Even the Dead Page 3

  “By the way,” Hackett said, when the waitress had gone, “how did you know where to find me? Or was it just a happy coincidence?”

  “I went round to Pearse Street. Your man, Sergeant Jenkins, whispered to me that you might be here. He made me swear not to tell you it was him gave you away, so not a word, right? I must say, you do yourself well. Lunch at the Gresham, no less!”

  “Ah, now you’re teasing me, Dr. Quirke, I know you are.”

  The hot water came and he slopped it into the pot. Quirke was always fascinated by Hackett’s clumsiness, which, mysteriously, tended to come and go, depending on the circumstances. Did he put it on, as a diversionary tactic, or was it a sign of mental agitation? No doubt he was itching to know just what it was that had brought Quirke here to seek him out. Right now he was watching Quirke over the rim of his refilled cup, those little eyes glinting.

  “I came to consult you about something,” Quirke said. “There was a crash in the Phoenix Park early this morning. You heard about it?”

  “I did. Some poor young fellow, ran into a tree and got burnt to a crisp. Suicide, by the look of it, my fellows are saying.”

  He put down his cup. No clumsiness now.

  “Well, my second-in-command,” Quirke said, “and probably soon to be commander in chief, young Sinclair, came to see me earlier.”

  “Did he go all the way out to the Strawberry Beds?”

  “No, no, I wasn’t in hospital. I’m staying for the moment with my—with Malachy Griffin and his wife, at their place on Ailesbury Road. They very kindly offered to take me in and look after me while I convalesced from whatever it is I’m supposed to be convalescing from.”

  “Ah, right. And how is Dr. Griffin? Is he enjoying his retirement?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you tell me? That’s a pity, now, a real pity.”

  “He has taken up gardening,” Quirke said.

  “Gardening, is it! That’s a fine pastime. Will you give him my best regards? He’s a decent man, the same Dr. Griffin.”

  They eyed each other in silence for a moment. Mal Griffin had not always been the decent man he had since become, and for a long time had covered up things that should not have been covered up. Old water, Quirke thought, under old bridges.

  “Anyway,” he said, taking a sip of his glutinous, brownish-red drink, “what Sinclair had come to talk to me about was this poor chap who hit the tree up in the park.”

  “Is that so?” Hackett said mildly, looking into his cup. Cautious, now, Quirke thought, cautious yet keen, an old dog sniffing blood on the air.

  “There’s a contusion on the side of the skull, just here.” He pointed to a spot behind his temple and just above his ear. “Sinclair thought it seemed suspicious, and called me in to have a look at it.”

  “And did you?”

  “I did. And I agreed with him.”

  Hackett leaned back slowly in his chair, with his lips pursed and his chin lowered. “Suspicious in what way? In a way that made it seem the poor fellow didn’t come by it due to his unfortunate meeting with that mighty oak?”

  “Exactly.”

  Now Quirke leaned back too, and they reclined thus, watching each other. A strong shaft of sunlight through the window beside them had reached a corner of their table and was striking down through the polish and into the wood itself. Like a trout pond, Quirke idly thought, heather brown and agleam, the grain in the wood like underwater weeds drawn out in streels by the slowly moving current. A fish flashing, white on the flank, a fin twirling. Stones, small stones, washed small over the years, the years. Connemara, a sun-struck noon. Lying on the bank, trying to tickle a trout, the fish torpid in the midday heat, its tail fin barely stirring. Then a call, a far shout. Run, Quirke—Jesus, run! And then Clifford, Brother Clifford, dean of discipline, so called, pounding towards him in his big boots, over the heather, his soutane flying.

  What?

  “I’m sorry,” he said, blinking. “My mind—my mind was wandering. What were you saying?”

  “I was asking,” Hackett said, speaking slowly, as if to a child, “if we know the identity of the unfortunate young man, the one with the bump on his head.”

  “I thought maybe you might know. Someone said your people were tracing the registration number of the car.”

  Hackett sat forward and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “Well, if you’d care to accompany me back to the station, we can make inquiries and see what the tirelessly laboring hordes have been able to turn up.”

  He signaled to the tall pale waitress and asked her to bring the bill. While they waited for her to return with it, they looked about vacantly. At a nearby table a woman in a hat with a half veil of black lace smiled at Quirke, and he marveled, as so often, at how women could smile like that, with such seeming openness and ease. Was it a trick they had learned? Surely not. It seemed spontaneous, and always touched something in him, a deeply buried seam of wistful longing.

  Hackett paid, and gave the waitress a shilling for herself. Quirke groped under the chair for his hat. He hadn’t finished his tomato juice; it was the color that had put him off.

  Outside in the street the air was blued with the smoke of summer, and there was a smell of fresh horse dung and petrol fumes. They walked side by side along O’Connell Street, breasting their way through the throngs of shoppers. All the women seemed to be wearing sandals and sleeveless summer dresses, and trailed behind them heady wafts of mingled perfume and sweat. Quirke, housebound for so long, felt dizzy in the midst of all this sun-dazed bustle.

  What was it that had made him suddenly think of Brother Clifford, after all these years?

  Clifford, a cheerful sadist, had ruled with merciless efficiency over Carricklea Industrial School, where Quirke had endured some of the most terrible years of his childhood. It was Clifford who had come after him and two other boys that day they went mitching out on the bog, the day he had almost caught the trout, lying on his belly on the bank beside the little brown river, the sun hot on the back of his neck and the prickly heather tickling his knees. Who were the two that were with him? Danny somebody, a mischievous runt with carroty hair and freckles, and fat Archie Summers, who had asthma and was blind in one eye. Clifford and three or four prefects had rounded them up and marched them back to the gray stone fortress of Carricklea, where Clifford beat them with a cane until their backsides bled. Many years later Quirke had spotted a paragraph in the News of the World, giving an account of a court case in which an Irish Christian Brother by the name of Walter Clifford had been found guilty of stealing ladies’ underwear from a department store in Birmingham and was fined ten pounds and given a severe caution. Sometimes there was justice, after all, Quirke reflected, or a modicum of it, anyway.

  In the Garda station it was stuffy and hot, and the air smelled, as it always did, mysteriously, of parched paper. Quirke sat on a bench and waited while Hackett went off to talk to Sergeant Jenkins. A drunk wandered in from the street and began to tell the desk sergeant an intricate and confused story of an attack on him in the street by an unknown assailant, who had knocked him down and kicked him and stolen his mouth organ. The sergeant, a large, mild man, listened patiently, trying and failing to get a word in.

  Quirke read the notices pinned to the bulletin board. They were the same as always: dog license reminders, an alert against rabies, something about noxious weeds. There was to be a dress dance for members of the Force on the twenty-seventh, tickets still available. Forged banknotes were in circulation, in denominations of ones, fives, and twenties. A men’s retreat was to be held at St. Andrew’s Church, Westland Row, to which all were welcome.

  And my brain is damaged, he thought.

  Inspector Hackett returned, picking his side teeth with a matchstick. He sat down on the bench next to Quirke and leaned his head back against the wall and sighed.

  “Well?” Quirke said.

  The Inspector closed his eyes briefly.

  “The car was
registered to a chap by the name of Corless,” he said, “Leon Corless, aged twenty-seven, a civil servant in the Department of Health. Resident at an address in Castleknock village.”

  “Corless,” Quirke said. “Why do I know that name?”

  “Leon Corless is, was, the son of Sam Corless, leader and, it would seem, sole member of the Socialist Left Alliance Party, known to the gentlemen jokers of the press as SLAP. Mr. Corless senior, as no doubt you know, was recently released from Mountjoy Jail, having served a three-month sentence for non-payment of taxes. The latest of many brushes with the law. Mr. Corless makes a point of being awkward.”

  The drunk, having run out of complaints, was being escorted to the door with the desk sergeant’s large square hand firmly on his shoulder. In the street outside, a bus backfired, and from the direction of Mooney’s pub came the sound of trundling and thudding beer barrels being unloaded from the back of a dray.

  “I didn’t know Sam Corless had a son,” Quirke said.

  “Well, he hasn’t, anymore, since someone, according to you and your assistant, is after bludgeoning the poor fellow to death and leaving him to roast in his burning car.”

  3

  Phoebe Griffin loved her office. It wasn’t her office, strictly speaking, but that was how she thought of it. Directly in front of her desk, two tall sash windows looked out over the tops of the trees to the houses on the other side of Fitzwilliam Square. Throughout the day the light on the distant brickwork changed by subtle, slow gradations. In the morning, when shadows still lingered, it was a sort of soiled purple, but by noon, when the sun was fully up, it would become a steady, dazzling white blaze. Late afternoons were best of all, though, when the bricks seemed smeared with a glaze of shimmering, molten gold, and all the windows were yellowly aflame.

  She had left her job at the Maison des Chapeaux, with only the smallest twinge of regret, and was working now as secretary and receptionist for Dr. Evelyn Blake, consultant psychiatrist. Quirke had known Dr. Blake’s husband slightly, and had put in a word for her when she was applying for the job. This was a fact she didn’t care to linger on, for she was an independent-minded young woman and liked to think that she was making her own way in the world. There was a compensation, however, in that Dr. Blake also was a woman, and therefore unique in her profession, in this country at least. It pleased Phoebe to imagine that she and her employer were joined in an unspoken conspiracy against the male-dominated world in which they were forced to live and work.

  Before taking up the job, Phoebe had worried that she would have to spend her days dealing with crazy people. On the contrary, however, Dr. Blake’s patients all seemed, so far—Phoebe had only been in the job a matter of weeks—not mad at all, and were nearly always polite and respectful. It was true that some of them gave off an unsettling air of barely suppressed excitement and tension; pop-eyed and tremulous, they seemed constantly on the point of jumping up and breaking into shouts and gesticulations, though they never did. Others were timid, watchful, worried.

  A large proportion of the patients, she had noticed, were nail biters. It could be disturbing, listening to them as they sat there gnawing away like squirrels, as if they were trying to get at the sweet, crisp core of themselves. Sometimes they spat fragments of nail on the carpet, though discreetly, watching her out of the corner of an eye. One of them, a youngish man with enormous ears and so thin it seemed he must be starving himself to death, not only bit his nails but also, on occasion, sucked his thumb. She tried not to look at him, sitting there sucking away, like a big, emaciated baby.

  There was never more than one patient waiting; that was Dr. Blake’s rule. Her consulting room had two doors, the one behind Phoebe’s desk and another one, on the far side of the room, where the patient could exit unseen when the session was at an end. No sounds ever came out of that room. The door had been specially installed, and was extra thick, and Phoebe found uncanny the fraught, unbroken silence always at her back.

  She was happy enough in the job, though at times she was bored. In the shop the customers were normal—most of them, anyway—and used to chat to her, talking about the weather and stories in the news, and gossiping about well-known people misbehaving themselves. Here, at Dr. Blake’s, there was a feeling sometimes of being in church; she might have been an assistant outside the confessional, monitoring the penitents as they silently waited their turn to slink into the shadowed chamber and tell their shameful sins.

  David Sinclair teased her about her job. “How were the head cases today?” he would ask, crossing his eyes and letting his tongue hang out. She was displeased. Usually he was sensitive and didn’t mock people. Maybe, being a doctor himself, he felt threatened by psychiatry, this strange, almost mystical practice that the church kept trying to ban and forbade its members from having anything to do with. Freud was a Jew, however, and so was David, which surely should have made him have sympathy with, or at least understand, the thinking that psychiatry was based on. But maybe that was a foolish assumption.

  Today was slow, so far. The thumb sucker had been in first thing, with his aggrieved and accusing stare. Then there had been a harassed woman with her feral ten-year-old son, then a shady man in his sixties who, although he was dressed in slacks and a sports shirt, had the definite air of a priest—why did priests, when they tried to disguise themselves in ordinary clothes, always give the game away by wearing white socks? It was as if, through old habit, they had to have some sign of sanctity about their persons. Now it was nearly lunchtime, and the next patient who was due, Mr. Jolly—that really was his name—hadn’t appeared yet, although he was down in the appointments book for twelve-thirty. Mr. Jolly liked to chat and had told Phoebe all about his problem, which was that he couldn’t resist beating his wife, even though he claimed to love her dearly. There had been occasions when Phoebe felt Mr. Jolly wouldn’t need to bother going in to see Dr. Blake, since he had already poured out all his most intimate troubles to her, here in the waiting room.

  In the end Mr. Jolly didn’t turn up, and at one o’clock Dr. Blake came out and told Phoebe that since there were no more patients due today, she could take the afternoon off. It was not unusual for Dr. Blake to let her go like this, which was another nice thing about the job. The doctor was in her early middle age, a large, handsome woman with untidy hair, prematurely flecked with gray, which Phoebe was convinced she cut herself, as no hairdresser would have let her leave the salon looking like that, like a ragged and tipsy page boy. Her husband, a surgeon, had died not long ago in a car crash on the Naas Road. She was taciturn but not unfriendly, and she rarely smiled, though when she did she was transformed. She had a broad, soft face and strikingly large, almost black eyes. Her manner was slow, and she had an air of faint melancholy that Phoebe guessed was congenital and not due to her recent bereavement. She wore tweed skirts and floppy silk blouses and sensible flat shoes. She was what Phoebe imagined she herself would be, one day, except, she hoped, for the hairstyle.

  Phoebe put the plastic cover over her typewriter, wondering if Mrs. Jolly was getting an extra beating today, and if that was what had delayed her husband. In fact, she suspected there was no Mrs. Jolly, except in Mr. Jolly’s fevered imaginings.

  The day was hot but there was a cool breeze coming down from the mountains, the pale outlines of which she could see far off past the end of the street. She walked along by the green railings of the square, savoring the smell of cut grass—the petrol mower had already been going when she arrived at the office that morning. At the bottom of the street she turned left and walked along Merrion Row to St. Stephen’s Green.

  She hadn’t been to the Country Shop since Jimmy Minor’s death; it was the place where she and Jimmy used to meet. Now as she went down the steps she recalled fondly how he would come rushing into the café and fling himself down at the table and launch straight off into a scurrilous story about some politician or businessman, heedlessly dropping ash on the table, while his tea got cold and his sandwich began to
curl at the corners. Poor, dear Jimmy, beaten to death one dark night and flung into the canal like a dog.

  She sat at a table by the window and ordered tea and a ham sandwich, in Jimmy’s honor. She took out her packet of Gold Flake and her lighter and put them on the table. She had taken up smoking again, she wasn’t sure why, on her last day at the hat shop. She wasn’t a real smoker, and hardly inhaled at all. She just liked the image of herself sitting on her own at a café table with a cigarette and a book, looking mysterious, or at least interesting. She had always been solitary, and was so still, despite the fact that she was going out with David Sinclair. He was solitary, too. The result was that they were never really together, only side by side, like two trees growing close by each other in a forest.

  The waitress brought her order. She was a plump, friendly girl with a wen on the side of her nose who had been working here for as long as Phoebe could remember. “Oh, and miss,” she said, “there’s this for you.” She handed Phoebe a folded slip of paper. “A person asked me to give it to you.”

  It was a half sheet torn from a copybook, like the copybooks they used to use for shorthand practice at the agency when she was doing her course there. The message on it was scribbled in pencil and was, indeed, in shorthand, as she saw with a small shock of recognition.

  Could we meet? I’ll wait in the Green, on the bench at the pond. I need to talk to you. You will know me from the agency. Please come. Lisa.

  Phoebe read it three times, then beckoned to the waitress. “Who was it that gave you this?” she asked.

  “A girl, miss,” the waitress said, a little nervously.

  “What sort of girl?”

  “Just a girl, miss. A young woman.”

  “Where was she? Was she here, in the café?”

  “No, she was passing by. I think she saw you, through the window, and came down and called me over to the door and gave the paper to me and pointed you out and asked would I give it to you.”