
‘Love, that’s all over. The judge threw the case out: they can’t hurt you now.’
Maggs stared at her. ‘Jane,’ he said, his voice edged with panic, ‘did you not hear when they said she went missing: Sunday night. I wasn’t here on Sunday night; I took a walk along the canal, remember? You had the pastor round and I was out for a walk. I had to go so the people at Harold’s Cross wouldn’t think we were living together. Don’t you see? As soon as they find out I’m in the city, they’ll be round here, and I won’t have anyone to vouch for where I was.’
‘Now calm down, Conor, come on. Ray Kinsella was gone by nine thirty,’ Jane reminded him.
‘It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t home by nine thirty, was I? You were in bed when I got back. Any moment now, we’re going to have Sergeant Doyle hammering on the door. This is a guard’s wife we’re talking about – and not just any guard, it’s Moss Quinn. You heard them just now: it’s ‘unprecedented’. The kicking they gave me the last time will be nothing compared to what they’ll do now.’
‘Conor,’ she snapped, ‘please would you calm down.’
He peered hopelessly at her.
‘Doyle won’t do anything,’ she assured him. ‘After what happened before, there’s no way he’d even think about it.’
He laughed scornfully. ‘You don’t know Doyle. Don’t you see? He’s Eva’s uncle. He hates me; he’s always hated me; and he still swears I killed Mary Harrington. I’ve no alibi, Jane, and you know what happened the last time. My God, it’ll look like a slap compared to this.’
‘Doyle won’t do anything,’ she reiterated.
He was shaking. ‘But he will. Of course he will. I wasn’t here at ten: I came in after.’
For a long moment she just looked at him, with pity in her eyes; tenderness; love. ‘No you didn’t,’ she said. ‘At ten o’clock, you were tucked up in bed with me.’
He stared at her almost angrily. ‘But I wasn’t.’
‘We’ll tell them you were. You were back here by a quarter to ten, and we were together all night. Apart from an hour or so, that’s absolutely true.’ She smiled now and held his hand tightly. ‘I’m not about to let it happen again. There’s no way, Conor. I promise you, not after what happened the last time.’
Tuesday 2nd September 8.45 am
Doyle drove from St Peter’s church to Quinn’s house and found him on the steps waving his daughters goodbye. His sister-in-law had driven up from Kerry in the early hours and was taking them straight back to their grandmother’s house so that Quinn could get on with trying to find their mother.
Doyle watched them go, then, rolling down the window, called to Quinn. ‘Moss,’ he said, ‘I just met with Uttley. Maggs is back in Dublin.’
Quinn looked round sharply. For a moment, he peered across the roof to the empty space where Eva’s car should have been – instead of at the lab with forensics experts taking it to pieces.
‘Come inside a minute,’ he said.
‘Did you not hear me? The Maggot is in Rathmines. Get in the car, will you? Let’s get ourselves down there.’
‘And do what?’
Doyle stared at him. ‘What do you mean: do what? Bring him in; interrogate him; find out what the little shite was doing on Sunday. Find Eva, for pity’s sake.’
Quinn rested an elbow on the roof. ‘What if it wasn’t him?’
‘What’re you talking about? Of course it’s him: we know it’s him.’
‘We don’t know it’s him. The mistake we made before was deciding it was him and not looking any further. You can’t rely on instinct alone, Doyler. The last time we did, we ended up with nothing.’
Climbing out of the car, Doyle looked Quinn in the eye. ‘Instinct,’ he said, ‘is the one thing you can rely on. Instinct told me he’d murdered Mary Harrington, and for all that happened in the Four Courts, I’ve not changed my mind. Sometimes your gut feeling is all there is, and it’s served me pretty well these past three decades, I can tell you.’
‘But it wasn’t enough, Doyler, was it?’
‘He made a full confession: you know those words weren’t mine. I may’ve given him a little slap, but the words were his – every one of them.’
‘Doyler, you lathered the shit out of him.’
‘But the detail, man; the detail!’
‘He knew the fuckin’ detail! Quinn threw out a hand now. ‘He knew what she looked like when we found her, and he knew what we thought he’d do
ne to her. We’d told him a dozen times; all he had to do was recite what we’d already told him.’
Doyle took a step back. ‘Well bugger me,’ he said. ‘Bugger me blind, why don’t you: you really don’t think it was him, do you?’
‘Look, Eva is lying in a hole somewhere. That’s all I know for sure right now. Nothing matters except finding her.’
‘Exactly, so let’s drag the bastard in.’
Quinn looked witheringly at him. ‘Why would he do it? What would be his motive? In all the years he was living up here, he never tried to contact her. You told me yourself he used to trail around after her like the proverbial puppy.’
‘He was no puppy, Moss. A wolf, maybe; a rabid dog.’
‘You’re going on what we thought we knew,’ Quinn told him. ‘Nobody ever proved he had anything to do with what happened to his mam, and you’re the only person I’ve ever heard actually voice it. So he had a shitty childhood: what with who his mother was and every man Jack lipping off about it, it’s hardly surprising. It doesn’t necessarily make him evil, though, and it doesn’t mean he put drain cleaner in a wine bottle. I tell you, I’m not playing that game again. We have to get this right. We’ve little time, and we can’t afford to waste a second of it.’
‘Listen, Moss,’ Doyle told him, ‘she may be your wife, but Eva is still my niece, and I made a promise over her dad’s coffin that I would take care of her. Would you stop for a minute and think about it: who else would take the necklace?’
‘I have thought about it, but as Murphy pointed out, it might’ve just come off in the struggle.’
The Gathering of Souls Page 12
