‘Then he gave us the cryptic message about Mary.’
‘And the lilywhite boys from Kildare.’
‘Three little mice who couldn’t find their way.’ Doyle glanced at Murphy again. ‘Latimer, Ridley and Cranmer: it led us to the three blind monks of Carrigafoyle.’
‘Don’t forget the Polaroid,’ Murphy reminded him. ‘That brought Jimmy into the game, and not just him but the quarry.’ She arched her brows. ‘Did he want us chasing all the way to Scanlon’s quarry? He’d love that, wouldn’t he? Dashing here and there, and all the time the sand slipping through the narrows of an hourglass.’
Doyle stared into space. ‘Scanlon,’ he said. ‘I know that name. I swear it means something to me.’
‘Think what he did in the Joy.’ Quinn’s hands were fisted at his sides. ‘Watching Paddy come and go, and seeking out men like the Craw so he could dig the dirt; find out what anyone knew.’
They slipped into silence; the only sounds now those that came from below. Doyle pursed his lips.
‘Mother of God, but the name Scanlon means something to me. Come on, Doyler, think, you big lug. What’ve you got? Latimer, you’ve got Latimer, Ridley and Cranmer: three men blinded and burned for their faith. They led us to Carrigafoyle and three blind monks who were hanged because of theirs.’ He stood there with his hands shoved in the pockets of his coat. He glanced at Quinn; he glanced at Murphy. He looked beyond them both to where Harry Long had appeared with a bottle of Jameson in his hand. Doyle peered at him; he peered at the bottle, the label; the name written on it.
The cold seemed to rush through him. ‘Jesus and Mary,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ Quinn had a hand on his arm. ‘What is it, Doyler? What?’
‘My God, Moss. It’s not where at all; it’s who.’
Quinn was staring at him. ‘What’re you talking about? I don’t understand. What do you mean - who?’
Doyle wasn’t listening; he was fumbling in his pocket for his mobile phone. ‘What’s Norma’s number?’
‘Norma?’
‘Your mother-in-law, for Christ’s sake. What’s her phone number?’
Quinn told him, and Doyle dialed it. ‘The little shit, the little fuckin’ gobshite. He knew about Latimer; he knew about Ridley and Cranmer. He knew we’d find them, and he knew I’d know enough history to put the rest of it together and come up with Carrigafoyle. But it’s not the place that’s important – the scheming bastard – it’s who.’
Quinn grabbed him by the arm. ‘Doyle, for pity’s sake, you’re making no sense. What the hell do you mean?’
‘The monks, Moss: the three blind monks. We need to know their names, lad; we need to know who they were.’
Murphy moved alongside them as Doyle spoke to Quinn’s mother-in-law in Listowel.
‘Norma,’ he said, ‘it’s Joseph. I need James O’Donohue’s number. ’Tis very important. My old history teacher from when I was at school. James O’Donohue; he still lives in the town. Look it up in the book now, and be quick, would you?’
Two minutes later, he had the number and was dialling again. ‘It’s not where at all,’ he repeated. ‘Of course it’s not. It couldn’t be, because she wasn’t there. Christ, Doyle, call yourself a detective? You should’ve seen it earlier.’ He glanced again at Quinn. ‘We need to know who those old men were; I’d put money on one of them being called Scanlon. When we find the other two, we’ll find her. I swear that’s how he’s set this up.’
‘Jesus, Doyle,’ Quinn said, arching his brows. ‘But your history teacher, will he even remember? I mean, how old is he going to be?’
‘In his eighties, ninety maybe. But he’s all there, Moss, and if I know him, he’ll not be in bed, he’ll be having a small one in front of the History Channel.’
He waited; the phone was to his ear while Quinn hovered next to him. ‘He’s not there,’ Quinn told him. ‘Either that, or he’s in bed.’
Doyle shook his head. ‘He’ll pick it up. He will.’
Then all at once, he smiled. ‘Mr O’Donohue, is that you? It’s Joseph Doyle, the guard. How are you?
‘Good, good,’ he said, nodding. ‘Listen, I’m glad to talk to you after all these years. I was in your history class; it must be forty years ago. You remember? Mother of God, that’s amazing. Listen, now,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry to phone so late, but I need to know something, and it’s very important. It’s a strange question at this time of night, but do you happen to remember the names of the three blind monks from Lislaughtin Abbey, the ones Pelham hanged back in 1580?’
He fell silent then and, listening, his eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Ah, you’ve a wonderful head for the facts, Mr O’Donohue. Thank you, you’ve been a great help. The next time you’re passing Jett O’Carroll’s, tell your man Eamon you’ve a pint or two put by.’
Switching off the phone, he turned to Quinn. ‘I was right,’ he said. ‘It’s not Carrigafoyle that’s important, Moss; it’s the three blind monks. Their names were Scanlon, Hanrahan and Shea.’
Wednesday 3rd September 10.46 pm
Doyle looked beyond Quinn to where Harry Long was still hovering at the front door. ‘Well come in lad, if you’re offering,’ he said. ‘But don’t touch anything.’ Taking the bottle from him, Doyle grabbed some glasses, then poured a glug of whiskey into each of them.
‘Scanlon, Hanrahan and Shea.’ Quinn was thinking hard now, his pulse like a weight in his skull. He took a glass from Doyle and knocked it back. ‘Jesus, but he planned this even more carefully than any of us could’ve imagined.’
‘You’re not kidding,’ Murphy said. ‘Telling us to re-look at Mary’s file, and all the while that Polaroid was in the box.’
Quinn exhaled heavily. ‘It had been there since Mary’s death. If we’d found it then, as we were supposed to, Jimmy would’ve been locked up.’
‘I’ll lose no sleep over that little toe-rag,’ Doyle muttered. ‘He never did half the time he should’ve for battering Mrs Bolton.’
‘But Shea?’ Quinn asked. ‘What do we know about Shea?’
‘What don’t we know?’ Murphy replied. ‘I mean, how many Sheas are there in the Dublin phone book?’
Neither of them answered her.
It was hopeless: they’d run out of time. With a name like that, perhaps Maggs was having his longest laugh last.
Resting a shoulder in the doorway, Harry Long shifted his weight. ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he said, ‘but what about the old ironworks?’
‘What’s that?’ Doyle looked over at him.
‘The old ironworks up there on Shelley Banks. It’s been shut down for years, but my granddad used to work there when he was a boy. I’m sure that was Shea’s: the old place up near the water.’
‘Ironworks?’ Pulse quickening, Quinn was staring at him.
‘Yeah, it was called Shea’s. Or maybe it was O’Shea’s, I don’t know. It was famous, though, back in the day. My granddad used to tell me about it. In Nelson’s time, the British would have their fleet moored in the bay: he reckoned that the officers set the watch by the chimes of Shea’s clock.’
The car was where they had left it, parked on double yellow lines with the magnetic light squatting on the dashboard. Doyle had the keys. In an instant he was behind the wheel, with Quinn slapping the light on the roof.
Gunning the engine, they pulled away from the kerb. They swung left just after the bridge. Doyle fairly punched through the gears, and they raced alongside the line of parked cars all the way down Canal Road. Beyond the lock, the road widened and he stamped his foot to the floor. With the siren wailing, they passed Lansdowne Road, then headed north towards the canal docks. There Doyle hauled on the wheel, and they barrelled across the bridge and around the greyhound stadium at Shelbourne Park.
Heading for Irishtown, Quinn hunched in the passenger seat with his knee to his chest and a fist against his teeth. He could see his daughters’ faces when they waved him goodbye. He could see Danny fishing the Tolka the day
before he was killed.
He could see Eva the first time he’d set eyes on her – when the man who might’ve murdered her was perched on the bench alongside.
They raced through Irishtown towards Poolbeg and the nature reserve at Shelley Banks. With the sea made choppy by the wind, they drove the length of the coast road, passing industrial buildings old and new, until they could see the shadows of what was left of the abandoned plant that Harry Long described as Shea’s ironworks. There was little there now – just a handful of weathered buildings behind a broken-down wire fence.
Across the road was the beach – a great expanse of sand where, on Monday, search teams had been swarming like newly hatched flies. At the gate, Doyle slammed the brakes on so hard he almost put Quinn through the windscreen. Then Quinn was out, forcing his way through the fence and running across the puddle-pocked yard towards the shattered buildings. Above his head was an old clock with a square face. The hands were moving beyond eleven o’clock.
He was shouting; he was calling to his wife. ‘Eva!’ he yelled. ‘Eva! Eva!’
Under the boards, under the carpet and strips of old linoleum, her face was swollen, her hands like wax from lack of blood. She could no longer feel any part of her body; she was no longer thirsty. She was slipping away; she knew she was, and there was a beauty in it. A long time ago, she’d stopped thinking about her children. A long time ago, she’d stopped thinking about her husband or her mother or sisters. She’d stopped thinking about the man who’d put her here.
There was no single thought in her head now. Her mind was a mish-mash of images: what had been and what yet might be.
She wondered where she was going. She knew she was on the very brink of the abyss, and she wondered if all was darkness, or whether there were colours, as some people said there were.
She wanted to know; she wanted to go; she wanted to find out for herself. Danny had gone ahead, and she was sure he’d been calling for her to join him. If that were so, then there must be light; there had to be some colour.
Someone was calling her now. She could hear a voice: Eva, Eva-Marie. She was Eva-Marie, and someone was calling her name. So there was more than the darkness; there had to be.
Was it Danny she could hear?
No, it couldn’t be. Danny wouldn’t call her by her name: he’d call her mammy or mam, maybe; he wouldn’t call her name.
Opening her eyes, she looked up.
And the darkness was broken: her grave of carpet and linoleum, the boards of rotten wood.
She could not move, but whatever it was that covered her mouth was eased aside, and then she could feel strong arms raising her from the dead.
Still she couldn’t see anything, but she could feel him and she could smell him and she knew that she was alive.
Danny would wait; of course he would. There was Laura to think about; Laura and Jess.
She felt lips brush her cheek, and for a moment she was lying beside the river again all those years ago.
She could hear his voice, and his voice was gentle. ‘I’ve got you,’ he told her. ‘You’re going to be all right. I’ve got you, Eva. I’ve come to take you home.’
She could feel dry tears in her eyes. That’s my husband, she thought. That’s Moss. I know it is. That’s Moss. He’s found me.
OTHER BOOKS BY JEFF GULVIN:
Sleep No More
Sorted
Close Quarters
Storm Crow
Nom de Guerre
The Covenant
The Procession
Cry of the Panther
Song of the Sound
The Sand Horse
The Legend of Fossil Nash
The River Beneath
Copyright
First published in 2012 by Liberties Press
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Trade enquiries to Gill & Macmillan Distribution
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Copyright © Gerry O’Carroll, 2014
The author has asserted his moral rights.
ebook ISBN: 978–1–909718–76–0
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s prior consent, in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or storage in any information or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher in writing.
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