The Rosary Garden by Nicola White (good books to read for women txt) 📗

Swan wondered whether the girl was doped. Her dark eyes were hard to read.

‘That sounds pleasant. Who took her there?’

She opened her mouth slightly and closed it again, her gaze dropping to the floor.

‘Can’t say.’

‘Was it someone you met in Dublin?’

A slight shake of her head.

‘Your sister doesn’t think the baby was adopted. She says she recognised her as the one found in the Rosary Garden.’

‘That baby was NOT mine.’ Although Peggy didn’t raise her eyes, an edge of defiance had come into her voice, an anger stirring.

‘Look at me, Peggy. We have a way of proving the baby in the garden wasn’t yours. You want that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘All we have to do is take blood from you and from your child’s father.’

‘No.’

‘I thought you wanted to prove the dead baby’s not yours?’

‘Is that the only way?’ The girl was agitated, slurring her words slightly.

‘We’ll take care of the arrangements, if you just tell us his name. You don’t have to see him.’

‘Come on now, Pegeen,’ said Garda Fitzmaurice from the doorway. His voice was low and managed to convey an infinite reasonableness. Peggy looked at him in hope.

‘He said we’d have a fresh start. It was him found the good home for it.’

‘Of course he did.’

‘But now he won’t talk to me at all.’

‘I could have a word with him,’ said Fitzmaurice, ‘straighten things out for you.’

‘Could you really?’

‘No bother.’

Tears tipped suddenly from Peggy’s eyes as she got to her feet and shuffled over to put her arms around Garda Fitzmaurice. Swan held his breath and prayed that no one would enter the room to see this.

‘Where is he today?’ Fitzmaurice asked, smooth as a breeze.

Peggy shook her head, rubbing her forehead against his uniform jacket.

‘Remember that lovely mild evening, Peggy, back in the autumn. When I saw you up in the quarry wood? You were parked in your father’s car with someone, weren’t you? Davy Brennan, I think it was.’

Peggy had gone very still. Her hands dropped from the Garda’s shoulders and came to cover her face.

‘He’ll be angry with me. Don’t tell him I said.’

‘Was it Davy Brennan who took the baby away to be adopted?’ asked Swan.

She nodded. ‘In England. He gave me a photo of the couple. They have a lot of money, he said, and they’re Catholic.’

Swan gave silent thanks for Garda Fitzmaurice and old-fashioned vigilance. The detectives retreated to the hall.

Garda Fitzmaurice said he’d seen this Brennan lad in Buleen that morning, but that he’d been up in Dublin for a while.

Dublin. Swan’s heart quickened.

‘What’s he like?’

‘Bit of a boyo, but from a respectable family. As you know.’

‘What do I know?’

‘Sure, he’s one of the Devanes at Caherbawn. Mrs Devane’s maiden name is Brennan. Like your one on The Late Late Show, only she goes by the name of Hogan. He’s her uncle.’

Swan’s brain raced to absorb this information, throwing up a picture, a memory, from Rathmines Garda station on the very first day of the case. When he walked into the reception area after interviewing Alison Hogan, there had been two people sitting in the chairs. The emotional Deirdre Hogan had shaded her companion into obscurity. But he had been sitting right beside her. Swan tried to conjure him back into memory, but could only see the way his fringe fell forward to hide his features, the dark slouch that he had read as boredom.

He asked Fitzmaurice to phone the farm, to check if Davy Brennan was there.

‘Pretend it’s nothing important.’

The Garda came back after a short exchange.

‘His sister says she hasn’t seen him, says he might be away to Kinmore. She was very keen to know why I wanted him, though. I’ll put a call out, if ye want.’

‘Yes, but no hanging about – let’s just go to the farm. Leave two of the lads here and round up the others. I’ll join you in a minute.’

32

Davy pushed Ali through the hall of the bungalow and into the kitchen. ‘I need a drink. We both need a drink.’

He worked his way along the line of cupboards, opening and shutting doors on empty shelves.

‘Is there beer?’ said Ali, laying the doll on the dirty counter. The place seemed even more of a wreck than when she first saw it. A bucket beside the sink overflowed with rubbish and the cement floor was splashed with brown stains. A queue of bottles stood against the skirting board.

‘No beer – I’ve whiskey somewhere.’ He twirled round to face her. ‘I’ve never told anyone about the slurry pit. It’s stupid for you not to know. You’re not a child any more.’ Davy walked over to the small fridge, opened the door and stared into it, even though he had searched it a moment before. ‘That’s not to say I’m not a little bit annoyed with you.’ He addressed the fridge, not her.

‘What have I done?’

‘You’ve been bringing policemen sniffing in your wake.’

‘What’s that to do with us?’

‘What indeed!’ Davy slammed the fridge and walked out of the kitchen. Ali followed. From the hallway she watched him do a circuit of the small bathroom, searching.

‘I don’t want you to be annoyed with me,’ she said.

She hoped he would calm down, hoped he wouldn’t find any whiskey and that not finding it wouldn’t make him angry. She followed him into a bedroom. Davy got down on his hands and knees and started going through his suitcase and the pile of clothes beside it. She needed to ask him something. She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer, but the question kept nagging around her head.

‘You said that Joan’s baby was sickly. But she told me it was stillborn.’

Davy sat back, cross-legged on the floor. ‘They made that up afterwards, Una and herself. I know what I saw … I saw its little arm waving – I saw it. They treated me like an idiot. Never took a breath, Una says, but I saw it. I was looking through the window at them. When Una laid it on