Peeler (22 page)

‘Threats then, from our friends?’

‘There was. Blocked the chimney on me one night last year. Accused me of all sorts – things done during the Land War days. Claimed I’d topped one of their fathers during a march on the house of a landlord’s agent in Toureen.’

‘And did you?’

Reilly shook his head. ‘Years – ten years easy – before my time. Not to say that the land agitating ended round here once the Land Acts came in. No. There was many the cattle drive and the odd man shot or house burned down through the days since. But I never done nothing to no one that didn’t have it coming, and fellas may think what they want to think and fuck them. Still, I thought I’d better not take a chance, once the shooting started.’ He took another sup.

O’Keefe nodded, selecting a cigarette and offering the tin to Reilly, who took one. ‘You ever work on a murder case, Reilly?’

Striking a match and holding it out to O’Keefe, he replied, ‘Aye, three big ones. Worked thirds to my Head and Sergeant in Upton. Head was a fella by the name of McMartin. The O’Connell case there, back in the summer of 1904. Poor wee girl beaten to death by her fiancé. He was a daft cunt, so he was. She gave him the shove. He couldn’t think of living without her, so he killed her, then slept next to her body in the nettles by a stream. Tried to hang himself next day, but picked a branch too ripe and full of bend in it. Spent hours trying to do away wi’ himself.’ Reilly smiled, picturing the scene. ‘Bouncing up and down with the flex in that branch. It was too high, and him too knackered to climb again and untie the rope, see, and find another branch. So he flung himself this way and that, running to the rope’s end like a mad dog on a staked chain. Got fed up finally and decided God didn’t want him dead. Went home for his tea, none the worse but for a half-stretched neck, nettle rash and a fierce hunger for his mother’s bacon and cabbage.’

O’Keefe gave him a tired smile. ‘The things people do for love.’

Reilly nodded and drank. ‘You think it was love did for your girl there on the hill?’

‘No.’ O’Keefe said. ‘Crimes of passion, love killings – whatever you call them – are more violent. Like your case there. The lover’s head bashed in or fifty stab wounds to the offending heart. This one seems too cool, too deliberate for a passion crime.’

‘The boyos, then?’

‘Don’t know. She was courting a fairly heavy fella from the 1st Corks. A shooter. Bit of an article, so her friend said.’ O’Keefe drank more, feeling himself relax, the whiskey working on his empty stomach. ‘And she’d chucked him over not too long before, for some swell with a flash motor.’

‘Dangerous business, that. You get the fella’s name?’

O’Keefe was about to tell him about Connors when he remembered what he should have told Keane about keeping his mouth shut but hadn’t. He shook his head. ‘No, didn’t get it. Should do, though.’

‘Didn’t get it, aye.’ There was disappointment and a hint of annoyance in Reilly’s voice, as if he knew O’Keefe was withholding details. ‘Slippery feckers, them 1st Cork lads. Don’t have names to faces for half of ’em.’

The old man finished his whiskey and stood up. Conversation over. O’Keefe was sorry he had offended him. Not much of a life, retirement, and living alongside men doing the job you had done for years. Alongside but outside. O’Keefe reckoned he would risk a bullet rather than lead the life Reilly led now.

‘Well, you’ll get it, the name, so you will. No doubt about that, Sergeant.’

‘Hope so. Sounds a terror, this fella. Someone’ll hate him enough to give him up.’

Reilly nodded, not looking him in the eye. ‘I meant to say,’ he said, his eyes flitting from the desk top to the dead ashes of the fire, ‘DI said he wanted to see you when you came in.’

And then he turned and went, leaving O’Keefe alone again.

***

O’Keefe was surprised the DI was in, but maybe even Masterson couldn’t dodge his duties during a murder investigation. Or maybe, he thought, the man had finally seen sense and realised that Head Constable Murray wasn’t coming back or was dead, and that he would have to start doing his own paperwork now; that it was all well and good having your head constable fill out your half-sheets and weekly reports for the County Inspector while you dined out with your club chums, but it was another thing altogether leaving it to two barrack sergeants – one acting and unproven and the other known to all for his profound hatred of anything resembling labour.

‘Sit down, Sergeant O’Keefe, sit down. There you are,’ Masterson said, making a fuss of him, sliding an antique-looking chair over from its place against the wall to just in front of his desk. In a similar chair to his right, an arm’s reach away from a half-full crystal decanter, glass and cigar in one hand, was an army officer, a colonel by his shoulder boards. He was leaning back casually in the chair as if he was familiar with the office. He stared intently at O’Keefe and O’Keefe turned to him, unsure whether or not to salute. Army ways died hard in ex-soldiers.

The man extended a hand. ‘Colonel Owen Prentice, 3rd West Kents, Sergeant.’ He smiled underneath a neatly trimmed moustache. The Colonel was lean, confident in his fitted, olive army uniform, his hat on the DI’s desk, his hair oiled and neatly combed. He wore cavalry officer’s jodhpurs, shining, knee-high, black boots and his legs were crossed at the knee. His eyes were dark, assessing.

O’Keefe took his hand. It was soft.

‘Pleased to meet you, Colonel.’

Masterson introduced him. ‘This is Acting Sergeant Seán O’Keefe. He’s the chap I’ve been telling you about.’

O’Keefe wondered had the DI been telling the Colonel about his ‘suspect loyalties’ and anger forged itself under his ribcage. Then he thought of his sister’s letter and a sadness welded itself to the anger.

The Colonel said, ‘Ah, right-o. Running the show on the hillside murder, is it?’

His voice was that careless, rumbling muddle that only the most gentlemanly of Englishmen could get away with: sloppily emphasised consonants bracing randomly drawn and flattened vowels. O’Keefe pictured paintings on the wall of the Colonel’s ancestral estate: his father, grandfather, great-grandfather in West Kent regimental garb.

‘The victim wasn’t murdered on the hillside itself,’ O’Keefe said. ‘She was transported there, we believe.’

The officer took a pull of his cigar and then a sip of what O’Keefe assumed to be brandy. ‘Indeed, somewhere else.’ He looked pointedly across at the DI.

‘I was just telling the Colonel about it,’ Masterson said. ‘Nasty business altogether. A woman murdered in cold blood and left like that on the hill. Shocking. An outrage.’

The DI could be writing headlines, O’Keefe thought, wondering why he had been summoned to this meeting. Masterson continued, looking over at the Colonel.

‘Of course, most of these killings go unsolved you know, Owen. The cornerboys have the people so terrified no one will answer questions, let alone testify before a jury – military
or
civilian – for fear of their lives. The state of our nation, sadly, as it is under the law of these … thugs.’ He spat out the word, but there was something about his argument that struck O’Keefe as odd. On the one hand, the murder of a woman in such circumstances
was
outrageous and shocking. And yet, on the other, Masterson seemed to be trying to convince the Colonel that solving the crime would not be possible.

It occurred to O’Keefe that, although the Colonel and the DI were obviously friends – he had noticed a photograph of the Colonel and Masterson in hunting gear and holding rifles on the wall behind Masterson’s desk – perhaps the Colonel was applying some kind of external pressure from higher up to solve the murder. Castle to Division to Regiment to pal’s police barracks. If this was the case, then maybe the DI was simply advising the Colonel to let it be known that Deirdre Costelloe’s murderer might never be found. That there was nothing Masterson could do about it, much as he’d like to.

‘Of course, Walter,’ the Colonel said, turning to O’Keefe. ‘I know how hard it is for you chaps. No help at all from the peasantry, makes the job a damn sight harder, I’d imagine.’

O’Keefe tried to think of the last time he had heard the people of Ireland referred to as ‘peasantry’. How far, exactly, did this Colonel Prentice imagine O’Keefe himself was from being a peasant? ‘It can be difficult, sir.’ He turned to the DI. ‘But we’ve made progress today. We spoke to the victim’s friend. They shared rooms –’

‘And did she give you anything you can use?’ There was an over-eager quality to Masterson’s voice as he asked the question.

Maybe, thought O’Keefe, the man really was under the boot to solve this murder. He said, ‘I have a couple of lines of enquiry I’d like to pursue.’

‘And what did she give you, this girl?’ the Colonel asked.

O’Keefe looked to the DI for permission to answer. The DI gave an exaggerated nod to indicate he was among friends. ‘Speak freely, Sergeant.’

O’Keefe told them about Anne Duffy’s interview and his meeting with Connolly and how the name of Seamus Connors had come up, leaving out the fact that Connors was wanted for the Smyth shooting in Cork, realising that even though Connors was a legitimate suspect for Deirdre Costelloe’s murder, he would become the only suspect if Masterson was aware of his link to Smyth’s assassination. He was banking on the fact that Masterson hadn’t heard of Connors before now. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘I was going to ask if you could get on to the Raid Bureau in “I” Division yourself, sir, to expedite any file they might have on this Seamus Connors. We’ve put in a request on the wire, but a nudge in the right direction wouldn’t hurt.’

Masterson noted his request in a leather-bound diary on his desk. ‘Of course, Sergeant. Good work. Two days in and you’ve a plausible suspect. Impressive.’ He looked up and smiled at the Colonel, like a proud father boasting of a son’s exploits on the football pitch.

O’Keefe’s face remained impassive. Masterson’s praise had never meant much to him. After questioning his loyalty to the RIC, it now stood for nothing.

‘A drink, Sergeant?’ the Colonel asked, studying O’Keefe.

‘No sir, thank you.’ O’Keefe looked back to the DI. ‘Keane suggested having the Raid Bureau cross-reference the name Seamus with the general description of the visitor who’d called to the Costelloe’s farm in the days when the girl was missing.’

‘Keane, Keane …’ The DI scanned his memory. ‘Ah yes. Young lad from Donegal?’

O’Keefe was grudgingly impressed. He would have bet a month’s wage Masterson wouldn’t remember who the young constable was.

‘Yes, sir. He’s been a great help to the investigation. I was wondering if I could have him removed from patrol and orderly duty for the time being and have him assigned to me full-time.’

‘Of course. Anything you need, Sergeant.’

‘And he’d be entitled to the Working in Plain Clothes Allowance, sir?’ O’Keefe added, as an afterthought.

‘Absolutely. As are you, Sergeant, certainly. Have you applied for it yet yourself?’

O’Keefe told him he hadn’t.

‘Well then, get the forms and I’ll sign off on them. Anything you need to get this fellow.’

‘There is one more thing I need, sir.’

‘Sergeant?’

‘I need an exhumation order. Mathew-Pare enquired at Division earlier, but no one seemed to know whether it could be authorised or not. Best anyone could come up with was requesting a petition from the County Inspector. It also might be of use to file a request with the diocese or even Cork Corporation because the girl’s buried in –’

‘Just a moment, Sergeant,’ the DI said. ‘Why exactly do you need this
exhumation
order?’ He spoke the word as if it disgusted him.

O’Keefe explained the possible connection between the murdered prostitute and Deirdre Costelloe. ‘It comes down to cause of death, sir. The doctor who did the post-mortem on this Jane Plunkett did a rush job. He saw bruising of the throat, knew of her background and just assumed asphyxiation by strangulation to be the cause.’

‘Which it most likely was,’ the Colonel said.

O’Keefe tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. ‘Well yes, probably. But we have another possible link, you see. Anne Duffy told us that Deirdre had given Seamus Connors over for a rich chap in a blue motor. A card player.’

‘But what does this have to do with some doxie you want dug up, Sergeant?’ It was the Colonel again and there was something about the way he said ‘Sergeant’ – a tightness to his voice – that made O’Keefe think he was very close to pulling rank.

He turned his appeal to the DI. ‘Look, sir, if you’d allow me to finish …’ O’Keefe realised he was on the defensive.

‘Go on,’ Masterson said, but without conviction.

‘Sir, this Jane Plunkett was employed to … to entertain at parties. She was hired by an unknown gentleman. He took several girls each time from a brothel in the Marsh. I believe there’s a good chance Deirdre Costelloe’s card player may have attended as well. If we could determine that Miss Plunkett was killed by the same type of stabbing blow and not by strangulation, then we have a vital link to where, and possibly who, killed Deirdre Costelloe.’

‘And Seamus Connors. How will this exhumation bring you closer to finding him?’ Masterson asked.

O’Keefe realised he was wise in not highlighting Connors’ connection to the Smyth shooting. An IRA man as killer of a young woman would suit the bureaucrats perfectly, particularly if the copper who put the bracelets on him was Irish, Catholic and had a sister married into a known republican family. It occurred to O’Keefe that his ‘suspect loyalties’ might make him the ideal man to catch a republican murderer. He swallowed down the bitterness of the revelation and clasped his hands in his lap like a supplicant. If he was going to find out the truth about Deirdre Costelloe’s murder, he knew he would have to at least appear to keep Connors in the frame, if only to satisfy Masterson and his
masters.

‘Sir, if there is a link between Connors and the Plunkett girl and Deirdre Costelloe, we need to find it. If there is no connection, then maybe it’s only a matter of ruling it out so we can direct our energies elsewhere. Connors has sound motive for murdering the Costelloe girl but what if she is not the only girl he has murdered?’ He quoted from the RIC investigations manual: ‘“Ruling something out in a criminal investigation is often as vital to eventual conviction as is the discovery of new evidence”.’