A Kind of Drowning, page 12
“Paddle boards, some go windsurfing, some even swim it,” he said.
“Jet Skis?” asked Crowe,
“If you’re mad enough, yeah,”
“I saw a helicopter land there the other day; not Air / Sea Rescue,” said Crowe.
“Lots of comings and goings over the past few months. There’s an old smuggler’s cove on the far side. Some of the local families used to run tea over to England for the black market during the Second World War. I’ve heard rumours drugs are coming in through it now. The sooner its sold, the better.”
Crowe studied the shoreline around Roscarrig; there were literally hundreds of small beaches and hidden coves that could accommodate a narcotics shipment.
And this far out from the city, not enough Guards.
“Growing town, growing demand,” said Crowe.
“There are rumours of a top dog in the drugs game living on the outskirts of the town.” nodded Donovan.
“You never know who’s moved in beside you,” said Crowe.
“’True,” said Donovan, “this town loves its rumours,”
They leaned against the gunwale smoking and watching the coast slide by. Crowe thought about Quigley, wondering what part of the town he had gone to when warning Teflon D.
“Thea was local, she’d have known the sea around these parts?” said Crowe.
“Air/Sea Rescue should send this town Christmas cards the amount of overtime we give them. This time of year, the tide can catch you unawares. Even the seasoned fishermen get caught in it. You get these city types coming down for the weekend doing kite surfing and wind surfing. Wrong time of the day or week and the next stop is Wales. There’s a deep channel north of the island, acts like a sort of tunnel when it surges – a killer.”
Crowe thought of Thea propelled underwater, dead. Battered and torn before she rose again and was delivered into the crowded harbour.
“Anything like shoes or clothing come up in those nets?”
“Hauled a FIAT 127 up once, but no; clothing usually disintegrates or sinks. Shoes would probably slip through the nets. I recognised you the moment I saw you - you’re that Guard who was all over the news and the internet?”
“Yep. Laying low,”
“Red mist.”
“I’m calmer now,”
“Old habits.”
“Old habits,” replied Crowe, “If a ladies Nike runner, size 4 ever surfaces?”
“I’ll let Clodagh know – does she have your number?”
“She had my number a while ago,”
Donovan tilted back his cap and laughed. It sounded like something from the grave.
“Smart girl, like her mother – would buy and sell you before you knew what was happening,” he said.
The harbour came into view and once the boat had moored, Crowe hauled himself up the ancient metal ladder to the top. He ached from the exercise and felt unexpectedly queasy and exhausted. He wondered if Gallaher was on one of his extended lunches.
Crowe looked around for the Lexus hoping to catch a lift.
Across the road and chained to the bollards that lined the pavement, a bicycle caught his eye. It was a white, thin, expensive looking one shining in the sunlight. The doors of the Boogie-Woogie flashed the sun as they swung open and a man in his mid-twenties dressed in upmarket athleisure unlocked the bike. The windshell hoodie was a vivid orange as were the running shoes. A baseball cap was perched jauntily on his head. He straddled the bike lithely and swinging out onto the road, pedalled no-handed sipping from a disposable coffee-cup. The man’s insouciance jarred like a photo-fit against the downbeat collection of buildings, vans, and cars.
Like Crowe, he didn’t belong in Roscarrig.
A student type Karen at the bookies had said. Crowe dug out his phone and dialled,
“Derry? Its John. Fancy a jaunt to the big smoke?”
Gallagher wheezed into the phone, “Is it important, John?”
“Very. Life or death. Can you pick me up at the apartment in thirty minutes?”
“Sure, why not? I’ll clear my appointments and tell Hilary to hold my calls,”
Crowe fought the urge to laugh, “I also need two hundred from the money belt. And while you’re there; I need a padded envelope, a black marker, and compliments slip,”
Crowe set out on foot, following the free-wheeling cyclist. At the T junction into the town, Crowe ducked up and across the side streets that acted as a short-cut to the betting shop.
He wasn’t disappointed.
“Got a light, bud?” Crowe asked, waving a cigarette
The cyclist was just pushing the bike through the betting shop door. Though he was momentarily wrong-footed, he merely glanced at the profusely sweating and wheezing Crowe.
“No. I don’t smoke,” he replied, “those things will kill you, you know,”
With a shove, he forced the bike through. Up close, Crowe was right; this guy was too shiny and new like a cigar holder for this town and his voice was Southside educated Dublin.
“Thanks for that,” replied Crowe, “How’s your boss these days?”
“Boss?” replied the man nonplussed.
“The one missing the thumb? Teflon?”
Crowe wasn’t sure but he thought the cyclist had blushed, he was still young enough to.
As the cyclist shouldered and disappeared through the narrow door he said, “Fuck off and stop annoying me. Go panhandle somewhere else,”
Taking the stairs two at a time to the garret, Crowe undressed in the apartment, towelled himself quickly and changed into clean tee, black fleece, and sweatpants. He dug out two odd socks from the laundry basket and donned his spare running shoes. He photographed his make-shift case board and sent the image to Cutts’ phone.
He pulled on a plain baseball cap and from behind the door, a Hi-Viz he had borrowed from the storeroom in the local supermarket. Standing at the mirror in the bathroom, he studied himself.
Dressed in black, with a Day-Glo vest he looked like a courier.
His eyes drifted toward the S-bend, to where the twist of coke was hidden. And it dawned on him - the cigar holder. He went back to the kitchen table and pulling on a pair of marigolds, he twisted the top off. Holding the tube up to the light, he could see something wound up inside the tube. Giving it a tap at the end, he watched a few grains of white powder fall onto the table along with a $100 bill.
Cocaine. Pure top-grade el-supremo cocaine. It tingled on his gums.
He put everything back together and wrapped it up in cling film. He tried Cutts’ phone one more time. It went to messaging.
He glanced up at the cup and saucer clock – time to go.
The Lexus was idling outside. Gallagher’s boom-box voice was hollering into his mobile. Crowe slid into the passenger side. Without pausing for breath, Gallaher handed over a huge envelope and marker pen.
In the A3 padded envelope Crowe slotted in the samphire in the cigarette box, a written note with the location and the cigar tube. Next in was The Rocky Shore Trail. On the front of the A3, he scrawled: F.A.O. Dr. Olivia Cutts. Assistant State Pathologist C/O Forensics, Garda HQ.
On the reverse of the envelope, he scrawled ‘MERMAID’.
“Can I put the hazards on?” asked Derry, hanging up.
“No,” replied Crowe. Looking at the clock on the dashboard he said, “I need to be at the library by five pm,”
“Then we’d better put the pedal to the metal, John.”
“Try not to get us pulled over,”
Gallagher tapped the media player screen and Barry Manilow blared out through the speakers.
What was worse is that Derry Gallagher thought he could sing.
It was going to be a long, long drive.
22
Crowe watched Clodagh cycle towards the library. The late afternoon sunset was the perfect backdrop for her arrival. The bone-cutting breeze drifted in from the coast winding its way under Crowe’s jacket and shirt. His jeans had refused to grow with his girth, and its waistband sliced into him.
“Well worth the wait,” he said.
“You’re on time,” she replied.
Clodagh dismounted and secured the bike to the library fence. Her jeans and top looked stylish and brand new. A striking amber pendant and an ornate bracelet were the only adornments. In a flat heel, she was eye level with him. Her make-up was subtle, her perfume too.
“You scrub up pretty well, yourself,” she replied.
He’d shaved for the first time in a week, lathering up his head as well. Just as he started into the left side of his head the bathroom lights had suddenly gone out. The ensuing cut was covered up with his hat. Patched in balm and toilet paper, the wound pounded mercilessly.
“Are power cuts frequent around here?” he asked.
“They don’t happen too often. There’s a substation close to the harbour, just all the new homes coming on stream creates a spike in demand. Christmas Day last year was down for the whole day. It should be back in a few hours – why, were you thinking of bailing on me?”
His body, unused to the level of exercise that morning already felt like it had been fed through a wringer.
“Not at all, I thought you’d arrive in a taxi?”
“It’s a fifteen-minute walk, Crowe. Even you can manage that?”
“Is there a short cut?” he replied.
“I think you need the exercise; that jacket looks a little snug.”
“Just a little tight at the shoulders, maybe,”
“Yeah, right,” she grinned.
They cut across the library grounds away from the coast, through a housing estate that looked desolate in the half-light. After a series of side roads, they found themselves walking along a long boreen. Both sides were lined with unruly hedgerows that forced them at times into single file. The shelter cocooned them from the coastal wind but drew the shadows closer about them. Clodagh’s strides were long, Crowe struggled to keep up with her pace. His stomach growled in protest.
“You made it back to the boathouse, ok?” he asked
“Without all the dead-weight? Yep,” she replied.
“Hilarious. How did you get the yellow thing back on its trailer?”
“The ‘Thing’ is called a kayak and I had help,” she replied .
“Help?”
“There were more rowers out and about – plenty of offers,”
“I’ll bet,” said Crowe.
Clodagh smiled to herself that Crowe had a tinge of jealousy about him,
“I see Derry was closed for the afternoon?” she said.
“He gave me a lift,” replied Crowe.
“Anywhere exciting?”
“Garda HQ,” said Crowe, “I think it broke the drudgery of his day. He wanted to put the hazards on, break the speed limit and use the bus lanes.”
“Dragooning poor old Derry, shame on you, Crowe. I hope you were delivering a letter of apology, taking responsibility for your assault? I had a look at the footage on YouTube, you do realise you nearly killed a man?”
“No and no - I had to submit some theories, ideas…”
“The Island? Thea?” she said.
“Yes. On paper, Thea had an accident, Clodagh.”
“On paper? The way you say that you think otherwise?”
“I do. I think something happened to her. I think, and it’s only a hunch, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time resulting in her death.”
Clodagh stopped. She had been walking a few paces ahead and turned toward him. He stared directly at Clodagh. He needed her to listen to him. He needed some reaction, some validation.
“Who would hurt her? Why, Crowe? She was just a kid,” said Clodagh.
“I don’t know, Clodagh. I threw my eye around the area near the tower. You get a ‘feel’ for a spot. I think she was there. I don’t know why, but I think I know how. She crossed the spit, she may have had to wade; which begs the question, why would she go to her bolthole, a secret place in the middle of the night? Maybe she’d run away from something and went head first into something worse. Even if she’d been caught by the tide, she would have been well capable of making it to shore.”
Clodagh stood facing him in the fading light, her slightly square face, framed in shoulder length hair gave her an androgynous appearance. Her eyes glittered in the half-light in concern.
“That’s terrible, I mean it, Crowe – even to think that way?”
“I have to ask you, just out of curiosity, Andrew Farrell, the father, any gossip?”
“Gossip. Seriously?”
“Prone to ‘red mist’…?”
“Pot calling kettle? No, I haven’t heard any ‘gossip’ as you call it. All I’ve heard is that he’s a good man, very attentive to her and Grace. A pillar of the community.”
A man, Crowe’s father would have labelled as ‘a man of consequence’.
“Was he resentful of Thea’s achievements? The mother seemed to blame him in the church,”
“No, Crowe. He was grieving…Grace was grieving - Christ, show some fucking compassion.”
“Let’s not ruin the evening, shall we? I’ve sent in my concerns, but only as a private citizen, Clodagh,” he said, “I’m persona non grata these days, anyway. It’ll wind up in a tray somewhere, but I feel I’ve fought her corner,”
“Or re-opened old wounds, Crowe. A hunch isn’t a fact.”
“Once a cop, always a cop, it’s a bad habit,” replied Crowe.
“Then it’s easy to see why you’re on your own,”
She turned on her heel and shouted over her shoulder,
“How can you live with yourself, Crowe? Seriously?”
Well, the evening’s going just swimmingly, thought Crowe.
The narrow laneway gave way to a main road. They crossed it in silence.
“Here we are,” she said.
It was a large, thatched pub called ‘The Coachman’. Every window was lit by candle light. Protected by pine and yew trees, it glowed softly in the gloom.
“Now this looks like a hidden gem. I didn’t think a place like this existed,” said Crowe.
“Local knowledge, Crowe. Its nearly two hundred years old and an early house too.”
“Good to know,” replied Crowe, “Maybe we should have a liquid breakfast here? I hate to eat on an empty stomach - what time does it open at?”
“Five-thirty, so the fisherman can have a few before they put out to sea. The road leads down to the harbour, you could walk to it in ten minutes.”
Clodagh held the door open for Crowe. Inside, every table was lit with candles and tea lights in multicoloured glass. The bar’s mirror, chipped and faded in places, reflected the light in prisms of amber flame. A turf fire glowed and smouldered from an antique hearth, the ingles and pans seared in black.
A waitress checked the booking in a large A4 desk diary using the torch on her phone. She drew a highlighter across their names,
“Hi Clodagh, thanks for that recommendation, I hope to have the book back by next weekend,” she said.
“Take your time, Aoife. There’s no penalty these days, I’m glad you’re enjoying Garcia Marquez, he’s a great writer.”
“Love in the Time of Cholera is pretty apt for these days too, Clodagh,” said Aoife,
Crowe noticed the hand sanitiser dispenser beside the diary. Aoife pumped it a few times into her hands before reaching for two menus. He had also noted her double take at the pair of them. She guided them to their table. From her smart shirt and waistcoat, Aoife oozed efficiency.
“We’ve no electricity, but the gas is working, so everything on the menu should be ok. Only thing is, the card machine isn’t working,” said Aoife.
“I have cash,” said Crowe.
“That’s great, guys. Just to let you know the beer taps are down too and the blackout has affected the wine coolers,” said Aoife, “so it’s bottled ale or we can serve the house red,”
“Do you have whiskey?” asked Crowe
“Yes, we do though ice is limited, we sent one of the lads out to get some from the nearest hotel,” said Aoife.
“I’ll have a whiskey, single malt if possible, no ice please, por favor – Clodagh?”
“Tap water,” she replied flatly.
He knew he should have invited her to choose first; how long was it since he’d been on a date? Twenty years? What was the etiquette? Was this even a date?
Crowe began to sweat. The table felt suddenly small.
He felt somehow he’d missed a cue.
“How are the chefs coping?” asked Clodagh, with a smile that seemed painted on.
“They all have head torches; the kitchen is like a coal mine in there. I’ll get the drinks and give you time to choose,” replied Aoife.
Lauren and Lucy at The Boogie-Woogie should study her, as she was the complete opposite to them, thought Crowe. No visible ink, no attitude, just smiles. He looked around; the restaurant was only half full. Mostly couples, but no families.
They both selected steak, vegetables, and fries from the menu. Crowe ordered two glasses of red. Clodagh asked for a blue steak, Crowe for well done.
Aoife returned with the wine. Crowe gulped it down, Clodagh sipped. Crowe couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt Aoife was staring at him.
“I’ll have another whiskey, same again, Jameson. No ice,”
Aoife looked at Clodagh who smiled a no-thanks. Another diner called over to her and she briskly dealt with their question.
Too sharp for this town, thought Crowe.
“You can take your hat off,” said Clodagh
“Not advisable,” said Crowe, “I dabbled with shaving my head, it didn’t go so well. Might put you off your steak. So, do you enjoy working in the library?”
Clodagh shifted slightly in her chair. Crowe had an intensity about him, something missing from his first visit at the library had been found. Like he’d just plugged himself back in. His gaze could be warm and yet destructive if need be,
“It gives me a place to write poetry,” she said.
“Have you had anything published?” he asked.
“No,”
“Why not?”
Clodagh stared at him for a moment and shrugged.
“I’d fret over every word, they’d never be good enough,”
“There’s a lot of crap out there, these days, you should do it anyway?”
“Jet Skis?” asked Crowe,
“If you’re mad enough, yeah,”
“I saw a helicopter land there the other day; not Air / Sea Rescue,” said Crowe.
“Lots of comings and goings over the past few months. There’s an old smuggler’s cove on the far side. Some of the local families used to run tea over to England for the black market during the Second World War. I’ve heard rumours drugs are coming in through it now. The sooner its sold, the better.”
Crowe studied the shoreline around Roscarrig; there were literally hundreds of small beaches and hidden coves that could accommodate a narcotics shipment.
And this far out from the city, not enough Guards.
“Growing town, growing demand,” said Crowe.
“There are rumours of a top dog in the drugs game living on the outskirts of the town.” nodded Donovan.
“You never know who’s moved in beside you,” said Crowe.
“’True,” said Donovan, “this town loves its rumours,”
They leaned against the gunwale smoking and watching the coast slide by. Crowe thought about Quigley, wondering what part of the town he had gone to when warning Teflon D.
“Thea was local, she’d have known the sea around these parts?” said Crowe.
“Air/Sea Rescue should send this town Christmas cards the amount of overtime we give them. This time of year, the tide can catch you unawares. Even the seasoned fishermen get caught in it. You get these city types coming down for the weekend doing kite surfing and wind surfing. Wrong time of the day or week and the next stop is Wales. There’s a deep channel north of the island, acts like a sort of tunnel when it surges – a killer.”
Crowe thought of Thea propelled underwater, dead. Battered and torn before she rose again and was delivered into the crowded harbour.
“Anything like shoes or clothing come up in those nets?”
“Hauled a FIAT 127 up once, but no; clothing usually disintegrates or sinks. Shoes would probably slip through the nets. I recognised you the moment I saw you - you’re that Guard who was all over the news and the internet?”
“Yep. Laying low,”
“Red mist.”
“I’m calmer now,”
“Old habits.”
“Old habits,” replied Crowe, “If a ladies Nike runner, size 4 ever surfaces?”
“I’ll let Clodagh know – does she have your number?”
“She had my number a while ago,”
Donovan tilted back his cap and laughed. It sounded like something from the grave.
“Smart girl, like her mother – would buy and sell you before you knew what was happening,” he said.
The harbour came into view and once the boat had moored, Crowe hauled himself up the ancient metal ladder to the top. He ached from the exercise and felt unexpectedly queasy and exhausted. He wondered if Gallaher was on one of his extended lunches.
Crowe looked around for the Lexus hoping to catch a lift.
Across the road and chained to the bollards that lined the pavement, a bicycle caught his eye. It was a white, thin, expensive looking one shining in the sunlight. The doors of the Boogie-Woogie flashed the sun as they swung open and a man in his mid-twenties dressed in upmarket athleisure unlocked the bike. The windshell hoodie was a vivid orange as were the running shoes. A baseball cap was perched jauntily on his head. He straddled the bike lithely and swinging out onto the road, pedalled no-handed sipping from a disposable coffee-cup. The man’s insouciance jarred like a photo-fit against the downbeat collection of buildings, vans, and cars.
Like Crowe, he didn’t belong in Roscarrig.
A student type Karen at the bookies had said. Crowe dug out his phone and dialled,
“Derry? Its John. Fancy a jaunt to the big smoke?”
Gallagher wheezed into the phone, “Is it important, John?”
“Very. Life or death. Can you pick me up at the apartment in thirty minutes?”
“Sure, why not? I’ll clear my appointments and tell Hilary to hold my calls,”
Crowe fought the urge to laugh, “I also need two hundred from the money belt. And while you’re there; I need a padded envelope, a black marker, and compliments slip,”
Crowe set out on foot, following the free-wheeling cyclist. At the T junction into the town, Crowe ducked up and across the side streets that acted as a short-cut to the betting shop.
He wasn’t disappointed.
“Got a light, bud?” Crowe asked, waving a cigarette
The cyclist was just pushing the bike through the betting shop door. Though he was momentarily wrong-footed, he merely glanced at the profusely sweating and wheezing Crowe.
“No. I don’t smoke,” he replied, “those things will kill you, you know,”
With a shove, he forced the bike through. Up close, Crowe was right; this guy was too shiny and new like a cigar holder for this town and his voice was Southside educated Dublin.
“Thanks for that,” replied Crowe, “How’s your boss these days?”
“Boss?” replied the man nonplussed.
“The one missing the thumb? Teflon?”
Crowe wasn’t sure but he thought the cyclist had blushed, he was still young enough to.
As the cyclist shouldered and disappeared through the narrow door he said, “Fuck off and stop annoying me. Go panhandle somewhere else,”
Taking the stairs two at a time to the garret, Crowe undressed in the apartment, towelled himself quickly and changed into clean tee, black fleece, and sweatpants. He dug out two odd socks from the laundry basket and donned his spare running shoes. He photographed his make-shift case board and sent the image to Cutts’ phone.
He pulled on a plain baseball cap and from behind the door, a Hi-Viz he had borrowed from the storeroom in the local supermarket. Standing at the mirror in the bathroom, he studied himself.
Dressed in black, with a Day-Glo vest he looked like a courier.
His eyes drifted toward the S-bend, to where the twist of coke was hidden. And it dawned on him - the cigar holder. He went back to the kitchen table and pulling on a pair of marigolds, he twisted the top off. Holding the tube up to the light, he could see something wound up inside the tube. Giving it a tap at the end, he watched a few grains of white powder fall onto the table along with a $100 bill.
Cocaine. Pure top-grade el-supremo cocaine. It tingled on his gums.
He put everything back together and wrapped it up in cling film. He tried Cutts’ phone one more time. It went to messaging.
He glanced up at the cup and saucer clock – time to go.
The Lexus was idling outside. Gallagher’s boom-box voice was hollering into his mobile. Crowe slid into the passenger side. Without pausing for breath, Gallaher handed over a huge envelope and marker pen.
In the A3 padded envelope Crowe slotted in the samphire in the cigarette box, a written note with the location and the cigar tube. Next in was The Rocky Shore Trail. On the front of the A3, he scrawled: F.A.O. Dr. Olivia Cutts. Assistant State Pathologist C/O Forensics, Garda HQ.
On the reverse of the envelope, he scrawled ‘MERMAID’.
“Can I put the hazards on?” asked Derry, hanging up.
“No,” replied Crowe. Looking at the clock on the dashboard he said, “I need to be at the library by five pm,”
“Then we’d better put the pedal to the metal, John.”
“Try not to get us pulled over,”
Gallagher tapped the media player screen and Barry Manilow blared out through the speakers.
What was worse is that Derry Gallagher thought he could sing.
It was going to be a long, long drive.
22
Crowe watched Clodagh cycle towards the library. The late afternoon sunset was the perfect backdrop for her arrival. The bone-cutting breeze drifted in from the coast winding its way under Crowe’s jacket and shirt. His jeans had refused to grow with his girth, and its waistband sliced into him.
“Well worth the wait,” he said.
“You’re on time,” she replied.
Clodagh dismounted and secured the bike to the library fence. Her jeans and top looked stylish and brand new. A striking amber pendant and an ornate bracelet were the only adornments. In a flat heel, she was eye level with him. Her make-up was subtle, her perfume too.
“You scrub up pretty well, yourself,” she replied.
He’d shaved for the first time in a week, lathering up his head as well. Just as he started into the left side of his head the bathroom lights had suddenly gone out. The ensuing cut was covered up with his hat. Patched in balm and toilet paper, the wound pounded mercilessly.
“Are power cuts frequent around here?” he asked.
“They don’t happen too often. There’s a substation close to the harbour, just all the new homes coming on stream creates a spike in demand. Christmas Day last year was down for the whole day. It should be back in a few hours – why, were you thinking of bailing on me?”
His body, unused to the level of exercise that morning already felt like it had been fed through a wringer.
“Not at all, I thought you’d arrive in a taxi?”
“It’s a fifteen-minute walk, Crowe. Even you can manage that?”
“Is there a short cut?” he replied.
“I think you need the exercise; that jacket looks a little snug.”
“Just a little tight at the shoulders, maybe,”
“Yeah, right,” she grinned.
They cut across the library grounds away from the coast, through a housing estate that looked desolate in the half-light. After a series of side roads, they found themselves walking along a long boreen. Both sides were lined with unruly hedgerows that forced them at times into single file. The shelter cocooned them from the coastal wind but drew the shadows closer about them. Clodagh’s strides were long, Crowe struggled to keep up with her pace. His stomach growled in protest.
“You made it back to the boathouse, ok?” he asked
“Without all the dead-weight? Yep,” she replied.
“Hilarious. How did you get the yellow thing back on its trailer?”
“The ‘Thing’ is called a kayak and I had help,” she replied .
“Help?”
“There were more rowers out and about – plenty of offers,”
“I’ll bet,” said Crowe.
Clodagh smiled to herself that Crowe had a tinge of jealousy about him,
“I see Derry was closed for the afternoon?” she said.
“He gave me a lift,” replied Crowe.
“Anywhere exciting?”
“Garda HQ,” said Crowe, “I think it broke the drudgery of his day. He wanted to put the hazards on, break the speed limit and use the bus lanes.”
“Dragooning poor old Derry, shame on you, Crowe. I hope you were delivering a letter of apology, taking responsibility for your assault? I had a look at the footage on YouTube, you do realise you nearly killed a man?”
“No and no - I had to submit some theories, ideas…”
“The Island? Thea?” she said.
“Yes. On paper, Thea had an accident, Clodagh.”
“On paper? The way you say that you think otherwise?”
“I do. I think something happened to her. I think, and it’s only a hunch, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time resulting in her death.”
Clodagh stopped. She had been walking a few paces ahead and turned toward him. He stared directly at Clodagh. He needed her to listen to him. He needed some reaction, some validation.
“Who would hurt her? Why, Crowe? She was just a kid,” said Clodagh.
“I don’t know, Clodagh. I threw my eye around the area near the tower. You get a ‘feel’ for a spot. I think she was there. I don’t know why, but I think I know how. She crossed the spit, she may have had to wade; which begs the question, why would she go to her bolthole, a secret place in the middle of the night? Maybe she’d run away from something and went head first into something worse. Even if she’d been caught by the tide, she would have been well capable of making it to shore.”
Clodagh stood facing him in the fading light, her slightly square face, framed in shoulder length hair gave her an androgynous appearance. Her eyes glittered in the half-light in concern.
“That’s terrible, I mean it, Crowe – even to think that way?”
“I have to ask you, just out of curiosity, Andrew Farrell, the father, any gossip?”
“Gossip. Seriously?”
“Prone to ‘red mist’…?”
“Pot calling kettle? No, I haven’t heard any ‘gossip’ as you call it. All I’ve heard is that he’s a good man, very attentive to her and Grace. A pillar of the community.”
A man, Crowe’s father would have labelled as ‘a man of consequence’.
“Was he resentful of Thea’s achievements? The mother seemed to blame him in the church,”
“No, Crowe. He was grieving…Grace was grieving - Christ, show some fucking compassion.”
“Let’s not ruin the evening, shall we? I’ve sent in my concerns, but only as a private citizen, Clodagh,” he said, “I’m persona non grata these days, anyway. It’ll wind up in a tray somewhere, but I feel I’ve fought her corner,”
“Or re-opened old wounds, Crowe. A hunch isn’t a fact.”
“Once a cop, always a cop, it’s a bad habit,” replied Crowe.
“Then it’s easy to see why you’re on your own,”
She turned on her heel and shouted over her shoulder,
“How can you live with yourself, Crowe? Seriously?”
Well, the evening’s going just swimmingly, thought Crowe.
The narrow laneway gave way to a main road. They crossed it in silence.
“Here we are,” she said.
It was a large, thatched pub called ‘The Coachman’. Every window was lit by candle light. Protected by pine and yew trees, it glowed softly in the gloom.
“Now this looks like a hidden gem. I didn’t think a place like this existed,” said Crowe.
“Local knowledge, Crowe. Its nearly two hundred years old and an early house too.”
“Good to know,” replied Crowe, “Maybe we should have a liquid breakfast here? I hate to eat on an empty stomach - what time does it open at?”
“Five-thirty, so the fisherman can have a few before they put out to sea. The road leads down to the harbour, you could walk to it in ten minutes.”
Clodagh held the door open for Crowe. Inside, every table was lit with candles and tea lights in multicoloured glass. The bar’s mirror, chipped and faded in places, reflected the light in prisms of amber flame. A turf fire glowed and smouldered from an antique hearth, the ingles and pans seared in black.
A waitress checked the booking in a large A4 desk diary using the torch on her phone. She drew a highlighter across their names,
“Hi Clodagh, thanks for that recommendation, I hope to have the book back by next weekend,” she said.
“Take your time, Aoife. There’s no penalty these days, I’m glad you’re enjoying Garcia Marquez, he’s a great writer.”
“Love in the Time of Cholera is pretty apt for these days too, Clodagh,” said Aoife,
Crowe noticed the hand sanitiser dispenser beside the diary. Aoife pumped it a few times into her hands before reaching for two menus. He had also noted her double take at the pair of them. She guided them to their table. From her smart shirt and waistcoat, Aoife oozed efficiency.
“We’ve no electricity, but the gas is working, so everything on the menu should be ok. Only thing is, the card machine isn’t working,” said Aoife.
“I have cash,” said Crowe.
“That’s great, guys. Just to let you know the beer taps are down too and the blackout has affected the wine coolers,” said Aoife, “so it’s bottled ale or we can serve the house red,”
“Do you have whiskey?” asked Crowe
“Yes, we do though ice is limited, we sent one of the lads out to get some from the nearest hotel,” said Aoife.
“I’ll have a whiskey, single malt if possible, no ice please, por favor – Clodagh?”
“Tap water,” she replied flatly.
He knew he should have invited her to choose first; how long was it since he’d been on a date? Twenty years? What was the etiquette? Was this even a date?
Crowe began to sweat. The table felt suddenly small.
He felt somehow he’d missed a cue.
“How are the chefs coping?” asked Clodagh, with a smile that seemed painted on.
“They all have head torches; the kitchen is like a coal mine in there. I’ll get the drinks and give you time to choose,” replied Aoife.
Lauren and Lucy at The Boogie-Woogie should study her, as she was the complete opposite to them, thought Crowe. No visible ink, no attitude, just smiles. He looked around; the restaurant was only half full. Mostly couples, but no families.
They both selected steak, vegetables, and fries from the menu. Crowe ordered two glasses of red. Clodagh asked for a blue steak, Crowe for well done.
Aoife returned with the wine. Crowe gulped it down, Clodagh sipped. Crowe couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt Aoife was staring at him.
“I’ll have another whiskey, same again, Jameson. No ice,”
Aoife looked at Clodagh who smiled a no-thanks. Another diner called over to her and she briskly dealt with their question.
Too sharp for this town, thought Crowe.
“You can take your hat off,” said Clodagh
“Not advisable,” said Crowe, “I dabbled with shaving my head, it didn’t go so well. Might put you off your steak. So, do you enjoy working in the library?”
Clodagh shifted slightly in her chair. Crowe had an intensity about him, something missing from his first visit at the library had been found. Like he’d just plugged himself back in. His gaze could be warm and yet destructive if need be,
“It gives me a place to write poetry,” she said.
“Have you had anything published?” he asked.
“No,”
“Why not?”
Clodagh stared at him for a moment and shrugged.
“I’d fret over every word, they’d never be good enough,”
“There’s a lot of crap out there, these days, you should do it anyway?”
