The Color of Blood (25 page)

TOMMY OFFERED TO DRIVE. I WASN’T FEELING THE DRINKS
I’d had, but I’d had a few, so I said okay, even if penitent Tommy on his best behavior was faintly unnerving. He had changed his clothes for an old biker jacket and jeans and black Reeboks; clean-shaven and with short hair, he looked like his own long-lost brother, the one who worked in IT and read science fiction on the weekends. We drove south to the Howard Clinic. On the way, David Manuel called.

“I’d like to see you.”

“What is it? Did Emily tell you something?”

“I think she told me a lot of things.”

“What kind of things?”

“I can’t really explain over the phone. Let’s just say, it’s looking like thirty years ago is the more significant date in the Howard family.”

“What does that mean?”

“I can’t explain, I’m between clients; I had to shift three appointments so I could see Emily again tonight. I’ll be free at eleven.”

“I’ll be there.”

At the Howard Clinic, I gave Mr. Morgan’s name at the security barrier. We drove up through some pretty landscaped gardens and parked near the first white circular tower. It reminded me of the rotunda in Rowan House, and I wondered if all three towers were modeled on it. The towers rose one behind the other, and you could see the turrets of Rowan House overlooking it all. The castle looked like a fabrication, like a Hollywood set, with the modern bungalow in front an actors’ trailer. Drifts of fog were blowing in again, like smoke from a machine; north and east, the city lights were cloaked in a shimmering grey blanket; the horns in the bay blared their clarion call.

The Howard Clinic had tasteful canvases and an atrium with an indoor fountain and an aquarium and glass elevators and all the other stuff upscale private hospitals had to make the patients, whom they thought of as customers, feel they were really getting their money’s worth. You felt like asking where the bar was; at least, I did. I passed a portrait of Dr. John Howard with dark hair and a pipe in his mouth and took the elevator to the sixth level, where Morgan’s offices were. All the other suites were dark; a light was on in his. He was sitting in the waiting room, and I sat down opposite him.

“Sorry if this is a bit cloak-and-dagger. I’d just prefer if word didn’t get out that I spoke to you,” he said in a soft, musical Northern accent, Donegal or rural Derry.

“I am working for Sandra Howard,” I said.

“Yes. Well. I still… this is not something she necessarily might like to be brought to public attention. So I’ll trust to your discretion.”

Mr. James Morgan, Consultant Cardiologist, was in his late thirties, with boyish blond hair thinning on top and deep pink farmboy cheeks; he wore a grey slacks and navy blazer combination, a striped shirt and matching tie and black tassel loafers. I had the sense he’d been wearing the same clothes for twenty years, and would go on wearing them another thirty, and would never notice what color or style they were. He had a manila file on his lap. He looked excited.

“Go on. About Dr. Richard O’Connor.”

“Yes. First of all, the fact that he was diabetic… but this appears nowhere on the records. Even though he worked here, he had never received treatment at this hospital. I wasn’t even aware of it until tonight, when Martha called.”

“You two had never discussed her father’s death?”

“She never brought it up. Except to say, you know, thanks for doing your best. Anyway, he was admitted… it was a bank holiday.”

“You were a junior then?”

“That’s right. There was no consultant on duty.”

“Even in a private clinic?”

“Don’t get me started. Dr. O’Connor collapsed while playing rugby. Seven-a-side, I think. Myocardial infarction, was my assumption. He was sweating profusely, I remember he stank of booze, his heart was racing, his breathing was shallow, he was passing in and out of consciousness. There was difficulty getting hold of his wife. And the friend who admitted him made no mention of diabetes. He said it must have been a heart attack. Repeated it several times.”

“And…”

“And the symptoms seemed to back him up: we put him on an ECG, gave him nitro on an IV, oxygen, all the standard stuff, but he fell into a coma and died within a couple of hours. His wife, Sandra O’Connor as she was, she never showed up, it seems she was in the countryside, no signal on her phone.”

“And in your judgment, if you had known he had had an overdose of insulin…”

“If I had known he was a diabetic, I would have looked out for hypoglycemia, dextrose could have been administered at a gradual rate, and he might have survived. No guarantee he would have, he went pretty fast. But he didn’t have a bracelet, no one around knew him, we didn’t have his records.”

“So? The friend didn’t know he was diabetic. That’s common enough, surely, especially among men.”

“You don’t understand. The friend… the friend was Denis Finnegan.”

I felt as if space and time had fallen away in the brightly lit waiting room, as if I had known this lilting country-voiced doctor all my life, and had been waiting for him to say what he had just said.

“All right,” I said. “But he didn’t necessarily know Dr. O’Connor well, did he? I mean, what kind of rugby did they play together?”

“They coached Castlehill College. Rock had for years, Dr. Rock, he was famous. And Finnegan had started back in the eighties, when he taught at the school. I was a boarder there, so were all my brothers. Rugby may be a religion around here, but Castlehill Rugby… that’s Opus Dei, you might say. No offense if you’re—”

“None taken. And I’m not. But Denis Finnegan is a solicitor, not a teacher.”

“Aye, but he was what you might call a late vocation. He taught for about five years.”

“At Castlehill. In the eighties.”

The same time Sandra was there. They knew each other
before.
Before Audrey O’Connor, before Stephen Casey. They’d known each other all along.

“Absolutely. And Rock was coaching even though he was a full-time doctor, they’d bring past pupils back if they could give the team something extra. Finnegan was a useful little hooker, well, I guess he was little in his schooldays. Nearly made the grade, played with Shane Howard at Seafield back in the day. So basically he must have known, it wasn’t some guy you met up with for Saturday-morning sevens; they were lifelong friends.”

“You didn’t know. I mean, did your brothers know?”

“It’s not something you’d let the pupils in on. But a close colleague? Hard to believe he wouldn’t know.”

I was reaching for a thought, but it felt like I was opening a door into a blizzard: every time I looked out, the door slammed in my face, and the sound it made was
Denis Finnegan
. Finally, I made it.

“So did Finnegan coach into the nineties there?”

“Coaching up until a couple of years back, he worked on scrummaging, front-row maneuvers, rucks and mauls through the phases, with all sides, even the S.”

“Even the S. Even the senior cup team David Brady played on?”

“I’d say he’d’ve coached all the teams young Brady played on. God that’s right, David Brady.”

I had a flash of the e-mail address David Brady had sent Emily Howard’s sex film to: “[email protected].” Rugby jargon. I was out in the blizzard now, and though the buffeting winds were chill, at least I had some idea where I was going.

“So what should we do?” said Morgan. “Should we call the Guards? I mean, this could be manslaughter at least, maybe even murder.”

Morgan’s pager went off.

“Let me hang on to it for a while,” I said. “Or not,” as I quickly saw a frown of suspicion in Morgan’s face. “I know, I’m working for the Howards, but believe me, I’m not above the law, and nor are they; the Guards wouldn’t tolerate me for five seconds if I tried to help my clients cheat justice. I just… I’m working the case, and now I feel it’s beginning to come together, and I don’t want to jump before I’m ready.”

Morgan looked at me through his clear farmboy’s eyes, as if I’d just asked him if I could operate on one of his patients.

“I’m going to ring the Guards.”

“Why not leave it till the morning? They probably won’t get to it before then anyway: nighttime Dublin, lot on their plates. Call them first thing. And remember, Finnegan may well say he didn’t know about O’Connor’s diabetes, and he may well be telling the truth, and even if he isn’t, there’s not a lot the Guards can do if he insists he is.”

Morgan considered this. And then his pager went off again, and he sprang to his feet.

“Fair enough. The morning. You’ll be ready to jump by then, will you?”

One way or another, I thought, one way or another.

But I wasn’t ready yet.

In the car park, Tommy said he’d remembered something else.

“When Brock Taylor worked for your oul’ fella?”

“Yeah?”

“I remember the bike, the Norton, and I knew it must have been him, because he had the badger streak in his hair. But back then, he didn’t go by Taylor.”

“No? What was he then?”

“It was one of the names you used. Dalton.”

“You sure? That’s very good, Tommy. Okay, I think it’s time you went home.”

“No, Ed, I’m happy to stay. To, you know, whatever. Make it up.”

“You’ve made it up. To me. Go home, get some sleep. It’s been a big night.”

Tommy grinned sheepishly, feeling his face.

“You can call a cab from inside.”

Tommy made to go, then stopped.

“I don’t have my key,” he said.

“I meant, home to your own house. You can’t stay in Quarry Fields. Not tonight, anyway.”

Tommy’s face flared with indignation and hurt, but he tamped it down, nodded, turned and walked into the Howard Clinic.

I sat in the car park and phoned Shane Howard at the house and surgery numbers and on his mobile; I went straight through to the machine each time, so I called Denis Finnegan. His office phone went straight to voice mail; he answered his mobile immediately.

“Denis Finnegan.”

“Ed Loy, Denis. I hope it’s not too late to call.”

“Never too late, my friend, I’ve been hoping you’d get in touch. And apologies for my vanishing act this afternoon; I’m afraid one of the hazards of my profession is that the allied guilds upon whom we must depend ply their trade in a volatile and unpredictable manner; hence my expeditious removal to advise a, a sole trader and, ah, commodities broker from Finglas on his rights and entitlements under the law, or indeed whether he had any remaining, given the quantity of refined coca leaf powder he was holding when arrested.”

I’m sure this stuff went down a bundle in Blackhall Place or in the Tilted Wig or whatever those pubs near the Four Courts are called; I was only glad I was getting it over the phone, so I didn’t have to applaud him for saying it.

“The information that David Brady and Jessica Howard were having an affair came in the form of a phone call to Shane.”

“That is my understanding also; I gather the Guards are devoting much of their current energy to tracing a number of telephone calls made immediately prior to the murders. Unfortunately for them, they have not found David Brady’s phone.”

Because I still have it. And I haven’t looked at it since.

“I wonder if you’re at home, and if so, could I call and see you, in the next while.”

“Liberty Hall, old chap; I am not at home just yet, but am on my way, and I work into the small hours, so by all means come and interrupt me, there are a few questions I wanted to ask you earlier, and while they momentarily escape me, I’m sure they’ll return.”

A text came through as I ended the call. It read:
I’m waiting for you. Sandra x

I thought for a second, then sent a text to Tommy Owens:

Need some GHB urgently Ed.

I HAD NEVER BEEN IN SEAFIELD RUGBY CLUB BEFORE,
but I suppose I thought it would be like a golf club or a yacht club. Maybe the clientele was, but the surroundings were far from upscale; the place looked more like a school hall or a community center than the playpen for south county Dublin rugby boys of all ages. There were two bars upstairs at either end of the clubhouse, one above each dressing room, with a hall in the center that looked out over the pitch. Tonight a twenty-first birthday party was in full swing, although to me the celebrants all looked about fifteen, the boys drenched in hair gel, the girls in their underwear, so God knows how ancient I looked to them. I suppose I could have walked past the bouncer, who was also younger than me, if a good deal wider, but I didn’t want to scare anyone; nor did I want to risk losing Jerry his job by alluding to police business, so I told the bouncer I had a lecture schedule for Jerry from the university, and was allowed wade through the bubbling sea of pheromones to one bar, only to be told, inevitably, that Jerry Dalton, or JD, as he was apparently known here, was manning the other. “Dani California” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers had suddenly brought the entire room out on the floor, which made the return journey a little trickier, but I made it with the loss of just a few pounds in sweat.

“JD! Point of Heino!” I yelled in my best rugby voice, and Dalton pulled the pint of Heineken and brought it to me in a plastic glass before realizing I didn’t have a turned-up collar or a spiked-up fin.

“Thought if you had any more pointers for me, you could give them in person. Alternatively, I’ve left my car down there, so if you want to slip down and stick something under the wipers, I’ll hang here and watch the taps for you.”

Dalton’s dark eyes flashed.

“This all some kind of joke for you, is it?”

“I think you can see from the scar on my face how much fun I’m having,” I said. “Heard from your friend Anita Kravchenko?”

Dalton nodded.

“She texted me. She said you’d helped Maria to escape. You’ve put them up. Thank you.”

“So what about you? Do you want to try and get to the bottom of this?”

“The bottom of what? What do you think I’m looking for?”

“At a guess, your father. How’m I doing?”

Dalton looked at me, then walked up the bar to serve Bacardi Breezers to two hot, red-faced girls in plaits. More orders crammed in, and soon he had several pints on the go. He gave the girls their change, came down to me, and said, “I’ve a break in ten minutes’ time, meet you outside, okay?” and went back about his business.