Quirke 06 - Holy Orders

hanging out dejectedly.
    “Anyway—what do I think about what?” Quirke said.
    Hackett nodded towards the dissecting room window. “This business.”
    The swivel chair creaked as Quirke leaned far back in it and put his feet on the desk with his ankles crossed. He pressed bunched fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think anything,” he said. “What about you?”
    Hackett puffed out his cheeks and expelled a long breath. “God knows,” he said. He pointed to the Senior Service packet. “Give us one of them.”
    Quirke pushed the cigarettes across the desk, along with his lighter. For a while both men smoked in silence; then Quirke spoke: “Anything found at the scene?”
    “Not a thing. Footprints and so on, but there’d been a downpour earlier and everything was washed out. Plus, of course, my genius of an assistant, Detective Sergeant Jenkins, had let everyone traipse all over the place, so anything there might have been was trodden into the mud.”
    Quirke laughed. “Poor Jenkins. I imagine he’s still smarting, after you finished with him.”
    The detective sighed. “What would be the use? He’s hopeless, the poor clot. But I suppose he’ll learn.” He paused, picking a fleck of tobacco delicately from his lower lip. “ Y our daughter,” he said. “Does she know?”
    “I told her.”
    “How did she take it?”
    Quirke screwed up his face and touched his bow tie again. “I didn’t handle it very well.”
    “Hmm,” Hackett said. “I don’t know that there is a good way to handle that kind of thing.” He paused again. “Were they close friends?”
    Quirke gave him a swift glance. “Are you asking if they were ‘romantically involved’? Not at all. In fact, I have a notion he wasn’t that way inclined.”
    “ Y ou mean—?”
    “It struck me it might be the case, the few times I met him.”
    The detective took this in. “So,” he said, nodding to himself. “That’s interesting.”
    “ Y ou think it might be a factor?”
    “Oh, anything might be a factor.”
    “They gave him some going-over.”
    “Aye—whoever ‘they’ were.”
    Quirke had finished his cigarette and now he lit another one from the butt. “I had the impression it was a professional job.”
    To this Hackett said nothing; the going-over Quirke had once got had been administered by a pair of professionals, so he would know. For a while he said nothing, only sat and smoked meditatively. “I suppose the place to start,” he said, “is at the paper.” He was still swinging his leg and now he looked at the toe of his shoe. “Will you give me a hand?” he asked.
    “A hand?”
    “ Y ou know what I mean.”
    They looked at each other, and had they been other than they were they would have smiled.

5

    Harry Clancy was not cut out to be the editor of a national daily newspaper. Harry knew this; he had few illusions left about himself and his capacities. His had been one of the last appointments, and one of the most unexpected, that Francie Jewell had made before retiring as proprietor and manager of the Clarion and handing it over to his son Richard, otherwise known as Diamond Dick. Sometimes Harry wondered if it had not been the old man’s idea of a joke, played at his son’s expense.
    Harry, who had started out on the paper as a copyboy, had risen to the position of night editor, a job he had held for years, and had been looking forward to an early and uneventful retirement when the call had come from Francie late one rainy Friday night. Harry and Mrs. Harry had been at the dog races at Shelbourne Park and had just come in, and being not entirely sober Harry could not at first grasp what it was the old bastard was saying to him. I want you for the top seat, Harry, Francie had said, the top seat . And then he had done that laugh of his, a cracked cackle that ended in a fit of coughing. Harry had stood in the hall with the phone in one hand and his rained-on hat in the other, asking himself perplexedly what the bloody hell Francie meant by the top seat, while Mrs. Harry stood beside him, trying anxiously to read in his face what was going on—years afterwards she confessed that she had thought he was being given the sack. It was not the sack, however, far from it, and the following Monday morning Harry Clancy had found himself lowering his bottom uneasily and with grave misgivings into the very top seat, lately and ignominiously vacated by his humiliated and bewildered predecessor, who was to