Quirke 06 - Holy Orders

before the gas fire there, wondering why the filaments did not burn away.
    * * *

    Fifteen minutes later Isabel arrived, brisk and bright as a hospital nurse, the heavy fur of her coat exuding the coolness of the spring night outside. She sat on the arm of Phoebe’s chair and held her undamaged hand, as Quirke had held it a while ago. “The troubles your father gets you into,” she said, clicking her tongue. She glanced over her shoulder at Quirke. “Who is this Costigan person and why is he sending you warnings?”
    Quirke was lighting a cigarette. “He’s what you might call a manager, I suppose. He makes things happen, or prevents them.”
    “Is he the one who had you beaten up, that time?”
    “Yes, I think so.”
    He came forward and stood with his back to the fire. Phoebe sat, silent and staring, like one of El Greco’s afflicted saints. Isabel regarded Quirke, shaking her head. “And how have you annoyed him this time?” she asked.
    “I’m not sure.”
    “That means you know but you’re not prepared to say.” He offered her a cigarette but she waved it away. “It’s one thing to have you beaten up,” she said. “God knows I often think of doing the same thing myself. But sending thugs to attack your daughter in the street, that’s too much.”
    “Yes. I know.”
    “It’s to do with Jimmy Minor’s death, isn’t it?” She looked down at Phoebe. She was still holding her hand. “Phoebe? Is it?”
    Phoebe shrugged listlessly. “I don’t know,” she said. She lifted her eyes and looked at Quirke. “Is it, Quirke?”
    He sighed, and leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece, and told them about Packie the Pike, and what Packie’s woman had told him. When he had finished they were silent, all three, for a long time. Then Isabel spoke: “So he was killed by mistake, Jimmy Minor?” she said with bitter incredulity.
    “I don’t think I’d call it a mistake,” Quirke said. He considered the toes of his shoes. “Someone had to die, and it couldn’t be the priest.”
    Isabel snorted. “Why not? He raped their child.”
    “Jimmy should have stayed out of it,” Quirke said.
    Phoebe looked up at him, frowning. “Are you saying it was his own fault?”
    “No, I’m not saying that. He didn’t know the kind of people he was getting involved with.”
    Isabel was suddenly indignant. “A pack of tinkers—?” she began.
    “Not just them,” Quirke said. “Costigan, the church. All that.” The moon, he saw, was in the window here, too, its crooked face leering down.
    “How did Jimmy know about it?” Phoebe asked. “How did he find out about this priest, and what he’d done?”
    “Someone must have told him,” Quirke said.
    “Who?” Isabel demanded.
    “The same person who told me.”
    Isabel was watching him closely now. “The tinker’s woman? Y ou seem to have had quite a cozy chat with her.”
    Quirke said nothing to that, and turned away.
    Another silent interval passed; then Isabel spoke again. “So: what will you do?” she asked.
    “I’ll talk to Hackett,” Quirke said.
    “ Y our detective friend?” Isabel curled her lip. “And what will he do?”
    “He’ll go after Packie Joyce.”
    “Will he arrest him?”
    “I don’t know. He’ll try to get Packie’s sons back from England. If they can be found.”
    Phoebe suddenly stood up, letting the blanket fall from her shoulders. “Nothing ever happens,” she said in a thin, bitter voice. “People commit murder and get away with it.” She looked at Quirke, her lower lip trembling. “ Y ou let them get away with it.”
    Quirke stepped forward, putting out a hand, but she drew away from him quickly. “Don’t touch me,” she said.
    “Nobody kills a priest,” Quirke said, his voice gone weary. “Not even the likes of Packie Joyce will kill a priest. It’s what I said—Jimmy should have stayed out of it.”
    There was a brief silence; then Isabel rose from where she had been sitting on the arm of the chair. “Come on, Quirke,” she said, “walk your daughter home. I’m off.”
    * * *

    They waited in the street for a taxi, and when one came Isabel turned to Quirke and kissed him quickly on the cheek and gave him a hard look, gazing searchingly into his eyes, then stepped away and said she would phone him in the morning. Quirke and Phoebe watched the taxi drive away, then turned and walked up the street, across the crescent, past the Pepper Canister. The moon was bright enough to throw sharp-edged shadows