Blood Sisters Read online

  ‘Excellent work, Kyna. Good. And have you managed to get in touch with Dr O’Brien?’

  ‘Only briefly. He was up the walls when I called him, especially with that second nun being brought in for an autopsy. He confirmed that the cause of Sister Bridget’s death was asphyxiation, most likely with a goose-down pillow because he found a goose feather stuck to the back of her oesophagus. Immediately prior to death she had been forcibly penetrated with a blue-painted resin figurine, both vaginally and anally. The anal penetration had caused perforation of the rectum, which accounts for the blood we saw on her sheet.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he’s had a chance yet to look at the other nun.’

  ‘Not yet, no. Not in any detail, like. But he did say that it looked as if she had died from loss of blood. In other words, she was hanging by her neck from those balloons but the rope wasn’t tight enough to strangle her. It wasn’t likely that she would have been conscious, in his opinion, but while she was floating over the Glashaboy she was probably still alive.’

  ‘Mother of God. I’ll be very surprised if these two killings aren’t connected in some way. Whoever the offender is, you can’t accuse him of lacking imagination. Or her.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re looking for a woman, ma’am,’ said Kyna. ‘I can’t see a woman treating another woman like that. Especially with the figurine. That was rape.’

  The emphatic way she said rape made Katie look up at her. But she had turned away now, so she couldn’t see the expression on her face. She was momentarily tempted to ask her about it, but then she decided to leave it. This wasn’t the time for psychoanalysis. They had to drive up to Mayfield and tell Detective Horgan’s parents that their son had been killed.

  * * *

  The Horgans lived in a small orange-painted house in the middle of a terrace of four houses opposite the Cotton Ball pub. The houses on either side of them were dank, with unpainted pebble-dash and litter in their driveways, but the Horgans obviously took a pride in their property. There was a low pierced-concrete wall around the front yard and two privet bushes in wooden tubs. A three-year-old Hyundai hatchback was parked outside, with a cardboard pine tree hanging from the rear-view mirror.

  As soon as Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán pressed the doorbell, the door was opened up by a short, dark-haired girl in a blue wool dress. She had a pale oval face and wore no make-up except for two spots of purple eye-shadow. Behind her in the narrow corridor stood a bespectacled, middle-aged woman in an oatmeal-coloured cardigan. As soon she saw Katie and Kyna she let out a loud honk of dismay.

  ‘Oh, sacred heart of Jesus, I knew it was him! Please don’t tell me it was him!’

  Tears began to roll down the dark-haired girl’s cheeks, streaked with purple. ‘You’d best come in,’ she said, standing aside.

  Mrs Horgan ushered them through to the small, gloomy front parlour, which smelled as if normally nobody was allowed to sit in it. All of the side tables were covered in lace tablecloths, and there was even a row of lace doilies along the mantelpiece underneath a collection of china dogs. Over the fireplace hung a large reproduction of Jack Butler Yeats’s painting of a galloping horse, The Whistle of a Jacket.

  ‘My neighbour came in and said she’d heard on the news that a Cork detective was murdered,’ said Mrs Horgan, miserably twisting the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘I don’t know why I should have been so sure that it was Kenny. I just felt it in my water. I had Muireann ring him at the station but they said he wasn’t there and that’s when I knew for certain. I’ve been sitting here waiting all day for you to come and tell me that it was him and here you are.’

  ‘Did he – did he suffer at all?’ asked Muireann.

  ‘No,’ said Katie gently. ‘I was with him when it happened and it was instantaneous. He wouldn’t have felt anything.’

  ‘Oh God, oh God, I don’t know what his father’s going to say,’ sobbed Mrs Horgan. ‘Kenny was always his bar of gold. He’s going to be devastated.’

  As simply and as briefly as she could, Katie explained how Detective Horgan had been shot.

  ‘Do you know who did it, like?’ asked Muireann. She kept one hand pressed against her stomach.

  Katie shook her head. ‘No, we don’t. In this job, if you’re any good at it, you can’t help but make some very dangerous enemies, but we have no idea yet who might have wanted to end Kenny’s life. We’ll find out sooner or later, though, I can promise you that, and they’ll pay for what they did.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how much we’re going to miss him,’ said Kyna. ‘He was one of the funniest, warmest people I’ve ever worked with. You could never tell, could you, if he was joking or not?’

  Mrs Horgan pressed her hand to her mouth and nodded, and Muireann tried to smile through her tears.

  ‘He was such a good detective, though,’ added Kyna. ‘He’d be ribbing people so much that they’d tell him anything. He’s not just a terrible sad loss to his family, Mrs Horgan, and to his friends, but to the Garda, too.’

  Katie said, ‘There has to be a post-mortem, I’m afraid. That’s routine after an incident like this. But if you contact Jerh O’Connor the undertaker’s in Coburg Street they’ll tell you what arrangements can be made for you to see him once that’s done, and they’ll help you with the funeral. A Garda Síochána will cover all your expenses.’

  Mrs Horgan went into the kitchen to make them all a cup of tea. They were pushed for time now, but they could hardly refuse. While she was gone, Muireann dabbed her eyes with a tissue and then Kyna said, ‘Here,’ and took the tissue from her and wiped away the rest of her tear-blotched eye-shadow.

  Katie said, ‘Kenny had a private word with me this morning, Muireann. He told me that you were expecting his baby.’

  ‘He told you?’ she said, in a whisper. She glanced towards the door to make sure that Mrs Horgan couldn’t overhear them. ‘He hasn’t even told his own parents yet. Well, his dad’s in the Mercy at the moment, for his heart, and he didn’t want to tell him in case it gave him a seizure. Why did he tell you? He hadn’t changed his mind about it, had he? He wanted me to get rid of it at first, but then he said he was okay about it after all. We were going to get married.’

  Katie reached out and held Muireann’s hand. Muireann blinked at her, so grief-stricken and yet so hopeful that, for the first time in a long time, Katie told a lie. ‘He was over the moon about it, Muireann. He said he loved you and he was looking forward so much to marrying you and bringing up your child together. The reason he told me was because he was so happy and he wanted to share it with someone.’

  Muireann’s eyes filled with tears again and her lower lip trembled. ‘It’s so sad,’ she said. ‘I was worried that he didn’t want to marry me. Whenever I said that we needed to decide on a date he’d turn all moody and wouldn’t discuss it. My dad said that if he didn’t marry me, he’d kill him.’

  ‘Your dad said that?’ asked Katie.

  ‘Oh, he didn’t actually mean it, not for real, like.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Katie looked across at Kyna and Kyna raised one eyebrow, as if to acknowledge that they should do a quick background check on Muireann’s father. Angry and drunk and disillusioned people were always threatening to kill whoever it was that had upset them. Most of the time it was nothing but bluster, but now and again they actually went out and did it. Not only that, it was often the least likely people who carried out their threats. A former Garda inspector himself, Katie’s father always used to quote Sir John Pentland Mahaffy: ‘In Ireland the inevitable never happens and the unexpected constantly occurs.’

  Mrs Horgan brought in a tea tray. They sat drinking their tea and giving each other sad, rueful smiles, although none of them ate the ginger biscuits that she had laid out.

  Mrs Horgan said, ‘He was always joking, Kenny, even as a small boy. He’d say “Knock Knock” and we’d say, “Who is it?” and he’d say, “Canoe!” and we’d say, “Ca
noe who?” and he’d say, “Canoe help me with my homework?”’

  She took a deep, agonized breath and put down her teacup, spilling tea into her saucer. Then she wept, and wept, with her head bowed and her hands covering her face and there was nothing that any of them could do to console her.

  * * *

  Katie didn’t get home until half past midnight. When she turned into her driveway she saw that a shiny black Ford C-Max was parked there already. She climbed stiffly out of her car and as she did so the front door opened and John came out, with Barney snuffling and whuffling at his heels.

  ‘How are you, darling?’ said John. He took her briefcase from her and gave her a hug and kissed her. ‘God almighty, what a terrible day you’ve had.’

  Katie pressed her head against his dark-green cable-knit sweater for a moment, just for the reassurance of feeling him and smelling him. Then she looked up at him and said, ‘I’m okay. I’m just racked, that’s all. I could do with a shower and a mug of hot chocolate and a nice warm bed.’

  She nodded towards the C-Max. ‘You haven’t rented that, have you? I know the manager of the Ford Centre at Forge Hill. He would have lent you a borrow of one for nothing.’

  ‘No, I’ve bought it. I can’t live way out here in Cobh without a car, can I?’

  He put his arm around her and together they went into the house.

  Katie hung up her coat and went into the living room. The television was still on although the volume was turned right down. It was showing a programme about body donation at Trinity College, Dublin, Parting Gift, which she had seen before. That’s grimly appropriate, she thought.

  ‘I saw you on the news this evening,’ said John. ‘I was really impressed the way you held it together.’

  ‘What else could I do?’ she said. ‘Horgan’s dead and all the weeping in the world isn’t going to bring him back. It was the shock, though. We were just about to turn on to the N20 and this Mercedes pulled out in front of us and crack.’

  John said, ‘I’ll make you a drink. Are you hungry at all? Have you eaten?’

  ‘No, but I’ve gone past being hungry. Don’t worry about making me a drink yet. Just hold me, would you? That’s all I need right now. Holding.’

  John sat beside her on the couch and held her close, stroking the back of her neck and running his fingers up into her hair.

  ‘I’m determined to make this work, Katie,’ he told her. ‘I wouldn’t have bought a car if I wasn’t going to stay. I’ve accepted that there’s always going to be days like this, when I have to put things off because you’re dealing with some crisis at work.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Katie. ‘I’m so sorry about the Hayfield Manor. We can go some other evening, can’t we? What was it we were supposed to be celebrating?’

  ‘I pulled off a big sale of flu vaccine to the Netherlands, that’s all. MediBio have given me a contract and things have started to go pretty well. But for Christ’s sake, Horgan’s dead and you could have been killed, too. Selling a few flu shots doesn’t count for squat against something like that.’

  ‘I’m really proud of you, John,’ said Katie. ‘You know that.’

  John kissed her, first on the forehead and then on the lips, and then again. ‘So you still don’t know who shot at you?’

  ‘No. And we haven’t located the silver Mercedes either. Traffic patrols stopped seven cars answering that description within an eighty-kilometre radius from Dromsligo but all of the occupants checked out.’

  ‘It’s tragic,’ said John. ‘I only met Horgan a couple of times, when I came to the station to pick you up, but he seemed like a really great guy. And so goddamn young.’

  ‘We held a station meeting,’ said Katie. ‘Brother O’Leary came in from the Holy Trinity Church and led some prayers. There were a lot of tears, but I think it did everybody good.’

  ‘Any progress with those nuns?’

  Katie sat up straight and shook her head. ‘No... and I’d rather not talk about them just now, thank you. It gives me the gawks just thinking about them.’

  ‘You should eat something, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘No, no. Just a mug of hot chocolate. That will be grand. A mug of hot chocolate and a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Katie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We are all right, aren’t we? Like, you really are pleased that I came back?’

  ‘Do you really need to ask me that?’

  John kissed her again, and then stood up and went into the kitchen. Barney was standing in the living-room doorway, staring at her as if he, too, was thinking, You have to tell him. You can’t keep this a secret for very much longer.

  13

  They served breakfast early at the Greendale Rest Home. By seven o’clock, eighteen of the twenty-five residents were sitting in a semicircle in their Parker Knoll armchairs in the conservatory at the front of the building, with woven blankets to keep their knees warm, dozing or watching Ireland AM. The remainder were bedridden, in their rooms.

  Eileen O’Shea, the person-in-charge, came out of her office at half past seven to say good morning to all of them, accompanied by her charge nurse, Mary McConnell. Eileen O’Shea was a tall, handsome woman with heavy eyebrows and short brunette hair that looked as if it had been dyed a shade darker than her natural colour. She was wearing a lavender tweed suit and tan lace-up shoes. Mary McConnell was short and plump, with a chaotic attempt at a French pleat. She wore a long vinyl apron that crackled as she walked and she carried a clipboard.

  Eileen went over to an elderly woman with glasses that enormously magnified her eyes. ‘How are you today, Breda?’ she said, almost shouting because she knew that Breda habitually forgot her hearing aids.

  ‘It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?’ said Breda, noisily licking her lips. ‘I ought to be going to the market to get the messages.’

  ‘No, Breda, it’s Wednesday. You don’t have to go today. You can leave it till next week now.’

  Breda stared up at her with those huge fishbowl eyes. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘Who let you in? It wasn’t Patrick, was it? I keep telling that boy. Don’t answer the door until you know who it is who’s calling. That’s what happened to your Uncle Paul, God rest his soul.’

  ‘Is she still on donepezil?’ Eileen asked Mary. ‘Maybe we should ask Dr Murphy to reassess her.’

  ‘Some days she’s worse than others, but on the whole she hasn’t been doing too bad,’ said Mary, checking her clipboard. ‘She complains about the side effects, but for her it’s a straight choice, diarrhoea or dementia. She can’t have it both ways.’

  ‘Who let you in?’ Breda repeated, growing increasingly agitated. ‘It wasn’t Patrick, was it?’

  ‘No,’ said Eileen. ‘It wasn’t Patrick. You don’t have to get yourself upset. I’m only here to see how you are.’

  Next to Breda sat a tiny, sadly smiling woman with a maroon shawl around her shoulders. She looked more like a little woodland animal than a woman. Eileen was just about to move on to talk to her when the front doorbell chimed. She looked around to see who it was, because the front porch was right next to the conservatory. A nun was standing outside in a long black cape and a black ankle-length habit. She had her back turned, so Eileen couldn’t see her face.

  ‘Lucy, would you get that, please?’ Eileen called out. But her young, gingery-haired assistant was already bustling out of the office and heading for the door. She opened it and Eileen could hear her talking to the nun, although she couldn’t make out what they were saying. After a few moments Lucy came over and said, ‘It’s Sister Margaret Rooney, from the Bon Sauveur Convent. She says she’s come here to visit Sister Barbara.’

  ‘Oh. Oh. Well, this isn’t visiting time, is it? But I suppose we could make an exception, if she’s come from the Bon Sauveur. This is the first visit that Sister Barbara’s had from her convent in years. She’ll be so delighted. Please, yes – ask her to come in.’

  While Lucy returned to the front door, Eil
een went over to the opposite side of the conservatory. As usual, Sister Barbara was sitting apart from the other residents, facing the window and the little concrete yard outside, where there was an alcove with a painted figurine of Padre Pio. Sister Barbara never watched the television. She sat there all day with her rosary in her hand, mumbling endless prayers to Saint Anastasia to appear outside the fire door and take her away. Veni, Santa Anastasia, et salva me, over and over.

  Eileen thought that Sister Barbara must have been lovely when she was young, with that heart-shaped face that was favoured in the 1950s. Her hair was now wild and grey and thinning so that her white scalp showed through, and her cheeks were withered like the last apple in the bowl that nobody wanted. As Eileen approached her, she looked up and gave her a wistful smile, as if to say, is this all my life is ever going to be, until I die, looking at this little concrete yard and praying to be taken to heaven?

  ‘I have a surprise for you, Sister Barbara,’ said Eileen. ‘You have a visitor. A sister has come to see you from the Bon Sauveur Convent.’

  ‘A visitor? Who is it? Not Mother Kelly? No, that’s impossible! What am I thinking of? Mother Kelly must have died years ago.’

  ‘She says her name is Sister Margaret Rooney. Look, here she comes now.’

  Sister Barbara twisted herself around in her chair so that she could see the nun and Eileen’s assistant coming across the conservatory.

  ‘Sister Barbara!’ said the nun and held out both hands. ‘It’s so good to meet you!’

  ‘Well, I’m amazed,’ said Sister Barbara. ‘Thanks a million for taking the trouble to pay me a visit. Is there any special reason for it?’

  Eileen’s assistant brought over a plywood chair and Sister Margaret took off her cape and sat down close to Sister Barbara. ‘We were talking about you after our meditation last week and when I heard all about you, and everything that you did during your years at the convent, I just had to come and talk to you in person.’