Himself(88)

It is well known that Mrs Cauley is an expert conversationalist with a multitude of subjects at her disposal, from politics to poker, billiards to tractor mechanics. And it’s all entirely bespoke.

So Jack Brophy shows little surprise when Mrs Cauley launches into a detailed account of the time she hung a door with No?l Coward and his comprehensive set of chisels. Bridget sits quietly in the corner of the room, sucking her teeth and narrowing her eyes.

Not only does Jack seem oblivious of Bridget Doosey’s stony glare but he also appears to be genuinely enjoying Mrs Cauley’s exhaustive description of Ivor Novello’s tool bag. He listens and nods with an attentive smile on his face, without even a hint of murderous intent.

Emboldened by the effortless success of their plan, Mrs Cauley embarks on a rambling anecdote involving Alfred Lunt and a rotary lathe. And Bridget Doosey starts to relax a little and finger the leaflets on wife beating and vehicular speeding.

Then Father Quinn bursts limping into the station, unshaven, red-eyed and gibbering softly. The moment he lays eyes on Jack Brophy he starts to cry.

‘Now are you sure about what you saw, Father?’ Jack takes off his jacket and passes it to the priest to put around himself for decency.

Mrs Cauley talks low. ‘He’s not sure of anything. Can’t you see he’s cracked?’

Father Quinn fixes her with a wide-toothed sneer. ‘Mahony took a car and tried to run me over, I’m sure of that.’

‘Yes, Father,’ says Mrs Cauley. ‘And an ass with burning eyes was chasing you around your house all last night. Remember?’

‘It was you.’ Father Quinn points at her with a shaking finger. ‘You and her are behind it. I knew it. You’re despicable.’

Jack leans forward and pats the man on the arm. ‘Settle down now, Father. I just need to know which direction Mahony was driving in.’

The priest nods. ‘He drove out onto the Castleross road.’

‘Did he now?’ says Jack, looking dead at Mrs Cauley.

Jack leans forward and pats Father Quinn on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry yourself now, Father,’ he says. ‘Just take yourself home and leave everything to me. I’ll deal with Mahony.’





Chapter 53


May 1976


Mahony spins the Eldorado into Jack Brophy’s drive and kills the engine. It’s a good-sized modern bungalow set out of town on the road to Castleross. The place is well built and well maintained with well-locked doors. Which doesn’t surprise Mahony at all, given Jack’s line of business.

Mahony walks round the back of the house, where the land falls away into an established orchard. Painted beehives nestle amongst the trees; a couple of decent horses pull grass in the field beyond.

Mahony picks up a stone from a nearby rockery and, holding one arm over his face, puts a window in with it. He reaches his hand in and unlocks the back door.

The kitchen is neat. Immaculate. As is the hallway and the dining room. It is pale beige and carpeted thickly throughout. In the sitting room there’s a wooden unit with a turntable and a selection of records, all opera, evidence right there of a diseased mind. A clock from the Deputy Commissioner sits up on the mantelpiece, brassy and smug in its polished glass dome. There are a couple of seascapes hanging on the wall – otherwise, nothing.

The place is anonymous.

The bedrooms are the same. No photos, nothing personal. Mahony opens the wardrobe in the master bedroom, there’s one side for uniform, all pressed and ready, and the other side for off-duty, all pressed and ready. Jack’s civilian clothes are arranged by colour from brown to fawn, with a black suit and a grey suit. The bedside table holds a torch and an alarm clock set for six o’clock.

Mahony takes the torch, looks for a way into the attic and finds it in the third bedroom. He stands on the bed and pulls down the hatch and the steel ladder that’s attached to it. He sees the cord of a light switch hanging above him, so he throws the torch on the bed and swings himself up through the hole.

There’s f*ck all in the attic. Mahony goes back down the ladder. He’ll take one last scan about the place then leave. On his way out he passes the pantry and thinks to try the door.

And there she is.

Mahony’s heart turns over with horror.

Crouched naked in an old tin hip bath and swaddled in plastic sheeting, Annie Farelly grins back at him with her eyes wide and sightless and her knuckles resting in the quarter inch of blood congealing in the bottom of the bath.

Fuck no. Christ. Ah no.

On the shelf behind her, between tins of corned beef and string sacks of onions, are her shoes, paired and resting on newspaper, blood dulling the tan polish. Next to them are her clothes. Stained and folded. There’s a cream blouse, a mauve cardigan, a grey pleated skirt, bunched underwear and a bloodied reel of stockings.

Mahony falls out of the back door running as a car pulls up on the drive at the front of the house.





Chapter 54


May 1976


Back in the village hall Mrs Cauley frowns and scratches up under her wig. Her scalp is hopping, which is never a good sign.

She attempts a reassuring smile. ‘Mahony is quick, Shauna. In the wits department there’s none quicker.’

Bridget nods sagely. ‘She’s right. Listen to her now. Dry your arse and drink your tea. Mahony will slip in and out. He’ll be off up the coast with the evidence by now.’