Begging to Die

by Graham Masterton

  They arrived back at Anglesea Street and Katie went immediately to see Inspector O’Rourke. He had already stood down all the gardaí who had been detailed to raid Lupul’s house, and notified the immigration officers and Tusla.

  Katie said, ‘Thanks, Francis. Good man yourself. But this is only the beginning. I’m going up to discuss this with Chief Superintendent O’Kane, but I’d appreciate it if you could start calculating how many officers you’d need to pick up all of the rough sleepers from the city in one fell swoop.’

  Inspector O’Rourke widened his eyes in disbelief. ‘All of them? I wouldn’t like to guess. How many are there, exactly?’

  ‘It varies from night to night, of course, depending on how many have managed to find themselves a bed at St Vincent’s or the Simon Community. But at the last count it was anything between twenty and thirty.’

  ‘All right, ma’am, I’ll work on it. We’d have to do a bit of a reconnoitre first to see where they were all located, because some squads could pick up more than one rough sleeper at a time, couldn’t they, if they were dossing down reasonably close together – say the Savoy Centre and the doorways of Dunnes. But what are we going to do with them, once we’d picked them up?’

  ‘Fetch them all here for questioning. I’ll tell you, Francis, I’m determined now to stamp out this exploitation of homeless people. I mean, Jesus, as if they don’t suffer enough.’

  She went upstairs to her office first. She hung up her coat, washed her face and hands, and sprayed her hair with perfume to get rid of the smell of smoke. As she was walking along the corridor to Chief Superintendent O’Kane’s office, the lift doors opened and Detective O’Donovan appeared, holding two plastic cups of coffee.

  ‘Thought you might appreciate this, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks a million, Patrick. You’d make some girl a wonderful husband.’

  ‘Well thanks, but not yet. Me and Aibreann, we broke up last weekend.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. She’s a pretty girl.’

  ‘I know, but she couldn’t take the hours I was working, do you know what I mean, and whenever I came home I was always flah’d out in front of the telly, like. My own fault, I’d say. I should have paid her more attention.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll get back together?’

  ‘No chance. Not unless I change my job, like.’

  Katie stopped in front of Chief Superintendent O’Kane’s office door. She wanted to say something to Detective O’Donovan to console him, and to reassure him that he would soon meet some other girl to replace Aibreann. But she couldn’t find the words. Her devotion to her job had destroyed most of her relationships, too – especially her late husband, Paul, and her lover John. Now Conor was lying in hospital broken and impotent, because he had tried to take the law into his own hands and trap the McQuaide sisters, which she hadn’t yet been able to do.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ she said, and gave him the briefest of smiles.

  She knocked on Chief Superintendent O’Kane’s door and went in. Brendan was talking on the phone to Detective Inspector Fitzpatrick and at the same time watching a live streaming of the fire up at Alexandra Road on his flat-screen TV. It looked as if the flames had been extinguished now, but when it was intermittently visible behind the drifting smoke, the house was little more than an empty, blackened shell.

  ‘There you are, Katie,’ said Brendan, covering the phone with his hand. ‘Come on in – sit down. DI Fitzpatrick is just giving me the latest.’

  Katie sat down in the chair in front of Brendan’s desk. He lifted the phone again and said, ‘Okay, Robert, that’s grand altogether. Thanks a million. Let me know when the technical team shows up. Sure. I’ll talk to you later.’

  Then he turned to Katie, looking serious.

  ‘They’ve found another body inside the house. It’s an adult, he reckons, but it’s so badly charred they don’t know whether it’s a man or a woman. Maybe it’s this Lupul.’

  ‘Oh, God. It’s possible it’s him, I suppose, because I don’t think there’s much question that this was arson, and if it was arson it must have been Lupul they were after. Did Robert tell you that we found three empty petrol cans in the garden?’

  Brendan nodded. ‘He did, yes, and with any luck we’ll find a rake of forensics. But it makes no odds how many fingerprints and how much DNA we discover if we don’t have a match on PULSE.’

  ‘We badly need more intelligence about this begging ring, sir. It’s my suggestion that we fetch in every rough sleeper in the city for questioning – especially any Romanians. That’s the only way we’re going to be able to find out the scale of this operation and where the money’s going to and why Lupul’s house was set on fire.’

  Brendan stood up. ‘I’m not at all sure about that, Katie. You realize that we’ll be facing some serious resistance if we do that. His Holiness Bishop O’Neill will accuse us of being racist and having hearts of stone. The Simon Community won’t like it, and neither will St Vincent’s – or even Cork Penny Dinners – “We don’t judge, we serve,” that’s what they say, isn’t it, when they’re handing out their free shepherd’s pie?’

  ‘I know,’ said Katie. ‘They protect the homeless. They take care of them, as much as they can afford. But at the same time they make it ten times more difficult for us to find and lift the scavengers who exploit them.’

  ‘And what are you going to do about the Human Rights Act? I hate to say it, Katie, but you’ll be opening up a can of lawyers, and that’s even worse than a can of worms.’

  ‘Let’s cross that boreen when we come to it. I’ve just witnessed two people killed in tonight’s fire, right in front of my eyes, and now we’ve found a third. At least three rough sleepers have been murdered already, as well as our informant from The Parting Glass, and at least two women are missing. I intend to find out who committed these crimes and make sure that they’re punished even if it makes me the most detested police officer in Ireland – ever.’

  ‘Oh, stop. To me personally, Katie, you’re the most likeable police officer in Ireland. But you have to remember that one of my priorities here is to make the Garda popular again with the public, and this isn’t going to help me at all.’

  ‘That’s beside the point, sir,’ Katie retorted. ‘How many times have you heard me saying that we have to clear rough sleepers off the streets? How many times have you heard me saying that we should be finding homes for those who genuinely don’t have homes to go to and helping them to overcome their addictions. So many of them are chronically sick or mentally ill, and this is the twenty-first century, for the love of God, not medieval times.’

  ‘Katie—’

  ‘No, listen. We should be taking care of our own, yes, but at the same time we should be deporting all those beggars that scummers like Lupul have smuggled over from Romania. When shoppers give them change, they don’t realize that they’re not helping out some poor destitute soul in rag condition – they’re financing a large-scale money-making criminal operation, run by foreigners. And of course there’s not only the beggars. There’s all those young people who are bullied into shoplifting or dealing in drugs or prostituting themselves.’

  ‘You always were good at giving lectures,’ Brendan told her. ‘I have to say that you’ve nearly persuaded me.’

  ‘Then what do I have to do to get your backing for this? Whenever we question these rough sleepers individually, they’re always too afraid to give us any information, because they’ll only have to go back out on the streets again where they’ve no protection at all. But let’s bring them all in, and tell them that we’ll keep them safe until their bosses have been hauled in and charged. Then maybe we’ll have a half-decent chance of putting an end to these begging rings.’

  ‘And where exactly do you propose keeping them safe? If St Vincent’s and the Simons don’t have the room for them, where are we going to put them up? Not to mention feeding them. How much is it all going to cost?’

  ‘I�
�ll talk to Jim Phelan at the council’s homeless office, sir. I’m sure we can set up some kind of temporary accommodation for twenty people. As for paying for it, maybe you can talk to Assistant Commissioner Magorian. You can tell him that we’ve had seven deaths already connected with homelessness, and those are only the ones that we know about. You wait until you see the TV news and the Echo later today. I know how much you want the Garda to be popular again, but sometimes you have to forget about your popularity and do the right thing.’

  Brendan came over and stood very close to her. Behind him, on the TV screen, Alexandra Road was almost totally obliterated by smoke.

  She was sure he wanted to say something personal, but again he must have known that this wasn’t the time. Eventually, he said, ‘All right, then, Katie. If you can set up a plan for how you might organize an operation like this, let’s have a meeting later with Michael Pearse. If he thinks it’s workable, I’ll have a word with Frank Magorian and the council’s homeless forum. It’s a fierce dramatic way of dealing with this investigation, I have to say, but—’

  He didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he said, ‘Why don’t you go home and get some sleep and something to eat? You’ve been up for most of the night.’

  ‘Eamon Buckley’s lawyer is coming in at ten.’

  ‘Then let Tony Mulliken hold the interview. You have a grand team, Katie, you don’t need to run yourself ragged.’

  ‘Yes, maybe you’re right. And I think my poor dogs will be pining for me. I’ll see you back here at eleven, say.’

  ‘Twelve. And that’s an order.’

  She looked up at him. Unshaven, and with his hair uncombed, wearing that mustardy-coloured Aran sweater and jeans, she thought that he was even more attractive than when he came in to the station in his smart blue uniform. She felt guilty and unfaithful for even thinking it, but he was right. She had been running herself into the ground in the past few days and right now she was sorely in need of somebody to put their arms around her and tell her that everything was going to work out, and that in their eyes at least she was beautiful.

  36

  As she drove up to join the Lower Glanmire Road on her way home, she could see the inky pall of smoke that still hung over Montenotte from Lupul’s burned-out house. She was exhausted, but at the same time she couldn’t remember when she had felt so determined to rid Cork of corruption by foreign gangs. In her view, they had infested the city’s streets like writhing maggots, and she was going to take whatever action was necessary to fumigate them out of their hiding places and exterminate them.

  When she arrived home, Barney and Foltchain didn’t give her their usual ecstatic welcome. Maybe they were sulking because she had left them to be looked after by Jenny Tierney too long. More likely, the smoke from the fire had permeated her clothes and she smelled unfamiliar. She tugged Barney’s ears, though, and stroked Foltchain’s feathery back, and when she went into the kitchen to pour out a bowl of fruit muesli and make herself a cup of coffee, they came trotting after her, and looked up at her with expressions that unequivocally said, ‘All right, you’re back now, even if you do have the weird benjy of something burning off of you. How about some Madra roast beef and vegetables?’

  Once she had fed them, she took her muesli and coffee into the living room and sat down on the couch with her feet up. It was still intensely cold outside, but the sun was shining through a thin grey haze and no more rain was forecast until Sunday at least. She was still eating when her iPhone rang.

  ‘Superintendent Maguire? I hope I’m not disturbing you so early but I thought it might be better to catch you before your day got too busy. It’s Jimmy O’Neill here, Caoimhe’s dad. You left a message yesterday to say that if we couldn’t raise enough to pay for Walter’s operations by the crowdfunding, that your boss was ready to stump up the difference. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s right, he did so.’

  ‘I was only ringing you to make sure that I heard you correctly, do you know? I mean, that’s a pure generous offer and we could scarce believe it.’

  ‘Yes, it is generous. But Chief Superintendent O’Kane is trying to show that An Garda Síochána is committed to helping the community – just as much as we are to hauling in criminals.’

  She paused, and then she said, ‘I hope that doesn’t sound too much like a TV commercial.’

  ‘Well, not at all, no,’ said Jimmy O’Reilly. ‘But the thing of it is, our crowdfunding seems to be pretty much stuck now and we don’t think it’s going to go up much higher. So we’re wondering if your boss really is prepared to come up with the rest.’

  ‘He said he would. But how much have you raised so far?’

  ‘Two hundred and seventy-five euros. And the promise of a padded dog basket from the Ideal Pet Shop.’

  ‘So… that’s going to leave us with a balance of about two thousand, seven hundred and twenty-five euros. I’ll have to ask him if he’s ready to pay that much. I’m at home at the moment but I’ll try to get back to you later today, like. The sooner little Walter has his operation, the better.’

  ‘I feel morto asking for it, to tell you the truth, and if it’s more than he can come up with, we won’t feel bad about him saying so.’

  ‘I expect it’s going to be fine,’ said Katie. After all, she thought, I don’t think he did it so much to make the Garda popular with the public as he did to make himself popular with me. But I have Conor lying grievously injured in the hospital and I love Conor and no matter what Brendan does to impress me, he can never change that. Conor and I will find a way, I’m sure of it. I’m nearly sure of it, anyway. At least, I’m praying to Saint Raphael – and to Saint Adelaide, too.

  Once she had finished talking to Caoimhe’s father, Katie finished her breakfast, stowed her plate in the dishwasher and went to take a shower. As she washed her hair, she couldn’t help thinking of the strange three-cornered relationship between herself, Brendan and Walter the pug. It was almost like a story out of Táin Bó Cúailinge, the old book of Irish legends, when preglacial Ireland had been inhabited by the slimy Slipidyslaps and the crusty Fumebottoms, and the fairies. Magical agreements had been struck between men, monsters and mermaids.

  Before she put on her nightgown, she stood in front of the bedroom mirror drying her hair. Although she hadn’t had time to go to the gym every morning, she had walked the dogs as often as she could, and as far as she could, and she had lost weight since she and Conor had been living together. Maybe it was all the sex. As a lover, Conor was both inventive and passionate – or at least he had been. It was more likely, though, that her weight loss had been caused by stress. Conor was devoted to her, but he was full on, all the time, as if the inside of his head were a constantly boiling kettle that never got taken off the hob. What with all the criminal and legal and political problems that she had to deal with, she needed time and space at the end of each day to be totally calm, and to meditate.

  She slept on and off for three hours. She heard Jenny’s key in the door when she came to walk Barney and Foltchain, but she stayed where she was with her eyes closed, and she didn’t call out.

  When eleven o’clock chimed, she threw back the covers and forced herself to get up. This was the day when she was going to start her operation to clear the streets of Cork. Hopefully she would soon find out who had drilled into the heads of the homeless, and who had abducted the two missing women, and who had set fire to the house on Alexandra Road.

  But her day was going to start at CUH rather than Anglesey Street, because she believed it was here in the hospital that she would discover the first clues that would allow her to take apart the begging rings, and also the first clues to what was really going to happen to her, in her personal life.

  *

  Before she called in at the security control room at CUH, she went up to see Conor.

  He was dressed in his navy-blue sweater and grey corduroy trousers and was sitting in the armchair in his room, reading The Herald. The headline read: Sho
t Dad – Am I Going To Die?

  His face was still bandaged and stuck with plasters, but only a nosepiece like a Viking helmet and a gauze pad across his left cheek. His bruises were turning yellow and dark purple and most of his facial swelling had subsided. Katie went across and kissed him, and he kissed her back. It was a gentle kiss that he gave her – not hesitant, but careful, exploratory, as if he were trying to find out exactly what she thought of him, now that he was damaged goods.

  ‘I didn’t know you read that rag,’ smiled Katie, sitting down next to him.

  ‘Oh – well, no, but it’s the only paper they could offer me this morning. That’s my excuse anyway. And besides, it has the best racing tips in it. I won’t be able to go back to work for quite a while until I’ve fully recovered, will I? So I might as well try to make some grade by betting on the horses.’

  ‘You’re looking so much better, though,’ said Katie, laying her hand on his arm.

  ‘Mr Sandhu ran some more tests on me this morning. He’s happy with the way I’ve been healing up – down there, like, you know. In fact, he says I should probably be able to come home tomorrow – although I’ll have to come back here after a few days so they can make sure that my nose and my cheekbone and my eye socket are all knitting together the way they should be.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Con. Barney and Foltchain will be over the moon to see you back. And so will I. There’s only one thing I need to know, though.’

  ‘Oh, yes? And what’s that?’

  ‘When can you start growing your beard again? I can’t get used to you with your bare chin like that! You look about twenty-one years old!’

  ‘Don’t you want a toy boy?’

  She leaned across the arm of the chair and kissed him again – once, and then twice, and then again. ‘No,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘I want Conor Ó Máille. The dog detective. The man with the beard. And the man I fell in love with.’