‘Sergeant O’Rourke for the moment, ma’am. But he thinks you need to come and see this for yourself.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, can’t he handle it? This is my day off. In fact this is the first day off I’ve had in weeks.’
‘Sergeant O’Rourke really thinks you need to see this, ma’am. And we need somebody to talk to the media about it, too. We’ve got RTÉ News up here already, and Dan Keane from the Examiner, and even some girl from the Catholic Recorder.’
Katie picked up her wristwatch and peered at it. ‘All right, Paddy. Give me fifteen minutes.’
She snapped her mobile phone shut and swung her legs out of bed.
‘What is it?’ asked John.
‘The call of duty, what do you think? Somebody’s found a body in the Blackwater. For some reason, Jimmy O’Rourke wants me to come and take a look at it first-hand.’
She stepped into the white satin panties that she had left on the wheelback chair beside the bed, and then fastened her bra. John said, ‘You want me to drive you?’
She pulled on her dark green polo-neck sweater so that her short coppery hair stuck out like a cockerel’s comb. ‘No, thanks. I could be there for hours. But I’ll call you as soon as I can. By the way, what was it you were going to tell me?’
John shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. It can wait until later.’
She buttoned the flies of her tight black jeans and zipped up her high-heeled boots. Then she went through to the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror over the washbasin. ‘Jesus, look at these bags under my eyes! Anybody would think I spent all night at an orgy.’
‘You did,’ said John. He watched her as she put on her eye make-up and pale pink lip gloss. He always thought that she looked as if she were distantly related to the elves, with her green eyes and her high cheekbones and her slightly pouting mouth. She was only five feet five, but she had such personality. He didn’t find it difficult to understand how she had managed to become Cork’s first-ever female detective superintendent. He also knew why he had fallen so inextricably in love with her.
She came out of the bathroom and gave him a kiss. ‘How about Luigi Malone’s this evening, if I don’t finish too late? I’m dying for some of their mussels.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ But then he thought: Over dinner, that could be the right time to tell her.
He wrapped himself in his dark blue towelling bathrobe and followed her barefooted to the front door. She turned and kissed him one more time. ‘You take extra good care,’ he told her, like he always did. Then he watched her walk across the steeply angled farmyard, with his tan and white collie Aoife trotting after her. She climbed into her Honda and blew him a quick final kiss before she drove off.
3
On the way to Ballyhooly she played Guillaume de Machaut’s ‘Gloria’ by St Joseph’s Orphanage Choir, from their Elements CD. The singing was so piercing and so clear and so intense that it always made her feel uplifted, and she sang along, just as high as the boys in the choir but badly off key. Despite the crime she had to deal with every day – the violence and the drug peddling and the prostitution and the drunkenness – ‘Gloria’ reminded her that there really must be a heaven, after all.
She drove along Lower Main Street until she reached the turning for Carrignavar. The road was narrow and bordered on each side by grey stone walls covered in ivy, but it was deserted, and she saw no other sign of life until she reached a farmhouse about three miles down the road. Seven or eight cars and vans were lined up along the grass verge outside the farmhouse gates, and inside the farmyard three squad cars were parked, with flashing blue lights, as well as two police vans and an ambulance.
A garda directed her in through the gates and opened her car door for her. As she climbed out, Sergeant O’Rourke came across the farmyard to greet her, holding up a large pair of green rubber wellingtons. He was a short, sandy-haired man, with a rough-cut block of a head that looked much too big for his body.
‘You’ll be needing these, ma’am,’ he told her.
‘What size are they?’
‘Tens. But you wouldn’t want to be wading in the river in stiletto heels, would you?’
She sat down in the driver’s seat, unzipped her black leather boots, and put on the wellingtons. They were enormous, and when she started to walk in them, they made a loud wobbling sound.
‘So, what’s the story, Jimmy?’ she asked, as she followed him around the side of the farmhouse. The farmer and his wife and two teenage sons were standing together in their front porch, glowering at them. Katie waved at them and called out, ‘All right, there? Sorry about all the disturbance!’ but they didn’t reply. They looked like a family of ill-assorted gargoyles.
‘What a bunch of mogs,’ said Sergeant O’Rourke.
‘Now then, Jimmy. Respect for your ordinary citizen, please.’
They walked together across the pasture that led down to the edge of the Blackwater, and the breeze whispered softly in the long shiny grass. As they came nearer, the black-clad body came into view, lying on its side in the shallows. Two gardaí from the technical bureau were crouching in the water next to it in pale green Tyvek suits, taking photographs. Three more uniformed guards and two paramedics were talking to a TV crew and two reporters on the bank. A little further away stood two men with fishing rods, smoking, and three small boys.
Sergeant O’Rourke pointed to the anglers. ‘Those two fellas over there – they were the ones who were after finding the body. One of them says that he knows who he is – or he’s reasonably certain, anyhow.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s pretty sure that he’s a parish priest from Mayfield, Father Heaney. Apparently he taught music at St Anthony’s Primary School back in the eighties.’
‘Good memory your man’s got.’
‘Not surprising, if it is him. Father Heaney was one of the twelve priests in the Cork and Ross diocese who were investigated seven years ago for sexual abuse. Taught the boys music? Taught them to play the fiddle, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Was he ever charged with anything?’
‘I had O’Sullivan check for me. There were eleven complaints against Father Heaney in all. Inappropriate behaviour in the showers, that kind of thing. In the end, though, the Director of Public Prosecutions wouldn’t take the matter any further because it had all happened too long ago.’
‘But that’s why the press are here? Because of the sexual abuse angle?’
‘Partly, like.’
‘What aren’t you telling me, Jimmy?’
‘Like I said, ma’am, this is something you need to see for yourself.’
He stepped down into the river and held out his hand to help Katie follow him. The water felt icy cold, even through her rubber wellingtons. Sergeant O’Rourke waded ahead and Katie came behind him, trying to keep the wellingtons from falling off. As they approached, the two gardaí from the technical bureau stood up and took a few paces back. One was grey-haired, in his mid-forties. The other could have just left school.
‘Well, he looks like a priest,’ said Katie, bending over the body. ‘Any identification on him?’
‘Nothing, ma’am,’ said the younger technician. He had a wispy blonde moustache and such fiery red acne that he looked as if he had been hit in the face point-blank by a shotgun. ‘All we found in his pockets was a rosary and a packet of extra-strong mints.’
‘He took care of what mattered, anyhow,’ remarked Sergeant O’Rourke. ‘His soul, and his breath.’
‘Any ideas about the cause of death?’ asked Katie. ‘Not to prejudge Dr Reidy’s autopsy, of course.’
The older technician cleared his throat. ‘One of two or three things, I’d say; or a combination of all of them. He was garrotted with very thin wire, which was twisted tight at the back of his neck with the handle of a soup spoon. The same type of wire was used to tie his wrists and his knees and ankles. But he could just as well have bled to death, or died of shock.’
He was wearing no underpants. His flaccid penis lay sideways on his fat white thigh, but underneath it, where his testicles should have been, there was nothing but a dark gaping hole.
‘My God,’ said Katie. She leaned forward and peered at the wound more closely.
‘Whoever did it, it looks like they used something like a pair of garden shears,’ said the older technician. ‘You can tell by the slight V-shaped nick in his perineum where the blades crossed over each other.’
‘Christ on crutches,’ said Sergeant O’Rourke. ‘Makes my eyes water even to think about it.’
‘This didn’t happen to him here,’ the technician continued. ‘He’s no longer in full rigor, so he’s probably been dead for at least three days. My guess is that he was strangled and castrated somewhere else and dumped here sometime last night.’
‘What do you think, ma’am?’ Sergeant O’Rourke asked her. ‘Revenge killing, by somebody he messed with when he was teaching his music? There’s been wagons of publicity about child abuse lately, hasn’t there? The pope saying sorry and all. Maybe somebody’s been holding a grudge against him all these years, and decided it was time to do something about it.’
‘Well . . . you might be right,’ said Katie, standing up straight. ‘But let’s not jump to any hasty conclusions. Maybe his killer simply didn’t like him, for some obscure reason or another. You remember that case a couple of years ago in Holyhill? That young woman whose husband died of cancer, and she stabbed the parish priest with a pair of scissors because she said that his prayers hadn’t worked?’
‘There’s a few priests I wouldn’t mind having a good old stab at, I can tell you,’ said Sergeant O’Rourke.
Katie turned to the older technician and said, ‘You can send him off to the path lab when you’re finished. I think I’ve seen everything that I need to see.’
‘Before you go – there’s one quite interesting detail,’ he told her. He held up the two lengths of brass wire that had been used to bind the dead priest’s legs. The ends of both of them had been twisted into neat double loops, like butterfly wings.
Katie said, ‘That’s very distinctive, isn’t it? Is there any particular profession that finishes off its wiring like that?’
‘Not that I know of. But I’ll be making some inquiries.’
‘Okay, good.’
Katie waded out of the river and Detective O’Sullivan gave her a hand to climb up the bank. Immediately, the TV crew from RTÉ came over – Fionnuala Sweeney, a pretty gingery girl in a bright green windcheater, accompanied by an unshaven cameraman – as well as Dan Keane from the Examiner, red-nosed, in his usual raglan-sleeved overcoat, and a pale, round-faced young woman with very black curls and a prominent beauty spot on her upper lip, whom Katie presumed was the reporter from the Catholic Recorder. She had very big breasts and she wore a grey tent-like poncho to cover them.
Fionnuala Sweeney held out her microphone and said, ‘Superintendent Maguire! All right with you if we ask you some questions?’
‘Let me ask you a question first,’ said Katie, sharply. ‘Who tipped you off about this body being found?’
Fionnuala Sweeny blinked rapidly, as if Katie had mortally offended her. ‘I couldn’t possibly tell you that, superintendent. You know that. I have to protect my professional sources.’
‘Oh, stop being so sanctimonious, Nuala,’ said Dan Keane, lighting a cigarette. ‘I had the same tip-off myself but the caller didn’t leave his name, and I certainly didn’t recognize his voice. In fact, I couldn’t even tell you for sure if it was a man or a woman. Sounded more like a fecking frog, to tell you the truth.’
‘All right, then,’ said Katie. ‘Ask me whatever you like. But I can’t tell you very much at all, not at this early stage.’
Fionnuala Sweeney said, ‘Your witness here identified the deceased as Father Dermot Heaney, from Mayfield.’
‘No comment on that. Whatever the witness said to you, we don’t yet know for certain who he is.’
‘In 2005, Father Heaney was one of the priests who were investigated on suspicion of child abuse.’
‘So I’m told. But as far as I know, the DPP took no action against him, and this may not be him. What’s your question?’
‘I just want to know if you’ll be considering the possibility that one of Father Heaney’s victims was looking to punish him for what he did. Or what he was alleged to have done.’
Katie held up her hand. ‘Listen, Fionnuala, how many times? We haven’t yet established the deceased’s identity, not for certain. He might not even be a priest, for all we know. And even if it is Father Heaney, we have no evidence at all who might have wanted to kill him, or what their motives might have been. All I can say at this stage is that we’ll be searching this area with a fine-tooth comb, and interviewing anybody who might have witnessed anything unusual. If any of your viewers think that they can help us to identify the victim, and whoever wished him harm, then as usual we’ll be very grateful.’
‘Do you know what the cause of death was?’ asked Fionnuala Sweeney.
‘Again, we’re not sure yet. Either Dr Reidy, the state pathologist, or one of his two deputies will be carrying out an autopsy as soon as we can arrange it.’
The girl with the beauty spot spoke with a lisp. ‘Ciara Clare, superintendent, from the Catholic Recorder. If your dead man does prove to be a priest, you will be consulting the diocese, won’t you, about the most discreet way to handle it?’
Katie frowned at her. ‘I’m not sure I understand your question.’
‘Well, this has been a very difficult time for the church, hasn’t it?’ said Ciara Clare. ‘The bishop has asked the public for forgiveness for past errors, as you know. I’m only suggesting that this is a time for healing, rather than more scandal.’
‘Excuse me, Ciara? Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘I’m only concerned about this murder being sensationalized. I mean, it does seem likely that your man was killed by a victim of child abuse, doesn’t it, in revenge for molesting him, and that could very well incite other victims to take the law into their own hands. We don’t want more priests to be attacked, whatever they might have done in the past.’
‘That’s about three too many ifs,’ Katie told her. ‘Like I said, we need to take this one step at a time. Just because the deceased is wearing a cassock, that doesn’t prove anything at all. He may have been on his way to a fancy-dress party.’
Dan Keane took his cigarette out of his mouth and let out a cough like a dog barking. ‘He was castrated, though, wasn’t he? That would indicate some kind of sexual motivation.’
‘I’m sorry, Dan. We’ll have to wait for the pathologist’s report to find out exactly what injuries he suffered.’
‘You don’t need a pathologist to tell you when a man’s had his mebs cut off. Your anglers saw it with their own eyes. Gelded, that’s what they said.’
‘Well, I’d rather you kept that to yourself for the time being. You too, please, Fionnuala. And you, Ms—’
‘I’m not sure I can do that, superintendent,’ said Dan Keane. ‘It’s the best part of the whole story, don’t you think? “Father loses fatherhood.”‘
‘Dan!’ Katie retorted. ‘Do you want me to give you any further co-operation on this case, or not?’
Dan blew smoke and coughed again and said, ‘Very well, superintendent. I’ll hold off for now, until you get the pathologist’s report at least. But if it comes out from any other source, I’m going to have to run with it.’
Katie walked back to her car and kicked off the huge green wellingtons so that they spun away across the grass. As she was tugging on her black leather boots again, Sergeant
O’Rourke came up to her and leaned against the car door. ‘I’m having the whole area searched for tyre tracks and footprints and any other evidence. The fields, the pathways, the river bed. Everywhere. We’ve already started a door to door in Ballyhooly and all the surrounding communities. Somebody must have seen something.’
‘Thanks, Jimmy. Keep me in touch. For some reason, I have a very uneasy feeling about this one. I always do when the church is involved. You never get an outright lie, do you? But then you never get an outright truth, either. It’s all incense smoke and mirrors.’
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Author’s Note
On May 1, 1915, in the second summer of the First World War, the luxury Cunard liner Lusitania set sail from New York bound for Liverpool, England. By this stage of the war, a considerable number of British merchant ships had already been sunk by German submarines, and the German authorities had published warnings in US newspapers on the very morning of the Lusitania’s departure. However, it was thought that her superior speed would enable her to outrun any U-boat attack.
Six days later, as she approached the coast of south-west Ireland, Captain William Turner was warned that there was U-boat activity in the area and that three British ships had already been sunk in the waters through which he intended to sail. However, he maintained his course and even – inexplicably – slowed down.
As the Lusitania approached Queenstown harbor (now called Cobh) she was sighted by the submarine U-20 under the command of Kapitanleutnant Walther Schwieger. He fired a single torpedo which penetrated the Lusitania just below the waterline. The first explosion set off a devastating second blast, and the huge liner sank in 18 minutes, with the loss of 1,195 of her passengers – men, women and children – including 123 Americans.
President Wilson and the American public were outraged, but in a note to her embassy in Washington on May 10, Germany gave no satisfactory explanation for the sinking, and eventually even struck a medal to commemorate U-20’s successful action. More than any other single event, the loss of the Lusitania turned public opinion and led to the United States entering the First World War.
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