The Gathering of Souls

by Gerry O'Carroll

  ‘Conor Maggs, you mean?’

  ‘Is that his name? I don’t know: black-haired lad, anyway.’

  ‘Did you hear anything else?’

  Long shook his head. ‘If you want them now, I reckon they might be over in Harold’s Cross. She goes to this leaping-and-wailing church. You know – the happy-clappy brigade.’

  ‘Does she now?’

  ‘Aye, she does.’ Long gave a thin smile. ‘She keeps trying to get me along there with her. No chance of that, mind. Anyway, I think they meet in a school not far from Mount Jerome.’

  ‘Thanks, Harry,’ Quinn said. ‘I’m obliged.’

  ‘You’re welcome, inspector. I hope you find your wife.’

  Quinn was about to get back in the car when Doyle pulled up next to him. Walking over, Quinn leant on the roof.

  ‘The bastard called me again, Doyler: the answer phone at home.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Quinn told him. Quinn glanced up at the balcony. ‘Given how Jimmy the Poker is in the clear, I came looking for Maggs again, but there’s no one here. The neighbour reckons they might be over in your neck of the woods.’

  The school abutted the hospice, which in turn bordered Mount Jerome Cemetery. It was a modern building with a red-tiled roof; a handful of cars were parked outside. Although there were lights on in the hall, the main door was locked. They pressed the buzzer and waited.

  Quinn could see that Doyle had something on his mind. ‘Did you see Johnny Clogs, then?’ he asked him.

  ‘No, but I put a flea in his lad’s ear and he told me Johnny might be across the road there betting on the dogs.’ He nodded in the direction of the track.

  ‘Who did you see then?’ Quinn asked. ‘You’ve a face on you like a bulldog chewing a wasp.’

  At that moment the door at the far end of the hall opened, and a young blonde woman walked the length of the corridor.

  Taking his ID from his pocket, Quinn held it up to the glass. ‘Are you from the church group?’ he called.

  Unlocking the door, she nodded. ‘We’re holding a prayer meeting. Why, is there a problem?’

  ‘Is Conor Maggs with you?’

  She looked into his face then, recognition flaring. ‘You’re Inspector Quinn, aren’t you? Inspector, the prayer meeting is for your wife.’

  For a moment, Quinn just stared at her.

  ‘It’s true, we arranged it specially. Actually, it was Conor who called us together.’

  A man, sandy-haired and not very tall, appeared in the corridor and made his way towards them.

  ‘That’s Ray Kinsella, our pastor,’ the girl said. Then, turning towards him, she said: ‘Ray, it’s the police. This is Inspector Quinn.’

  Kinsella hovered momentarily as if he did not know what to say. Then Maggs appeared.

  ‘Been on the phone again, have you?’ Quinn stared at him coldly, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other loose by his side.

  Maggs looked wearily at him. ‘We’re praying for Eva, Moss.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ Quinn said, ‘instead of praying for her, why don’t you give her up?’

  Kinsella moved in front of him. ‘Inspector Quinn, please.’

  Quinn looked down at him. ‘Has he been here all the time?’

  ‘Of course; we all have.’

  ‘What time did you get here?’

  The pastor shrugged. ‘Around seven, maybe.’

  Maggs stepped forward now. ‘What is it, Moss? What do you want?’

  Quinn flared his nostrils, every muscle tense as he stared into Maggs’s eyes. ‘Sergeant,’ he said to Doyle, ‘escort Conor to the car, will you? I’ll join you in a minute.’

  ‘Is he being arrested?’ Kinsella asked.

  Quinn turned back to Maggs. ‘I don’t know. Are you being arrested or are you coming of your own accord?’

  With a shake of his head, Maggs stepped past him.

  ‘Sergeant Doyle,’ Kinsella said, ‘I am a witness to this, and if there’s a single mark on him, you will answer for it.’

  Doyle spoke without looking round: ‘I’ll bear that in mind, Father.’

  Quinn went into the hall, where he spotted Jane Finucane sitting on a high-backed chair with another girl alongside her. Jane was red around the eyes and had a handkerchief in her hand. Crossing the room, Quinn waved the other girl away, then, resting his palms on his thighs, he bent towards Jane and looked her in the eyes.

  ‘My wife is missing,’ he told her. ‘She’s lying somewhere with her lips cracked and her tongue swollen. When she cries, there are no tears because after forty-eight hours her tear ducts have dried up. She can last until tomorrow night and then she’ll be in a coma. Once that happens, her organs start shutting down, and even if we find her there’s no guarantee we can get her back.’ Pausing for a moment, he added: ‘Do you understand that?’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘I’m going to ask this only once: on Sunday night, was Conor with you or not?’

  Jane held his gaze. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he was.’

  ‘If you’re lying and Eva dies, you’re going to the women’s prison as an accessory to murder.’ He straightened up now. ‘Just so you know, Jane; just so you understand.’

  Doyle had Maggs in the back seat of his car, and Quinn got in beside him. He thought about taking him to his rooms at the Garda Club or Glasnevin even, but given what Kinsella had said, he decided against it. ‘Take us to Crumlin Road, Joe,’ he commanded.

  They drove in silence, Maggs with his hands in his lap and Quinn staring ahead. They made their way to Parnell Road, then, for a short distance, skirted the Grand Canal. At the junction with Crumlin Road, they swung south-west until they came to the police station. Dragging Maggs out of the car, they marched him in through the back door, where a uniformed sergeant greeted them. Doyle explained that they needed an interview room. Another younger guard took Maggs down the corridor and then came back to find them again.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘do you want me to set up the tapes?’

  Quinn shook his head.

  The guard seemed a little unsure, and Doyle laid a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘He’s not been arrested, lad: he’s here of his own accord.’

  Quinn turned in the direction of the interview room but Doyle checked him. ‘Moss,’ he said, ‘you asked me who I spoke to down by the river.’

  ‘Yeah, I did. Something’s on your mind, Doyler; what is it?’

  Doyle told him what Uttley had said. ‘He told me the source was Lorne McGeady’s accountant.’

  ‘The Crawthumper?’

  Doyle nodded. ‘He and the Maggot were tight as a drum, apparently. He told Jug that Maggs was visited by Pat Maguire – which for the life of me I just don’t get.’ He paused. ‘I’m the last person to be making connections, but he also visited both Janice Long’s former husband and Karen Brady’s.’

  Quinn nodded slowly. ‘I thought about that as soon as Willie told us.’

  ‘So,’ Doyle continued, squinting towards the interview room, ‘the question is: do you still want to talk to your man, or do we go and see Paddy?’

  Maggs looked nervous, drumming his fingers on the table.

  Doyle sat; Quinn took his jacket off and removed the Glock from its holster. He racked a round into the chamber then walked behind Maggs and, taking him by the hair, jerked his head back.

  He pressed the barrel of the gun under his ear. ‘Where is she, Conor? Where is Eva?’ Maggs stared wildly, the whites of his eyes fully visible.

  ‘What have you done with Eva?’

  ‘Nothing … I haven’t done anything with her.’ He was stammering. ‘I told you, I know nothing about it. For God’s sake, what do I have to do?’

  ‘Tell us the truth: that’s what you have to do.’

  ‘I am. I swear. I am telling the truth.’

  ‘Tell us where she is.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What about the others?’ Doyle fired the question from across the table
. ‘What about the five we never found? Did you do the same to them, maggot? Strangle them until they danced, before you buried them?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, honest to God I don’t.’

  Quinn slammed him face down onto the table. ‘I told you to tell us the truth.’

  ‘I am, I am. For God’s sake, I am.’ Maggs was spitting, his face red, saliva drooling from his lips.

  Quinn let him up and Maggs took a moment to gather himself. He touched his lips and inspected his fingers, then wiped them on his jeans. ‘There you go again,’ he muttered. ‘How utterly predictable.’ He looked up savagely. ‘There’ll be marks, Moss, just like before – only this time I’ll sue the shit out of both of you.’

  Quinn grabbed his hair. ‘Do you think I care about marks? You little fuck, when I’m finished they’ll not be able to see you for them.’

  Holstering his gun, he stood back. ‘Three little mice,’ he said. ‘Three little mice couldn’t find their way; for three little mice the clock stopped that day.’

  ‘Poetry, you toe-rag,’ Doyle said. ‘Another little rhyme to get us going.’

  ‘Not from me,’ Maggs said.

  ‘Of course it was from you. You’re having a laugh, playing a game with a couple of guards you’ve been fucking with forever.’

  Maggs touched his forehead where it was marked red and a lump was already beginning to swell. ‘I think I need a lawyer,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You know, before things get out of hand.’

  Quinn snorted. ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘I’m entitled to a lawyer.’

  ‘You’re entitled to fuck all.’ Again Quinn was alongside him. He clamped his hand over the back of Maggs’s. ‘What’s Eva entitled to, eh?’

  ‘Prayer,’ Maggs said. ‘She’s entitled to prayer.’

  ‘Jesus, but you’re a sick fucker.’ Doyle shook his head.

  Maggs rounded on him now. ‘What’s sick about praying for a friend? What’s sick about the fact that I forgave you, Doyle, for the kicking you gave me? How sick is that, compared to the feller who dished it out?’

  ‘You confessed, you gobshite.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Maggs glowered at Quinn once more. ‘Go ahead, Moss. Get your gloves and your phone books and your armlocks. Get the thumbscrews and the rack while you’re at it. Do what you like, because I can’t tell you where she is, no matter what you do to me.’

  For a few moments nobody spoke, then Quinn sat down heavily. He studied his watch. ‘It’s eight-thirty, Conor.’

  Maggs spread his palms. ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Why did you ask to see Patrick Maguire when you were locked up in Mountjoy?’

  ‘I didn’t ask to see him.’

  ‘That’s not what we heard.’

  ‘I don’t care what you heard, Moss. He asked to see me.’

  Now they both stared at him.

  ‘How do you know about it anyway?’ Maggs asked.

  ‘Maggot,’ Doyle said, ‘do you not know we know everything about you? We know you spoke to Patrick, and we know what happened on the canal with the old water rat.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Mugging the poor bastard. How much did you take, eh? And how does it square with your friends back there?’

  ‘I’ve another question for you,’ Quinn interrupted. ‘Who do you know from Kildare?’

  Maggs looked bewildered.

  ‘The lilywhite boys: two, two, the lilywhite boys. You know the poem, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Lilywhites are people from Kildare. So who do you know from Kildare?’

  All at once, Maggs started laughing.

  ‘What’s funny?’ Quinn demanded.

  Maggs shook his head.

  ‘What the hell are you laughing about?’

  ‘Maguire, Moss: Patrick Maguire.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s from County Kildare.’

  Quinn stared at him. ‘No he’s not: he’s from Dublin.’

  ‘No.’ Maggs leant towards him now, eyes dark, hair hanging to his brows. ‘He’s from Clane in County Kildare.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Doyle asked.

  Maggs spread his palms again. ‘Because he told me.’

  Tuesday 2nd September 7.45 pm

  They left him alone then. Outside in the corridor, Quinn looked bemusedly at Doyle.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ he said.

  Doyle hunched his shoulders. ‘I’m buggered if I know. The whole thing: it beats the shit out of me.’

  ‘Is he telling the truth?’

  For the first time, Doyle hesitated.

  ‘Did we fuck up, Doyler?’ Quinn asked. ‘Did we allow the past to cloud our judgement? Did we let personal feelings get in the way?’

  Doyle made a face. ‘All this time I would’ve sworn my instinct was right. I thought he was our man for sure …’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I don’t know. If I’m to be honest with you, Moss, I don’t know. She’s my brother’s girl. I promised I’d look out for her. And now I just don’t know.’

  When they went back inside, Maggs was sitting exactly where they had left him. Doyle had organised some tea; a few minutes later, the young guard from before set three cups on the table.

  ‘Do you want sugar?’ Quinn asked Maggs.

  Maggs glanced furtively at him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Doyle said. ‘Do you not know if you want sugar?’

  Maggs laughed nervously. ‘It’s not that, it’s you two: one moment you’ve a gun in my ear, and the next you’re asking me if I want sugar in my tea.’

  ‘How would you play it if you were us?’ Quinn asked him. ‘Just supposing it was you who’d married her, and I was sitting where you are, and she was missing. With time running out, how would you play it, Conor?’

  Maggs sipped tea, both hands hooking the cup like a child. ‘Why were the two of you separated?’ he said. ‘I thought you were always so tight.’

  Quinn thought about this before answering. ‘You knew about my son?’

  Maggs nodded. ‘A hit-and-run, north of the river. I heard about it, of course.’

  ‘It came between us. Sometimes these things do.’

  ‘Grief is a terrible thing,’ Maggs said, glancing at Doyle again. ‘Everyone handles it in their own way. When my mother died, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I know what people thought of her, but she was my mother. She was an alcoholic; addicted. It was a sickness; it wasn’t her fault. I hated what she did, but she had no choice: she’d never have been that way in any other circumstances.’

  His gaze seemed to fasten on the floor. ‘I had nothing to do with Eva’s disappearance. Moss, you have to know I would never hurt her. When I was a kid, she was my only friend. You never understood that, but when you came down to Kerry, it was my only friend you were taking. That’s what she was. I may have loved her; I may have wished our relationship could’ve been more than that; but whatever anyone thought, Eva was my friend.’

  Taking a shallow breath, he gestured. ‘Everyone decided that because I asked my auntie to buy her a necklace, I somehow thought I had some kind of claim on her. But it was never like that: I didn’t follow her around like the lost puppy everyone said I was.’ He squinted darkly, tilting his head so he could look at Doyle. ‘You were suspicious because of how my mam died. I know you were; I heard the rumours. But Jimmy paraded that picture around the school, and even though he had twenty-odd backing him, I went for him. I took them all on, didn’t I? I’m not going to defend my mam like that, then put drain cleaner in a wine bottle knowing that when she’s drunk she’s likely to guzzle it.’

  Quinn was scouring his face now, seeking the hint of a lie. ‘Did you kill Mary Harrington?’

  Maggs shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Do you know where Eva is?’

  Again he shook his head.

  ‘Why did you ask to see Patrick?’
<
br />   ‘I told you, that’s not how it was. It was him that asked to see me.’

  Quinn and Doyle glanced at each other.

  ‘I couldn’t work it out either,’ Maggs said, gesturing. ‘I mean, he’d told you he saw me with Mary Harrington, and I knew he was going to testify, so what the hell did he want to see me about? He knew I was never with Mary Harrington – not in the way he told you, anyway. She might have been at the corner when I nipped over to buy Molly a package of fags, but I never spoke to her, short of asking if she was all right.’

  ‘He told us you had your heads together,’ Doyle said. ‘That you spoke to her for at least a couple of minutes.’

  Maggs snorted. ‘So did Jimmy Hanrahan.’

  ‘They got it wrong then, did they?’

  ‘Sergeant, I told you how it was when you first interviewed me: I didn’t speak to Mary other than ask her if she was all right. I mean, she was drunk, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Talking of drunk,’ Quinn said, ‘why did you get Molly to say what she did when you both knew she was in no state to remember?’

  Maggs gave a short, scornful laugh. ‘You know why. Sergeant Doyle was convinced I killed my mother, and you thought I’d been spying on you down by the river. I’m not stupid: it wasn’t going to take much for the pair of you to come after me.’

  ‘What did you and Patrick talk about?’ Quinn asked him.

  ‘What do you think we talked about? Mary Harrington, of course. I was sure he was looking for something.’

  ‘What d’you mean: “looking for something”?’

  ‘I mean something other than the confession you got; something that wasn’t forced; something that would make him sleep a little easier.’

  ‘What do you mean: “sleep a little easier”?’

  ‘You’re the detective; you work it out.’

  ‘Are you saying that Patrick had something to do with Mary’s death?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything: whenever I open my mouth, I get my teeth kicked in.’

  ‘What else did you talk about?’

  Maggs shook his head.

  ‘Come on, I’m asking you: what else did you talk about?’

  ‘That night down by the river.’

  ‘You mean, when he found you in the bushes with your trousers round your ankles?’