The Disenchanted Widow (39 page)

Constable Johnston stood to one side, manning the door as usual.

The sergeant couldn’t believe he’d landed such a big fish. What would the chief superintendent have to say? A Provo priest—an IRA man in a cassock. A first. Who could credit it? He saw the double-star insignia on the pressed sleeve of his inspector’s shirt, the glitter of a gong in the not-too-distant future.

“No, I don’t deny it, Sergeant,” Father Cassidy said, sitting as still as a lizard, eyeballing the officer. He had his elbows on the table, hands clasped under his chin, in ruminative mode. “It’s
my
bedroom in the sense that it is
my
house. Therefore all the bedrooms, strictly speaking, are mine. I used it as my private sleeping quarters at one time. That is, until I started to hold the Temperance Club meetings there. It was the ideal place: quiet, with sufficient office space for the purpose.”

“I’d be inclined tae believe ye, Father, if it wasn’t for the bed in there. A bed recently slept in, too…a locker beside it containing
your
effects. Such would indicate tae me that ye
were
sleepin’ there and therefore were party to what was goin’ on.”

Cassidy waved a hand dismissively. “Sometimes one of the lads would use it. If a meeting went on late and they were tired or—”

Ranfurley guffawed. “D’ye hear that, Johnston?”

Johnston smirked.

“And how d’ye explain these?” The sergeant pushed the packet of Durex across the table. “Thought you Taigs—and most especially you Taig priests—were vast against contraception. What method is it ye preach from your high, papish pulpit?”

Cassidy glared at him.

“Johnston, would you know?”

“I believe it’s called the rhythm method, sir.”

Ranfurley threw back his head and laughed heartily. Johnston relaxed a bit and joined in.

“That’s the very one, Johnston: the rhythm method. What’s that mean, Father? That ye do it tae bong-bong drums or what?”

The priest’s face remained impassive. Ranfurley picked up the pack of Durex and thrust it under Cassidy’s nose.

“So, what are these johnnies for…eh?”

No answer.

“In
your
quarters, as ye call them. In
your
desk…huh?” Ranfurley sat back in the chair. “Not unless…not unless ye were havin’ it off with one of the lads? Wouldn’t be the first time a priest turned out tae be a shirt-lifter. Can’t be too careful these days, what with clap and what have ye…the Divil might come lookin’ his pound of rotten flesh later on.”

Cassidy’s face was a mask of disdain.

Ranfurley got up and stretched. “We’ll be in this room for as long as it takes, Father, me and Johnston. So ye better start talkin’.” He leaned across the table. “A couple of my men are roundin’ up the shower of cretins ye entertained in that room, even as we speak. All of them have ‘form,’ by the way…not the holy-teetotaling-Joes ye’re tryin’ tae make out. But ye knew that already. That’s why ye chose them, isn’t it? Well, let me assure you, we have ways of makin’ them talk. And believe me, Father, when they start grassin’ on you, that collar will be no protection.”

“This is ridiculous!” Cassidy jumped to his feet. “I demand a solicitor. I’ve nothing to hide. I’ve tried to reason with you but it isn’t working. I will not be bullied by the likes of you. You think that uniform gives you the right to insult me. Well, let me tell you, Sergeant, no one bullies
me
. Mrs. Halstone had access to that room as well as those lads—or are you conveniently forgetting that? Why aren’t you interrogating
her
?”

“Oh, tryin’ to drop that poor woman in it again, are ye? Ye’ve pulled that one before. We checked her out. The husband was a hoodlum, but not her. Maybe that’s why ye give her the job in the first place. Stranger from Belfast, tryin’ tae start over, desperate for a wage. Could use her as a stooge later on, if things got rocky.” Ranfurley shook his head slowly and tut-tutted. “And you a man of the cloth. Who could—”

A timid knock on the door.

The newcomer, a young woman in uniform, spoke in low tones to Constable Johnston.

“Sarge, there’s a call for ye.”

“Not now, Johnston!”

“I think you should take it, sir. The chief super’s on the phone. Says it’s urgent.”

Ranfurley, reluctantly, thrust back his chair, eyes still on Cassidy. “Keep an eye on him till I get back. This isn’t over yet—not by a long shot.”

At Rosehip Cottage, Lorcan was guiding a fire engine into the yard. An ambulance was already standing by.

“Ma, would the Dentist be in China now?” Herkie at the window, looking out.

“Listen, son, how many times have I to tell you, stop lookin’ out that bloody window.” She pulled him away and marched him into the living room. “Now sit down there.”

She switched on the television. “Watch something on that. And I’m warnin’ ye, son, if ye move again, ye’ll go upstairs tae the bedroom and I’ll lock ye in for the rest of the day.” She began flicking through the channels.

“Stop, Ma! There’s Basil Brush!”

“Good, now you watch that crazy fox and give my head peace. I’ve been through enough this mornin’.”

She shut the door on one of Basil’s silly jokes: “
Hey, get me a crocodile sandwich, buddy, and make it snappy. Boom, boom!
” She allowed herself a brief smile. It must have been the first time ever that she’d had to
order
the boy to watch television.

At the kitchen window she lit a cigarette and gazed out at the unreal activity beyond the glass.

The fire brigade was lowering a long ladder into the well. The team worked wordlessly, as though obeying unspoken commands.

The ladder was hooked over the side and anchored in place. A rope was secured to a tow hook at the rear of the engine and coiled around the waist of one of the crew. He donned a miner’s helmet and switched on the light. Having checked his gear, he gave the
thumbs-up sign, stepped onto the ladder, and began his descent into the well.

Bessie drew hard on the cigarette as she watched the beam of the miner’s lamp fade from view. She was torn with indecision. Would she bear witness to the ignominious retrieval of the monster who’d caused her so much anguish? Or avert her eyes, thereby sparing herself a final—and unnecessary—trauma?

She stayed put. She had to be sure he was gone. Gone for good.

Lorcan was conversing with one of the fire crew. As if sensing her turmoil, he looked her way and gave a reassuring nod. She raised her hand self-consciously, suddenly ashamed of her earlier outburst.

“Here he comes!” a man by the well shouted.

Two paramedics pulled open the ambulance doors, slid out a gurney, and wheeled it into position.

A signal to the fire truck had the winch turning.

The rope was being hauled up.

Bessie flinched as the Dentist’s head came into view. Then, bit by cumbersome bit, the bulky, waterlogged corpse emerged from the well, trailing a nylon cord. It took four men to lift it.

Finally the body was laid out on the ground and a firefighter was disentangling the cord.

A medic felt for a pulse—procedures had to be followed. Bessie’s heart did a somersault.
Jesus, what if he’s still alive? Impossible!
She checked her watch. It had taken the emergency services nearly half an hour to arrive. Could anyone survive in the water that long?

Oh, Jesus, he has to be dead. Oh, please, God, please!

She couldn’t stand it. She looked away. When she turned back it was to see the ogre of her nightmares being zipped into a body bag and lifted into the ambulance.

Her torment was at an end.

She gripped the windowsill hard and sobbed with relief.

Chapter forty-four

R
anfurley picked up the phone in his office in buoyant mood. He couldn’t wait to tell his superior the news regarding Cassidy, and what he and Johnston had turned up during their search of the parochial house.

“Chief Superintendent Ross, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Good afternoon, Sergeant. You’ve arrested Cassidy, I take it?”

“Too right I have, sir. We—”

“I’ll come straight to the point then. I—”

“Sorry tae cut across ye, sir. Yes, we have the good priest bang to rights. Caught him red-handed. Not only is he runnin’ a bomb factory right under our noses, out of the parochial house, but it transpires he was behind the theft of the bingo money
as well
.”

“I’m aware of all that—”

“What?” Ranfurley was nonplussed. “Pardon me, sir, but am I missing something here? How could ye be aware of any of it? Johnston and me have just been to the parochial house and seen it with our own eyes.”

“You have him in custody then?” The superintendent’s tone sounded disapproving.

Ranfurley was not a little incensed. Where were the congratulations, the well-deserved pat on the back?

“Well of course he’s in custody! Or would you rather I’d said, ‘Father, this doesn’t look very good for ye now but I’ll tell ye what: You say another Mass, ’ave yerself a good night’s sleep, and we’ll be back tae collect ye in the mornin’ ?”

“I don’t like your tone, Sergeant.”

“Well, that’s good, for I don’t bloody well like yours, either.”

He heard Ross sighing. “Look, I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark. But this is a dirty war we’re fighting.”

“Damned right it is.”

“Cassidy has been on the radar for some time. Those robberies—the break-in at the parochial house, and the bingo theft—were the tip of the iceberg. We have reason to believe the money was being used to fund terrorist activities.”

“
Pardon me
?” The sergeant couldn’t believe his ears.

“We have an informer on the inside, a very useful lad…has saved many lives in the past few months.”

“Have ye, now?” Ranfurley’s grip tightened on the receiver. The import was clear: You’re only a plod. A sergeant, bottom rung of the ladder of command. We don’t entrust the finer details to the like of you. “Would be mannerly to keep me abreast of things from time to time.”

“Now, hold on, Sergeant, I’m—”

“Would it be presumptuous of me to ask who this fine, upstandin’ lad is,
Chief Superintendent
?”

Ranfurley heard a sigh of resignation down the line.

“Sproule…Charlie. Gets ‘Chuck’ for short.”

He had to digest this. Chuck bloody Sproule. He couldn’t get his head around it. “That drunken ass! MI6 is really scrapin’ the barrel, employin’ the likes of him.”

“That’s just it, Sergeant. Dirty war, dirty tactics—depending on where you’re standing. This is a dangerous game. You don’t need me to tell you that. We needed to be sure Sproule
was passing us the correct information. There were insufficient grounds for searching the parochial house until we received that call on the confidential line. It was traced to the Crowing Cock pub on High Street. Voice analysis matched it with the owner’s son: Lorcan Strong. We checked him out…entirely aboveboard. Not a blemish on his character. D’ye think that search warrant would have been granted on the say-so of just any Tom, Dick, or Harriet?”

“So what are ye sayin’, exactly?”

“You have to release the priest. We have our evidence. He’s a liability we can do without.”

“You must be jokin’.”

Ranfurley loosened his tie. He was sweating. The golden chance of a promotion to inspector disappearing in a fog of fury and resentment.

“Release him. Immediately. That’s an order.”

He could not bring himself to answer. Too angry for words, he retorted with a blatantly hate-filled silence.

“If it’s any consolation, Sergeant, I’m as appalled as you are. But it’s way over our heads. We can’t risk arresting him. Especially not now, with the hunger strikers dying by the day. The whole nationalist population would join the IRA in revolt. It would be all-out war. No, the Church have assured us they’ll deal with him. And we must be satisfied with that.”

“Oh, will they now? A law onto themselves, are they, the Roman Catholic Church?”

“More or less. He’ll be moved over the border. We have the assurance of the bishop. A parish in Donegal—out of harm’s way.”

“Ye mean he’ll still get to practice?!” Ranfurley could barely contain himself.

“Probably. But that’s their problem, not ours. And on their conscience be it. The important thing is that he’ll be moved out
of harm’s way. We’ve got Sproule and Lorcan Strong to thank for that. And of course the Lawless woman. Her curiosity was his undoing.”

“I see.” The sergeant, still very, very angry, prepared to hang up. “Right, I’ll go now and do the dirty work of releasing the bastard for ye.”

“Just a minute, Mervyn.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’ve done well—you and Johnston. I’ll put in a good word for you. Have no fear of that.”

Ranfurley grunted. He put the phone down very slowly and sat staring at it for a long while. He was still staring at it, his mind in turmoil, when Constable Johnston rapped on the door.

“Coming, Constable.”

Slowly he made his way back to the interrogation suite.

Cassidy, seated at the table in the same position he’d left him in, did not stir when the sergeant entered. He had opened his breviary and appeared to be praying.

Ranfurley contemplated the bizarre tableau—the prayer book opened alongside the bomb-making effects—and shook his head. The priest, eyes cast down, was studying the page, lips moving over the words with a look of reflective reverence. Convincing, thought the sergeant—convincing enough to rival the acting skills of a Spencer bloody Tracy.

“Get out of my sight!” he barked. “You
disgust
me.”

Cassidy didn’t flinch. Instead, he smoothed down the silk bookmark and carefully closed the prayer book. Only then did he feel moved to push back his chair and stand up.

“Are you addressing me, Sergeant?”

“Damned right I am.”

“I take it I’m free to go.”

Ranfurley, outraged by the clergyman’s insouciance, reached out, grasped him by the dog collar, and thrust him up against the wall. The breviary fell to the floor.