Obit
Page 34
“So there was an Irish connection after all.”
“Not to the attempt on Declan, there wasn’t.” The words were clipped, followed by silence. This was as close as I would ever come to hearing what I now knew to be the truth. That Irish Republican forces — “not sanctioned,” so it was someone acting unofficially — had killed Nessie to protect whatever information was contained in the personal papers of Cathal Murphy/Charlie Fagan. I wondered if the Russian agent was still in place in the United States. The fact that there was “no one to arrest” meant either that the killer had succeeded in getting out of the country, or he had been eliminated after the murder. I would never know.
“Are you still with us, Collins, or have I finally succeeded in shutting your gob?”
“My gob is shut.”
“Is your good friend Brennan there?”
“He’s downstairs. I’ll —”
“Never mind him for now, then. So, Monty, I hope you’ll be coming over to see me before I get old and unable to hobble around after you and the Burke brothers. And sisters.”
“I thought perhaps I’d just taken a flame-thrower to my bridges with you, Leo.”
“Of course not! Young pups have to be brought into line once in a while. I feel quite capable of doing that in my current role, as in my previous one.”
“You are capable indeed, Leo.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you. God bless you, Monty.”
“Thank you, Father. Bye for now.” We hung up.
Declan was giving me a fierce look. “If you were my son I’d give you a clout in the head.”
“If I were your son I’d take it. Let’s go down and join Brennan. Is that the first time you’ve talked to Leo since he left?”
“No. We exchanged Easter greetings.”
“Oh? Easter Sunday?”
“Saturday, it was.”
“So, did you call him, or did he call you?”
“I called him, caught him just before he headed out for the Vigil at the Pro-Cathedral. He — You’re going to get that clout in the head, Montague, if I hear another fucking word. Or if I even see a look on your face that makes me suspect you’re thinking such vicious thoughts again.”
We had joined Brennan in the kitchen by that time. He was looking at us with one quizzical eyebrow raised. “You’re going to clout Monty, is that what I heard, Da? Any particular reason?”
“The fecker just interrogated me to check on Leo’s alibi!”
“Alibi for what?”
“The murder of the old woman,” Declan growled.
“Iosa Críost, Collins! How does your mind operate? You didn’t honestly think Leo —”
“No, I didn’t.” I thought it highly unlikely. But it was a relief, nonetheless, to have it confirmed that he was in Ireland at the time Nessie Murphy was killed.
“I’m going to run out and pick up something for us to eat,” I said to my guests. “In the meantime I’m sure you gentlemen have things to talk about. Now that I’ve filled your father in, Brennan.” I started for the door, then turned back. “The whole time we were in New York, we thought Declan had all the information we were looking for, and was keeping it from us. Turns out he didn’t know the half of it!”
I smiled at Declan and opened my mouth to deliver another remark. I was silenced by a cold blue glare.
The following books proved invaluable in the writing of Obit.
Anderson, Brendan. Joe Cahill: A Life in the IRA (The O’Brien Press, Dublin, 2002)
Behan, Brendan. Borstal Boy (Knopf, New York, 1959) Behan, Brendan.
Confessions of an Irish Rebel (Bernard Geis Associates, New York, 1965)
Coogan, Tim Pat. The I.R.A. (HarperCollins, London, 2000)
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following people for their kind assistance: Asst. Police Chief Kevin McGowan, Dr. Laurette Geldenhuys, Rhea McGarva, Helen MacDonnell, Joan Butcher and Edna Barker. And, as always, Joe A. and PJEC. All characters and plots in the story are fictional, as are some of the locations. Other places are real. Any liberties taken in the interests of fiction, or any errors committed, are mine alone.
I am grateful for permission to reprint extracts from the following:
SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY Words and Music by BUD GREEN, LES BROWN and BEN HOMER © 1944 (Renewed) MORLEY MUSIC CO. and HOLLIDAY PUBLISHING All Rights Reserved
KNOCKIN’ ON HEAVEN’S DOOR by BOB DYLAN Copyright © 1973 by Ram’s Horn Music. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Reprinted by permission.
THE PATRIOT GAME Words and Music by DOMINIC BEHAN Copyright © 1964 (Renewed) 1965 (Renewed) Onward Music Ltd., London, England TRO – Essex Music, Inc., New York, controls all publication rights for the U.S.A. and Canada. Used by permission.
LULLABY OF BROADWAY (FROM “GOLDDIGGERS OF 1935”)
Words by AL DUBIN Music by HARRY WARREN
© 1935 (Renewed) WARNER BROS. INC. All Rights Reserved
Used by Permission of ALFRED PUBLISHING CO., INC.
Every effort has been made to locate the copyright owners of material quoted in this book. Any omissions are sincerely regretted, and will be corrected in subsequent editions, if any, if brought to the publisher’s attention.
March 31, 1991
The old woman knew it all. He was convinced of that. And there she sat, smug and hostile in her flat, in possession of the diaries and other secret records that could explain — and expose — the whole sinister affair. He found entertainment for himself that night in the drinking dens of lower Manhattan. But his mind had homed in on a single point: the collection of papers in the old lady’s flat in a rundown house in Brooklyn. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he was going to walk out of there with the papers in his hands. No more secrets, no more fear of exposure.
He was in a foul mood by the time he arrived at the house the next morning. What were the chances she would give up, or peddle for an extortionate price, the incriminating papers? The day was hot and bright, but she was not to be seen in her regular spot on the stoop, basking lizard-like in the sun. He rapped on her door. No reply. He rapped again, louder. He did not want to make two trips — he never wanted to see her again — so it had to be now. He tried the door knob and pushed. The door swung open. He called her name as he stepped into the hallway. Silence.
When he looked into her living room, he reeled backwards in shock. The room was a shambles of blood and chaos; the smell of death overpowered the stale odour of smoke that hung in the room. He fought down the urge to be sick. His first thought — and it shamed him — was: “What did I touch?” His second thought was to look down at his feet to make sure he had not stepped in anything that would show up in a shoe print. The woman was face down on the floor, blood pooled around her head. There was spatter on the walls and the couch. Resting against the top of her head was a heavy marble ashtray. He didn’t have to be a forensic investigator to know it had been used to club her to death. Ashes and cigarette butts littered the floor around her. He remembered some figurines she had displayed in a cabinet; they were nowhere in sight. Books had been yanked from her bookcase in the corner. The scene suggested she had been dead for a while. But not that long: he had been there himself less than twenty-four hours ago. Was that why she had been killed, because he had been there?
Every instinct told him to bolt. But he steeled himself to go through with his plan, to retrieve the papers. To learn the truth himself, and to keep it from the shadowy figures who seemed to be circling around him. He was treading on dangerous ground, interfering with a crime scene and plotting a theft of what would be key evidence for the police investigating her death. But he took a deep breath and told himself to get moving. Then he noticed a pair of worn bedroom slippers sticking out of the hall closet. He removed his shoes and socks, and shoved his bare feet into the slippers. Let those be the footprints they find, if any. As he made his way to the back of the flat, he was relieved to see that the blood and gore were confi
ned to the area immediately around the victim. He peered into the first bedroom. Like the living room, it had been tossed. An old-fashioned jewellery box had been upended on the bed; the mattress was askew as if someone had groped beneath it. On the floor beside the bed was a plastic shopping bag with photographs spilling out of it; he dumped the pictures and wrapped the bag around his right hand before touching any items in the room. No papers. He proceeded to the other bedroom. Here again all the items had been rifled. Two battered leather briefcases had been wrenched open and left empty. He searched every drawer and shelf but found no documents, no diary. He had just entered the kitchen when he heard a sudden creaking sound, and his heart banged in his chest. He stood perfectly still, covered in a sheen of sweat. Nothing happened. After a few tense moments he resumed his quest but again found nothing. How long till someone came to the flat? He grabbed a paper towel from the holder and left the kitchen. He looked ahead through the hallway to the front door and saw a car slowing down in front of the house. He held his breath. It moved on. Probably just on the hunt for a parking space. He searched the front closet, only to confirm what he already knew: the papers were gone.
Had the woman herself destroyed them before falling victim to a murderer’s hand? Was this a simple break-in, someone preying on a crippled old lady, taking a few keepsakes to be sold at a flea market? Unlikely. The burglar had one purpose and one purpose alone: the retrieval of the records that had been a threat to somebody’s security for forty years. The theft of the woman’s trinkets was a cover-up. Was the murder a by-product of the need to get the papers? Or was it a planned execution?
ANNE EMERY is a graduate of St. F.X. University and Dalhousie Law School. She has worked as a lawyer, legal affairs reporter, and researcher. She lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, with her husband and daughter. The other books in the Collins-Burke mystery series are Sign of the Cross, winner of the 2007 Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Novel; Obit (2007); Barrington Street Blues (2008); Cecilian Vespers (2009); and Children in the Morning (2010), winner of the Dartmouth Book Award for Fiction and a silver medal from the Independent Publisher Book Awards.
Copyright © Anne Emery, 2007
Published by ECW PRESS
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW PRESS.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Emery, Anne
Obit / Anne Emery.
ISBN: 978-1-55490-280-4
Also published as 978-1-55022-754-3 (cloth); 978-1-55022-905-9 (paperback); 978-1-55490-754-0 (PDF)
I. Title.
PS8609.M47O25 2007 C813'.6 C2006-906827-5
Cover Design: Tania Craan
Cover Image: Chris Amaral/Nonstock/Firstlight
Typesetting: Mary Bowness
The publication of Obit has been generously supported by the
Canada Council, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government
of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry
Development Program.