‘So he says.’
‘What were you doing there, then?’
Maggs didn’t reply.
‘Conor, I’m asking you a question.’
‘And you wouldn’t believe the answer. You were on a rugby tour with your best mate and I was the little gobshite who wouldn’t let Eva alone.’ He shook his head dejectedly. ‘Ah, come on, I’m done with this. I’ve told you all I know.’
‘No you haven’t. And I’m asking,’ Quinn said. ‘How come you were down by the river?’
Maggs peered at the floor. ‘If you must know, I was there because it was obvious how Patrick had been looking at Eva. I saw him that first night in the pub, remember, and I saw him when the two of you took off. He followed you, Moss; all I was doing was following him.’ He looked closely at Quinn. ‘I didn’t like the way he was looking at Eva. And why do you think he made such a hullabaloo lipping off like he did? I mean, if it had been you coming upon me like that, what would you have done, yelled your head off? I don’t think so. More likely you’d be dragging me off somewhere to give me a quiet kicking.’
Tuesday 2nd September 8.30 pm
The canal looked very peaceful: the shadows of trees in the street lights; a few people wandering the towpath on the other side. With the flat in darkness, Patrick Maguire stood at his window and watched as he liked to do: with no light to distract him, he was able to pick up the subtleties, the nuances of the night. He thought of Eva. He thought of Willie Moore and his calculations. He thought of Quinn on the phone earlier.
He poured another slug of Bushmills. Adding a splash of water from the kitchen tap, he drank it down and set the glass on the draining board. He felt a little nervous: he moved about the flat with a sudden sense of trepidation, the kind of feeling he’d not had in a long time. Sitting in a chair, he lifted a foot to rest against the hearth, and, as always, his gaze was drawn to her picture.
Frank was right: he should have ditched it long ago.
He thought about pouring another shot of whiskey but he’d had two big glugs already: anymore and he’d get a headache. He couldn’t remain in the flat, though: it seemed very cramped indeed.
He made his way across the road and onto the towpath. Here he hesitated, thinking he’d make a right and head towards Lansdowne Road. Instead, he walked the other way towards Richmond Bridge, planning to stroll down past the barracks.
But he didn’t.
Crossing the bridge, he paused to wrinkle his nose at the smokers gathered outside the Portobello. Wandering a little further on, he stopped at Jocky O’Connell’s pub. He bought a pint of lager and sat at the bar shooting the breeze with Marie, the barmaid. He knew her well – they all did – and Marie told him to tell Moss that everyone was praying for the safe return of his wife.
Tuesday 2nd September 9 pm
Eva had no idea of time, though it was dark again and the clock was ticking. She knew that her life was slowly ebbing away.
She could see Danny, though his face was dim. She could see Jess and Laura, though theirs were dimmer still.
She could see her mother and her sisters; she could see her Uncle Joe.
She could see Moss when he was nineteen. She could see Patrick Maguire.
Words; sentences; half-phrases; things people had said; pictures; images from the past swimming before her eyes. This must be how it was then: this was how it was before you died.
Then she heard the footsteps.
No matter how weak she was, she could always hear the footsteps.
And she would begin to tremble: her bowels would weaken; she could feel urine that wasn’t there.
She could hear the clock and she could hear his footsteps.
She heard the door swing open and he was in the room and she waited for his voice. She wept tearlessly: knowing he was standing right above her; knowing there was nothing she could do.
She wanted to cry out but her limbs were so weak, her mind so confused. Even if she had no gag, there was nothing she could say. But she could hear him, she could feel him and she could almost smell him now as he stood above her looking down on the grave.
That’s what this was now, a resting place where there would be no rest. Sooner or later, her periods of unconsciousness would lengthen and lengthen until she never woke again. When she thought of it like that, she was almost calm: she would be with Danny, and Moss would look after Jess and Laura. They would be all right. They wanted their daddy, and they were so young that they had never understood why she’d sent him away in the first place.
And then she heard his voice again. It assaulted her, life something physical. That hoarse whisper. ‘If they’re clever enough, they will find you. Do you hear me, Eva? If they’re clever enough, they will.’
They won’t, she thought. It’s too late.
And in her mind’s eye, she could see his face and knew at last who he was.
Tuesday 2nd September 9.20 pm
Quinn and Doyle collected the other car from the school. Back at Harcourt Square, they met up on the stairs, and Quinn took his partner by the arm. ‘Keep what we know to ourselves, Doyler,’ he instructed. ‘For now at least; until we’ve figured it out.’
Doyle gave him a laboured smile. ‘So what is it you think we know then? I’m only a sergeant, and I tell you I’m confused.’
Frank Maguire met them as they came into the incident room. ‘Moss,’ he said, ‘if you’re going after Maggs, I need to know about it beforehand. The man is a delicate issue, and the press just love the fact that we’re speaking to him again. If he wants to have a go at us, they’ll be falling over themselves to give him the platform he needs. If he’s been arrested, then someone who is officially tasked will need to interview him, not you.’
Quinn looked him in the eye. ‘He’s not been arrested, Frank.’
Maguire furrowed his brow.
‘Not yet, anyway,’ Doyle added. ‘We spoke to him again just now, but it was all very amicable.’
Maguire took Quinn’s arm and took him to one side. ‘What’s he going on about? Nothing between him and Maggs has ever been even vaguely amicable.’
‘It’s all right, Frank,’ Quinn told him. ‘We spoke to him and then we let him go.’
Murphy was at her desk. ‘Where are the files, Murph?’ Quinn asked her. ‘The five missing women; what did we do with the files?’
‘They’re still in your office.’
Maguire followed him to his desk. ‘Moss,’ he said, ‘I really think we should discount the other files. What’s important is finding Eva; they’re just complicating the issue.’
‘Are they?’ Quinn sat down at his desk.
‘Three little mice,’ Doyle stated. ‘Mice and clocks: another nursery rhyme, for God’s sake. Hickory dickory dock or something, is it now?’
‘Who knows?’ Maguire said helplessly. ‘It’s all cryptic nonsense, and none of it ties together.’
‘Like the lilywhite boys,’ Quinn said without looking up.
‘Yes, like the lilywhite boys. And maggots in her head, and a photo of a stone on a patch of sand.’
Quinn checked the clock on the wall against his watch and the clock on his computer screen. Then he opened the file on Janice Long, the first woman to go missing, almost six years previously.
Half an hour later, he was outside in the car park with Doyle. ‘Joseph,’ he said, ‘whatever Frank says, we’ve five missing women, all of them single mothers, and two with husbands doing time at the Joy. On top of that, we’ve Mary Harrington, who was pregnant, and we have Eva …’
‘And the super’s brother with access to them all,’ Doyle said, finishing his sentence.
Quinn thought for a moment. ‘We need to talk to him, but first I want to see what the Craw has to say. Let’s get ourselves up to the North Circular and drag the tout out of bed.’
Without speaking to Frank, they crossed the river, Doyle driving and Quinn on the phone instructing the duty officer at the prison to have his informant waiting to speak to him.
The man started to argue because of the time, of course, but Quinn told him that it was in direct relation to his missing wife. By the time they got beyond the grey Victorian walls, Lorne McGeady’s accountant was waiting in an interview room.
Quinn had a carton of cigarettes for him: he’d make more money selling those than if he was given straight cash, and it would keep his reputation intact. The Craw was in his forties, with greying hair. He was slightly built, gaunt even; he looked as though he’d never eaten enough. He had one of the sharpest minds in Mountjoy, however, and nothing ever escaped him.
‘Hello, Craw,’ Quinn said, sitting down in the white-walled room with a single table and three chairs.
‘Do you know Sergeant Doyle?’
‘Who doesn’t know Sergeant Doyle, at least by reputation?’
‘Craw, you know my wife is missing.’
‘Of course I do; everyone does; and I can tell you it is causing great consternation not just on the streets but behind these hallowed walls. It doesn’t do to cross the lines of demarcation; even sociopaths like the Ukrainian understand that. ‘
‘Listen,’ Quinn said, ‘I need help to find her, and whoever offers that help will be remembered.’ He passed him the box of cigarettes.
‘Inspector,’ Craw said, ‘I can tell you that even as we speak, the fraternity of Mountjoy Brothers is kneeling in supplication.’
‘I need more than fucking prayers, Craw, I need information.’ Quinn drew a sharp breath through his nose. ‘Why, when he was going to testify against him, did Paddy Maguire want to visit Conor Maggs?’
Craw sat back. ‘Now, who spoke to me about that just recently,’ he mused. ‘Ah, I remember.’ He spread his palms. ‘I can only tell you what Maggs told me, but if you speak to Patrick, I imagine he’ll tell you it was Conor that asked to see him, and not the other way round.’
Quinn considered the comment for a moment.
‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ the Craw responded. ‘That’s the way of it in here: never me, sir, always the other fellow. Unless of course there’s some advantage in it.’
‘But Maggs told you Patrick asked to see him?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘What did they talk about?’
‘Maggots,’ the Crawthumper said.
*
Maggs was sitting at the table when Paddy Maguire came in. Arms folded, he looked up as the door was closed, and the prison visitor placed his soft leather briefcase on the table.
‘Well, well, Brother,’ Maggs said. ‘A visit from you, this is a surprise.’
Maguire looked him in the eye. ‘I’m not your brother.’
‘No, of course you’re not. I know you’re not. It’s just a figure of speech.’
‘Yeah, well don’t use it with me. Do you understand?’
Maggs nodded. ‘So tell me – I’m curious, given how you’re going to testify against me – what did you want to see me about?’
‘Conor, you wanted to see me.’
With a nod of acknowledgement, Maggs indicated the leather briefcase. ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘You’ve a tape recorder in there, and you’re hoping maybe I’ll give you another confession.’
He laughed then without humour. ‘What is it, Paddy? Quinn and Doyle send you, did they? Hoping to get something they can say wasn’t forced?’ He blew the air from his cheeks. ‘Well they can think again, brother. You’ll not have me putting my name to any more of their lies.’
‘I’ve told you,’ Maguire said, ‘I’m not your brother, and there’s no tape in my bag.’
‘So what do you want then? Have you come here to counsel me? Is that it? Is it the power you like, maybe?’
Maguire didn’t answer him.
All at once, realisation seemed to dawn, and Maggs sat back in his chair. ‘You’ve come to gloat, haven’t you? Of course you have; that’s what you do. Of all people, I should know. You get your man in a spot and then you like to gloat. It’s what you did in Kerry, remember, when we were down by the river.’
Leaning forward once more, he brought the flat of his hand down on the table. ‘The crack you made in front of Eva in the pub on the night of the fleadh cheoil. I understand. Of course I do. No wonder you told them I was speaking to Mary.’
‘What’re you talking about?’ Maguire asked him.
‘I’m talking about how I saw you watching Eva that night all those years ago, when all the time you’ve been claiming it was the other way round. Is that what you’re doing now, Patrick, making sure I take the fall?’
Patrick was trembling slightly.
‘You’re here to ensure I go down.’ Maggs’s gaze was dull suddenly. ‘Well you won’t get away with it. I’m going to get off, and when I do, where will you be then?’
He was silent for a moment, then he added: ‘Aithininn ciaróg, Paddy. Aithininn ciaróg ciaróg eile.’
Tuesday 2nd September 9.22 pm
For a few moments, the two detectives just sat there with the Craw opposite them, his expression grave and his hands clasped in his lap.
‘Aithininn ciaróg,’ Doyle muttered, ‘aithininn ciaróg ciaróg eile.’ Turning to Quinn, he translated: ‘One maggot recognises another.’
Quinn was considering the informant. ‘What was all that talk about a brother?’ he asked.
‘It was a joke, Mr Quinn; a little dig, I’m thinking.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Patrick, he almost joined the Society.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘The Society of Christian Brothers: we’ve one or two in here at the moment.’
‘Them and the priests,’ Doyle muttered. ‘Jesus, there must be more Mass said in Irish prisons than Irish churches these days.’
‘Craw, what do you mean Patrick almost joined the Brothers?’ Quinn asked.
The tout looked across the table at him. ‘Inspector, you played rugby with the lad, did you not?’
‘For years, yes.’
‘And you’d no idea?’
‘No.’
‘From the age of eleven, he was brought up at Islandbridge.’
Quinn stared at him.
‘He was a full-time boarder at St Boniface. One of the monks that taught him is right here in the Joy: they say he buggered some other lad, but I don’t believe it. He’s a man of God and I’m sure he’s innocent. If not, God will forgive him.’
‘Paddy was brought up at Islandbridge?’ Quinn cocked one eyebrow. ‘But his mam and dad, Craw, they’re ex-pats; they live in Dubai or somewhere.’
The tout shook his head. ‘No they don’t. When they were kids, Frank and Patrick lived in a council block in County Kildare and neither of them ever knew their dad. Their mam was dead from the drink by the time Patrick was eleven.’
Both Quinn and Doyle were silent, sitting with their arms folded, gazing across the table.
‘Frank went straight to Templemore,’ the Craw went on. ‘He’d always wanted to be a copper, and he’d always wanted to be accepted. It was him who let folk believe all that stuff about their parents: he didn’t want anyone to know the truth; what he wanted was respectability. Patrick was only eleven and he had nowhere to go, so Frank asked the Brothers if they would take him, and from eleven to eighteen he lived at St Boniface. He was all set to become a monk himself, apparently, then all of a sudden he left, claiming he’s an atheist.’
‘What happened?’ Doyle asked him.
‘I have no idea, but these days “Brother Patrick”, as Conor used to refer to him, has no time for religion or the Church; all he believes in is survival of the fittest.’
Outside, the wind was up. The clouds were heavy and rain was spotting the roof of the car. Quinn stood in the darkness with his jacket buttoned.
Doyle faced him from the driver’s side. ‘So Maggs was telling the truth,’ he said. ‘In part at least, anyway.’
‘What part?’
‘The part about Paddy being from Kildare,’ Doyle said, opening the door. ‘Do yo
u not think it’s time we went and spoke to him?’
Quinn got in the car. ‘I think it’s time we spoke to Frank, Doyler: let’s get back to the Square.’
They bumped into Murphy in the car park, and Quinn asked her to find out where the call to his home phone had come from.
‘Already on it,’ she said. ‘I’m getting the Eircom team to look into it, but they won’t be there till tomorrow.’
‘That’ll have to do, then.’ They carried on to the stairs, then something else occurred to Quinn, and he called to Murphy again. ‘Listen, Keira, when you send Jimmy Hanrahan’s pictures back, take out the photo of Maggs’s mother, would you?’
‘What do you want me to do with it?’
‘Put a match to it; tear it up; just get rid of it – I don’t care how.’
Doyle’s phone was ringing. Unhooking it from his belt, he peered at it long-sightedly. ‘Your man from the moorings,’ he muttered. Then, turning away, he spoke into the phone: ‘Johnny Clogs, how are you?’
Finucane’s voice was surly in his ear. ‘What do you want, Doyler? My boy Dessie tells me you’ve been down to my boat again, only this time you were threatening to burn it.’
‘Did he say that? He must’ve misheard.’
‘Listen, you gobshite, I’ve told you before: one of these days you’ll be retired and you won’t have the uniform to protect you.’
‘No, but I’ll have my guns, Johnny. I’ll always have me guns.’
‘For fuck’s sake, what do you want, Doyler? It’s bad for business, the guards all over my boat.’
‘We’ve had words with Maggs again, and your cousin is still saying he was with her at the time Quinn’s wife went missing.’
‘So what’re you telling me for?’
‘I want to know for sure.’
‘And if I find out for sure, will you leave us the fuck alone?’
‘Course I will. You’re a gangster, Clogger: I only speak to you if I have to.’
Hanging up, Doyle followed Quinn up to the incident room, where Frank Maguire was briefing a group of detectives. Murphy grabbed him at the door. ‘Sarge,’ she said, ‘I’ve been thinking about that last call: the one to Moss’s home number.’
The Gathering of Souls Page 22
