A Kind of Drowning, page 13
“Why would I do that, Crowe?”
Her eyes were a deep green. He hadn’t noticed this before. Not quite aqua marine, the colour reminded him of the sea. They too had treacherous depths. Maybe it was part of his recovery, an improving awareness of things around him? He’d begun to see things in sharp relief, like an incremental adjustment to a pair of binoculars.
“Ah, the tortured poet, I get it. What about before you became a librarian?” he asked.
“I worked in a supermarket. It started as a part-time job when I was at school. Then I worked at the check-out and eventually became the manager. I married my childhood sweetheart, wanted to be a mother, have lots of kids, you know, the suburban housewife dream. It didn’t work out.”
A haunted look flashed across her eyes, briefly, then it was gone.
“Then I took a degree at Queens University, Belfast, and the option to study as a librarian got me placed in Roscarrig, back home with my mother. She has dementia. That’s it, I’m afraid,” she said.
The carafe of water arrived. Crowe poured for Clodagh.
“So, how did you become interested in rowing?” asked Crowe.
“Kayaking. Because living was becoming a drag…”
Clodagh suddenly needed a vodka and a cigarette. She fidgeted with the cutlery,
“It’s either GAA in this town, rowing, kayaking or sit at home. I had some money from the divorce settlement, took lessons and bought my kayak. Roscarrig Rowing Club can be a bunch of fanatics, I just needed some piece of mind, some alone time. The kayak suits my needs.”
“You rowed really well,” said Crowe.
“You need more practice,” replied Clodagh, “You nearly tipped us over,”
“Maybe I’ll try again,” replied Crowe, “But thank you for giving me something I had never done before,”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Once the sheer fucking terror died down, yes. Yes, I enjoyed it.”
It won him a hard-earned smile.
The silence lengthened. They found things to look at. Things to file for small conversation. Things that would never be said. The evening felt over before it had begun. Crowe longed to loosen his belt; he felt the circulation around his hips slowing down. He prayed that deep vein thrombosis would end this evening.
The meals arrived. Clodagh’s steak bled into the steamed vegetables as she cut it, Crowe’s looked like it hadn’t survived a nuclear blast.
“How’s that cremation you’re sawing into?” she asked,
“Perfect.”
Crowe mashed some fries into his mouth and downed the whiskey, he motioned for another.
Clodagh chewed slowly through the drawn-out silence,
“Can you order me one as well?”
Crowe held up a second finger, Aoife nodded.
“So, Crowe, what about you?” asked Clodagh.
“If you saw me on YouTube, then there’s really not much more to tell,” said Crowe. So, long story, short – I went to Belvedere College, but got expelled…”
“Don’t tell me, a problem with authority?” said Clodagh
“Yep, the Jesuits turfed me out for arson as well as disciplinary issues. Blackrock College took me in, then Trinity and then I enrolled in the Gardai,” he continued.
“A silver spoon and the world at your feet, and you become a Guard?”
“Family tradition, I’m afraid,” said Crowe, “My Father and Grandfather. It was expected that I get my head out of the clouds, or out of my arse as dad would say and start earning a living.”
“Weight of expectation?”
Crowe sensed a sudden interest. A shift in the mood between them, maybe the growing thrombosis around the waistband could wait.
“The plight of the only child. Got my degree in Sciences and Philosophy and then signed up,” he said.
“Your marriage?” asked Clodagh
“Over. In truth it’s been over for years. This has been hard on my son Cathal. You may have recognised him in the footage as the boy who wanted the ground to swallow him up.”
“How old is he?”
“Fifteen, well, nearly fifteen.”
Crowe motioned to another passing waitress for a refill, her reaction was more like Lauren.
The whiskeys glowed in the candle light, Clodagh downed hers in one. They finished their meal.
“Tell you what, why don’t we order a bottle of red and some coffees?” suggested Crowe.
“Good idea,” replied Clodagh.
She took in the room, the wooden panels, the old tables, and pictures on the wall. Perhaps she had misread the situation. The evening had been awkward; Crowe had a habit of riling a person, getting under their skin. But wasn’t that the sign of a good policeman? The ability to make you take a wrong step?
It wasn’t quite disappointment, but a certain hollowness to the evening that gnawed on Clodagh. A sense of anti-climax.
“So why Andrew Farrell?” she had lowered her voice.
“Derry’s not subtle. He implied, I stress, implied that Andrew Farrell seemed relieved when they recovered Thea’s body.”
“He had got his daughter back. Dead, that’s true, but in one piece. The seas around here aren’t always so forgiving. As for Derry, he loves his dramas. Everyone in the town knows he courted Grace before she set her sights on Andrew,”
“Did he ever marry?”
“No. Grace broke his heart.”
“You know this how?”
“Before she went to pieces, my mother was the jungle telegraph. She was an old school curtain twitcher. So how do you know Derry?”
Aoife hovered before setting down two big wine glasses. With an expert twist, she removed the cork and smelled it. Crowe noticed she had deep dimples when she smiled. Crowe indicated Clodagh take a sip. Aoife poured an exact measure without spilling a drop. Clodagh smelled, swirled, and tasted – she smiled back,
“Thanks, Aoife, perfect,”
Aoife poured two exact measures and placed the bottle in the middle between them. The evening had tilted from crisis into smooth waters, thought Crowe.
“In answer to your question; Derry is my landlord.”
“How did that happen?”
“A mutual acquaintance,”
“So, why Andrew?” she repeated, “There are plenty more morons in this town, deadbeats, wife-beaters, wasters and no-hopers.”
“If Thea was killed you have to look at those closest to her first. Andrew has some of the characteristics of a domestic abuser.”
“You are very, very much off the mark, Crowe,”
And there it was, the tightening of the air around Clodagh. The set of the jaw, the look in her eyes, the sense of tribal loyalty.
“Maybe you’re right, Clodagh.”
As he reached for the bottle to pour, a sudden twitch, a sudden muscular spasm ran the length of his arm. He swiped more than grabbed the bottle and knocked it and its contents onto Clodagh. It glugged out a huge amount of wine.
“Jesus, Crowe,” she said.
He stood to lean over with a napkin and tilted the table with his weight. The plate, the glasses and the bottle crashed around her like artillery fire.
Aoife was across in an instant.
Everyone turned and stared.
If this had been the wild west, thought Crowe as he blushed to his cut-up shaven scalp – even the piano player would have stopped.
“No, Crowe. No. Just fuck right off – now,” hissed Clodagh.
He leaned on the bar peeling off the Euros and settling the bill. Aoife had tidied up the mess and Clodagh had stormed past him to the toilets without making eye contact.
Aoife stood at the open cash register with a funeral stare,
“Think I’ll get a second date?” he asked.
“I genuinely doubt it,” she replied.
“Hope springs eternal - keep the change,” he said.
As an afterthought he handed her a fifty,
“Order a taxi for Clodagh, please.”
Just over Aoife’s shoulder he could see a framed picture. It was Casey Clarke and Ephraim Hunt frozen in the moment of pulling pints for the locals. Caught in the flash, Hunt without the trademark sunglasses resembled a mashed up Elvis,
“All the celebs, I see,” he said.
Aoife glanced over her shoulder,
“She’s lovely, he’s a dickhead. They’ve a house on the coast road; the old vicarage,”
“Farandore or Dublin direction?” asked Crowe
“Farandore,” she replied.
He’d pay Derry Gallagher a visit tomorrow.
“Ever have an out-of-towner here? A man about my age with a missing thumb?”
“We get all sorts here. But nothing springs to mind,”
Crowe left to the pitying gaze of the diners and found himself looking up and down the road.
Which way was it to the harbour? he thought.
He trudged in the wrong direction.
***
Aoife made a commiserate smile as Clodagh came back,
“I can arrange a sambuca and a coffee on the house?” she said
“Can I change that to a double vodka?” said Clodagh
“After him? No problem. I’ll phone a taxi; he’s paid for it.”
Aoife turned to Clodagh and smiled,
“The taxi will be here in ten,” she said.
23
From the edge of the jetty where he sat, Crowe could see a lone Jet ski flitting out in the channel. He was still smarting at the previous night’s debacle and sipped a double espresso with his cigarette. The jet-ski buzzed past the net buoys and on the calm sea, left a trailing V in its wake. It pitched and buffeted its way toward Inishcarrig, then banked suddenly eastwards, making a sharp right-angle running parallel to the coast.
Crowe trudged down toward the beach and then walked along it, tracking the jet ski’s progress.
The jet ski disappeared around the headland. The tide was out, allowing Crowe to pick his way across the shale and rocks to the far side. It led to the public car park not far from where Teflon D had walked the dog. Derry was right; midweek, Roscarrig was nothing but a ghost town. The beach was completely deserted. As Crowe rounded the rocks, he could see the empty car park. Zephyrs of warm sand spun across it like tiny tornadoes, hoovering up pieces of litter as they went. Adjacent to the car park was an old weather beaten slipway, darkened, smoothed and green from exposure to the elements. Parked along it was a brand new smoked glass Mercedes SUV; a top-of-the-range muscle machine. Lower down, closer to the water’s edge, a man was securing the jet ski to a trailer. He stood up and reached for a tarpaulin crumpled near the vehicle. In profile, Crowe had no doubt; it was one of Teflon D’s mini-me’s, two branches of the same fucked-up, coke-addled dynasty. Finding him alone offered Crowe an advantage. He climbed the sand to the car park, crossed it and stood at the top of the slipway looking down. In the heat, Crowe could smell sweat, seawater and rubber coming off the man. Even with the neoprene, life preserver and helmet, Teflon junior wasn’t your average boy band fodder. Each hand was heavily tattooed and adorned with rings inset with black and aqua marine stones. Crowe recognised cheap knuckle dusters when he saw them. But what would Crowe know about the current music scene?
Junior loped off up the slipway and activated the hitch. The trailer inched up toward the Merc.
The mini-me’s mobile rang and he answered. Some joke was cracked down the line and his high-pitched hyena giggle magpied its way around the slipway.
Crowe didn’t think any niceties were required,
“Where’s your other half?” he asked.
The mini-me spun looking left and right, but not behind him.
“Setanta Cosgrave isn’t it?” said Crowe
“I’m Fionn,” he looked back. Then returned to his phone call. The giggling had evolved into a snorting gasp.
Fionn ended the call and ignored Crowe.
“Hi, Fionn. That jet ski there. How far does one of those things go on a tank of petrol? What’s its operational range?” said Crowe stepping closer. As Fionn wrestled the tarp over the dripping jet ski, Crowe could see it was a big machine, a 4-stroke probably. A glistening mighty pachyderm of the waves.
Fionn fastened down the tarp with tight, spasmic pulls. He looked from side-to-side, not making eye contact. His eyes looked glassy, but it could have been the exposure to the elements and sea water.
“Bet it could make it to the island and back, no bother. Were you there just now? Were you there at night a few weeks ago?” said Crowe
Fionn Cosgrave froze, blinking at the questions. Long enough for Crowe to step closer. Like a prize fighter spotting a gap in the opponent’s technique, Crowe gambled on the fact that the scion of a Dublin gangster wasn’t used to any old Joe Public talking to him this way,
“Were you on the island two weeks ago when Thea Farrell disappeared? Lovely girl, tough, a real battler, vulnerable though, wouldn’t you agree?” Crowe pressed.
“I’ve nooo idea what you’re talking about, pal,” replied Fionn.
He was getting agitated. He had a sort of Dublin-mid-Atlantic accent, a Bob Geldof with the flu,
“So, Fionn where’s the other half, Setanta? I usually see the pair of you out in the channel?” said Crowe, “Faffing about, making a nuisance of yourselves. Is he on the island now? That trailer looks like it could take two of those things.”
Fionn stopped and looked at Crowe. He began to pull himself together, that little sprinkling of showbiz appeared. The beginnings of a sneer touched the side of his mouth,
“Lost your way from the homeless shelter, have you?” he said, “I’d give you some change for the bus, only I really couldn’t give a fuck,”
He shrugged off his life preserver and peeled down the neoprene. His body was oddly hairless and festooned in a kaleidoscope of tattoos. Folds of gathering fat were early signs of a body going to seed amid the youthful muscle. Crowe vaguely remembered the twins had a dance routine on the TV. One that involved leaping about and performing hand stands. He remembered Harris’ comments about the Garda National Drugs Unit and INTERPOL, but something about Fionn’s attitude and stance worked its way under Crowe’s skin. The sense of entitlement achieved on the back of other people’s misery and pain. A top of the range luxury vehicle just sitting there like a pristine toddler’s tricycle. Another disposable plaything. He thought of the gulf between this pup’s wealth and his own years of slog with a state pension at the end; not even small change to this clown.
“I heard your Beemer got burned. Must have affected the old image?” said Crowe.
It got the response he’d been needling for,
“Go fuck yourself, you fat hobo. Try using soap, I can smell you from here,”
The snarl turned to a sneer, Fionn giggled to himself in little yips.
Crowe stepped forward.
“I care about what happened to Thea. If I find you or the other knuckle dragger had anything to do with it…” said Crowe.
“You’ll what? Look pal, no one really cares about some ugly retard. You look like one of them; by the looks of it I’d say you can barely dress yourself, retard,” said Fionn.
The trailer was at the tow bar and Fionn hoisted it into place, securing it. He looked around the beach and car park with jerky nods. His wet peroxided hair resembled a coxcomb.
“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, now fuck off, old man,” he said as an afterthought.
Crowe pulled out his crumpled cigarette box and lighter. He thought about the cigarette smouldering on the end of Grace Farrell’s lips, spilling ash onto a grimy kitchen table.
“I’d offer you one, but it’s the last one,” said Crowe shaking the lighter for a spark,
“Hope you get emphysema,” leered Fionn.
“Her name was Thea, Fionn. Thea. Farrell. This young woman dies; it’s in all the papers, all over social media and you shrug. Mention your damaged car, Fionn, and you have an embolism. Is Desmond Cosgrave your dad? The one a Chinaman once mutilated? Heard they made him walk to the hospital. Imagine that – your fucking thumb at the bottom of the Royal Canal. That kind of makes you psycho, resentful, kind of makes you want to hurt people, lash out at the injustice of it all. Hurt vulnerable women. Easy targets for all that rage,”
Fionn was now pacing up and down the slip way. He was agitated, to Crowe, he resembled a farm animal trying to do algebra,
“Fuck you. FUCK YOU. Do you know who my Da is? Do you know who he is? Who I am? Do you know who you are dealing with, bud? He’s the undisputed fucking heavyweight king of Dublin. The king. K-I-N-G of Ireland. We could do you, pal. Oh yeah, do you so they’d fucking cremate you out of pity because there’d be fuck all left to examine on the slab. And you wouldn’t be missed, just another homeless loser!”
Crowe knew when a man was at his limits of control. Fionn was wired tight and about to go ape. His temples had coils appearing and the corneas around the eyes were turning red even from where Crowe stood. He lurched forward and in one smooth movement, gripped Fionn by the shoulders, spinning him faceward into the merc’s side with a satisfying crunch of skull on metal. Crowe kicked Fionn’s legs wide and wrenched the wrists back and up, immobilising him in a policeman’s grip.
“Didn’t your parents teach you to show some respect for your elders?” hissed Crowe. Then in one movement swung on his heels, throwing Fionn off the slipway.
Junior hit the sand face-first.
“They say Setanta is the brains of the band? I can see that from here. Was he on the island with your dad?” said Crowe, “Is that what happened to Thea? Ran into you three animals?”
“I know you,” said Fionn looking up after a pause, “You’re the cop off the internet,”
“I can smell alcohol off your breath, and your eyes suggest the recent use of an A-class substance,” said Crowe, catching his breath,
“You nearly killed a man,” said Fionn,
“Trust me, pal, I’m only just warming up,” said Crowe.
Fionn rose and dusted off the sand. His face was peppered with it. He somehow reassembled his hard-man look and leapt onto the slipway.
“I had nothing to do with it. Nothing, d’you hear? We weren’t the only ones, loser fool Hunt. That’s who should be fucking talkin…” he said gasping, “… held us up looking for his lucky charm, had us going around in circles. He was crying as much…”
