They went onto Market Square, and Ryder turned left, heading in the direction of the green area in the middle. They went through the gate here, and Ryder sat on a bench within a copse of trees. In what Brody took as another gesture of control, he indicated for Brody to sit next to him.

  ‘I like to come here,’ Ryder said, pointing off somewhere to the side. ‘See.’

  Brody sat down and looked, but couldn’t see anything, just the well-tended greenery, shrubbery banks, bushes and trees.

  ‘Exactly,’ Ryder said, ‘there’s nothing, just nature. Like it could be anywhere, a little oasis, away from it all.’

  Brody wanted to say that Meadowstown wasn’t exactly Manhattan; it was already well away from it all. But he didn’t.

  ‘Mick Dempsey was a cantankerous auld devil,’ Ryder announced. ‘Oh, maybe that’s not such a good word to use, considering. Anyway, what exactly do you want to know about the auld bastard?’

  ‘I don’t know what I want to know,’ Brody said. ‘All I’m certain of is someone has his phone. Tell me about his relatives, maybe – had he any? Also his friends; had he any of those, either? But what I’d really like to know is who the hell has his phone?’

  ‘Surprised to hear he even had a phone, to be honest,’ Ryder said. ‘Like, a phone? He didn’t even have running water. He used to take it from a well at the side of the road. A phone? Bejaysus.’

  Brody wanted to say that tribes in the deepest Amazon had phones. But he didn’t say that either. ‘Anyone come to mind?’ he asked instead.

  Ryder crossed his long legs and stared ahead. ‘Let me see. He had a sister…what was her name again?’ He looked to the sky, then down to the ground, then over to Brody. ‘Agnes, that was it. She’s dead now, the big C, a few years ago. Married a fella, aw, what was his name now? I don’t remember it; fuck it, anyway.’

  ‘What about…’ Brody started, but Ryder sliced a hand through the air with surprising speed. ‘Sscchh, let me think, will ya? It’ll come to me.’ He clicked his fingers a couple of times as his face scrunched in concentration. Then: ‘That’s it. They had a couple of boys. Yes, yes, yes. Alphonsus and Pius, the little runts. Hurley! That’s it. His name was Joseph – the husband, that is. Or Joe. Yes, it’s all come back to me.’ Ryder clapped his hands and smiled at Brody for the first time, delighted with himself.

  ‘Mick Dempsey’s sister,’ Brody said, ‘Agnes, that’s her name, you said?’

  ‘You a bit slow, fella? Yes. That’s what I just said. A bit of a strange one, so she was. Course, that generation could be, you know, what with religion and all. I heard when she’d had the two boys, she told Joe that that was it, her life would henceforth be one of chastity and penance; there’d be no more hanky-panky. Old Joe fucked off soon after. Don’t know where, and I didn’t care enough to ask. Why would I? No laws were being broken.’ Ryder laughed. He was getting comfortable with Brody.

  ‘What about the sons, Dempsey’s nephews? Alphonsus and Pius.’

  Ryder gave a knowing smile. ‘There was nothing pious about Pius, let me put it like that. He got a couple of girls up the duff, although one of them he was engaged to be married to. He ended up with neither, ran off with the wife of a publican who was ten years older than him, and who left her own three kids behind. You couldn’t make it up.’ He shook his head. ‘No, you couldn’t.’

  ‘And the other fella, Alphonsus.’

  Ryder was no longer smiling. ‘Aw, he’s around. If you see a big green taxi about, that’d be him.’

  ‘He drives a taxi?’

  ‘No. He drives the space shuttle. He drives a taxi; I just told you, fella.’

  ‘A Mercedes taxi, by any chance?’

  ‘You’ve seen it? Yes, a bloody Mercedes, so?’

  Ryder looked at his watch. ‘Told you I was a grumpy old bastard. Now, I need to get home for my nap.’ He got to his feet. ‘If you think of anything else, the lads will tell you how to find me.’

  ‘Wait. Do you know a Harry Macken? An old boy lives somewhere called…’

  ‘Glánoose. Yeah, he’d be a relative of Agnes. I don’t know how exactly, but they’re all related round here, one way or another.’

  ‘And this Alphonsus. What’s he like?’

  Ryder waved a hand. He wasn’t waiting round. ‘Like his mother,’ he said, and walked off.

  31

  Brody sat on the bench for a little while longer, trying to make sense of things, but his thoughts churned with the consistency of cold treacle. What he needed to do was clear his head. He got up as a light drizzle started to fall, and started back the short distance to his hotel.

  Gus Tighe was staring at the computer monitor behind the reception desk when Brody passed through. He looked up and gave Brody a professional smile, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and a friendly wave of his hand. Brody nodded and continued across the foyer, heading for the stairs. He stayed in his room only for as long as it took him to collect his gym gear. It had been too long. Way too long. What he needed right now was to hit the heavy.

  ‘Kathy rang,’ Tighe called when he came back down, ‘says she’s coming back to work tomorrow. The young lad, Cian Ruane, is sitting out, making a good recovery. That’s great news, isn’t it?’ He must have noted something in Brody’s expression, because he asked, ‘You did know, didn’t you?’

  ‘That is great news,’ Brody said, not answering the question, and knowing Tighe would take it to mean that he hadn’t. It pissed Brody off to have to hear it from Tighe. It should be Patton, or maybe even Wallace, if either had bothered to find out. Brody guessed they hadn’t.

  ‘One minute,’ Tighe said. Brody was almost at the door. He stopped. ‘There’s no need,’ Tighe said when he crossed to him, and, lowering his voice, ‘for anyone to know what you know about me, is there? You have to keep all that stuff confidential, don’t you, when you interview someone?’

  ‘I didn’t interview you. We had a chat, that’s all. I never said I was interviewing you, did I? I’d have to arrest you first.’

  Tighe showed no reaction. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘what we discussed is confidential information.’ He paused. ‘Look,’ he continued, ‘if any of this were to get out…’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘What are you saying, Mr Tighe?’

  Tighe raised his hands in a defensive gesture, palms out, glancing behind him furtively. ‘Me? I’m saying nothing, just that I don’t want any of it mentioned, that’s all. I mean, if it were, mentioned that is, then, maybe, just maybe… Look, what I’m saying is, I’d have to consider my options, if you know what I mean. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Don’t waste your breath on me,’ Brody said. ‘I’ll put you out of your misery, shall I? It’s not me you should be worried about. I’d worry about the local constabulary if I were you. Because they’re the ones I wouldn’t trust, myself. Now, I’m off.’ Brody walked away, passed through the doorway and out into the wane late afternoon daylight. He took a deep breath. Now, where was this boxing club?

  There are smells inside a boxing club: old leather, sweat, wood lacquer…but, more than anything, a raw masculinity, a primordial, unmistakeable odour. Although there were at least six females present, the smells were the same. At least to Brody’s nostrils, they were. Which made him wonder, Maybe the differences between the sexes aren’t so great after all?

  He didn’t meet anyone when he went in. He found the changing room and kitted out, went into the gym and skipped the ropes for ten minutes in warming up, then moved onto the heavy and pummelled it in an undignified flurry. After he’d worked up a good sweat, he shifted to the tips of his feet, jabbing and rolling, losing himself in the moment.

  Suddenly he slid to the left, hunkering onto his knee, brought up a right hook at the same time he sprang up, his knee propelling him like a catapult, his right fist smashing through the air, then the same with the left, and back to the right, so fast it was nothing but a blur. Anyone at the receiving end…well, the Lima Lion would know all about that.

  Then Brody switched again. He suddenly stood still, dropped his hands by his sides, and brought up his knee, but in a movement like a soldier standing to attention. His head snapped forward, as if on a spring, and back again, his hands, like pincers, grabbing at something imaginary in front of him, then releasing it again. This move did not exist in any boxing orthodoxy. It was a street-fighting move, one of the rawest in the book, strictly for dire emergencies only.

  He was panting furiously, but his mind was clear. Some people preferred alcohol, others drugs, but Brody liked to hit a punchbag. It gave him a high – but without the hangover. There was no downside. As testimony, his body had little excess fat and was washboard hard, even if he wasn’t as fit as he used to be.

  He brought up his hands again, bounced back suddenly onto the soles of both feet, then immediately began shimmying forward, first to his left, then to his right, lowering his head, way down, like a battering ram, both gloves raised high, like bull bars. He sprang forward, so fast the colours seemed to merge, and then, when he was almost touching the punchbag, brought up his right, hitting fast and hard, feeling the repercussion of the impact all the way up to his elbow. The punchbag juddered on its hooks, such was the ferocity of the impact, and it almost broke free, but snapped back again with a dull clang, and he could see Miguel Portilla going down, blood gushing from a cut to his forehead. He’d lain prostrate on the ring floor, the longest, sickening minute of Brody’s life. He truly thought he had killed him. But he hadn’t. When he saw the Peruvian policeman stir, coughing, spitting blood from his mouth, the relief he felt sent him onto his knees in gratitude.

  No one knew this, but that was the real reason he had given up boxing. This was why he had retired. He never wanted to feel like that again.

  ‘Nice one,’ a voice said.

  Brody turned. The small man standing there had white hair and a towel draped over his shoulder.

  ‘I think you must be the man Patton told us about, yeah?’

  Brody gulped air into his lungs, hands on his waist, and nodded. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Thought so.’ He extended a hand. ‘Tony Grimes. I’m one of the coaches. I’ve seen Saturday Night Fever and Dirty Dancing, but shite, son, I’ve never seen anyone dance like that since Muhammad Ali.’

  They shook, and Brody ran the back of his hand across his forehead, clearing away the sweat.

  Grimes smiled, displaying a gob devoid of most of its teeth.

  ‘Rudolph told me all about you,’ he said. ‘As if I didn’t know.’

  ‘Rudolph? Who’s that?’

  ‘Patton. As in Valentino.’

  ‘You serious? That’s his nickname?’

  ‘It is around here, anyway. But you’re not to say it.’ Grimes smiled. ‘It’s strictly for behind his back.’

  ‘Likes the ladies, that what it means? Is he married? No one mentioned.’

  ‘He is. But it never stopped him. Wears it like a badge of honour.’ Grimes looked over his shoulders, dropped his voice. ‘Like that young officer you got up at the station there, the Kinsella girl. He’s been bragging about how she’s crazy about him. She’s young enough to be his daughter. Tells us he has to beat her away from him.’ Grimes shook his head. ‘I dunno. What d’you make of it?’

  Brody felt the chills setting in as the sweat dried like a balm to his flesh.

  ‘Take it from me,’ he said, ‘it’s a load of old bollocks.’

  ‘Yeah, thought so.’

  Brody wanted to punch the bag again, and Grimes seemed to sense it.

  ‘I’ll let you get back to it. See you around, Jack.’

  ‘Yeah, see you around.’

  Brody stood with his legs shoulder width apart, his right foot half a step behind his left, protecting his face with his gloves, lowering himself into a traditional semi-crouch stance. With a sudden fury, he released a string of punches, leading with the right, then switching to southpaw, called the switch-hitter style. One thing he was certain of: Nuala Kinsella was not crazy about Patton, whatever the eejit’s nickname was.

  Rudolph, he thought, dirty old man, more like.

  32

  ‘You like the lasagne?’ Peter Voyle asked, using a fork to scoop pieces of chicken into a corner of his plate.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Sheahan said, placing some into his mouth, careful not to allow any melted cheese to drip onto his shirt.

  ‘I think I should have gone for the lasagne, as well,’ Voyle said.

  ‘What, you don’t like the chicken?’ Sheahan used the back of his hand to cover his mouth as he ate.

  ‘It’s the sauce,’ Voyle said. ‘I don’t like the sauce, that’s all.’

  They were at Nora’s, sitting inside this time around, at a corner table next to a window.

  ‘It’s curry sauce, isn’t it?’ Sheahan answered. ‘Well, curry sauce is curry sauce. It all tastes the same…well, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t.’ Voyle was adamant. ‘And it’s tikka masala. Doesn’t taste the same at all. No. In fact, this tastes off.’

  ‘It’s not gone off. You’re too fussy. Why don’t you just eat your food and shut up?’

  Voyle cracked a smile. ‘Yes, Daddy. C’mere, where’s Considine? Didn’t she say she was coming?’

  He stabbed some chicken with his fork and brought it to his mouth. ‘I did. I heard her say she’s supposed to be here.’

  ‘Maybe you heard wrong, because I didn’t hear anything like that. What is it with you and Considine anyway?’

  ‘What is it with me and Considine? You’ve seen her; what do you think? Oops, it is OK to say that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Think so,’ Marty replied. ‘Anyway, she’s not interested. So it’s not an issue.’

  Voyle still hadn’t put the food into his mouth. He peered at it. ‘You might be wrong. Girls like me, you have to admit. I can’t help it. I mean, look at me.’

  Sheahan shook his head, like he couldn’t decide if Voyle was taking the piss or not. Then his expression changed, like he’d decided, sadly, that Voyle wasn’t. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Considine doesn’t, not like that, or any other way from what I can see. She doesn’t like you, Steve.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Voyle said, sounding like he was in agreement, finally opening his mouth and placing the food inside.

  Nuala Kinsella put her mobile phone down onto the table. Still no answer from Harry Macken’s number. She’d tried twice. She picked up her pen and added the name Alphonsus Hurley to the Venn diagram: a taxi driver, Brody had said. She looked at her phone. Maybe…it had only been a few seconds, but still, she gave Harry Macken’s number yet another try. Still no answer. She put down the phone again and pushed it away, finally placed his name into the centre of the diagram, between the two overlapping circles. She now had two names in there, two names that, effectively, Brody had supplied her with. The number of names she had come up with herself was – none. Not good.

  ‘If I don’t get Macken the next time I ring him, we’ll call to his house. What you say to that? Is that alright with you?’

  Considine nodded. So far, the Venn diagram was nothing but a pencil sketch on a page of notepad. Kinsella hadn’t enough to bother scanning it onto Pulse, not yet.

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea,’ she muttered.

  Considine shook her head. ‘Don’t give up before you start, girl. Come on now…let’s see. Concentrate. Let me help you. Open Facebook and input Alphonsus Hurley’s name. There can’t be too many.’

  Kinsella’s eyes widened. ‘Why didn’t I think of it?’

  Considine was correct; there weren’t many. In fact, there were only two: one in Whyalla, South Australia; the other Meadowstown, Ireland, his chubby, moustached photo staring out of his profile. A quick rummage revealed Alphonsus Hurley was Facebook friends with Josh Diamond, one of the four to last see the victims alive on the night. Fifteen minutes of rummaging later through the digital warren of Facebook, and following the algorithmic prompts – which Kinsella was convinced could read her mind – the lattice of Hurley’s life was revealed. They now knew he was separated from his wife, Annalise, that he played five-a-side soccer every Tuesday night with the Meadowstown Half Timers, and he liked history. In his Facebook photos were old newspaper photos, mostly of the town and its inhabitants, and including one of none other than a young Harry Macken, along with a woman called Agnes Dempsey. Kinsella quickly concluded by captions and posts accompanying the photos that Agnes Dempsey became Agnes Hurley, who was Alphonsus Hurley’s mother. And Harry Macken was her second cousin. Which meant that Alphonsus was what people called Macken’s ‘fifth akin’, somewhere between second and third cousin, something like that.

  Another picture caught her interest, in black and white, of a tall man stiffly standing in a suit, with a brooding face staring at the camera standing next to a Ford Anglia. The caption read:

  Yup, Daddy Frank, the one and only, miserable auld bastard.

  It was followed by a string of laughing emojis.

  Kinsella felt a sensation like needles prickling the back of her neck.

  ‘That’s the same word,’ she said, ‘that word yup, the same odd word the anonymous caller used, you know, when I took the call on the state mobile up at the scene of the Devil’s House murders. The caller who was looking for Brody.’

  ‘What word?’

  ‘Yup. It’s on Hurley’s Facebook page. He’s using it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Wow,’ Considine said. ‘Keep going.’

  Kinsella did, trawling through social media, moving quickly, like a strong wind was at her back, going through profiles of Alphonsus’s associates as Considine checked their backgrounds on Pulse. But she wasn’t finding anything of note, apart from the usual driving offences and the odd drink driving conviction.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24