Death at Christy Burke's (20 page)

“Remember when you were my client?” Monty asked him. “Does that ring a bell in the steeple for you?”

“I’m getting an echo of a distant chime, yes. Was that the time I was charged with two murders I didn’t commit? And you didn’t know me very well then and you thought I might be a serial killer?”

“That would be it, yes.”

“Oh.”

“Well, anything you told me while I was representing you is covered by the privilege, so I can’t reveal it.”

“Good.”

“Why good? You never told me anything! I was flying blind, had to do my own investigation into your background. Remember that part of it?”

“Em . . .”

“Anyway, if you
had
told me anything, it would be privileged.”

“So if I were your client now, whatever I tell you, or ask you, remains confidential.”

“Right. So, what is it you want to tell or ask me?”

“Nothing.”

“What? History repeats itself all over again. He still tells me nothing. I’ll say this for you, Burke: you’re consistent. Nobody will ever accuse you of being flighty, changeable, flexible . . .”

“Thank you.”

“Anything else I can do for you today?”

“No.”

Burke had what he wanted. He had been reassured that he could go to a lawyer and request some assistance and not have to worry about the whole thing going public. What he wanted was information about missing persons. He wasn’t getting anywhere, not yet anyway, with the Christy Burke Four and their connections, if any, to the graffiti. He suspected that Michael O’Flaherty, with his gentle conversational abilities, would make more progress than would Burke himself. He also suspected that Michael knew more about some of the regulars, Shanahan and Madigan in particular, than he was letting on.

But Burke had one big clue: the dead vandal. He was constrained, however, by Finn’s insistence that he not utter a word about the man’s death and the removal of his body. He could not, therefore, go to the Garda Síochána and ask for their missing persons list. Even if he made up a cover story, it would fall apart once the guards found the corpse and connected it with Finn’s pub. Out of the question. But he could approach a lawyer with a cover story, and ask if he or she would have access to the names of people who had gone missing in, say, the last year and a half. If any of them sounded promising, he would hand the details over to Finn and see if one or more looked familiar.

So that was his plan. He did his best to ignore Monty’s probing stare and switched the conversation to sports and booze.

A couple of hours later, he had secured an appointment with Estelle Adams and was seated across from her in her solicitor’s office overlooking the River Liffey. He was wearing a sports jacket and a shirt with no tie and had left off the “Father” when introducing himself. Said he was over from Canada at the request of his sister in Dublin; the sister had been unable to locate her son in over a year. The guards weren’t taking it seriously, as the young fellow had been in trouble with the law on occasion, and had been out of touch with his family for months at a time. So it might be just more of the same, but she wanted to rule out — he stopped himself from saying “foul play”— anything too dire.

Estelle Adams said this was not the sort of thing she dealt with, but her firm had good relations with the guards, so she might be able to acquire some information informally.

“Stop by late this afternoon. I should have something by then.”

“Grand. Thank you.”

At four forty-five that afternoon, Brennan was sitting in a small conference room in the law office with a photocopied list of missing persons, names blanked out, but with sufficient other detail that, if he really had a nephew missing, he should be able to recognize him on the list. That might not work quite as well for a man he didn’t know, but the time frame could certainly narrow things down.

The list was for Dublin only, so if the vandal had been resident somewhere else at the time he vanished, he wouldn’t show up here. The last bit of graffiti — the last graffito? Was the word ever used in the singular, or was graffito
a technical term of some kind? He couldn’t recall — whatever the case, the last message had been found the morning of the third of July. Finn got himself arrested in the middle of the month; Larry Healey discovered the body in the freezer soon after the arrest. Given the condition of the body and the green paint on the clothing, it was a fair assumption that the man had been killed while making his last stand at Christy’s. But, depending on his home life, he may not have been reported missing until later. There were sixteen people who had disappeared so far in 1992. Five were female. Scratch them off. Three were just boys, one of whom had been reported missing earlier in the month. Finn didn’t say it was a young fellow, but perhaps the condition of the body made it difficult to determine. Chances were, however, that the individual who had a grudge against someone at Christy’s had been around awhile, so Brennan ignored the three young lads. That left him with eight men, only four of whom were recent additions to the list. One was an oul fellow in the throes of senility. The document said that he tended to wander off and had been missing on previous occasions as well as now. The graffiti could conceivably be the work of someone whose mind was going, but a person like that was unlikely to have made a clean escape every time. Brennan was down to three. One was a man of forty-eight, divorced, who had been reported missing July seventh; he had a spotty employment record and often left the Republic to find work. Didn’t say where he went. He had been in Dublin for two months before disappearing. A young man of twenty-three had been reported on July twelfth and had not been seen for nearly a week before that. He was known to have bought a round-trip train ticket to Belfast on July sixth; the report did not say when he was supposed to return. Might have gone north to march with the Orangemen. Or he might have gone to jeer at them and come to grief as a result. The last person on the list was thirty-four years old, single, with a petty criminal record and a history of drug use. He had been living on and off with a girlfriend. She reported him missing July sixteenth but, given his habits, he may have been gone before then. Brennan circled the three possibilities.

Not much to report to Finn. His nemesis could be on the list of the missing, but how would anyone know from such scanty information? Nevertheless, Brennan would pass the paper along for what it was worth.

Finn put the list down on the bar, removed his dark glasses, and peered at the information provided.

“Could be any of the three I’ve circled,” Brennan observed.

“Could,” Finn agreed.

Brennan had expected him to shrug and dismiss the research as useless, but something had caught his attention. He tapped his forefinger on the paper.

“This fellow. He may be . . . this fits in with something I heard. But I’m not sure who that rumour was about. It’s not going to be me following it up.” He raised his eyes to Brennan. “Fancy an afternoon of football?”

“I would love an afternoon of football.”

“Good man. Thought you would. We’re playing Cork tomorrow. Stop by here and pick up your pair of tickets from young Nugent.”

“Brilliant. What did I do to earn a day at the park?”

“There’s a man there who will be interested in this lad who took the train up to Belfast and didn’t come home.”

“Which of the sixty thousand people in the stands will be my contact?”

“He won’t be in the stands. You’ve been following the career of your old friend Sammy Coogan?”

“Avidly, and with great envy.”

“Isn’t that a sin?”

“One of the seven deadly. I pray the
Confiteor
every time I see a Cork match.”

“Save your prayers for Dublin. Or pray that Coogan will leave Cork, come home, and be hired as the manager here. He’s done well for himself, and for Cork. When’s the last time you saw him?”

“When’s the last time I played a match on Irish soil? When I was ten years old?”

“Well, you’ll have a lot of catching up to do. But first things first. When you see him tomorrow, show him those notes.”

“All right. I’ll let you know what he has to say.”

“You won’t have to. If there’s anything of significance in that list, I’ll be hearing about it.”

Finn was a man with several deep channels running at once, apparently.

“How will I get near him?”

“Speak to Sean tomorrow.”

He would, and he would speak to Monty today. A man on his first trip to Dublin couldn’t do better than to learn a bit of history and watch a little football at Croke Park.

Michael

Michael O’Flaherty was not about to grill Tim Shanahan about deaths in Africa, not after their soul-baring conversation the day before. Michael didn’t know the whole story — perhaps he would never know — but he did not think for one minute that Tim was a killer, let alone a mass murderer. Eddie Madigan, well, Michael wasn’t sure what to make of him. Bill McAvity had tipped Michael to the rumour that Madigan had taken payoffs from drug pushers. If it was true, what did that say about the man, a garda in the pocket of drug dealers? Well, he’d been sacked for it, if the stories were accurate. But Michael believed Tim when he said Madigan was not a heroin dealer himself.

Whatever the case, Michael was a little more enthusiastic about dropping in to Christy Burke’s than he had been yesterday. He looked forward to seeing Finn behind the bar again, and chatting with the daily communicants in the pub. But when he walked into Christy’s in the middle of the afternoon Michael thought there must be some mistake. Had he sleepwalked into the wrong pub? There was only one man sitting at the bar, someone he didn’t know. Oh, and there was that annoying fellow who had unleashed a foul tide of slander the last time Michael had seen him. What was it they called him? Big Mouth? No, Motor Mouth, that was it, Motor Mouth McCrum. Well, there was no gostering out of him today. Nothing to say, or too small an audience, perhaps.

The regulars weren’t in sight. And neither was Finn. Sean emerged and greeted Michael.

“It’s nearly deserted in here today, Sean.”

“Sure they’re all at the funeral.”

“Oh? Whose funeral is it?”

“Old Joe Burns.” That sounded vaguely familiar. “Used to drink here,” Sean explained.

“Well, that narrows it down!” Michael said, and Sean laughed.

But it seemed somebody had mentioned Burns way back, if Michael remembered correctly. “Isn’t it nice,” he said, “that they all went to see the man off. Did Finn go too?”

“Of course he did. He’d be with the family, so.”

“They were related?”

“Well, Finn was his publican.” He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world: the publican at the old man’s local would stand with the family at the funeral. “Here they are now.”

Michael looked up and saw Jimmy O’Hearn coming in the door, wearing an ill-fitting black suit. The lone drinker at the bar, who had been sitting on Jimmy’s regular bar stool, got up without a word and retreated to a table. Jimmy took his place without comment. Shanahan and Madigan came in afterwards, as did a number of other people. Finn brought up the rear.

“They’ll be coming by any minute now,” Finn said.

And sure enough, within minutes, everyone stood and raised a silent toast. Michael looked out the window to see who had arrived, and saw a long black hearse idling in front of the pub. It stayed for a few seconds, then slowly moved away. Last call at Christy’s for old Joe Burns.

“Good day to you, gentlemen,” Michael said to O’Hearn, Madigan, and Shanahan once the ceremony was over, and they returned the greeting. If Madigan bore any ill feeling about the way Michael had spoken at their last encounter, he did not show it.

Michael asked them about the funeral, and they filled him in on the priest, the music, and the number of rear ends in the pews. They lamented that the tradition of the pub, and the publican, playing a role in the funeral ceremony was dying out.

“The local and the church,” Michael remarked with a smile. “Seems we’ve narrowed our lives down to the essentials: churches and pubs!”

O’Hearn returned the smile. “Is there anything else?” he asked, and signalled for service.

“We even have a church that’s named after a pub, Michael,” Tim put in. “Did you know that?”

“No!”

“It’s really Immaculate Conception but everybody calls it Adam and Eve’s because people used to have to sneak into the church by way of Adam and Eve’s pub when our Mass was outlawed. This was during penal times.” Tim affected an English accent: “Right-o, Your Lordship, everything’s under control. Those Irish savages are at it again, drinking themselves blind, but at least they’re not involved in all that popish carry-on in the church! Splendid, splendid, Major! Well done, men!”

“Shower of shites!” Madigan muttered.

“Well, I’ll have to go see the place.”

“Merchant’s Quay, the Franciscans.”

“Good. I’ll make a point of sneaking in!”

Michael realized something then, something he hadn’t taken in earlier because of his concern for Tim Shanahan. Frank Fanning wasn’t in the pub, and hadn’t been for the past couple of days.

“Where’s your companion Mr. Fanning? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Michael saw out of the corner of his eye that Motor Mouth McCrum had got up from his table and was heading for the door. He lingered by the bar for a few seconds, his eyes on the three regulars. When nobody answered Michael’s question, he departed.

Once he was gone, Jimmy O’Hearn spoke up. “We haven’t seen Frank, either.”

The regulars exchanged glances.

“Unusual for him not to stop in,” Michael observed.

“Sure Frank is in here every day,” said O’Hearn. “Rare that he misses a shift.”

“Except those first Fridays,” Shanahan remarked.

“True enough,” O’Hearn agreed. “Frank misses a day every month, and we noticed after a time that it always seems to be the first Friday of the month. I don’t have to tell you about first Fridays, Father O’Flaherty.”

No. That was familiar territory to Michael. Traditional Catholics tried to attend Mass and receive Holy Communion on the first Friday of the month as a sign of devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Michael wondered how many of the faithful kept up the practice in this day and age. Well, maybe Frank Fanning was among the devout.

“Good of him to take the whole day off,” Michael said lightly. “Going to his confessor, perhaps, and preparing himself for the Eucharist. That’s my kind of Catholic!”

“Not to take anything away from Frank,” Jimmy O’Hearn said, “but he must have been attending a church out of town. I remember a couple of Fridays I saw him going into the train station.”

“May have been travelling up to Armagh to take communion from the man in the red hat!”

“A fellow could do worse, Tim. Maybe that’s it!” Michael responded. The Cardinal Archbishop of Armagh was the highest-ranking churchman in all of Ireland.

“Well, if that was it,” said O’Hearn, “he was being modest about it. Because the times I saw him, I got the impression he didn’t want to see me. Or didn’t want to be seen. I remember slagging him once years ago, saying he must have a woman stashed away somewhere. ‘You’re not a married man, Frank,’ I said to him, ‘so there’s no need to sneak around!’ And he came back at me saying she was married herself, to the Lord Mayor of Dublin. Frank having a laugh and putting me off the questioning.”

“A bachelor, is he?” Michael asked.

“A widower. He lives with his sister. His wife died a long time ago.”

“Ah. Did they have any children?”

“One boy, Lane. He’s done very well for himself, has Lane.”

That struck a chord with Michael. What had he heard about Frank’s son? Self-important, that was it, Michael recalled from his talk with Nurse McAvity. All he said was “That’s good to hear, Jimmy. I hope Frank is all right. Hasn’t taken a turn or something.” Then he dropped a hint into the conversation. “I suppose his sister would know.”

Tim Shanahan picked it up. “I’ll ring her and see.” He got up and went to the phone at the back of the pub.

Michael ordered a pint from Sean and was having his first sip when Tim returned, looking worried.

“Nora Fanning says Frank hasn’t been home the last two nights. She doesn’t know where he is.”

“Did she notice whether any of his things are missing? Clothes, shaving gear, or anything like that?” Michael asked.

Tim shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. When he left the house on Wednesday, he said he’d be back at the usual time. Closing time here, I expect he meant.” Tim stopped for a moment, then said, “I remember him here Wednesday afternoon, but not in the evening.”

“So, Wednesday evening to today, Friday . . .”

“But today’s not a
first
Friday, so he’s not following that pattern. Whatever it means.”

“Any word from Frank?” Michael asked Tim Shanahan when he dropped in to Christy’s the following day. Tim shook his head.

“And his sister didn’t know anything when you called her yesterday.”

“She didn’t know anything when I called her today either.”

“Who else does he have? His wife is dead, God rest her . . .”

“There’s just the son. Lane.”

“Maybe the boy has Frank over at his place.”

Eddie Madigan scowled. “Ha! Not unless Frank just won the lottery. But you could try. If nothing else, you’ll get a lesson in what this country is coming to!”

“Well, I think I’ll do my priestly duty and inquire after the welfare of one of my new parishioners,” Michael declared. “Where would I find Lane?”

“Don’t be wasting your time trying to see him at his house in Ballsbridge. He and the wife have got themselves barricaded behind some class of security system. As if the ambassadors in Ballsbridge are going to waste their time breaking into Lane’s house. Try his office; he’s always there. It’s on Grand Canal Street.”

“But it’s Saturday.”

“Makes no difference. He’s always at the office.”

Michael got cold feet at the thought of hunting down Frank Fanning’s son and giving him a phoney explanation of why he was there asking questions, particularly if it turned out something had happened to his father. If someone more official came along, say, a close relative of Frank’s publican, Michael might feel a bit more comfortable on his mission. But Brennan Burke demonstrated a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the task. Little wonder: he and Monty Collins had procured tickets to a football match at Croke Park. So Michael hit upon the idea of asking Leo Killeen to accompany him. Leo knew all the Christy’s regulars — not well, but at least he was acquainted with them. Perhaps he’d be willing to come along and hold Michael’s hand. Or was Leo in Belfast? That’s what he’d said Thursday night at Finn’s, that he was going up there. Michael hadn’t seen Leo around the house yesterday but, then again, Michael had been out most of the day. Easy enough to find out. He picked up the phone at the back of the pub and called the house in Stoneybatter.

Leo was there and listened politely to Michael’s plan, then gave voice to the opinion that Michael and the “other” drinkers at Christy Burke’s might be overreacting to the absence of one of their number. But there didn’t seem to be much harm in speaking to his son, so the two priests made arrangements to meet and go see Lane Fanning at his office.

Their walk took them through the cobblestoned quadrangle and Palladian splendour of Trinity College, then along the less-than-splendid Fenian Street. They chatted a bit about their surroundings, then Michael looked at his companion and asked, “Did you go to Belfast, Leo?”

Leo kept walking without meeting Michael’s eyes. Just when Michael concluded that no response would be forthcoming, Leo replied, “I did.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You spoke to people up there about the missing preacher . . .”

“I made inquiries in various quarters, yes. All to no avail.”

“Were they stonewalling you, putting you off?”

Leo shook his head. “No. They’re in the dark as much as the rest of us.”

Did they know there might be a Catholic missing? Did Leo know? Michael had promised Archbishop O’Halloran that he would not say a word about the rumour that a Catholic might have been kidnapped, so that avenue of discussion would have to remain closed. All he said was “So no luck, I guess, Leo.”

“I’ve a couple more irons in the fire. I’ll see how it goes tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Oh, of course, the peace concert. We’re all looking forward to that, and a bit of sightseeing as well. Monty has never been there. I guess you’ll be attending to other matters while we’re on tour.”

“I will.”

“Tell me this, now, Leo. Are you a well-known figure in that part of the country? I mean, do you take precautions against being spotted or followed or . . . well, I don’t know what.”