Still there was no answer. Pushing open the bedroom door, he saw a nightdress laid out, but there was no sign of his girlfriend.
‘Jane?’ he called. ‘Janey, where are you?’
She wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, but the shower looked as though it had been running, because the inside of the bath was wet. Then he noticed that her coat was gone – though her phone was still on the kitchen worktop, together with her handbag. He scratched his head: what would she be doing going out without either her phone or her money?’ Outside on the balcony, he leant on the rail looking up and down the service alley, but there was no sign of her anywhere.
It didn’t make any sense.
And then he was cold suddenly, and his heart began to pump. He worked a palm across his jaw. He was thinking, and thinking hard.
Wednesday 3rd September 10.15 pm
Maguire walked into the incident room just as Quinn put the phone down to the lab.
Doyle looked over from his desk, where he had just finished a call. He was still holding the handset, but when he saw the superintendent he put it down. Ignoring the detectives who tried to speak to him, Maguire strode into the office, opened the bottom drawer of Quinn’s desk and took out the half-bottle of Jameson he had stashed there. There were two glasses; taking one, he poured a hefty measure and knocked it back. Then he poured another and waggled the empty glass at Quinn.
Quinn shook his head.
Stepping past him, Doyle took the glass and poured three fingers. ‘What did he say, Frank?’
‘He says he doesn’t know where she is, and he says he didn’t do it.’ Maguire sank the second whiskey. ‘I know what you’re going to tell me: of course he says he didn’t do it; none of us has ever met a guilty man, have we?’
Quinn drew his top lip in with his teeth. ‘Your mother’s necklace,’ he said. ‘The one in the photo in Paddy’s flat.’
‘I last saw it just before we buried her, but Patrick claims he took it when I was talking to the undertaker.’
‘I just had the lab on the phone,’ Quinn added quietly. ‘The striation marks don’t match.’
Maguire stopped dead. He’d taken the bottle from Doyle and was about to pour a third slug of whiskey, but instead he turned to Quinn. ‘What did you say?’
‘The striation marks created when the pendant was pulled off: they differ from the marks on the chain.’
Maguire looked stunned. ‘You mean the pendant isn’t Eva’s?’ He took Quinn by the arm. ‘Is that what you’re saying, Moss?’
‘That’s what I’m saying.’
Doyle was working the bottom of the glass against the palm of his hand. ‘Shall I tell the pair of you something else?’ he said.
They both turned to him now.
‘Jane Finucane was lying. Maggs wasn’t with her at ten on Sunday night. He wasn’t home till gone midnight.’
Wednesday 3rd September 10.25 pm
Quinn and Doyle went ahead. Maguire told them he’d follow, and they left Harcourt Square, swinging right and left onto Camden Street. From there, it was barely a two-minute drive; Doyle pulled over before they came to the service alley.
‘Let’s not advertise the fact we’re coming,’ he suggested.
Quinn was on the pavement buttoning his jacket. They walked side by side up the street before turning left in the darkness. The squared block lifted in shadows cast by the lights from the rear of the Portobello, and Quinn was aware of the sound of his footsteps as they crossed the short expanse of concrete to the stairwell. Two flights and they were on the landing. Doyle walked ahead, where light spilled from the door to Jane’s flat.
Suddenly the door was open, and Maggs stepped out with his back to them. He was carrying a canvas grip bag; the collar of his jacket was turned under his ears. One hand still on the latch, he looked round and saw them.
‘Going somewhere nice, Conor, are you?’ Doyle asked.
Throwing open the door again, Maggs leapt inside and tried to close it. Quinn was too quick and, shoulder to the wood, he smashed the door open and sent Maggs sprawling across the hall.
Maggs scrambled to his feet. ‘For God’s sake, what’re you doing? I’m going to meet Janey. I’m going to meet my girl.’
‘The hell you are.’ Quinn had him by the arm now and, swinging him round like a hammer thrower, he slammed him into the wall.
Maggs crumpled, but almost before he hit the floor, Quinn had one hand knotted in his hair and was dragging him into the living room. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded. ‘Where is Eva? What have you done with my wife?’
‘Nothing, Jesus! I’ve done nothing. You know I’ve done nothing.’ Maggs was crying; his eyes wide, his face twisted. ‘I’ve told you; I don’t know how many times I’ve told you. I don’t know where she is. I don’t know anything about it. I don’t know where she is, Moss. I don’t know where she is.’
‘You spoke to her. In the Four Courts, you thought she was offering some kind of sign because she was wearing that fucking necklace.’ Quinn hauled him upright. He could smell his breath. He could see the hunted look in his eyes. ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know.’ Maggs was wailing. ‘I don’t know. For God’s sake, let me go.’ His hands were buckled around Quinn’s, his fingers tight, desperately trying to break Quinn’s grip.
‘I’ll kill you, you sack of shit. I’ll rip your fucking head off.’ Quinn released him suddenly and, throwing him bodily into a chair, he stood over him with his fists balled. ‘The Polaroid: the rock in the hole. Where is she?’
Maggs was staring goggle-eyed, saliva whitening his lips.
‘The phone messages, the notes, all those bastard rhymes.’ Quinn had Maggs’s bag now and was rifling through it, tossing out shoes, clothes, a washing kit. ‘What’ve you done with it? What’ve you done with her necklace?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Maggs was begging him. ‘Please, Moss, I don’t know what you mean.’
Quinn hurled the bag and it hit Maggs in the face, splitting the skin at his eye. He yelped like a dog, one hand to his eye socket and the other thrust palm-out as if to fend Quinn away. Quinn dragged him to his feet. ‘Just like you knew nothing about Mary, even though you strangled her till she blacked out, then carried her into John Hanrahan’s kitchen. Revenge, Maggot, finally.’
‘Moss, please.’
‘Only Mary knows. Only you could think of that, because only you knew that Mary would lead us to Jimmy. With that picture, he goes down for the murder you committed. And Paddy, you sick fucker, you marked his card the day he caught you in the bushes, and when he told us he saw you with Mary, you marked his card again. The photos you took of yourself: the Crawthumper; the Society of Christian Brothers.’
Maggs broke away from him and, scrambling across the floor, he hunched in a corner like a frightened child. He squatted there shaking, blood smeared across his face, his limbs almost in spasm. He was coughing, convulsing; holding his sides with both hands, he spat on the floor.
Then all at once he was still. When he looked up, his eyes carried the emptiness of his soul. With a snarl, he flew at Quinn.
Doyle, who’d been blocking the door, weighed in with a fist but Maggs was too quick and, ducking sharply, he made it around the big man. Then he was at the door. Quinn was after him. As Maggs reached the balcony, he had him around the waist. Together they lurched across the concrete, before slamming into the hip-high wall with the worn metal rail running the length of it. Maggs was scrabbling for Quinn’s eyes with his fingers, trying to gouge, tear. He was spitting like a cobra. ‘Fuck you, Quinn, fuck all you bastards.’
Quinn hit him in the stomach.
Maggs doubled up.
But then he came up swinging and caught Quinn across the face. He swung again. He missed badly, and the momentum almost carried him off his feet. Quinn hit him again and again, and then, with his head low and leading with his shoulder, he sent him crashing into the wall. The rail caught Maggs in the small of his back. He was off his
feet and for a moment his eyes were huge, his mouth open.
Then he was gone, toppling from the balcony with a short scream in his throat.
Quinn had slumped onto his hands and knees. Doyle hauled him upright, and together they looked over the wall. They saw Maggs at ground level, though he wasn’t quite on the ground. It took a moment to work out. Then they realised he was impaled, the black spike of a railing thrust right through his chest. Like an insect pinned to a board, he was all arms and legs, the disbelief of what had happened, the horror of it, visible in his eyes.
Police cars pulled in from the main road. Quinn grabbed Doyle’s arm and they raced to the stairs.
Moments later, Quinn was bending where Maggs was skewered, his feet, and the tips of his fingers, trailing the ground. His eyes were open, and he was blinking as if he couldn’t focus. There was blood in his mouth, great gobs smothering his tongue; a burbling sound lifted in his throat.
On one knee, Quinn forced him to look up. ‘Where is she?’ he said.
Head tipped back, Maggs held his gaze, his brow rippled in a bloodied frown.
‘You don’t want her to die, Conor, you know you don’t. Tell me where she is.’
Maggs opened his mouth; he blew bubbles of blood; his eyes were closing. He puckered his lips, and Quinn lowered his head so he could hear. But Maggs did not speak. He lolled on the spike, and with a hideous squelching sound his weight thrust it deeper still.
‘Where is she, Conor?’ Quinn demanded. ‘What’ve you done with Eva?’
Maggs’s eyes were closed now, his face an unrecognisable mask. A lung had burst and he was spewing blood; his mouth gaping, lips loose; his tongue quivering as if someone had cut it free.
Then all at once he was still.
Quinn let out a cry of pain, of grief; of sheer desperation.
On his knees, he hung his head, then, hopelessly, he got to his feet. He looked down at the prostrate form beside him.
Then Maggs opened his eyes.
He parted his lips and he stared. His gaze was hollow, as if he could no longer see anything. ‘Moss,’ he whispered, ‘Moss.’
Again Quinn dropped to his knees. ‘Tell me, Conor. For God’s sake, tell me while there’s still time.’
‘She left you,’ the words lifted in the same rasping whisper Quinn had heard on the phone. ‘She left you and she left Laura; she left Jessie on her own.’
‘Where is she, for Christ’s sake?’ Quinn was screaming. He was shaking him, punching the useless body where it hung on the spike. ‘Tell me where she is.’
His lips twisted, Maggs bent bloody fingers to grip Quinn by the arm. ‘She’s with me now,’ he whispered. And wearily his eyes closed, never to open again. ‘She’s with me.’
Wednesday 3rd September 10.35 pm
Stumbling away from the railings, Quinn stared without seeing anything. His mind was numb, his senses so stunned that nothing registered at all.
Behind him, sirens were wailing and more police cars were turning in from Richmond Street. Maguire arrived with Murphy, who was on the phone immediately organising an ambulance and the fire brigade. Quinn gawped. Maggs impaled with his arms splayed and his head back, mouth agape; his eyes closed for all time. Quinn felt Doyle’s hand on his arm. ‘Moss, let’s search the flat.’
He looked round at him.
Then it registered. The flat, of course; there might be a clue. Yes, Doyle was right: they had to search the flat.
Murphy stepped towards them. She was about to speak but they were already headed for the stairs. On the landing, Harry Long, the neighbour whom Quinn had spoken to on his previous visit, was peering over the rail.
They took the flat apart: drawers, cupboards. Jane Finucane’s computer was on standby, and Quinn got on the phone to ask Harcourt Square for someone who knew what they were looking for to come down right away. He could imagine Maggs trawling the Internet, looking up the very information they had found: the three Protestant martyrs, the lilywhite boys. How he must’ve felt that God was on his side when he’d found not only two boys from Kildare, but the ballad of their cruel mother.
He shivered at the evil.
He shivered when he thought of old John Hanrahan stumbling down the stairs to find what he thought was the ghost of Mary Harrington in his kitchen. He’d dealt with a few victims in attempted murder cases who had been strangled to the point where they’d blacked out, only to come round an hour or so later with no recollection of what had happened.
‘He planned it in minute detail, Doyler.’ He was rifling through drawers in the kitchen. ‘Yet all the time I thought it was him, I believed she had a chance. I hoped that because of how he felt about her, he wouldn’t want to harm her. But when she left me, she became a target. Maybe he didn’t want to hurt her, but he had to take her: two birds with one stone; another mother who, in his eyes, didn’t care enough about her children and, in the same moment, revenge.’
Doyle was in the bathroom with the door open, searching through dirty clothes in the laundry basket.
‘He looked up everything exactly as we looked it up,’ Quinn said. ‘He led us by the nose, right down to the last note, the final bloody detail.’
Doyle paused then, his face expressionless, his eyes swimming in pools of fatigue.
‘The nursery rhymes,’ Quinn gesticulated, ‘the Polaroid. For twenty-five years, he hated Jimmy the Poker. He hated me for taking Eva away and dragging his sorry carcass through the Four Courts. He hated you because you knew what he’d done to his mother.’ He looked at his partner now. ‘He did kill her, Joe. He did put drain cleaner in the wine bottle knowing full well she’d drink it. He killed Janice Long and Karen Brady, he killed the other three and he killed Mary Harrington: seven stars in the sky; the seven who went to heaven. He knew we’d find that line, and either Paddy Maguire or Jimmy Hanrahan would take the fall for it. Imagine his delight when he found out we had them both in custody.’
‘It means Eva is still alive,’ Doyle said.
Quinn stared at him.
‘The seven who went to heaven, Moss: it’s his mother that makes seven, not Eva. She’s still alive; there’s still a chance we’ll find her.’
Quinn stood there with his eyes wide and his mouth open. ‘You’re right,’ he whispered. ‘Jesus, Doyler, you’re right.’
Coming through from the bathroom, Doyle took him by the arm. ‘You just now said that you thought at least if it was him, there was hope. Well, you were right. There was, and there still is. There’s still a way we can find her. Think about it: up until now, he never contacted us. Not a whisper. Then he takes Eva.’ He paused for a moment, thinking. ‘The day the trial collapsed, there she was in the Four Courts wearing his necklace. We believed he might’ve thought it was some kind of sign, some kind of come-on, but it wasn’t: as far as the Maggot was concerned, she was no longer fit to wear it.’
Quinn could feel the blood draining from his face.
‘But once upon a time, he loved her. He had to take her because of what she’d become, but unlike the others, he’d loved her, and because of that, he couldn’t be responsible for killing her. That’s why he made contact. He had to have his revenge, but he didn’t need Eva on his conscience to take it.’
‘You mean, to appease one half of his sick psyche, he had to give us a chance?’ Quinn was nodding now. ‘And if we found her in time, it wouldn’t matter because we’d already have Hanrahan or Patrick.’
‘Exactly; he’d walk away. And that means we still have a chance.’
‘But Doyler.’ Quinn could feel the panic rising again. ‘One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.’
‘I know, I know. I’ve thought of that: but only if we don’t find her.’
For a few moments, Quinn stood there, considering Doyle’s words. When he spoke, it was as if to himself. ‘His mother had no idea who his father was. As far as Maggs was concerned, she didn’t care; she didn’t care about him. That’s what started all this: the fact that even after
she brought him into the world, she went right on opening her legs for whoever had the price of a bottle. And what turned him from just a pissed-off kid into a psychopath was Jimmy the Poker’s Polaroid.’
There was movement at the front door now. Looking round, they saw Murphy standing there. ‘Mary was different,’ Doyle went on. ‘All this time we didn’t link her to the other five women because no one could’ve known she was pregnant. And the irony is, Maggs didn’t know it either. But the night of the fleadh cheoil, Molly Parkinson was drunk and Paddy had been taking the piss out of Maggs, just like everyone used to. Eva was sitting right there, and yet she didn’t defend him.’
Quinn nodded slowly. ‘And Mary reminded him of her. She looked like Eva when she was younger: long hair the same colour, the same colour eyes. They went for a drive and he must’ve realised how he could get Jimmy. But for all of that, he once loved Eva. You’re right, Joseph: it means we’ve still got a chance.’
Doyle moved into the living room. He stared at the TV, the bookcase, the CD cabinet.
‘Carrigafoyle; we’re missing something. There has to be something else.’
‘We’ve no time,’ Quinn stated. ‘It’s been seventy-two hours, if she’s tied up and in the cold …’
‘She can hold on,’ Doyle said sharply. He looked beyond Quinn to where Murphy was watching from the hall. ‘She’s strong: she has two daughters to live for. She was taken from her son’s grave when she had two little ones at home. Think how she must’ve felt. Think how determined that would make her. We know her, Moss; we know what she’s like. She won’t give up. She’ll fight and fight; that’s how she’s built. She’s a Doyle, for Christ’s sake.’
Quinn snaked his tongue over his lips. ‘Sunday, Doyler. He must’ve been in the cemetery; he must’ve seen Eva and realised what she was feeling. He knew her; he knew she wouldn’t be able to leave it.’
‘So he waited,’ Doyle said, nodding, ‘and when the time was right, he took her. In the morning, he told you the clock was ticking.’
The Gathering of Souls Page 28
