Dead Girls Dancing Page 7

  Danny Coffey squeezed his eyes tight shut and wrung his hands even more tightly together. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said.

  Katie reached out to touch his arm, but at that moment her iPhone rang. She saw that it was Bill Phinner, presumably calling her from Lower Shandon Street.

  ‘Hey there, Bill, how’s she cutting?’

  ‘You’ll be needing to fetch yourself over here, ma’am,’ he told her, though his tone was just as flat as ever, as if he were telling her about nothing more exciting than a special offer on fabric softener at Dunne’s. ‘They’ve just lifted the roof off the studio with the high reach excavator, and would you believe it, underneath all the slates and rafters they’ve uncovered two more bodies, a man and a woman.’

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ said Katie, and crossed herself. ‘How are they dressed?’

  ‘Just in normal street clothes, not dancing outfits. They’re both charred beyond facial recognition – black, like they’ve been left on a barbecue. However, your man was carrying his wallet on him and his name on his driving licence is just about legible. Ronan John Barrett, born 16 January 1995.’

  ‘How about the woman?’

  ‘No ID on her, although she’s wearing a Pandora charm bracelet which somebody ought to recognize. Failing that, of course, we can always identify her through her dentistry and DNA.’

  Katie said, ‘Could you stall it a moment, please, Bill? I have Danny Coffey with me here, he’s the owner of Toirneach Damhsa.’

  She lowered her iPhone and said to Danny Coffey, ‘Ronan John Barrett, does that name mean anything to you?’

  Danny Coffey stared at her. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘He’s one of our dancers. The second best, if not the best. He thinks he’s it-and-a-bit like, but there’s no doubt at all that he’s something incredible, especially when it comes to the sean-nós solo dancing.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Coffey, but a man’s body has been found in the attic and the likelihood is that it’s him. There was a woman with him, too, but she hasn’t yet been identified. The only information I have about her so far is that she’s wearing one of those Pandora charm bracelets.’

  ‘Holy Mother of God, that’s Saoirse MacAuliffe, I’ll bet money on it.’

  ‘Is she one of your dancers, too?’

  ‘She is, yes, and she’s fantastic, too. Oh, Jesus. She’s supposed to be getting married next month. Her fiancé’s an architect, I think – anyway he had something to do with the Capitol Cinema development on Pana. But I thought that she and Ronan were coming on a bit flirty with each other lately, do you know what I mean like? What in the name of God were they doing in the attic? They must have been the two that didn’t show up for practice.’

  Danny Coffey hesitated and looked around at Katie and Kyna and Detective Sergeant Begley as if some momentous truth had just occurred to him.

  ‘That means they’re all dead and gone,’ he said. ‘The whole of Toirneach Damhsa. It’s gone. It just doesn’t exist any more.’

  Katie said, ‘Me and my colleagues will have to go to the studio now and examine the deceased in person, Mr Coffey. I’m asking you to stay in Cork at least until we’ve completed the preliminary stages of our investigation. Do we have your address and contact details?’

  ‘You do, sure. I’m living in my late mother’s old bungalow in Ard ná Laoí, just off the Middle Glanmire Road.’

  ‘Okay, then. If anything else occurs to you, please call Detective Sergeant Begley directly, won’t you, no matter how insignificant you think it is? We’ll ring you when we’re ready for you to go down to CUH and see if you can put names to your dancers.’

  She stood up, and so did Kyna and Detective Sergeant Begley. Before he got to his feet, though, Danny Coffey said to Katie, ‘Did anything like this ever happen to you, Detective Superintendent? Did your whole life ever fall to pieces in the space of a single day?’

  Katie hesitated. She couldn’t help thinking of John. She had loved him so much, even though he had let her down once too often. After he had been kidnapped by Bobby Quilty, and his feet mutilated so that he lost both legs below the knee, she had suffered so much guilt that it had felt like a deep physical ache. After all, he wouldn’t have been kidnapped if he hadn’t once been her lover and Bobby Quilty hadn’t been trying to put pressure on her.

  But no matter how great her guilt had been, she had fallen out of love with him and her guilt could never have been a substitute for loving him. He had died trying to win her back, but she still felt remorse, rather than grief.

  Even though Danny Coffey’s question had put her in mind of her own feelings, it was much more revealing of his. She could see by her one raised eyebrow that Kyna had caught on to that, too. She wouldn’t need to ask her to set up some background checks on his personal life.

  ‘Yes, Mr Coffey, I’m afraid that’s happened to me more than once,’ she said. ‘It’s part and parcel of being a guard.’

  But was he feeling guilty, too, she wondered – and if so, why?

  8

  When Davy Dorgan walked into the Templegate Tavern the three men at their usual table visibly shrank, like slugs that had been showered with salt.

  ‘What?’ said Davy, scraping out a chair and sitting down.

  ‘You must have heard about Niall,’ said Murtagh. ‘I tried to ring you on your moby but you didn’t pick up. It was all on the telly this morning so it was.’

  ‘Of course I heard about him,’ said Davy. ‘What? Do you think I whacked him?’

  ‘I wasn’t saying that, for feck’s sake. It’s just that Niall was as sound as they come. Mouthy, I’ll grant you, but he’d never do nothing behind your back when you wasn’t looking like.’

  ‘He wasn’t to somebody’s taste, and that’s for sure,’ said Billy. ‘You don’t think it could have been that Dennehy fellow, the one whose missus he was shagging?’

  ‘That’s my guess,’ said Liam. ‘He told me that Dennehy came home early last week because he’d forgotten his piece to take to work. Niall had to climb out the back window and hide in the outside jacks for half an hour.’

  ‘Well, who knows?’ said Murtagh. ‘There’s more than a few people in Niall’s past he never talked about. He was in with the O’Flynns when he was younger, I know that for sure. My Breda rang his ex last night – you know, Patty – to give her condolences, but there was no answer. If Patty’s any brains in her head at all she’ll have changed her name and left the country altogether.’

  ‘It could have been the New IRA,’ said Billy. ‘They had a couple of cracks at Bobby last year, didn’t they, because of him calling us the Authentic IRA, and because he was starting to dabble in drugs.’

  ‘Well, whoever killed him, it’s a fierce tragedy,’ said Davy. ‘He and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but he was sound, like you say, and he knew his business.’

  ‘Sure like,’ Billy put in. ‘Now Bobby’s gone and he’s gone, God rest their souls, how in the name of Jesus are we going to carry on running the fag trade? It was Niall who did all the buying and selling, after all. I don’t know shite when it comes to any of that.’

  ‘Not a bother, Billy,’ Davy told him. ‘I can organize all of that. I have contacts in the customs at Ringaskiddy, and in Larne, too, so we won’t have any trouble bringing in the merchandise.’

  ‘What about the street trading?’ asked Murtagh. ‘We’ve lost more than half of our street sellers since Bobby copped it. Sure like, we can smuggle in all the duty-free fags in the Western hemisphere but if we don’t have nobody to sell them for us, what’s the use?’

  ‘Fair play to you, Murtagh, that’s going to take some organizing, I’ll grant you, but there’s a couple of lads I know from Knocka who can soon round up some kids for us. Don’t you worry. We’ll be back in business before you know it, trust me, full steam ahead, and now we won’t be pissing our profits away on fast cars and slutty women, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, Bobby, in case you’re looking down on us. Or up, from wherever you are.’

  Murta
gh took a swallow of Murphy’s and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘So what are we going to do now?’

  ‘I don’t understand the question,’ said Davy. ‘Carry on the way we were, of course, only more so.’

  ‘You don’t think that maybe Niall had a point about stalling for a while, just to see how things shape up – you know, politically like?’

  ‘We’ve a rake of weapons already, Murtagh, and more than enough plastic, no thanks to you-know-who. I was thinking about this last night, though, yes – and I have to admit that Niall was right about a couple of things: we could use some more finance and a few more fellers who know what they’re doing when it comes to communications. Every time we’ve fought against the Brits they’ve beaten us because they’ve had better intelligence. This time we have to outsmart them. We don’t want the Clonmult massacre all over again.’

  ‘I don’t find that very funny,’ said Murtagh. ‘My great-grandfather was shot at Clonmult, unarmed and with his hands up. And the Tans robbed his Sacred Heart badge off his body, too.’

  ‘I know that, Murtagh, and that’s why I said it. I wanted you to remember why we’re doing this, and not lose your nerve.’

  ‘There’s no way I’m losing my nerve here, Davy. It’s just that all of a sudden you seem to be taking charge here, and I don’t recall electing you leader.’

  ‘I have the connections, that’s all,’ said Davy. ‘If you think that you can do better, then grand, go ahead. I’ll never be deaf to suggestions. But if we’re going to take action, we need to strike now, and hard, before everybody forgets what the point of it is. A week’s a long time in politics, big man, and you don’t want people saying, “What the feck did they go and do that for?”’

  ‘I think—’ Liam began, and his voice was half an octave higher than usual, almost like a choirboy who has just smoked his first cigarette. ‘I think we ought to hold off altogether for a while.’

  Davy turned around in his chair and gave him a stare that was part exaggerated curiosity and part hostility. ‘And why do you think that, Liam?’

  ‘Well, we still don’t know who shot Niall, do we? They was saying on the telly that the guards don’t have any clues yet as to who might have done it. If it was that Dennehy fellow, then okay, we shouldn’t have nothing to worry about because none of the rest of us shagged his missus, did we? But if it was the New IRA, or one of the gangs, we could be right in the shite.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting we sit on our arses and do nothing?’

  ‘Niall’s been killed, Davy,’ said Liam, his voice even squeakier. ‘He’s like, dead. I don’t know about you, or you, Murtagh, or you, Billy, but I don’t want to be next. Me and my old doll, we’re supposed to be taking our holliers in Santa Ponza next month. I don’t want to be lying in St Michael’s cementery with a fecking great hole in my head.’

  He stood up, tipped back the last of his Murphy’s, and said, ‘I’m going to drain the main vein and then I’m out the gap.’

  Davy Dorgan said nothing as Liam went off in the direction of the toilet.

  ‘What do you think about that, then?’ asked Murtagh.

  Davy shrugged. ‘He’s only young. He hasn’t seen what we’ve seen. I’m sure he’ll come around if I have a quiet word.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I need to shed a tear for Parnell myself.’

  He weaved his way between the tables to the back of the bar and into the gents’ toilet. Inside it was gloomy and noisy with the gurgling of a leaking cistern, and it smelled strongly of lemon-scented deodorant blocks. Liam was standing at one of the three urinals, his legs apart and his head tilted back. There was nobody else in there.

  Davy came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. Liam looked around and said, ‘Jesus, Davy. I’m only having a slash here.’

  ‘Good word for it, Liam,’ said Davy, very gently. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out a flick knife and clicked the blade open. Then he pushed himself up close behind Liam, so that his chest was pressing up against his back. He reached around him and seized his penis in his left hand, gripping it hard and stretching it out in a spray of warm urine.

  ‘What the feck—!’ screeched Liam, but then he felt the sharp edge of the flick-knife blade up against the underside of his penis. He stood very still, although he was shuddering and breathing in tiny, contracted sips.

  ‘There’s something that appears to have slipped your mind, Liam,’ said Davy, so close to his ear that Liam could feel his breath. ‘The reason we call ourselves the Authentic IRA is because we’re an army, the Irish Republican Army. And since we’re an army, we’re at war. We’re fighting for the Proclamation of 1916. “We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland” – and we’ll never stop fighting until we get it.’

  ‘Please, Davy, don’t hurt me,’ Liam whispered.

  ‘But we’re at war, Liam, that’s what I’m reminding you, and when a fellow decides to lay down his arms and walk out on his comrades while the war is still raging, do you know what we call him? We call him a deserter. And deserters are always punished, and punished severely, even if they aren’t lined up against a wall and shot.’

  He pressed the flick-knife blade harder against Liam’s skin. The urine was beginning to dry now and felt sticky.

  ‘Please,’ begged Liam.

  ‘Well, you could tell me that you’ve changed your mind about that little speech you gave out there and that you’ve decided to stay and support us. Or you could say that you’re sticking by what you said and that you’re quitting and leaving the struggle to the rest of us. In which case I will slice off your mickey and flush it down the jacks. Which will be less than you deserve for being a deserter, but then I’m known for being merciful.’

  ‘You’ll do what?’ said Liam. He was lost in a haze of fear now and Davy might just as well have been speaking to him in some obscure foreign language.

  ‘Are you deaf, or thick, or both?’ hissed Davy. ‘If you insist on walking out on us, I’m going to turn you into the soft girl you’re behaving like. That’s all. And they won’t be able to stitch your mickey back on because it’ll be halfway on its journey to the Carrigrenan sewage plant by the time the ambulance gets here.’

  Liam closed his eyes, although he was still shuddering.

  ‘This isn’t a dream, Liam,’ said Davy Dorgan. ‘This is happening to you now, for real. I’m giving you five seconds and then you can fill in your application form for the LGBT community.’

  ‘All right, Davy,’ said Liam, without opening his eyes. ‘I’m with you, boy.’

  Davy Dorgan twisted his penis in his hand, as if he were wringing out a dishcloth, and gave it sharp upward wrench. ‘Good choice, Liam. Now let’s go back and have another scoop to celebrate. All men together.’

  He released his grip and went over to the basin to wash his hands. While he was holding them under the hot-air dryer he kept his eye on Liam in the mottled glass of the mirror.

  Liam stayed where he was until Davy Dorgan had left the toilet and the door had swung shut behind him. Then he looked down at his urine-soaked jeans and he started to weep, his shoulders shaking in humiliation and utter helplessness.

  9

  Bill Phinner was waiting at Farren’s Quay when Katie and Kyna and Detective Sergeant Begley arrived. He was standing by the stone wall overlooking the river in his silvery Tyvek suit, like an astronaut who had just landed from a space mission, and he was vaping.

  The media were waiting, too, and as Katie ducked under the blue-and-white crime scene tape Fionnuala Sweeney called out, ‘DS Maguire! We understand that more bodies have been discovered! Is this true? If it is, how many does that make in total?’

  Katie didn’t even turn to look at her, and neither did she respond to any of the shouted questions from the other reporters. She usually went out of her way to be helpful to the media, but today she wasn’t in the mood. After this, she would have to drive down to the morgue at Cork University Hospital and s
ee how the autopsies on the other sixteen cremated bodies were progressing, and how many of them had been positively identified. She would also have to console their grieving relatives, and that was even harder, because they would always ask her Why? Why my son, why my daughter?

  Once all the dead had been named, she would hold a full briefing at Anglesea Street and make another plea for witnesses and information. She would also ask the Very Reverend Eoin Whooley to come in to say a prayer for the victims and the loved ones they had left behind.

  ‘So you’ve given up the fags, have you, Bill?’ asked Detective Sergeant Begley.

  ‘I have, yes. Just like those two we found in the attic, except they won’t be vaping any time soon. Or ever.’

  Katie wasn’t amused. When she was younger her father always used to say that somebody had ‘given up the fags’ to mean that they had died, in the vain hope that she and her sisters wouldn’t understand.

  ‘You won’t need to suit up, ma’am,’ Bill Phinner told her. ‘We’ve completed all of our blacklight tests and taken all the samples we need. I’ll warn you to be wide, though. There’s a whole heap of debris and the floor of the attic isn’t all that safe.’

  He led her into the burned-out studio building. Assistant Chief Fire Officer Whalen was standing inside, talking to two serious-looking investigators from Cumann Imscrúdaitheorí Dóiteán na hÉireann, the Fire Investigation Association. He raised his eyebrows sympathetically when Katie came in. The fire service had to do nothing more than determine how the blaze had started. If it proved to be arson, though, Katie would have to find out who started it, and hunt them down, and bring a successful prosecution against them. On past experience, the chances of her achieving this were less than seven per cent.

  They climbed up the shuddering ladder to the first floor. The sour stench of smoke was even stronger than before and when she reached the landing Katie had to take out a tissue and blow her nose to clear the soot she had breathed in.