‘Which she didn’t get?’
‘No, more’s the pity. From all accounts she didn’t get much encouragement to do anything. Mrs Maguire sounds like a real throwback. Type who thinks decent Catholic girls don’t need educating for anything but keeping house, getting married and having babies. As for athletics, that was carnal display! Their parish priest backed her up. He was out of the Middle Ages. You a Catholic, Inspector? Name like Cicero …’
‘Was,’ said Dog.
‘Then you’ll know what I mean. Fortunately, her uncle, old Mrs Maguire’s brother, was a priest too, taught at the Priory College, Catholic boarding school, just a few miles out of town. All boys, naturally. But at least he was able to put his vote in for education so Janey didn’t leave school after “O” levels like her mam wanted but went on into the sixth form. She still did her athletics, but never lived up to her promise. Some said she lost her edge because she filled up too much up top. Me, I don’t think so. There’s been plenty of world beaters with big knockers. I think she was just so worried about not making the grade that she spent more time on her books than she needed to. It was her escape route, see? Get away to college, then get a qualification that’d get her a job anywhere.’
‘You’re very well informed,’ commented Dog.
‘My daughter. She was a little bit younger and she thought the sun shone out of Janey’s bum! I used to get Janey Maguire night and day and, of course, she was always round at our house.’
Another line of enquiry? Dog said, ‘Is your daughter living locally?’
‘No.’ The man’s face saddened. ‘Melbourne. We’re going out to see them when I retire next year. But she’d not be able to help even if she still lived here. They kept in touch through college, but after that they lost touch. More Janey than my girl. She had a bit of bother in her first job. After that, she seemed to cut contact with all her old mates.’
‘She never came back here?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said Denver. ‘My girl heard she’d married some Yank and settled down over there. Then she got married herself and next thing, Australia. They say the world’s getting smaller. It doesn’t feel like it! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do. I hope you get things sorted out, Inspector. She was a nice kid and I’d hate to think of any harm coming to her. You’ll keep me posted? I like to know exactly what’s going on on my patch, preferably before it happens.’
There was a warning in his voice. He’s no fool, thought Dog. He’s wondering why the hell I’ve come up here personally when a phone call would have done. Sod Toby Tench! It’s my case and Denver ought to be told that there’s a possibility his daughter’s nice school friend’s on the run from a charge of child-killing.
He was on the point of saying something when the phone rang. Denver picked it up, listened, covered the mouthpiece and said, ‘Sorry, this’ll take a bit of time. Are we done?’
‘Yes,’ said Dog. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
And left, feeling both relieved and guilty.
He found Mrs Maguire’s house without any difficulty. It was a thirties semi, narrow and single fronted. There was an old Ford Popular parked in front of it. He drew up behind, locked his car and went through a wrought-iron gate and up a scrubbed concrete path alongside a tiny garden so compulsively neat, it seemed to owe more to needlework than horticulture. The doorstep was an unblemished red, the letter box glinted like a Guard’s cuirass, and Dog found himself touching the bell push gingerly for fear of leaving a print.
The small middle-aged woman who opened the door looked a fit custodian for such a temple of neatness. Her hair was tightly permed like a chain-mail skull cap, her lips were like a crack in the pavement, and her eyes regarded him with fierce suspicion through spectacles polished to a lensless clarity. She bore such little resemblance to her daughter that Dog’s ‘Mrs Maguire?’ was tentative to the point of apology.
‘And who wants to know?’
The brogue was there, strong and unmistakable as poteen.
He produced his warrant card, certain that proof was going to be needed before he got over this step.
She examined it and said, ‘Cicero. That’s not an English name.’
‘It is now. I mean, I’m English and it’s my name.’
She nodded sharply as if the logic satisfied her sense of tidiness, and motioned him to enter. He followed her into a chill and cheerless sitting room where a bearded man in a dark suit and clerical collar sat on the edge of an unyielding armchair, a cup of tea in his hand.
‘Father Blake, this is Inspector Cicero, he calls himself, come to see me, I don’t know why. Now there’s no need for you to go with your tea still hot.’
The priest had risen with an expression of alarm. He was a tallish man in early middle age, his beard beginning to be flecked with grey. He looked at Dog anxiously through heavy horn-rimmed glasses and said in a low, unaccented voice, ‘I hope there’s no bad news, officer.’
‘Just some help with an enquiry,’ said Dog vaguely, not wanting to encourage a disruptive third party to witness his interview with the woman.
‘Fine,’ said the priest. ‘In that case, I will be running along. Thanks for the tea, Mrs Maguire. I’ll call again soon. I’ll see myself out.’
He gabbled a blessing and made for the door.
Dog said, ‘Oh, Father, is that your car outside? I may have blocked you in. Better have a look.’
He followed the priest into the hallway and at the front door he said in a low voice, ‘Look, there is some news, potentially bad. I need to talk to her alone but if you could come back in twenty minutes, say?’
Father Blake said, ‘Could you give me some idea … I’m not her parish priest you see, more a friend of the family.’
‘You’ll know her daughter then?’
‘Jane? No. I’ve never met her but naturally we’ve talked about her. Why? Is there something wrong? There hasn’t been an accident?’
His voice had risen and Dog glanced warningly towards the sitting room door.
‘Nothing like that,’ said Dog. ‘I’m sure Mrs Maguire will tell you all about it. Twenty minutes?’
He didn’t give Blake time to reply but urged him out of the front door and closed it behind him. Then he returned to the sitting room where Mrs Maguire was sitting by the empty fireplace. She motioned him to the chair Father Blake had occupied, which proved as hard as Dog had suspected.
‘Sorry to chase the Father away,’ he said. ‘He’s not your parish priest?’
‘No. He’d not be coming to my house in a suit if he was at St Mary’s, I tell you,’ she said scornfully. ‘He’s from the Priory College, if it’s any business of yours. A friend of my brother Patrick’s, God rest his soul.’
She glanced at a photo on the mantelpiece of a man in a soutane standing in front of a gloomy Gothic pile. It was her pride in having had a priest in the family which
