The Magdalen Martyrs

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?”

“My Uncle Brendan taught me well. His favourite line was, ‘It’s not what you know but knowing where the information lies.’”

I said,

“He sure would have been proud of you.”

A pained expression lit her face, then was replaced by the severe look. She said,

“I am so angry with him.”

I nodded, and she snapped,

“With you, too.”

“Me?”

“You were his friend, weren’t you?”

“Um... yes.”

“Why didn’t you watch out for him?”

“I wasn’t focused...”

She stood up, near spat,

“And when are you focused? When you’re ordering large whiskies, is that when you pay attention? You were a poor excuse for a friend.”

After she’d left, I remembered what Babs Simpson had once said,

“Alcoholics are almost always charming. They have to be, because they have to keep making new friends. They use up the old ones.”

She’d been the editor of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar.

Her indictment had seared my soul. I don’t even think she meant it as such. If anything, she’d said it with a knowing resignation.

I don’t know how long I sat staring into my glass. All the grief I’d caused and endured had come storming upon my soul. At the very best of times, I was never “fond” of myself. For that moment, I was full of self-loathing. Then, I understood how Brendan could arrange a noose, step on a kitchen chair and swing. A middle-aged woman was cleaning and clearing the tables. I observed without caring a badge in her blouse. One of those frigging smile jobs. Written underneath was,

“Put on a happy face.”

I could have happily torn it off and made her eat it. She indicated Ridge’s Diet Coke, asked,

“Is that a dead soldier?”

“Oh yes.”

She paused, and I knew I was getting her scrutiny. I didn’t look up. She said,

“Cheer up, it might never happen.”

“It already has.”

Stymied her, but not for long. She was the type who’d find merit in politics. She said,

“You never know what’s around the corner.”

Now I looked up, pinned her with everything I’d been feeling, said,

“If it bears the slightest resemblance to my past, even the tiniest similarity, then I’m fucked.”

She took off quick.

Bill Cassell’s funeral rates as one of the most miserable I’ve ever attended. God knows, I’ve clocked up my quota. They’ve ranged from upbeat through pathetic to the plain sad. But for sheer misery, this was the pits.

A filthy day, the driving rain that soaks you entirely. No amount of wet gear is sufficient. You feel it dribble down your neck, wash along your legs, saturate your socks. It is relentless, a ferocious cold, and you understand the true meaning of “wretched”. Four people in all at the graveside. The priest, Fr Malachy, who had tried to light a cigarette. He failed. A gravedigger and a tiny frail woman. I was the fourth. Malachy rushed through some empty psalm. I helped the gravedigger lower the coffin. He was grunting with effort. I asked,

“Aren’t there usually two of you?”

“He wouldn’t come out in this weather.”

We made a bad job of it. The ropes cut into my hands, and I broke the nails on two fingers. When we were done, the woman stopped forward, let a single white rose flutter down. I moved to her, asked,

“Maggie?”

“Yes?”

“You’re Bill’s sister?”

She shrank back from me, as if I was about to assault her. Her whole demeanour was that of a whipped dog. Not only had she the body language of a victim, but also her eyes said she lived in expectation of further punishment. I tried to appear as unthreatening as I could. Not easy when you’re bundled in a guard’s coat, wet through and two feet from an open grave. She answered,

“Yes.”

As if pleading guilty.

I put out my hand, said,

“Jack Taylor.”

Her hand met mine slowly and she asked,

“Were you Bill’s friend?”

She had huge saucer eyes; guile or badness had never touched them. I didn’t want to out and out lie to such a person, so I said,

“We went to school together.”

“Bill didn’t like school.”

“Me neither.”

This seemed to ease her apprehension, and she said,

“You were so good to come and it being such a woeful day.”

I had no truthful reply. Malachy touched me on the shoulder, asked,

“A word?”

I said to Maggie,

“Excuse me a moment.”

And I turned to him, snapped,

“What?”

He backed up. Jesus, everybody was doing that. The vibes coming from me must have been deadly. He said,

“I’m surprised you’re here.”

“Like it’s any of your business.”

He made a vain attempt to wipe rain from his face. Even his dog collar was soaked. He said,

“Your mother had a stroke.”

“Yeah?”

“Good God, man, is that all you have to say?”

“Where is she?”

“She’s back home now. Will you go to see her?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You have the heart of the devil.”

“Thanks.”

I turned back to Maggie. She was gazing at the grave with such a profound look of desolation. I’d have taken her arm but felt she’d have jumped. I said,

“Maggie, can I get you a taxi?”

“No, no, I have a car.”

She could see my amazement, said,

“Bill bought it. He bullied me into driving lessons. I wasn’t very good and I’d have given up, but you know Bill. He wasn’t a man you could go against.”

I nodded. Here was something I could certainly bear testament to. She said,

“I didn’t know what to do after.”

“After?”

“You know, people hire hotels and have something for the mourners, but...”

Her distress at the lack of people was palpable, so I said,

“Why don’t we go and have a drink, raise a toast to his memory?”

Her clutching at this lifeline was awful. She near cried,

“Would you... oh... that would be wonderful... I’ll pay... We can talk about Bill... and...”

My heart sank.

Her car, a Toyota, was outside the gate. As she got behind the wheel, she seemed completely disoriented. Before I could speak, she got it together, and with two false starts, we moved into traffic. She gave a smile of defeat, said,

“I’m not very good at this.”

“Don’t worry.”

I figured I’d do enough for the both of us. We went down Bohermore at a snail’s pace. Other motorists raged at us. I suggested,

“Maybe move up into third gear.”

“Oh.”

As we passed Tonery’s, I said,

“Pull in here.”

More screaming of tyres as we attempted that. We side-swiped a parked van and ground to a halt. I got out fast, waited in the rain for her. She asked,

“Will the car be all right here?”

At least until the van driver arrived. I said,

“Sure.”

The pub has a huge sun lounge at the back. Despite the outside deluge, it was bright and welcoming. The barman nodded, said,

“I’ll come over.”

We sat and she said,

“This is my treat.”

I figured she didn’t get to say that very often. When the barman came, she said,

“A small sherry.”

I ordered Jameson.

We sat in silence till the drinks came. She didn’t seem uncomfortable with that, as if it was what she most experienced. I raised my glass, said,

“To... Bill.”

And she began to cry.

Not the loud sobbing type. Worse, that deep internal heaving that is horrendous to witness. Tears rolled down her cheeks, plinked into her glass. I stared at the rain.

What I was thinking was some lines of Merton that had struck a chord in my soul:

She dried her eyes, said,

“It’s lovely here.”

“It is.”

“I don’t get out much.”

I searched for some cliche to answer, couldn’t find one, asked,

“Did Bill ever talk about a Rita Monroe?”

A shudder ran down her body, then,

“He was obsessed with her.”

“Why?”

She took some of the sherry, began,

“Bill adored my mother. But she wasn’t... well. I think she was very... brittle.”

She gave a nervous laugh, continued,

“Passed it on to me, I think. Anyway, she was always sick and used... to harm herself. Then she’d be in the hospital for a long time. Bill couldn’t understand it. He’d fly into rages, blame my father, blame me. When she came home, he’d be so delighted. The few times she was well, he was totally different. On fire with joy. After she died, my father sat us down, told us about her time in the Magdalen, that she’d never recovered. How that woman, Rita Monroe, had singled her out for persecution. Once Bill knew, he was like a man possessed.”

She looked at me, asked,

“Do you know about hate, Mr Taylor?”

“Please call me Jack. Yes, I do know about it.”

Her eyes bored into mine, and I saw a strength there. She said,

“Yes, I think you do. It became Bill’s reason for living. This is strange, but he was never more alive than when he was feeding the hatred. As if electricity had touched him. He never tired of planning revenge. You know what he was most afraid of?”

I couldn’t imagine, said,

“No.”

“That she’d be dead.”

“Oh.”

“He wanted her to suffer like our mother did.”

I considered briefly telling her what I knew. Before I could decide, she said,

“I hope he didn’t find her.”

“Didn’t you want her to pay for what she did to your mother?”

She shook her head, said,

“If she was so... demonic... as we’re told... life itself would deal with her.”

I finished my drink, said,

“I’m not so sure I agree with that.”

“Mr Taylor, Jack, my brother destroyed his life with hatred and cast a malignant shadow on mine. If he’d found that woman, it wouldn’t have made any difference. He’d become just like her. That’s what hatred does.”

I asked if I could get her another drink or some food, but she declined. She said,

“I’ll sit here a while. It’s peaceful.”

I stood up, my sodden clothes itching my skin, asked,

“What will you do with Bill gone?”

“I’ll tend his grave.”

“If you ever need anything, you can get me at Bailey’s Hotel.”

“Thank you, Jack. Bill was lucky to have a friend like you.”

When I got to the door of the pub, I looked back. She was watching the rain. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but she seemed content. I knew I wouldn’t see her again. Opened the door, put my head down against the onslaught.

I was in my room in dry clothes, sitting on the bed, flicking through Spirit Brides by Kahlil Gibran.

After my encounter with Bill’s sister, I wanted to be quiet, to read and to regroup. Don’t know what possessed me to pick that book. Here’s the piece I hit upon:

My mother would love that. I thought about what Fr Malachy had told me, about her stroke. The last thing in the world I wanted was to see her. Tossed and turned and eventually went to the window. The rain had stopped. I shook out my all-weather coat, decided to get it over with. Walked along Forster Street and stopped outside the site of the Magdalen. Soon, I’d go to call on Rita Monroe. What I’d tell her I had no idea. Would play it out as it happened.

Came to my mother’s place, took a deep breath, knocked. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform. She asked,

“Yes?”

“I’m Jack Taylor.”

It took her a moment to process the information, then,

“The son?”

“Yes.”

She seemed amazed. I said,

“Can I come in?”

“Oh... of course. I’m surprised.”

As she stood aside to let me in, I asked,

“Why?”

“Fr Malachy mentioned you... but he said it was unlikely you’d come.”

“He was wrong.”

She led me into the kitchen, said,

“I’m Mrs Ross. I’ve only returned to nursing, to private nursing.”

She’d just made tea, and a box of Jaffa cakes was open on the table. The radio was playing. Sinead O’Connor had begun “Chiquitita”.

We didn’t speak till the song had finished. She said,

“I love Abba. I didn’t think anyone else could do that song.”

I wanted to say,

“You’ve tea, cakes and the radio. Where does the fucking nursing get a look in?”

But it was a little late to pull the concerned son gig. I asked,

“How is she?

The nurse threw a glance at the table, then folded her arms, said,

“I won’t pretend it wasn’t quite serious. However, she’s made remarkable progress. The right side of her body and her face are paralysed and she hasn’t recovered her speech. She is alert and getting stronger all the time.”

I nodded, and she continued,

“Your mother is a saint. All the good work she’s done in the parish. I’ve always admired her.”

She stopped. This was my cue to row in with my part of the eulogy. I asked,

“Can I see her?”

I’d have been delighted if she refused, but she said,

“Of course. She’s upstairs. I’ll come with you.”

“No need, you have your tea.”

She didn’t insist. I went up, paused a minute, knocked. Then realised she couldn’t answer. I went in. If you had to put lines to my feeling then, you’d capture it with,

How the Irish Saved Civilization by Thomas Cahill.

I’d braced myself for her to look different. Hadn’t braced enough. She was an old woman. The one characteristic she’d always had was energy. Sure, it was the dark kind, didn’t spring from a source of goodness. Based more on a sense of grievance and a deep bitterness. Whatever else, it fuelled her so she’d always seemed in motion.

Seated in a chair, her whole body had diminished, as if she’d collapsed in on herself. The right arm was lying useless in her lap, her face was contorted, and a trace of spittle leaked from her lips. The hair, once a lustrous black, was completely white.

Worst of all, I didn’t know how to address her. I stood near, said,

“Mother.”

It sounded as stilted and awkward as that. I didn’t so much sit on the bed as near collapse. I thought my mother had lost the ability to have such an effect on me. Her eyes had a dull sheen, seeing nothing. She didn’t register my presence.

The silence was bewildering.

I’d never experienced her without the running mouth, usually littered with recriminations, vague threats, but definitely alive. I said,

“It’s Jack.”

And felt a tightness in my chest, added,

“Your son.”

I’d tried to recall a time when I’d been close to her. Not a single incident surfaced. What I did remember was the constant belittlement of my father. He bore it without retaliation. As my passion for books grew, he had encouraged me. Built a large bookcase of which my mother was scornful.

“Books! You think they’ll pay the rent.”

I’d also discovered hurling. The two, books and sport, occupied every moment. My first day in Templemore, my mother had sold the books and burnt the bookcase. My father said,

“Your mother had a hard life.”

Perhaps it was my first adult awareness. I’d answered,

“And she wants to make ours harder.”

Now it was her turn. I moved to the sink, got a towel, brought it back. Carefully wiped the spit from her mouth, thought,

“What would it cost me to hug her?”

Couldn’t do it.

When I’d been slung out of the guards, she said,

“I knew you’d come to nothing.”

The worse I behaved, the better it suited her martyrdom. As I stared at her helplessness, I said,

“You’d think this would be the time for reconciliation, but what it is... is sad.”

I moved to the door, was about to glance back, but she was already burned into my soul. I walked down the stairs and the nurse appeared, asked,

“Did it go well?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure it was of great benefit to her.”

I couldn’t resist, asked,

“What makes you so sure?”

Flustered, she hesitated, then,

“I mean, knowing her son is here.”

“She doesn’t know shit.”

The ferocity stunned us. I hadn’t intended laying it off, but she was there. I looked at my right hand, so tight on the banister it seemed transparent. The nurse began to move towards the kitchen. I said,

“Call me if there’s any change.”

I’d gotten to the door when she said,

“I understand it’s upsetting for you.”

I wanted to turn, lash her understanding against the stairs, but settled for,

“Upsetting? Right, that’s what it is.”

I hope I didn’t slam the door.

I walked down College Road, a sense of blackness dogging my footsteps. If I turned, I felt it would envelop me. The temptation to embrace the dark was compelling. The refrain from Death Row, “Dead Man Walking”, played over and over in my ears. Alcoholics live on a daily basis with a sense of impending doom.

As I got to the Fair Green, a City Link coach was pulling out. An overpowering wish to be on it gripped me. I sat on the wall, all out of schemes, dreams and plans.

As close to total surrender as I’ve ever been.

In one of those inexplicable moments of serendipity, a battered wino was sitting further down. He had a half dozen plastic bags spread round his feet. From one, he selected a bottle of Buckfast, put it on his head. I was as near to him as the length of a cigarette, looking right at him. He was oblivious to me or anyone else.

He began to sing, Abba again. I couldn’t believe it.

“Fernando.”

His voice was clear with a surety of style that was astonishing. I felt tears in my eyes and berated myself for crass sentimentality. Abba!.. I mean... Come on.

I got an early morning call from my solicitor. He began with,

“You paid the damages incurred to the chemist’s window.”

“I did.”

“That has helped.”

“Has it?”

“Oh, yes. I’m happy to inform you the other charges have been dropped.”

“Even the guards?”

“I play golf with Clancy. A most accommodating chap. He certainly wouldn’t want to pursue one of his own.”

“He said that?”

“Not exactly, but you were a member of the force.”

“I’m amazed.”

“That’s my job, amazing people.”

“What can I say? Thank you.”

“I’m not really the one to thank.”

And he hung up.

I rang Kirsten. Took a while for her to answer then,

“Yes?”

“Kirsten, it’s Jack.”

A moment, then,

“You’ve had good news, I believe.”

“Yes, I think you might have had some influence.”

“You think?”

“Did you?”

“I’d hate to see you go to jail... or anybody else.”

“Well, I appreciate it.”

“See that you do.”

Click.

The afternoon was bright, a suggestion of heat in the air. I walked to Newcastle. Time to face Rita Monroe. I wanted to see her reaction when I told her I knew who she was. Maybe she wouldn’t even remember Bill’s mother, but she would certainly remember the Magdalen, I’d make certain of that.

I rang her doorbell, my heart pounding. No answer. I stepped back to look up at the windows. A man came out of the adjoining house, said,

“You won’t get an answer.”

“Why not?”

“She’s dead.”

“What?”

“A heart attack, right there where you’re standing. She’d been shopping; the groceries spilled all over the path.”

“When?”

“Three days ago.”

He examined me, said,

“You’re not a relative?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. She kept herself to herself Polite enough, but you couldn’t call her friendly. Used to be a teacher, I hear.”

I turned to go and he said,

“The house will be sold I expect.”

Then added,

“Long as it isn’t rented to students. Jeez, that would be just my luck.”

For the next few weeks, I kept a low profile, cut way back on the pills and rationed myself to a few pints in the evening. Managed to steer clear of the whiskey. It was almost clean living, or as near as I could hope to get.

And I was reading, if not as fast as I could, at least as widely as I was able. Began to pay attention to the world again.

Jeffrey Archer went to jail, and dire predictions of recession were everywhere. Not that it was Archer’s fault, but the two events coincided. Massive rioting in Genoa, and Tim Henman lost again at Wimbledon.

Mrs Bailey remarked,

“You seem to be leading a very quiet life.”

I gave her the enigmatic smile to suggest it was part of a master plan, and she added,

“For a while there, the entire universe seemed to have fallen on you.”

I was thinking a lot about evil and the various manifestations of it in my life. I didn’t know if it was something in me that attracted it or if it was just random. I looked up Scott Peck for enlightenment. He said,

If you want to read hard solid cases of evil, then Peck’s People of the Lie is hard to surpass.

Thought of the quiet life I was leading.

“I could get used to this.”

Most evenings, I’d drop into Nestor’s, shoot the breeze with Jeff. He said,

“The haunted look has left your eyes.”

“I feel the freedom.”

I even visited my mother a few times. There was no visible change in her condition, but there was a marked difference in my attitude. I didn’t dread the visits and felt the wall of resentment begin to recede. I expected to hear from Terry Boyle, but no communication. What would I have told him? I’m not pursuing Kirsten because she saved me from jail?

The Department of Justice wrote their usual letter, demanding the return of the all-weather coat. As usual, I ignored them.

I was sitting in Nestor’s, relishing the routine my life was becoming. A man came in, stood before me. It took me a few minutes to drag the face from my memory. He was young, with sallow skin. I ventured,

“Geraldo?”

I’d met him at the party; he was Terry’s partner. He said,

“Yes... Terry said you always come here.”

Even at the party, I’d felt there was something likable about him. I said,

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Nada... nothing... gracias”

“Sit down.”

He did.

He seemed to be on the brink of tears. I let him compose himself, asked,

“What’s wrong?”

“Terry.”

“Yes?”

“He is in a coma.”

Pronounced it comma, continued,

“He went to see that woman.”

Paused... moved to spit, said,

“That diabla... and now he’s in the coma.”

I didn’t have to ask who the woman was, said,

“Kirsten. Tell me what happened.”

“He went to her house. She says he had a drink... many drinks... maybe the drugs.”

He looked beseechingly at me, cried,

“But Senor Taylor, you have been in his company. He takes one... two drinks... todos... no more... and the drugs, never. He hates them. She say he took many things. She go to bed, and in the morning, he is in the sickness.”

I knew.

Jesus, she’d kept the liquid E, spiked his drink. My very words to her,

“You don’t want to fuck with that stuff. It can cause a coma.”

He began to sob. Jeff shot me an inquiring look, but I waved him off I put my hand on Gerald’s shoulder, said,

“I’ll check it out, OK?”

Wiping his eyes, he said,

“Gracias. You think maybe he’ll be all right?”

“Sure, sure he will.”

He stood up, put out his hand. I said,

“Try not to worry, OK?”

When he’d gone, I thought about Terry and knew he sure as hell wasn’t going to be all right

It didn’t take me long to arrange the next step. I had most of the ingredients already. Rang Ridge, said,

“If I wanted to be certain you’d respond to a burglary, how would I arrange it?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“What are you planning?”

“Ridge, you are going to respond to a break-in. In the course of your investigation, you’ll discover the solution to another crime, a major crime. Should bump up your rating.”

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

“You believe injustice or you just blowing smoke?”

Long silence, so I said,

“You’ll have to trust me on this.”

“That’s the hard part.”

I went for broke, added,

“Your uncle would have trusted me.”

Deep sigh, then,

“I’d have to be in the operators’ room when the call came in.”

“Tell me the time.”

“Just after four this afternoon.”

“OK, make sure you’re there at that time. Now listen carefully: when you’re at the house, be certain to look at the walkin closet in the bedroom. You’ll see a pile of sweaters on a shelf. Check them carefully. You got that, Nic an lomaire?”

“You used my name.”

“What?”

“Nic an lomaire. You said it; you used the Irish form.”

“Yeah, well, be sure you’re there for the call.”

I hung up.

Then I called Kirsten; she answered with an up-tempo

“Hello!”

“Kirsten, it’s Jack.”

“How are you, Jack?”

“Good. Listen, I need to see you.”

“Where and when, lover?”

“Three forty-five injury’s. Order some champagne; if I’m a little late, start without me. I might be running a little behind.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I love surprises.”

“This is a whopper.”

Click.

I was outside her house at 3.30 p.m. A few minutes later a car appeared, a BMW, Kirsten behind the wheel. She turned left, drove down Taylor’s Hill. I went up the drive and approached the front door. Two hard kicks knocked it back and, pulling on a pair of gloves, I went inside. Began to throw things around, ransacking the rooms. Then upstairs and tossed the bedroom, pulled open the walk-in closet. Took a deep breath, then scattered suits and shoes on the floor. The pile of sweaters was as I remembered. I moved them around, then reached in my pocket, took out Michael Neville’s gun and the envelope with his name and address, put them under the sweaters. Ensured the end of the envelope was sticking out. Checked my watch: 3.45 p.m.

I was in a phone kiosk at three minutes to four, rang the guards, reported the burglary in progress and hung up. By 4.15 p.m., I was past Threadneedle Road and out on Salthill Promenade. The sight of the bay did what it always did.

Lifted my spirits.