Hayden’s trousers sat drying on Eddie’s chair. He was extremely upset – and no wonder. The criminal fraternity and the custodians of law and order were wreaking havoc with Eddie’s teapot. Plus, Steve the barman had mentioned spare underpants; no mention of spare trousers. As if that wasn’t enough, Lou Brannigan seemed to think Eddie’s non-existent dog was a cat killer. To be fair, the stuff about the dog food was incontrovertible. Having said that, Brannigan seemed to know a lot more about Eddie’s supposed mutt than Hayden did. If Brannigan wasn’t above getting involved in the sex trade, perhaps he’d planted the dog food as evidence. The whole thing was ridiculous but maybe, just maybe, this was Brannigan’s version of Verschiebung. He was trying to divert attention from his failure to spot a heinous crime in his jurisdiction, not to mention the fact that he was a pimp. Double Verschiebung.
‘You planted the dog food,’ barked Hayden in an authoritative voice, slightly undercut by the fact that he wasn’t wearing trousers. ‘You also planted the bowl. Your one oversight, my dear inspector? You forgot to plant the dog.’
Hayden’s trousers continued drying slowly on the chair. Outside, the sun moved slowly across the sky. At precisely 16.32, Eddie’s statue resembled, for exactly twelve seconds, a modernist Sheela-na-gig. One of Eddie’s little jeux d’esprit, but as Hayden was inside at the time it’s hardly relevant to the plot.
The sun moved ever on. Eddie’s statue settled down. Hayden didn’t. His life had become incredibly complicated and potentially pretty frightening in the space of a few hours. For instance, what if the Pope clan was lying in wait, following his every move? Beautiful evening for a walk, though, so Clontarf had its compensations. He managed to sublimate his terror as he took a right turn out of Eddie’s, down towards Castle Avenue. Professor Emeritus Stern cycled past him in the opposite direction, presumably on his way back from a lecture, but Hayden didn’t notice. I did, but this is Hayden’s story. He was too busy trying to unravel the complexities of his life. Particularly the bit coming up. Here is his thinking in distilled form: if the Popes killed Eddie, and Hayden shops them to the guards, he’s in big trouble. If Brannigan killed Eddie, and he shops Brannigan to himself, he’s still in big trouble.
Hayden was just passing the ancient graveyard in the grounds of Clontarf Castle, mulling this over, when his mobile rang. Caller unknown. He walked absently into the graveyard, pressed answer, and put the phone to his ear.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, hi. I went to the gig in Camden. Where were you?’
Shit. AA Trace.
Shit Two. He’d missed a gig in Camden.
She seemed to know more about him than he did.
‘I was elsewhere,’ said Hayden, curtly.
‘But you were booked,’ said Trace, a hint of petulance in her voice. ‘Oh, and they’re showing repeats of your TV thing. You know. Whatsit.’
‘Sorry,’ said Hayden, ‘but what’s whatsit?’
‘You know,’ said Trace. ‘It’s on E114.’ She put on her best comedy voice; Geordie for some reason. ‘“E114. It’s Toxic!”’ Back to Trace-speak. ‘The paedophile priest thingy.’
Hayden squirmed. Father Brown’s Boys. Hayden had played Father ‘Gormless’ O’Gorman. The basic premise: two priests on an island running a home for young boys. Luckily for him, his minor character was moved to a safe parish after the pilot episode. Still. It was part of a past he was desperate to forget and, until that moment, had.
‘I forbid you to watch it,’ he said.
‘But you’re cute,’ said Trace. ‘You know something? I bet those boys were secretly pleased. Not that what you did was right, but still.’ She sighed and changed the subject. ‘I don’t like you over there on your own, Hayden. And by the way, how’s the Eight Point Plan coming along?’
Hayden thought two things. Firstly, he didn’t do what he did. Father O’Gorman did. Secondly, he thought, eight? Surely it was the Twelve Point Plan. He was about to question her grasp of simple arithmetic when he passed a freshly dug grave and a wintery chill descended. Not on Clontarf. On him. Because graves reminded him of death and death reminded him of his recent visitors. It was a small step from a pot of tea on the crotch to a bullet in the cranium.
‘Got to go,’ he said, and ended the call. He peered into the hole and examined the mound of displaced earth. Who was it for? He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to know. Death, particularly at the moment, was not his sort of thing.
Anger, however, was. Had post-Catholic Ireland lost its moral compass? Prostitution, or so it seemed to Hayden, was no longer a hellfire and damnation issue. Governments around the world were adopting the so-called Babylonian model, which sought to address the problem by encouraging it, and Ireland was leading by example. The criminal underworld and law enforcement, thanks to Lou Brannigan, were one side of the same coin. As if that wasn’t bad enough – although Hayden was oblivious to this bit – Professor Emeritus Stern had taken to cycling on the pavement.
Hayden felt a welling up of righteous ire. A fresh sense of purpose. A reinvigorated mission. It was a sultry evening and he was wearing sandals, but he stood taller in his metaphorical boots. This was an epiphanic moment. He, Hayden McGlynn, was on a quest: to forge a new, post-post-Catholic Ireland with an ethical core. The thought both buoyed and terrified him. He turned back up Eddie’s driveway to see yet another man at the door. Hayden was rattled by thoughts of death, but the man looked harmless enough.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
The man yelped with alarm and turned to face Hayden. He had a round face and watery, colourless eyes. He stood meekly to attention, clutching an imaginary cap at chest level. Both hands.
‘Ah hello,’ he said. ‘My name is Pascal O’Dea. I wonder if I could come in for a little-bitty minute?’
Hayden felt quite kindly towards the man. No hint of hidden menace. Not the sort to empty a teapot over your crotch. Having said that, Hayden had no intention of inviting him in. What if he was a brush salesman, the inside of his gaberdine lined with samples? If he wasn’t a brush salesman, why was he wearing a coat?
‘Thanks, but not interested,’ said Hayden, motioning him out of the way with his front door key.
Pascal O’Dea moved meekly aside and rearranged the gaberdine belt under his armpits. Quite a refreshing response after his recent experience, so Hayden felt another twinge of guilt. He’d possibly been a bit brusque, but Pascal O’Dea didn’t seem to notice.
‘It’s just that, well,’ he said, ‘I have a bit of a confession to make.’
‘Try a priest,’ quipped Hayden. ‘I’m sure they could use the business.’
Pascal O’Dea covered his face with a pale hand and sniggered. He removed the hand and replaced it with a slightly deranged glint in his eye.
‘I killed your Uncle Eddie with malice aforethought.’
Hayden lowered the key. ‘Excuse me?’ he said. ‘Could you repeat that?’
‘I killed your uncle,’ said Pascal, ‘with –’
‘I thought that’s what you said.’
Hayden was flummoxed. How did this man know Eddie had been murdered? And how could he possibly have done it? He positively oozed meek. And besides, the name: Pascal? Pascals are not killers. Pascals are… meek. The meek don’t murder. The meek are… the meek are blessèd. Or perhaps he was hiding behind the name and the description? Hayden gave him a closer look. No. ‘Meek’ about summed him up. Early fifties. Lived with his mother. The centre parting – dead giveaway.
Obviously a fantasist, but still. Hayden feigned shock. ‘I knew there was something fishy about his death,’ he said. ‘Poison, was it?’
‘Ah no,’ said Pascal, twiddling his imaginary cap nervously, ‘I sawed through his ladder to the cellar. Left it, you might say, almost sawn through. Almost but not quite, so I was well out of the way when I achieved my goal, so to speak.’ He tittered at the audacity of it. ‘Oh, I did for him all right.’ He tittered again. Slightly higher pitch this time. The watery eyes filled with – what? Hayden tried to put a name to it. Lunacy? ‘Yes indeedy. That gent’s a gonner and no mistake. He won’t get up from that in a hurry. Thanks to yours truly.’
‘But – why?’
Pascal moved closer and hitched up his gaberdine belt. ‘I used to drop by in the mornings and switch the air on his bicycle. You need to keep it fresh, you see, otherwise it rots the inner tube. But hah! The thanks I got. He accused me of meddling. As if I would! He accused me of gawping in at his windows, if you please. As if I’m the type.’ Hayden studied him closely. He was the type. ‘He barred me from the vicinity of his hereditament. The inner tubes, says he, can look after themselves. Well I wasn’t having it! No sirree bob. Because they can’t! The inner tubes cannot look after themselves! So the point is, Mr. Hayden McGlynn, your uncle was a bit of a head-in-the-clouds class of a gent. He was forever leaving the key in the fizzin door!’ Pascal tittered again, possibly hysterically this time. ‘Well, that was his big mistake. I awaited my chance, so I did, and pretty soon he was off out, canvas under one arm, paint brush under the other, whistling away goodo. Brief interlude till the whistling died off and in I went, cool as you like, sawed the steps till they wouldn’t bear his weight, the big eejit, back out, home again home again jiggidy jig, made the mammy her tea,’ – he hugged himself with delight – ‘and awaited developments with interest.’
Hayden couldn’t believe it. Pascal O’Dea was clearly deranged but, equally clearly, dangerous. It seemed impossible that such a timid little man could do such a thing, but how else would he know about the sawn-through steps? His motive was bizarre but, given his mental state, plausible. He’d got the details right. Case presumably solved, which came as a huge relief to Hayden. He didn’t have to pursue Lou Brannigan or the Popes. In fact, it had all been much too easy. That was the trouble with crime fiction. You had to make it interesting. Plot twists and so on. Sometimes in real life, and Hayden was thinking of this case in particular, there was no plot. Twisted or otherwise.
It was an easy matter getting Pascal O’Dea to come inside and sign a full, detailed confession. He exulted in his crime. More than happy to help. In many ways the perfect crime for Lou Brannigan. He wouldn’t even have to remove his boots from the desk. Hayden thanked Pascal for his commendable honesty, said the authorities would no doubt be in touch in due course, and saw him to the door.
‘Sorry again about the tea,’ he said. ‘I’ve just run out.’ This was a lie, but the trauma of the teapot incident was still fresh in his mind. He wasn’t about to trust a third party, any third party, near the teapot. No matter how seemingly meek.
Pascal walked towards the side of the house. Hayden pointed at the gate.
‘Exit’s that way,’ he said.
Pascal turned and smiled unctuously. ‘A little job to do first,’ he simpered, delving into his gaberdine’s hand-stitched-by-the-mammy inside pocket. ‘But don’t worry. I’ve brought my own pump.’