The Godforsaken Daughter (13 page)

Chapter fourteen

S
ergeant Ranfurley, overweight, overwrought, and overtired from a fitful night, was enjoying a brief respite from the day’s affairs with a mug of tea and a ham sandwich, when his assistant, Constable Johnston, knocked on his door.

“What is it?” he barked between mouthfuls, not a little annoyed at the interruption.

“Woman to see you, Sarge.”

“Who is she, and what the blazes does she want?”

“Rose-Mick-somebody
. . .
here with her husband, Paddy. She won’t tell me what it’s about. Sez she wants to speak to
you
, Sarge.”

Ranfurley sighed. “Show her in, then.” He bolted down the remainder of the sandwich. Set the mug aside.

The woman’s voice reached the room before she did.

“Com’on, Paddy. We can’t keep the sergeant waitin’, so we can’t.”

Presently, filling the room, was a middle-aged lady, face flushed to the hue of her pink frock. She dwarfed her husband, following behind like an aging schoolboy in a cap and check jacket.

“God, Sergeant Ranfurley, thanks for seein’ me. Rose McFadden’s me name.” She came forward and offered a gloved hand. “And this here’s my Paddy.”

“Good day to you, Mrs. McFadden
. . .
Mr. McFadden. Take a seat there, won’t ye. Now what can I do ye for?”

“Well, it’s like this,” Rose began. “Biddy at the café
. . .
You know, Biddy at the Cozy Corner. She’d be a cousin of—”

“I do indeed,” Ranfurley cut in. “What’s she done?”

“Oh, not Biddy, Sergeant! Well, what I was gonna say was, Biddy tolt me, when me and my Paddy were in having a bitta lunch today, ’cos on a Fair Day we usually have a bitta lunch
. . .”

The sergeant sighed and switched off. He really hoped he wasn’t gonna hear what Mrs. McFadden had for the “bitta lunch.” But he didn’t doubt it for one minute. Since coming to this rural outpost, he’d met her like quite often. It was living in the bog that obviously made them like that; as noisy as a pack of bloody monkeys with their asses on fire whenever they caught sight of a man in uniform. When he tuned back in, he was pleased to hear that she’d finally got to the point.

“. . . well, what Biddy tolt me was that she seen you take poor Jamie McCloone away this morning, in hand-muffs, so she did.”

“Yes, what of it?” Ranfurley shuffled some papers on his desk to give the impression he was a busy man, and so indicate to Mrs. McFadden that she needed to get the point, sharpish.

Rose clasped her face with both hands and turned to her husband. “God-savus, it’s true, Paddy.”

“Aye, looks like it’s true right enuff,” Paddy confirmed.

“God, and there was me thinking maybe Biddy might’a been seeing things, ’cos”—she turned her attention to Ranfurley once more—“’cos, you know, Sergeant, the eyes were never good
. . .
got the stigmata in both of them . . . runs in her father’s side of the family, so it does, and a body—”

“Are yins next of kin, Mrs. McFadden?”

“Oh no, Sergeant. Biddy’s just—”

“I
meant
James McCloone’s next of kin.”

“Oh no, Sergeant. Me and my Paddy are good friends of Jamie’s and we’re worried about him, so we are. His wee dog died of recent and he misses him something terrible, so he does. What we were wonderin’
. . .
?”

Ranfurley glanced at his watch, resisting the urge to take it off, hold it up to his ear and shake it, just to give Mrs. McFadden the hint that his time was precious. He made a mental note to self that he wouldn’t be detaining McCloone anytime again soon, if he was going to have to deal with this bloody, blethering nuisance of a woman every time.

“Well, what we were wonderin’ was: where would he be now, Sergeant? He’s not in jail, is he?”

“He’s in a cell, cooling off. He was booked this morning for disorderly conduct in a public place. Does that help you out?”

“Oh God-savus! Jamie arrested for dis-ordin’ry behavior, Paddy. That’s terrible, so it is. He’s never done nothing wrong in his life before, the critter. Oh dearie me.”

“He has a problem with alcohol, Mrs. McFadden, but you don’t need
me
tae tell you that.”

“I know that old drink’s a problem, Sergeant. Truth be tolt, it’s a problem for many a man in these parts, my Paddy included, betimes. Isn’t that right, Paddy?”

“Och, Rose, I’m not
that
bad.”

Ranfurley looked at the doubtless long-suffering Paddy with a newfound respect, and concluded that the ideal marriage would surely be one between a blind woman and a deaf man.

“. . . now, Jamie’s no alcoholic
. . .
a heavy drinker, but no alcoholic,” Rose was saying.

“In my book there’s no difference, Mrs. McFadden. Now, because I’m a decent man, I’m gonna release him, on the condition that ye take him home with ye, out of my sight. And if I see him again brawling in public and wasting police time, I’ll have him charged and before the courts quicker than you can say that pope of yours is a Catholic. ”

“God, that’s very good of you, Sergeant.”

“Yooze can wait outside there, and I’ll get Constable Johnson to release him. I take it yooze are in a car?”

“We are, indeed, Sergeant,” Rose said, mightily relieved.

“Johnson!” he bawled.

Quick as a ferret, the constable was in the doorway.

“Yes, Sarge.”

“Release McCloone, so these people can take him outta my sight.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Ranfurley stood up to give the pair the hint that he’d more important things to be getting on with.

“Yooze can wait out there in the park,” he said.

“We will indeed,” Rose said. “And it was nice talkin’ to you, Sergeant. Maybe we’ll see you again, round about the town, like.”

Not if I see you first
, thought Ranfurley unkindly.
Not if I see you first.

Chapter fifteen

Belfast, 1983

T
he persistent ringing of his doorbell startled Henry Shevlin and set his heart pounding. The police? Who else could it be at—he glanced at the hall clock—at eleven in the evening?

They have news, he thought. She’s turned up. But, as his fingers reached for the door handle, another possibility occurred to him. A very grim possibility.

“Henry?”

It was a woman’s voice. It was accompanied by a pounding on the door and a further urgent ringing of the bell.

As he undid the safety latches, he was expecting to see Sergeant Hanson. It was four days since she’d interviewed him and perhaps she had news. But she wouldn’t call him by his first name, would she?

His visitor was a woman of about Connie’s age: early thirties, Henry figured. In the unflattering porch light her face looked haggard and concerned. He held the door open and she entered nervously.

“I know you, don’t I?” he said.

“Geraldine. Geraldine Reynolds.”

Henry’s heart lifted. “Of course! Geraldine from art college days. God, has . . . has Connie been in touch with you?”

She shook her head sadly. “Sorry to call so late, but I just had to come, when I heard.”

He led her into the kitchen.

She was quite pretty when seen in the warm, more flattering light. Dark brown hair, long and crimped, framing a face of symmetrical, childlike features, but her skin, rough, patchy, spoke of an addiction of some sort.

Her style of clothing resembled Connie’s: distinctive, colorful, what could be called “arty.” A dark-leather bag with a
Ban the Bomb
insignia dangled from her left shoulder.

Henry tried to keep the atmosphere light. “I didn’t recognize you for a minute. It’s just that you look
. . .
er
. . .”

“Older? It’s called ‘aging,’ Henry. It happens to everyone. Even to men.”

“What brings you to Belfast, then?”

“Well, believe or not, I’m giving a two-day workshop at the art college. That’s when I saw the poster. Tell me it isn’t true, Henry. Please tell me it isn’t true.”

He sighed. “Afraid it is, Geraldine.”

“God, I’m still in shock . . . Poor, poor Connie.”

“Can I get you something . . . coffee?”

She stood looking about the spacious kitchen. Henry could see she was admiring Connie’s artistic contributions to the minimalist decor.

An artist admiring the work of another artist.

“I could use something stronger if you have it, Henry.”

He glanced at her sharply. “I’ve only red wine and Scotch.”

“A Scotch, please. I think I need one.”

“We’ll go into the front room.”

He threw the switches in the big parlor and drew the shades. Geraldine sat down at the coffee table.

“You’re still in Sligo, then?”

“Yes. I met a guy from the area. Long story, Henry. I won’t bore you with it right this minute.”

She took her whiskey. He was surprised to see her down it in one.

“Are you sure it’s true?” He could hear the faint hope in her voice, the last-ditch bid for reassurance.

“Yes, but I haven’t given up hope.” He sat down opposite her.

“What did the police say?”

He told her about his two interviews, leaving out one or two of the intimate questions that Sergeant Hanson had been so keen on plying him with. Geraldine listened, nodding at brief intervals. He refilled her glass.

“It’s not like Connie,” she said, downing the second glass just as swiftly. “Not at all. She was always a bit
. . .
eh
. . .
wild, you might say, but all in good fun.”

“Wild.”

Geraldine blushed. “Did I say ‘wild’? Well, maybe not wild, no. Not in
that
sense. I meant she was a real party girl—we all were, the three of us: Connie, Sheila, and me. But you knew that
. . .
She always said you’d rescued her from herself. And I think she meant it, too. But she was different in those days. She’d say the maddest things when she’d had a few.”

“A few?”

Geraldine blushed.

“A few drinks
. . .
and the odd joint.”

She saw his look of surprise.

“Oh, just cannabis, nothing major.” Geraldine got up awkwardly, reached for her
Ban the Bomb
bag and draped it over her shoulder. “I’ll go, Henry. I’ve a taxi waiting. Just needed to know if it was true. You’ve enough on your plate without me upsetting you.”

“Tell me, please!” he said. “Tell me the truth now, Geraldine. I need to know. Was Connie using drugs when she’d visit you?”

There were tears in her eyes. “Well . . . no, no, not really.”

“‘Not really’? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look, I’ve really said the wrong thing, haven’t I? Don’t read too much into it, Henry.”

“What was she on? I have to know.”

“Nothing. When she visited me just wine, I promise you.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, but avoided his eye. “Look . . . at college, joints, whatever you want to call them. Cannabis, like I say. We drew the line at hard drugs, though. No heroin. Ever. We weren’t addicts, nor was Connie. But that was a long time ago.”

At the door, he watched her cab depart and wondered how truthful she’d been with him. He’d seen the way she’d knocked back the whiskey. No savoring or enjoyment there, and her skin had the appearance of a regular substance abuser.

His thoughts turned to the medication Constable Lyle had found on Connie’s dressing table. He was wondering how much he actually knew about his wife. Her personal life, her habits, the secrets that she’d never confided to him.

He wondered if he’d ever really known her at all. He felt he’d been sharing his life with a stranger.

The following morning found him en route to Boots department store on Royal Avenue.

At the entrance to the store, he stood in line as customers waited to be frisked and have handbags checked by two security personnel at a table inside the door.

An old lady in hairnet and rollers was holding things up.

“Ye’ll find nathin’ in there!” she declaimed loudly.

“Just doing our job,” the security woman said, rummaging through a capacious handbag. “You wouldn’t like to be blown up in here, would you?”

“Do I look like an IRA mon, do I? In me hairnet and curlers, goin’ about me bissness . . . Well, do I? Do I?”

The security man rolled his eyes and beckoned Henry forward.

He extended his arms, the drill now as instinctive as breathing.

There seemed to be only one assistant at the pharmaceuticals counter. She was young—he judged midtwenties—with short hair in the style favored by Princess Diana. She was making an entry in a sales register, her well-defined eyebrows knitted in a frown as her eyes switched repeatedly from the register to an arrangement of invoices close by. He sensed that she’d been aware of him as soon as he’d approached the counter but had chosen to ignore him—or make him wait.

Dysfunctional situational ethic, Henry thought idly. He waited another minute. Enough. He coughed loudly.

“One minute, sir.” Gruff.

“I’ve already waited
five
minutes.”

She continued writing. “Needs to be done, sir.”

“You’re here to serve customers, not to do paperwork in public.”

This time she made no reply. He saw her smirk. He placed his palms squarely on the counter.

“Miss, are you going—”

“Dr. Shevlin?”

He turned at the sound of the voice. A young man in a white coat was approaching. Henry heard the assistant hurriedly finish whatever it was she was doing.

“Alfie! Didn’t know you worked here.”

The young man shook Henry’s hand. “It’s a living,” he said with a smile. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, this and that.” He tried to sound nonchalant. The blonde sales assistant, in the meantime, had assumed a customer-friendly professional air and was treating Henry to an ingratiating smile. The physician in him was convinced she might develop a temporomandibular joint disorder if she wasn’t careful. “I’m trying to trace who it was who prescribed some pills for my wife. For Constance.”

“I see. Well, I’m sure Miss Clare can help you there. Can’t you, May?”

“I’m sure I can, Mr. Ross,” the girl said fawningly. She turned to Henry. “What’s the name, sir?”

“Shevlin,” Mr. Ross said. “I’m sure the doctor’s wife will be in our records.”

The assistant was regarding Henry with a newfound respect. “Shouldn’t be too difficult to find, Dr. Shevlin. We do it all alphabetically here.”

She went to the rear of the enclosure and pulled open one of the filing cabinets. Even Henry was surprised by her efficiency, for in a matter of seconds she was back.

“Here we are, Dr. Shevlin.” She handed him a prescription.

Henry studied the leaflet. He was mystified. Yes, it was from his prescription pad, stamped with the Mater Infirmorum Hospital address and made out in the name of Constance Shevlin: Indalpine, 10mg, May 5, 1983. He peered more closely at the signature. It looked like his.

But . . . there were several prescription pads at home. Was it possible that Connie had . . . ?

“I really don’t understand,” he said to Alfie. “I have no memory of signing this.”

“Maybe your wife forged it, then.” It was the bold May.

Henry stared at her, speechless.

Alfie cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Miss Clare, can you restock that shelf with Panadol over there? We’re running low
again
,
I see.”

Back on Royal Avenue, Henry was sorely confounded. Nothing was making sense anymore. His final hope of tracing Connie’s movements had been dashed. He had most definitely
not
prescribed those antidepressants.

He didn’t even have the bottle of pills. The police were holding onto them. Yet he was certain of the date on which they’d been dispensed to Connie: May 5. The label had given him the address of the dispenser: Boots on Royal Avenue. There could be no mistake. His near-eidetic memory seldom played him false.

Connie was gone. That much was certain. Yet he felt that all remaining traces of her were being slowly and efficiently erased. As if she’d never existed.

The psychiatrist could have been forgiven for feeling he was going the way of his patients.
Am I
, he asked himself,
the crazy one?
But it was a moment of doubt he vowed he’d not be revisiting. No, Connie might be missing, but she was
not
dead. He was not going crazy. And he would find her. No matter what it took.