He took Dick with him to the bank. The sergeant’s eyes were sharp, and he was turning out to have a good filter. He’d make a good policeman when Ben was doing DIY around the house and gardening and whatever it was that retired people did. Fishing seemed popular.
The girl behind the counter went and got Derek Cooney, straightaway, without needing to be asked. She took one look at him and slipped behind the heavy wooden door that led away from the main body of the bank.
“Come through here, Inspector Cronin. Margaret, would you see that we’re brought a cup of tea, please and that we’re not disturbed.”
“We thought about calling you, yesterday, Inspector. But there was no need, in the end. Mr. O’Sullivan’s wife came with the priest and Dr. Cash, and they took him away.”
He put a hand to his head and smoothed it, and Ben imagined the residue of Brylcreme and that smell redolent of bathrooms and dance halls. He didn’t look nervous, but on his guard, all the same, and who could blame him?
“Are you in charge, for the duration?”
“So they tell me. Head Office. I hope he’ll be better soon. I mean he can be…well, a tough enough boss, but it’s very strange without him. Like a ship with no one steering.” He gave a nervous laugh and blushed making him look very young.
“A small word of advice, Mr. Cooney. You might be feeling that, but for God’s sake, don’t go round saying it. There is a captain. You’re him. If you’re wondering how the hell you got to be doing it, and what should you do next then fake it. Ask a lot of questions and behave like you know what you’re doing. It’s what most of the world does, most of the time.”
The young man relaxed in front of his eyes, apparent mainly in the way he stopped holding his shoulders tense and high.
“Anyway, you probably know almost as much as Mr. O’Sullivan. I’m not really here about that. It’s a sad business, but not a matter for us because the situation was dealt with by the doctor and Mrs. O’Sullivan. I’m looking at the death of Simon Crowe and also that of a young man who was found in Ford’s farm building. No need to ask you if you’ve heard about all of that. I know what the town is like.”
“So, you’re not here at all about Mr. O’Sullivan and what happened yesterday?”
“Mmm, not directly. But all the same…it’s a coincidence, and I’m wondering if there was any incident here at work that could have triggered this breakdown?”
The young assistant manager nodded.
“Well, Simon Crowe is a customer. Not that he’s been in, or out and about at all, recently.”
“He was a friend of Simon Crowe’s too, I believe.”
The puzzled look merely flicked across Derek Cooney’s face. He’d hardly be privy to his boss’s friendships, though. “I wasn’t aware of that, but sure, I suppose they both would go back a long way, in the town.” He gave a nervous laugh.
“My mother says back at home that if you threw a stone, you’d hit a Cooney. It’s like that when it comes to old friends in this town.”
There was a quiet knock, and the girl in a drab knee-length skirt and a white blouse came in. She was wearing a daft-looking blue and red kerchief around her neck. You had to wonder who designed bank uniforms.
“Is that all right, Mr. Cooney?”
“Thanks very much, Margaret.” He’d gone red again at the “mister”, Ben could see the odd patch he’d avoided while shaving, probably because of the fading acne. He was young, maybe mid or late twenties.
“What is Mr. O’Sullivan like as a boss?”
“I’m…well…he’s fine.”
His face flushed a pinkish-red.
“You’re not going to get into trouble, Derek. We won’t be talking about this, will we, Sergeant Sheehan?”
“No, sir.”
“I hope you won’t. I’ve worked very hard to get this job.”
He grinned, though, showing a bit more spirit.
“He’s a very tough boss. I suppose it’s good in a way. I’m certainly learning the processes, and the ins and outs of the job—the hard way.”
He was relaxing. You could see the good company he’d make in time to come. It’s an ill-wind. Maybe his boss’s breakdown would be the making of him.
“He can be all right at times. Nice, even. Talk to me as though I’m a work colleague. But, then he can be different altogether. If I relax at all, he can turn into the stern boss in one minute, put me in my place, and he won’t worry too much if it’s in public either. In front of a customer once…and it wasn’t my fault.”
He shrugged, clearly kept on the hop all the time by O’Sullivan. Typically bullying tactics.
“Has anything out of the ordinary happened lately?”
“There was something.”
You got the impression the young man had expected this question, had thought about it.
“Someone came in last week, in the middle of the week, Wednesday, I think. A young fellow, much my own age. He had an accent, American. He had a swagger about him if you know what I mean. He was loud for around here. Very confident in himself. He demanded to see the manager. I was with Mr. O’Sullivan, when the girl came in to say. She was embarrassed, and probably frightened she’d get her head bitten off.”
Again, there was a half-nervous laugh, but the impression also that he was gaining inches of self-confidence by the minute.
“What happened?”
“Well, she did get her head bitten off. Who was the fellow and what did he want that couldn’t be dealt with by the counter staff, and what did she think she was doing coming bothering Mr. O’Sullivan when he was very busy?”
“But, curiosity got the better of him, and he said to bring him through, and they were holed up in here for ages.”
Ben had a feeling, a restlessness, cross between excitement and unease, his usual response to something that looked interesting.
“I’m saying about it because it was out of the ordinary. Mr. O’Sullivan wouldn’t spend a good half an hour like that with someone in the middle of the day unless it was one of his important customers…he just wouldn’t.”
There was something more; there must be.
“What happened after the young man went?”
“Mr. O’Sullivan didn’t come out for ages and eventually I had to knock on his door. There was a caller for him. One of his regular contacts in the town. One of the partners in the accountancy firm on Strand Street; the older one, Mr. Moore. He wanted to see Mr. O’Sullivan, and he isn’t a man to be fobbed off.”
That was no secret. Jack Moore’s customary greeting when answering the telephone was, “Moore here.” No first name and no time wasting on hello.
“I was dreading it, but he was all right with me. He was preoccupied, though, and…”
The young man swallowed and for the first time looked nervous.
“And what?”
“I’d say he’d had a drink, sir. Not that he was drunk or anything, but there was a smell of spirits.”
Now, he decided he may as well, be hung for a sheep.
“It was that it was unusual. Occasionally, he would have a drink with an important customer or he’d have a sherry at Christmas, but never on his own, like that.”
So, the young man hadn’t only breached O’Sullivan’s lair, he’d rattled him as well and possibly contributed to the breakdown he’d suffered a couple of days later.
The young man might be the same one whose body now lay in the police mortuary in Mallow. They’d get to the bottom of this, and they’d get to know his identity. His connection with the death of Simon Crowe and how he’d come to end up dead in Ford’s hut might take longer.
Chapter Thirteen
He must really want her back. It was a lot simpler, of course. He’d struggle to get a replacement housekeeper just like that. A lot of young girls these days wouldn’t trot off and do what their mother or one of the nuns told them to do. They’d stick up for themselves, and she was all for that. It was no life for anyone who wanted to spread their wings—
stretch their imagination.
When she’d been growing up, there’d had been the ones who’d flown and the ones who’d safely stayed at home. To Maggie, that would have been like clipping a goose’s wings to keep it close to its shed. She’d seen the sea as a kid, and that had been it. She’d have to cross it and see what was on the other side. She’d not got as far as crossing the Atlantic. Not yet, anyway. But she had got away.
Fair enough, it had gone far from smoothly in her case, but she had travelled. Maybe that was part of Reggie’s attraction for her. He had really travelled—to the very edges of the known world, Reggie had set out to see them even if it had cost him dear—cost her dear too.
Her mind was wondering too much in the past, down those twisty byroads. At night, she lay in the little bedroom in Brosnans trying to be still and trying to rid her mind of the racing thoughts. Being idle didn’t suit her. This had the feeling of being forced upon her, far from a holiday. She didn’t want to go back and work for the canon, but she worried constantly about Father Tom, in particular, and in spite of herself, she still thought of the parochial house as home.
She should have known better than to let that happen. But, she was a home-maker, not just a housekeeper. She would try and learn from this. Go forward with even more caution that before.
She answered the door to him, herself.
“Good morning, Maggie. Can I have a word?”
All she did was to hold the door open and let him in, but her heart was running away with itself as though she’d ran the length of the GAA pitch.
“Well, I’m glad the Brosnans have behaved like good Christians and allowed you to stay.”
She indicated the chair on the other side of the kitchen table. He would expect to be taken into the small parlour, but he’d have to be disappointed.
“I’m not a charity case, Canon. I’ll be looking for employment very shortly.”
“You might struggle without a good character reference.”
She got to her feet. She no longer had to listen to this nonsense, and that was at least one good thing to come out of this mess.
He held a hand out, like someone trying to stop the traffic.
“I didn’t mean that, Maggie. You are entitled to a reference. I have no complaints about your work. You’re a good housekeeper.”
“Just the rest of my character that doesn’t suit?”
She could have laughed, or sang or whistled in exhilaration. It was freeing to have nothing to lose.
“No, I’m not saying that. I never said that. But, I was lied to, or at the very least, you were selective in what you divulged when you came for the interview.”
“I don’t make the rules, Maggie, whatever people think. Some of the rules aren’t written down or in canon law. But, they are understood, for all that. Everyone in the parochial house has to be what they claim to be.”
Her temper was rising, not making her see red, but making everything jump out at her, the colours of the wallpaper, the smell of stew in the oven and the canon’s mouth opening and closing. Even his voice was distorted, and for two pins she’d tell him…she would challenge him about a lot of things. She wasn’t blind nor stupid, and she’d seen the reactions in that dining room when she’d told them about Simon Crowe’s death. She’d seen him in action, too much of him in action—especially the way he was with Father Tom.
“I’m sorry.”
She jerked her head up. This was unprecedented indeed.
“I was hasty and should have explained myself better. You have been married before, though maybe it is better I don’t know if it was in a Catholic church—if you were properly married. You have to understand that I can’t have people coming up to me and telling me things like this about my housekeeper—a woman living in a privileged position, in the parochial house. You must understand that. I can’t understand why you didn’t tell me from the outset.”
She sighed, trying to calm her breathing. He almost made his stance plausible, almost succeeded in making her feel guilty.
Now she had to stop herself from blurting out explanations and apologies.
“This is a marriage that happened decades ago and lasted months. Besides that, it is something I try not to think about or talk about.” She wasn’t going to go any further than that.
He got up too, now, leaving her suddenly on the back foot almost wanting to prolong the conversation for some stupid reason.
“I’ll leave you in peace.” At the door, he turned back.
“It would help all of us if you returned to work, at least for now. If we both decide that it is best that you move on, then maybe we should do it properly with a period of notice. It would give me a chance to replace you and you a chance to secure another position. I will provide you with a reference.”
She needed to pull back a small bit of ground. “I’ll think about it, Canon and I’ll speak to Mrs. Brosnan. I’ll come round to the parochial house tomorrow morning with a decision.”
He nodded, a flustered look crossing his face. He never liked anyone to have the last word.
* * *
“GWG jacket, origins the Unites States. We need a photograph or impression to be sent out to the docks, the ports, Cork airport, maybe. He had no luggage with him that we can see which would indicate that he was staying somewhere in the vicinity.”
He was thinking aloud, but young Sheehan was quick off the mark, making notes as Ben spoke.
There would be a connection between the nameless young man and Crowe’s death. He was sure, though as yet, it was difficult to tease it out. He’d had a sop to hand the super, though, which was the best thing to have happened in days.
“I want us to go back to the parochial house today. Speak to both the canon and young Father Tom.”
“He’s definitely holding back information, isn’t he, Inspector?”
“He is. It’s a fine line, though, Dick.” He hesitated. It was another fine line between allowing a junior to learn from his mistakes and imparting your own hard-learned wisdom to him.
“He’s near to the edge, is young Father Tom. There’s already one breakdown as a result of this case, though I have no proof. The last thing we need is another.”
The canon had mentioned sending Father Tom away to Clare to a retreat, as a way of recuperation from the strain involved in being so close to Crowe’s death.
So, Abina Moore had already told Ben.
“My friend, Maggie, is out of a job.”
It was nearly before he’d got his coat off before he’d had time to say hello to his wife. He sighed. What he’d give for a half-hour’s peace before someone would expect him to converse; time to put the day into some sort of order in his mind.
“Has she left the parochial house?” He may as well put the gossiping woman’s talk to some good use.
She dropped her voice and looked over in Harriett’s direction.
“I’ve been telling Harriett. There was a falling out with the canon. It’s hard to be sure of the ins and outs—did she jump or was she pushed?”
The woman really was loathsome. Maggie Cahill was supposed to be her friend.
“I know she’s worried about young Father Tom, though—nerves you know.”
Again, she looked in Harriett’s direction and nodded as though satisfying herself about something. What was she implying? That his wife also suffered from “nerves”.
“Anyway, the canon is concerned about the young priest. Wants to shift him off to the retreat house in Clare. I suppose being carted off to the barracks is bound to have caused the young lad a lot of worry.”
“He wasn’t exactly carted off…”
Pointless to try to justify himself to Abina.
“I’d better go and see Harriett.”
She was pale, but it wasn’t so much that, as the lines of pain on her face, that stirred pity deep in his body; it was followed by a rush of sorrow and helplessness. If there was anything he could have done, at that moment, to take away that look, he would hav
e done it.
“A bad day?”
She nodded. He put his hand on hers.
* * *
Donal Taffe hit the boy’s hand with the worn leather strap.
It put a jolt of something through his body. It wasn’t like the shock he’d had when he’d once touched an electric fence when he’d been out walking with his wife before they’d married, but all the same, it scared him.
He couldn’t lose control, and that’s what it had felt like when he’d hit Pat O’Rielly.
He glanced at the boy, the closed eyes. Despite that, a tear had escaped and was running forlornly down his cheek.
“Right, go back to your class, O’Rielly, and the next time you think about mitching from school for the day and giving cheek to anyone who is public-spirited enough to challenge you, think twice about it. In fact, think about this moment.”
“Yes, sir.” The eyes were open; he’d blinked the remains of the tears away, and the look he gave Taffe was insolent and hateful.
A shudder arched Taffe’s back, and he knew he’d regret the encounter.
“You’re so angry, Donal. Where does that come from?”
Those were the words spoken by his wife before she left him. He’d brushed them off like you’d brush a crumb off your shirt front. But, they’d fixed themselves in his head. She was right. It had taken him a long time to see that. He’d blamed other people for being so stupid, so hell bent on tormenting him. For all her reasonableness and belief in the triumph of good over bad, Darina had known exactly the thing to ensure his discomfort.
Of late, he’d learned better to control it, the rage. He’d learned that the release it gave him was short-lasting, and the fear of the consequences wasn’t worth it. They said you got more fearful as you got older.
But, he must check that the likes of today didn’t happen again. For all that O’Reilly was an unpleasant youth, with little hopes of anybody defending him against his head teacher, the lad wouldn’t always be a kid. The shudder came again, and he walked over the window and looked down into the deserted quadrangle. He must steady his nerves. The business with Simon Crowe had shaken him, and he wasn’t making a good job of hiding how much.
The Body at Ballytierney Page 15
