The Gathering of Souls

by Gerry O'Carroll

  ‘Sit down, Willie,’ Quinn growled. ‘Or I’ll let him off the leash.’

  Moore sat, and Doyle stood right behind him. ‘Tell us,’ Doyle said. ‘Tell us now or I’ll tear your voice box out and you’ll have to write it down.’

  ‘What did you know?’ Quinn asked him.

  ‘That she was six weeks up the duff. She came in here and told me I was the brat’s father and that she wanted to keep it. She knew I had money and she wanted as much as she could get.’

  Looking over his shoulder, Moore glared at Doyle. ‘Did you hear that, you fucking ape? I’m worth a few quid: more than enough to pay someone to whack you.’

  Quinn grabbed his arm. ‘Concentrate, for God’s sake. We’ve not got all day.’

  ‘Six weeks, the stupid bitch.’ Moore looked as though he could spit. ‘Like I told Paddy, she’d forgotten, hadn’t she: we’d only been going out a month.’

  ‘Paddy?’ Quinn was peering into his face. ‘What do you mean you told Paddy? Who’s Paddy?’

  Moore lifted his shoulders. ‘Paddy Maguire, the prison visitor.’

  Tuesday 2nd September 7 pm

  All the way back to Dublin, Quinn was thinking about Willie Moore. They’d checked at reception and it was confirmed that Patrick Maguire had indeed been his prison visitor. Quinn wasn’t sure what it meant, except that Patrick had known that Mary Harrington had been pregnant and he hadn’t thought to mention it.

  ‘I tell you what,’ Doyle said, his voice crackling through the headphones, ‘at least we can stop worrying about any kind of a link now. Mary was random, Moss, she was spur-of-the-moment, and the other five are nothing to do with it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Patrick should’ve told us, though. God knows why he didn’t. Some kind of visitor-inmate confidence or some such bollocks, probably.’ He looked sideways as they came in to land. ‘We’re running out of time. I’m away down to the moorings as soon as I get hold of a car.’

  The chopper dropped them at Phoenix Park, where Murphy was waiting. Climbing into the passenger seat, Quinn asked her to take them back to the square. She was looking pensive.

  ‘What’s up?’ Quinn asked her.

  ‘The lab, Moss. The camera: the mechanism doesn’t match the pattern on the picture.’

  From the back seat, Doyle snorted. ‘There you go,’ he muttered.

  ‘I called the station at Terenure,’ Murphy went on, ‘and asked them to give Jimmy the bus fare back to Kerry.’

  Quinn could feel the minutes slipping away now, and for the first time he began to doubt that they would find her. The possibility made his blood run cold. All he could think about was the look on his daughters’ faces when he had to tell them.

  In the car park at Harcourt Square, he took another cigarette from the now-nearly-empty pack. His hands shook slightly as he lit it.

  ‘Did you get anything from the back of Shaws?’ Murphy asked him.

  He told her what Moore had told them – and to keep it to herself for the time being. When she was gone, he dialled Patrick’s mobile.

  ‘Paddy, it’s Moss,’ he said.

  ‘Moss, how are you? Is there any news?’

  ‘We thought we had a lead with Jimmy Hanrahan but that went to rat-shit.’

  ‘There’s nothing else?’

  ‘Only that I thought there might be a connection with Mary Harrington. I told you that. I was thinking that if anyone knew Mary was pregnant, then there might’ve been a link with the other women too.’

  Maguire was quiet.

  ‘Me and the Doyler flew down to the back of Shaws just now and spoke to her old boyfriend. You know him: Willie Moore. Mary told him the baby was his, but it couldn’t have been because she was six weeks gone and they’d only been going out for a month.’

  ‘And Willie told you that he told me,’ Maguire finished for him.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Quinn demanded.

  He heard his friend sigh heavily. ‘I thought about it, Moss. I thought long and hard. But when I started talking to these lads, I made a commitment that the conversations would remain confidential.’

  ‘Regardless of what they told you?’

  ‘They have to know they can confide in me without worrying about whether I’m a tout. Otherwise, what’s the point?’

  ‘You’re fucking mollycoddling them. Jesus, Pat, they’re villains, for fuck’s sake, and you’re worrying about their trust? They’re lucky they have anyone to talk to at all: most people don’t, you know.’

  ‘Oh come on, Moss, you know how it works. Without trust there’s …’

  ‘No, you come on, Patrick. I was investigating a murder, for God’s sake, and you had information that could’ve been pertinent.’

  ‘I made a commitment, a promise.’

  ‘It’s not the confessional, it’s a prison visit for pity’s sake.’ He broke off then, drawing hard on the cigarette.

  ‘Look Moss, I’m sorry, but what else could I have done?’

  ‘You could’ve told me, Patrick. That’s what you could’ve done.’

  Doyle drove to the Liffey and Johnny Clogs’ boat. The same bodyguard was on deck, and he gave Doyle the same hard stare he’d given him the last time he’d been there.

  ‘Where’s the boss?’ Doyle said as he climbed the steps.

  ‘He’s not in.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know: the dogs, mostly likely.’

  Doyle nodded slowly. ‘Get a-hold of him, Dessie. Get a-hold of your man and tell him to stop taking the piss and phone me, all right? Tell him to do it right away or I’ll come back with a can of petrol and a box of fucking matches.’

  ‘Jesus, you’re something, aren’t you?’

  ‘Believe it,’ Doyle said, and jumped down onto the quay.

  Walking back to the car, he heard a voice call from the shadows. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Jug Uttley, a little the worse for drink, leaning against the railings between Finucane’s boat and The Jeanie Johnston.

  ‘Jug, what do you know?’

  ‘Mr Doyle, all right?’ The water rat was slurring.

  ‘What is it, lad? I’m busy: if you’ve a word, give it to me.’

  ‘The Maggot, Mr Doyle: he only fuckin’ mugged me.’

  ‘He did what?’ Doyle squinted at him.

  ‘’Tis true; down by the canal. I’m walking along minding my own business when up pops the bastard and strips me of my cash.’

  ‘I’d take the gobshite for a lot of things, but a mugger? Are you sure that’s how it was, Jug?’

  ‘Course I am, Mr Doyle.’

  ‘Then report it: the biggest police station in Dublin’s just over on Amiens Street.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Understand what? If there’s something I need to know, then spit it out, would you?’

  ‘Can you spare me a couple a quid maybe? The fucker cleaned me out.’

  Reaching for his wallet, Doyle peeled off a couple of notes and handed them to the old tout.

  ‘Ah, bless you, Mr Doyle, bless you.’

  ‘Tell me what you know,’ Doyle said.

  ‘Well, after the scumbag took my money, it set me thinking. I made a couple of calls, and while I was talking to one lad, he told me something I thought you ought to know.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Patrick Maguire, Mr Doyle, the superintendent’s brother: he visited two men in Mountjoy whose wives were two of the ones that went missing.’

  Doyle opened the car door. ‘Janice Long and Karen Brady: I know. It’s in the prison records, Jug. It’s no secret.’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus, and I gave you money too. Do us a favour, would you? In future, don’t come looking for me when you’ve had a couple over the eight.’

  ‘That’s not all though, is it? There’s something else, Mr Doyle.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘It wasn’t just that pair of hardchaws he was talking to: Patrick spoke to the Maggot as well, didn’t he.’

  Doyle st
ared at him now.

  ‘That was the point of what I was coming to. It was a bit of a joke: the super’s brother visiting Conor Maggs on remand. I mean, it made no sense, did it? Maggs knew Patrick was going to testify against him.’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘The Crawthumper, Mr Doyle. Your man what cooked the books for Lorne McGeady’.

  Tuesday 2nd September 7.15 pm

  The church in Harold’s Cross was little more than a bible-study group, but Jane had been one of the founder members, along with the self-styled pastor Ray Kinsella. When Maggs had written his open letter from Mountjoy, Jane had read it to the group. It was then that, collectively, they had decided to take up his cause.

  Kinsella had contacts in London. Believing that both Maggs and Jane had stories that would inspire others to join their church, he arranged for them to spend some time with another group who met in Muswell Hill. The few months they spent over there had allowed the dust to settle after the trial, but it had always been the intention to bring them back to Dublin.

  Kinsella was younger than Maggs: around Jane’s age, no more than thirty. He was a small man with thinning hair and designer glasses; he wore flared jeans and pointed shoes; and he had the sleeves of his shirt rolled back on the inside at the cuff.

  They were all gathered: a fledgling community, but a vibrant one, and when they met there was plenty of singing, hand-clapping and dancing.

  They were due to begin the prayer meeting, but before they did, Maggs asked to say a few words.

  ‘You have to understand,’ he explained, ‘that in the circumstances of it being Inspector Quinn’s wife who was abducted, I was bound to be questioned.’ He regarded the group carefully. They were meeting in a school hall close to the Franciscan hospice. ‘You saw me on television – of course the clip is being repeated endlessly – and you know what happened at the Four Courts.’ He smiled then warmly. ‘But as I said that day, I bear no grudge towards the police, and if it hadn’t been for what happened with Doyle, I’d never have witnessed what I did at Rathmines.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ one of the younger girls said.

  Maggs glanced at her. ‘Unfortunately, the guards still believe I was responsible for what happened to Mary Harrington. They can’t seem to understand that the eloquence, as they put it, of my so-called confession was down to the fact that Joseph Doyle composed it.

  ‘It’s a sad indictment of our society that the police can never admit when they’re wrong, or indeed offer any kind of meaningful apology.

  ‘I’m telling you now so we’re all clear about what happened. When they interviewed me, I had no representation and I was not under caution. I told them I had no objection to talking to them; on the contrary, it gave me an opportunity to clear my name.’

  He took Jane’s hand now, and with a warm smile he went on. ‘I want you all to know how this lady has stood by me: she will tell you that I was pretty shocked when I saw the news. I knew they’d be coming as soon as they found out I was in Ireland, and I was scared, I don’t mind admitting it. I’ve known Quinn and Doyle a long time, and Quinn could never deal with the fact that even though he’d usurped me in her affections, Eva and I remained very close. When we were kids, she wore a necklace I’d given her.’ For a second or two, he broke off, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘She wore it during my trial,’ he said more quietly. ‘She may have been Quinn’s wife, but she never thought me capable of abducting Mary Harrington.’ He was smiling again. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to share that with you so that perhaps you can appreciate the bigger picture. I’ve been accused of a lot of things in my life – and none of them very pleasant.’

  He was quiet for a while then; they all were; each of them contemplating what he had said. Then he sat forward. ‘You’ve all been very kind. I mean, you’ve been kinder than kind; kinder than any kindness I’ve known, in fact. I don’t want to sound self-pitying, but my life has been spent largely without family and with precious few friends.’

  ‘Well, you have both now, Conor,’ Kinsella stated.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much. I want you to know how much I appreciate it, and also how much I appreciate being able to call this meeting. Her husband and uncle might not have a lot of time for me, but Eva certainly used to.’ His voice wavered suddenly, and he took a moment to gather himself. ‘She’s one of the sweetest souls God ever placed on the earth, and I believe that with the power of our prayers, he will protect her.’

  Tuesday 2nd September 7.15 pm

  Jimmy the Poker was sitting in the bus stop with the wind blowing litter up the street. He was beyond the bowling green at the junction of Terenure Road where it joined Harold’s Cross. One of the guards had suggested he take a coach to Kerry from the station on Amiens Street, on the north side of the Liffey. He was angry: he had been dragged all the way up here from the west coast, then chucked a couple of euro and told to clear off. They hadn’t given him back his camera – or the box of photographs. Every picture he’d ever taken was in that box.

  He was sucking so hard on his cigarette that his cheeks all but met in the middle. He was thinking about his stuff, and he was thinking about his dad telling the guards he’d not been home on Sunday.

  He’d have to put the bastard straight when he got back. The people from social services didn’t like him being on his own, but that’s how he would’ve been since this afternoon.

  Fuck him, Jimmy thought. Serves him right. There was no gathering of souls. He didn’t see dead people in the kitchen, he saw only what his mangled liver showed him: hallucinations – the kind that came when a conscience as troubled as his was mixed with bottles of neat gin. Jimmy knew what he told everyone: how he’d not been near a drop of alcohol since his wife passed. But that was all rubbish; he was the same old drunk he’d always been.

  He supposed that the Social might send someone round to make sure he was all right: no doubt McCafferty had phoned to say the guards had picked his son up and that the old fool would be by himself. They might have asked the Slovak woman who was supposed to keep the place clean to go over and cook him a bit of food. Jimmy could hear him muttering as he sat there; he could see him in his chair with his red face and bulbous nose, the skin marked with thread veins that grew ever more prominent with each drop he supped.

  There was no sign of the bus. Looking at his watch, he threw away his cigarette. What was he doing sitting here anyway, just because the shades told him he had to? The bastards had brought him up here; they should be taking him back.

  He had a couple of euro in his pocket, and there had to be a pub nearby. He’d overheard one of them mention that there was a meeting at the Harold’s Cross dog-track tonight. As he knew a little about greyhounds, Jimmy decided he might try and win a few quid. It would serve the old man right. He could lie there in his own sweat listening to the voices inside his head. After what he’d said on Sunday, he could put up with the devil by himself tonight.

  Tuesday 2nd September 7.40 pm

  Quinn drove to his house in Glasnevin to pick up a fresh shirt; he had none left at the Garda Club and hadn’t changed when he woke up this morning. After two days, the collar was rubbing his neck raw.

  The house was silent and empty, yet it smelled clean and fresh, as it always did: it smelled to him of his wife. Standing in the hall, the extent of his loss suddenly hit him, and it was all he could do not to slump on the stairs and cry.

  The light on the telephone answer machine was blinking; he thought his daughters might’ve phoned while he was out. The timer indicated that the call had come in just after seven. He pressed the button and listened.

  ‘Three little mice, they couldn’t find their way: for three little mice, the clock stopped that day.’

  Murphy met him on the stairs at Harcourt Square. ‘I don’t know what the hell is going on,’ he said. ‘But Jesus, we’re going around in circles. Someone has to know something. I’m going to talk to Maggs again, Keira. Do me a favour, will you: get hold of Do
yle and ask him to meet me at Jane Finucane’s.’

  Downstairs he walked outside, and taking the 9mm Glock from his shoulder holster, he slipped out the magazine. Carefully he checked the rounds and slid the magazine back again. Replacing the gun in its holster, he got in his car and drove the short distance to the service road that branched off Richmond Street.

  His eyes were cold, his jaw set; parking the car beneath the concrete balcony, he trailed the fingers of his left hand along the spiked railings.

  Almost eight o’clock: forty-eight hours since Eva had been abducted. Trembling slightly, he could see her with her auburn hair cropped short. After Danny was killed, she’d cut it off as if in some kind of penance; since then, nothing had been the same.

  Climbing stone steps, he rapped on the door. But the hall was dark through the reinforced glass and there was no light in the kitchen window. Instead, he hammered on the neighbour’s door; a moment later, it was opened by a pudgy-faced man wearing a pair of running shorts.

  ‘Garda,’ Quinn told him. ‘Sorry to bother you, but next door, do you have any idea where they are?’

  A glimmer of recognition passed across the man’s face. ‘You’re the copper whose wife is missing,’ he said. ‘It’s been all over the TV.’

  Quinn thought for a moment. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Harry Long.’

  ‘I’m Moss Quinn. Were you in on Sunday night, Harry?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Did you hear any coming and going from in there?’ Quinn jerked a thumb at the house next door.

  Long made a face. ‘She had a visitor, I think. Came early, went about nine maybe.’

  ‘Was she in on her own?’

  ‘I don’t know. He came back with her though, didn’t he? They’d been in England or somewhere – or that’s what I heard.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘The other feller, the one from before.’