Death at Christy Burke's (33 page)

“And if they did, you strike me as the kinda guy who’d be well able to handle it.” Brennan regarded them in silence for a long moment, then said, “Come with me some night through the streets of Dublin. I’ll show you some sights that will put embarrassment in its proper perspective.”

“What happened last night, Brennan?”

“Just another boy without a father, without a home, without the love of a family. Nobody could ask for a better mother than you, Maura, but the results are in, and they are dismal. Studies show that children without fathers have higher rates of hyperactivity, antisocial behaviour, aggressiveness, emotional disorders, conduct disorders, academic failure. They are much more likely to be unhealthy, to be abused, to wind up in jail or on the streets. Those are the facts. And it’s not just the poor. The research shows that fatherlessness is a risk factor all by itself, regardless of income in the household. And the problems get worse as the child gets older.”

“How did you come up with these findings, Professor Burke?” Monty asked, in a clipped voice.

“I got them from you, counsellor. A case involving one of the boys in our after-school program; I sat with him in court. Remember? This was part of your summation.”

“And you just happen to recall it word for word.”

“Why not? I listen, I record, I recall.”

Silence.

“Did I get any of it wrong?”

Silence again.

“Right. So. Nobody in this room wants that kind of future for Dominic. Correct?”

They took that in, then Brennan resumed his mission. “And it’s not just Dominic. Normie and Tommy Douglas would feel they had ascended to heaven if you two ever did what you both really want to do, and moved back in together. You’ve done a beautiful job raising the two of them, even with the separation. But Dominic hasn’t had their advantage, a father present in his life from the beginning. Don’t let him wait any longer. Don’t let yourselves wait any longer.”

Brennan closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Without opening his eyes, he continued, “Life is short. Look around you. Lost children living in the streets. People blowing each other’s heads off a few miles to the north of us, leaving women without husbands, children without fathers, parents without sons. The most important people in their lives, taken from them in an instant. Life is short. Don’t waste any more of yours or that of your children.”

He raised his weary eyes to them. “For the love of God, will you think about it? Please.”

Michael

The news of the American minister’s death had broken late Thursday night but Michael had not heard about it until Friday morning. The Irish papers and news broadcasts were consumed with the story, and they relayed the coverage from the United States, where the Irish and the British ambassadors had been called on the carpet in Washington. The Americans were apoplectic, and demanded everything short of a Marine landing to track down the killers and avenge the preacher’s death. All day Friday Michael had carried with him an image of the man’s body floating in Carlingford Lough. That didn’t make for a heavenly rest, but he finally managed to drift off and sleep late on Saturday morning. When he awoke, he rolled off the bed and dropped to his knees in prayer. He was still trying to formulate his petition for peace when the phone rang. What time was it? Oh. Half-eleven already. He pushed himself up and grabbed the receiver. Tried to say hello but it came out as a croak.

“Are you all right, Mike?” It was Monty.

Michael cleared his throat. “I’m fine. Haven’t been sleeping well. The killing of the minister, you know . . .”

“A very sinister development. It doesn’t augur well for the immediate future.”

“No.” Michael remembered Brennan’s bleak prognostications about the fallout should Odom be killed, and Michael’s own hope that, as bad as it would be, an outrage like this might be a turning point. It was hard to maintain that optimism today.

“But I’m calling on another matter,” Monty said. “I checked into that lawyer, the guy who handled the sale of the boat business connected to one of your suspects. Jimmy O’Hearn.”

“My ‘suspects,’ as you put it, Mr. Collins, might better be described as my ‘targets of slander,’ victims of unsubstantiated slurs painted on the wall of a respectable establishment on Dublin’s Northside.”

“Well said, Michael. You may want to turn in your sergeant’s badge, and don the robes of a barrister, so protective are you of your clients’ interests.”

“Thank you for those kind words, sir. Now, what about the lawyer?”

“I contacted the law society in London. They had nothing on Carey Gilbert except that he had been struck from the rolls for non-payment of his dues, and was no longer practising in the U.K. The woman on the phone put me on hold and came back to say someone told her he had heard Gilbert left the country. That’s all they knew.”

“Of course he left the country, Monty! With the O’Hearn family’s money!”

“And you’re afraid Jimmy O’Hearn tracked him down and killed him.”

“Well, obviously I’m hoping and praying that’s not the case! But we know the man left the country. Did he leave this earthly life altogether?”

“I’ll leave it to you to find that out, Sergeant.”

They said goodbye and Michael took to his bed again, but could not get past the images of the preacher, and hate-filled rioters in Belfast, so he got up and got on with his day.

He stopped in at the Aughrim Street church to offer up prayers for the soul of the Reverend Merle Odom and for his family. And for peace, or at least calm, in the North of Ireland. Then he made his way over to the pub. Michael O’Flaherty’s life in Dublin: church and pub.

He hadn’t been there long when the door opened, and a man’s voice said, “Good afternoon to you, Maureen.”

The four regulars turned to face the door and acknowledged the arrival of a middle-aged woman who had a soft, gentle face and silver-streaked hair done in a twist. She approached the bar and said, “Edward. I didn’t want to wait until . . . it got too late.”

Glances were exchanged.

Eddie Madigan rose to his feet and said, “Hello, Maureen.”

“I’d like you to come to the college with me Monday morning. It’s about Gwen.”

Madigan’s voice was sharp. “What about her? Is she all right?”

“She’s grand, except . . .” Mrs. Madigan lowered her voice, but Michael heard the words “continue in the summer course,” “account,” and “fees now.” Then she said, “Please come outside, so we can discuss this.”

Eddie followed her out of the pub without looking at his companions.

“Well, he’s in the soup now, when she tells him to step outside,” said the man who had greeted Maureen upon her arrival. Michael looked over at the bar and saw the fellow standing between the bar stools occupied by Tim Shanahan and Jimmy O’Hearn. It was Motor Mouth McCrum.

“She just wants a private word with him,” Tim said. “Maureen is always courteous when she stops by. A lovely woman, is Maureen.”

“She is. You’re right, Tim,” O’Hearn agreed.

“It’s a shame about Eddie and the wife,” McCrum said to no one in particular. “Sad to say, she walked out on him when he had his trouble.”

“It was a hard time for them, Blair,” Tim said, “but I’m sure they’ll get it sorted.”

Blair McCrum, that was it. Michael had forgotten his first name. Had known him only as Motor Mouth.

“Hard time!” McCrum exclaimed. “Hard time’s not the half of it when a man gets turfed from the Garda Síochána, and him coming from one of the biggest police families in the city. Finn, would you be so kind as to pour me a Powers.” McCrum got his drink and paid for it, then turned to Shanahan. “Not a simple matter to get things sorted when you’re accused of corruption and you get sacked from the police force. Not that I believe a word of the story that’s going around against him. He’s a fine fellow, is Eddie Madigan, at least I always thought so, though we all have our weaknesses. Maureen is a fine woman. You can hardly expect her to stand by him in his trouble, her father being a garda himself. Tough times for them now. Didn’t I see their youngest in Grafton Street the other day, looking like a tinker in a faded-out dress too small for her, and an old scuffed pair of shoes. She wasn’t a patch on the other girls, in their stylish new frocks. But I’m sure Maureen is doing her best. You have to feed them first; buying a decent wardrobe comes a distant second to that. Sad.” He shook his head.

“What are you on about now, Blair?” The question came from the back of the room. Michael turned and saw one of the Five Sorrowful Mysteries, twisted around in her seat and giving McCrum a murderous look. As they had been on the other occasion when Michael had seen them, the women were all dressed up with their hair freshly styled. They sat around two tables pushed together.

“Monsignor,” the woman said then, “grab a chair and sit down. Let us treat you to a drop of something.”

“Well, thank you, ladies,” he said, and went over to join them.

“What will you have, Monsignor? Pint of the black stuff?”

“Sure.”

The woman signalled to Finn, but Michael was on his feet again. “Don’t trouble yourself, Finn. I’ll get it myself.”

“No worries, Monsignor. You sit tight with your parishioners. I deliver.”

When Finn had brought the pint, Michael thanked him and turned to his companions. “Please call me Michael, and would you give me your names again?”

Mary Daly, Mary O’Brien, Kathleen O’Rourke, Eileen Sullivan, and Beatrice Walsh. He would try to keep them straight.

“He’s an oul woman,” Beatrice said, indicating McCrum with a lift of her chin.

Kathleen took umbrage at that. “You’re an oul woman yourself, Bea. So am I. We all are, or we soon will be. Don’t be insulting old women in my hearing!”

“We’re not old and we’re not like him. He’s the biggest gossip in Dublin City. Every word that comes out of him is a lie.”

“I grew up around the corner from the McCrums,” Kathleen said. “We always thought he was a bit God-help-us.”

“Oh, I don’t think he has that excuse, Kathleen. If he did, people would be feeling sorry for him. Wouldn’t be his fault. But I never heard anyone say that. He’s just a nasty piece of work and always has been.”

“I don’t know,” said Mary Daly. “He has a lot of connections, people he knows, on the city council and in the guards. Old Motor Mouth must get it right some of the time! Och, he’s coming our way.”

“Mind if I join you ladies? And Monsignor?” He pulled a chair from another table and squeezed himself in between Eileen and Michael.

“She’s certainly keeping him on the carpet a long time today!”

“Who would that be now, Blair?” Kathleen asked, as if everybody didn’t know.

“Maureen Madigan — I’m surprised she keeps his name, but I suppose it’s for the sake of the children — Maureen is keeping
Edward
from his blood brothers at the bar. They’re going to be way ahead of him in the blood alcohol count! Too bad you can’t walk into a lawyer’s office and get a divorce the way you can in the more lenient countries of the world; Maureen could do better for herself.”

“Are you eyeing her for yourself then, Blair?” asked Mary O’Brien.

“Ah, go on out of that, Mary! I am not. It’s just that if I were Maureen, I wouldn’t throw away my life remaining faithful and true to the likes of Eddie Madigan. He wouldn’t do it for her!”

“Oh, he would so, Blair. Who’s ever seen Eddie having a snog with another woman?”

McCrum’s face took on a sly look. “Nobody’s seen them, because guess what?” Nobody took a guess, but McCrum was not deterred. “Because his little bit of crumpet is in jolly old England!”

The women stared at him. Gratified, he smiled and went on, “Or she was. Must be lonely times for her these days, with him
persona non grata
across the pond!”

“What are you talking about?” Mary O’Brien demanded. “Madigan is never in England. The man is here in this bar every day of his life!”

“And he always will be. Now. He won’t be sent on any more missions by . . .” McCrum leaned over and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Special Branch!”

“Oh, your bollocks, Blair! Special Branch! You’ve been watching too much James Bond!”

“James Bond. Is that the fellow that has all the female company and brilliantly wraps up his secret mission at the end of the show? Not like our Eddie Madigan, sent over to do a job at the Public Record Office and getting waylaid — excuse my language, ladies, Monsignor — by a temptress named Abigail, keeper of the records, and getting so distracted he banjaxes his mission and gets hauled back to Dublin in disgrace and loses his job. Edward Madigan, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you’re no James Bond!”

“Are you hearing voices in your head, Blair? There’s pills you can take for that, you know! I can give you the name of the man I see, not for voices, but for pain management. He’s a specialist, treats all kinds of cases, and he’s one of the best!” Eileen said. “A few sessions with Dr. Traynor will get you sorted.”

“You can have my pain pills, Blair,” Mary Daly offered. “They won’t cure what ails you but you won’t know the difference, you’ll be so spaced out! And you won’t be able to remember a word of that fantastical story you just recited about Eddie Madigan. You’re the only one I’ve ever heard come up with that yarn! What I heard, what we all heard, is that Eddie got in with some drug dealers and took a brown envelope from them. I don’t believe it of Eddie, I really don’t, but that’s always been the talk.”

“You know what I think?” Blair said. “I think the drugs came later. I think Madigan got sacked after this cock-up in London, then started peddling drugs to support himself. And the rumours that he was taking bribes from the underworld started after that. And the gardaí were content to have that story go round rather than admit that Garda Special Branch hired the wrong man for a sensitive job across the sea.”

Michael had no idea what to think. The man beside him was a disagreeable busybody, to be sure, and his story was outlandish. But what if there was a grain of truth in what he said? What if there was a Special Branch angle to Madigan’s misfortunes? Speaking lightly, in the hope that nobody would think he considered Motor Mouth McCrum the fount of gospel truth, he asked, “What kind of mission are you talking about, Blair? It all sounds a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it?”

“Truth is stranger than fiction, Monsignor, as I’ve learned over the course of a lifetime, and perhaps you have too. My sources never divulged to me what his mission was, and rightly so. It was very hush-hush, and of course I didn’t push.”

Of course.

“All I heard was that he was supposed to carry out some sort of operation at the Public Record Office in London, four or five years ago, and he ended up in the soup over it, and there was a Mata Hari named Abigail involved. She worked there and played some kind of role in the failure of his mission. Wore him out and left him weak at the knees, most likely. And there was hell to pay with the Brits, and there were red faces in Garda HQ here, and Madigan was bundled off out of England and sacked from the Garda Síochána.” He lowered his voice. “Oh, here he comes now. She’s let him off the leash. Have a drink, why don’t you, Edward?”

His remarks were met by silence among the Five Sorrowful Mysteries. Like Michael, no doubt, the women didn’t like Motor Mouth’s attitude but they were left wondering what on earth to make of his tale. McCrum looked about the room, then got up to sit with someone at another table. Nobody said goodbye.

Later on, in his room, Michael gave brief consideration to asking Leo Killeen about the Public Record Office and whether he knew anything about a “mission” there. But Leo wasn’t home. Just as well; it wasn’t hard to imagine what Leo would have to say about the spy story. Michael was debating how to spend the rest of his day when he got a call from Monty, who was taking the family to afternoon tea at the Shelbourne Hotel. Brennan was coming; would Michael like to join them? He most certainly would. The place was founded by a Burke (though Michael had no idea whether the illustrious man was connected to the Burkes he knew) and the constitution of the Free State had been drafted there. Did Monty know that? All the more reason to spend time in the place. They made arrangements to meet at the hotel, and Michael hung up the phone. Should he take a cab or walk? It was a bit of a hike to Stephen’s Green, where the Shelbourne was located. But taxis cost money, and he had time, so he decided to go on foot.