The Magdalen Martyrs (23 page)

“What am I going to do?”

“Get off the drugs.”

“Jesus.”

We sat in silence for a time, then he asked,

“What’s going to happen with your assault charge?”

“I’ve got a lawyer.”

He smiled, said,

“Sounds like you’re going to need one.”

I gave him the background as to why I’d hit the guy, let him digest it, then asked,

“If you’d been me, Jeff, would you have done any different?”

“I don’t know, Jack. I’d like to think I’d have intervened, but I’d probably have walked by.”

The cafe was beginning to fill up, so we headed out. Walked towards Shop Street. I said,

“I appreciate you taking the time, Jeff.”

“I’m your friend, you should call me more often.”

Back at the hotel, I sat on my bed and wondered if I should just head for London. Toyed with that but couldn’t get it to fly. Laid the guns in the bed, thought,

“I’m armed to the teeth.”

I knew I should ditch the Browning. When the body of Neville was found, they’d have the bullet. How hard was it going to be to tell the type of weapon it came from? If they ever got the gun, it would be game, set and match.

I decided to hold on to it. I held the envelope with Michael Neville’s name and address and wondered why I’d taken that, more incriminating evidence. I put it with the gun and stashed them.

It was three days before they found the body. At first the reports said only that a man had been found dead in a city centre apartment. Then later, that the police were treating it as suspicious.

Bullet holes do that.

Finally, a full-scale murder inquiry was launched. The guards were said to be following a definite line of inquiry. A spokesman said,

“We will not allow drug trafficking to escalate in the city.”

I could breathe, if not easily, at least without constriction.

My barrister summoned me.

His offices were on Mainguard Street. Up two flights of stairs, past a receptionist and into his den. His certificates were framed along the wall. We both admired them for a moment, then he said,

“Right, Mr Taylor, I have some encouraging news.”

“Great.”

“It’s possible the case will be dropped.”

“Why?”

“The . . .
victim
. . . not that we’d ever use such a term outside this office . . . am I right?”

I had no argument there, said,

“You won’t hear me calling him a victim.”

“Capital, that’s the ticket. You’ve just learnt a whole chunk about the law.”

He was wearing a suit that quietly proclaimed,

“I’m a winner

You . . . most definitely

Are not.”

He flicked through some pages, said,

“Now, the guards may press ahead on the criminal damages.”

“Oh.”

He waved a hand in dismissal.

“They’re just making noise, letting us know they’re on the job. If you’re willing to pay compensation, I can make it go away.”

He paused, adopted a sterner tone, said,

“You are willing to do that?”

“Of course.”

“Good man. I’ll get that attended to right away. Looks better if you’ve paid before the case gets called. Shows you’re contrite . . . and you are . . . aren’t you, Mr Taylor?”

“Completely.”

“Okey-dokey, that covers it. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have further information. My nose tells me you won’t have to even appear in court.”

“That’s amazing.”

He leaned back in his swivel chair, said,

“No, it’s expediency.”

“What about your fees?”

“None of your concern you’ll be happy to hear.”

“Why?”

“Let’s say I’m glad to be in a position to accommodate Kirsten.”

We both were aware of his use of her first name. I let that linger, then said,

“Thank you.”

“Mr Taylor?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t depend on expediency in the future. It’s not ongoing.”

I’d reached the door when he added,

“You wouldn’t want to fall foul of the people who’ve helped you.”

“Gee, that sounds a lot like a threat.”

He raised his eyebrows, exclaimed,

“I’m in the legal profession. I don’t make threats.”

“You’re kidding. You never do anything else. The only difference is you have certificates for it.”

I’d cut down on the pills. Instead of the usual two for break-fast, I held out till noon and took one. Called it maintenance. Cold turkey was the last thing I could face. I headed back for the hotel, wondering why I didn’t feel relieved at the solicitor’s news. It looked like I wasn’t going to jail, but I knew I wasn’t off the hook. Somebody was going to expect payback.

In the lobby, Mrs Bailey said,

“There’s a young man to see you.”

“Oh.”

“He’s waiting in the lounge.”

“Right.”

“Mr Taylor, he seems a very angry young man.”

“Aren’t they all?”

It was Terry Boyle. In an expensive suit, not unlike the solicitor’s; definitely in the same price range, a level that remained for-ever beyond me. He was, as they say, spitting iron. I said,

“Terry.”

He was shaking from temper, snarled,

“You’re shagging Kirsten.”

“Whoa . . . keep your voice down.”

“I will not.”

I raised my hand. He stepped back, and I said,

“OK, now let’s sit down and you can try and cool off.”

We did.

I took out my cigs, fired up. He waved at the smoke, said,

“I hired you, and what do you do? You bloody go to bed with the bitch.”

“Who told you that?”

“She did.”

“And you believed her?”

It was if he’d been waiting for such an answer, asked,

“Do you have a tattoo of an angel on your chest?”

“I . . .”

“You do . . . Jesus . . . let me see.”

Grabbed at my shirt, tore the buttons. I caught his wrist, said,

“Over the past week, I’ve punched out three people. The thing is, I’m developing a taste for it. Here’s what you have to ask yourself. Do you want your wrist broken?”

I bent it towards the floor, and he said,

“All right . . . God, you’re so physical.”

“Are you going to behave, because you’re all out of warn-mgs?

He pulled back from me, massaged his wrist, moaned,

“That hurt.”

I tried to arrange my ruined shirt, said,

“I liked that shirt. You have no idea how fast I’m getting through wardrobes.”

His lip curled, actually turned up at the right corner, and he said,

“Sartorial is a description that would not readily spring to mind about you. One feels the charity shops have all your requirements.”

He was the kind of guy you’d never tire of beating the bejaysus out of. I said,

“Terry, I’ve checked out Kirsten. No matter how much you detest her, there’s no proof she killed your father.”

“And, of course, you investigated fully, especially in his bed. No clues there I suppose, or were you too preoccupied?”

“Give it up, Terry. It’s a waste of time.”

He jumped to his feet, said,

“I’m meeting her next week. One way or another, I’ll sort the tramp.”

“Come on, Terry.”

“Fuck you, Jack Taylor. You’re a despicable human being.”

And he was gone.

Mrs Bailey came over, asked,

“Can I get you something?”

“No . . . thank you.”

“The young man, were you able to help him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr Taylor, storm clouds appear to be constantly over you.”

“You got that right.”

The day Lucifer left the laundry, she got up early, packed her
small suitcase and gazed at the items of jewellery she had. Two small Claddagh rings, a pearl rosary and a small gold cross on a silver chain. These had belonged to “the Martyrs”, the girls whose deaths she had caused. Fingering the cross, she considered bringing it to the pawn on Quay Street, but it gave her such a thrill of remembrance, the surge of power she’d felt when those girls died. With a sigh, she put the cross in her bag, decided to keep it as a reminder of these glory days.

There would never be another time like this, and she knew her life would only be downhill after this. Her sister had two sons, and Lucifer adored them. She’d thanked the dark power she worshipped that her sister hadn’t had girls. After her time at the Magdalen, her hatred of women was even more entrenched, because they were so weak, always whining, always conspiring. A small laugh escaped her as she thought, “I sure put manners on the little cows. They won’t forget me in a hurry.”

I went upstairs, took off the torn shirt. Examined it in the
vague hope of salvage, but it was beyond help. Slung it in the bin. The phone went. I picked it up, said,

“Yes?”

“Jack . . . it’s Brid . . . Brid Nic an lomaire.”

“Ridge.”

Could hear her annoyance, then she said,

“I got the information you wanted.”

“On Kirsten?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

“Don’t be so condescending.”

“Good woman?”

“I’ll be in McSwiggan’s at eight.”

Click.

I began to listen to the death notices. How fucked is that? Instead of my morning drugs, I’d listen for those. Mental abuse of a whole different calibre. A lot of the names had a ring of familiarity. I was in that age range where you no longer watch for the success of your friends; you await news of their demise.

Then,

“Bill Cassell.”

As I rushed to turn the volume up, I noted the removal arrangements and

“No flowers by request. All donations to Galway Hospice.”

I didn’t know if that was a funeral I’d attend. It was due to leave the Augustinian at eleven the next day. If for no other reason, I should go to ensure he was truly gone.

That evening, I wore a sweatshirt, jeans and my guards coat. Despite the burning, it was still intact. I got to McSwiggan’s at eight fifteen. Ridge was already there, toying with a bottle of Diet Coke. I asked,

“Get you another?”

“No.”

I ordered a double Jameson; felt I’d been doing well with my cutback on the pills. I sat opposite her, said,

“We’re almost a regular feature here.”

No smile, no reply She was wearing a white T-shirt, navy jeans. Her face was without makeup, and it made her look severe, aloof. Reaching in her bag, she took out a notebook, said,

“Interesting person, this Kirsten Boyle.”

“That’s one way of describing her.”

She gave me a full stare, asked,

“Are you involved with her?”

“Not in that way.”

“Well, it’s what she does, collect men.”

I didn’t comment so she began:

“Her real name is Mary Cowan. From Waterford, lower middle class background, regular upbringing, nothing out of the ordinary. At sixteen, she met a rich English guy, ran off to England with him.”

“No crime there.”

“Ten years later, she arrives in Galway, with a new name, new accent and a recently deceased husband.”

“Oh.”

“Five years ago, she married again and became Mrs Boyle. Before and since the death of Boyle, she’s had a string of men. Her husband died of a heart attack; he was cremated quickly. Obviously, she has friends who expedite such matters. Normally there’d be a post mortem.”

I repeated,

“Expedite.”

“What?”

“It’s a word that appears to cling to her.”

“What clings to her is influence. She knows the right people.”

“You’ve got that right.”

She took a sip of the Coke, asked,

“Why are you interested in her?”

“I was asked to check her out.”

“You’re investigating her . . . no, no . . . you’re investigating the death of her husband.”

When I didn’t answer, she said,

“There’s nothing to prove she did anything.”

I asked,

“How did you discover so much?”