10

Crowe pinched the corners of her eyes. She had spent seven hours in the Imagery Office, looking at tapes and disks. The council tapes drew a blank, so did the cameras outside the chippers and the off-licence. She slid in the final disk.

The camera angle was good on this one. It captured the front gate and the low front wall and a bit of the road outside. She checked the address. Not far from Ms King’s.

‘Give me something,’ she muttered.

Detectives hated this job. Except her. Not that she didn’t hate it, she told herself – just she was good at it. She had the patience and the eye for detail. ‘You don’t cut corners,’ Tyrell told her once. Though there were times she wished she did.

The clock on the tape crawled towards 2 a.m.

She thought about the backlog of cases she had on: burglaries, assaults and a rape trial that was coming up. She was struggling to focus on them all.

There was movement on the screen. A figure walked past the gate. It looked like a kid. She noted the time: 2.10 a.m. She rewound. She kept playing it back until the gait of the boy sunk into her mind. She brought it back to the best image of the boy. The face was blurry. Definitely young, no more than twelve, if even that, thin build.

Her phone beeped. It was a reminder of something she had put into her calendar. ‘Priest,’ it said. She had arranged to meet him up at the Parish Centre. She rooted through her bag to check she had all her stuff. She marked the time on the film, ejected the disk and left it in her cubbyhole.

Crowe buzzed. She loved assembling the building blocks of an investigation.

 

The New Beginnings Centre was a mismatch of single- and double-storey buildings at the rear of the church. Crowe saw guys working as she approached: men painting, raking up leaves. Some looked vaguely familiar. She caught a few glances and knew they clocked her.

She pulled back double doors and entered a surprisingly welcoming space. There were two comfy sofas, and a shaded lamp in the corner emanated a soft yellow light. Fresh flowers in a glass vase decorated the table. Faint incense burned near by.

The walls were covered with photographs of activities and awards of one sort or another. Voices and noises circulated from different parts of the building. There was a clatter of knives and plates and an arresting smell of baking. The whole place had a nice vibe about it.

‘Garda Crowe, I take it?’

She turned to see a man with glasses and a balding head. He had kind eyes, which narrowed slightly as he studied her.

‘Father Keogh?’

‘This way,’ he said, smiling, stepping quietly down a corridor. He gestured to a door that was ajar. ‘Please.’

There was a hush on entering. A thick carpet softened her step and dimmed lights cast the room in shadows. A hum of Gregorian chanting played from speakers that she couldn’t locate.

Father Keogh upped the dimmer and pointed to one of two seats in front of an altar, which was adorned by a smooth white cloth and a fat church candle.

The surroundings reminded her too much of the claustrophobic prayer room from school.

The priest positioned his seat in front of her and folded one leg over the other. He leaned forward, as if the two of them were about to resume a conversation.

‘Father . . .’ Crowe began, taking out her notepad.

‘Please, Pat. No one calls me Father, unless it’s to do with a funeral, or wedding maybe.’

Crowe smiled.

‘As I explained on the phone,’ she said, ‘I wanted to talk to you about Ms King?’

Father Keogh took a deep breath and held his hands out towards Crowe in a gesture that seemed a bit overdramatic.

‘God bless that dear woman. Mary had a heavy burden to bear and paid the ultimate price.’ He stopped for a moment and looked at Crowe intently.

‘Did she talk to you in the weeks before her death?’

‘Oh, yes. I saw her nearly every day; either at mass or afterwards or here in the centre. She sometimes helped out.’

‘Did she tell you about the people who were intimidating her?’

‘Garda, the dogs in the street know who they are.’

‘Father, there is a difference between what the dogs in the street know and evidence.’

He nodded, sympathetic. ‘Of course. Well, I don’t know the actual people who threatened her, but they would have been working for Ghost and Cracko.’

His voice hushed as he mentioned their names.

‘They have the whole community intimidated,’ he said, leaning forward again, clasping his hands on his knee. ‘I am concerned about this community, detective. I don’t need to tell you the problems it faces . . .’

Crowe brought advice Tyrell repeatedly gave her to mind. Don’t get sucked in. Focus.

‘Father, I need to concentrate on this investigation.’

The priest took a breath and nodded again in the same patronising way. She could see what Lynn had meant about him.

‘I encouraged Mary to go to the guards,’ he said. ‘But they – those who were intimidating her – appear to have found out. She told me about the wipers when they were broken off and I tried to comfort her.’ He paused, stopping to clean his glasses with a neat tissue taken from his trouser pocket. ‘Now there seems to have been some note, with a threat . . .’

Crowe knew he just let that drift out as he cleaned his glasses methodically.

‘What do you know about a note, Father?’

‘I’m her priest, garda, I hear things. And I do read the papers.’

She shifted in her seat. She hadn’t seen any of the news-papers.

How the Jesus is this information getting out?

‘I can see you’re irritated, but I am conducting her funeral tomorrow and I have been dealing with Detective Inspector Tyrell. A hard man is the detective inspector,’ he said, folding his tissue and putting it away, ‘but, a good man, I feel, when it comes down to it.’

He stared at her for a moment, as if making a point. What exactly it was, she wasn’t sure.

Is he letting me know he knows the DI? Is he suggesting the DI gave him the information? Or is he telling me the DI is a good man? And why?

‘This is another funeral, Detective Crowe, I have to preside over which, in one way or another, is caused by gangs or drugs,’ he said, as he inspected his glasses and slid them on to his nose. ‘You know how many suicides and drug overdoses I’ve had in the last eight years or so? I’d say about seventy to eighty, young people mostly. That’s this church alone. That’s not even including the murders. And in the last two years, with the recession and all that, I am seeing more despair than ever.’

She felt the sermon had started. She put her hand out to intervene, but the priest continued.

‘We have already lost a generation of young people to these gangs,’ he said, the cloying tone gone, replaced with a bit more bite. ‘I feel we are now losing a younger generation. Kids are left to run wild on the streets, all day and all night. They’re afraid of no one; they grow up without any structure, without discipline. They look up to the teenagers out dealing on the street and treat their bosses, driving around in their top of the range jeeps and BMWs, like football stars. Where are the guards building up relationships with these kids? It’s too late when they are twelve . . .’

‘Father, I’m here to investigate Ms King’s death, not save the local community. I can’t do that.’

Father Keogh closed his eyes.

‘Of course,’ he said after a few moments. ‘You are not here to listen to one of my sermons.’

After a protracted pause, he rose from his seat. ‘There’s something I would like to show you. It might assist.’

He led Crowe back out to the reception area and stood in front of the panels of photographs on the walls.

‘Look at all the smiling faces, at the innocence of childhood,’ he said, surveying those faces like a proud school principal. ‘There are good people in this community, garda. No one of us can save it. Not on our own. But the more of us the better.’

Crowe nodded, irritated at his attempts to recruit her to the cause.

‘The sports clubs do a wonderful job,’ he said, gesturing across the wall, ‘the GAA, the soccer, the boxing and the rest.’

He pointed to a picture of a soccer team.

‘See this man here,’ he said. ‘He’s just one of the people doing his bit. He tries to help these kids; he encourages their talents, gives them structure.’

Crowe looked at the face, but didn’t recognise him.

‘Shay,’ the priest said, tapping the image. ‘He runs some of the kids’ teams.’

Then he tapped on the photo again.

‘Of course, there are others, with different interests.’

The trademark black eyes and the deep sockets struck her first. Then the pronounced cheekbones and the long tattoos snaking down his arms.

‘He’s involved in the kids’ soccer?’ she asked, incredulous.

‘What better place to identify vulnerable boys,’ the priest said, his voice hardening, ‘and groom them.’

Crowe ran her eyes across the kids’ faces; they all looked so alike. The priest was gesturing towards the door.

‘I wish we could speak for longer, detective, but I have a Lourdes pilgrimage meeting to prepare for.’

She took out her phone and photographed the team.

‘Where can I find this Shay?’ she said, following the priest out to the door.

‘Shay trains the teams on different days, Tuesday and Thursday evenings, either down at the pitches or in the community centre.’ He raised his eyes up, thinking. ‘He’s probably in the centre today. You might be in luck.’

They stepped out into the light. Crowe adjusted her bag across her back and looked at the men, down on their haunches, pulling out weeds.

‘I give them odd jobs to do around the grounds,’ the priest said, following her eyes. ‘This is a religion of Christ, garda. We believe people can change.’

 

The youth centre was bright and airy. Drawings and paintings covered the walls, jostling with colourful posters for different events. Crowe zipped up her jacket to cover her holster and turned to the woman in the reception office.

‘Is Shay here?’

‘Shayo? He done something?’ the woman said, with a chesty laugh. ‘Jaysus, have to hear this.’

Crowe sighed.

Have I got ‘garda’ stamped on my head?

‘I just want to speak to him,’ she said curtly.

‘Only messing with ya, love. He’s in the sports hall with the lads, on the left.’

Crowe could hear the skid of rubber on timber and the echoed shouts as she neared a set of doors. A man passed in front of a window as she peered in, shouting at the boys. He spotted her. She nodded to him to come to the door.

He poked his head out, his tanned head glistening with sweat.

‘Shay?’ she asked, noticing bags under his eyes then surprising herself with a glance at his fit body.

‘Yeah?’

‘Detective Garda Tara Crowe. Have you got a moment?’

‘I’m a bit busy here.’

‘I can wait.’

He looked her up and down, narrowed his eyes.

‘I’ll wrap up here in a while. You can wait down in the art room,’ he said, pointing to the end of the hall.

She went into the room he’d indicated. It was filled with large metal tables, full of paints, brushes, pens and pencils of all types. Up on the wall were charcoal drawings – some quite good to her eye – of local scenes, an arcade of shops, trees in the park, BMWs, the canal and bridges.

Crowe had liked art in school, particularly drawing structures, like buildings and bridges. Her teacher thought she might go on to study architecture at college. Her parents didn’t put any stock in that. Teaching, they said. Or nursing. Or the Guards. Secure jobs. Good pensions.

She picked up a pen and doodled on a sheet of paper.

Some ten minutes later, Shay came in, dumped his gear bag on the floor and closed the door.

‘Thanks for talking to me, Shay,’ Crowe said, looking at him. ‘I can see you’re busy.’

He nodded. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘This is confidential, Shay, so I’d prefer you didn’t say any of this to anybody.’

‘You don’t have to worry about that, detective,’ he said, his smile forced.

‘What do you know about Ghost?’

He raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘Ah, here.’

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘As little as possible.’

‘What do you mean?’

Shay stood there, silent.

‘You know about him? What he does?’

‘I concentrate on the football, detective. And the kids.’

Crowe scribbled on her page. ‘I’m told you’re a good influence on the kids.’ She looked up and caught a glimmer of pride in his face. ‘Unlike Ghost.’

He shook his head, laughing.

Crowe looked up at one drawing, a guy slumped on the ground, a man with a gun standing over him and cash floating around them.

‘You know of any kids Ghost is close to?’

Shay seemed to study her, and still he said nothing.

He’s a careful fucker. I’ll try a different approach.

‘You really want to help these kids, then what are you doing allowing Ghost near them?’

He took the bait.

‘Spare me the juvenile psychology, detective,’ Shay replied, some steel now in his voice. ‘I coach football teams. I do the best I can with the lads, but I can’t fix their lives. Anyway, his son plays on the team and sometimes he comes to matches, sometimes he helps out. There’s no ban on that. He has a long involvement in the club.’

Crowe didn’t respond.

This guy could be of help. No point pissing him off.

‘I would just like to know if there are any kids under the influence, so to speak, of Ghost.’

‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid, detective.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

He didn’t react to the provocation this time, smiling faintly at her attempt.

‘There is a specific reason I’m asking you, Shay. This is not just a general trawl.’

Shay nodded, but, again, said nothing.

Crowe decided to leave it for now, not to force it. She had an odd feeling about this guy, as if there was a lot more to him than he showed.

‘Tell you what, Shay. Think about it. Here’s my card. Just in case you decide to help.’

He escorted her down the corridor. There was a clatter behind them. A couple of kids were messing and made a point of barging between them. They gawked at Crowe.

‘This the bit on the side, Shayo?’ a scrawny kid, with a big gob on him, said.

‘Go on, Spikey,’ Shay said. ‘See you on Saturday. On time.’

‘Ya done well, Shayo,’ a second boy said, laughing. ‘Not sure what the missus would say though.’

Crowe couldn’t get a good look at the boy as he passed, but noticed a red blotch on the back of one of his hands as they swung at his sides.

‘Have your gear ready, Jig, when I call on Saturday,’ Shay said. ‘I’m not hanging about. Okay?’

The kids jumped up in the air and smacked the ceiling. The boy with the blotch glanced back. He had a pasty sort of face, Crowe thought.

She watched the kid walk towards the exit. His build. His gait. His face.

The CCTV image popped up in her mind.

What did Shay call him? Jig. That was it.