Eager to Please (6 page)

T
HE BODY WAS
lying where the tide had dumped it, on the tumble of rocks and seaweed between the bathing place known locally as the Forty Foot and the
little slipway that was just past the Martello Tower. Jack Donnelly could smell it as he picked his way carefully over the slippery stones, jumping awkwardly across pools of stale saltwater. He
could never understand how people could swim here. It was freezing, even at the height of summer, and as far as he was concerned it was dirty. Too close to the town. Even though gales regularly
scoured the waves, he was of the opinion that all the wind did was to bring rubbish and filth back to shore rather than driving it out into the dreary grey of the Irish sea.

And that was precisely what had happened with the body that lay now at his feet. God knows where it went into the water, but wherever it was it couldn’t escape the coastal pull. He took a
clean handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose as he bent down to take a closer look. The smell hung in front of him like a nasty sea mist. He closed his finger and thumb tightly over
his nostrils and tried not to gag as he knelt beside the dead man. It was a man, he had decided, although at first sight he hadn’t been sure. Shoulder-length mousy hair was strewn across a
face that bore the depredations of sea creatures. Parts of the cheeks and forehead had been completely eaten away, and, he saw with disgust, so also had the lips and the flesh beneath the chin.
Christ, he hated doing this. He had no stomach any longer for the flesh-and-blood realities of his job. He was sick of it all.

He got to his feet, grunting slightly, feeling his breakfast writhe within his belly. Duffy, the uniformed guard, sniggered as he saw Jack’s pallor.

‘What do you reckon, drowning or something else?’ he asked.

‘Who do you think I am, a fucking psychic?’ Jack moved away and turned his back on the body. ‘Where’s the pathologist? Will he be here soon?’

He walked away towards the little road that wound around the coast and perched on a large dry rock. From here he could see the body clearly. And now he was out of range of the smell, he could
think better. Adult male, probably twenty to twenty-five, undernourished by the look of the skinny arms and legs that protruded from the torn shirt and trousers he was wearing. He’d noticed
that the lad’s fingernails were bitten to the quick, and that there was heavy bruising on his ribcage and on his shins. Could have been the beating the sea had given him, or could have been a
beating of another kind. Whatever it was, he was sure the pathologist would tell him. And he’d tell him as well that there were needle marks on the pale, delicate skin on the inside of his
arms, possibly in his groin too. Jack was sure he was a junkie. Even in death, after being in the sea, he had the look. It was unmistakable.

He sat and watched as the forensic team did their work. The morning passed slowly. It was lovely out here by the sea, he thought. Big houses, worth a fortune. Respectable families.
Professionals. Well-brought-up kids. Loads of money. Not a bother in the world. They’d all be relieved that the body on the rocks had been washed in from the sea. That it was just a piece of
flotsam like the plastic bottles and used condoms that fetched up on this shore and lay tangled in the seaweed until another high tide would release them again. They’d all be reassured that
it wasn’t one of their children, disturbing the quiet of these neat, comfortable roads where the same families had lived for years. He watched the cars that drove past, that slowed to a
standstill as their occupants peered out at the white tarpaulin that had been put up over the dead boy. It would give them something to talk about over their pre-dinner drinks, he thought, then
chided himself for his lack of generosity. Who was he to complain about the rich, he thought as he stood and stretched, lifting both arms above his head, pulling himself up to his full height, then
turning his face towards the sea so the wind riffled through his thick, black hair. Wouldn’t he give anything to be one of them? Living in a fancy house with a sea view and a new Merc or BMW
parked in the drive. He’d never get it this way, he thought as he followed the body bag to the ambulance and watched the lads packing it away inside. He’d have to do something drastic
to get out of the debt that he’d accumulated over the last year and a half. It was really getting him down. Everything he owned and earned seemed to belong to Joan and the two kids. He
didn’t mind about the kids. He owed them. He loved them. They needed him. But Joan, she was a different story.

Still, there were others who were worse off. He was reminded of that later that afternoon as he sat waiting for Andrew Bowen in the bar of Walsh’s pub just around the corner from
Andrew’s office. Little Joe Bloggs, who’d been swimming with the fishes, was, as Jack had predicted, a heroin addict. One of Dun Laoghaire’s many. He’d been given the
Probation Act the last time he was convicted of possession. What was the point in sending a minnow to Mountjoy, the judge seemed to think? Jack was in two minds. Of course there was no
rehabilitation in prison. All the boy would have done was work out even more ingenious methods of getting hold of his gear and getting out of his tree. But on the other hand, removing the little
bollocks from the area wouldn’t have been a bad move either. Anyway, the deed had been done. And somehow little Joe Bloggs, identified by his fingerprints as Karl O’Hara, had ended up
being half beaten to death, then dumped somewhere, the tidal experts reckoned, between the harbour walls and Dalkey Island. He had been alive when he hit the sea, his lungs were filled with
saltwater. Jack hoped for his sake that he hadn’t been conscious, although according to the pathologist he probably was. Conscious but in agony. Blows to the kidney, liver, three broken ribs,
a badly crushed ankle, and a broken right arm. The poor kid had got a right going-over. He’d been in the water for three to four days, but his mother, when Jack had called to see her an hour
ago, said she hadn’t seen him for weeks. Jack had backed hurriedly out of her front door. The woman looked young, much younger than he’d have guessed for the mother of a
twenty-year-old. Well dressed and made-up. As clean and neat as her house. She must have been dusting when Jack knocked on the door. There was a J-cloth in her hand the whole time he was speaking
to her and it never stopped moving. Flicking invisible specks of dust from the polished dining-room table and chairs. Wiping tiny smudges and smears from the brass handles on the interior doors. He
fought to suppress a giggle, winking surreptitiously at Tom Sweeney who was hanging back on the doorstep. She’d be a brilliant clean-up person after a job. Never miss a print.

But she’d absolutely nothing to tell them about her son.

‘I haven’t set eyes on him for months,’ she said flatly. ‘Not since he robbed the new TV and the microwave and the CD player. He even took all my Garth Brookes CDs. I
could’ve killed the little bastard. So I kicked him out. Up until then I’d been making excuses for him, feeling sorry for him, trying to help him.’

Being a mother, Jack thought.

‘But after that, I’d had it up to here.’ She waved the cloth above her blonde head. ‘His father always said I spoiled him. Gave him everything. Treated him different
because he was the only boy. And the youngest. And the cutest.’ She gestured towards the framed photos on the sideboard. Family groups. Mother with baby in arms, swathed in a crocheted
christening robe. First communions and confirmations. Four blonde heads smiled. Three pretty little girls, and an equally pretty boy. She was right, Karl had been a cute little lad once.

She began to crumple then, her anger giving way to the sense of loss, which Jack knew had been waiting, probably for months, to be acknowledged. He offered to make tea, but she walked him to the
front door and jerked it open.

‘I’ve nothing more to say to you lot,’ she said. ‘If you did your job properly my Karl would be alive today. He’d be a normal, healthy, happy lad, with a job and a
car and a girlfriend. It’s all your fault. You don’t give a toss about people like him. You can’t be bothered. You’re fucking useless. Now,’ she stood back to let them
pass, ‘get out, get lost and leave me alone.’

She had a point. He knew in many ways she was dead right. He said as much to Andrew Bowen as they waited for their pints to settle.

‘They don’t want much, do they?’ was Andrew’s response. ‘I suppose it would never cross her mind that her darling son should’ve tried taking a bit of
responsibility for his own actions. I tried telling him often enough, the number of times he was in to see me. But it was like water off a bloody duck’s back.’

Jack watched the head of his pint turn to cream and waited for the moment when it was ready to drink. Andrew, he noticed, wasn’t waiting. He had ordered a whiskey chaser and he had already
drunk half of it. Jack picked up his glass. He raised it in salute before he put it to his lips.

‘Sorry,’ Andrew looked embarrassed, ‘bad day today, I’m afraid.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ Andrew’s thin face sagged. He reached for the pint glass and picked it up. He took a long swallow and wiped the froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand.
‘Well, to be honest, it’s not the day itself that’s bad. It’s the going home part that’s the real killer.’

‘Could you not move her into a hospital or some kind of residential care, or something?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, of course I couldn’t.’ Andrew’s tone was exasperated. ‘I couldn’t. What would everyone think?’

‘Do you care at this stage? “Everyone” isn’t looking after her the way you do.’

‘I couldn’t do it to her, Jack. Her home is pretty much all she’s got left now, and all her little routines. They’re what keeps her going. Without them she’d give
up.’

‘And what keeps you going, eh?’

Andrew shrugged and picked up the whiskey glass. ‘This, I suppose. This is a big help.’ He drank and put it carefully down on the shiny tabletop. ‘And . . .’ He
paused.

‘And, yes, go on.’ Jack’s tone was curious.

‘And, you know, “and”. Do I have to spell it out?’

‘You don’t have to, but it might be interesting, might spice up the conversation a bit.’ Jack smiled at him, watching a sudden flush spread across Andrew’s face.

‘Ah, go away with you. Leave it out. Leave a bloke with his private life. Let’s just say that it’s something to look forward to after a dull day at the office. Although, to
change the subject,’ Andrew held up his hands against Jack’s protest, ‘funnily enough something very interesting cropped up in the job today.’

‘Yeah?’ Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t say. You amaze me. Interesting, among that lot of no-hopers who parade past your desk every day. You could have fooled
me.’

‘My, oh, my.’ Andrew sat back and folded his arms. ‘Talk about me having a bad day, what’s got into you?’

‘Ach, you don’t want to know.’ Jack finished his drink and gestured to the barman for a refill.

‘Wives, eh, former, present, something like that?’

‘Let’s not talk about it. It just depresses me. Come on. Tell me, interesting cases in the probation and welfare service. Surprise me.’

And he was surprised. Although looking back on it he shouldn’t have been. A letter should have come from the Department of Justice, telling them that a prisoner of Rachel Beckett’s
standing was due for TR and was planning to live in their area. He would be very surprised if there hadn’t been some kind of notification. It was standard procedure. And, after all, she
wasn’t just any common-or-garden husband killer. Her husband was a guard. And not just any old guard but one who was very well known and highly regarded, from a family of guards. Been in
Special Branch during the eighties when things up North were really bad. Done all kinds of surveillance, gone undercover. Practically a hero. And when he’d been shot and she’d spun the
line about the men who’d broken into the house and killed him, everyone believed her. To begin with. Until after the funeral anyway. Then it had all begun to unravel, her carefully
stitched-together story.

Tell me again, Rachel, what time did this happen?

Describe to me again, Rachel, if you wouldn’t mind, these men. What did they look like – height, weight, physical build, accents? What did they say to you? What did they say to
Martin?

You were definitely on your own the whole time, were you not? Apart from the ‘masked men’, definitely on your own the whole time, is that what you’re saying?

You and Martin, how were you getting on, Rachel? Was everything all right between you? Are you sure about that now?

And you’re sure about these ‘masked men’, you don’t want to tell us anything else?

Because we’ve found something. You see, you know you told us that they’d stolen Martin’s gun, after they shot him with it. That they took it with them when they left. Well,
you see, we’ve found it, wrapped in a plastic bag, dumped in a skip not half a mile from here.

And do you know what else we found in the same skip? A nightdress. And do you know what was all over it, Rachel? Martin’s blood. And do you know whose nightdress we think it was? We
think it was yours.

And do you know what we found on the gun, we found fingerprints, and we’d really like to take your fingerprints if you wouldn’t mind, just so we can eliminate you from our
enquiries. Just so we can be sure. Sure that they’re not yours. Because we’ve tested the gun and the shot that killed Martin. And, well, you see, you were definitely right about that.
It did come from Martin’s gun.

And so it had gone on. He remembered the details. His first case after he’d become a detective. A minor player, really, in the team. But somehow or other he’d been with Michael
McLoughlin when they were called to the house. He’d seen the body. The blood all over the floor. The woman, frantic, handcuffed to the radiator beside him. And what he hadn’t seen and
heard for himself he’d heard from the guards who’d been in on the interrogation. From the informal sessions that took place over coffee and biscuits in her sitting room, with her
daughter asleep on the sofa beside her, to the arrest and the formal questioning, conducted in an interview room in Stillorgan Garda station, in a room that would have stunk of fear, and stale
cigarettes, and misery.