The Price of Blood Read online

  "This house was in ruins, some ’oul dacency sisters were hanging on for dear life, until they gave up the ghost. We got it for a song in 1970. Francis put the whole thing in my name, I had the idea for all this."

  "Well done," I said, and meant it.

  "And so that was another thing, you’re a successful woman, you attract gorgeous-looking fellas with expensive tastes and no funds, and you scare off the me-Tarzan types. So what can you do?"

  "What did you do when Jackie Tyrrell appeared on the scene?"

  Regina sighed and shook her head at that.

  "What did I do? I invited her down here, you know. Jackie Lamb. She was in school with me. And she’d been writing to me, all this very flattering stuff, she was working for one of those Irish women’s magazines, wanted to do a feature, sisters are doing it for themselves, all very exciting. So down she comes, and it’s soon very clear she has F.X. in her sights."

  "And were you hurt by that?"

  "Hurt? What do you mean, hurt? I told you, there was nothing like that. Do you think I was after her?"

  "I didn’t mean about her. I meant, hurt that your brother…there must have been a very strong bond between you both. It can’t have been easy to bring another woman into that."

  Regina Tyrrell looked at her watch again, and lifted her hands up and almost clapped them.

  "Four-thirty. Sun over the yardarm. Miranda said you drank."

  "I do."

  "Don’t we all?"

  "Does F.X.?"

  "Of course he doesn’t."

  Light spilled from the far end of the room as Regina opened a white wood door that concealed a fridge freezer and produced a bottle of Tanqueray and a bottle of Schweppes tonic. She found glasses and brought the drinks to the desk and we drank in near darkness. I thought of asking her to put the light on, but then found I didn’t want to.

  "I wouldn’t say I was hurt," Regina said. "But it was hard not to feel excluded. I mean, she was at the races instead of me. Literally. And of course, she had the finishing school thing going on, and the magazine and all, these lady writers who were friends of hers up in Dublin, gossip columnists and what have you, giving her great write-ups for the frocks. So yeah. But like I mean, I just moved in down here and let her get on with it. There was a time she was up and down to me three times a day, how does this work, when does Francis like his dinner, all that. Felt like his ma so I did."

  "You said F.X. doesn’t drink. Jackie Tyrrell said there were a lot of things F.X. didn’t do."

  "Really. I wouldn’t know."

  "Because it seems odd on the face of it that they never had children. She said—"

  "Yeah. She said that to me too. And says I to her, there are things a sister shouldn’t really have to know about her brother, and that’s one of them."

  "No curiosity?"

  "No thank you. Did she tell you all this the night she died?"

  "She did. I was the last person who saw her alive. Apart from her killer."

  "What did she say about me?"

  "She said you run all this, and you run your brother too."

  Regina laughed mirthlessly.

  "That’s the way Jackie saw everything. It was all about control."

  "And what is it all about for you?"

  The question seemed to catch her unawares. In the pale light I thought I saw something like vulnerability, even fear, cross her face.

  "The future. It’s all about the future."

  I forbore from asking the obvious question—what kind of future could the Tyrrells have when the current generation was too old to provide another?—but I felt it lay heavy in the air between us.

  "She also said you were glad when she and Francis got divorced. And that she was going to tell me a thing or two about you," I said.

  "And did she?"

  "That was the last thing she said to me. The next time I saw her, she was dead."

  Regina’s hand went automatically to her throat, and she shuddered, whether in sympathy or out of relief, I couldn’t tell.

  "What kind of relationship did you have with Miranda Hart?" I said.

  Regina shrugged.

  "I didn’t really get a look-in. Jackie was hugger-mugger there. I liked her as a teenager, she used to haunt the yard, drive the lads wild. In every way. Reminded me a bit of myself at that age. When her mother died, her father sent her off to boarding school in England, and she came back talking like Lady Diana, Jasus, that was something to hear. Jackie kind of adopted her then, bought her clothes and all. Had her show-ponying around the place. I never thought Miranda had what it took to carry that off. Her name is Mary, you know."

  "Mary?"

  "Yeah. I think she took some stick from the gels in Cheltenham over that, about being a little Irish colleen, holy Mary, all this, so when she got back here for good, she was Miranda, with the yah accent. Jackie bought into the whole thing, and it stuck. ’Course everyone knew she was Paddy Hart the publican’s daughter Mary, but if she says that’s not who she is anymore, who’s to say different?"

  Regina’s tone was jaunty and high, as if discussing the amusing caprices of a neighbor’s daughter. My next question not only put a stop to that, it retrospectively undermined any gaiety she had supposedly felt at Miranda’s adventures.

  "And what happened with Patrick Hutton?"

  "That was just an unsuitable, a wrong marriage, I told Jackie from the very beginning, she should and could have stopped it, but no, I was being petit bourgeois and lower middle class apparently, the snotty Cork bitch, she thought it was wonderfully brave. I honestly think she pushed it out of spite, because I got Francis to try and intervene. If he’s good enough to ride for F. X. Tyrrell, she said, he’s good enough to marry a publican’s daughter. As if all the Miranda stuff, the airs and graces she’d taught her, was for nothing, or worse, a game to keep herself amused, like the girl was a doll, a toy to be played with. I felt sorry for the child…"

  She stopped, and raised her glass, and sighed, as if she’d said too much.

  "She was adopted, wasn’t she?" I said, in as pointed a manner as I could manage.

  "Are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?" Regina said.

  "She’s the image of you," I said.

  "No, is the answer," she said. "Fuck’s sake, I see the black eye, I’m not surprised, questions like that."

  "She had a rough time of it after Hutton disappeared."

  "A lot of which she brought on herself," Regina said. "Ah, she lost the place altogether, I don’t know what happened to her. Drink, drugs…I suppose you heard she was little better than a prostitute there for a while. It wasn’t as if she needed money."

  "Did she not? She was renting out her house, I know."

  "She inherited the Tyrrellscourt Arms when her father died sure. Ninety-two, was it? And she made a lot of money out of that."

  "She sold it to you, didn’t she?"

  "For a quarter of a million pounds. That was before the boom, when two hundred and fifty thousand would have got you pretty much anything you wanted in Dublin. That little place in Riverside wouldn’t have been more than sixty then, if that. I never knew what got into Miranda. She got over it, at least. Jackie gave her work, helped undo some of the harm she’d done."

  Regina looked at her watch again.

  "Now. Christmas Eve. I have family commitments."

  "Just one last thing," I said. "Patrick Hutton. Didn’t you ever wonder over the years what had happened?"

  She stood up and shook her head.

  "No," she said. "But I always hoped he was dead, to be honest with you. I hoped and prayed he was dead."

  I couldn’t hold her gaze, and looked out the window, to see that the Range Rover that had been parked near the walls of Tyrrells court House when we came up here had gone.

  FIFTEEN

  Regina Tyrrell walked me down to the lobby. At reception, a tall slim girl of about nine or ten with long dark hair and dark eyes was waiting. When she saw Regina she ran to h
er and kissed her.

  "Karen, meet Edward Loy. Ed Loy, Karen Tyrrell. My daughter."

  I shook the girl’s hand, trying to fix a smile on my face. Her daughter? Behind the girl stood a slim male figure in his sixties, immaculate in tweed jacket, cavalry twill trousers, polished tan brogues, Tattersall shirt and cravat; only a small swollen belly betrayed F. X. Tyrrell’s age. His weathered face had the same prominent cheekbones his brother’s had; his eyes were smaller, but the same deep brown as his sister’s; his lips were fleshy and loose. He had the quiet, watchful, half-sad, half-amused air of a man well used to having people report and defer to him; Regina, while not exactly going that far, seemed to genuflect an apology in his direction, which he dispelled with a half smile.

  "I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Tyrrell," I said.

  He nodded to acknowledge my sympathy, and again to deflect it, gesturing toward the child. Everywhere in the lobby people were trying not to stare at F. X. Tyrrell and failing; they probably would have done so anyway, but with shy smiles on their faces; a glance at the pile of Evening Heralds at reception explained why they weren’t smiling today: OMEGA MAN KILLS TRAINER’S EX-WIFE, screamed the headline. I quickly scanned the story. They still hadn’t ID’d Hutton. When I turned back, it was to Karen Tyrrell alone; Regina had drawn F.X. off down the steps to one side, and they were locked in conversation. Karen smiled at me, and I smiled back.

  "Do you have any children?" she said.

  I couldn’t really explain, not to a child.

  "Yes," I said. "A little girl. She’d be about your age now."

  "I’m nine," Karen said. "What’s her name?"

  "Lily," I said, and then heard myself saying: "She lives with her mother. In America."

  "I live with my mother too," Karen said. "And Uncle Francis, but he’s never there, and even when he is, he isn’t. If that makes sense. Sometimes I don’t make too much sense, Mum says."

  "It sounds sensible to me," I said. "A lot of men are like that."

  "I wouldn’t know. My dad’s dead," she said gravely.

  "I’m sorry," I said.

  "I suppose. I never knew him. I don’t think Mum knew him very well either. She doesn’t even have a photograph of him."

  Karen had been surveying the come-and-go around the room while we talked; now she looked up at me through eyes widened to express her bemusement at the scant trail her father had left. Her gaze left me reeling, and I felt as if it was setting me a challenge which, if met, could solve the mystery of the Tyrrells and of the killer who could be on their trail. For Karen Tyrrell’s eyes were not identical: one was brown, and one was dark blue.

  Regina joined us and told me her brother was waiting to speak to me outside the hotel. I found him by the far end of the building, looking back toward his stables. He didn’t turn as I stood alongside him, barely moved a muscle.

  "Did Jackie say anything about me?" he said quickly.

  His voice was quiet but perfectly pitched, the kind of voice you listened closely to for fear of missing a beat. A king’s voice.

  "She said several things."

  "What were they?"

  "Why do you want to know? It was a private conversation." F. X. Tyrrell made a sound in his throat, a sound like a dry branch snapping.

  "Just answer my question."

  "No, I don’t think I will."

  Tyrrell still hadn’t moved, but I could hear his breath coming quickly through his nose. He started to say something that sounded like a threat, then stopped himself and changed course.

  "She was my wife, Mr. Loy."

  From another man it might have been a plea; F. X. Tyrrell made it sound like a command.

  "I know that. But you weren’t the subject of our meeting. Jackie spoke mainly about Miranda Hart, and Patrick Hutton. You know your brother has hired me to find Hutton?"

  F. X. Tyrrell turned around and faced me, his small eyes blazing.

  "A brother is loyal or he is nothing. I have no brother."

  "Father Vincent suggested I should ask you about close breeding."

  I don’t know what reaction I was expecting; what I got was a weary shake of the head.

  "Father Vincent should stick with his discipline, and let me stick with mine," he said. "Tell my sister I’ll be waiting for her."

  I found Regina Tyrrell in reception. She whispered to Karen to wait with Uncle Francis, and Karen gave me a little salute somewhere between a nod and a curtsy and made to go; then came back and reached up and kissed my cheek and whispered something in my ear, and half skipped, half danced across to join her uncle, who was standing by the door.

  "Great kid," I said. Regina Tyrrell nodded as if that was beyond dispute, and looked at me impatiently, and I gave her my full attention.

  "I have a proposition to put to you, Mr. Loy," she said.

  "I already have a client," I said. "Your brother Vincent."

  "We could pay more."

  "He’s paying plenty. Besides, I don’t know that F. X. Tyrrell took to me."

  "F.X. will do as I ask. We have our own security people, of course, but there are so many staff, here, and at the stables, and it would be good to have someone who’s on top of the case. Not that I believe our lives are in danger, but…"

  "I’m sure the Guards will offer some people."

  "That would be good for business. Guards clumping around."

  "I can’t do it. There is someone…he’s a little unorthodox…but I’d trust him with my life. Indeed, on several occasions, I have."

  "He’d be under your control," she said.

  I nearly laughed at the notion that Tommy could ever come fully under anyone’s control.

  "That’s the general idea," I said. "I’ll try and get him to you this evening."

  We discussed money, and when she didn’t haggle, I got suspicious. I was suspicious anyway.

  "Ms. Tyrrell, do you drive a Range Rover?"

  "I do, as a matter of fact."

  "Could I see it?"

  "It’s right outside. Francis drove Karen over in it."

  "So you don’t use it exclusively?"

  "I usually do. Francis borrowed it today. His has something up with it."

  "He drives one as well?"

  Regina nodded, already looking bewildered and a little bored by the questions. She nodded at me to follow her, conferred briefly with a trim blonde in a black trouser suit not unlike Regina’s who was presumably the duty manager and joined F.X. and Karen at the door. The Range Rover was outside and they climbed into it. I copied the number of the UK registration plate into my notebook. When I looked up again, Regina Tyrrell was standing before me, her face uncertain, her eyes wary.

  "If you see Miranda…"

  "Yes?"

  "You will see her, I expect?"

  "I expect so."

  "And she’s safe?"

  "I hope so."

  "Tell her…tell her…"

  The engine of the Range Rover started, and Regina shook her head, and a wave of what could have been irritation at her inability to find the right words, but looked darker than that, looked like pain, rippled across her face. She turned and almost fell into the car, which took off immediately. I followed on foot down the drive.

  On the way, I checked my messages. Tommy had left a voice mail saying that he’d met someone who knew Leo and Hutton in St. Jude’s, that he was still in McGoldrick’s and would I be okay to drive back to Dublin. And I got a message from Joe Leonard, he of the uneasy marriage and the garbage dump on his doorstep: a picture of him and Annalise and the kids with Santa hats on and the legend: Merry Christmas from the Leonards! So maybe I had a satisfied customer somewhere.

  I walked back into town thinking about Karen Tyrrell. Ten years ago Regina would have been forty-two or forty-three, reaching the end of her fertility; many single women who get pregnant by accident at that age keep a child they would have aborted ten years previously: some go out with the intention of getting pregnant by an anonymous one-night stand. But n
ine years ago would also bring us back to the aftermath of Patrick Hutton’s disappearance; nine years would be long enough for someone who’d been made pregnant by Patrick Hutton to have his baby, almost a year after his disappearance. That would help to explain Miranda Hart’s less than fond tone when she mentioned Regina. It might also go a long way toward accounting for Miranda’s self-destructive trawl through Tyrrellscourt in the period after Hutton’s disappearance: hard enough for your husband to disappear, but knowing (assuming she did know) that he had impregnated another woman, an older, richer woman whose family had in a sense informally adopted Miranda and Hutton both: that must have felt like betrayal. I won’t play the Judas for anyone, Hutton said; perhaps he already had, with Regina Tyrrell, and when Miranda found out, she made sure the Tyrrells got to see the ugly consequences on the streets of their own town. Maybe that accounted for Regina’s dismissive attitude to the marriage: not because she considered Patrick Hutton unworthy of Miranda, but because she had been in love with him herself. I called Dave Donnelly, and a couple of minutes later he called me back.

  "Dave, I want you to see if you can get hold of Don Kennedy’s case files. He looked into Patrick Hutton’s disappearance a couple of years ago, so that Miranda Hart could have him declared dead."

  "What am I looking for?"

  I thought for a minute.

  "Birth cert, baptismal cert, anything official. Hutton seems to have been a man without a past. And anything else that Kennedy turned up…I mean, he cleared the way for the insurance company to sign the house over to Miranda, but any time you do a trawl like that, you always uncover other stuff. Anything, even if it feels like gossip to you."

  "Want to explain?"

  "Not sure if I can. Just feeling my way."

  Dave ended the call, and I kept along the road.

  My thoughts turned to my own little girl, and the lie I had told, and how I felt about telling it. It hadn’t been about me: it was to spare Karen Tyrrell’s feelings. Not that she needed me to. Kids don’t live in quite such dread of death as adults do. But it reminded me of the relief I had felt when my daughter was born, that I was no longer the center of my own world, she was. I had moved contentedly away from center stage in my own life. I remember the initial vertigo, and then the thrill, the rush to embrace the natural feeling that a new generation is more important than your own. And the grief of her death was accentuated and prolonged by my revulsion at having to deal with myself and my own feelings: it felt like indulgence, or worse: I made myself sick. A month ago, I wouldn’t have told a lie about Lily, even to say she would have been nine, instead of five, let alone that she was alive when her ashes lay scattered in the ocean at Santa Monica under an indifferent sky. But I told it, and I was glad I had, and Karen Tyrrell’s kiss on my cheek had made me feel closer to Lily than three years of drinking and fucking and fighting had. I said a prayer, or something like a prayer, offering it up to the clear, starry sky, then slipped and nearly fell on an early frost outside McGoldrick’s pub. I righted myself, hand on cold railings, my breath pluming in the freezing air, relieved to be upright with blood in my veins, the living voices from the pub swirling around my head; relieved to be among the living, with the memory of what Karen Tyrrell had whispered still fresh in my ears: Don’t look so sad.