The Murder Loop, page 7
‘After committing a murder? I doubt it. Those boys are long gone and my guess is the return flights are just a ruse – we’ll discover they got out already on some other passports.’
‘We should try and find Peter Bannon,’ Cass said. ‘Regardless of where the two Americans are now, his life could be at risk.’
‘Working on it.’
‘And Sarah Delahunty spoke of none of this when interviewed?’
‘She said her brother was in the States, but wasn’t in regular contact with him and hadn’t seen him in a couple of years. Ryan didn’t push it.’
‘You said Sarah Delahunty’s house is close to her father’s farm – you got the exact address?’
‘Yes – you think she has more to tell?’
More than that barely functioning alcoholic would have thought to ask her anyway, she thought. ‘Another visit can’t hurt. I’ll clear it with the SIO. Tomorrow morning?’
‘Can’t,’ Devine said. ‘I’m on CCTV duty for my sins. But you should tell her the good news.’
‘The good news?’
‘There’s a wad of cash to add to the inheritance.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was unseasonably mild the following morning as Cass drove out of Glencale and towards Sarah Delahunty’s property.
About five miles outside the town, the main road forked – one route took the driver along the coast, effectively circumnavigating the Loop. The other was a pass directly through it, ascending through the mountains in a series of serpentine curves and hairpin bends until, near the peak, one encountered arguably the Loop’s most distinctive feature: a series of hand-hewn rock tunnels. Almost 200 years previously, for reasons of practicality given the troublesome terrain, the road builders had chosen to go through the brows of the last mountains in the range rather than over them, and unknowingly created a tourist attraction in the process.
But Cass was turning off well before the tunnels. There was any number of boreens and byways branching off the pass, including the one that led to Bridge Bannon’s farm and, a short distance beyond it, another that led to Sarah Delahunty’s house.
As she drove, she reflected on the conversation with Kearney, the SIO, an hour earlier in which she’d sought approval for the visit. Kearney was a veteran detective who came with an excellent reputation both for leading investigations and, unlike Finnegan, trusting his teams.
After a brief discussion, he’d given permission – before closing on a surprising note. ‘Sergeant Finnegan tells me you’re better than you think,’ he said. ‘We could do with seeing that on this case.’
She had responded with a lame, ‘I’ll try.’ Now, she wondered what precisely Finnegan had said and the extent to which her superior officer – and possibly everyone in the station – thought Cass to be off the boil. Or overwrought. Or, as Finnegan had implied, a basket case.
Cass had phoned in advance to inform Sarah Delahunty she was coming, and had been told to look for the red steel gate, which would be open. It was easy to find: not many bothered to paint gates around here, especially on working farms. In her mind Cass triangulated the locations so far relevant to the case: Milly Cooper’s shop in the valley; turn onto the byway and ascend a few miles into the lower mountains for Bridge Bannon’s farm; go east from there for about a mile to Sarah Delahunty’s farm and then twist upwards, corkscrewing higher into the mountains, for Mason Brady’s church renovation, which, Cass figured, would have unfiltered views across the range.
She had reread the interview notes at the station, and knew that Sarah Delahunty was thirty-eight years of age and hadn’t bothered much with her father for the last twenty or so of those. She had concentrated on her own family – an accountant husband, three children aged between six and twelve – and work: her job as a teacher and the stables she and her husband ran, providing lessons during the spring and summer.
There had been relatively little in the notes that seemed of any relevance to the investigation. While it was true to say that family were often suspects and that Delahunty did not seem to care for her father, it was also the case that women, generally, didn’t kill in such a violent way. Neither did amateurs have the presence of mind to use bleach to try and erase DNA traces. True, ‘at home with my family’ wasn’t exactly a rock-solid alibi for the night of the murder, but all told, Sarah Delahunty was not a suspect and never would be.
As she drove up the laneway, the stables came first into view, two lengthy and well-maintained buildings running at right angles to the picturesque bungalow that was the family home. In front of the stables, Cass saw three children on horseback, prancing slowly around the gallops, and behind them, giving instructions, Sarah Delahunty.
She was taller than Cass had expected – maybe around five-ten – vigorous and decisive-looking, someone capable of handling small humans and horses and doing so lovingly but tolerating no dissent. She was, Cass thought, quite regal; standing there in jeans, riding boots and jumper in the low winter sun, brown tresses scraped up casually with a wooden hair fork, matching brown eyes that had a warmth and wisdom to them. She looked weary but not broken, as if tired by the daily pressures of life but not particularly grieving the loss of her father. All told, Cass found herself liking Sarah Delahunty instantly, before they had even exchanged a word.
Delahunty gave the children orders to stable the horses and brush their coats, and invited Cass into the kitchen, where a kettle was simmering on the stove and a batch of freshly baked scones lay on a tray on the table. Cass didn’t get the impression the cosy domestic scene was pretence for her: she sensed this was a loving home where the family cared for each other. After some small talk about the school and the children while the tea was brewed, Cass got down to business.
‘This won’t take too long – I can see you’ve got your hands full. You’ve been informed, I take it, that your father’s body can now be released?’
‘Yes, thanks. At least I can finalise the funeral arrangements now. It’ll be good to get it over with.’
‘Have you wider family? People to notify?’
‘Our mother died eleven years ago. It’s just me and my brother in terms of immediate family, but Peter went to the States undocumented, so he won’t be at the funeral. My father had a couple of older sisters, one living in Galway, the other in Limerick. They’re both quite frail now, but I expect my cousins will help them to attend. There’ll be some neighbours and acquaintances, I suppose – the usual thing. But if you’re asking me whether I expect the funeral home to be packed, probably not. My father was not a popular man, detective.’
‘I’m not a detective, and “Cass” is fine. Can you tell me why that was?’
‘I told your colleague the other day.’
‘I appreciate that, it’s just sometimes we need to go over statements again.’
‘He was not a nice man, det– Cass. He made home a living hell for my mother and treated my brother like a dog he could kick any time he wanted. He hid some of that in public, but only to an extent. He was no pillar of the community. He won’t be missed.’
And if he made your mother’s life hell, and treated your brother like a dog, what did he do to you? Cass wondered. Some bastards deserve to be in the ground. ‘And your brother, I understand he’s younger than you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Have you seen him lately?’
‘Peter? We speak a few times a year, WhatsApp each other now and again.’
A non-answer answer. She’s given this some thought. But worth probing around the edges first before I startle her. ‘Do the names Raymond Russo and Frank Mangano mean anything to you?’
‘Are these the two men you suspect killed my father?’
‘They’re the two Americans who requested directions to your father’s farm. We’re seeking to question them, obviously, as persons of interest. Do you recognise the names?’
‘I’m afraid not. They mean nothing to me.’
‘They’re from Long Island, where I believe your brother is based. Do you think Peter might know them?’
‘Is there any particular reason he would?’
‘That’s what we’re seeking to establish.’
Sarah Delahunty’s answers had been unhesitant to that point, but now she paused, and Cass could tell she was deliberating. Her father hadn’t been a pillar of the community but Sarah was; and Cass guessed she placed high value on common decency and honesty. Lying to the Guards, even withholding information, would not come naturally to her.
‘Look, I don’t know is the honest answer,’ she said eventually. ‘But I’m sure you know that Peter has had a troubled life. Our father did that to him. Peter struggled to come to terms with his childhood, got into a few scrapes here, and figured America was the answer, as far away from home as he could get. I hoped he’d build a better life for himself there but… he was scarred, I guess. If you’re asking me whether it’s possible he got into some trouble over there, yes, it is. If you’re asking me whether these two men were somehow connected to him, you’d have to ask him that. I can’t understand why they’d come all the way over here though.’
‘Would it surprise you to know Peter flew into the country in the last three weeks?’
Another long pause. Sarah rose from her chair and went to the kitchen window, from where she could see the stables and her children.
Trying to make a decision, Cass thought.
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ she replied, back turned to Cass. ‘He told me he was coming home.’
‘You didn’t mention this to my colleague.’
‘He didn’t ask.’
Of course he didn’t, Cass thought.
‘Have you seen Peter since he arrived? Has he been here?’
It had occurred to Cass from the moment she arrived that Peter Bannon could be on the property somewhere. It was certainly big enough to hide a person. She wondered if Sarah was looking to the stables for that reason. But if Peter had fled here seeking a hideout, she couldn’t imagine him staying after what had happened to his father. It would have surely been too much of a risk – for him and for Sarah and her family. She wouldn’t jeopardise the safety of her three children. And having seen what happened to his father, he wouldn’t risk hanging around.
‘Yes,’ Sarah said, almost in a whisper. ‘He arrived a couple of weeks ago. Put on a brave face: said he was tired of America and wanted to come home. Framed it as his decision. But I could tell he was unsettled, scared about something.’
‘Did you ask him what?’
‘My brother had no one to protect him growing up. I wasn’t physically strong enough to stand up to my father and shield Peter. He internalised a lot of his problems. We were close enough that he would eventually tell me, but it could take days, weeks, months, depending on the issue. Which is a long way of saying I don’t know exactly what he was running from in America, but I knew he was running from something.’
‘So it must have been obvious to you that these two men were looking for Peter, not your father.’
‘That was my assumption.’
‘It would have been helpful if you had explained this to my colleague.’
‘The first time you contacted me – your colleagues, I mean – was to identify the body. I couldn’t think straight at that point apart from answering a few basic questions. Then, when Detective Ryan called–’
Ryan wasn’t a detective either but Cass let this one pass.
‘–I was led to believe you already had a line of inquiry. I assumed it was a burglary gone wrong – there’d been all these break-ins in the county over the last while. And that’s what the media was saying too.’
‘Yes, and we haven’t ruled anything in or out yet. But you can understand why the two Americans would also be persons of interest. And why the information about your brother may have been important.’
‘I knew my brother was fleeing something but I thought it was a personal problem. In a million years, I didn’t think he’d be chased across the ocean by two thugs and that they’d kill my father.’
Cass couldn’t fault the logic and didn’t think Sarah was lying. Not about those immediate assumptions at least. But there was still a chance she was holding back about her brother. Cass looked over Sarah’s shoulder towards the stables and said softly, ‘Where is your brother now, Sarah?’
There was no hesitation this time.
‘I don’t know. He did come here; he stayed a few days; he took off again.’
‘Before or after your father was killed?’
‘Before. Why does the timing matter?’
‘It’s important we have a full picture of everyone’s movements.’
‘You haven’t asked mine.’
‘My colleague did.’
‘Yes, but you’re checking his homework, aren’t you?’
Cass felt her face flush, and she silently cursed Noel Ryan and then cursed Finnegan even more for putting them both in this situation.
‘It’s not like that. Follow-up queries always arise. That’s just the nature of a case. I’m asking about your brother’s movements to understand the full picture. To be clear, I’m not suggesting he’s a person of interest or anything like that.’
‘Well, you’d be missing a trick if you were. Because you’d have a better “person of interest” standing right in front of you.’
From reflex, Cass’s hand moved to her baton. She kept it there, wondering for a moment if she had fundamentally misread the woman in front of her.
‘You’ll have to explain that to me, Sarah,’ she said. ‘Just to ensure I understand fully.’
‘I can’t call you Cass. Seems way too informal… But I am being totally open with you. I hated his guts. Would happily have killed him years ago if I had the courage. I didn’t, of course. But I’m glad he’s dead. Now, do you want to ask about my movements?’
‘You did the school runs during the afternoon, went shopping with the kids, came home, didn’t leave the house again, and your husband can verify as much, correct?’
‘Yes.’
Cass relaxed a touch and moved her hand back to a resting position on the table. ‘To be clear, Sarah, you’re not a person of interest either. Hating someone isn’t a crime.’
‘Isn’t it? I’ve never hated anyone in this world except my father, and how is that right? And then the thought of Peter – he’s just a child no one ever came to rescue. I hate the thought that these men are out there somewhere hunting him.’
‘We don’t yet know what role, if any, they played,’ Cass said. ‘If we knew where your brother was, we could ensure his safety. You understand?’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘Do you have contact details for him? A mobile number? You said you were in touch through WhatsApp?’
‘Through his American mobile, which he left in the States. He doesn’t have an Irish one anymore.’
So he’s off the grid, thought Cass, or at least I’m supposed to believe that.
‘Well, if Peter does contact you, or does show up again, we need to speak with him. I trust you can see why that’s the case.’
‘Of course. For his own safety too.’
‘I’ll give you my personal mobile. You can ring me at any time, day or night.’
Not really appropriate when Ryan is the liaison officer, but I couldn’t care less.
‘Thank you.’
‘By the way,’ Cass said, ‘will you also handle your father’s affairs – probate and things like that?’
‘I presume so. I haven’t followed up on that aspect yet. Why?’
‘Your father had a lot of money concealed on the property. Euros and old Irish notes. All told, a sum worth more than 100,000 euro.’
It was at that point the youngest child burst through the door laughing, a cocker spaniel chasing at his heels, imploring his mother for chocolate for himself and a biscuit for the dog. It completely disrupted Cass’s focus, and, helplessly, she tumbled back into the past, thinking of the boy left motherless by her ex-husband’s drunk driving. She wondered if that child would ever be able to run in such a happy, carefree manner.
Sarah ignored her son’s specific entreaties and instead put a mound of strawberry jam on one scone and butter on another, in the apparent knowledge that the cocker spaniel would get half, and ushered child and dog out the door again. The sound of the door closing pulled Cass from her trance.
‘My husband and I have debts like most people,’ Sarah said. ‘Inheriting my father’s farm would solve a few problems. One hundred thousand euro would solve them even quicker. But as far as I’m concerned, his land can rot and his money can burn. I don’t want any of it.’
Cass left the farmhouse, trying to hold it together, and drove off as quickly as she could. She had barely made it down the lane and through the gate when she burst into tears. Some triggers were predictable in their timing and nature; others less so. The boy involved in Hugh’s crash had survived because his mother had shielded him, taking the brunt of the impact and suffering a fatal brain bleed in the process.
After Hugh’s conviction, Cass had sold their house as quickly as possible, and after clearing the small mortgage, requested via her solicitor that the outstanding balance be placed on trust for the child. Cass’s solicitor had questioned the wisdom of approaching the family so soon; had delicately suggested that Cass allow an appropriate interval to pass. She hadn’t listened, was incapable of hearing anything at that point but the imagined screams of the accident.
Some weeks later, a one-line response came from the boy’s father, declining the money. ‘You enabled him and you can’t buy your absolution.’
In death, Bridge Bannon wouldn’t be buying his daughter’s absolution either.
His land can rot and his money can burn.
Her chest heaving, her heart breaking, Cass allowed herself to sob for a couple of minutes, knowing from past experience it was better to let it out in private than risk breaking down in public.
His land can rot and his money can burn.
