Broken Angels (Katie Maguire) Page 23

  ‘Was a highly gifted arranger,’ Katie corrected him. She couldn’t help visualizing that enormous rat, struggling gorily out of Father Quinlan’s stomach.

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry, ‘ said Stephen Keenan, and he flustered and dropped some of his papers on the floor.

  ‘What about Father O’Gara?’

  ‘Father O’Gara is a brilliant organist, so Father Heaney says; and an organist is essential for a top-flight choir. However, he was not very easy-going. Prickly, or thorny, if I’ve translated his Latin correctly. Iratus. He didn’t tolerate any misbehaviour and he was never slow to use the pandybat.’

  ‘I see. So these four priests were brought together by this mysterious Reverend Bis to develop a special choir at St Joseph’s Orphanage. An exceptional choir, a choir to delight the ears of God.’

  ‘But why St Joseph’s, for feck’s sake?’ asked Detective O’Donovan. ‘Have you seen the kids there, even today – and God knows what they were like thirty years ago. Underweight, most of them, or obese from too many chips. Rotten teeth, if they had any left. Accents like fecking chainsaws. Mouthy, smelly, ill-disciplined, Jesus. Why would you choose them to put a choir together?’

  Katie sat back in her chair and pressed her fingertips to her forehead like a fortune-teller. She had seen this, right from the very beginning, but she had been far too slow in fitting all of the pieces together.

  ‘What’s the story, ma’am?’ said Detective O’Donovan, in bewilderment.

  ‘They chose them, Patrick, because they were orphans, not in spite of it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They chose them because nobody else in the whole world cared about them. Their parents were either separated or abusive or constantly langered or simply couldn’t look after them. The social services were overworked and underpaid and couldn’t wait to get them off their hands. Those boys were totally dependent on the priests and nuns at St Joseph’s for everything. Food, drink, shelter, warmth, and most of all affection. That’s why they were much less resistant than any other boys might have been to what the four priests who organized that choir wanted to do to them.’

  Detective O’Donovan blinked at her. ‘You mean, molest them?’

  Katie fiercely shook her head. ‘They didn’t molest them. Well, they might have done, but they did something much worse than that. They castrated them. Do you know, I’ve been listening to that Elements CD in my car for weeks, thinking how beautiful the singing was, and of course it’s beautiful. It’s the same singing they had in the papal choir in the sixteenth century.

  ‘It’s the castrati. The orphan boys at St Joseph’s were chosen for the choir by Father Heaney and Father Quinlan and Father O’Gara and Father ó Súllabháin, and they all had their little balls cut off so that they could sing like angels.’

  ‘It’s shocking, isn’t it?’ said Stephen Keenan, closing his folder. ‘But after reading these notebooks I think that’s only the possible conclusion you can come to. You have to read between the lines, but it’s all in here. Father Heaney doesn’t once use the word “castrate”. Instead, he refers to purificationis, or “ritualized purification”, but I’m sure that by that he means castration. He gives times and dates of when they did it – sixteen boys in all. He doesn’t name them, and he gives no clue to their identities, but I imagine the orphanage will have records.’

  ‘But this happened in 1982,’ said Detective O’Donovan. ‘These lads have had over thirty years to get their revenge. Why in the name of Jesus have they decided to do it now?’

  Katie stood up and went to the window. The hooded crows were still clustered on top of the multi-storey car park, their black feathers fluttering in the wind. There must have been at least twenty of them. She always felt that they were waiting for her, tattered but patient, because they knew something that she didn’t, or couldn’t, even guess at.

  ‘Perhaps it was hearing that Elements CD,’ she suggested. ‘Like, you can’t go anywhere just at the moment without hearing it, can you? They were even playing it in Brown Thomas the other day. Maybe it brought it all back. Or maybe it was all this recent publicity about child abuse by priests – that might have triggered them off.’

  Stephen Keenan nodded. ‘You could be right. All those stories in the papers, they’ve really opened up some cans of worms, haven’t they? One of my best friends told me only last week that when he was nine years old he was systematically molested by his parish priest for over a year. He burst into tears when he told me – cried, like he was still a small boy. I didn’t know what to say to him. “It’s all over, Bryan, forget about it”? For him – no – it never will be over. The shame lasts for the rest of your life. The thought that you should have said no.’

  Katie said, ‘Being abused – God – that’s bad enough. But can you imagine how difficult it would be to come out in public and say that you’d been castrated? It’s not something you’d want your friends to know, is it, even if they’ve always thought that you were different.’

  ‘What happens now, investigation-wise?’ asked Detective O’Donovan. ‘I’m taking it that we don’t rush out and arrest every man with a squeaky voice and no stubble.’

  ‘We have to have a long and serious think about strategy, that’s what we have to do now,’ Katie told him. ‘After all, we’re not just dealing with two present-day murders, are we? We’re also dealing with sixteen cases of serious bodily harm, even if they did happen thirty years ago. Stephen – I’ll have to ask you leave us now. We have some confidential things we need to talk about, and although I do trust you...’

  Stephen Keenan gave her a small, round-shouldered bow. ‘That’s all right, superintendent. I understand perfectly. And I promise you that my lips are sealed about all of this translation.’

  ‘Of course they are,’ said Katie. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to have you arrested. But that was grand work you did there and we’ll pay you for it. Send me an invoice.’

  She called an emergency meeting in the conference room, with Chief Superintendent O’Driscoll, Inspector Fennessy and seven detectives, including O’Donovan and Horgan, as well as fifteen uniformed gardaí. Only Sergeant O’Rourke was absent: he had been unable to contact Father Lowery by phone, so he had driven down to Rathbarry to see if he could find him.

  Katie very quickly summed up what they had deduced from Stephen Keenan’s translation. Then she said, ‘So far as we know, our perpetrator is still holding Father O’Gara aka Gerry O’Dwyer. No body has been dumped anywhere yet, so we have to assume that he’s still alive, even if he’s being tortured.

  ‘It’s essential that we don’t alert the perpetrator to the fact that we’ve identified his motive. As I said before, I still believe that he wants us to catch him, eventually, because he believes that his cause is just and he wants to be able to explain publicly why he took his revenge on these particular priests.

  ‘If there’s one thing we can be relieved about, it’s that he probably intends to kill only those four priests who organized St Joseph’s Orphanage Choir – not every single priest in Cork who was suspected of abuse. But we don’t want him to kill even one more priest, whatever that priest might have done. We don’t have any idea where he’s keeping Father O’Gara. I’m just praying that he isn’t hurting him too badly. But at the moment, Father ó Súllabháin is staying at St Dominic’s Retreat Centre in Montenotte, meditating. I’ve detailed six guards to give him round-the-clock protection, so he should be safe enough – for now, anyhow.

  ‘I’ll be going up to Montenotte myself to interview Father ó Súllabháin directly after this briefing. He must have some idea who our perpetrator might be. As far as we can tell from Father Heaney’s notebooks, he and his brother priests, they castrated those boys. The whole experience must have been traumatic for all of them, priests and boys alike. Don’t tell me that Father ó Súllabháin can’t remember any of their names – especially those who protested.’

  ‘They all would have protested, wouldn’t they?’
asked Detective Horgan. ‘I can tell you for sure that I’d lose the head if somebody tried to chop off my caideogs.’

  35

  A cattle truck had turned over on the Croppy Road south of Clonakilty town centre, and the traffic on the N71 was backed up for more than three kilometres. Not only that, it had started to rain again, cold and hard.

  Sergeant O’Rourke overtook the long line of traffic on the right-hand side, until he was flagged down by a garda in a waterproof cape. He could see the filthy old truck resting on its side across the road, completely blocking it from one grass verge to the other. It looked as two of its front tyres had burst, because they were hanging down in rubbery rags, as if the truck driver had run over some witches. Seven or eight bewildered-looking cows were standing around, twitching their heads sporadically to fend off the rain.

  At least three more cattle were sprawled in ungainly positions on the tarmac, either dying or dead already, one with its legs in the air. A tall fellow in a putty-coloured raincoat and a brown trilby hat was crouching beside one of them. He looked like an IRA gunman from the 1920s, but he was the local vet, more than likely. Three gardaí stood beside him with their arms folded and watched him work, with rain dripping from the peaks of their caps.

  The garda in the waterproof cape tapped on Sergeant O’Rourke’s window and he wound it down.

  ‘You’ll have to turn around and go to the back of the line, sir. You can’t jump the queue like that. There’s other people been waiting here for nearly an hour.’

  Sergeant O’Rourke showed him his badge. ‘I’m on very urgent business. I have to get through.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, sergeant, but there’s no way. You can see for yourself. We can’t even get our own cars through until the tow-truck arrives.’

  ‘Oh, yes? And when is that likely to be?’

  ‘He said twenty minutes, like, but you never know. He was out clearing an accident in Rosscarbery when we called him.’

  Sergeant O’Rourke said, ‘I’m working on a major case and we’re fierce tight on time. I need to get through here now.’

  ‘Can’t be done, sir. Sorry.’

  Sergeant O’Rourke opened his door and climbed out of his car. He jostled past the garda in the waterproof cape and headed directly towards a uniformed sergeant who was watching the vet as he manipulated one of the cow’s upraised forelegs, feeling for fractures. The cow was rolling her eyes in pain and bewilderment.

  He held out his badge and said, ‘Detective Sergeant O’Rourke, Cork City.’

  The sergeant gave his badge the most cursory of glances. ‘Oh, yes, detective sergeant? And what brings you down here on a day like this? Come to take some detecting lessons from us culchies?’

  ‘I’m working on a major case.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Major, is it?’

  ‘Sorry, but it’s confidential.’

  ‘Confidential?’

  ‘That’s right. I have to locate a very important witness. As soon as humanly possible, like. Your man here says I can’t get past.’

  The uniformed sergeant had a big face as orange as gammon skin, with pale blue eyes and gingery eyebrows.

  ‘Normally, I’d say you could go through town, back up to Wolfe Tone Street and then along the Western Road. But the Western Road is closed because of a burst water main, so it looks like you’re stuck here like the rest of us. Sorry about that.’

  ‘If that’s the situation, I’m going to have to borrow one of your squad cars from the other side of that truck.’

  ‘You’re what? You’re messing, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sorry, sergeant. Serious.’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘I could have one of my lads drive you. How about that?’

  ‘Sorry. This is totally confidential. I need to have the car to myself.’

  The sergeant shook his head again and continued shaking it. ‘Can’t do that for you, no matter what.’

  Sergeant O’Rourke took out his mobile phone and punched out Katie’s number. After a few seconds Katie answered him and snapped, ‘What is it, Jimmy? Haven’t you found Father Lowery yet? We’re running out of time, for God’s sake.’

  Sergeant O’Rourke explained about the overturned cattle truck and the burst water main and the fact that he wanted to borrow a squad car. Then he handed his mobile phone to the uniformed sergeant.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Maguire. Tell her that I can’t have a car.’

  The uniformed sergeant began to plead that he couldn’t allow Sergeant O’Rourke to take one of his cars because otherwise Clonakilty Garda station could be short of transport that evening, and once the Kilty Stone and Mick Finn’s and Phair’s closed their doors they needed all the transport they could get.

  At that point it was obvious that Katie had interrupted him, because all he said after that was ‘yeah but – yeah but – yeah but—’ and then he nodded, and nodded again, and said, ‘All right, then. All right, then, agreed.’

  He handed back the mobile phone. His mouth was puckered as if he had just bitten into something extremely nasty-tasting. ‘Name of Jesus,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t like to work for her. Go on, take one of the cars. But bring it back to the Garda station as soon as you can, all right? Once we’ve cleared up all this mess, we’ll take your own car up there and have it waiting for you. We’re halfway up McCurtain Hill – take a left before Harrington’s pharmacy.’

  Sergeant O’Rourke climbed around the front bumper of the overturned truck and made his way through the long wet grass and weeds at the side of the road. Three Garda vehicles were parked at an angle in the middle of the road, two Ford Focuses and a Renault people carrier. As he reached the nearest car, he heard the sharp crack of a captive bolt stunner as the vet killed one of the injured cows. Before he could climb into the driving seat he heard another crack, and then another.

  He started the engine, slewed the car around and drove away, with his windscreen wipers going at full speed – whump, whump, whump, whump! It sounded like the heartbeat of a man who realizes that a terrible creature is hot on his heels, but he can never outrun it.

  It took him only another fifteen minutes to reach Rathbarry, in spite of the rain. It was a small, hilly, pretty little village in the middle of nowhere – what the Cork City people called ‘up back of leap’. It had won awards for being tidy and hospitable, although this afternoon it was almost deserted.

  He drove past the Cáiteach, the signpost in the centre of the village made out of upturned scythes and sheaves of corn, and on to St Michael’s church. An elderly woman was standing by the grey stone wall outside, with a wet grey shawl draped over her head, and a wet grey curly-haired dog sitting beside her.

  Two cars were parked at the opposite end of the wall, one with its engine running and a plume of exhaust twisting in the wind. Sergeant O’Rourke climbed out of the Garda car and approached the woman, turning up his collar against the rain.

  ‘What’s the story, girl?’ he asked her.

  The woman had a face as wrinkled as an old potato. She may have owned a set of dentures, but if she did, she hadn’t put them in today. ‘You’ll be watching for the divil, won’t you?’ she said.

  ‘I’m looking for a priest, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘A priest, is it? They’re divils, too, every one of them. Is it Father Fitzpatrick you’re after?’

  ‘Father Lowery. He was only visiting.’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘Never heard of him. But I’ll bet you that he’s a divil, too.’ Her dog looked up at her from beneath its dripping grey fringe as if it had heard this many times before and just wanted to go home to a bowl of dog biscuits and a basket with a warm blanket in it.

  Sergeant O’Rourke left the woman and her dog where they were and walked up the path toward the church’s main door. As he did so, the door opened and a big fifty-ish man appeared, with a brick-red face and sandy-coloured hair and a shirt collar that was two sizes too tight for him.

  ‘Can I be helping you there?’ he
asked, locking the door behind him.

  ‘I hope so. I’m looking for Father Lowery. I was told that he was visiting the church here for a car boot sale.’

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed he was. But that was all finished by lunchtime. Every time we hold a car boot sale here, the heavens open. I sometimes believe that the Lord is trying to discourage us.’

  ‘So Father Lowery’s gone back to Cork?’

  ‘No, not yet. He’ll be spending tonight at Ardfield, at St James’s, with Father Fitzpatrick. In fact, I don’t believe he’s left yet. A taxi arrived for him only five minutes ago – and, look, yes, that’s it.’ He pointed toward the car with the smoking exhaust. ‘There, if you make quick, you can catch him.’

  Sergeant O’Rourke clapped the red-faced man on the shoulder and said, ‘Thanks a million.’ He hurried back along the path, his raincoat flapping, but just as he reached the gates, the taxi pulled away and headed off towards the village. He glimpsed a white-haired man in a black biretta sitting in the back seat, but then the car turned the corner and disappeared downhill out of sight.

  Sergeant O’Rourke immediately ran back to the squad car. As he passed her, the old woman with the shawl over her head called out, ‘Divils! Every last one of them! Evil incarnate!’

  He started the engine, released the clutch, and shot forward ten metres with a rattling spray of shingle. Then he handbrake-turned and sped back the way he had come, past the Cáiteach and down the hill. He wanted to catch up with Father Lowery’s taxi before the driver reached the main road. If he was going to Ardfield, he would take a left, and then the first right. It was only about a ten-minute journey, if that.