The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) (8 page)

Anselm retrieved the letter. He looked at the words without quite reading them.

‘This is not a case you or I can investigate.’ Olivia was leaning on her desk, hands joined, her almost black eyes levelled upon him. She was saying to Anselm what she’d probably said to Nigel Goodwin and his subdued wife. ‘There’s no evidence and no crime. Just a broken husband.’

The killer had got off because Anselm had found a small hole in one of the prosecution’s forensic reports. An innocent slip. He’d picked away at it with smart, technical questions, making it seem far bigger than it really was. The distinguished author had been outraged and the jury had confounded righteous indignation with the bluster of incompetence. Now, remembering that great triumph, Anselm vowed to trap his man. There was no forensic evidence against this other killer, no hole in the paperwork, nothing for a scornful barrister to pick wide later on. And that was all to Anselm’s advantage.

‘Have you heard of the Red Barn Murder of eighteen twenty-seven?’

Olivia blinked slowly. ‘Yes. The case began with a dream … a nightmare.’

‘And the evidence came afterwards,’ observed Anselm. ‘Sometimes we just have to persevere, especially when we can’t sleep easily any more.’

Olivia walked Anselm to the main entrance. She’d given him Nigel Goodwin’s address. She’d warned him not to expect much when he got there. They stood beside each other in the sunshine, wondering where the years had gone. They spoke of judges, counsel and detectives, people they’d both known, seeking points of contact. There weren’t many, because Anselm had been out of the field for a long time. It was like they were trying too hard to be nice. Time seemed to run out and anyway, Mitch was right in front, waiting in his rusted Land Rover.

‘I want to make up for the cases I should have lost,’ said Anselm, abruptly.

Olivia made another unconvincing shrug. ‘Then you’ve a lot of work to do.’ But then she seemed to turn a page, more interested in what was to come than in what had already happened. ‘Why not just … do your best, again?’

Anselm could settle for that. He said goodbye but then surrendered to an afterthought.

‘Just out of interest, is Nigel Goodwin a doctor?’

Olivia made a slight start, impressed that this ‘fretful explorer’ had discovered a man’s profession through the simple exercise of his imagination. It was a promising beginning.

‘He is, actually. But I wouldn’t trust him to treat the common cold.’

The condemnation unsettled Anselm. It had been harsh, suggesting there was more to this man than troubled grief. Mitch (emboldened, now) begged to differ. Clunking through the gears, he improvised once more and Anselm, disinclined to put much store on his assistant’s judgement, stared out of the window, barely listening. His mind soon drifted away from the inept doctor to the haunted brother, the quiet man with the lowered face in all the photographs. What had happened to Michael Goodwin that he’d chosen the shadows? Grief, on its own, wasn’t a sufficient explanation.

It’s very quiet in the house. Except for the clock. There’s a clock in the sitting room that ticks really loud and I’m wondering why it carries on like that. It just keeps going as if nothing has happened. Tick tock, tick tock. My mum stopped breathing yesterday but the clock’s still working. It’s like someone walking past. Doesn’t even slow down. My mum’s dead. And the clock’s still working.

My granddad gave me this diary after my mum’s accident. He told me to write down my feelings because otherwise they’d get stuck like leaves in a drain. But they didn’t. Because my mum was still with me. She’s gone now, though. Everyone’s saying she died of cancer but that’s not true.

******

16th June

My granddad was right. He knew what was going to happen two years ago. I’m all blocked up, just like he said. I’ve been like this since the night my mum died and it’s getting worse. So I’m going to write down what’s happened and what I feel.

My dad was sent to prison last week because he threw a brick at a boy in a bread shop. They all reckon it’s because he feels bad about my mum’s death. They’re all wrong. He feels bad but he can’t tell them what he did and why. When I saw my dad in the cells before they took him away, I could see it in his eyes. He was glad. He wants to be locked up. It’s the only way he can get away from me. Because most days, there’s one of these moments. He looks at me asking himself just how much did I hear and see. I don’t say anything and he doesn’t say anything. We just look at each other and I can tell he feels bad. But now he’s in prison. He’s glad and I’m glad. My grandmother’s glad, too.

23rd June

My grandma doesn’t realise it, but she stares at me while she talks. She’s worried. She’s got questions but like my dad she’s afraid to ask them. She puts down animals at work. She’s no idea how many cats and dogs she’s killed. Must be hundreds. She doesn’t feel a thing when she does it.

My granddad never asks any questions, not any more. Instead I ask him and he doesn’t have any answers. I watch him avoiding the truth and I wonder if I should even stay and listen. He keeps two passports. Like the others, he’s two people.

Uncle Nigel wanted to know who saw my mum after he left on the night she died. He knows something happened but he’d never guess what it was.

7th July

I just want my mum back. I loved her and I still do. The paralysis and the cancer didn’t change her. She wasn’t any different, not to me. She was still my mum. Everyone else felt sorry for her and said she didn’t have much of a life. But I didn’t, not once, and I’m unhappy because she’s gone and I miss her every day. No one understands that even though she was ill, I didn’t want her to die. They all said, ‘She’s at peace now,’ as if that changed everything. Well, it doesn’t. She was given peace but mine was taken away.

Michael lay on his bed. He’d kept on his overcoat as a kind of protection, a thick skin against the awful cold he was about to remember. When he’d come back from Northern Ireland, Danny, the army psychologist, had told him to lie down on a bed and listen to some tapes – chimes from a Buddhist monastery, the sound of the wind in the trees, the sighs and murmuring of the sea. The idea – advanced for the times – had been to help Michael relax; to calm the anxiety so that his suppressed anguish could surface … in the imagined mountain air, in the dreamed-up woods, on a make-believe beach. He’d tried his best but with each foray into the subconscious he’d simply fallen asleep. When he’d turned up for the interviews, taking his seat by the table with the box of tissues, he could only yawn. But now he was savagely awake, his senses sharply attuned to the crash and sudden lull of real waves upon real sand. The tide was coming in. Michael let himself go back to that terrible late November. Eyes wide open, heart beginning to race, he watched Captain Michael Goodwin act and speak; watched himself as though he was a disembodied spirit observing the preliminaries to the unforeseen catastrophe. Everyone was acting normally, even though their nerves were frayed…

‘Where is he?’ asked Michael.

‘He’ll come.’

‘When?’

‘Soon.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure. Relax. He said he’d come.’

‘It’s dangerous for me here … and for you; for us all. We should have met out of town, not
here
. For God’s sake, the place is crawling with Provos.’

‘I know, so, but he insisted.’

The doorbell rang. Twice, then a third time. The signal meant the caller was alone, as planned. Liam nodded, left the sitting room and went to unlock the front door.

Liam was small-time. He gave low-grade intelligence on well-known figures in the Belfast Brigade of the IRA. Just their movements. Where they went. Who they met. Registration numbers. Snippets of conversation from people who knew them. Pub talk. For all that he got paid a hundred quid a week. Tax free. He was just eighteen and very small-time indeed, which was why Michael was his handler. They were both new recruits to the long war. But Liam said he’d got something big this time. Real big. He’d met someone with a message. So he’d set up the meeting and Michael had turned up feeling sick with fear. He was sitting on the edge of a synthetic leather sofa in a council house in the Ballymurphy district of West Belfast. The sitting room door opened and Liam ushered into the wan light a haggard man in a long dark overcoat, black shoes and trousers, a black hat and a black scarf. Removing his hat, the man said, ‘How’s your ma, Liam?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘Her knees and ankles?’

‘Swollen again.’

The visitor brought his dark eyes onto Michael. Addressing Liam, he said, ‘This is your man?’

‘Aye.’

‘He’s Army?’

‘I am,’ said Michael, his mouth dry, wanting to stamp some authority on his rising panic.

The man shrugged off his coat and unwound the scarf from his neck. A white collar under the soft chin showed him to be a priest. Liam’s priest.

‘Get yerself upstairs now and look after your mother. I’ll call you when I’m done.’

Liam obeyed. The priest shut the door. He started speaking even before he’d turned around.

‘It’s my job to look after the living and the dying. Sometimes, I help them pass over. I put oil on their forehead … I rub it into the palms of their hands … I give them bread for the last time … we call it
viaticum
… which means “provision for the journey”. The moment of parting, after giving the oil and the bread … it’s always unforgettable.’

The priest sat on a shiny armchair near to Michael. He, too, sat on the edge of his seat, his arms wrapped around his overcoat and crumpled scarf. His hair was white. Thick black eyebrows bristled over his pale, lined face.

‘Last week there came a knock to the door,’ he said, looking at the ragged carpet. All the colour had gone. A loose weave of grey strands was all that remained. ‘It was after eleven. I opened up, and there on the step was a man I’d never seen before. A broken nose face. He didn’t even look at me, but I heard him well enough. “There’s someone needs you, Father. You won’t be long.” He walked off, into the dark, and I followed. Didn’t even get my overcoat. A car was waiting, engine running, a back door opened. The man didn’t speak. He just drove me half a mile to a house that had been half burned out the month before. I knew the family that had moved out … they’re decent folk.’ The priest paused to moisten his lips. ‘I went in, thinking I’d see one of the family, but there, at the end of the corridor, was a man in a denim jacket with a mask over his head. Roll-neck jumper. Corduroy trousers. He had a pistol in one hand. “Upstairs,” he said. “He asked for you. Make it quick.” Up I went and I stopped outside the bathroom … the floor was soaking wet, the bath full of discoloured water … and blood swimming round the taps. A short bulky man with thick arms appeared from one of the bedrooms and said, “Get on, will you. His time’s up.” He had a mask on, too … slits cut for the eyes and mouth. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he was drying his hands on a filthy towel. There were red washing-up gloves hanging out of a pocket. “It took us three weeks to get a confession. You’ve got three minutes.” I went into the room and there … I…’ The priest dropped his head and his shoulders began to judder. He made a strange squealing noise and Michael shrank back into the sofa, the worn material squeaking loudly as he moved. Looking up, facing the drab wall, the priest said, ‘I knew him … I’d known him from birth … I’d baptised him … and he was strapped arms behind his back to a wooden chair, dressed only in his underpants and socks. He couldn’t lift his head. There was blood all over his chest and knees … and he was shining … shining all over because of the water. This voice from the mask said, “Three minutes and no heroics. I’m warning you. I’ll shoot you as easily as I’m going to shoot him.”’

Michael’s mouth clacked for lack of spit. He was hot though the room was cold. The air was damp and his skin tingled with a sudden flush of sweat. The weak central light had no shade. There were no pictures on the walls. The gas fire didn’t work.

‘His name was Eugene … he was a father to four children,’ said the priest. ‘I had to kneel down in a pool of blood and water at his side. “It’s all a mistake, Father,” he said. “I’m no tout. But they think I am. They think I’m an informer. It’s a mistake and I’m done for. This lot are the Nutting Squad. They’re gonna shoot me in the head. They’re going to put my head in a plastic bag…” I took his hand … and I was about to speak when he spat out some blood and whispered, “Listen to me…” I leaned near to his breath and closed my eyes.’

But Eugene’s mind wasn’t on sins and a final cleansing. He had a message. Before they blew his brains out, he was going to do something big … something that would change the future. He was going to send a message that could help bring the Troubles to an end.

‘Eugene spoke quickly,’ said the priest after a short, sickening pause. ‘He said, “Ó Mórdha’s going to Donegal. Next Wednesday. He’ll be alone. Tell someone in British Intelligence … someone who deals with touts.”’

Néall Ó Mórdha. Michael knew of him from intelligence briefings. He’d joined up in the forties. Veteran of the fifties. Founder member of the ‘Provisionals’ when they split from the ‘Officials’ in 1969. Part of Southern Command. On the Army Council. A hardliner. Aged fifty-eight. Married to Bláithín. Keeps a dog. Irish water spaniel.

The priest stared at Michael expectantly, moisture shining on his upper lip. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying? Have you got the message?’

Michael hadn’t … not quite; but he nodded. Only the priest wasn’t to be fooled.

‘You don’t follow a damn thing, do you?’ he said, despairing. ‘You’re as lost as the boy upstairs. I’m talking to a greenhorn…’

The priest let his head drop onto his chest. After an age of slow, measured breathing, he looked up, his eyes dark with knowledge and purpose.

‘Eugene had always talked to me. Shared his doubts and regrets. I knew he was in the IRA. And I’d let him know my mind about political violence. Told him he couldn’t come to communion as long as he carried a gun.’