The Gathering of Souls

by Gerry O'Carroll

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘What if three mice who couldn’t find their way weren’t so much lost as blind?’

  Doyle squinted at her now. ‘Three blind mice. Now that’s a thought, Murph. Look into it, why don’t you? And let me know what you find.’

  Finished with the briefing, Maguire stepped into Quinn’s office. With black bags crawling under his eyes, Quinn had the look of a man who needed a good night’s sleep.

  ‘What gives?’ Maguire asked. ‘Moss, I’ve seen that expression before, remember. Speak to me, will you? Tell me what’s on your mind.’

  Quinn glanced briefly at Doyle. ‘It might just be that we’re all of us exhausted, Frank, but a couple of things have cropped up that we need to talk about.’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ Maguire said, throwing out a hand. ‘Heavens above, am I. I mean, there’s nothing else. We’ve a photo but no camera; we’ve a bunch of cryptic clues that don’t …’

  ‘Like the cruel mother, you mean,’ Quinn said softly. ‘And a couple of lilywhite boys from Kildare: Clane to be exact, Frank. Clane in County Kildare.’

  The colour drained from Maguire’s face. ‘What do you know about Clane?’

  ‘I know about a council flat. I know about a couple of lads with a drunk for a mother, and neither of whom knew their father.’

  ‘Who’ve you been talking to?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The question is: is it true? Is it true that you and your kid brother are a couple of lilywhite boys from Kildare?’

  Maguire looked coldly at him now. ‘Are you accusing me of something, inspector?’

  ‘I’m asking you if it’s true.’

  Maguire regarded Doyle for a moment, then slowly nodded.

  ‘So why the bullshit? Why pretend you’ve a mam and dad living out in Dubai?’

  Maguire didn’t say anything.

  ‘Do you really think people give a shit?’

  ‘When I was eighteen I did.’

  Quinn sat down heavily. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Paddy. I know he ended up at Islandbridge, but before then, Frank? What happened before?’

  Maguire seemed to slump in the chair. For almost a minute, he sat there without answering. ‘I looked after him,’ he said finally. ‘I brought him up, even though I was only a kid myself. You see, his mother – our mother – never gave him the time of day. If you asked Liam Ahern, he’d probably tell you that Paddy wasn’t programmed properly.’

  Tuesday 2nd September 9.30 pm

  The sudden stillness was punctured only by the ticking of the clock. Both Quinn and Doyle were staring at their boss now, and he was staring at the carpet on the floor.

  ‘Programmed, Frank?’ Quinn asked softly.

  ‘Isn’t that how the good doctor refers to it, when someone doesn’t get that initial injection of love, of care, of understanding? That’s the profile you’ve been working on, Moss. You and Murphy – that’s what you’ve been thinking when you look at those other files.’

  ‘Is that what you’re thinking?’ Doyle asked him.

  Maguire didn’t answer. Instead, he got to his feet and paced to the window, where he stood with his back to them.

  ‘Paddy visited Janice Long’s husband in Mountjoy,’ Quinn said. ‘It’s always been in the file – her and Karen Brady – but we never thought anything of it, not until we spoke to Willie Moore.’

  ‘What about Willie Moore?’ Maguire said, turning suddenly to Quinn. ‘Moss, I’m supposed to be leading this investigation. What about Willie Moore?’

  ‘There was someone who knew Mary was pregnant,’ Quinn said coldly. ‘Patrick knew, Frank: Willie Moore told him.’

  Maguire’s mouth was hanging open.

  ‘I’ve asked him about it, and he says he didn’t tell me because the conversations are supposed to be confidential. I suppose I can just about deal with that, but it’s not all: according to Lorne McGeady’s accountant, he also spoke to Maggs when Maggs was on remand. That’s not in any file, Frank, and it’s not on any prison record.’

  Maguire was white now. ‘What’re you saying to me?’

  Quinn lifted his hands. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I’m asking why I don’t know my old buddy as well as I thought I did. Perhaps I’m asking you what happened to him. Perhaps I’m asking why, when he was due to join the Society of Christian Brothers, he suddenly upped and left.’

  Maguire sat down behind the other desk now. He looked exhausted, ill, haunted. ‘Patrick told us he saw Maggs with Mary Harrington,’ he said. ‘So did Jimmy Hanrahan – the two of them saying the same thing independently of each other. It means that Maggs did speak to her and that he did lie to us.’

  ‘Yes,’ Quinn agreed. ‘But it doesn’t mean he killed her.’

  The superintendent clasped his hands together. ‘Spit it out then, Moss, will you? Are you accusing my brother of murder? Are you accusing him of abducting Eva?’

  ‘I don’t know, Frank, are you?’

  Outside in the car park, Quinn felt for a cigarette but the pack was empty. ‘Let’s get a beer,’ Doyle suggested. ‘Fuck, could I do with a couple.’

  Crossing the street, they bellied up to the bar in the Harcourt Hotel. Billy stuck glasses under the Guinness taps and poured them each a shot of Jameson.

  ‘Put a drop of port in mine, would you?’ Doyle asked him. He looked sideways at Quinn, then took the box of snuff from his pocket and worked some into his nose.

  ‘Jesus, I need a smoke,’ Quinn said. ‘Billy, have you got any fags?’

  The barman tossed him a pack of Embassy; taking their whiskeys, they stepped outside. Quinn stared at the darkened brick building across the street, the lights on the fifth floor.

  ‘It isn’t the first time it’s occurred to him,’ Doyle stated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Frank Maguire; the implication of what we were saying: it’s not the first time it’s occurred to him. I could see it in his eyes, Moss: he’s thought about this before.’

  Wednesday 3rd September 8 am

  Waking up on the sofa, Quinn had never known such silence: his son dead, his wife missing and his daughters with their grandmother in Kerry. He could’ve wept; his face ached with fatigue and the circles under his eyes seemed not to be part of his skin. The doorbell rang; crossing the hall, he could see Doyle’s bulky frame in the glass.

  ‘Did you sleep?’ Doyle asked him.

  ‘Some, maybe. Did you?’

  ‘Mrs Mulroney had a bottle of Bushmills in the house. I think I managed a couple of hours.’

  He followed Quinn to the kitchen and spooned coffee grounds into a filter. Filling the jug, he added water and stood back as the percolator began to gurgle.

  ‘So listen,’ he said, ‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

  ‘What’s that? ‘

  ‘How long have you’ve been sleeping with Garda Murphy?’

  Quinn was bent to the fridge, poking around for something he could stuff into his mouth. He spoke without looking up. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I’m not stupid. I’ve seen you around her, boy: I know how it is.’

  ‘It’s only been the once.’

  ‘The night Eva was taken.’

  Quinn closed his eyes.

  ‘Makes you feel guilty, does it?’

  ‘Yes, it makes me feel guilty, what with the kids not being able to get hold of me. Yes, Joseph, it makes me feel very guilty. Does that make you happy?’

  Doyle inhaled sharply. ‘’Tis none of my business what you do, Moss – unless of course it affects me. And given that Eva’s my niece, I think it does affect me. But I’m not judging you, and I’m not really making a comment, I just thought I’d let you know that I know, in case you wanted to get anything off yer chest.’

  Quinn looked sourly at him. ‘You sarcastic bastard; you’re telling me to get even. You’re telling me because I’ve been on at you about your gut feelings and how you battered the Maggot.’ He paused.

  ‘Does M
urphy know you know?’

  ‘I haven’t told her.’

  ‘Well don’t. It was a one-off, Doyler, all right?’

  Doyle brought the coffee through to the lounge. ‘I was just letting you know I know, that’s all,’ he repeated. ‘You don’t have to explain. I saw what was going on: Eva blaming the both of us for not being able to do anything about Danny. Juxtapose that with Maggs being charged with murder and throw in her Uncle Joe and his loose hands and what’ve you got? A woman on the edge: a woman who’s thrashing around and hitting out at those she loves.’

  ‘And those who love her,’ Quinn added. ‘I’ve never stopped loving her, and I never blamed her for pushing me away.’ There were tears in his eyes suddenly. ‘When a child dies, you don’t get over it. You never get over it. You never make it back, Doyler, you just have to learn how to cope.’

  Doyle sat down on the sofa and considered the younger man now with kindness in his eyes.

  ‘We’ll find her,’ he said. ‘We will, lad, I know it.’

  They ate breakfast in a café they frequented on the Cabra Road. Notwithstanding the tension, the anxiety, Quinn realised he’d hardly had a mouthful since Sunday and he was ravenous.

  ‘Do you want to go and see if Paddy’s home?’ Doyle suggested. ‘Do you want to call him up?’

  Quinn shook his head. ‘No, I think we should leave him to Frank. Frank’s a good copper; he’ll do what he thinks he has to.’ He swallowed a mouthful of coffee. ‘What I want to do is go to Islandbridge and speak to the Brothers.’

  St Boniface was situated on the south bank of the Liffey close to the war memorial. To the north, the river widened to encompass a series of leafy green islands, the mini lagoon punctuated by the tumble of a weir.

  Parking the car, the two detectives got out, and for a moment Quinn just stood there and reflected: he could see rowing boats on the south shore; he could see the whitened height of the buildings on the road beyond; he could see the bridges and pathways that linked the islands.

  ‘Not so bad a place to grow up,’ Doyle commented. ‘Beats the bejaysus out of some crappy estate in Clane.’

  Brother Peter Farrell met them at the main door. He was wearing a long black cassock and full white collar that denoted him as a monk and not a priest. He was in his late fifties, with weathered features, and white hair cut short like a US Marine. Brother Peter led them down to the banks of the river with his hands in his pockets.

  Quinn could hear the sound of the weir, and he imagined his wife hidden somewhere with nothing to drink. By ten o’clock tonight, she could be in a coma.

  ‘What is it you wanted to speak to me about, inspector?’ Farrell asked him.

  ‘Patrick Pearse Maguire.’

  Farrell’s expression darkened. From his pocket, he brought out a rosary, considered it for a few moments, then worked a couple of the beads between his fingers before hiding it away again.

  ‘He was with you twenty years ago,’ Quinn went on. ‘From the age of eleven to eighteen. He was going to join the Society, but something changed his mind.’

  ‘Is this official, inspector?’

  Quinn half-closed his eyes. ‘I’m trying to find my wife, Brother Peter.’

  The wind lifted, and the Liffey was flecked with whitecaps all at once. ‘You remember him, then?’ Doyle asked.

  Farrell nodded. ‘Of course I do. He’s Superintendent Frank Maguire’s brother. Frank is a good man, a good Catholic. To this day, he supports us with fund-raising, letters of referral, that kind of thing. You realise I’ll have to tell him you’re asking.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ Quinn said. ‘That’s your prerogative. But in the meantime, you can tell us.’

  ‘Tell you what, exactly?’

  ‘How Patrick Pearse came to be here, and why he left when he did.’

  Wednesday 3rd September 9 am

  When Patrick came out of the front door, his brother was leaning against his silver Opel with his arms folded.

  ‘Frank?’ Patrick exclaimed. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  Frank didn’t answer immediately; pushing himself away from the car, he crossed the road.

  ‘I was waiting for you, Pat. Let’s go inside.’

  Patrick looked puzzled. ‘I can’t, Frankie, I’ve an appointment at the prison.’

  ‘It can wait.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘It can wait, Patrick,’ his brother insisted. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  At the window, Frank gazed over the canal. ‘This is a nice place,’ he said. ‘You know, living right here in the city … you could do a lot worse.’

  ‘I know I could. I’ve seen a lot worse, believe me.’ Patrick was standing beside the fireplace.

  ‘What’s up, Frank? What’s all this about?’

  His brother didn’t answer.

  ‘Frank, what is it? Is it Eva? Is she all right? Have you found her? Is everything all right?’

  Frank looked round at him now. ‘I don’t know, Paddy? Is everything all right?’

  Patrick furrowed his brow. ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘Eva: do you know where she is?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. How could I?’

  ‘Moss thinks you might.’

  ‘What?’ Patrick was aghast, shock standing out in his eyes. ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘He told me you were Willie Moore’s visitor.’

  Patrick’s shoulders slumped then, and with a heavy sigh he sat down. ‘Of course he did,’ he muttered.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him, Paddy? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Patrick peered at now with a bemused shake of his head. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure I believe this. A woman is missing – and not just any woman, but a friend I’ve known for twenty years – and you’re telling me I’m a suspect?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘That’s the implication.’

  ‘Why did you go and see Maggs when he was on remand?’ Frank asked him. ‘And why didn’t you tell anyone?’

  ‘I didn’t go to see him. I’m a visitor, Frank; I was in Mountjoy, and he asked to see me. Jesus, I was with him for all of five minutes.’

  ‘It’s not in any record.’

  ‘Why should it be? It was impromptu: I was already there seeing other inmates.’

  ‘You didn’t think it was a conflict of interest then, given that we were relying on your testimony?’

  ‘The case was thrown out, Frank, long before I got anywhere near the witness box.’

  Frank peered at him. ‘What did he say to you? Did he accuse you of killing Mary Harrington?’

  ‘Something like that, I suppose. I don’t really remember.’

  ‘And you didn’t think that was very important?’

  ‘It was Maggs, Frankie. He was just mouthing off.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘Kill Mary Harrington.’

  ‘Jesus, Frankie.’

  His brother looked at his watch. ‘Eva is still alive, Paddy. If our reckoning is correct, there’s still time to save her. If you know anything about this – anything at all – you have to tell me.’

  Patrick was on his feet. ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ he said, ‘I really do not believe we’re having this conversation.’

  ‘Do not blaspheme. Do you hear me?’ Frank was shouting now. ‘There’s enough godforsaken language I have to listen to without you adding to it.’

  ‘Frank!’ Patrick’s gaze was fierce suddenly. ‘Have you heard yourself? I mean, have you? You’re my brother, not my dad. For all you did for me, you’re not my mam. You just can’t help yourself, can you? All my life, on and on and on. Coming in here with your key, snooping around and telling me what to do and when to do it, wondering where I am. You’re the one who dumped me at St Boniface while you went off to play at being important. Where do you get off telling me anything at all? Where do you get off asking me these questions? I know nothing about
what happened to Eva and nothing about Mary.’

  ‘I can ask because of Willie Moore and Karen Brady, because of Janice Long. I can ask because of how it was when we were kids.’

  ‘Do I fit the profile, Frank, is that it?’ Patrick bent close to him. ‘I’d never have made any secret of the past if you hadn’t gone on about it so much. You’re the one who invented all that crap about us being Dubs with parents in Dubai; an old feller who didn’t exist, working in the oil business.’ He turned to the photo of their mother. ‘Respectability; acceptance, or whatever it was. Fuck it, Frank: I was the one she couldn’t stand looking at, and I was the one who didn’t give a shit.’

  ‘You knew Mary Harrington was pregnant,’ Frank reminded him. ‘You spoke to Maggs and you visited the husbands of Karen Brady and Janice Long.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So it doesn’t look good, Paddy.’ Frank regarded the photograph. ‘And you hated her. I mean, you truly despised her every bit as much as she despised you. She said you had the devil in you.’

  Patrick laughed out loud. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, don’t go getting all religious on me, on top of everything else. There’s no such thing as the devil, Frank. There’s no God, no virgin birth, no m–’

  Frank interrupted him. ‘No perfect mother, Patrick, is that what you’re telling me?’ For a moment he stared at him. ‘Is that why you did it before you left St Boniface? Desecration, Patrick: the Holy Mother of God.’

  Wednesday 3rd September 9.30 am

  Quinn and Doyle sat across the desk from Dr Liam Ahern in his office overlooking O’Connell Bridge.

  The forensic psychiatrist, who was in his forties, with longish hair and blue eyes, was as good as any in his field. He worked in the UK and America; he advised courts and police officers in Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and many European countries. He retained a residency with the FBI at Quantico but he had been born in Dublin and chose to work from this office overlooking the streets of what had once been the second city of the British Empire.