The Godforsaken Daughter (19 page)

“Oh God-blisses-an’-savus, Miss King, thank you very much. Rose McFadden’s me name.”

“Rose is a good friend of mine,” Jamie explained, sitting down beside a much-winded Rose. “Are you all right, Rose?”

“The best, Jamie, the best. Don’t you worry about
me
.”

“You’re too early again, Mr. McCloone. Your appointment letter, please?”

“Aye, I might be a wee bit early, Miss King, but I took a lift with Paddy and Rose—”

“That’s the letter there, Miss King,” said Rose, relinquishing her fan. “Yes, we gave Jamie a lift, for my Paddy lost his talking teeth in the Cozy Corner Café, and Jamie wanted me to come with him, so we could see Dr. Shelfin together, like.”

For one unkind second Miss King thought that this McFadden woman might indeed be in line for a therapy session or two with Henry herself, given her propensity for incoherent rambling, but being the professional that she was, the secretary stayed her tongue and gave a little smile of understanding, before moving back behind her desk.

She ticked off Jamie’s name in her appointment book and said, “Dr. Shevlin will be along shortly,” before returning to her typing.

“I’m gettin’ outta here!” Finbar Flannagan announced. He stood up and pointed at Rose. “’Cos you’re one of
them
.”

“God-blisses-an’-savus, one’a them what? What’s he sayin’ anyway, Jamie?”

“I don’t have the divil of a notion, Rose.”

“What’s your name?” Rose asked kindly. “Doz your mammy know you’re here?”

“Now what did I say? Go call it a day. Don’t give me that mammy, mammy, mammy shit no more. Get outta my head! You hear what I said? Don’t give me that mammy, mammy, mammy shit no more. ’Cos I found out. I found out, didn’t I? I found out, eh, eh, eh?”

Having finished his spiel, Finbar spun on his heel and marched out the door, away from the intergalactic alien that was Rose McFadden.

“God, it’s that old drink that makes a body talk like that. God help his mammy, Jamie, is all I can say.”

“Aye, so,” Jamie said.

Rose breathed a sigh of relief, reached for a
Woman’s Realm
on the coffee table to calm herself. “There’s maybe a couple of recipes a body could use.”

Jamie, disconsolate and not a little nervous, gazed about the waiting room. His eyes fell on a desk calendar. He read the date.

He jumped up.

Rose shut the magazine. “God, Jamie, what is it?”

“Jezsis, the vet’s comin’ in ten minutes to vaccinate the cow. I forgot all about it.”

“Are you sure, Jamie?”

“Aye, I’m sure. We better go, quick.”

Chapter twenty-two

Belfast, 1983

T
he white Mercedes SL280 was hard to miss at the best of times. It stood out in broad daylight, and was even conspicuous at night. His father had shaken his head in disapproval when Henry visited the parental home shortly after buying it. Sinclair Shevlin disliked ostentation of any kind, or “drawing undue attention to oneself,” as he phrased it.

“You’re a psychiatrist, not a confounded nightclub owner,” he said, inspecting the car. “A man’s choice of vehicle should reflect his professional standing. An educated man impresses with his intelligence and not his wealth.”

Henry thought about that as he sat behind the wheel of the stationary vehicle. He’d parked it close enough to 13 Mountview Terrace to observe the comings and goings, but far enough away so as not to draw “undue attention.” He hoped that the one remaining streetlight—the vandals had smashed the rest—on the other side of Mrs. O’Leary’s house was too far distant. The Mercedes was white, though, and its sporty lines caused it to stand out from the pack. But in poor light, the high headrest and low roof would, he believed, render him almost invisible to a casual passerby.

He looked at his wristwatch. It was approaching 10:00 p.m. Darkness had closed in over Belfast. He heard a church bell tolling somewhere in the distance. Its notes seemed to intensify the solitude of the deserted street.

And it
was
quiet. Much quieter than he’d expected for a Friday evening. Since he’d taken up his vigil two hours before, there’d been little traffic in either direction, and only a handful of pedestrians. Two small groups of teenagers: boys and girls alive with the lusts that summertime brings to the young, two elderly ladies walking small dogs, a drunk weaving slightly and steadying himself at each lamppost, and an RUC Land Rover, whose occupants gave the Mercedes no more than a cursory glance.

It was the third vigil. He’d visited the street on Wednesday, the day after his encounter with Mrs. O’Leary. He’d parked slightly nearer her home, and had maintained his surveillance for the best part of two hours.

Surveillance! Henry smiled grimly as he turned the word over in his head. But it
was
surveillance, he told himself. His activity—or, rather, lack of activity—went hand in glove with his impersonation of a police officer, the pretense that had convinced the elderly lady of his bona fides.

Now it was Friday, and Henry was seated in the parked car for the third night in a row. Three hours had passed, and like before, neither Halligan nor his mistress had shown.

Mistress. He reflected on that quaint, somewhat old-fashioned word. He associated it with the gentry, or the French political classes. Try as he might, he found it almost impossible to think of Connie in that light. She wasn’t the “sort”; she was too independently minded to be somebody’s mistress. And was it not the case that only married men had mistresses? Was Halligan a married man? Henry had no way of knowing. At that stage, it was all guesswork. He didn’t even know—

He jumped. Without warning, the barrel of an automatic rifle had tapped his side window.

The soldiers had appeared from nowhere, or so it seemed. There were two of them. They stood on either side of the car. A third had moved into view just beyond the windscreen. He wore an officer’s cap and uniform. With a lazy circling motion of an index finger, he was wordlessly ordering the window to be wound down.

“Good evening, sir,” the officer said. The tone of voice was almost mocking, it seemed. “May I see your papers, please?” Henry reached for the glove compartment. “Slowly, please, sir.”

He suddenly felt vulnerable. Not without reason. The British Army had already shot dead more than a hundred people in Northern Ireland, most of whom were unarmed civilians.

At the same time, he was confident that his background would count in his favor. He came from a long line of Protestants and belonged to the “Unionists,” that section of the people who swore allegiance to the Queen and her armed forces. As he handed his driver’s license to the officer, he told himself that a quick check would reveal where his loyalties lay. That he posed no threat to the soldiers.

“I’ll have to ask you to step out of the car, sir.”

Henry began to sweat. He hesitated.

“Please, sir. We have to do a quick search. Nothing to be concerned about.”

The two soldiers—a private and a corporal—held their weapons nonchalantly as he opened the door and climbed out, but he knew that one false move would have them covering him again. He was shaking as the officer indicated that he should remain standing a little distance from the car.

Slinging their guns behind their backs, the soldiers went to work with practiced hand. The private switched on the car’s interior lights; the corporal produced a flashlight and played it over the parts concealed in shadow.

“Nothing here, sir,” he said.

The officer nodded at the boot of the car. The corporal opened it.

“Sir, I think you should see this.”

The other soldier was keeping him covered with the fearsome weapon. The officer went to look. He returned to where Henry stood. In his hand were several boxes of pills.

“Yes, I’m a doctor. Medication is part of my job.”

“And this?” The officer held up a transparent plastic pouch containing a small, flat cake of a brown-colored substance.

Henry was speechless. He made an effort to speak but could not. He knew what the substance was. He thought of Geraldine, Connie’s friend from college days, and her comment about them enjoying the odd joint. Could this stuff be hers? Connie’s?

He looked on in dismay as the officer opened the pouch and sniffed significantly. He nodded.

“Take him,” he said to the corporal. “You,” he told the private, “lock the car and give the keys to me.”

“A psy
chi
atrist?” Major Dunglass said, looking Henry in the eye with a stare that he swore had not wavered in ten minutes or more.

“Yes, a psychiatrist, a medical practitioner who deals with mental illness and emotional—”

“I know what a psychiatrist
is
, Dr. Shevlin,” Dunglass said acidly. “My question is: What’s a psychiatrist doing with a significant quantity of cannabis? And more to the point: What were you doing in your car, in that street, at that hour?”

“Nothing illegal, I assure you. And I resent being treated like a criminal. There was no need for your corporal to accompany me to the lavatory down the hall and watch my every move.”

The major said nothing for a moment or two. Then he pushed his chair back with an abruptness that startled Henry, stood up, and went to a counter set against the wall. All the while, the two soldiers, still with automatic weapons loosely at the ready, stood at either side of the door, keeping watch. There was an RUC constable stationed opposite, keeping watch. A man in a business suit was observing the proceedings with interest, his face shaded by a fedora. He hadn’t said a word since the interrogation began some minutes before. He was standing in one corner of the interview room, hands stuck casually in his pockets.

Major Dunglass returned to the table. He tossed the boxes of pills and the pouch of cannabis resin onto it.

“Amphetamines, Dr. Shevlin, and fifty grams of what our experts assure me is top-grade hashish. That constitutes an illegal substance, psychiatrist or not. Are you going to tell me what that quantity of drugs was doing in your car?”

“I was hoping
you
would tell
me
,” Henry said coldly. He jerked a thumb at the corporal. “Or perhaps you should ask the young man who planted them there.”

“That’s a very serious accusation, Doctor. I hope you can back it up.”

“My dear major, I’m a clinical psychiatrist with an impeccable police record. I haven’t so much as a speeding ticket—or even a parking fine for that matter. You can check
. . .
if you haven’t already done so.” He narrowed his eyes. “The army, on the other hand, hasn’t exactly got an enviable record in Northern Ireland. If you think—”

Henry flinched as the major brought his palm down hard on the table. He was livid. He expected a blow to the head at any moment. He was regretting his remark.

“I’m going to ask you directly, Doctor: Are you dealing drugs?”

“Don’t be preposterous!”

“A straight answer, please: Are you or aren’t you?”

“No. No, of course not.”

“Then how do you explain the fact that you were observed on three successive evenings, seated in a stationary vehicle containing illegal drugs, within sight of premises used by a known terrorist and drug user?”

“What?!”

“You heard me, Doctor. And would you please address your answers to the tape recorder.”

“I-I
. . .
Do you
. . .
do you mean Halligan?”

“To the tape machine, please.”

Henry had gone pale. His voice was barely audible. The police officer came and moved the recorder closer.

“What’s your relationship with Harris Halligan?”

“I don’t know the man.”

“I see. If that’s the case, why were you keeping his lodgings under surveillance?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.” He picked up a notebook and flipped a page. “On Wednesday evening, Thursday evening, and this evening.” Dunglass leaner closer. “Furthermore, you paid a visit to Halligan’s home on Tuesday afternoon at ten minutes past three, and left shortly before four. Do you deny that?”

How, thought Henry, could they have known all that? Mrs. O’Leary. That was the only answer. Or was it? Dimly, he recalled an army vehicle that had passed by out on the street when Mrs. O’Leary had admitted him. But the jeep had sped past without slowing. No, there had to be another explanation. He thought of the anonymous houses to either side of Mrs. O’Leary’s, the houses opposite. Any of those dwellings could be harboring a watchful pair of eyes: eyes that kept tabs on visitors to Halligan’s quarters. Yes, that had to be it. The owner of those eyes had alerted Major Dunglass to his presence.

“I’ll not answer any more questions until I have legal representation,” he said.

The major chuckled.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Doctor, but that’s not how it works here. You’re dealing with Her Majesty’s Armed Forces now, not the civil authorities. Might I remind you that Northern Ireland is in a state of emergency at present, and that the Special Powers Act has been reinstated? I’m the law here, Dr. Shevlin, and I decide whether or not you need a solicitor.” He leaned across the table again. “And my answer is ‘no.’”

Henry realized he was in a very dangerous situation. He looked to the RUC constable for help, confirmation, clarification—any
thing. But the police officer dropped his gaze to the floor. No help there.

“Now, what was the purpose of your visit to the O’Leary house on Tuesday?”

“I was looking for my wife.”

“Your wife.”

“She’s disappeared.”

Dunglass switched off the tape recorder.

“Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

“You didn’t ask me.”

At the major’s prompting, Henry related the events surrounding Connie’s disappearance. He was careful not to mention the Republican mural he’d seen on the Falls Road, or its “original”: the canvas he’d attacked at the Mondrian.

“When did she disappear?”

“A week ago. On the twenty-fifth of May. I was led to believe that this Halligan person knew something about her whereabouts.”

“Had she IRA involvement, Doctor?”

“No!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Major
. . .”

The voice was soft but heavy with authority. It was the man in the hat. He’d left the corner and had moved to stand next to Dunglass. Henry tensed again. He did not like the look of things.

“Please dismiss your men, Major,” the stranger said. “And wait outside until further notice.”

Dunglass, to Henry’s bemusement, obeyed at once, but with bad grace. He made a curt gesture to the police constable, who at once went to the door. He rapped on it sharply and it was opened from outside by unseen hands. Without a backward glance, the four left the room.

“Now, Dr. Shevlin,” the man said, coming out of the shadows. “We can dispense with all this.” He laid a finger on the pouch of hashish and slid it to one side. He sat down in the major’s chair and unbuttoned his jacket, pushed up the brim of his hat.

Eyes, colorless yet penetrating, met Henry’s. A shiver ran through him. That glacial stare, the predatory presence. He hadn’t met the real thing very often during his career but was in little doubt that the individual sitting opposite had the hallmarks of the psychopath.

“I want you to listen very carefully. If you value your freedom, and wish to avoid a serious criminal charge, you’ll do exactly as I say. You stand accused of two offenses: being in possession of illegal narcotics, and impersonating a police officer. Do we understand one another?”

Henry could do no more than nod glumly. He’d guessed correctly: they’d spoken with Mrs. O’Leary, and she’d told them of his deception. His gaze fell on the other’s jacket. Did he imagine a holstered weapon concealed by the fine tailoring? He thought he did.