The Therapy House E-Book

Julie Parsons

• Herausgeber: New Island
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 562

Beschreibung

Garda Inspector Michael McLoughlin is trying to enjoy his retirement – doing a bit of PI work on the side, meeting up with former colleagues, fixing up a grand old house in a genteel Dublin suburb near the sea. Then he discovers the body of his neighbour, a retired judge – brutally murdered, shot through the back of the neck, his face mutilated beyond recognition. McLoughlin finds himself drawn into the murky past of the murdered judge, which leads him back to his own father's killing, decades earlier, by the IRA. In seeking the truth behind both crimes, a web of deceit, blackmail and fragile reputations comes to light, as McLoughlin's investigation reveals the explosive circumstances linking both crimes – and dark secrets are discovered which would destroy the judge's legendary family name.

Leseprobe

Julie Parsons was born in New Zealand but has lived most of her adult life in Ireland. She was a radio and television producer with RTÉ for many years until the publication of her first novel, Mary, Mary,in 1998. Such was the success of the novel, both critically and commercially, that she became a full-time writer. Her subsequent novels, The Courtship Gift (1999), Eager To Please (2000), The Guilty Heart (2003), The Hourglass (2005) and I Saw You (2008)were all published internationally and translated into many languages. Her novella The SmokingRoom (2004) was part of the Open Door series. She adapted The Guilty Heart for a five-part radio series for RTÉ and has written two plays, The Sweet Smellof Cigarette Smoke and The Serpent Beguiled Me, both for RTÉ radio. She is married and lives in Dun Laoghaire, Co. Dublin.

Praise for Mary, Mary

‘A beautifully written and harrowing first novel.’ Joyce Carol Oates

‘Julie Parsons takes the psychological suspense thriller to places it rarely dares to go in Mary, Mary, a first novel of astonishing emotional impact.’ The New York Times

‘An admirable, beautifully conceived work of a dark, compelling and original new voice.’ Sunday Independent

Praise for The Courtship Gift

‘The Courtship Gift superbly reinforces what has become obvious about Parsons’ talent: that she is one of those rare authors who can successfully combine psychological insight, literary style and heart stopping suspense. Haunting, evocative and compelling!’ Jeffrey Deaver, author of The Devil’s Teardrop

‘A mesmeric portrait of obsession and evil.’ Sunday Telegraph

‘A skilful, high-quality suspense thriller in the Ruth Rendell mode.’ The Times

‘A web of love, betrayal, deviancy and murder are interwoven in this slick, psychological thriller with its Pandora’s box of shocking twists and turns.’ RTÉ Guide

‘Parsons is a truly talented writer and this novel has real impact.’ Irish News

Praise for Eager to Please

‘Brilliant. A star in the making.’ Minette Walters

‘A classy, riveting psychological suspense by a writer who deserves to be with the big names in crime fiction.’ The Bookseller

‘Parsons refreshes the palate with her elegant and imaginative style.’ The Times

‘Masterful … the ending as bittersweet as it is satisfying.’ Sunday Times

Praise for The Guilty Heart

‘It is a remarkable book quite outside the usual run and ambitions of crime fiction.’ Sunday Telegraph

‘Parsons handles each character, each scene with characteristic tact and skill … engaging … poetic.’ The Irish Times

‘A mesmerising tale of obsessive love, harrowing loss and perverse appetites … skilful and compelling characterisation and evocative descriptions.’ Irish Independent

Praise for The Hourglass

‘Another great accomplishment, even more deftly written … it has a gripping, underlying menace that makes it a spell-binding read.’ Irish Independent

‘Here what lingers [is] the subtle atmosphere of threat the writer so deftly creates.’ The Irish Times

‘This is a dark, deeply disturbing read.’ The Examiner

Praise for I Saw You

‘Genuinely shocking, and definitely one for connoisseurs of crime fiction.’ Irish Independent

‘Tense filled pages and a spine-tingling story will keep you reading until the very end.’ RTÉ Guide

‘Here is a relentlessly dark psychological novel.’ Elle

The Therapy House

TheTherapy House

Julie Parsons

THE THERAPY HOUSE

First published in 2017 by

New Island Books

16 Priory Office Park

Stillorgan

Co. Dublin

Ireland

www.newisland.ie

Copyright © Julie Parsons, 2017

The Author asserts her moral rights in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright and Related Rights Act, 2000.

Print ISBN: 978-1-84840-577-6

Epub ISBN: 978-1-84840-578-3

Mobi ISBN: 978-1-84840-579-0

All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.

British Library Cataloguing Data.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

New Island received financial assistance from The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), 70 Merrion Square, Dublin 2, Ireland.

To us

Contents

The Beginning

The Middle

The End

Acknowledgements

The Beginning

It was a Sunday, the day Judge John Hegarty died.

Sunday, 7th July, 2013, to be precise. It was hot. Later the temperature would get up to twenty-six degrees, but even at nine in the morning, when the judge opened the heavy curtains in his bedroom, the sun was shining from a cloudless sky and he could already feel its warmth.

The judge needed to urinate. He stood at the toilet. He waited. The urine was a pathetic dribble with a faint colouring of blood. It was painful. His brother, Liam, younger by eight years, had told him to go to the doctor. He had ignored his advice.

He finished, flushed the toilet and turned to the basin to wash his hands. He scrutinised himself in the mirror above. He didn’t look bad for a man in his late seventies. He’d lost his hair, but so had most. He hadn’t put on much weight, unlike many. He still had his teeth, well, the ones that were visible. His mind was clear, about some things at least. He could, if asked, quote chapters, verbatim, from his old law books. He could still remember judgments he’d written. And of course he could recall testimonies, almost word for word, from the most important trials he’d conducted.

He assumed he had prostate cancer. After all, most men succumb to it sooner or later. But he had no intention of subjecting himself to the indignities of the rectal examination. He didn’t want some overpaid urologist half his age poking and prodding, and not just his rectum and his penis. He knew the kinds of questions he would be asked, and he had no intention of answering them. No one’s business how he was leading the final phase of his life. He could look after himself, for the time being at least.

He dressed carefully, as was his habit. Everything clean today; yesterday’s clothes dropped into the linen basket. Mrs Maguire would deal with his washing on Monday. A white vest, and over it a navy blue linen shirt. He put on his favourite cream cotton trousers, a pair of light grey socks and his new Camper runners. They gave his sagging arches support, but without the ugly bulkiness of so many of the cheaper brands. He looked at himself in the pier glass in the bedroom and tightened his plaited leather belt one more notch. He’d lost weight. Who could eat in this weather? And he would not eat this morning. He was old- fashioned that way. Like his grandmother whose house he now owned. No food before Mass. Nothing in his stomach before Holy Communion. He could hear the church bell calling. He didn’t want to be late.

He walked downstairs. The walls were lined with paintings. Liam had a good eye. In this regard the judge had taken his advice. He had bought prudently, Irish artists, twentieth century. They had all increased in value, even if they had taken a bit of a knock in the crash. He stopped for a moment to straighten a large abstract by Felim Egan. He had moved it to cover the space left when he sold the small Jack Yeats. A cash buyer. No questions asked. The money would solve the problem which had arisen recently. An indiscretion from his past. The judge wasn’t too concerned. He had learned through the years that money solved most problems.

Ferdie, his black poodle, was waiting by the front door. The judge picked up his lead and clicked it onto the dog’s collar. He checked the time on the grandfather clock’s decorated face. The clock ticked slowly, steadily. He took his straw hat from the hall table, checked his pockets for keys, wallet, phone, glasses. Picked up his silver-topped cane and together, he and the dog walked out into the sunshine.

He’d gone to this same church when he was a boy, when he used to stay with his grandmother at weekends and during the summer holidays. Since he’d come back to live here again he’d been a daily communicant. The dog would wait outside, his lead slipped over the railings. The judge would go to his usual pew, five rows from the front. He’d genuflect before the altar. He’d sit, kneel, stand. He’d pray, receive the host, and leave the church, blessed, sanctified, forgiven.

Breakfast then in his favourite café and wine bar in the row of shops just down the road. Anthony, the owner, would smile and wave him to his table at the back. A large cappuccino and a pain au chocolat. A bowl of water for Ferdie. The judge would eat and drink with pleasure. He would read the Sunday papers. He would watch the other customers come and go. They would nod and smile and he would nod and smile in return. He would hear the whispers.

‘You know who he is, don’t you? Senior counsel, Special Criminal Court, Supreme Court, retired now of course. Wonderful man.’

Before he left the wine bar, he’d buy a bottle of sherry. Today the judge chose Manzanilla. His neighbour, Gwen Gibbon and their mutual friend, Samuel Dudgeon, were coming for an early evening drink. Gwen loved her sherry. Samuel would take whatever was put in front of him. He and the judge would play backgammon. Samuel would win. Samuel always won. But the judge didn’t mind. They would bet as they played. Small amounts. Samuel would pile up his winnings and put them in his pocket. The judge didn’t mind that either.

They strolled then, the judge and Ferdie, along the sea front. The judge was tired. He had a nagging pain in his side. He turned for home. He would lie down and doze. It was quiet today. The house next door had recently been sold. Builders had moved in. During the week it was noisy. His sleep was disturbed, Ferdie was upset. But on Sundays peace was restored. He would lie down, dream and remember. He would enjoy. And later on the bell would ring. He would get up and walk downstairs. He would open the front door. And his life would come to an end.

Eventually Michael McLoughlin got the house for way below its asking price. The estate agent had said there were lots of other people interested and there were lots of people at the Saturday viewings. But even he could see that most weren’t that bothered. They clustered in groups admiring the white marble fireplaces and elaborate cornices. But he spotted them tut-tutting over the lack of a decent kitchen, the rising damp in the basement and the spreading water marks on the attic ceilings. And weighing up how much it would cost to take down the plasterboard partitions which had divided up the large Victorian rooms, making the house feel institutional.

And there were some who came just to wander around, stopping to sit in the low chairs, their eyes blank, their bodies relaxed, their gestures unconscious. The Therapy House was the name on the brass plate fixed to the wall beside the black-painted front door. The same group of therapists and analysts had practiced here for years. And for years and years the depressed, the paranoid, the lonely, the heartbroken had come to them for help and healing. And now they came to say goodbye.

When finally McLoughlin got the keys, after all the months of wrangling and negotiating, as the cherry tree in the neat front garden flowered, lost its flowers, got its leaves, got its fruit, he stood in the hall listening to the house. Creaks, clicks, gentle sighs, a fly buzzing against a window, a tap dripping somewhere upstairs and the low hum of memories. All those stories. Loss, rejection, anger, hurt. Tears flowing. Voices raised. And then the gentle balm of understanding. The salve of acceptance and self-knowledge.

He looked around. He liked the feeling of the house. It was calm and warm. It was peaceful and protective. It would be a good place to live. The row of Victorian houses, the green in front, scattered with wooden benches and a small grove of silver birches at either end.

A project, that was what he needed now he was retired. Something practical. He’d restore the old house. It would be an investment as well as a home. And when he got too old for it, he’d move into the basement and rent out the rest.

He closed the front door and walked down the front steps. He turned and looked back. The sun glinted off the glass, a large bay window, with a smaller one beside it on the top floor and another at hall level. It was so hot today. Strange to feel the heat after the long cold winter which had lasted well into May, so that nothing had grown. Even the large lawn around his old house in Stepaside had been lifeless. When he got out the mower to give it a final cut before the For Sale sign went up, he barely filled one plastic sack with grass. Selling one house, buying another, he’d expected it to be a nightmare but it wasn’t too bad. His neighbour with the riding school had been only too happy to swallow up his garden. A residential equestrian centre, that was what she wanted now. His house would be perfect. She paid the price up front. Cash. There must be money in horses, he thought. All those stallion fees, tax free. And as for this house, he’d spotted it in TheIrish Times property section. He’d cut out the photograph and phoned the agent immediately. He’d offered low. They’d held out for more, but he was a cash buyer too. And these were straitened times.

He jiggled the keys in his hand. He locked the doors, the black painted one at the top of the granite steps, and the smaller red one, tucked in at the side, leading to the basement. He pulled the front gate to. It squeaked loudly and the latch clanged as he slotted it into place. He checked his watch. Just time to get to the airport, to catch the flight to Venice. He put his bag into the car boot. Turned for one last look at the house. Then drove away.

That trip to Venice. His first time. No one ever told him it could rain so much. St Mark’s Square flooded, his feet wet, tiptoeing across the raised wooden walkways. In pursuit of an errant husband and his girlfriend. McLoughlin followed them around from four star hotel to swanky café to restaurant, leaning over canal bridges to watch them cuddling in a gondola. One good thing: everyone in Venice had a camera or a phone. Click, click, snap, snap. A thousand photos of the canals, the bridges, the squares, the pigeons. Nothing suspicious as he caught them in action. Hugging and kissing as they drank their cocktails.

McLoughlin could understand the attraction of the younger woman. The aggrieved wife was well into her fifties. Giving birth to five children had thickened her waist, dragged down her ample breasts, padded her large bottom. Worrying about the kids and her husband’s expanding property business had carved deep lines across her forehead and around her mouth and eyes. Anger and resentment had given her voice an embittered tone.

‘The bastard,’ she said to McLoughlin when they met to discuss the job. ‘The fucking bastard. She’s not the first. But she’s the youngest. I’ve had it, up to here.’And she drew a line above her thinning hair. ‘I want out. Now. Before he goes bust. He’s going bust, I know he is. I can still read a balance sheet. So I want what’s mine before it all goes down the Swanee.’

But, Venice, well, McLoughlin was bored. After day one he’d got all the evidence he needed. But the wife had paid him to stay for the duration. Three days and four nights. There was more rain. The husband and his girlfriend disappeared into their hotel. McLoughlin brooded as he hung around outside. If only he’d known about the wet he’d have brought his wellies. He contemplated buying a pair but the damage to his shoes was already done and he was offended by the price the street traders were asking. That was another thing. No one had told him about the rip-off factor. Sure, the city was beautiful. Sure, it was unique. Sure, it was all those things. But it was also unbelievably expensive.

He wandered aimlessly, ducking into doorways to avoid the heaviest of the showers. He couldn’t get a hang of the place. There was no logic, no rhyme or reason to its layout. Narrow streets and walkways twisted and turned back upon themselves. Slivers of canal appeared and disappeared and little bridges suddenly reared up in front of him with awkward flights of steps and stairs. Not a good place to be wheelchair-bound, he thought sourly as he rounded a corner and found himself in a square, with a large church, beautiful against the grey sky. He was tempted to go in, but there was a queue, a crowd of American teenagers, all iPhones and gleaming white teeth, so he kept going.

The rain had stopped and now it was hot. Sweat dripped down his back. He crossed a small canal, little more than a ditch, the stone of the bridge, ornate and carved. The streets here were narrow. High brick walls with greenery hanging over them. Metal gates which gave intriguing glimpses of courtyards, washing drying, a child’s scooter, a cat sleeping in a patch of sunlight. And then another church. He looked down at his guidebook, and found its name. San Simeone Piccolo, a large green-coloured dome, copper he presumed, stone steps up to a portico supported by what the book described as Corinthian columns. He picked his way slowly towards the tall wooden doors, past the other tourists who were lounging in the shade cast by the building. But the doors were closed tight.

He turned around. The Grand Canal was in front of him, busy with boats of all sizes jostling for position at the landing stages. And on the other side, a low modern building, wide concrete steps leading up to it. Another glance at the guidebook confirmed it was the railway station, Stazione di Venezia, Santa Lucia. He moved down towards the water, looking for the bridge, turned to his right and crossed. He stood still, jostled and shoved by people with wheelie bags. Then he took a deep breath, slowly climbed the steps and pushed through the smudged glass doors.

That trip to Venice. His first time. He stood in the railway station and looked up at the departures board. Saw the name he wanted. Bassano del Grappa. A name he’d heard years ago, told to him by an old friend in Special Branch, who had a friend in Interpol.

‘Bassano del Grappa,’ Dominic Hayes had said, ‘that’s where James Reynolds is. My friend says the Italian police have him spotted.’

James Reynolds. A Thursday morning, 1975. A routine delivery of cash to a suburban post office. Children’s allowance day. The security van had made the drop and gone. No problem. But there was a car parked on the double yellow lines by the traffic lights. Sergeant Joe McLoughlin walked towards it. A shotgun blast. He died on the spot.

James Reynolds. That was his name. The man who killed his father. All those headlines. For weeks after the funeral. After they’d sat at home and mourned him. After they were supposed to have moved on. But they hadn’t. No trial. No recompense. No justice. Because James Reynolds was gone.

Bassano del Grappa, the name on the departures board. A small town at the foot of the Alps. Tourists in the summer, commerce in the winter. McLoughlin had got out his old school atlas. Found Venice, on the Adriatic, surrounded by water on all sides, then let his eyes move northwards from the green of the Veneto lowlands to the dull ochre of the higher ground closer to the Alps. And saw there, an inch and a half away, the name of the town. Would he go? Would he look for him? Would he have the nerve? Would he be brave? But somehow he never did. He put it off. He waited. For the right time.

A train leaving in five minutes. A sudden clutch in his stomach, and sweat again, this time cold across his forehead. He shovelled euros into the ticket machine, found the platform, climbed aboard and sank into his seat.

The flat countryside rolled past. Villages with their red-tiled roofs and gardens filled with tomato plants, lettuces, fig trees, the fruit not yet ripe, and vines, no sign of the luscious purple bunches of grapes that would soon festoon them. Flowers too, swags of bougainvillea, and fields with sunflowers, their yellow faces turning towards the sky. And in the distance, mountains dark grey topped with snow. The Italian Alps, he reckoned.

When the train stopped he got off and headed into the town. It was damp and gloomy. He walked along a street with a row of trees, their branches pruned into odd umbrella shapes. ‘Il Viale dei Martiri’, the sign said. Screwed into each tree trunk was a small framed photograph. Young men, named, and the same date. 26.9.1944. He walked slowly, looking at the pictures, then turned away, down a steep hill, through a series of small squares, towards the river which rushed through in spate. ‘Il Fiume Brenta’, the sign by the wooden covered bridge which crossed it. A strange structure, McLoughlin thought as he stopped to look at the pictures displayed on huge billboards. A ruined bridge, a ruined town. Destroyed, he read, many times, but most recently during the Second World War. Hard to believe, he thought, that it could now look so pretty, quiet and friendly. All that violence, all that destruction, but somehow so quickly forgotten. Like the Troubles at home. In the past now; another country. And again the clutch in his stomach, the sweat on his forehead.

Phone calls made regularly every year. Spoke to the superintendent in charge of the investigation.

‘We don’t forget our own, Mick. Your father, one of us. We’ll find the fucker sooner or later. Problem is,’ and there’d be a sigh, a pause, ‘we don’t have enough evidence. We couldn’t extradite him, we certainly couldn’t convict him. But,’ again the pause, and the voice now suddenly cheerful, ‘don’t you be worrying Mick. We’ll get him. Sooner or later.’

He stood on the bridge. It was crowded, thronged. He scanned the faces of the passers-by. He recognised no one. He was hungry, his stomach rumbling, a long time since the cappuccino and pastry he’d had for breakfast, standing at the counter of a café just off Piazza San Marco. Now he felt light headed, out of sorts. Not sure what he was doing here.

At the far side of the bridge was a bar, built so it was part of the embankment which dropped steeply to the river below. He peered in through the window. It looked fine, quiet, empty. He was served by a white-haired man with a brown leather apron. A glass of local beer, dark bread with a plate of salame, sausage and cheese which tasted smoked. He ate quickly. And noticed a black arrow stencilled on the wall, pointing down narrow stairs and the words ‘Museo degli Alpini’ neatly printed beside it. He stood, wiping his mouth, and gestured to the waiter and pointed to the sign.

‘Sì, sì signore. Il museo, molto interessante, sì,’ the waiter nodded encouragingly.

Downstairs was molto interessante. If you were interested in war, which McLoughlin was. If you were especially interested in the awfulness that men could visit upon each other. Which McLoughlin especially was. The history of the Alpine Regiment was displayed in grainy black and white photos stuck haphazardly on the walls. McLoughlin leaned forward to get a better view. There were bodies hanging from trees along a road. I partizani, the caption read. McLoughlin recognised the place. He had seen it this morning. The trees, the photos, the names. And beside these photos more of gli Alpini with their comrades, German soldiers, on the Russian front.

He worked his way around the small room. Below the windows the river slithered like a huge green snake, light reflected from its surface playing across the ceiling. Uniforms, faded khaki trousers and shirts, belts and holsters, guns, bayonets, grenades were displayed on the walls. A series of tableaux of wartime scenes. Models of nurses tending the wounded in a field hospital, and soldiers in a trench. And music too. Songs sung by strong male voices. He stopped to listen. He couldn’t make out the words, but the sentiments were clearly expressed. We’re all in it together. We’re fighting for faith and fatherland and in the end we’ll beat the buggers.

‘Interessante, no?’ The waiter from upstairs. He stood in the doorway, a duster in his hand.

‘Sì, yes, very interesting,’ McLoughlin pointed to the photographs of the soldiers in Russia. His guidebook Italian was exhausted. ‘The Italian soldiers. They fight with the Germans?’

‘Yes, allies then.’ The man shrugged. ‘Then we support Mussolini. But some people, no. The partisans, they hide in the mountains around the town and the Germans, they capture them, bring them down and they kill them, leave them hanging from the trees. Leave them there as a warning.’ He pointed towards the photo. Then to another board. ‘And some people are even more brave. See, look.’

McLoughlin moved closer. A photograph of a young man, handsome, strong, wearing the distinctive peaked Alpine hat with its feather, and beneath the picture a certificate from Yad Vashem. Benedetto a Beni, it said, had been honoured as one of the righteous of the nations for his bravery in saving persecuted Jews during the Holocaust period.

‘Thank you,’ he smiled at the man, ‘it’s very good for me to see all this. I come from Ireland. We didn’t take part in the Second World War. We were, what was called neutral.’

‘Yes,’ the man nodded, ‘I think you Irish. Your voice, you know.’ The man turned towards the stairs. ‘Come up. I give you special drink.’

The lights turned off automatically as they left the basement. Upstairs the sun had come out and the rain had stopped. The barman fiddled with a number of bottles.

‘Here,’ he pushed one forward. ‘This, grappa. Very special. It has flavour. Fruit flavour. You try?’

‘Very strong, forte, fortissimo,’ McLoughlin could see the words on the sheet music on the old piano at home.

‘Sì, fortissimo, but we drink only little. Not like you Irish and your whiskey.’ He poured a measure into a small glass. McLoughlin picked it up gingerly.

‘Taste. You like. My friend, my Irish friend, he like.’ The barman smiled encouragingly. McLoughlin sipped. It was smooth on his tongue.

He nodded, ‘It’s a bit like the drink we make at home.’

‘Poo-cheen.’ The barman pronounced it carefully. ‘Very nice. Jimmy, my friend, sometimes his friends bring him some.’ The man topped up his glass. ‘You know Jimmy?’

McLoughlin shook his head. He sipped again. He felt suddenly sick.

‘Look, here,’ The barman pulled a photo out from behind the row of bottles. ‘His friends come here last summer. Very important people. They bring peace to Ireland.’

He slid the picture across the counter. McLoughlin leaned forward. He reached into his breast pocket and fumbled with his glasses. He hated wearing them, tried to forget he needed them, tried to pretend he could read without them. But now he put them on. The faces were familiar. He knew who they were. Everyone knew who they were and what they had done. Some had called them freedom fighters; others called them criminals. Now they were respected. Politicians. Leaders of the peace process.

A third man stood between them in the photograph. Not a household name like the others. Known only to those who could not forget. And now, here he was, in this pretty little town, north of Venice, below the Alps, by the river.

McLoughlin took off his glasses. He gestured to the photo, pointing at Reynolds.

‘Jimmy?’ he asked.

‘Ahh,’ the man nodded and smiled ‘Jimmy, sì, Jimmy, molto gentile. He has the bar, the bar Irlandese. The Shamrock Bar.’ He pronounced the words carefully.

The Shamrock Bar. McLoughlin had seen it advertised on the website where he booked his flight. Pints of Guinness and glasses of whiskey. Pool tables and darts. Live music every weekend. A photograph, a good-looking blonde woman standing in the doorway. The caption identified her. Monica Di Spina Reynolds. And a statement in English. ‘My husband is Irish and I am Italian. We are very happy to welcome everyone. We offer Irish hospitality with Italian style and service. Céad míle fáilte agus buon giorno.’

He had written down the address in his notebook. Now he reached in his pocket and pulled it out, flicking through the pages.

‘Shamrock Bar, Via del Fiume. Is that near here?’

‘Sì, vicino,’ the man pointed. ‘Next turn, a destra.’

McLoughlin picked up his glass, and drained it. He paid his bill. He fumbled with the coins, his hands not quite steady. He stepped out into the street. Next turn, a destra, to the right, and the sign, the big green shamrock hanging over the footpath. He walked towards it and stopped outside the window. It was decorated with tricolours, thatched cottages, hurleys and girls with long red ringlets and Irish dancing costumes painted splashily across the glass.

The door to the bar stood open. He hesitated conscious that his heart had begun to race. He stepped away and rocked back and forth on the edge of the pavement. The street was noisy, traffic backed up. A woman approached. Small and blonde, dressed in jeans and a crisp white shirt. She smiled and gestured.

‘Buon giorno, signore, caffé? Una birra?’

He noticed the logo above her right breast. The bright green shamrock embroidered above the name.

‘Per favore.’ She ushered him in. His footsteps were loud on the wooden floor. She ducked beneath the countertop. Dark mahogany, like the shelves behind. Decorated with old stout bottles and a jumble of bric-a-brac. Half-burnt candles in brass candlesticks, hardback books with faded covers, an assortment of mugs, biscuit tins, Jacob’s Fig Rolls and Mikado, postcards showing typical Irish scenes, donkeys on a bog with two red-haired children, mountains misty and blue, jaunting cars by the lakes of Killarney. And framed, in pride of place, those three familiar faces.

McLoughlin stared at the photo. It had been taken here. They were leaning against the bar, pints of Guinness in their hands. All smiling. A happy scene. Old friends meeting up again. He couldn’t take his eyes from the picture. His face felt stiff, fixed, immobile. The blonde woman was watching him.

‘Irlandese? You from Ireland?

‘Yes, Irish,’ he nodded.

‘You know these people?’ she pointed. ‘Old friends of my husband.’ She reached up and tapped the glass with a long red nail.

He looked away.

She picked up a cloth and wiped the counter top.

‘You like a cup of tea? We have Lyons Green Label or maybe you like Barry’s? I put on the kettle.’ She flicked a switch on the wall. ‘My husband, he always say. First thing when you go in an Irish house they put on the kettle.’

‘Your husband?’ At last he was able to speak although his throat was tight and his mouth was dry.

‘Yes, here,’ she touched the glass on the photo. She busied herself with the tea. Gave it to him in a Belleek mug, pretty with its scattering of shamrocks. Offered him milk in a jug with the same pattern and sugar in a matching bowl. Put some biscuits on a plate. And chatted away, in English with a slight Dublin accent. About her husband, Jimmy, how they met in Spain, in Barcelona when he was teaching English and she was working in a bar. Summer job. How he had come back to Bassano with her. How they had a son, grown up, away at university in Rome.

‘And do you ever go to Dublin?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘My husband’s family, they all gone now. Jimmy likes it here. He says life in Bassano is better than Dublin.’ She paused and shrugged. ‘And since things got so bad in Ireland. No more Celtic Tiger, so,’ she shrugged again. ‘And Jimmy gets visitors. From time to time old friends come to see him. He catches up with what he calls the gossip.’ She smiled as she took his mug and wiped down the counter. ‘You like more tea? Or maybe something a bit stronger. We have whiskey here.’ She stood on tiptoe to reach for a bottle of Jameson.

‘No, really, that’s fine. I have to go. A train,’ he took his phone from his pocket and checked the time. ‘I’ll be late. Thanks.’ He jingled money in his palm but she brushed it away.

‘No, no charge. Not for a Dubliner like you.’

‘A Dubliner?’ He looked at her

‘Of course, your accent. I know your accent. You sound like some of Jimmy’s mates.’ She pulled a rueful face, ‘Not like the others. They speak with that accent from Belfast.’

He let her chatter on for a few more minutes, until he could bear it no longer. He looked again at his phone. Said goodbye and turned away. Pushed through the glass door into the fresh air. Outside he stopped for a moment and breathed in. It was hot now. He took off his jacket, slung it over his shoulder and turned abruptly. And found himself face to face. James Reynolds. Smaller than he seemed in the photos. Older now. His hair which had been black and curly was grey and thinning. The stubble on his cheeks and chin was grey too. But he still looked fit and strong. Broad shoulders in a tight denim shirt. No beer belly pushing over his belt buckle. And when he looked at McLoughlin his gaze was thoughtful and wary.

Or was it? Did he even look at him? Did he even see him? Notice him? Their encounter lasted for no more than a few seconds. Just long enough for McLoughlin to say ‘scusi’, as he brushed past. And for Reynolds to nod, step aside and turn to go into the bar. What happened after that McLoughlin didn’t know. He didn’t stop. He didn’t look back. He didn’t turn and grab him by the throat. Pin him to the wall. Spit on him. Punch him. Headbutt him. Kick him in the balls. Break his arm. Drag him to the ground. Stamp on his face. Smash in his wind pipe. Kick his head until his eyes rolled back into their sockets. He didn’t do any of that. He just walked away.

Bassano del Grappa. The perfect opportunity. Serendipity had brought him here. And what had he done? He’d bottled it. He’d walked away, tears of shame blinding his eyes.

Samuel Dudgeon crossed the green slowly. He was going to the judge’s house. He had arthritis in his hips, his knees and his spine. It hurt to walk. It hurt to do everything. He was wearing his heavy tweed coat. He cast a deep black shadow on the grass. He stopped to look at it. A hat, a coat, a bag, and the outline of a man.

He was cold. He was always cold. He knew it was hot today because the people he passed as he walked through the town were all wearing, well, they were wearing virtually nothing. Young women in shorts and tiny little tops which barely covered their breasts and stomachs. Young men with huge naked arms and legs, decorated with strange shapes. Coloured spirals up and down and around their biceps and thighs.

They looked at him. They laughed at him. Sometimes they shouted at him. He didn’t respond. He just pulled his coat more tightly around his small, shrivelled frame and clutched his shopping bag. The coat was too big. It hung off his shoulders and the sleeves trailed over his gloved hands. Well, it would be too big, wouldn’t it? It had belonged to the judge, but the judge had decided it was time to get a new one, and he had given it to Samuel.

‘Here,’ the judge said, one cold winter’s day when they were sitting in front of the fire in the upstairs drawing room, ‘here, Sam, you have this.’

And he dropped the coat on the floor where it lay, like a body, headless but with arms outstretched.

Today the judge had invited him to come for a drink. Sunday, early evening. Glasses of sherry. The backgammon board would be set up. There would be crackers and cheese, and perhaps a bowl of olives. The judge liked olives. Gwen Gibbon would be sitting as usual on the sofa. She would sip her sherry delicately and wipe her mouth on the small embroidered handkerchief she kept tucked up the left sleeve of her blouse.

The judge would throw the dice to see who would go first. Not that it mattered. Samuel knew the dice would favour him. And even if they didn’t he could read the board so well he was at least two throws ahead every time. The judge would shout and roar, with pleasure or disappointment. He would bet, using the doubling cube. Samuel would bet too. He would watch the judge. He was still handsome. Not quite the way he had been when Samuel first met him, but the years had been kind to him.They had not been kind to Samuel.

He reached the house. The judge had given him keys. He let himself in to the basement. Inside it was cool and dark. He was early. It would be a while before he was expected upstairs to drink sherry and play backgammon.

He walked along the corridor to the kitchen. There was that familiar smell. Damp and decay. Upstairs the house was elegant and beautiful, filled with light. Down here it was dark and cold, the way it had always been.

Samuel stood in the doorway. Barred windows looked out into the judge’s back garden. A tap dripped into a large white sink, stained with a green smear from the water. Beside it was a coal-fired range. The slates on the floor were cracked and dirty. Cobwebs hung in swags from the ceiling.

He moved towards the pine dresser which stood on the other side of the sink. Its shelves were bare, its drawers and small cupboards were open, emptied. He reached behind and pulled out a rectangular package. He placed it carefully on the square kitchen table whose surface was pitted by woodworm. He picked up his shopping bag. Inside were his tools. A chisel, a hammer, a screwdriver. He pulled the paper from the package. A woman’s face looked up at him from behind glass. He turned the painting over. The judge had told him. Take it out of its frame. Careful, mind, don’t do any damage. It’s worth a lot of money. Samuel turned it around in his hands. The woman was young and beautiful. She was wearing a pale blue hat which was decorated with cherries. Her expression was solemn. Worth a lot, the judge had said. Money, worth money.

Samuel turned it over again and examined the frame. It was old and the joints were loose. They had been well made. The woodwork teacher in the prison where Samuel had spent so many years would have approved. He was a perfectionist. Samuel took off his gloves and picked up the chisel. It would be easy to prise the frame apart. And to do it without touching the pretty young woman with the pale blue hat. The judge would be pleased. He would pay him well.

He began to sing as he worked. A song he remembered from his childhood in England. The washer woman who came every Monday, she sang it. Her name was Nellie and she was from Ireland. She taught him the words.

Oh Mary, this London’s a wonderful sight

With the people all working by day and by night.

He couldn’t remember all of it now. Just snatches here and there.

Ladies. Peaches and cream. Sip. Lip. Mountains of Mourne. Sweep. Sea.

He concentrated carefully on what he was doing. His hands were bent and twisted. They didn’t work as well as they used to. He had to be careful. He leaned over the painting. Time passed. He hummed the song. Outside in the garden a blackbird sang. And then he heard another sound. He lifted his head. A voice from upstairs. Calling out. He put down his chisel.

A voice from upstairs calling out. He moved quietly towards the steep stairs which led to the hall floor. He took one step, then another, then another. He stopped. He listened. The judge’s voice.

Help me, help me, help me.Please

And another. Loud and threatening. Frightening.

Shut the fuck up. Who the fuck do you think you are, you fucking shit?

And a bang, loud, echoing through the house, so Samuel turned away. Moved backwards, slowly, carefully, then dropped to his knees. Crawled under the table. Hands over his head, heart banging under his ribs, his mouth dry, sweat beginning to run down his face.

The dog was barking, barking, yelping. Then there was silence. It seemed to last forever. Then footsteps on the stairs above. Running down. How far would he come? Samuel curled into a ball. Above him the front door closed, slammed shut. Then silence again.

He waited. He crawled from beneath the table. He put on his leather gloves. It didn’t do to be without them for too long. His fingers would turn white with cold. He picked up his hammer and moved slowly towards the steep stairs again. Up and up, step by careful step. He walked out into the hall. Silence here, just the tick of the grandfather clock by the coat stand. He felt in his pocket for his keys. He locked the front door, the Chubb heavy in his hand. Then he turned. Up, up, up. Sunlight shining through the bay window in the drawing room, as he stood in the doorway. Sunlight falling across the body on the floor.

Samuel took a couple of steps closer. The judge must have been kneeling. He had fallen forward on his face. His hands were fastened behind his back, his feet too, tied together with plastic. Samuel tried to squat but his knees and hips said no. He dropped his hammer and reached out. He pressed his index finger against the judge’s neck. There was no pulse. He stood and walked away from the judge and sat down on the sofa. He could hear the dog whining. He must be in the bathroom, he thought. Best to leave him there. Samuel didn’t like dogs. His mother had a Pekinese when he was a child. It snuffled and waddled. And it bit.

He looked around. The room was just about the way it always was. But now the pale green carpet was stained and spattered with blood. The two chairs, covered with the same flowered material as the sofa, stood on either side of the fireplace. The grand piano was in the bay of the window. A vase filled with roses and peonies from the judge’s garden decorated it. And above the mantelpiece hung the painting, the man in uniform, peaked cap, dull green tunic, Sam Browne belt slung diagonally across. Gun in its holster, gloved hands clasped. The man’s eyes seemed to scan the room, to rest on his son’s body, the gaping wound in his neck.

Samuel stood. He walked across to the portrait. He looked up at him. His name was Daniel Hegarty. He was famous. He was brave. He was a killer.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Look at your son’. And he smiled and saluted.

He moved back towards the judge. And saw the gun beside him. He recognised it. The famous gun. The same as the one in the portrait. Usually it was kept in the mahogany cabinet which stood against the wall by the door. With the peaked cap and the ammunition belt, the cigarette lighter, the pair of binoculars, the black fountain pen, the wallet, the leather-bound notebook, the pocket watch, the missal, the jet rosary beads. All had belonged to the man in the portrait. All had been admired, venerated. Relics, they were, holy relics.

Samuel bent down and picked up the gun. The judge always kept it clean. Never allowed anyone else to touch it. The cabinet was open and the drawer below too. Samuel reached into it and took out the special cloth which the judge used to polish the gun. Now Samuel shined it and put it back where it belonged. He polished the key to the cabinet, the lock, the glass. He rubbed carefully, then returned the cloth to the drawer. He closed it, locked it. He would put the key in the desk downstairs. That was where it should be.

He looked around. Nothing else out of place, but there were two glasses on the small table by the sofa. He walked over and picked them up. Smelt whiskey. Saw a cup and saucer on the floor. Picked that up too. Walked out of the room, looked into the judge’s bedroom next door. Noticed a plate and cup by the unmade bed. Gathered them up. Walked downstairs. Checked the dining room. Remains of lunch still on the table. A soup bowl and spoon, a piece of toast, half eaten, a packet of cheddar cheese. He moved into the kitchen. The sink was full of dirty dishes. A loaf of bread on the countertop, crumbs everywhere. A pound of butter flowing from its wrapper in the heat. And on the floor a selection of bottles, beer, wine, and the remains of a takeaway in its carton, dumped.

It wouldn’t do, Samuel thought. Not fair on Mrs Maguire. He took off his leather gloves. He put on Mrs Maguire’s yellow rubber ones. He filled the sink with warm water. He washed and dried. He went to the hall cupboard and took out the hoover. As he pressed the button and the machine burst into a loud roar he heard the dog upstairs howling. That dog, he thought, he’s always hated that sound.

He cleaned and polished. Upstairs and down. Then he was tired. He took off the rubber gloves. He put on his leather ones. He put his foot on the lever of the pedal bin in the kitchen. He took out the liner. He dropped the rubber gloves into it, then tied the top in a knot. Left it by the kitchen door.

The light was draining from the summer sky. Soon it would be dark. He needed to rest. He walked slowly back upstairs. The dog heard him and barked again, loudly, frantically. Samuel stopped outside the bathroom door. He wouldn’t let him out. He peered in through the door to the drawing room. He saw his hammer where he had left it, beside the judge’s body. He picked it up. The judge’s eyes were open. They looked up at him. Samuel hefted the hammer in his right hand. He lifted it high. He brought it down. It smashed through the skin, the bones of the judge’s face. He lifted it again. And again he let it drop. Now the judge’s eyes were no longer looking at him and his handsome face was no longer handsome.

Samuel backed away, the hammer in his hand. He looked down at his shoes. They were spattered with blood. He knelt, untied the laces and slipped them off. Drops of blood, too, on the turn-ups of his trousers. He closed the shutters, then picked up the shoes. He hurried out and up the stairs up to the small attic. It was locked as always. No one went there except for the judge. It was forbidden. Now Samuel used his keys to open the door. The single bed was neatly made, a white sheet stretched tightly. He took off his trousers, folding them carefully, and lay back, covering himself with his coat. Beneath his head he could feel the hard outline of the judge’s laptop, hidden under the pillow. Above him on the wall hung a large crucifix. Christ writhed in agony. The judge, too, had suffered here in this small attic room. He had suffered for his sins, his many, many sins. Samuel had heard him cry out. Samuel had seen the marks of pain on his clothes. Samuel had taken them home and washed them, used bleach, hung them out in the sun to dry.

And now that was all over. Samuel closed his eyes. He sighed deeply. It was all over now.

The plane from Venice landed at around 11 p.m.

McLoughlin watched the errant husband and the girl hurrying into the arrivals area. He watched them separate before they went through customs. She looked tearful. He looked hassled. He saw the aggrieved wife waiting at the barrier. Her husband greeted her effusively. A big bear hug, a sloppy kiss that just missed her mouth, and a large plastic bag thrust into her hand. As they turned, heading for the exit, she looked back. McLoughlin smiled and nodded. She didn’t respond. He held up his phone. She raised an eyebrow. He’d call her tomorrow. Arrange to send her the evidence.

He went outside to wait for the shuttle bus to the car park. It was warm here too. Not as warm as Italy but a lot warmer than usual. Above the airport lights the moon hung in the dark sky. He felt unaccountably lonely. As the bus appeared, slowed and stopped, he clambered on board and stood leaning against the window. He found his car and got into it. He was unable to move. He couldn’t get James Reynolds’ face out of his mind’s eye. He stared at his hands on the wheel. The skin across his knuckles was unmarked. It should be bruised and bleeding, he thought. Torn from the impact, festering. His shirt front should be spattered with Reynolds’ blood.

He started up the engine and put the car into gear. He moved slowly towards the barrier. He turned out onto the road and headed for the M50. And then remembered. He didn’t live high up above the city any longer. Now he lived down by the sea. In the old house. Three stories above garden, as the estate agents put it. A waste skip parked outside. The builders at work. He sighed and put his foot on the accelerator. Hardly any traffic at this time of night and before he knew it he was turning off the motorway, his back to the mountains and dropping down towards the coast. He pressed the button on the door. The windows slid open and he breathed deeply. Salt air filled his lungs. He felt calmer as he drove slowly through the town, quiet and peaceful, the sea just over the railings, the moon’s silver reflecting in the dark water.

He turned inland and drove the quarter mile to Victoria Square. He parked outside his house. Stood for a moment looking around before taking his bag from the boot and bumping it up the steps to the front door. The houses on both sides were dark. No lights visible from the street. An old area. In the bad times families had moved out. The houses had been converted into flats and bedsits. Junkies had moved in. The desperate and poverty-stricken has stayed on. But recently, during the boom when property was gold dust, the square had become valuable again. When he’d driven through, trying to get a feel for the place before the contracts were signed, he could see the changes. Elegant gardens with clipped box hedges and paving. Front doors painted subtle shades of mauve and pink. Young families, SUVs with child seats, and scooters and small bikes propped against railings. Well-dressed men with children in buggies. One guy washing his car. He’d stopped to have a chat. The guy was friendly enough, but he could see it on his face when he mentioned he was interested in the house. Indifference, really. That was it. Touched perhaps with a taint of disapproval. Big houses like these, they were for families. And he saw himself through the younger man’s eyes. Old, alone, childless. It brought the reality home. It was too late for so many things; to have children, to have a good relationship with a woman, to have all those supports and comforts which so many people take for granted. Even his friends were few and far between. Now that he was retired, all that easy camaraderie had gone. What was there left?

He fumbled in his pocket for the set of keys. He unlocked the door and let himself in. Dumped the case and his jacket in the hall and headed for the tiny kitchenette at the back. Pulled open the plastic duty free bag, undid the extra-large bottle of Powers Gold Label and poured a generous helping into a mug left on the draining board. Took a swig. Felt the warmth spread through his body. Opened the back door. The fresh night air poured in. There was a strong scent of jasmine. The neighbouring garden, he’d noticed, beautifully kept, close-clipped lawn, herbaceous border stuffed with colour. The old man, his straw hat tipped over his eyes as he moved carefully along the gravel path. And the dog, a black poodle at his feet, barking loudly when he noticed McLoughlin peering over the wall. So the man shook his index finger.

‘Quiet, Ferdie, quiet.’

The dog took no notice, his bark with a slight growl of menace. The man turned to McLoughlin.

‘Ignore him,’ he said, ‘worse than his bite. Hope you don’t mind. Neighbours on the other side, both deaf. And not a problem when the house, your house now, was the therapists or whatever they were. Didn’t pay much attention to anyone here really.’

And McLoughlin smiled and reassured him. He wouldn’t notice it either. He liked dogs. A long time since he’d had one, but he’d an aunt who’d had poodles.

‘Clever creatures, aren’t they?’ he said.

And the man nodded and agreed.

‘Very clever. Don’t deserve the lap-dog reputation. Hunting dogs originally. Here Ferdie,’ and he clicked his fingers and the dog sat, and when he clicked his fingers again he held up his paw.

‘Good boy,’ the man patted the dog’s curly head. Then looked up. Supreme Court judge, John Hegarty. Retired a few years ago. Ill health, the official reason. Ill health, could mean anything. Word in legal circles and that included the guards too, was that he was losing his marbles.

But whatever about his marbles he knew his garden inside out. Whenever McLoughlin looked out the back windows he saw him. He walked with a stick but he was well able to weed, using one of those kneelers, with arm rests. Popping up and down to root out a dandelion or a dock. Inspecting his plants carefully. Dahlias seemed to be a speciality. McLoughlin recognised the plants, in weathered terracotta pots. Not flowering yet, but their foliage already lush. The aunt was mad about them, the one with the poodles. His father’s oldest sister, Aunt Bea, unmarried, some mystery about that, living in what had been the family home, a former council house not far from here. Of course she was long dead, and the house long sold, but McLoughlin remembered well the Sundays when his father wasn’t working and they’d go and visit Aunt Bea and sit in her little kitchen drinking tea and eating her cherry buns. Delicious they were, and he’d go out into her neat little garden and play with Dooley, the poodle. Throwing a well-chewed tennis ball until inevitably he’d knock over a pot and Aunt Bea would appear in the doorway and summon him. A slap across the back of his head followed by a handful of wine gums.

Now he stood on the top step, the mug of whiskey in his hand. He felt calmer, not so distraught. Tomorrow was Monday. First thing he’d email the photos to the aggrieved wife. He wasn’t mad about the private work but it paid well. Minus, of course, the agency’s 10 per cent commission. The matrimonial was simple and straightforward. Maybe he’d try a bit of insurance fraud next. That might be more challenging. And tomorrow he’d give Dominic Hayes a call. He’d tell him about Reynolds, see what he had to say.

He stepped back inside, drained the last drops from the mug and rinsed it out. It was depressing, this little cupboard of a kitchen. No room to put anything. A tiny Belling hot plate, no worktops, a miserable-sized sink. He couldn’t wait for it all to be ripped out. The large room next door, the dining room when the houses were first built, was to be his new kitchen. He’d pored over the plans, putting it all together. Braved IKEA to get his huge pot drawers and cupboards. Gone to his favourite electrical shop to buy the hob, double oven, fridge freezer. Chosen a black granite worktop. A black limestone floor for the work area and Iroko wood for the rest. He’d feel better then when it was all done, when he could cook and eat, and order had been restored.

He walked through the house, turning off lights, and went upstairs to the room at the back where he was sleeping on a mattress. Once it had been used for meditation. There was still a strong smell of incense. He opened the sash window up high, then stripped off his clothes. He settled himself, pulling the duvet up to his waist. He closed his eyes. It was quiet now. He sighed and turned over. His breathing slowed and calmed. He slept.

Woke suddenly. His heart was thumping, something wet on his face. He lifted a hand to wipe it and was certain, for a moment, that it was blood. But it was tears, streaming down his cheeks. How long since he had last cried? He lay back on his pillow, taking long deep breaths. Then he sank into sleep once more. Until he woke again. This time slowly, stirring uneasily, something banging away in his head. A sound, repetitive, irritating. He rolled over. A shaft of light caught his eyes so he put his hand up to cover them. Checked his phone. Six a.m. As bright as mid-day now.