Father Carey to throw his weight around. But as soon as the words were said, he knew it had been obvious.
‘No, under no circumstances. I’m not even going to discuss it.’
‘We will discuss it, and I’m sure you’ll agree what’s best for Tom — ’
‘I said no.’
‘I can’t leave it there.’
‘Jesus, there’s a fucking Christmas card on the mantelpiece, from Dermot and Kathleen. “Happy Christmas, all the best for the New Year, hope to see you soon!” Not a word, not a fucking word. See you soon!’
‘I think if you reflect on the situation — ’
‘I won’t be reflecting on anything.’
‘Then I need to make myself clearer. Mixed marriages are a bane to the Church. They are against God’s law and against natural law. The Church shows her displeasure, even when she gives dispensation, refusing the Holy Sacrifice during the marriage. My own view is that too much leeway is given in approving them at all, even with a commitment to bring children up as Catholics. But the commitment is there, irrespective of your wife’s death.’
‘And I am carrying that out.’
‘Not as far as I’m concerned. Not as far as the bishop is concerned.’
‘What do you want me to do? Give up my job?’
‘It’s not about you being here. The boy’s home is entirely unconducive to the health of a young and impressionable Catholic soul. There is no shortage of evidence to demonstrate your inability to bring him up in the faith he was born into. But the sight of Tom praying in a synagogue is beyond anything the Church can accept. His place is with his cousins, with his mother’s brother. For his sake, and your own, I would advise you not to fight this. The courts are no place for families. And the end result will be the same, I promise you. As for the damage to your career — ’
‘Are you threatening me now?’
‘I’m telling you what will happen, Gillespie.’
‘I promised Maeve — ’
‘There is no more to say, Sergeant. You need time to calm down. When you have, we’ll talk about this again and put the arrangements in place. It doesn’t mean you won’t see your son. But when you do, he’ll be part of a family, his family. In time you’ll understand that the Church’s interests and your son’s are the same. Those interests should be yours too.’
Stefan stood very still, looking at the satisfaction that Anthony Carey made no real attempt to hide. The curate stood taller than he had, straighter.
‘You’ve always wanted this, haven’t you?’
‘It’s about what’s right.’ The priest shook his head, frowning, almost as if he really did regret what he was doing. ‘It’s not about what I want.’
‘That’s shite and you know it.’
Carey pursed his lips; he wasn’t finished yet.
‘From my little talk with Tom’s playmate, Harry Lawlor, I gather that your visit to the synagogue was all about seeing a lady, am I right there?’ He smiled a man-of-the-world smile; his sanctimoniousness turning into a sneer as he fixed his eyes on Stefan. ‘All in a day’s work for a policeman, eh? I wonder, what would your Maeve have thought about that?’
As Stefan’s fist hit the curate’s face it was Maeve’s name that propelled it rather than the taunt itself. Carey had taken her name and thrown it into a mire of shabby and spiteful innuendo. He spoke as if he knew her, as if there was some part of her precious memory that belonged to him. He staggered back against the desk, but he didn’t fall. He was hurt, there was no doubt, yet he could still find a smile. He wiped his mouth and looked down at the blood on the back of his hand. It was Stefan Gillespie’s final mistake.
Christmas was over. Stefan was back in the detectives’ office at Pearse Street. The letter from Father Francis Byrne in Danzig had arrived on Inspector Donaldson’s desk with a glowing affidavit from Monsignor Fitzpatrick. It seemed completely at odds with the barely controlled anger the monsignor had shown when Stefan had asked him about the priest little more than ten days ago. Donaldson had made the arrangements, clearly in consultation with Robert Fitzpatrick. The questions Stefan wanted asked had been asked in such general terms that the answers, not worth much in a letter anyway, were worth nothing at all; some questions had clearly not even been put to him. Father Byrne was shocked and saddened to hear of Susan Field’s death, naturally. She had been one of his brightest and best students. It was a tragic and irreplaceable loss to her family. He had not known her well outside the confines of the lecture room, but he had certainly liked her and remembered her fondly. He was puzzled where the idea of any close or particular friendship came from. He wasn’t fully able to understand the circumstances of her death, of course, but it was all very shocking, and he prayed she was at peace. By the way he didn’t know Doctor Hugo Keller.
That was where it ended.
Monsignor Fitzpatrick spent several more pages of his own letter eulogising Father Francis Byrne’s almost saintly integrity. He went on to express his indignation that the Gardai would presume to ask questions based on the fantasies of a woman who was evidently disturbed. He didn’t quite say Susan Field had brought it all upon herself, but he didn’t need to.
It was as pointless as Inspector Donaldson could have wished. But what Stefan saw clearly was that Francis Byrne had too little to say about the woman he’d had a passionate love affair with, and Robert Fitzpatrick had too much to say about the man he’d felt such aversion to so very recently.
‘Jesus, Stevie.’ Dessie McMahon sighed, watching as Stefan re-read the letter.
‘I know,’ replied Stefan. ‘Don’t start again.’ He didn’t want to talk about what Dessie was trying to talk about. He didn’t want to think about it.
‘I mean what the feck?’
‘What the feck indeed,’ he shrugged. Dessie wasn’t going to stop.
‘Would he ever just forget about it?’
‘Father Carey’s not a turning-the-other-cheek kind of priest.’
‘Did you ever meet one that was?’
The telephone rang. Dessie MacMahon picked it up.
‘It’s Inspector Donaldson. He wants you in there, now.’
When Stefan Gillespie walked into Inspector Donaldson’s office, the first person he saw was Detective Sergeant Lynch. It wasn’t the Jimmy Lynch he’d last met turning over his room. This one had had a bath and was wearing a suit that nearly fitted him and a white shirt that was even ironed.
‘We need to sort these bodies out.’ It was Inspector Donaldson who spoke. ‘Sit down, Gillespie. You know Detective Sergeant Lynch of course.’
The two sergeants nodded. Stefan already sensed something was wrong. There was no smirk or smile on Lynch’s face. He looked serious, alert, attentive; you could almost have mistaken him for a real detective.
‘The woman first,’ announced the inspector. ‘We know she was pregnant. Sadly you’ve seen the evidence of that yourself. Sergeant Lynch has established that she probably did procure a miscarriage from Keller.’
‘Was that before or after I established it, sir?’
Donaldson ignored him. ‘As is the way with these things, there were complications. And it seems very likely that she died at Merrion Square.’
Lynch looked grim, as saddened by the awful events as the inspector.
‘And how did Sergeant Lynch establish that?’ enquired Stefan.
‘Sheila Hogan,’ said the inspector. ‘Keller told her what happened.’
‘She was at it with your man, you know that.’ Lynch offered up this additional information as if it provided a complete explanation in itself.
‘With a dead woman in his clinic, he had to do something,’ continued Inspector Donaldson. ‘The assumption is he put the body in his car and took it out to the mountains and buried her. Unfortunately, I don’t imagine it’s the first time that sort of thing has happened with these backstreet abortionists.’
‘Is that what Sheila Hogan said too? It’s not what she said to me.’ Stefan’s words were addressed to Donaldson, but he was looking at Lynch.
‘She didn’t know the details, Stevie,’ said the Special Branch detective grimly. ‘I’m filling in the gaps, but I got
