She had brought her outdoor jacket from the cottage but not having anticipated a walk in the country in late November, he had left his in Milton. Neither had suitable footwear so they drove into Buxton, found an outdoor clothing shop where he bought a padded jacket for himself and heavy-duty walking boots for them both together with an ordnance survey map of the area.
They’d gorged themselves at the breakfast buffet, then moved their stuff out of their rooms. The Regency suite comprised an opulent sitting room with a three-piece suite, lush carpets and a separate dining table looking out through French windows onto the extensive grounds, a bedroom with king size four poster bed and two ensuite bathrooms. Jack had tested the sofa and judged it an adequate place for a six-footer to spend the night.
She’d thrown him completely with her offer to pay for the room and it had kept him awake wondering again about her circumstances. It could simply be she was determined to preserve her independence and not rely on him or anyone else to pay her way. That would be understandable if the argument were over a restaurant bill, but the bill at Buxton Manor would run to well over two thousand pounds for her alone. He couldn’t in all conscience allow her to do that and he wondered if it was just bravado on her part, expecting him to overrule her when the time came to pay. Yet that didn’t fit at all with the impression he’d formed of Caitlín McConnell. He was certain she wouldn’t have intervened so unequivocally if she had no intention of carrying it out.
All of which left him with one other alternative; she had plenty of money to blow on a swanky hotel room. Her financial affairs were no business of his, but he couldn’t quite equate her behaviour with someone whose life and career had been as she’d described. He hoped he’d get to the bottom of it today but more than that, he hoped it wouldn’t reveal anything about her that forced him to rethink their relationship. “Sounds like trouble to me, whoever she is.” Barry’s words rang in his ears. He hoped to prove him wrong.
They left the Range Rover in the town centre car park and picked up a footpath that headed west into the national park. They’d been walking in relative silence for an hour, only exchanging innocuous comments about the countryside and the beauty of the forest trail, when the footpath reached a crossroads and he stopped to consult the map.
“I reckon we go left here. If we step out we should make it to the pub by twelve.”
“Sounds good to me.”
He had been thinking again about the murder of Louise Harrison. There had been only passing mention on the news; suspects were still being sought, motives established, but the verdict would be the same; another sectarian murder in Northern Ireland. He wanted to know more about her connection to Sineád O’Callaghan.
“Tell me about Charlie.” She’d done it again, pre-empted his question by asking one of her own. Charlie had been out of sight and out of mind and he suddenly felt guilty about not calling her. But he knew he needn’t. Charlie would not have hesitated to get in touch if she needed something from him.
“She’s twenty-four, bright, beautiful, knows what she wants and doesn’t care how she gets it.”
“And what does she want?”
“At the moment, she’s obsessed with buying a house and moving in with her git of a boyfriend.”
“Obsessed?”
He recognised the question; not so much seeking clarification, more like questioning his judgement. “Charlie does everything at a million miles an hour until she finds something more important, then drops it like a ton of bricks and changes direction. I have great difficulty keeping up with her. She wears me out sometimes.”
“You poor old sod.” He was happy for her to laugh at him; he was happy for her to laugh at anything. Her eyes lit up and when they did, she was never more beautiful. “Why is her boyfriend a git?”
“Gavin is a chancer, a second-hand office furniture salesman.”
“Why does that make him a chancer?”
“It doesn’t, in itself.”
“Then why say it?”
“I just conflated two facts in the same sentence, that’s all.” He tried to suppress his irritation. She knew which buttons to press and he didn’t know whether she was trying to make a genuine point or just exacting some perverse pleasure from making him feel uncomfortable. “Gavin would be a git even if he was into rocket science.”
“So why is he a chancer?”
“He’s just using Charlie to get what he wants. I don’t think his intentions are honourable and I think he’ll dump her as soon as he gets bored or finds someone else.”
“Sounds like Charlie might do the same to him?” He hadn’t looked at it like that before but if by now Gavin didn’t know what he was letting himself in for, he was more stupid than he looked.
“That doesn’t make for a happy relationship.”
“How would you know what makes a happy relationship?” Her words stung; they implied criticism of him and his marriage to Natalie. “For others, I mean. They might be just what the other needs.” Either she had just realised she’d hurt him or that her words could be misconstrued and needed clarification.
“I think a happy and successful relationship depends on giving, not taking, and the trouble is they’re both takers. I think it’s a recipe for conflict and I want to protect her.”
“You can’t tell her how to live her life. She’s a big girl now and she has to make her own mistakes.”
“Yes, but I can’t help being a dad.”
“And you’ll always be there to pick her up when she falls.”
She’d read his mind, her perspicacity as sharp as the day they met when she’d intuitively picked his relationships apart. He wondered whether she was thinking of her own parents, whether her father would have been there for her, what might have been, but before he dared ask, she continued. “Has she got over the death of her mammy?”
He had no idea because they hadn’t discussed it. Charlie had moved on, filling her life with her own interests and pursuits, possibly a reaction to latent trauma or because that was just the way she was. He should be grateful that his daughter had not lapsed into a malaise like her mother. That would be too much to bear. “I don’t know, I’m sorry to say.”
“Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Got over it.”
“I don’t think you ever get over something like that. You just deal with it.” They came to an ancient stone bridge that crossed a wide stream and the sun came out briefly, enhancing what remained of the colours of autumn. She sat on the stone wall of the bridge and looked down into the rapidly moving water. Her hair too was the colour of autumn and her eyes, evergreen like the pine trees of the forest.
“I’d like to meet her, so I would.”
“Say the word and I’ll take you.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s goin’ to be possible.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. It’s bad enough you bein’ drawn into this without havin’ Charlie’s life ruined by it too.”
“Drawn into what? I still have no idea what you’ve done…”
“I haven’t done anythin’!” There it was, the flash of anger and frustration. Or was it fear?
“…what you’ve done to upset some bad guys from Ulster.” She picked some moss from between the crumbling stones and tossed it into the stream. It was swept away instantly and disappeared in the churning water. “Tell me about Louise Harrison.” He sat down next to her, but she refused to look at him, staring instead downstream, as if her life was down there somewhere, far away from here.
“She was just a journalist doin’ her job. She had nothin’ to do with me and as far as I was aware, nothin’ to do with paramilitaries. She was a freelancer doin’ a piece on The Sisters and she’d found out I’d been in there so she contacted me to see if I could give her any background or insight into what went on.”
“How did she know you had ever been there?”
“She was told by a guy called Eamonn Flynn.”
***
The ‘Real’ pub was warm and cosy with a selection of real ales, a menu boasting real home cooked food and an inglenook fireplace burning real logs. They ordered some food at the bar and sat at a quiet table with a pint and a glass of wine, well away from the few other customers. She’d gone silent and remained dispirited after mentioning the name, as if doing so was enough to slam the door shut on the memory, but he wouldn’t be deterred.
“Okay, so who’s Eamonn Flynn?”
“He’s dead.”
“You mentioned two people were dead. Is he the other one? Him and Louise?”
“Aye.”
“So, was he shot too?”
“No. His wife found him hangin’ in the garage.” The image of Natalie lying alone in their bed flashed through his mind. It had been traumatic but somehow inevitable. This was on another scale. “I never imagined he’d do that, even after what he found out.”
“I’m not with you. Found out what?” She looked haunted, clearly fighting back tears; her freckles had intensified, her eyes moist. She swept her hair behind her ears and took a sip from her glass. There was a marked difference in her reaction to that of the death of Louise Harrison. She must have been close to him. “Were you and he…?” He left the rest of the sentence hanging. He doubted Caitlín McConnell would reveal anything so intensely personal and knew he was on dangerous ground; he risked either a rebuke, an outpouring of grief or a punch on the nose.
“Aye. Eventually. He was married with two kids though, so it was never goin’ to come to anythin’ and I didn’t mind that. We couldn’t help it. It seemed to him like I was the only one in the world he trusted, the only one who could help him, and I felt much the same. We were lost souls, so we were.”
Questions flooded his brain, but he decided to shut up and let her talk. It was as if she was about to tell him something terrible; something he probably didn’t want to hear yet something he needed to know if he was going to help her, which ultimately, was all he wanted. Careful what you wish for, Jack.
“About a year ago, I went to a conference in Belfast. It was all about fund raisin’ and corporate tax structures, set up by the Chambers of Commerce of both the Republic and Northern Ireland along with a big firm of bean-counters and lawyers. My boss couldn’t go, so he sent me instead; said it would be good experience. I thought it was really interestin’ so I did and when we got to the lunch, I was sittin’ at a round table next to Eamonn. He was a ginger like me and we introduced ourselves like you do and got chattin’ and it turned out he was from Donegal and I said I was born there but had moved away. It sounded like we had a lot in common, but he was an Orangeman and was very active in the local lodge.”
“Was that a problem for you?”
“It’s difficult. We’ve all been touched by the troubles, known someone who suffered or got beaten up or even murdered and although it all looks pretty normal now, there’s still a lot of mutual distrust and amongst some, hatred.”
“Do you hate the loyalists for what they did to your family?”
“I don’t hate loyalists for what they think or what they say as long as they do it without threatenin’ anyone. I’ll always hate the men who killed my mammy and daddy. They’re just criminals and nothin’ can justify their actions. It goes for both sides.
“Did he know you were a Catholic?”
“I’m not a Catholic!” The rebuke was swift and loud enough to make him look around to see if anyone had noticed. Some had, but quickly averted their eyes.
“I’m sorry…” He was confused and genuinely contrite, but she hadn’t finished.
“Aye. So you should be.” She stabbed a finger in his direction, her green eyes boring into him. She lowered her voice, but the anger was raw and evident. “What gives you the right to make assumptions about people like that?”
“I just assumed it because your father was a Republican and you went to a convent. I never imagined it would be that sensitive. I just thought you were on one side or the other, you said so yourself.”
“That’s the trouble with you English.”
“I don’t get you.”
“You haven’t got a feckin’ clue who or what we are. You just think we’re all either green or orange, IRA or UDA, Catholic or Protestant; some two-dimensional country of extremists who have always been at war with each other and always will. We’re a complete pain in the arse for you English; a problem you all wish would just go away. I bet you sat there watchin’ the TV, seein’ the bombin’ and the shootin’, shakin’ your head thinkin’ what a bunch of feckin’ lunatics, thankin’ God the feckin’ Irish sea was there to keep a distance and you could just switch channels and forget about it. You’d never allow that to happen if it was just across the border in feckin’ Surrey, would you?”
It wasn’t often Jack Fleming felt like he’d been put in his place. She was right. He and everyone else he knew had always just dismissed the troubles as a self-inflicted problem, something the bloody Irish should sort out for themselves, and mercifully, far enough away not to impinge much on English lives, except for rare acts of violence on the mainland that caused temporary outrage but merely reinforced the view the Irish were irredeemable. He’d always thought the two sides couldn’t be reconciled; a belief based on the misconception there were just two sides. He didn’t take easily to being criticised or attacked, but he knew when he was out of his depth. He bit his tongue, then ventured on.
“So what are you, Caitlín?”
She sipped her wine and it seemed to calm her, for the time being at least. “I’m just one of the ninety-nine percent who want to live in peace. Most of us want to get on with our neighbours and raise our kids to play with each other and have a laugh and a drink and a dance down the pub, and not hear the rants of a small minority of crazy feckers tellin’ us which team we need to support.”
She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, staring at the burning logs in the inglenook, still bristling but slowly regaining her composure. He hadn’t meant any offence and he hoped she knew that. She was just on edge and she’d used his ignorance as an excuse to get off her chest something that pained her deeply, something she would never volunteer for fear of appearing self-indulgent. She had resisted telling him her problems; asking her to tell him what was wrong was like pulling teeth and had the pain to go with it. He knew the attack wasn’t personal and he knew she could walk away whenever she wanted, no matter what he said, yet she didn’t. The road ahead was going to be rocky and she was simply giving him fair warning.
“If I offended you, I apologise. I admit my assumptions are probably based on ignorance, but I can’t help that and I’m going to keep asking you, even if it means you getting mad at me. I believe there’s something in there you want to get out, need to get out, if you want those things.”
“What things?”
“Like you said, to live in peace.”
She shrugged, as if it were futile even to try. “So what are you expectin’? A confessional? That’s what good Catholics do.”
“You said you’re not a Catholic.”
“I was brought up a Catholic and The Sisters were Catholic, but I saw enough to know I want nothin’ to do with them.” A young waitress arrived and brought them two plates. It was a welcome distraction. She looked at the huge spherical bread roll filled with a rich stew and sniffed it. “Sous vide.”
“What?”
“It’s sous vide. It may be real, but it’s not home cooked that’s for sure, unless you count boil in the bag cookin’.” He shovelled a forkful of beef bourguignon into his mouth.
“Tastes okay to me.”
“We had this in one of the pubs I worked at. It’s made in an industrial kitchen and then they pack it in vacuum bags and all the pub has to do is stick it in a bain-marie and warm it up. Does away with the cost of a skilled chef.”
“Do you miss the pub business?”
“Sometimes, but I’d rather be on this side of the counter.”
“Even with boil in the bag?”
“Better than poncey fine dinin’ at the Manor.”
The change of subject had helped calm her down so he took another tentative step. “How did you know Eamonn was an Orangeman?”
“The company he worked for. They’re well known as a protestant organisation that’s owned and run by Orangemen. He never mentioned it at the conference because he didn’t need to, but he told me afterwards, in private.”
“You met him afterwards?”
“Is that allowed?” Another challenge; questioning the questioner.
“It’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean then?”
“I mean, what made you meet up again after the conference. Did you do business together?” She tore off a piece of the bread crust and dunked it in the stew.
“He said he thought he recognised me and suggested it was either from school or university. I laughed out loud when he said that, and he rattled off a couple of names and I had to tell him he was wrong because the only schoolin’ I got was a year at a feckin’ convent. He asked me which one and when I told him it was The Sisters, he went white. I’ll never forget it.” She looked into space, reminiscing. “He made an excuse and said he had to go, but he handed me a business card and asked for mine, but I wasn’t important enough to have one, so I wrote my number on one of his.”
“So then he asked you out?” The question was enough to regain her attention, but it also raised the temperature,
“Are you jealous or somethin’?” She appeared ready to attack again; her eyes flaring at the impertinence.
“No. It was obvious he would have asked you out. I would. I did, remember?” It was his turn to catch her off guard. “Twice.” A slight colour developed in her cheeks. She poked her fork around in the stew and rested her chin on the other hand.
“He texted me and asked if we could meet for lunch. He said he was happily married with two children so I was not to worry. It was nothin’ like that. He just needed my advice about somethin’, that was all. So I said okay.”
“Not a conventional chat-up line I admit.”
“Says the master of chat-up lines.”
“I thought I did rather well. Even if you stood me up.”
She sighed. “Are you goin’ to keep mentionin’ that?”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“He wanted to know about The Sisters, but I didn’t want to talk about it and I told him so, but he said it was very important to him. I said I couldn’t help him and tried to leave but then he started to well up and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave a grown man bawlin’ in a restaurant, so I sat down again and asked him what he wanted.”
She took a deep breath. Jack could imagine Eamonn Flynn doing the same before launching into some terrible story. She didn’t want to go there. She had been dragged into Flynn’s maelstrom and she was about to drag Jack Fleming into it too.
“He decided he couldn’t talk about it in a public place after all so could we go and sit in his car. I was a bit nervous about that, so I suggested we went for walk along the Foyle.”
“That’s the river in Derry?”
“Aye. He lived and worked in Derry, and he was worried about bein’ recognised, you know, talkin’ with a woman in a restaurant, so it was better if we were outside anyway. So we’re walkin’ over the Peace Bridge and he stops and tells me his mammy had died a couple of years back from cancer. She was on her death bed, so she was, and he was holdin’ her hand and she said she’d been keepin’ a secret all his life. She said she wasn’t his real mammy. He’d been adopted and she was sorry about not tellin’ him before, but his daddy had forbidden it and now she was dyin’ she couldn’t meet God without tellin’ the truth. Without confessin’.”
“I guess that’s always a tough thing to hear from anybody and tougher even to admit. She must have been distraught.”
“Aye, well that’s only half of it. She said he came from The Sisters.” She watched him take in the information as if expecting him to respond but all he could do was shrug.
“So that’s certainly a coincidence, but didn’t you say it was a charity set up to support fallen women?”
“A Roman Catholic charity. His real mammy was a Catholic and his real daddy was a Catholic which makes him a Catholic.” He could see the complication but not its relevance. “He’s been Protestant all his life, lived with a Protestant family, followed his daddy into the Orange Order, worn the sash and marched with them all on the 12th and married a Protestant woman who’s the daughter of a staunch loyalist, and now he’s bein’ told he was born a Catholic. Now, that’s probably not the first time it’s happened and people can convert from Protestant to Catholic and vice versa but when your father-in-law is a rabid loyalist, it becomes one big feckin’ problem.” Jack wanted to understand Eamonn Flynn’s dilemma, but it was too alien to him to feel any empathy. He’d never been religious and had no experience of sectarian prejudice or its impact on people and their families.
“Are you telling me he killed himself because he was afraid of what his father-in-law might think?”
“No. I said it was a big problem, but that was just the start.”
“Start of what?” He was getting frustrated, due in part to his own ignorance but also because she’d gone off on a tangent. All he wanted to know was why she was on the run from UVF thugs and all she was giving him was the life story and tragic end of some poor sod she bumped into at a conference. “What’s this got to do with you?”
“Let’s go for a walk.”