them.
The answerphone light was flashing. I listened to the message and immediately wished I hadn’t. It was from my ex-wife. It was hard to make out what she was saying, as she seemed to be crying, or laughing, or both. But the gist was that she had given birth to a baby boy that morning, that she knew he could never take the place of Lily, our daughter, but that she felt happy today for the first time since Lily died, and she hoped I could share that happiness too. I couldn’t. I listened to the message again, then a third time. When Tommy Owens came out I was huddled in a ball on the stairs with my head in my hands. He wiped the message, and got me up, and talked me down, and made me wash my face, and fed me coffee and Nurofen, and put the Sig Sauer in my pocket, and told me to go back to work.
Twenty-seven
I CALLED DAVE DONNELLY AND TOLD HIM THE REASON the Reillys weren’t coming home to Woodpark was because they were lying dead in the Dublin Mountains. I gave him the location of the quarry and told him Sean Moon and Brock Taylor had been responsible. I also told him that the murder weapon was one of two Steyr 9mm Tactical Machine Pistols that could be found in Taylor’s house in Fitzwilliam Square. He had already heard about the killings there and in Ballsbridge. I said I hadn’t heard about any of that, and didn’t know anything about it either. Dave called me a few names, and I let him. Then I said he should get up the mountains fast, before the workforce at the quarry showed up and some other station got the collar. I asked him if he had traced the phone calls made to Jessica and Shane Howard on Halloween morning. He gave me one mobile number, an 087, which had called Shane Howard; the other mobile, which had called both, used a concealed number. The 087 I recognized as Denis Finnegan’s. I told Dave I expected to have something for him soon on the Stephen Casey/Audrey O’Connor murders. Before I ended the call, Dave said they’d uncovered something about Jonathan O’Connor-he had a record of fire-starting back when he was twelve or thirteen, schools and churches, never detained but close to it, social services were involved, went on for about a year, then stopped.
I switched on Emily Howard’s iBook and read through the most recent e-mails, a sequence of three highly emotional notes negotiating an urgent session with David Manuel. But these e-mails had been sent this evening, when the laptop was in Jonathan’s room in Mountjoy Square, so they couldn’t have been sent by Emily. They had been sent by Jonathan masquerading as his cousin. The last message from Manuel read:
Will cut short my scheduled ten o’clock; come at ten thirty and we can have forty minutes. But it will be all right-although let me repeat, I believe this to be a legal matter as much as it is anything else, and I am reaching the stage where I can no longer stay silent.
When I had left Jonathan last night in Trinity, I thought I had heard him crying. Maybe he had been laughing. I called Dave back and went straight through to message: I told him why Jonathan O’Connor should be considered the favorite for the killing of therapist David Manuel last night, gave him Jonathan’s address in Trinity, and said I considered him extremely dangerous. Then I called both numbers I had for Sandra Howard and, in my best Dave Donnelly impersonation, left the message that Jonathan was not only being sought in connection with the Manuel killing, but was also the prime suspect in the murders of David Brady and Jessica Howard. It was time to stir things up.
I drove fast to Jerry Dalton’s house in Woodpark. It was five in the morning, still dark, the lights in the church still on. I banged on the door, and Dalton answered it as if a caller at this hour was nothing out of the ordinary. He led me into the living room. There was no sign of Emily, or of any of the photograph albums and journals she had taken from Rowan House. The room was a mess of paper, though; handwritten sheets from a lined A4 pad were scattered about; an acoustic guitar lay among them.
“You writing a song?” I said.
“I’m trying. Never really sure you’ve written one until it’s done.”
“Where’s Emily?”
“She’s up with her father. She said if you came back, to go up there, to Bayview. She said it was important.”
I nodded.
“May I sit down?” I said.
“Sure. What happened to your head?”
“A baseball bat.”
“Fuck me. Who did it?”
“A guy called Moon, Sean Moon.”
“I don’t know him, do I?”
“You won’t get to know him now. He’s dead.”
Dalton picked up his guitar and fingered a little run.
“Sounds like you have something to tell me. It might be better if you just came out with it. Better for me, at least, rather than having to prise it out of you, question by question.”
So I told him everything his mother had told me, about John Howard being his father, about being persuaded against her better judgment to leave him behind, about how she had missed him, and how she wanted so badly to know the truth of what had taken place in the Howard house. And I told him how Brock Taylor had been the murderer of his half brother, and now, of his mother. I told him how she died, I didn’t spare him anything. When I was done, he sat for a while in silence, then looked around the room.
“I thought by living here, I’d pick up something…a clue, a hint, a sense of how she was. There wasn’t a trace. How did she seem to you? My mother?” he said.
“She was very beautiful. But scared. As if she’d been in hiding the last twenty years. From you, from herself, from the world. From what she maybe feared all along. That the man who had rescued her was her destroyer.”
“Maybe it wasn’t all as simple as that.”
“Maybe it wasn’t all. But I think we can feel free to condemn the man who murdered her son so that he wouldn’t be in his way without being confused for the lock-’em-all-up-and-let-God-sort-’em-out brigade.”
“Jesus, I’ve seen Brock Taylor so often, in the rugby club, in the Woodpark Inn.”
“I thought chances were,
“And now it turns out I’m John Howard’s son. I feel like I’ve contracted a curse.”
He laughed then, and shook his head.
“No, that’s not true. I actually feel…like this is a kind of dream? Like I’m still Elizabeth and Robert Scott’s son, Alan, who helps out at church fetes, and is going to be a doctor. Like my life will be fine.”
“There’s every chance it can be. But Brock Taylor wasn’t finished with the Howards yet. He thought he had money coming to him. That can only mean through Denis Finnegan, somehow. Through the mother’s will? You said Emily’s at Shane Howard’s now. I’d better go there myself.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said, following me to the door.
I stopped him.
“This case is not going to get any safer. And if you are a Howard now, it may get very dangerous indeed for you in particular.”
Jerry Dalton shrugged.
“There’s more to life than church fetes,” he said.
On the short journey, Dalton told me he had come up with the suspicions about Rock O’Connor’s death himself; in her cups, Jessica Howard had referred to O’Connor’s diabetes, and suggested it was very convenient that Denis Finnegan had been the only one with Dr. Rock when he died; Jerry played a hunch and passed me the material about how an insulin overdose can resemble a heart attack. I told him if he ever got tired of medicine, he would make a fine detective: knowing what hunch to play and when was the hardest part of the job.
