Vengeance: A Novel (Quirke) (33 page)

“What about the Delahayes?” Quirke asked. “The twins.”

“Oh, a fine pair of rogues. I should have paid more attention to those boyos from the start. They were thrown out of school—Clongowes Wood, you know—when they were lads, for tying one of the junior kids to a tree and leaving him all night. The poor little fellow was asthmatic, and had an attack and died. The grandfather got them off that particular hook.”

“How did he do that?”

“The Commissioner was a Freemason. No charges were pressed.”

Quirke nodded; such things happened. “They drugged my daughter.”

“Did they?” Hackett turned in the chair to look at him. “Why did they do that?”

Quirke shrugged. “As a warning, maybe, since she was supposed to be their alibi. But more for fun, I think. They’re fond of fun.” He squinted at the darkening sky. “Where are they now?” he asked.

“One of them, the one we’re particularly after—James, is it?—skedaddled down to Cork, to his auntie. Too late, though, his auntie being gone. He’s still in the house—the boys down there spotted him, and I’ve asked them to pick him up.”

“And the other one?”

“Not a trace. I imagine he’s in England somewhere, or maybe America.” He chuckled. “I’m thinking of getting Interpol on the job. Wouldn’t that be a thing, now.”

“And the girl—what’s her name? Somers?”

“Aye—Tanya Somers. I had a word with her. Nothing there.”

“But she had to be in on it. The night of the party, when there was only one of them but they pretended it was two, she played along with them.”

“She says they told her it was for a bet. She’s not the brightest ticket, the same Miss Somers. A grand-looking girl but”—he tapped his forehead—“not much up top.”

“And she doesn’t know where Jonas is.”

“If she does, she’s not saying.”

“You think she does know?”

Hackett shook his head. “No. He wouldn’t have told her. He would have been planning it—he knew your daughter suspected. He took a load of money out of the bank and had a ticket booked to London. That’s the last trace we had of him.” He shifted again awkwardly in the chair, swearing under his breath at the discomfort. “He’ll turn up, sooner or later,” he said. “Clever as he is, he didn’t think far enough ahead. It’s no life, being on the run. He’ll get careless, and make a mistake, and then we’ll have him. Or he’ll just get lonely, and come back—you’d be surprised how many do.” He paused, and looked sideways at Quirke, and gave a small cough. “The widow, Mrs. Delahaye, is selling up, I hear.”

Quirke was still looking at the cloud. “Selling up?” he said.

“Getting rid of the house—the
houses
—and moving to South Africa. I believe it’s where she’s from, originally.” He paused again, coughed again. “A cool customer, that lady.”

Quirke said nothing. It was starting to rain; they felt the first stray drops.

“Well,” Hackett said, struggling up from the chair, “that’s three good pennies wasted.” He put on his hat. Quirke remained seated. He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips. “A bad business,” Hackett said.

“Yes,” Quirke answered.

The detective looked down at him, his head tilted. “Are you all right?” he asked. Quirke lifted his head.

“I’m all right,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Hackett nodded, smiled lopsidedly, and touched one finger to the brim of his hat. “I’ll be seeing you, then,” he said, and turned away.

Quirke stood up and walked off in the opposite direction. The rain was falling harder now.

*   *   *

It was a summer deluge. It beat on the roadway and drummed on the roofs of cars, and the gutters raced. By the time he found a phone box he was drenched—the water had even soaked through the shoulder pads of his jacket, and he could feel the chill damp on his skin. He took off his sodden hat, but there was nowhere to set it down so he put it back on. He lifted the receiver off the hook and fumbled in his pockets for change. The park attendant had taken his last coppers. He dialed zero and the operator came on, and he gave her Isabel Galloway’s number. “I’m sorry, caller,” the woman said, not sounding sorry at all, “please insert three pennies or I can’t connect you.” He told her it was an emergency, that he was a doctor and that she must put him through. “I’m sorry, caller,” she said again, in her singsong voice. “Look,” Quirke said, thumping his fist softly against the phone’s big black metal box, “please, I’m telling you, it’s an emergency—it’s life or death.” But it was no good, the operator did not believe him, and broke the connection.

He stood for a long time listening to the pips sounding on the empty line. The rain beat against the small glass panes all around him. He hung up the phone and blundered out into the storm.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My warmest thanks to Gregory Page and Fiona Ruane.

ALSO BY BENJAMIN BLACK

A Death in Summer

Elegy for April

The Silver Swan

Christine Falls

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

B
ENJAMIN
B
LACK
is the pen name of the Man Booker Prize–winning novelist John Banville. The author of the bestselling and critically acclaimed series of Quirke novels—
Christine Falls, The Silver Swan, Elegy for April,
and
A Death in Summer
—he lives in Dublin.

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Copyright © 2012 by Benjamin Black

All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Black, Benjamin, 1945–

    Vengeance : a novel / Benjamin Black. — 1st ed.

        p. cm.

    ISBN 978-0-8050-9439-8

  1.  Police—Ireland—Fiction.   2.  Pathologists—Fiction.   I.  Title.

    PR6052.A57V46 2012

    823'.914—dc23                                                2012001842

eISBN 978-1-4299-4772-5

First Edition 2012

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.