The Gathering of Souls

by Gerry O'Carroll

  Now he turned to Doyle. ‘I admit it: I did have a thing for her, and when I was a kid perhaps I was guilty of misreading the signs. But she was good to me, and as God is my witness, I’ve never done anything but cherish the girl. I’d never do anything to harm her.’

  He placed the flat of his hand on the table. ‘Years ago, I gave her a necklace.’

  ‘I know you did.’ Quinn was looking closely at him now.

  ‘My auntie paid for it because I was only ten. I told her that of all the people in the whole school, the only one who ever had a kind word for me was Eva.’ Tears glistened as he spoke. ‘You know how it was with my mam. Jimmy the Poker lost his virginity to her. He paid her for sex so she could buy booze, then took a picture that he showed around the playground.’

  ‘Conor,’ Quinn interrupted him. ‘We need to talk about Eva. I know you gave her the necklace: it was taken from her this past Sunday.’

  Maggs stared at him now, his mouth open, and a hint of spittle dragging his lip. ‘Taken?’

  Quinn nodded. ‘It was torn off; we found links from the chain on my son’s grave. Sunday was the first anniversary of his death, and I think Eva was there because she had to have some time alone with him.

  ‘I want you to help us,’ Quinn told him. ‘I want you to help me. I know you think I stole her from you, but that’s not how it was.’

  Maggs nodded slowly. ‘I know that, Moss. I understand. It’s why I was quite happy to come and talk to you now; it’s why I don’t need a solicitor. I’m not a kid any more, and I don’t dwell on the past.’

  He threw a short glance at Doyle, who was watching every move, every expression, every jerk of his head.

  ‘I’m not lying, sergeant.’

  ‘Conor,’ Quinn said, ‘we’ve received a photograph, a Polaroid: a picture of a stone lying on a patch of sand.’

  ‘Jimmy Hanrahan,’ Maggs curled his lip. ‘He was the one with the camera.’

  He bowed his head, working a palm across his face, then looked once more at Quinn. ‘I didn’t kill Mary Harrington. You hit me with what had happened to her so many times: you told me all the gory stuff about how she was, and how she’d jerk like a chicken when she was unconscious. You told me all that, and I wrote it down like you made me.’ He gestured to Doyle. ‘I didn’t kill her, Sergeant. No matter what Molly tells you, the fact is, she was so shit-faced she didn’t know if I was there or not.’

  ‘That’s not what she said.’

  ‘It’s what she said before you started threatening her.’

  ‘Nobody threatened her, and she only said what she did because you told her to.’

  ‘No.’ Maggs shook his head. ‘That isn’t how it was. The fact is, Molly only changed her story after I stopped seeing her. She was hurt, upset; she was pissed off enough to want to get even with me.

  ‘Mr Doyle,’ he stated, ‘I did not kill Mary. I barely spoke to Mary. The only people you had to tell you otherwise were Jimmy Hanrahan, who took pictures of my alcoholic mother when she was naked, and Paddy Maguire, who made claims about me to cover up what he was doing himself. He didn’t happen upon me that night, I happened upon him.’

  He turned to Quinn now. ‘That’s all you ever had, isn’t it? My barrister told me there wasn’t a trace of physical evidence linking me to Mary Harrington. All you had was a girlfriend I dumped, and two fellers who hated my guts. The reason you went after me was personal. You should admit it. You wanted it to be me; you both did.’ He sat back in the chair. ‘But that’s all right. Maybe you’ll believe me now. Maybe, finally, I have the chance to set the record straight, and just maybe I can clear my name.’ Again he looked at Doyle. ‘My name’s been sullied, Mr Doyle. The judge threw the case out, but he didn’t exonerate me. I’m a man of God, I’m a pastor soon to have my own flock, and the people who follow me need to know that my character is beyond reproach. That’s why I’m here now; that’s why I’ll help you. I want to clear my name.’

  Quinn looked sideways at Doyle. He looked at the clock and then peered across the table.

  ‘Where’s my wife, Conor? Where’s Eva?’

  Maggs’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Where is she?’ Quinn asked him. ‘The clock is ticking, you told me yourself, remember. Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock.’ Brow furrowed, he was staring hard at him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Maggs said, looking helpless. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘And then of course there was Mary.’

  ‘I just told you, I didn’t kill Mary.’

  ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary, or so the story goes. A maggot in her head, that’s what they said, but only Mary knows.’ Quinn cocked his head to one side. ‘Was that you trying to tell me that somebody else killed Mary? Was that you trying to tell me that if I find that somebody, I’ll find my wife?’

  Maggs looked bewildered. ‘Now you’ve lost me completely.’

  ‘If it was you, then you know where she is, don’t you? Where is she? You love her, I know you do. You wouldn’t want to hurt her.’

  Quinn’s gaze shifted once more to the clock. ‘Time is running out,’ he said. ‘There are only a few hours left. Mary died of thirst: you know that. She may have been partially strangled, but she died because she had nothing to drink. Seventy-two hours, and that’s pretty much it. A person can starve for days, weeks even, and still survive, but much more than seventy-two hours without water and there’s no coming back. Eva is tied up somewhere and she’s thirsty, Conor, thirsty. Before long, she’ll look just as Mary did when we finally found her.’ He leant across the table.’ Eva, Conor; little Eva from catechism; the girl you gave the necklace to.’ He cocked his head to one side then and looked quizzically at him. ‘Why did you take it back? You gave it to her; it was a gift. It wasn’t yours to take back.’

  ‘I didn’t take it back,’ Maggs said quietly. ‘I wasn’t there, Moss. I had nothing to do with any of it.’

  ‘You phoned her, didn’t you?’ Quinn pressed him hard now. ‘After the trial collapsed, you called her on the phone. What did you want? What did you say to her? She was wearing the necklace at your trial. Did you think it was a sign: a secret symbol, a code to tell you that it was you she wanted all along, and not me? I bet you just loved it when you found out she and I were separated. Did you call her because you knew I wasn’t there? She flipped you off, didn’t she? You finally found out that even when I’m not around, it isn’t you she wants.’

  Maggs was silent. Arms across his chest, he regarded Quinn evenly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry this has happened. But it’s nothing to do with me; I was with Jane on Sunday night.’

  ‘That’s what she says,’ Quinn told him. ‘But then that was what Molly said too, until you thought it was safe to dump her.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Maggs leered at him suddenly. ‘I dumped her, and she was that pissed off she set me up with the guards. Come on, Moss, you’ve heard the old saying about hell having no fury. Of course you have: it happened to you when you couldn’t find who killed your son.’

  For a moment, Quinn was taken aback. He sat there stiffly in the chair.

  Still Maggs held his eye. ‘Women are like that: they’ll find a way of making everything your fault. You should know that; you, of all people, should know it better than anyone.’

  For a few moments, Quinn regarded him. And then he got to his feet. ‘OK, Conor,’ he said, ‘that’s all for now. Thanks for coming in.’

  Maggs stared incredulously at him. ‘You mean I can go?’

  Quinn jerked a thumb at his partner. ‘Would you rather I tuck you up in a nice quiet cell and send your man along?’

  Tuesday 2nd September 11.25 am

  From the window, Doyle watched Maggs saunter out the front door, where hordes of news people were waiting. Needless to say, he seemed happy to pause and speak to them.

  ‘I can’t believe you let the bastard go,’ he muttered.

  Quinn was standing next to him. ‘Phone Martin McCafferty in
Kerry,’ he instructed. ‘Have him bring a team to Jimmy Hanrahan’s house and see what they can find.’

  ‘Jimmy the Poker? What for?’

  ‘I told you, we’re walking through it again. There was one thing Maggs said in there that might’ve made some sense.’

  ‘You mean about Jimmy being the one with the camera?’

  Doyle nodded.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’ll phone Martin. But I tell you, boy: this has nothing to do with Jimmy.’

  Quinn drove back to Harcourt Square. As he pulled up at the barrier, the car was swamped by reporters. Parked underground, he smoked half a cigarette and thought about Maggs, sitting across the table looking as calm and confident as he’d ever seen him.

  Pinching the end of the cigarette, he shoved it back in the box, then went up to the incident room. In his office, he closed the door, and on the far side of the desk Frank Maguire steepled his fingers. ‘So what do you know?’ he said.

  Quinn shook his head. ‘I let him go. No sense in holding him. There was nothing to charge him with, and of course he denied he had anything to do with it.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Quinn glanced up as Doyle strode in, snuffbox in his hand and some of the red dust shading his lapel.

  ‘He’ll tell you it’s Maggs,’ Quinn went on, ‘but then of course he’s the nose for it.’

  ‘That’s right, I do,’ Doyle told him. ‘He’s our man, Moss. There’s no doubt about it.’

  ‘Did you speak to McCafferty?’ Quinn asked him.

  They told the superintendent what Maggs had said about Jimmy Hanrahan and Patrick.

  ‘’Tis funny,’ Doyle observed, ‘but I don’t remember any of this being relevant when we were investigating Mary’s death.’

  ‘My brother, you mean?’ Maguire looked quizzical. ‘Maggs’s version of events?’

  ‘Not just your brother, Frank, but Jimmy the Poker.’ With a glance at Quinn, he added: ‘Clearly none of us thought it very important.’

  Quinn ignored him. ‘It’s just maggot-speak. Even if he didn’t do it, he’s never seen the world as normal people do.’

  ‘So what now?’ Doyle said. ‘We wait for the Kerry guards to give the Hanrahan place a spin and come up with sweet fuck all? She’s my niece, Moss: you should let me take a piece of him, then we’d know for sure.’

  Quinn rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘What if he’s not lying? Has that ever occurred to you? What if he doesn’t know? What if he didn’t do it?’

  ‘He is. He does and he did.’ Doyle turned for the door. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘all the time we’re sitting around with a thumb shoved up our collective arse, Eva is slipping away.’

  When he was gone, Quinn shook his head wearily. ‘I love him to death, really I do. But sometimes, Jesus, I swear he’s only half a door.’ He worked the heel of a palm against his eyes.

  ‘What if he’s wrong and I’m right? What if Maggs didn’t take Eva, and what if he didn’t kill Mary?’

  ‘That’s a lot of what-ifs, Moss,’ Maguire suggested. ‘And it doesn’t get us any nearer finding her.’

  On his feet again, Quinn paced the floor. ‘What if it was pure prejudice that put him in the frame?’

  ‘Are you telling me you think it was?’

  ‘My wife thought it was. And as he himself just pointed out, we didn’t have a shred of physical evidence.’

  ‘He lied about talking to Mary.’

  ‘I know he did. Paddy saw him, and Paddy I believe. Jimmy Hanrahan I don’t know: he’s a scrote, and he and Maggs have never seen eye to eye. But Maggs was scared, Frank: he knew what people thought about him, and a long time ago Doyle let him know he believed his mother’s death was no accident.’ He spread his palms. ‘What would you do if you were him and your girl had had such a skin-full she’d repeat anything you told her. Think about it from his point of view: to admit to even talking to Mary was to invite the devil in.’

  Maguire showed him the note from the post room. ‘What do you make of this?’

  ‘It’s just more cryptic bullshit. Like I said on the phone, whoever this is, he’s playing with us.’

  The door opened then, and Murphy put her head round. ‘Inspector,’ she said, ‘Jane Finucane is still downstairs. I’ve interviewed her, and she’s sticking to her story. Do you want me to see if I can find Molly Parkinson?’

  ‘Molly?’ Quinn arched one eyebrow. ‘What for?’

  ‘I thought she might be able to help. I mean, we do think Jane is lying, don’t we?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her.’

  ‘Sergeant Doyle thinks she’s lying.’

  ‘Of course he does: Doyle thinks everyone’s lying.’

  ‘It was just a thought,’ Murphy said, ‘but Molly lied to begin with. Then she came to court and testified. She would have seen Jane then, wouldn’t she? Maybe she can enlighten her, I don’t know. But if Jane is covering for him and we can prove it …’

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ Maguire told her. ‘See if you can locate her.’

  When Murphy had gone, Quinn shot half a smile at his boss. ‘At the risk of sounding like Doyle,’ he said, ‘wouldn’t it be better to drop Jane off at the moorings? Half an hour with her cousin, Frank; we’d soon know if she was lying.’

  Tuesday 2nd September 12.15 pm

  Jimmy Hanrahan was in the shed cleaning his guns. He had a second-hand Winchester rifle he used for deer, together with a twelve-bore under-and-over shotgun.

  The old man was in the house hollering his head off. Last night had been bad: he’d come down and there was the devil cutting cards with a woman he swore was Jimmy’s mother. He was pleading, begging for her soul, and he was so loud that Jimmy had to get up, and the only way he could calm his father down was to tell him that he could see her too, and it wasn’t his mother.

  All morning, the old lunatic had been muttering about it, and he was still muttering when Jimmy went back to the house. He was in the lounge sitting in his chair, what little hair he had sticking to the powdery white scalp. He wore his pyjama bottoms and an old jumper, a pair of woollen socks.

  ‘Sprinkle the water, son,’ he muttered. ‘Your mother, God rest her. I know what you said, but I swear ’twas her. Sprinkle the water, and maybe she’ll have some peace.’ He shifted uneasily in his seat, making the sign of the cross again and again and again.

  His son looked wearily at him. ‘Do you want a cup of tea, Dad?’ he asked him.

  Again his father crossed himself. ‘’Twas your fault.’ He jabbed a finger without turning his head from the TV screen that was blathering away in the corner. ‘Without what you done, she’d be here, so she would, and I’d not have Beelzebub at my kitchen table.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, would you listen to yourself?’ Jimmy yelled suddenly. ‘There’s nothing there. There’s never been anything there.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘It’s the drink, Dad: the gin. You’re bally; mad; loco.’

  ‘The shame it was,’ the old man went on. ‘Her own boy, her only boy taking a poker to that poor old woman. She blamed me, I know she did, but it was your fault they found her floating out there with her eyes gone to the fish.’

  With a bitter shake of his head, Jimmy turned away, telling himself that if it wasn’t for the money, he’d have taken the old fool out to meet his mother years ago.

  The sound of a car made him look up; through the kitchen window, he saw three marked police vehicles pulling up. Then half a dozen uniforms were on the path, and Jimmy opened the door.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I’ve the old feller shooting his mouth off, and now the shades are on my doorstep. Come on in, why don’t you? Sit yourselves down and play a few hands of cards with the devil.’

  Standing aside, he ushered them in. His father turned round from his chair in the living room.

  ‘Mother of God,’ he muttered, ‘what have you gone and done this time?’

  ‘Shut your noise, will you?’ Stepping a
cross the kitchen, Jimmy slammed the door. Then he turned to the uniformed inspector, a tall man with sandy hair and kindly eyes. ‘So, Mr McCafferty, is it me you’re wanting, or have you come for the old feller?’

  Tuesday 2nd September 12.30 pm

  Murphy headed across the river to Mountjoy Square. The houses here were four-storey terraces; she rang the bell at an attic flat she’d been to a couple of times before. She waited, gazing across to the tree-lined square. The buzzer sounded, and she asked if Molly was in.

  ‘Who wants her?’ the voice came back.

  ‘Is that you, Molly?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Detective Keira Murphy. Can I come in?’

  For a moment there was silence, then: ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I need to speak to you. I need to speak to you about Conor Maggs.’

  She climbed the stairs to the top-floor flat, where Molly let her in. The place was a mess; four girls sharing a handful of rooms; there were clothes dumped in piles all over the place. One of Molly’s flatmates stood at an ironing board in front of the TV; she looked up with a nervous smile. Murphy considered her for a moment, then suggested they go somewhere a little quieter.

  Reluctantly, Molly led the way into a bedroom, where twin beds lay unmade and makeup was scattered on the dressing table.

  ‘How’s business, Molly?’ Murphy asked her. She touched the ends of her hair. ‘I might ask you to do mine one of these days; I’ve not got anyone regular.’

  Molly had a mobile hairdressing business, driving from client to client. ‘Business is all right,’ she stated, a little irritably.

  ‘Look,’ Murphy told her, ‘we’d not bother you again after what happened, but …’

  ‘A guard’s wife has been abducted, and you’re looking at my ex-boyfriend.’ Molly shook her head bemusedly. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it; I swear there are more coppers on the street than there are people. I was listening to the news yesterday, and they were even talking about it in the Dáil.’