A Carol for the Dead, page 16
‘Well, Illaun, funny you should have mentioned VIPs. Derek Ward’s secretary just rang to say the minister and his wife are going to a friend’s funeral and won’t be able to make the solstice. Did you know something I didn’t?’
‘No, Con. Just a coincidence, I guess.’ But I was fairly certain whose funeral Ward was attending. And that gave me an idea.
‘Tell Dr Sherry to be outside the site at eight am.’
I thanked Purcell and reflected, as I dialled Sherry’s number, that it was far more of a coincidence than I had time to explain: Derek Ward’s place would be taken by the man who had carried out the postmortem on his friend.
Sherry was fulsomely grateful and said he would see me there. I looked at the clock. Just gone eleven.
The phone rang again. ‘Hi.’ The caller had no need to identify herself.
‘Hi, Fran.’
‘Just reminding you about lunch today.’ She knew my form.
‘I know. Twelve-thirty. The Old Mill.’
‘Walter’s.’
‘Walter’s it is. Hey, I forgot to tell you: I’m going to a rather special event in Dublin tonight.’
‘The Spinsters’ Ball?’
‘Jocelyn Carew’s “At Home”, as we say.’
‘I’m so jealous it hurts,’ she said facetiously. ‘Who are you going with – Wolfman?’ Wolfman was her nickname for Finian; it had its origins in a conversation with me in which she’d referred to him as a sheep in wolf’s clothing, an inversion she found hilarious because as far as she was concerned it also described his appearance.
‘Don’t give me that; you’d love to be there,’ I said, evading her attempt to engage me in a discussion about Finian.
‘No way. I’d prefer a night with the handsome electrician who said he’d like to switch on my fairy lights.’
‘He wasn’t dressed in red and sporting a white beard, by any chance?’
‘Come to think of it … yeah, he was. He also promised he’d come down my chimney on Christmas Eve.’
I told Fran she was obscene, which she seemed to take as a compliment, and put down the phone.
I had been working on the report for another five minutes when the phone rang again. I answered it immediately, rather than have to listen to the pre-recorded message and the caller’s response. Where was Peggy?
My irritation subsided when I heard Seamus Crean on the other end.
‘Seamus, how are you?’
‘Not great today, Missus. The asthma is at me.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’ I suspected it had been brought on by the stress of being taken in for questioning.
‘Anyway, I’m ringing to say I talked to my father …’ He paused for breath. ‘And it’s fixed for tomorrow at four.’
‘Fixed? What’s fixed?’
‘He’ll meet you in Mick Doran’s bar here in Donore. It’ll be quiet at that time.’
I was lost.
‘You said you were interested in hearing about the apparitions.’
In the vaguest possible way, as I recalled. But I hadn’t the heart to refuse. And, as far as I knew, I had nothing else scheduled for the afternoon of the twenty-first. ‘Thanks, Seamus. I’ll be there at four. What’s your father’s name, by the way?’
‘Jack Crean.’
‘Jack – right, so. And now that I have you on the line – and I’m sure the Gardaí made you go over it a thousand times – would you mind telling me what happened at Monashee from the time you found the body to the time I arrived?’
‘No problem. I remember the first thing I done was ring the Visitor Centre. I was put through by Directory Inquiries and I asked to talk to the boss. Then Mr Purcell came on and said he’d drive down to Monashee. I’d say he arrived about ten minutes later …’ He paused again for air.
It had never occurred to me that Con Purcell had been at the site because my first point of contact had been Terence Ivers, who had been alerted by Purcell. ‘What happened in the meantime?’
‘Nothing, except the dump truck that had been hauling away the soil came back for another load, but I sent it away.’
‘Did the driver take a look at the body?’
‘No, Missus. He was as rattled as I was. Drove off like a scalded cat.’
‘So then Mr Purcell arrived. What did he do?’
‘He took a good look in the bucket, said it was definitely a body that was stuck in the turf and had probably been there a long time … Then he said he’d arrange for someone to examine it properly because he was very busy.’
‘And then he went away?’
‘Yeah. He asked me to stick around until the experts arrived.’
‘So before I came on the scene, you were hanging around there for – what, forty minutes? And you never went near the body?’
‘No way. I had some sandwiches, so I ate them in the cab, listening to the radio to pass the time. Then some fella stopped his car at the side of the road, and I went up and had a chat with him.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Dunno. He was just passing by, saw the digger and wondered if there was a car park being laid for people to view Newgrange.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘He had a bit of a beard, I remember. Well spoken.’
‘He didn’t get out of the car?’
‘No. He drove off. And that was all that happened until you came.’
‘And when you were sitting there in the digger waiting, what was going through your mind?’
‘To be honest, I was a bit scared. I kept remembering a prayer you were supposed to say passing Monashee.’
‘Oh? What was that?’
‘Let me see or hear no evil as I pass; and, if I do, please God, let me never speak of it to anyone.’
It couldn’t be a coincidence. No eyes to see, ears to hear, mouth to speak. I caught a glimpse of the mutilated apparitions that had been with me in the car that night. ‘Seamus, did you recite that … that prayer for Inspector Gallagher?’
‘No. Because I didn’t hear about the cuts to Traynor’s face until I came home after being in custody.’ Seamus had spotted the connection.
‘But you’d heard the prayer before that.’
‘Sure. I learned it from my mother.’
Just as well it wasn’t in Latin, I thought. ‘Well, if Gallagher questions you at any stage in the future, don’t volunteer it. It could land you in trouble all over again.’
‘I won’t, so. But I’m glad I remembered it that day, because it worked.’
‘How do you mean, it worked?’
‘It protected me, like. They say the evening Mr Traynor was killed there was a figure in white seen in the field … My mother says it must have been the soul of that poor woman we found, and that she’s upset because we haven’t given her a Christian burial.’
‘I see. Well, tell your mother …’ Tell her what? That Mona would probably end up on exhibition in the National Museum? ‘Tell her I wish her and the family a happy Christmas.’
Twenty uninterrupted minutes later, I sat back and scrolled through the completed report. I had come across one item on the inventory that I had considered querying: I thought we had found three pike-heads at the skirmish site, but only two were catalogued – but I decided it was better to get the report to the NRA before Christmas, as planned; in the meantime, when I met Keelan and Gayle I would ask them about the apparent discrepancy. I clicked the report off to the NRA, with copies to my two field staff.
Only then did I notice the small stack of opened post that Peggy had left on my desk. I picked it up and quickly flicked through to see if there was anything urgent.
When I came across the Christmas card, my mouth went instantly dry. An abstract, purple-hued landscape with a spiral motif in gold running across it, and the words ‘The Peace of Earth, Air and Water be with you, and may the returning Sun rekindle all your hopes this Midwinter.’
My fingers trembled as I opened it. Blank. I turned it around: nothing on the back.
It was a warning: You’re getting close. But come any closer and it will cost you your life.
I shot out of my chair over to Peggy’s wastepaper basket, lifted it onto her desk and started searching for the envelope.
Peggy arrived just then, talking as she came through the door. ‘I waited until they replaced the window. Took an early lunch. Saved both of us having to drive back –’
‘Tell me which envelope this came in, will you?’ I held up the card.
‘Goodness, you look upset. What’s the matter?’
‘Just help me find the envelope.’
Peggy put down her handbag and waved me aside. ‘Should be easy. The envelope was blank too.’
‘What do you mean, blank?’
‘No name or address. Not even a stamp.’
Which meant the card hadn’t been posted. I remembered the lid of the post-box rattling the previous night. There had been someone outside. I felt suddenly weak and slumped back into my chair before my legs buckled.
I must have had my head in my hands, because I didn’t notice Peggy approaching the desk and placing the half-crumpled envelope in front of me.
‘I knew you disliked certain kinds of cards,’ she said when I finally looked up, ‘but I had no idea just how much.’
She looked so glum I had to laugh. ‘Oh, Peggy. I dislike this card for sure, but for other reasons. Let’s just say someone used it to send me a particularly nasty message.’
Peggy went back to her desk, probably baffled at my interpretation of what seemed a perfectly benign greeting. But that moment of levity had helped me recover my strength.
I found a pair of tweezers in a drawer and held the envelope up to the light. There was nothing inside. I pulled a Ziploc bag from another drawer and dropped the envelope and the card into it.
Peggy had been following this procedure, and she tried her best to pick up her earlier conversation. ‘The phone you wanted isn’t in stock, by the way. They’ll have it in later this evening or first thing tomorrow morning. I did get your … em …’ She had taken a number of cellophane-wrapped packets from her capacious handbag and was pointing at them in order to avoid using the C-word. ‘Not in the mood for writing them, I’d imagine.’
‘Not right now. And I’m meant to be on my way to meet Fran. One or two things before I go. Keelan will be dropping in some items for me and going back to Drogheda.’ I held up the bag with the card in it. ‘Will you ask him to bring this to the Garda station there, to be given only to a Detective Inspector Matt Gallagher? In the meantime, ring Gallagher and tell him there’s evidence on its way that was left in our post-box last night. And finally …’ I took the digital camera out of my backpack and set it on my desk beside the PowerBook. ‘Load these into the laptop. Call the folders “Morgue” and “West Door”.’
Chapter Sixteen
The place Fran had suggested for lunch was near the massive curtain wall of the Anglo-Norman castle from which my hometown took half of its name. Unlike the office-party revellers filling the more chic restaurant next door, Walter’s clientele were mainly people with shopping bags and parcels tucked under their tables. But the table Fran was at had a small gift-wrapped box sitting on top of it – which, I realised with some embarrassment as I sat down, was for me.
‘I mightn’t see you between now and the twenty-fifth, the way things are going. I thought I’d give you your present today.’
‘Well, you know me, Fran. I’ll be giving you yours closer to the time.’
She flashed a grin. ‘As is traditional, Illaun.’ Fran knew that I sometimes ended up, in a panic, still hunting down presents on Christmas Eve. For that reason, she had forced me to buy Finian’s Christmas gift in Lucca in October. It had seemed unnatural at the time (October?); only now did I fully appreciate her forward planning.
I put the box to one side, leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Fran.’ My voice sounded flat.
‘Merry Christmas. Now let’s have something to eat.’
As we read the menu we chatted about Daisy and Oisín. Fran was separated from her alcoholic husband and had custody of their two children. She tended to speak little of him but endlessly about them. Both looked like her, but in different ways; if you could reassemble them into one person, you’d have Fran. Her son Oisín had inherited her green eyes, Daisy her red hair; Oisín got the freckles, Daisy the long legs; and both had her wicked smile.
We gave our orders and continued to talk about family matters, but I found myself growing increasingly detached from the conversation. I became aware that Fran was staring at me.
‘You’re upset about something, Illaun. What’s wrong?’
‘I think I’m having a delayed reaction …’
The waitress arrived with our orders – smoked salmon and cream-cheese bagel (hers) and avocado and prawn salad (mine).
‘Delayed reaction to what?’
‘A death threat.’
‘Jesus, Illaun. Who’s threatening you?’
‘I don’t know.’ As we ate, I filled her in on what had transpired since we’d last met. ‘It’s obvious I’ve overturned a stone under which something nasty was hiding,’ I concluded, ‘but the question is, what did I do, say or hear in the past few days that disturbed it?’
‘I’d be suspicious of O’Hagan,’ said Fran, after giving it some thought. ‘For one thing, he’s been hampering the investigation; and now you’ve probably got him into deep shit with Gallagher. Apart from which, he sounds like a right bastard.’
Heads turned towards us as Fran emphasised the word with obvious relish. Her subliminal feelings towards her ex-husband sometimes found unexpected outlets.
My reply was barely above the level of a whisper. ‘I can see where you’re coming from, Fran. And I do believe O’Hagan’s embittered about life for some reason – but a sadistic killer? I don’t think so.’
Fran sighed. ‘OK, then it’s the Ghost of Grange Abbey – whooo!’ She wiggled her hands in the air to complete her impression of a ghostly apparition.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ I said, discovering the ability to smile again. ‘But seriously, there’s something just not right about them. It’s as if they’ve always hidden in the shadows; now they’re suddenly thrust into public view, and all they really want is to drop off the radar screen again.’
‘I could help you find out more about them.’
‘How?’
‘We have one of them in the nursing home. A patient, I mean.’
‘You’re sure she’s a Hospitaller of –’
‘St Margaret of Antioch, yes. And she was at Grange Abbey. She reminds us of these facts every day.’
‘Is she … all there?’
‘No more or no less gaga than any of our other old dears.’
‘I’d have thought a medical order would care for their own?’
‘The mother ship flew off and this one got stranded. Like E.T. And just as many wrinkles.’
‘Does she get visits from any of the Grange Abbey community?’
‘No. I think they were having an influx from their missions a few years ago, when Sister Gabriel was about to check out: mostly younger nuns, strangers to her, I suppose.’
‘But the abbess …?’
‘Don’t think Gabriel saw eye-to-eye with the boss lady. Look, why not go and ask her yourself? I’ll arrange a visit for you.’
I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. And the sooner the better. ‘When?’
‘It’d be best if I was around. Next Monday, maybe? That’ll give me time to talk to her, get her prepared. Having a visitor is a rare event.’
Monday was a full week away. Not exactly what I had in mind. ‘I’d really like to talk to her before then if possible.’
‘If she’s compos mentis when I go back on Saturday evening, I’ll try and fix it for the following day.’
St Stephen’s Day. Only a day earlier. Still not ideal, but I wasn’t going to push Fran any further while she was off work.
‘Now, about you and Wolfman …’
I looked at my watch. ‘Hey, it’s gone two and I have to pick out my clothes for this do tonight. Let’s go.’
‘You’re not getting away that easily,’ she said. ‘When I come back from the loo we’re gonna talk.’ She excused herself and headed for the toilets. That gave me an opportunity to pay the bill without having to argue with her. Fran was proud of her independence, and any gesture that encroached on it, however small, was suspect. Her spiky personality also masked a generous and protective nature – hence, anyone she suspected of not being good enough for me got the sharp end of her tongue.
We had always been an unlikely pair. As a child she had been a diligent Barbie-groomer, while I liked to poke under rocks in search of creepy-crawlies. As a teenager she’d metamorphosed into a lanky, chalk-faced Goth who hid fishnet tights in her schoolbag to wear on the way home, while I became a Pre-Raphaelite pixie mooning about in Héloise-like daydreams about Finian. In time our paths had diverged as we predictably followed different careers. But when I came back to live in Castleboyne we had simply picked up where we’d left off.
The waitress took my credit card, and while waiting for her to return I decided to unwrap Fran’s Christmas present. It made me blink in disbelief at first; then it put a broad smile on my face. She had given me a six-CD box set of seasonal country music – from Alison Krauss and Union Station all the way back to Bob Wills and his Country Playboys. It was probably more Christmas country than even I could take during the festive period, but it was a lovely thought – not least because, when Fran and I had renewed our friendship, she’d been alarmed to discover I’d been ‘converted’ to country music, as if some cult had brainwashed me. When I explained that, even if it was a Church of sorts, it was a broad one, my argument fell on deaf ears. Not even when alternative country became cool with rock critics (I tried to turn her on to the spooky Handsome Family without success) or when her pinup George Clooney helped to make old-timey mainstream with the soundtrack of O Brother, Where Art Thou? could she be persuaded it was anything other than Hicksville.
