Priest (14 page)

I wanted to slap her, slap somebody, said,

‘I need you to do something.'

She waited, tapping her fingers on the wall. I wanted to say,

‘Like first, have some fucking manners.'

Went with,

‘Think hard about anyone you've arrested over the past few years. I'm thinking especially of anyone who threatened you, who would come back at you.'

She stood up, said,

‘Like that's going to help. What, do you think every
thug I arrested treated me decently? God, you were a Guard – they all threaten you, or is it so long ago you can't remember?'

She began to walk away and I asked,

‘What about your car?'

Without breaking stride, she said,

‘Fuck my car.'

An elderly churchgoer, passing, looked at me, said,

‘Young ladies today, the language of them.'

I said,

‘Trust me, that's no lady.'

‘The eternal silence of those infinite spaces fills me with dread.'

Pascal,
Pensées,
206

 

 

 

With the ten shillings the priest had given him, the boy bought a mountain of chocolate. Sitting on the toilet, the wrappers strewn at his feet, the boy felt his stomach heave, then vomit poured from his mouth. The boy almost welcomed this, it distracted him from the bleeding in his rectum. He reached for another bar, nausea rising, and shoved a chunk into his mouth. It sometimes stopped him thinking about Sunday, serving mass and what happened after. Six weeks ago his mother had asked him what he was giving up for Lent and he said chocolate, and began to giggle uncontrollably.

He reached for another bar.

 

I've read tons of crime fiction. I'm especially fond of the private-eye stuff. All alcoholics are doomed romantics and the notion of the lone outsider pitting against the odds, it's like the line from the movie, ‘You gotta love him.'

All those books are fond of the term
dogged.
Bearing
that in mind, I stayed with the priest case. Time to see the second suspect, the engineer, Michael Clare. Doggedly, I checked the phone directory, got his business listing, rang and was greeted by a secretary. A very cheerful one, so cheerful that I suspected sarcasm. Like this:

‘Michael Clare's office, may I be of assistance?'

Her voice had an upbeat that suggested nothing would make her happier than to be of such. She had to be kidding. In Ireland, the only English-ism we've adopted with eagerness is surliness. Usually, you phone a company, you get,

‘What?'

Like you interrupted them during foreplay.

So I was a little thrown, mumbled I was a friend of bouncer supplier Tom Reed and he'd suggested Mr Clare might be able to
assist
me. She asked,

‘Would you mind holding for a tiny moment and I'll check his timetable?'

Mind?

Then,

‘Mr Clare is free at noon. Might I take your name, please?'

‘Jack Taylor.'

‘Is noon convenient for you, Mr Taylor?'

I vouchsafed it was, and she finished with,

‘We shall expect you then.'

She didn't add
Have a good day
but it was implied.

How American are we?

I'd a while to wait so I tried again to listen to music. Slapped on the earphones, got Johnny Cash going. His granite voice was as old as the stones in Connemara. Then the Nine Inch Nails song, ‘Hurt'.

Oh fuck.

Murderous lyrics, the truth of them lashing every part of my being. Recovering alcoholics have a hard on for the Kristofferson song, ‘One Day At A Time'. Dirge on. Every time you hear it, you go,

‘Sweet Jesus.'

And not from reverence.

They ought to make ‘Hurt' mandatory at the door of AA meetings, ask,

‘Does this song have relevance to you, does it lacerate you?'

If not, fuck off.

It opened such corridors of pain – the deaths of Sean, the Grogans' proprietor; Brendan Cross, ex-Guard; the tinkers, six of them; my parents; Warren Zevon; and, oh God, Serena May.

And a lot more. So when Johnny started sneering about an empire of dirt, I had to rip the headphones off. My hands were shaking. I blamed the nicotine patches. Here I was, patched, sober and bewildered. Had been to the Age Concern shop again, spent thirty euros – a fortune in a charity shop – and donned the fruits of my trip. Black jacket of a suit, white T-shirt, black jeans, Timberland boots.

Checked my reflection.

Mix and match.

If you liked the Undertaker-shops-at-Gap image, it was fine. Still, it was in the vague neighbourhood of
respectable,
and yet hinted I was cool, clued in. The lies we tell ourselves, every fucking day. The alternative is to stay in bed, a loaded pistol under your pillow. In a flurry of extravagance, I'd bought some Polo aftershave. Well, the assistant was pretty
and I'm an idiot, fool for love, how are you? They were all out of Brut, else who knows? Splashed the stuff on and it stung like the bad word. I was ready to investigate, smelling if not like a rose then certainly like someone who had little contact with reality.

For no discernible reason, a line sprang to me mind . . .
The child is father to the man.

What the fuck was with that?

And more importantly, who said it? Tennyson, Browning, one of the Brit heavyweights, anyway.

 

Michael Clare's office was in the Dun Aengus building. Situated at the end of Long Walk, you couldn't find a more prestigious address, right along from my solicitor. You hear that – out of the home for the bewildered and mouthing,
my solicitor.
What the building said was . . . money, money, money.

Lots of.

Long Walk is among my favourite routes. You pass under the Spanish Arch then along by the water, the Claddagh right across. Nimmo's Pier marks the point. Before you lies Galway Bay, you can almost see the Aran Islands. I ever get lucky or seriously rich, that's where I'm headed, as a base if nothing else. The sound of the seagulls, the smell of the ocean, you gulp deep breaths and want to mouth a rosary of gratitude. It should be mandatory for artists to live here, an oasis of the soul. And if it's a bright day, Sweet Jesus, you are elected.

It was a very bright day.

The building was all glass and light, seemed to shimmer like a mirage.

The receptionist, young, pretty, breezed,

‘Good morning.'

‘It certainly is. I'm Jack Taylor, to see Mr Clare.'

She seemed happy with my mission, said,

‘Have a seat, Sir, I'll buzz him. Would you like some tea, coffee?'

‘Am, no, I'm good.'

Five minutes later, I was shown into Clare's office. The decor was Zen inspired, no frills, Spartan in its appearance. There was one of John Behan's sculptures in his office, a bronze bull. I was very taken with it. Wanted to say
my solicitor
has a similar piece.

I don't usually know if a man is good looking – guys aren't good on that type of information.

I did now.

He was gorgeous and knew it. The spit of Michael Landon, who starred in
Little House on the Prairie.
He was also in that sickening series about an angel, a Waltons with wings. Michael Clare was tall, tanned, and dressed in a seriously expensive suit. He must have been fifty, but could have passed for late thirties.

The fucker.

He extended his hand, said,

‘You like the Behan bull? Give me a word to describe it.'

‘Am, brave?'

He liked it, smiled, his hand still extended, asked,

‘Mr Taylor, can my girl get you anything?'

I took his hand and he near crushed my fingers. It's a macho thing, vying for supremacy. I said,

‘No thank you, she offered already, and please, call me Jack.'

He was delighted or looked it, released my bruised hand, moved behind a massive desk, sat, smiled, looked at the bull again, said,

‘Brave, interesting description for that piece of work, but you're not here to discuss art . . . So it's Jack, well, in that case I'm Michael. What can I do for you?'

Why was he being so gracious? He had to know I was looking into the murder of the priest, that by implication he was suspect. His accent was not outright British but definitely pointed in that direction. What the Irish grudgingly term
polished.
I said,

‘I spoke to Tom Reed about the death of Father Joyce.'

He was shaking his head, resignation in his face, said,

‘Poor Tom, a sad man.'

‘Yeah, why's that?'

He smiled – glorious teeth, white, capped, shining. I'd great teeth too, but they weren't my own. He said,

‘Come on, Jack, the man's a basket case.'

I was surprised, showed it, said,

‘He seemed to have it reasonably together.'

He gave me a tolerant smile – one of my favourite expressions, gets me cranked – said,

‘How easily duped you are.'

Duped, me?

Before I could answer, my phone shrilled. I made that face you do when you feel a horse's ass, muttered,

‘Should have turned it off.'

He shrugged, said,

‘Answer it and I'll organize some coffee.'

He left the office as I said,

‘Yes?'

‘Jack, it's Cody. Don't hang up.'

‘What do you want?'

I had granite in there. He caught it, blurted,

‘I found him.'

Excited, jubilant, high, I asked,

‘Found who?'

‘The stalker. I got him.'

I was amazed, but would I let up?

Nope.

Went,

‘So, what, I've got to beg for the details?'

His joy cooled. He said,

‘Sorry, I . . . am . . . His name is Sam White, he lives in St Patrick's Avenue . . .'

He paused, waited. I snapped,

‘Age, occupation?'

‘Oh right, he's twenty-eight, unemployed . . . and lives alone.'

‘You sure it's him?'

‘Positive.'

‘OK, I'll meet you in Richardson's pub at seven this evening. Think you can find it?'

I could hear his hurt. He said,

‘Yes, yes, I can.'

I clicked the Off.

Hard ass to the end.

*   *   *

Michael Clare returned with two steaming mugs, handed one over, said,

‘Didn't figure you for the cup-and-saucer type.'

Could take that any number of ways. Alcoholics dread saucers, spoons, anything that lets the shakes show. See the spoon do a jig as the saucer does a full fandango. Or is it that he had me pegged as rough, unaccustomed to the niceties? Or, fuck, maybe it was simply convenient.

He smiled, as if he'd read my mind, asked,

‘Milk, cream, sugar?'

‘Black's good.'

It was.

I tried to get back on track, asked,

‘You were saying Tom wasn't too . . . together?'

He sat fixing the crease in his pants, said,

‘You don't let up, do you? What do you say, we get to it? I'm a busy man and you . . .' He indicated my phone, ‘. . . have a life. Let's stop dancing around. Just ask me.'

So I asked,

‘Did you have anything to do with the . . . the . . . demise . . . of . . . Father Joyce?'

He seemed to taste
demise,
roll it round in his head. Such a question should have sparked

Outrage

Indignation.

At the very least, the bum's rush.

But he leaned back in his chair, used his hands to massage the back of his neck, stared at the ceiling. Something had entered the room. I'm not fanciful enough to term it a chill, but it was definitely a drop in temperature. He asked,

‘You ever do yoga, Jack?'

The use of my first name seemed like an obscenity, and his friendly, near jokey tone was spooky, caught me blind-side. I fumbled, then,

‘No, I don't have the patience.'

Then he snapped back into an upright position, one fluid movement, said,

‘You should. You're very tense – wound up, one might say.'

Is there an answer to this? Because I didn't have one. He looked at me, said,

‘The answer to your question is, yes.'

Case solved.

Would it were so easy. Yeah, like that is ever going to happen. You've been a Guard, it's a rule of thumb, a person confesses right off the bat, it stinks to high heaven. After a high-profile murder, the cops are inundated with confessions. And I knew instinctively, Clare enjoyed fucking my head. I could see it in his face. Also, someone confesses so easily, it is often a cover for the real perpetrator. A mother will confess to save her son, or a father.

Translate: easy confession equals horseshite.

 

Fold my tent, call the Guards.

He stood up, all brisk efficiency, asked,

‘Anything else?'

I stood, perplexed and lost, tried,

‘You admit it?'

He put a finger to his lips, made the sound,

‘Sh . . . sh.'

Then he levelled his gaze on me, as if he were studying a specimen, and not a very interesting one, said,

‘Realpolitik.'

And pronounced it in a German guttural tone. When I stared at him blankly, he asked,

‘Perhaps you're more familiar with our American friends' use of the term
juice.
Let me give you a very brief picture of how things work, me boy.'

The condescension in
me boy
threw me into a boiling anger, building a notch at a time. He continued,

‘Power – the fuel that really runs things, how stuff gets taken care of. I play golf with your old buddy Superintendent Clancy, a man who is not fond of you, I'm afraid. Think of golf as our version of the Masons, those who golf together save their arse together. Now stretch your mind, can you do that? Can you think outside your little box? Imagine an unholy trinity – the Church, the Guards, and me fein (myself) – we want to see this town grow, we have major plans, and you think a small disruption like a dead priest, who is a disgrace to the Church anyway, is going to – how shall I put it – rock the boat?'