by Glenn Cooper
‘But—’
‘No buts, Father. I’m begging you. What’s done is done. It’s the living you need to fuss over, not the dead.’
Sue’s bedroom at the mansion was large and well-appointed with good furniture and tasteful pictures on the walls but it lacked personal touches. Back in Santa Fe she had decorated her condo very much to taste with southwestern rugs and bedspread, local pottery, and photos she’d taken of favorite hiking vistas in the desert and the mountains. She didn’t really want to be reminded of life back home. She missed it too much. She had taken the job for the insane amount of money they threw at her but even so, she thought about quitting every day, especially now she’d met the sad little girls who seemed like wild birds in a gilded cage. But if she left someone would only take her place. The girls weren’t going anywhere.
There was a rare knock on her door, the first time she’d ever been bothered in her quarters. Torres looked like she’d hastily put on her face. The lipstick job was on the sloppy-side for her.
‘Is something the matter?’ Sue asked.
‘You’re still dressed,’ Torres said. ‘May I come in?’
‘Are the girls OK?’
‘I’m sure they’re sleeping. It’s late.’
She came in and sat down on the loveseat. Perplexed, Sue offered her something from the mini-fridge but the woman declined.
‘I’ve received a disturbing call,’ Torres said. ‘It’s about Mary Riordan’s mother. She’s dead.’
Sue sat on her bed, shaking her head in shock.
‘My God, what happened?’
‘She passed away in a hospital where she’d been taken for her asthma. I’m told she wasn’t a well woman. She was quite heavy apparently.’
‘From what Mary’s told me, she wasn’t very old.’
‘Yes, it’s very sad. I wanted to share the news with you. There wasn’t anyone else to tell.’
‘Except for Mary.’
‘We mustn’t tell her.’
‘It’s her mother.’
‘Lord knows what might happen. She’s pregnant. The shock.’
Sue went to the fridge and pulled the rubber cork from a half-full bottle of white wine. Torres changed her mind and asked for a glass too.
‘How can we keep this from her?’ Sue asked.
‘I’ve always thought that this kind of news could cause miscarriages. Am I wrong? You’re the expert.’
Sue had to admit that there was a small but real risk of emotional distress causing premature labor.
Torres drank the entire glass in a series of gulps. ‘We can’t take the risk. The stakes are too high.’
Kenny Riordan prevailed upon Joe Murphy to officiate at the funeral. He didn’t want to do it but the fellow told him something that he knew, that Cindy disliked Canon McCarthy something awful and had said nice things about him. Murphy’s sense of duty got the better of him and he got McCarthy’s permission to say the funeral Mass at St Colman’s. The crowd of mourners was on the sparse side. The Riordans and their grifter ways hadn’t exactly endeared themselves to the local community and without Mary in attendance the curiosity factor surrounding them had diminished. Fewer still braved the lashing rain at the Rahoon Cemetery.
When Cindy Riordan’s casket was lowered into her soggy grave and her children were led away by their aunt, Riordan tried to press some euros into Murphy’s hand.
‘Won’t be necessary,’ Murphy said from under his umbrella. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Kenny, I really am. So, you know, I won’t be calling the authorities but if they reach out to me, I’ll be honest with them. I can’t be otherwise.’
‘I understand, Father, but they’ll have no reason to call you.’
‘Was Mary informed of the death?’
‘Not by me. I wouldn’t know how to reach her. Cindy had a new mobile phone about but it’s gone missing. Anyway, I wouldn’t know what to tell her.’
Murphy parted ways with Riordan at the car park. The gravel paths were heavily puddled and his shoes were getting saturated. He had a pair of trainers in his overnight bag and he opened the boot to swap them for his wet leathers.
The next thing he experienced was the worst headache he’d ever had. He was lying on a bed or a cot somewhere that was cool and damp, a place smelling of soil and roots. His confusion was side-tracked by a powerful wave of nausea. When he tried to sit to vomit, he realized he was handcuffed to the bed frame. He rolled on to his side and barfed on to an earthen floor.
‘Hello?’ he shouted. ‘Is anybody there? Hello? Somebody help!’
The dean of the Harvard Divinity School was a flinty Brit named Gil Daniels. He’d been introducing his faculty at an orientation session for the new crop of graduate students attending in the fall, but when he got to Cal, his true feelings about his star professor came over clearly enough. Daniels had on more than one occasion erupted in profound jealousy at Cal’s Vatican access, particularly his unprecedented and unique browsing privileges at the Vatican Apostolic Library and Secret Archives, personally granted by Pope Celestine.
‘Is there anyone here who hasn’t heard of our illustrious colleague, Calvin Donovan?’ Daniels said sarcastically. ‘Contrary to what you’ve no doubt read, Professor Donovan does not spend all his time globetrotting and hobnobbing with Vatican grandees. On occasion he teaches the history of religion at this very institution.’
Cal sported a smile and was about to summarize his courses on offer for the coming year when the departmental secretary looked in and waved for his attention. He apologized and went to the door where she told him that a woman was on the phone with what she said was a life-or-death matter.
‘Sorry,’ Cal said to the room. ‘I’ve got to take an urgent call. Perhaps Professor Cretien could go next.’
Daniels nodded with an expression that seemed to say that Cal had just made his point. ‘I expect his bestie, the pope, is on the line.’
Cal picked up the flashing line in his office.
‘Is this Calvin Donovan? Sorry, Professor Donovan?’
‘Yes?’
‘This is Edna Murphy, Joe’s mum. I had your number over there at the university. Joe gave it to me years back just in case.’ Her voice was quavering.
‘Is something wrong, Mrs Murphy?’
‘I’ve just had a call from a man who says Joe’s been taken. They’re asking a lot of money. I don’t have any money myself but Joe always said that Harvard University was quite wealthy. I’m not to call the police or they’ll kill Joe. That’s what he said. I thought of calling the parish but the church in Galway isn’t exactly rolling in it. That’s when I thought of Joe’s employer. Do you think you could help me, Professor Donovan? Joe thinks the world of you.’
FIFTEEN
Cal didn’t care what the kidnappers said. He wasn’t going to risk Murphy’s life on a freelance effort. He’d been able to get to the airport to make the evening Aer Lingus flight to Shannon and as soon as he arrived in Galway the next morning he presented himself to the Gardai station. Minutes later he was being interviewed by an elfin inspector named Sullivan and his sergeant, a heavy-set fellow named Feeney. The two of them together evened out to an average-sized man.
‘Why in God’s name did his mother not call us?’ Sullivan said. ‘We’ve lost precious time.’
‘She was scared,’ Cal said.
‘I can see that but it wasn’t smart. Sergeant, get over to her house with a couple of men and set up a tap on her phone. But be gentle with the poor dear. Don’t berate her. How much was their demand?’
‘A hundred thousand euros,’ Cal said. ‘She thought the university might pay.’
‘Will it?’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘Well then, no ransom.’
Cal sipped bad coffee from a paper cup. ‘I’m willing to pay.’
‘Personally?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a considerable sum.’
‘Joe Murphy is a friend. And I was the one
who got him involved with the Riordans in the first place.’
‘Well, I don’t recommend paying up in these situations but it would be up to you.’
‘When we’re done here I’ll get to a bank to arrange for a wire transfer.’
‘That’s fine, Professor. Sergeant, instruct Mrs Murphy to demand proof of life the next time they call. A photo with the daily paper will do. If they’re morons they’ll agree to leave it in her mailbox. If they’re a notch above troglodytes they’ll suggest a drop-off place. Off you go.’
The sergeant left the two of them in the interview room.
‘Did Father Murphy have any enemies that you know of? Anyone who’d wish him harm?’
This was the moment for Cal to uncork the story about the menacing motorbike riders who had made threatening remarks outside his mother’s house.
‘A quiet one and a talkative one,’ the inspector said. ‘Did he say anything about their appearance?’
‘Not to me.’
‘And the talkative one told them to stay away from the Riordans.’
‘That’s what Joe told me.’
‘Can you tell me your understanding of the reason that Father Murphy returned to Galway?’
‘Mrs Riordan phoned him. She had something – as she put it, terribly important – to tell him and didn’t feel comfortable talking about it over the phone.’
‘So, he just up and hopped on a plane? That’s quite the gesture and quite the expense.’
‘Joe has a profound sense of duty. And the Vatican agreed to reimburse him for the trip.’
Sullivan’s face turned quizzical. ‘Now why is that?’
Cal told him about the consult he and Murphy had performed.
The inspector finished jotting some notes. ‘So, this seems tied into the mystery of the missing girls. Father Murphy is warned to stay away from the Riordans by these two fellows and then he does the opposite.’
‘That sums it up,’ Cal said.
‘That would make these motorcycle fellows the prime suspects.’
‘That’s certainly what I’ve been thinking,’ Cal said.
‘All right. We’ll need to speak again in the near future. Will you be staying locally?’
‘I will. Any recommendations?’
‘As you seem to be a man of means, I’d say the Park House might suit your tastes.’
Cal checked into the hotel, showered and walked through the bar on his way out. It comforted him that it was well-stocked. He had a feeling he’d be capitalizing on that by nightfall.
Doyle dropped a bag of cold fish and chips on to Murphy’s cellar cot while McElroy lurked in the shadows by the bulkhead door.
‘You’d better eat.’
‘Toward what end?’ Murphy said, swinging his feet on to the earthen floor. They’d added a chain to his restraints to give him a little more movement.
‘Don’t want to starve to death,’ Doyle said.
‘Why are you talking rubbish?’ Murphy said. ‘If I was getting out of this you’d have concealed your faces.’
‘Oh, we’ll be well away once we get paid. No chance of getting caught.’
‘Who do you think’s going to be paying a ransom? We Murphys don’t have money.’
‘All in hand, Father, all in hand.’
Outside the cottage McElroy mounted his street bike and asked the other man, ‘We’re not letting him go when we’re paid, are we?’
‘Course not!’ Doyle said, swinging on to his Honda. ‘They wanted him dead and that’s what’ll happen. They didn’t say we couldn’t extract some cash first. Best of both worlds.’
Kenny Riordan was well known to Inspector Sullivan. Riordan had been involved in petty crimes and scams as long as Sullivan had been on the force. Even as a fledgling Garda he’d questioned him repeatedly. He could almost close his eyes and steer his car to Riordan’s bungalow.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Kenny,’ the inspector said at his door.
‘Well, that’s grand of you, Sullivan,’ Riordan said. It was still morning and he’d been drinking. ‘I’ll just return to what I was doing.’
‘Alone, are you?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Me, myself, and I.’
‘No wake then?’
‘Fuck everyone, no.’
‘I’d like a word inside.’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘You do. We can chat here or at the station.’
When Cal called in at Mrs Murphy’s house, she was too upset to speak with him. The Gardai were in her front room waiting for a phone call from the kidnappers and she was in her bedroom behind a closed door.
In time she emerged and said, ‘I appreciate your coming but they said no police.’
‘I had to talk to the Gardai, Mrs Murphy. It’s too dangerous to deal with this kind of situation without professionals. Any contact from the kidnappers?’
‘Not a peep. Sergeant Feeney’s told me what to say. Did the university agree to pay the money?’
‘It’s being wired today. The Allied Bank should have it by late afternoon.’
‘Thank the Lord,’ she said. ‘Who am I to thank? Besides you, that is.’
‘That shouldn’t be your first priority.’
‘You’re right, of course. Will you wait with me?’
‘I’d be happy to.’
‘Cup of tea?’ She touched her hair and seemed to realize she was wearing a tatty housedress. ‘Joseph never told me that you were a handsome man, Professor Donovan. I wonder why?’
Cal smiled at her. ‘Hopefully you’ll be able to ask him that soon.’
Sullivan took the gloves off a few minutes into his interrogation. The pint-sized inspector hadn’t risen through the ranks because of his physicality. He was on his way to superintendent by dint of instinct and intellect. He was sure that Riordan was being evasive – the quick glance at the floor, the tug at the bottle of beer when asked if he knew anything about the two motorcyclists.
‘A man’s been kidnapped, for God’s sake! A priest. A priest who said Mass at your wife’s funeral. And you’re sitting there, wallowing in drink, refusing to help the Gardai with their inquiries.’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ Riordan mumbled, gesturing toward Cindy’s empty recliner, the old slab of yellow foam on the seat still indented with her form. ‘You’re talking to a man whose wife is fresh in the ground.’
‘If you don’t tell us what we need to know, Joseph Murphy will be in the ground too. Let me tell you something, Kenny, this whole business with your daughter Mary stinks to high heaven. First you turn her predicament into a cottage industry, milking the pilgrims and such, then she disappears right under your nose. And what did you tell us? That the Vatican sent for her for her own protection? That was a cock and bull story, wasn’t it? Did someone pay you to give her up? Did you sell your own daughter like a prize mare?’
Riordan flashed a scowl at the cop. ‘If you weren’t in uniform I’d pop you one for saying that.’
Sullivan bore down. ‘And then what happened? Did Cindy get remorseful? Or maybe she was never in with you. Maybe you brow-beat her into participating in the scheme. She rings Father Murphy and wants to make a confession of sorts. We know from the hospital staff that Murphy visited her in her room. What they talked about, we’ve no idea. But then two events follow in rapid succession. Cindy dies suddenly and two days later, Murphy is taken from the cemetery. What’s your explanation for that, Kenny?’
‘Sometimes bad things happen to good folks.’
‘Well that’s a fine platitude. Here’s what’s going to happen if you don’t tell me what you know about these two motorbike fellows. I’ll go to court to get a magistrate to issue an internment order. We’ll get a post-mortem on Cindy because I’m no longer satisfied that she died a natural death.’
Riordan balled a fist impotently. ‘You’re a bastard. You wouldn’t.’
‘I would and I will. You’re participating in a perversion of justice and you’ll be charged if I can prove it.’
‘You’d put me in jail and leave my children at the mercy of the state?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Kenny. Who do you think pays their way now? You?’
‘I can provide for them.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve got cash,’ he cried out then seemed to wish he’d kept his mouth shut.
Sullivan nodded gravely. ‘I’m sure you do. I’m sure somebody with unclear intentions paid you well for your Mary. And I’m sure once I put you into custody that a search of the premises will turn up the cash. You’re not the type to be putting your ill-gotten gains in a bank, are you? Kenny Riordan, I’m arresting you on suspicion of perverting the course of justice.’
Riordan gripped his beer bottle tightly, prompting Sullivan to get up and point a finger. He wasn’t armed and Kenny could have thrashed him if he’d had the mind to do so.
‘Don’t make things worse for yourself,’ the inspector said as calmly as he could.
Riordan lifted the bottle to his lips then put it down empty.
‘The tall one runs his mouth a blue streak,’ he said. ‘I don’t know his name. Never heard the short one say a word. He’s the muscle of the two.’
‘Names?’
‘No clue.’
‘What else do you know about them?’
‘Seen them around from time to time. Pubs. Horse auctions. Small-timers. Someone knows someone who knows someone. That’s how they come to be involved in something this big.’
‘Would they be known to the Gardai?’
‘’Spect so. Can’t imagine they’re lily-white.’
‘What kind of bikes do they ride?’
‘Hondas, if I recall. Can’t say more. I don’t claim to know motorbikes.’
‘All right, Kenny, I’m going to need you to come in and look at mugshots, maybe do e-fits on them.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘Not at this time. We’ll see how it goes.’
The phone finally rang at Mrs Murphy’s house. Sergeant Feeney sharply motioned for her to pick up but she froze. It was Cal who helped her off the settee and over to a side table where an old, corded telephone was ported into monitoring gear.
