In the Morning I'll Be Gone (21 page)

“Studying?”

“We were both reading English and Politics. We both wanted to be journalists. He did become a journalist at first, but I . . . I never followed through on it.”

“How did you get into this cooking racket?” I asked.

“My mother’s French. These are all her recipes. My mother’s and my grandmother’s.”

“Your mother’s French, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“Whereabouts in France?”

“Brittany.”

“Does she ever sleep with the window open?”

“What?”

“Does she ever sleep with the window open at night?”

“Now you come to mention it . . . I don’t think she does. Why do you ask that?”

“No reason. All right. So tell me about the night of 27 December 1980 as best as you can remember it.”

“We’d all gone fishing and done really well and we’d had a bite to eat and Lee told us about this pub he knew. We had a few beers and then we drove back to Belfast. That’s about it.”

“Did you interact with Lizzie at all?”

“We all got a round, so we all went up to the bar and gave our order. But that was about it. She didn’t invite conversation.”

“She wasn’t particularly friendly?”

“No, she wasn’t hostile, she just seemed as if she had other stuff on her mind. I read later that her father had been in the hospital for an operation . . .”

“She chatted to Lee, though, didn’t she?”

“Oh yes. Lee’s very gregarious. He could get a Carthusian nun to have a chinwag with him.”

“Was he trying to pull her?”

“Lee’s always trying to pull somebody.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Did it go farther than she wanted? Was there any kind of argy-bargy?” Crabbie asked.

“No. Nothing like that. Lee tried a few lines on her. She wasn’t interested. End of story.”

“So you finished your drinks and headed home?”

“Exactly.”

“What time was this?”

“Last orders. Eleven. Possibly slightly before.”

“And what time did you get back to Belfast?”

“Lee dropped Alan off at about eleven twenty and me about two minutes after that.”

“And what time did he get home?”

“I have no idea. He’s only about five minutes away down the Malone Road so I assume not much longer after he dropped me.”

“When did you first hear about Lizzie’s death?” Crabbie asked.

“Two days later. Alan called me. He said we had to go to the police about what we knew.”

“And what did you say to that?”

“I thought it was a good idea.”

“And Lee, what did
he
think?”

“Uhm, I don’t know.”

“Sure you do,” I insisted.

“Uhm, well, I think it was his opinion that we shouldn’t get involved.”

“Why?”

“I think just on general principles. He didn’t think cooperating with the police was a good idea.”

“But Alan thought otherwise.”

“Alan was quite insistent . . . anyway, he called the cops and they interviewed us. But the whole thing turned out to be an accident.”

I rubbed my chin and looked at Crabbie.

He had nothing.

“While you were all sitting there having a drink in the Henry Joy McCracken, did you notice if there was a problem with any of the light bulbs in the place?”

“No. But I don’t think that’s the sort of thing I would have noticed.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Had a good day’s fishing. Three pints of beer. You’re not thinking about light bulbs, are you?”

I gave Barry my card.

“If you think of anything else, I’d appreciate a call,” I said.

He nodded.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He stood up and smiled.

“That was pretty painless, wasn’t it?” I said.

“Yes, it was.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Connor.”

I finished my wine and when we went to pay we discovered that it was on the house. I didn’t insist.

We went outside and I lit a cigarette.

“You know what I think?” Crabbie said.

“What do you think?”

“I think Lizzie Fitzpatrick fell off the bar and broke her neck. I think the girl’s father can’t accept the fact that a random act of God killed his little girl. I think he’s pressuring Special Branch to reopen the case and Special Branch are doing it because he’s a big wheel in the Republican movement and nobody wants to piss him off.”

I tapped McCrabban on the bonce. “You’re not as thick as you look, are you?”

“Am I right?”

“And where does Dermot McCann come into your little scheme?”

“You think if you find out what happened to Lizzie Fitzpatrick somebody in the Fitzpatrick clan will give you a tip on Dermot, which, frankly, is a stretch even for you . . .”

“You know what I like about you, Crabbie?”

“What?”

“You keep me grounded, mate.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Where to now?”

“Let’s go see the last of these three fearless fishermen.”

We checked the Yellow Pages and found Lee McPhail listed under Managers and Agents. His office was on Botanic Avenue near Shaftsbury Square.

We walked over and found that he was up on the third floor of an office block overlooking the Ulster Bank. It was an old building but the office had recently been renovated. There were two secretaries. An older and a younger. One to get the job done, the other to provide eye candy for the punters. The younger one was a fetching blonde who was nonplussed by our questions about her boss’s whereabouts. The older one informed us that Lee was unavailable as he was showing VIPs from America around the city.

“And who might these VIPs be?” I asked.

“Joe Kennedy from Massachusetts for one,” she said with a look of triumph.

“Will Mr. McPhail be in the office at all this week?”

She reached in a drawer and looked at Lee’s schedule. “Nope. It’s jam packed,” she announced.

“Mind if I have a look?” I said and took the schedule out of her hand, but it was no good. He was indeed thick as thieves with the Kennedy clan all week.

“Have you got a photocopier?” I asked her.

She reluctantly admitted that she had.

I photocopied McPhail’s busy life and gave her the book back.

We took our leave and I examined the schedule as we walked down the stairs. Kennedy was meeting priests and politicians and visiting prisons and factories on his visit to Northern Ireland. One trip that caught my eye was to the old DeLorean plant in Dunmurry—a factory that I had visited myself when they were still turning out clunky, underpowered gull-winged sports cars. Now it was a
business park—
whatever that meant.

“Do you fancy coming with me tomorrow to meet McPhail at the old DeLorean factory?” I asked Crabbie.

“I’d love to, mate, but I can’t. I’m in court all day.”

“What have you done? Something to do with sheep?”

“I haven’t done anything. I’m testifying.”

“A likely story.”

We walked back to the Land Rover, checked underneath it for bombs, and I took Crabbie back to Carrick. I signed the Land Rover in again, got in my Beemer, and drove to see Mary Fitzpatrick in Ballykeel.

Annie answered the doorbell. “You again,” she said.

“Me again,” I agreed.

“You want to come in? Me ma and da aren’t in. They’re away to Belfast.”

I hesitated on the doorstep. “Uhm, it was your mother I wanted to see. I just wanted to fill her in our progress in our investigation.”

“After four years there’s been progress?”

“Well, not as such, but I wanted to tell her what I’ve been up to.”

“You can tell me. Come in. Have a cup of tea.”

I went into the living room and sat down on the sofa.
Countdown
was on TV.

“Let me know when it’s the numbers game!” Annie yelled from the kitchen.

It was a word game. Both contestants only got five-letter words but the guy in Dictionary Corner got a nine-letter one.

“It’s the numbers!” I yelled, and Annie came in with two mugs of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits. While she watched the screen I watched her. She was very beautiful. It was the eyes, I think. Those extraordinary eyes. It wasn’t surprising that it had been Annie who had finally got a charismatic fellow like Dermot to settle down. She had eyes like his sister’s and his mother. Intelligent and haughty and dangerously dark. “Ten plus five equals fifteen. Fifteen times fifty equals seven fifty. Seven fifty plus nine equals seven hundred and fifty-nine!” Annie squealed with delight, and was pleased even more when neither of the two contestants got the solution.

She turned off the TV.

“Sorry about that. I have to do the numbers. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane around here.”

“Don’t you have a job or a part-time job or . . .”

“No.”

“Weren’t you training to be a teacher at Magee?”

“I was. I gave that up. Dermot, that old romantic, said that no woman of his was going to have to work!”

“Wee bit Stone Age, no?”

“That’s Dermot. He’s old fashioned. But I didn’t really need to work, did I? Dad always spoiled me rotten and Dermot was getting a good, uhm, allowance.”

“What did you do when Dermot was inside all those years?”

“I still got the allowance from you know who and Dermot pulled a few strings and I wrote a few articles for
An Phoblacht
. I quite enjoyed that. I thought maybe I could parley that into something more permanent, but then, well . . . you know what happened next.”

“What happened next?”

“Well, Lizzie died and we closed the pub and Vanessa went to Canada. It was a bad few years and then the maddest thing of the lot!”

“What was that?”

“
He
divorced me!”

“I heard about that.”

“The eejit divorced me from inside the Maze! Just like that! I couldn’t believe it. I really couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t even see me.”

“Did he give you a reason?”

“No reason. Just a terse remark through his lawyers.”

“What was the remark? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I have it bloody memorized. He said, ‘I trust that Annie will not contest this divorce. I have no desire to drag her name through the mud or hurt the cause we both believe in so deeply.’”

“What did he mean by that?”

“You know what he meant. And it was a load of shite. Somebody must have been spreading gossip or something . . .”

Annie shook her head and turned away from me, looking through the window at the back garden.

There was a distant gunshot and hundreds of ducks lifted off from the lough en masse.

Annie crossed and uncrossed her legs. The clock on the mantel ticked. “Well, I suppose I better be running along, Annie. If you could tell your mother we’re still on it, I would appreciate that.”

Annie sniffed and turned to face me again. “Are you going back to Carrickfergus?”

“No, not yet. Since I was in the area I thought about paying a wee visit to that kid who was seeing your sister.”

“Harper McCullough?”

“Aye, that’s the one.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“I’ve got his address in my notebook.”

“Ach, I’ll walk you over. It’s about a quarter of a mile up the lough path . . . That is if you don’t mind me tagging along. I wouldn’t want to spoil your investigation.”

“No, I don’t mind. In fact it would be my distinct pleasure.”

We dandered along the Lough Neagh path. The sun was setting over the west shore and the light had taken on a color that you see sometimes in dreams. Wading birds of a dozen varieties were settling down for the night and the wind was stirring gently among the reeds. The blue lough itself was still and motionless but for a yacht cruising the north coast on an easy tack.

“It’s remarkable here,” I said.

“Yes,” she mumbled.

We walked farther along the track. A family of ducks got out of our way. Annie put her hand on my arm to stop me.

“What?” I asked her.

“You don’t judge me, do you, Sean? You never seemed the sort.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, what did Dermot expect? He was in prison for five years. Five years. And before that he said that he knew they’d catch him sooner or later. He knew it. He gets to be the hero and where does it leave me? Alone. Living with my parents?”

“Annie, you don’t have to explain yourself—”

“You know what some of them say? They say that the first thing they’ll do when they get an independent thirty-two-county Ireland is to ban abortion and take away votes for women. Put women back in their place. The men in the fields, the women in the kitchen. That’s the kind of mind-set we’re dealing with here. You know?”

“I can’t believe Dermot ever said anything like that.”

“No . . . not really . . .” Her voice faded away.

The last arc of the sun had dipped behind the Sperrin Mountains and all the birds on the lough seemed to give a great collective sigh.

“Come on,” she said, and we walked a little farther on until we reached a huge Georgian house on the water’s edge with a pier and a boat dock to which a twenty-foot cabin cruiser had been moored.

“This is it,” Annie said.

“They have money, do they?”

“Aye. Harper’s father, Tommy McCullough, was a big . . . what’s the word?”