Death at Whitewater Church Page 15

  “I don’t think anyone is suggesting that he—”

  She interrupted me. “No, but they will. It’s too convenient. I know human nature – I’ve seen the way it works. Danny had a bit of a drink problem certainly and he had his peculiarities but he was never anything like …” She straightened her hat. “I think it’s far more likely he was trying to be kind, to do the right thing.”

  I felt a tap on my shoulder, and Phyllis appeared beside me. She gave Mrs. Devitt a huge hug, almost drowning her in colorful fabric in the process.

  “I think Claire’s about ready to go, Mrs. D, if you are?” she said.

  “Thank you, dear.” She gave me a final meaningful look and hastened back to her daughter’s side.

  “What about you?” Phyllis said. “Are you ready to go?” I nodded.

  “That looked like a fairly intense chat you were having.”

  “Oh, you know …”

  My mind was going round in circles. I had a clear but uneasy impression that something had been asked of me, that I had agreed to it, and that now something was expected of me. But what? Phyllis seemed to sense my mood and for once resisted the temptation to ask questions. She was silent the whole journey back to Glendara. I dropped her off outside the book shop and carried on to the office where I found Eddie Kearney grinning up at me through the door of the waiting room when I walked in.

  “Sorry,” Leah mouthed to me. “He says he’s away to Dublin for the weekend and has to see you before he goes.”

  “All right.” I stuck my head in the door. “Come on in to the front room with me, Eddie.”

  * * *

  Eddie plonked himself down on the seat and sat facing me with his knees apart, still grinning, through a strange collection of misshapen teeth.

  “What’s up, Eddie?” I asked. “I’ve no Cert of Analysis in yet. Still waiting for it. I should have it by Monday.”

  “Aye, that’s grand. No harm. That’s not what I’m in about.”

  “What is it, then?”

  His grin became slightly sheepish. “I have another few for you.”

  He leaned forward, rummaged in the back pocket of his jeans, and pulled out a sheaf of papers, which he dumped on the desk. I smoothed them out carefully. They were charge sheets; I counted five of them, all for possession of cannabis. I checked them again. I was right – they were all Section 3 charges, simple possession. None for Section 15: intent to supply, but all listed for the following Tuesday’s court. I looked up at him. His expression was that of a little boy who had been caught breaking a window with a football.

  I sighed. “All someone else’s again, Eddie?”

  “Aye, of course. That guard McFadden, he won’t leave me alone. He’s picking on me. I’m doing nothing wrong, but everywhere I fucking go, he searches me.”

  I checked the dates of the charge sheets. There were five different dates. “And always finds something, by the look of things.”

  “Aye, well,” he said sulkily. “I’m a bit unlucky, that’s all.”

  “You do know if you get convicted of these, you could get a sentence.”

  His mouth opened wide. “You’re joking, aren’t you? I thought it was just a fine. It’s only weed, it’s not fucking heroin.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The fine is only for a first offense. On your third you become liable to a prison sentence. And if you get convicted of all of these” – I leafed through the charge sheets again – “that’s five separate offenses, six including the existing one; you’ll definitely be in jeopardy.”

  I emerged from the front office with my head banging, showed Eddie to the door, and went back to the reception desk.

  “Oh Jesus, that young fella makes my head hurt,” I said.

  “I know what you mean.” Leah looked up from the computer, her eyes bleary. “How was the burial?”

  “Cold. Not many there. You look wrecked, too. What are you at?” I asked.

  “Preparing for the Law Society audit next week,” she said.

  “Oh God, I’d forgotten about that. What day is it?”

  “Monday. And he’s definitely coming. I had a phone call from him while you were at the burial.”

  “Do I need to do anything?”

  “No.” She sighed. “I have it all under control, I think. You’ll have to answer all the queries when he gets here though, and do that spot-check thing with the files.”

  “Is it really two years since the last time we had that done?” I asked. “Doesn’t feel that long ago.”

  “It’s three,” she said firmly.

  I groaned. The last guy had been a right stickler. Though we had passed with flying colors, as it happened. Thanks to Leah’s bookkeeping.

  “Same guy again?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so.” She checked her note. “I don’t recognize the name.”

  Chapter 20

  IT WAS THREE o’clock by the time I got the chance to have something to eat. I ran to the Spar across the road and bought a cheese sandwich and a Coke to have at my desk. The afternoon slipped by in a haze of drafting contracts and probate documents, not exactly riveting stuff but the kind of work that keeps a country solicitor’s practice alive.

  I also found time to check out the procedure involved in an application for a declaration of presumed death and discovered that, as I had feared, it should include an affidavit from a relative. A barrister friend of mine e-mailed me up a precedent set of papers. It felt in bad taste to phone Lisa on the day of Danny’s funeral, so I dictated a letter to her that would go out in the evening’s mail – although after my encounter with Mrs. Devitt earlier on, I suspected an affidavit from her would not be forthcoming. My mind kept returning to our conversation in the graveyard. What exactly did she want me to do? And like Lisa Crane, what wasn’t she telling me?

  Something else was causing an undertow of anxiety as I worked through the afternoon. The funeral had brought back memories of another graveside eight years before. Mum, Dad, and me, just like Mary and Claire Devitt: parents burying a child and sibling burying a sibling. All wrong for the parents and premature for the sibling. However badly I was failing to cope, it was beginning to dawn on me how truly horrific it must have been for my parents. I realized I had a decision to make.

  I had started out by seeing them once a year. A quick visit to check in: always short enough to avoid any difficult conversations. Lately it had been even less than that. Two years had passed since my last visit, as my mother had pointed out. I had thought I was doing them a favor, saving them from having to face me all the time and be reminded of everything. But maybe I was only making it easier on myself. I replayed in my mind the telephone conversation I’d had with my mother. Coward, I thought. You bloody coward.

  I left the office at seven o’clock and walked out into a beautiful moonlit night. The wind had eased and there was frost in the air. The sky was clear, and even with the streetlights shining, a couple of stars were visible. The Mini’s windscreen was completely opaque. I couldn’t face going back into the office to heat up some water, so I sat there with the engine switched on and waited for it to clear, my hands tucked under me to warm them. I was feeling bleak. The prospect of a Friday evening at home alone did not appeal, even with Guinness, and there was no guarantee he’d be there. Tomcats have notoriously flaky personalities. A better offer, and he’d be off like a flash. He was perfectly capable of having ingratiated himself with some other family and be contentedly curled up by someone else’s fire, with not an ounce of guilt.

  Eventually, the lower half of the windscreen cleared and I drove reluctantly out of the car park. I turned left towards Malin and past the garda station. To my surprise, the lights were still on. I wondered if Molloy was there. On impulse, I did a U-turn and drove back. I slowed down and was about to pull in, in front of the station, when I saw that the two spaces were occupied. I parked the car across the road instead and killed the engine. This was my opportunity. It was time I told Molloy. He knew everything anywa
y, I was sure of it. Maybe the pathologist had done me a favor.

  I sat staring at the door of the garda station, looking at the shaft of lemon light coming through the barred window. The minutes ticked by. I took the keys out of the ignition. Move, damn it, I thought. What’s wrong with you? Eventually I took a deep breath and made to open the driver’s door.

  As the handle clicked, the door of the station opened and light flooded the steps. Two figures emerged. I ducked down quickly behind the steering wheel, holding the door shut. Feeling faintly idiotic, I peered over the steering wheel and saw the unmistakable shape of Molloy, deep in conversation with someone. My heart sank. It was the bloody pathologist. Again. What the hell was she still doing here? Tonight? In Glendara? I thought her work here was finished.

  I continued to peer at them over the steering wheel, well aware of how ridiculous I looked. Thank God I had parked across the road. I watched as Molloy walked the woman to her car. When they got there, she turned towards him and gave him a hug. My stomach clenched. What was the hug for? I knew they were old college friends, but that was completely uncharacteristic of Molloy. A car accident I’d been involved in a few years before had merited nothing more than a gruff pat. The only time he had ever put his arm around me was to help me walk to an ambulance. The man was not the touchy-feely type, not by any stretch of the imagination. Even our near miss on New Year’s Eve had involved zero physical contact.

  I sat up straight, closed the door of the car as quietly as I could, and put the key back in the ignition. My need to bare my soul to Molloy had passed, well and truly. I started the engine and drove back out onto the Malin Road, not allowing myself even the briefest of glances back in the direction of the garda station.

  My head was buzzing as I drove the couple of miles along the coast road. I felt irrationally angry with Molloy. Logically, I knew I had no reason to be annoyed with him for being unavailable at the very moment I had finally deigned to talk to him. But knowing that didn’t help. I was still furious.

  The moon hung in the sky ahead of me; it was nearly full. I needed to clear my head. Dark or not, I decided to go for a swim. I knew it would be bloody cold, but at least there was no wind. And I wouldn’t be long – a quick dip, that was all I needed.

  When I arrived back at the house, Guinness was sitting waiting for me on the doorstep, tail curled around him. The cat hadn’t managed to get a better offer today, apparently. I knew how he felt. I poured out some dried food and milk for him in the kitchen and went off in search of togs, towel, and wash-bag. Unfortunately he wasn’t hungry, which meant he followed me around from room to room as I searched for what I needed.

  As usual, the cat seemed to sense my mood. I’ve noticed he gets under my feet twice as much as he normally does if I’m in a temper. I stormed about the house, working myself up into a complete snit. I had just finished throwing everything together and was looking for a bag to put it in, when there was a knock on the door. Cursing, I went to answer it, tripping over Guinness for the umpteenth time in the process. I opened the door with a scowl on my face.

  “Do you always greet your callers with such a lovely expression?”

  Molloy was standing on the doorstep dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. I stood there like an idiot, without a word, possibly even with my mouth open.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Off-duty, for a change?” I replied eventually. Nothing like stating the obvious when you’re stuck for something to say.

  “Mmm.”

  “What’s up?” I could feel my cheeks redden as I realized he might be here because he had seen me watching him outside the garda station.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Whitewater.”

  I hoped the relief didn’t show on my face. “So, not entirely off-duty, then.”

  “No.”

  “Come on in.” I opened the door fully, and he walked in ahead of me into my tiny sitting room. The couch was strewn with towels and swimming togs.

  “Sorry. Had a big plan to go swimming.”

  “Ah. I can catch you later if you like.”

  “No, don’t worry. I wasn’t that keen on the idea anyway. Coffee? Or something stronger?”

  “Coffee, please.”

  “We could go into the kitchen, if you like? I know it’s a bit chilly in here. Although it’s not much better in the kitchen.”

  The cat emerged from the kitchen as I spoke, as if to confirm the point.

  “Want me to light the fire while you make the coffee? If you’re definitely not going to head out?”

  “Great.”

  I smiled as I heard Molloy chatting to Guinness as he piled up logs and turf in the fireplace. I came back in to a crackling fire.

  “Looks good.”

  “Should warm up soon.”

  Molloy had taken his jacket off and was sitting on the couch with Guinness curled up beside him. Guinness is not the friendliest of cats but he has always liked Molloy. I poured the coffee and curled up myself on the armchair.

  “Well, what’s happened?” I prompted.

  Molloy took a sip of his coffee and leaned back, shaking his head as if in disbelief at what he was about to say.

  “It looks as if we won’t be opening a murder investigation in relation to the bones found in the crypt, after all.”

  “How come?” I asked. “Last time I was talking to you, there was still no cause of death.”

  “That wasn’t entirely true,” Molloy admitted. “We’d established that the body had head injuries and a broken neck, which were probably the cause of death. We now know they were fatal injuries incurred as a result of a car accident.”

  I was confused. That sounded uncannily like Danny Devitt’s injuries and circumstances of death.

  “Are you sure?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “But how can you possibly know that? The car accident bit?”

  “Because we have identified the body. We know who it is.”

  “Who is it?” I asked, amazed.

  “His name is Stephen McFerry.”

  Stephen McFerry, I thought. Where had I heard that name before?

  “How do you know it’s this Stephen McFerry?”

  “Because his DNA turned up on a DNA database in Derry. We couldn’t find a match in the south so we sent the samples in to Derry. He was killed in a car accident on the Malin Road into Glendara a few years ago.”

  That’s where I had heard his name. Phyllis had mentioned a young guy killed in a car accident on the same stretch of road as Danny Devitt.

  “Luckily for us he had a bit of a record for petty offenses across the border, so he turned up on their database.”

  Molloy sat patiently, taking a gulp from his coffee, watching me closely as my mind struggled to catch up. I tried to recall what Phyllis had said. Something about his mother being dead and him being buried with his father’s people in Inishowen, even though he had grown up in Derry. Something wasn’t adding up.

  “Hang on. So this kid was properly buried at some stage – in a coffin.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Whitewater. The old graveyard.”

  I paused. “Would he not have been embalmed then, or whatever it is that undertakers do? Orifices blocked up, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could the pathologist not tell? I mean, I know the body was completely skeletonized but still?”

  “Well yes, she could. She did.”

  My head was swimming. “So are you saying that you never thought the bones were those of Conor Devitt at all? You knew all along that they belonged to someone who had been buried?”

  “Yes, and no,” Molloy said slowly. “Yes, we knew early on that the bones belonged to someone who had been buried. But we didn’t know for sure it wasn’t Conor. We didn’t know who it was. The family were so absolutely convinced it was him, we had to eliminate him. I told them the pathologist thought it was unlikely to be him, but we couldn’t tell t
hem why. We still have no idea what happened to Conor Devitt, and it wasn’t possible to say with certainty, without the DNA tests, that it wasn’t him.”

  I was silent. I could see the reasoning, but I didn’t like it. I took a sip of my coffee and stared into the fire. Molloy must have seen the expression on my face.

  “It’s just as well we did do those tests, as it turned out,” he said. “If we hadn’t, we’d never have identified Danny Devitt’s DNA on the blanket and pillow.”

  “I suppose. So what on earth was this Stephen McFerry doing wrapped in a blanket in the crypt of Whitewater Church, then?”

  “Good question,” Molloy said. “We were under the impression that he was buried in the graveyard. We presume his poor father was under the same impression.” He sighed. “We’re going to have to exhume his coffin. And see who, if anyone, is in there. Because it definitely isn’t Stephen McFerry.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Yes. Jesus,” Molloy said.

  Chapter 21

  I STRUGGLED TO absorb what Molloy had just told me. Why on earth would someone have taken Stephen McFerry’s body from his coffin in the graveyard at Whitewater and placed it in the crypt of Whitewater Church? And in particular, why would Danny Devitt have done that? Did he even know Stephen McFerry?

  I realized I had been silent for a few minutes. I glanced over at Molloy, who was staring into the fire, absently stroking Guinness’ fur, clearly absorbed in his own thoughts, probably not dissimilar to mine. The firelight cast a warm glow on his face, his firm jawline, his eyes alert. He looked good out of uniform, a confusing thought I batted away.

  “What about the soil samples?” I asked.

  “As I said, they were minuscule. Whoever moved Stephen McFerry’s body must have rested it on the ground at some stage and the soil was picked up that way. A dead body isn’t easy to carry. They’re pretty heavy.”

  “So you’re assuming the body was moved not long after he died?”