Quinn came to the picture they had been looking for. ‘Take a peek, Doyler,’ he said. Doyle studied the now rather grainy image: an older woman lying on her back with her legs open. ‘The infamous memento,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s have a word with the cockroach, shall we?’
Taking the photo, they drove to Terenure, and a guard brought Jimmy to an interview room, where Doyle was seated at the table and Quinn was leaning against the wall. There was no tape, no video recorder, and no duty solicitor.
The clock ticked towards five o’clock.
Jimmy was wearing jeans and a pair of work boots, an open-necked shirt and a body warmer. His thin face and narrow eyes gave him the look of a cornered animal. Lips twisted, he folded his arms.
‘A long fuckin’ ways for a chat,’ he muttered.
‘You’re used to it, lad,’ Doyle told him. ‘After all, you were only up here on Sunday.’
‘Was I fuck: I was in Kerry, where I always am.’
‘Rubbish, you were at Glasnevin Cemetery watching Eva.’
Jimmy gawped. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘so that’s what this is about: you think it was me that took your wife? I was in Kerry, for God’s sake: what would I be doing up here?’
Doyle had the photo, and placing it on the table now he rotated it so that it faced Jimmy. ‘Quite the snapper, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Did your mam see that, Jimmy, or was it just what you did to poor Mrs Bolton that made her throw herself in the river?’
Jimmy’s eyes clouded.
‘You like taking pictures, don’t you?’ Quinn asked from where he leant against the wall. ‘I mean, you’ve a whole stack of them.’
‘So what? Is there some kind of law I don’t know about as regards a bloody camera?’
Doyle tapped the Polaroid. ‘How old were you? Thirteen, fourteen maybe?’
Jimmy didn’t reply.
‘How much did she charge the poor soul?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jimmy smiled cruelly. ‘I know I got my money back, mind: that picture made us quite a few quid, I can tell you.’
‘Did Conor see it?’
Jimmy shrugged.
‘Course he did. He started on you because of it, didn’t he?’
‘If he did, he never finished.’
Doyle looked at the picture himself now. ‘Imagine that was your mam,’ he said. ‘How would you have felt? Did you ever think about that? No, of course you didn’t. But then you always were a scumbag, weren’t you? As far as you were concerned, she was just an old tart: some old bag who liked them any which way; old or young, it didn’t matter. That’s what you thought, wasn’t it?’ He leant towards him then. ‘How many of you were there? A whole bunch, I heard: regular little gang-bang, eh?’ His face was set, the muscles stiff at his jaw. ‘Conor found out, didn’t he? And he dumped you on your arse before your mates beat him up.’
‘Just like you beat him up, eh, Mr Doyle?’ Jimmy curled his lip. ‘What’s the matter with you? I was just a kid; it was twenty years ago. What’s it got to do with anything?’
‘The camera, Jimmy. The camera you used to take this picture, and the one you used the other day. On the beach, was it? Down there where you live? That little stretch over by the castle?’
Jimmy looked genuinely puzzled. ‘What’re you talking about? I haven’t used the bloody thing in ages.’
‘Yes you have. You took a picture of a bit of stone on the sand, a pebble on the beach. What was that about, son? Sand and stone, stone and sand; sandstone maybe, was it?’
Quinn spoke then from where he stood behind him. ‘What did you do with Eva, Jimmy?’
Jimmy looked back at him. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Eva,’ Doyle said, pressing him. ‘The girl all you horny little gobshites were having wet dreams over when you were growing up.’
‘I have no idea what you’re on about.’ Shaking his head, Jimmy spoke as if to himself. ‘Can you believe this? I mean, Jesus, there I am, a law-abiding feller with a sick old man to take care of, and they send Martin McCafferty to my door. Then I’m dragged halfway across the country. Have you nothing better to do with your time lads, is that it?’
‘Time, is it?’ Gripping him harshly at the shoulder, Quinn twisted him round so he was looking straight at the clock. ‘A few more hours and she’ll be dead. Is that what you want?’
Jimmy looked suddenly cautious. ‘You really think I took your wife, Mr Quinn? What kind of a moron are you? I live in Kerry, for Christ’s sake. When did she go missing? Sunday, was it? I just told you, I was home with my dad; you can ask him.’
‘We did ask him, and he told us you weren’t there.’ Quinn eyeballed him. ‘So where were you?’
‘Listen,’ Jimmy said. ‘The old man wouldn’t know one day from the next. He’s not right in the head. I was home on Sunday, I swear.’
‘So what about the photo?’ Doyle demanded.
‘What photo? I told you, I don’t know anything about any photo.’
‘You’ve a history with the camera. You took advantage of a poor old drunk, remember?’
‘I shagged a poor old drunk, is what I did, and got a dose of something for my trouble too: itching like a flea-bitten dog for weeks after.’
‘Then there was Mrs Bolton, the old lady whose house you broke into before taking the poker and giving her thirty stitches.’
‘That was years ago, for Christ’s sake. Honestly, I’ve not the slightest idea what you’re going on about. I was home Sunday, looking after my dad.’
Pulling out another chair, Quinn sat down and peered into his pinched features. ‘Tell us about Mary,’ he said. ‘The girl we found under the floor in the cottage across from your house.’
‘I’ve told you all I know about that. I told you back when it happened. I saw her talking to Conor Maggs: that’s all I know.’
‘You didn’t talk to her?’
‘No.’
Doyle laughed softly. ‘So what would you say if we were to tell you a little bird said you did?’
‘I’d say you were trying to fit me up like you did the Maggot.’
‘Fitted him up, is that how it was? You were the one who fingered him, Jimmy. You were the one who was only too happy to come in and tell us how you’d seen the two of them talking by the corner shop.’
‘That’s because I did.’
‘Since when did you start grassing on people?’
‘I didn’t grass. You asked me a question and I gave you an answer. That’s all there was to it.’
Sitting back, Doyle stretched his fingers across his belly, his jacket falling open, the gun holstered on his hip. ‘You do a lot of travelling when you’re after the deer, don’t you? You and that old short-bed of yours. From Kerry to the midlands and right up here to Dublin: there’s plenty to be poached when the season’s over, and you don’t want to be shitting on your own doorstep.
‘Is that what you were doing on Sunday?’ He looked coldly at him now. ‘Your father told us you weren’t there. And he did know it was Sunday, because the priest came round to give him Holy Communion. So where were you, eh? Looking for deer? A doe ripe for the taking?’
‘Listen,’ Jimmy told him. ‘I’ve told you, priest or no priest, my old man wouldn’t know Sunday from Saturday, or any other day for that matter.’
‘What is it about you and the women,’ Quinn said. ‘When did you start hating them? Did it begin with Maggs’s mother letting a fourteen-year-old ride her for the price of a bottle? Or was it the fact that your own mother despised you so much she preferred purgatory and the bottom of the Shannon?’
Suddenly Jimmy lashed out; swinging his fist, he almost caught Quinn across the nose. The next thing he knew, Doyle had him in a wrist-lock and was twisting his arm so hard he yelped. On his feet now, Doyle shoved him to the floor.
‘What does it mean?’ Quinn demanded. ‘A maggot in the head, that’s what they said, but only Mary knows.’
‘You can tell us, son,’ Doyle told him. ‘Come o
n, get it off your chest. After all you’ve been through with your mam and the old man, God knows we understand. Losing her like that in the water with the fishes chewing on her: it’d be enough to turn any lad’s head.’
Jimmy was squealing, screeching like a child. ‘You’re breaking my arm, for fuck’s sake! You’re breaking my fuckin’ arm!’
Doyle held him a little longer, then Quinn nodded and he hoisted Jimmy to his feet. Quinn told him to sit down. ‘Now I’m going to ignore that you just tried to whack me,’ he said. ‘You might not believe it, but I know how the frustration can get you: all these years looking after for your dad, what with him and your mam and everything.’ He glanced briefly at Doyle. ‘You know, from what Martin McCafferty tells us, people down in Kerry actually think you’ve done a good job keeping him out of the nuthouse.’
Looking a little bewildered now, Jimmy was rubbing his wrist.
‘Tell us about Eva,’ Quinn went on softly. ‘Come on now, there’s no time. I’ll forget you tried to assault me. Just tell me where she is.’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘I swear to you, Mr Quinn. I swear to you on my mother’s grave: I know nothing about what happened to her.’
Tuesday 2nd September 5.15 pm
Outside in the car park, Quinn leant with his back to the car door and his hands in his pockets.
‘What do you think?’ he said.
Doyle made a face. ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to tell with a lad like that: all his life he’s been a toe-rag, but is he capable of the kind of planning and pre-meditation we’re looking at? I don’t know.’ He let go a breath. ‘We’ll find out when the results come in from the lab though, won’t we?’
When they got back to the incident room, the superintendent was behind Quinn’s desk with the files on the five missing women spread out in front of him.
‘Anything happen, Frank?’ Quinn asked. ‘Any new leads?’
Maguire shook his head. ‘What about Hanrahan?’
‘He’s not telling us anything.’
Closing the door, he perched on the edge of the desk. He indicated the files. ‘Have I convinced you then, with all my errant rambling?’
Maguire managed a half-smile. ‘I want to find Eva, Moss. What you said made some sense, and of course we’d be fools to ignore it.’
‘So, the lilywhite boys: who do we know from Kildare?’
Maguire didn’t reply. Resting on his elbows, he leafed through the pages. ‘Five single mothers,’ he said. ‘Six, if you include Mary.’
‘And seven if you include my wife.’
Maguire looked unimpressed. ‘Moss, even if we do include Mary – which we haven’t until now – I have to draw the line with Eva: that just does not stack up.’
‘Maybe not to you, Frank. Maybe not to me or Doyle or any other copper. But to this fucked-up scumbag …’ Quinn gestured. ‘We know he’s punishing women for some reason – and not just women, but mothers. Which brings us to Maggs’s mother, who drank drain cleaner, and Jimmy Hanrahan’s, who drowned herself. I tell you what: if you put those two lads in front of a forensic psychiatrist, he’d tell you they might have issues.’
‘You’re right,’ Maguire nodded. ‘He would. And that brings us back to Mary Harrington. Moss, there is no way that either Maggs or Hanrahan could ever have known she was pregnant.’
‘No, there’s not,’ Quinn said. ‘But we have to consider every option.’ Opening the door, he called across the incident room. ‘Doyler, do us a favour, would you? Get on the blower to the back of Shaws and tell them we’re coming down to talk to Willie Moore.’
Tuesday 2nd September 6 pm
The Baldonnel helicopter landed in a park in the centre of Limerick, where a guard in a marked car picked up Doyle and Quinn. Hitting the lights and sirens, he took them to the prison close to where the old Shaws department store used to be – which was how the place had got its nickname.
Quinn made a phone call to the pirate queen. ‘Grace,’ he said, when she answered. ‘Moss Quinn, how are you?’
‘I’m taking Russian lessons, Mossie. What about you?’
He laughed. She was a gangster – as ruthless a woman as there was – but she had a sense of history as well as a sense of humour, and he liked that.
‘My wife is missing, Grace. It’s been almost two days now, and time is running out.’
‘I know, I’ve been following it on the television, and it’s not good, it’s not good at all. We have our differences, of course we do, we’re playing for different sides, but to do this to a guard’s wife is taking things too far.’
‘Listen, Grace, there’s a kid doing a seven-stretch in the back of Shaws. He’s in for dealing smack he bought from Alexei Bris. I need someone to lean on him and I need them to do it now.’
‘The back of Shaws, you say?’
‘That’s right. Doyle and me are on our way right now. His name is Willie Moore.’
She didn’t say anything further, but then Grace would never openly offer help to the police: she didn’t know who might be listening.
‘She’s all right, you know,’ Doyle commented when Quinn had hung up. ‘As far as the criminal fraternity goes, I mean. She’s about as good as can be expected.’
‘She’s careful too,’ Quinn told him. ‘We’ve never been able to lay a finger on her, have we?’
‘No, and right now if she’s doing battle with Mintov, then she’s doing us a favour. It makes me think, though,’ he added. ‘I ought to get down to the moorings again maybe, have another word with your man about his cousin’s attitude.’
‘Jane Finucane?’ Quinn looked sideways at him. ‘You think she’s lying, don’t you?’
‘Course she is.’ Doyle tapped a thick finger against the side of his nose. ‘Thirty-two years, Moss: I can smell it as plain as I smelled the Brits the day I was blown through a plate-glass window.’
The guard dropped them outside the prison, and a few minutes later they were in reception, where they were told that Moore had been held up due to a disturbance on his landing. Quinn and Doyle exchanged a glance; while they waited, they grabbed a cup of coffee.
‘Good old Grace,’ Quinn observed quietly. ‘You never spoke to this guy, did you, Doyler? He’s a calculating fucker.’
Willie Moore had a slight swelling under his left eye; a little reddening of the cheek. He sat with his hands in his lap; he had an expression of disgust on his lip.
‘Willie,’ Quinn said, ‘I’m Moss Quinn. I …’
‘I know who you are,’ Moore told him. ‘I never forget a face and rarely - if ever - a name.’
‘Then you know why I’m here.’
Moore touched his cheek with the tip of his index finger. ‘To offer me parole?’ he said. ‘Have me out on licence maybe?’
‘You’re a scumbag drug dealer,’ Doyle reminded him. ‘Licence is for political prisoners.’
‘Political my arse: they were the biggest fucking gangsters in Irish history.’
‘We’re not here to talk about that,’ Quinn said. ‘The last time I spoke to you, I asked you a specific question.’
‘I remember.’ Moore leant towards him now, his forearms crosswise on the table.
‘I’m going to ask you that same question again,’ Quinn said, holding his eye. ‘I’ve no time to dance with you, Willie, so just give me an answer.’
‘An answer, is it?’ Moore dabbed his cheek a second time. ‘What’s it worth, inspector? Just how much is an answer worth to you?’
‘You little shit.’ Reaching across the table, Doyle grabbed him by the collar.
Moore laughed in his face. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘this is the back of Shaws. The odd screw might get away with giving out a kicking now and again, but not a copper – even one with a reputation for it.’ He turned to Quinn. ‘You want an answer; I say “how much?”’ Once more he touched his face. ‘And by the way, there’s a premium on it now.’
‘Listen, Willie,’ Quinn said. ‘My wife is lying in a hole somewhere, and in ano
ther twenty-four hours she’ll be beyond help.’
‘It’s a shame.’ Moore sat back in his chair. ‘I’m not in the people-hurting business, but I am in business.’
‘Shall I tell you about the people-hurting business?’ Doyle jutted his chin in Moore’s direction. ‘All we have to do is let a few folk in here know how cooperative you were’ – he indicated the swelling on Moore’s cheek – ‘and that little gnat bite will be the least of your worries. By the time they get done, you’ll wish you’d been rogered by the crew of a Liberian fishing trawler.’
‘Then the price goes up,’ Moore told him, ‘and it keeps going up. Sergeant, you might as well shut your fat gob, because there’s no way you’re going to intimidate me.’
Quinn shook his head. ‘I tell you something, Willie,’ he said, ‘I’m going to remember you.’
‘Course you are, Mr Quinn: I’ll be in business a long time.’
Quinn regarded him coldly, then said: ‘Mary Harrington was six weeks pregnant when she died.’
Moore looked nonplussed.
‘I asked you before if you knew that. We know she came to see you: it’s in the prison records.’
‘I might’ve known, inspector. Then again, I might not.’
At that, Doyle got to his feet. Walking round the table, he took hold of Moore by the collar and yanked him to his feet. Squeezing stiff fingers into the drug dealer’s throat, he pressed his lips to his ear. ‘Now you listen to me, shithead. You’re going to answer the inspector’s question, and you’re going to do it now, because if you don’t, I’m going to bounce your head off that wall.’ With that, he marched Moore backwards across the room.
Moore tried to laugh, but his face was the colour of ripe beetroot and there were tears in his eyes.
Doyle kept squeezing, and when finally Moore spoke, his voice was a shrill squeak. ‘Let me go, will you? Jesus,’ he cried. ‘OK, all right. I knew.’
Doyle released him and, working a palm against his throat, Moore took a couple of steps backwards. ‘You’re a psycho, Doyle, you know that. What they say about you isn’t the half of it.’
The Gathering of Souls Page 19
