Living Death (30 page)

‘How long will it take you to complete your post mortem?’

‘It won’t be today of course. Mid-morning tomorrow, I’d say.’

‘Please call me, if you would. I think I need to come down and take a look. Depending on what you find out, this could be a murder enquiry, or manslaughter at the very least.’

‘I will, no bother at all.’

Katie called Detective O’Donovan to bring him up to date on what Dr Kelley had told her. Then she rang Inspector O’Rourke and asked him if he had any news about Keeno.

‘The Mercy are keeping me informed, ma’am. They contacted me last about an hour ago. He’s still unconscious – no better but no worse. They’re keeping him on a respirator to aid his breathing.’

‘What about poor Garda O’Keefe?’

‘His jaw’s been reset but he can take only liquids at the moment. He’s in good spirits, though, according to his girlfriend. She says the only thing you mustn’t do is make him laugh.’

She didn’t need to ring Sergeant Begley. He had called her this morning to say that he had seen his doctor, and he had been signed off work for three days at least.

She went back to her computer screen. She ran through the latest monthly figures for drug seizures and quickly saw that in spite of her new strategy to stem the new flood of narcotics she seemed to be fighting a losing battle. In fact the figures were 6.5 per cent up on last month. What she found hard to understand was that Revenue had reported an ever-increasing success rate in detecting drugs smugglers through Ringaskiddy and Rosslare ferry ports, and both Cork and Shannon airports – Shannon in particular. If they were catching more and more mules, where were all these drugs coming from?

She sat back. She was feeling tired now, and pre-menstrual, and although she was hungry her stomach felt bloated. She wondered when Maureen Callahan would call her to tell her when and where the arms shipment was going to be delivered, and what kind of a raid she would have to set up, and how quickly. She wondered if John would still be awake when she returned home, and what kind of a mood he would be in. His desperate optimism was becoming almost more than she could bear. It made her feel heartless, and uncharitable, and she didn’t believe that she was either.

All she had to look forward to this evening was meeting Conor Ó Máille, and she was beginning to regret that she had offered to drive him back to his guest house. She didn’t feel attractive at all, and certainly not in the mood for being seductive.

She went into the small bathroom at the side of her office. She was surprised to see that she didn’t look nearly as puffy and tired as she felt. After she had brushed her hair and applied some more lipstick she pouted at herself in the mirror, and turned her head coquettishly from side to side, and thought that she scored at least 75 per cent of her usual attractiveness.

‘You should always remember that you’re looking at men from the inside of your face,’ her grandmother had told her. ‘They’re looking at
you
from the outside, like, and they’ll see what they want to see.’

She had never quite understood what that meant, but in a way she thought she did now.

*

Conor knocked on her office door dead on 5:30 pm, as if he had been waiting in the corridor outside and counting off the seconds on his watch.

She was handing Moirin the last of the files that she had been reading and the letters that she had signed. She took a last sip of her coffee but it was cold.

‘Are you finished?’ he asked her, with a smile. ‘I can always wait for you, if you’re not ready.’ He was carrying a large bag from Saville menswear store on Oliver Plunkett Street, as well as his overnight case.

‘No, I’m ready,’ she said, putting on her raincoat. ‘What have you bought?’

‘A couple of shirts and a Tommy Hilfiger sweater.’ He lifted the sweater out of the bag to show her. It was a strong red colour, and she had always liked red, because it clashed with her dark red hair.

They went downstairs in the lift, facing each other, smiling, but neither of them saying anything. Outside in the car park it was still raining hard, so Katie put up her umbrella. Conor took it from her and held it over their heads as they hurried over to her Focus, and then he opened the driver’s door for her.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked her, when he had dropped his bags and the wet umbrella behind his seat.

‘Starved. But I have a leftover stew at home. I always make far too much.’

‘Well, I’m starved, too. I didn’t have any breakfast this morning. How about I buy you an early supper before you drive me up to Summerhill?’

‘All right,’ said Katie. ‘But let’s go halves on it. This will be a business dinner, not a date. What do you fancy to eat?’

‘I could murder a steak. Oh, sorry. That wasn’t a very tactful thing to say that to a detective superintendent, was it?’

Katie backed out of the car park and turned into Old Station Road. ‘I’ll tell you where we’ll go then, Isaacs, on McCurtain Street. I haven’t been there in donkey’s.’

Actually, the last time she had eaten at Isaacs was with John, the night before he had left her and gone to San Francisco. Perhaps if she had supper there with another man, it would do something to erase a memory that still hurt her when she was least expecting it. That evening, John had made her feel that she was letting him down, and that her job was more important than his happiness.

She parked on St Patrick’s Quay and took a sneaky short cut on to McCurtain Street through the office building at the back of the car park. She and Conor walked along the street together arm-in-arm, so that they could both hold the umbrella. It was dark now, and the road was glistening with reflected lights.

‘By the way,’ she said, as they reached the front entrance of Isaacs restaurant and folded the umbrella, and shook it. ‘Off duty, you don’t have to call me “Detective Superintendent”. I’m Katie.’

‘All right, then, Katie,’ said Conor. ‘I like that. And off duty, I’m not “hound lover”, I’m Conor. Or Con, if you prefer.’

‘What does your mother call you?’

‘She used to call me You Little Whelp, but that was a long time ago. Now she calls me Con, or Connie-boy when she wants me to do something for her.’

They went inside. Isaacs was brightly lit, with shiny parquet floors and small tables and bentwood chairs. Some of the walls were rough stone because the restaurant had been converted from an eighteenth-century warehouse. A waitress found them a table in the small room at the back of the restaurant where there was less likelihood of Katie being recognised. It was still early, so only three or four other tables were taken, but Katie knew that it would be crowded later, and it was the kind of restaurant where many of the diners would know who she was.

She could have done with a drink now but she was driving so she ordered only water. Conor asked for a glass of Malbec.

‘I’ll be absolutely truthful with you, Katie,’ said Conor. ‘If I had been introduced to you without knowing that you were a senior officer in the Garda, I would have guessed that you were an actor.’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Katie. ‘And what would have made you think that?’

‘To start with, you’re very confident – very sure of yourself. You don’t
um
and
ah
when you speak. Also – you’re watching people all the time, which is what actors do. They’re forever making a mental note of other people’s facial expressions, and the way they carry themselves. I know that because my Uncle Liam was an actor. He even had a part in
Glenroe.
’

The waitress brought their drinks and asked them if they had decided what they wanted to eat, so Conor paused for a moment. When she had gone, he said, ‘You’re also incredibly attractive.’

Katie said, ‘Ha! Lots of female gardaí are incredibly attractive. Look at Noirin O’Sullivan, and she’s the Commissioner. You can’t say that she’s not a handsome woman.’

‘I wouldn’t. It’s just that I think you’re handsomer. And, like I say, I would have guessed that you were an actor before I would have guessed that you were a detective. Or maybe a TV news presenter.’

Katie had ordered a warm chicken salad and Conor had asked for the seafood chowder. As she started to eat, Katie said, ‘You’re flirting with me, then?’

‘Yes,’ said Conor. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

Katie shook her head while she finished her mouthful. Then she said, ‘No. I like it.’

As they ate, the restaurant gradually began to fill up, so that by the time Katie was eating a rhubarb and apple crumble, every table around them was taken, and the conversation level was so loud that whenever Conor said anything she had to lean forward and ask him to repeat it. But it didn’t matter if she could hear him or not. She knew what he was telling her, and she felt the same way about him.

It was still raining when they left Isaacs shortly after 7:30. This time, as they walked together back to the car, Conor held the umbrella and he and Katie held hands.

As they passed the Everyman Theatre, Conor nodded towards the playbills outside and said, ‘There –
Sisters of the Rising.
That would have been just the part for you, if you’d been an actor. Nurse Elizabeth O’Farrell, one of the women who made Ireland what it is today – the same as you have.’

Katie laughed. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You can flatter me as much as you like. I don’t get too much of it at work, I can tell you.’

They drove up Summerhill until they reached the Gabriel House guest house. It was a large four-storey period building, painted white, with a grey slate roof and window-boxes at every window. Katie pulled up outside and said, ‘There. You can take the umbrella if you like. I have plenty more at home.’

Conor looked at her intently and for the first time this evening he wasn’t smiling. He took hold of her hand and then he leaned across the car and kissed her – first on the right cheek, then on the left. Then he kissed her on the lips.

Katie closed her eyes. The kiss went on and on, and became deeper and more urgent the longer it went on. Conor’s tongue tussled with hers, and then he licked her teeth and pressed his lips against hers until she felt that she was going to suffocate with pleasure.

The kiss ended, and they both sat back with their eyes fixed on each other.

At last Conor said, ‘I don’t want to borrow your umbrella. I want you to come with me.’

Katie turned her head away and looked up at the lighted windows of Gabriel House. Conor said nothing but waited for her to make up her mind.

After a few seconds she switched off the Focus’s engine, released her seatbelt, and opened her door.

Conor’s room was at the very top of the guest house. Katie climbed up the steep white-painted staircase with its blue floral carpet and she could hear Conor right behind her, his shopping bag rustling and knocking against the banisters. She felt as if what was happening to her now was unreal, and that perhaps she
was
an actor, and this was nothing more than a play. Yet she was completely sober, unlike most of the first times that she had been with men. She was climbing these stairs because she wanted him – she wanted Conor, and for no other reason.

He unlocked the door of his room and let her in. Before he switched on the lights she walked over to the windows and looked out. She could see almost all of the city centre, from Kent railway station to St Finbarr’s Cathedral, and all the streetlights glittering, and traffic crawling along the quays like fireflies. And of course the River Lee itself, black and black-hearted.

Conor turned on the bedside lamps rather than the main light. The room was comfortably furnished, red-carpeted, with a king-size bed and gilt mirrors and antique-style chairs, and it was warm.

‘I have to make one call,’ said Katie. ‘I have a girl at home who’s dog-sitting for me. I have to tell her that I won’t be back.’

‘Of course,’ said Conor. He came over and helped her out of her raincoat, and then he took off his own coat and carried both of them over to the wardrobe. ‘We have to take care of our four-legged friends. What is he? Or she?’

‘Barney’s a boy. An Irish setter. And he’s pure smart. I don’t think he even realises that he’s a dog.’

She rang her home number, and Bridie answered, ‘Detective Superintendent Maguire’s residence. Bridie Mulligan speaking.’

‘Oh, Bridie, this is Katie. How’s the form?’

‘All quiet, Katie. Nothing to report. Himself had a sleep this afternoon and now he’s watching the telly. He’s looking forward to you coming home.’

As she was talking, Conor came up behind her and eased her tweed jacket off her shoulders. She changed hands with her iPhone so that he could slide the sleeves off. He took off his own jacket, too, and laid both jackets on the nearby chair.

‘That’s the thing, Bridie,’ said Katie. ‘It looks like I won’t be able to make it back home tonight. We’ve had an emergency here and I don’t know how long it’s going to take to deal with it. Is it all right if I ask you to stay over? You can sleep in my bed if you like, and you’ll find a clean nightdress in the press and clean towels on the shelf in the bathroom. I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘That’s no bother at all, Katie. I always fetch my toiletry bag with me, in case I have to stay late.’

Conor lifted Katie’s hair and kissed the nape of her neck. The soft brushing of his beard against her bare skin sent a tickling sensation all the way down her spine.

‘You don’t have to worry about Barney,’ she said. ‘All you have to do is feed him in the morning and make sure his water bowl’s always topped up. Mrs Tierney will come around in the morning to take him on his walk.’

‘What about himself? What do you normally give him for his breakfast?’

Now Conor took hold of the hem of her sweater. When he started to lift it, though, he uncovered the holster attached to the waistband of her skirt, and the black synthetic grip of her Smith & Wesson Airweight revolver. He backed away immediately, both hands raised, as if she had caught him in mid-felony.

Katie turned around and smiled at him.

‘I’ll come quietly,’ he whispered.

‘A couple of boiled eggs and a cup of tea will do,’ she said. ‘Maybe some toast and blackcurrant jam if he wants it. Thanks, Bridie. I’ll see you tomorrow so. Give him my best wishes, won’t you?’