Death at Whitewater Church Read online

  Finally the tears came, tears I had blocked for eight years. My vision blurred and I slid down along the cabinet and sank to the floor, my hands covering my face. I felt someone beside me, strong arms around me. Holding me as my body shook with grief.

  The fire was still alive, if dormant. Molloy threw some extra logs on it and it crackled back to life. He poured each of us another glass of wine and handed me a glass of water to go with it. My head was pounding, my eyes dry and itchy. I clutched a white handkerchief, now considerably less pristine than when Molloy had given it to me in the kitchen.

  “My parents know none of this. They don’t know anything about her drug use, or the fact that I deliberately ignored her calls that night.”

  “It didn’t come out at the trial?”

  I shook my head. “At the trial there was evidence that Faye had tried to ring me and that the phone had rung out. Both phones were produced in evidence. But I never admitted to ignoring the calls. Only said that my phone had been in a different room and I hadn’t heard it. My parents know that Faye had cocaine in her system, but they’re so bloody innocent about these things, they’ve convinced themselves that Luke spiked her drink or something. And I’ve never told them otherwise.”

  “Was Faye taking cocaine before she met Luke, do you think?”

  “I don’t think so. But Faye would try anything once. Luke was the same kind of adrenaline junkie she was. I think that’s what made me so jealous. I knew I couldn’t compete, I was so different from both of them.”

  I concentrated hard on looking at the ceiling, trying to stop the tears from starting again.

  “My parents were devastated. I couldn’t destroy their memory of Faye as well as everything else. But I got to the stage where I knew I couldn’t keep up the pretense. They wanted to talk about it all of the time. It was as if, after she was gone, they craved news about her, anything at all that they hadn’t heard before. They mined the memories of all of her friends, for any little snippets of new information. I was afraid I would tell them too much.”

  Molloy leaned forward. “So you went to America.”

  “Yes. I went to America. I took a secondment from the firm and I ran away. I convinced myself that I was doing my parents a favor, that my very presence was a reminder of what had happened.”

  I sighed. “And then my old firm contacted me and offered me a big payoff. They didn’t want me coming back to Dublin. They wanted to wash the firm of any trace of Luke Kirby, and with me still working there, they couldn’t do that. So I took it.”

  “And came here.”

  “Yes. I saw an ad in the Law Society Gazette, offering a practice for sale. I looked at the map, saw how far away it was from Dublin, and realized it was perfect. I started using my middle name and my mother’s maiden name, so no one would connect me with the trial, which, of course, my old firm were perfectly happy to facilitate. And here I am. Smalltown solicitor.”

  Molloy smiled. “I’m not going to complain about that particular turn of events.”

  My eyes welled again.

  “I’m glad you’ve told me,” he said.

  “So am I.”

  “You said you wanted my advice. Or was that just a reason to talk?”

  “No. I did want your advice. Do. My parents want me to talk to the pathologist.” I stumbled. “Laura.”

  Molloy’s expression didn’t change.

  “They’re convinced they can persuade her that Faye wasn’t a drug user and that there could be some sort of retrial, which could result in a murder conviction. I’ve told them that that’s not a possibility, but I’m terrified that they’ll contact her themselves and that it’ll only open up a whole other can of worms for them. That she’ll tell them Faye was a regular user or something worse. It’ll only hurt them more. It didn’t come out in the trial, and I see no reason for them to know.” I hesitated. “Maybe I’m wrong about that.”

  “Only you know your parents, Ben. You know what they can handle. But if it looks as if they’re going to contact Laura, I’ll talk to her first if you like, and let her know your concerns.”

  I was grateful to him, though oddly uncomfortable about the obvious intimacy betrayed by what he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I do have one other suggestion,” he said. “But you mightn’t like it.”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe if you spent a little more time with them, it would ease things for them, and they might stop trying to look for answers that aren’t there.”

  Chapter 31

  A NOISE WOKE me at seven. The smell of burning turf invaded my nostrils. I opened my eyes. I was on the couch again. But this time I felt refreshed, if a little stiff. I stretched and sat up. The room was cozy, the fire crackling, its flickering orange flame the only light in the room with the curtains still drawn. Someone had taken the duvet from my bed and placed it over me. They’d also removed my shoes and placed them neatly by the couch. Molloy. I realized he must have only just left – that’s what must have woken me. I threw off the duvet, ran to the window, and pulled the curtain aside just in time to see car taillights pulling away from the curb. I watched as the car drove off in the direction of Glendara, closed the curtains, and glanced around the room. The wine bottle and glasses were gone. The woolen throw from the couch was folded up neatly on the armchair by the fire.

  I picked it up. We had talked long into the night, exhaustion finally overtaking me when Molloy, despite his skepticism, had gone into the kitchen to make me a camomile tea to help me sleep. I remembered his last words to me before he left the room.

  “Guilt is a hard thing to live with, Ben. It can eat away at you like a cancer if you bury it.”

  It was all the confirmation I needed that he hadn’t judged me in the way I had feared he would. I must have been asleep when he came back.

  The papers I’d had Kelly sign the afternoon before were still on my desk where I’d left them, along with the planning file from the County Council offices. I was about to pick them up when Leah buzzed me.

  “Phyllis is on the phone for you. Have you got a sec?”

  I held the handset away from my ear. Phyllis’ voice has a tendency to rise when she is excited. Dispensing with any preliminaries, she launched straight in.

  “Bloody hell. I’m going to have to let the guards know about Bourke’s big donation now, aren’t I? Now that he’s gone and got himself arrested.”

  “Yes. I think you should.”

  “And I suppose it means we’ll have to kiss good-bye to that nice wee injection of funds?”

  “Probably.”

  “I could pretend I didn’t know who it was from. It was supposed to be anonymous, after all.”

  “Phyllis.” My tone was firm.

  I heard a heavy sigh down the phone. “Bugger. We could do an awful lot of good with it.”

  “I know. When did you get it, by the way?” I asked.

  “Tuesday. The day before we came in to see you. The envelope was posted in the door of the shop. I thought it was too good to be true.”

  “It’s the right thing to do, Phyllis.”

  “Ah sure, I know. It doesn’t make it any easier though.”

  I paused for a second. “Can I ask you something? Nothing to do with Mick Bourke?”

  “Shoot.” I could tell her interest was piqued.

  “I met Claire in the pub last night. She wasn’t in great shape. And I remembered Tony said something after the wake, something about Eithne giving Claire pills.”

  “Did he now?”

  “I was wondering if you knew anything about it.”

  Phyllis lowered her tone; perhaps there was someone in the shop. “By the look of her, I’d say Claire’s been taking benzodiazepines, those damn antianxiety drugs, for a while.”

  It made sense: the mood swings, the waxy skin, the glassy eyes.

  “I know the signs,” Phyllis went on. “I had a friend who got hooked on them a long time ago. They’re certainly not doing her any
good, but I can’t imagine Eithne giving them to her unless they were prescribed. She wouldn’t risk her license.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Although if she is giving Claire drugs, one thing’s for sure: big brother won’t like it.”

  Snow was falling again. I stood at the window watching the flakes waft gently past, thinking about last night. Molloy was right about guilt. It eats you up from the inside, and if you let it take hold, it can destroy you. I wondered how much guilt had played a part in what had happened to the Devitts. Jack Devitt’s guilt after the death of his friends was something that he had found impossible to live with, but Danny had been carrying guilt of some kind, too, I was sure of it. He was haunted by something he had done, or not done. Wrapping Stephen McFerry’s bones in a blanket and placing a pillow underneath the skull. Disappearing for weeks after Conor left. Selling the farm and handing the money to his mother. All were actions that reeked of guilt. But what had he felt so guilty about?

  I looked at the calendar. Thursday. Something was happening this morning. What was it? All the days were merging into each other. Then it hit me. Today was the day they were reburying Stephen McFerry’s remains. I hurtled downstairs.

  “Have I an hour free, Leah?”

  She nodded. “All your morning appointments have cancelled, as a matter of fact. The snow.”

  I was about to head out of the door when something else occurred to me. I raced back up the stairs and took a file out of the filing cabinet. I opened it, found what I was looking for, made a note, and put it back.

  I decided to park at Whitewater Church and take the pathway to the graveyard, over the old stile. The guards had left it the way it was; the wooden piece slid out easily, and I climbed over. I emerged from the trees to a strangely eerie sight. The graveyard was silent, buried again under a muffling blanket of white. Five people stood at the grave: the local priest, Stephen McFerry’s father, two gravediggers, and Hal. I was glad to see that Hal was involved, that he wasn’t being blamed for what had happened, despite Phyllis’ fears. I remained back a little, aware that I stood out like a sore thumb in the empty graveyard. When the religious formalities were completed, I approached Mr. McFerry. He was unshaven and obviously distressed. I shook his hand.

  “I’m sorry. I was passing and thought I’d express my condolences.”

  “Aye, thanks. It’s not a recent death though. My son died six years ago.”

  “I know. I heard what happened.”

  He kicked the soil under his feet, the soil that had been freshly dug. The snow rested like flakes of sea salt on top.

  “I’m staying put this time until it’s all done. I want to see my lad safely in the ground, with clay on top. Proper. Safe. Not like the last time.”

  He clicked his teeth and stood there with his arms crossed as he watched the gravediggers do their job.

  “Left him lying there in his coffin in an open grave, they did. They were supposed to cover it that night.”

  I remembered leaving the graveyard on the day of Danny Devitt’s burial, his coffin in the ground, but uncovered. To be done overnight, too, I guessed – it must be normal practice. I stood beside the boy’s father, hands clasped in front of me like a second sentry, ensuring everything was done properly, this time.

  I read the date of death on the gravestone – June 14, 2007. Six and a half years ago. My suspicions were correct. The date I had taken from the file before leaving the office was June 15, 2007. It was the date on the draft affidavit I had started to put together for Lisa Crane, the last day she had seen Conor Devitt, the day before their planned wedding. Conor Devitt had gone missing on his wedding day, June 16, 2007. If Stephen McFerry had died on June 14, taking into account two days for a wake, it was highly likely that he had been lying in his coffin in an open grave on that very day. I hadn’t figured out what it meant yet, but there had to be a connection.

  I drove back to the office and ran straight upstairs. Sitting at my desk, I turned on the computer and opened the website for back issues of the Derry Journal. I soon found the edition from the day after Stephen McFerry’s accident. The death notice was there, together with the funeral details. I was right. Stephen McFerry had been buried at 11 a.m. on the morning of June 16, 2007; the same day that Conor Devitt had been due to get married, the day he had disappeared.

  At five o’clock my mobile rang. It was Maeve.

  “Fancy something quick to eat in the Oak before you go home? I’m on call and I won’t get a chance later. Spring has finally hit. I’m going to be up to my elbows in calvings all night.”

  The thought of food was appealing and I didn’t much feel like cooking. But unfortunately for Maeve, her phone rang as soon as her food arrived. I watched her stomp out of the pub with her lunch in a takeaway carton on her way to a calving in Malin Head.

  I was finishing my own meal with only a newspaper for company, when the door of the pub opened again and Lisa Crane walked in. She strode up to the bar, high-heeled boots clacking on the wooden floor, her blond hair tied in a high ponytail. I heard her ask for a bottle of red wine to take away. As Tony went looking for a brown paper bag to put it in, she leaned on the bar and cast her eyes around the room. She spotted me, nodded, and when she had paid, came over.

  Beneath the war paint she looked wretched. I suspected the bottle in her hand wasn’t the first one she had consumed over the past couple of days.

  “I must settle up with you for that thing I was in about.”

  “It’s okay. I didn’t do very much and …” I stopped.

  “And you won’t be now, you were about to say.”

  I smiled apologetically. “Something like that.”

  “Why don’t you come up to the house now and I’ll give you a cheque.”

  “There’s no need. Seriously. The fee will be minimal.”

  She looked down at my plate. “You’re finished your food, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on then,” she said, a pleading note entering her voice. “You can have a glass of this with me.” She lifted the paper bag. “Alan’s out at the driving range. It’ll save me drinking on my own.”

  “Okay. I’ll come up for half an hour. I don’t need a cheque though. There’s nothing owing.”

  “All the more reason to let me get you a drink.”

  She gave me directions to her house, and I paid the bill and followed her up.

  Lisa and Alan Crane’s house was hard to miss. I’d noticed it before, about two miles out of town, but I hadn’t known who owned it. I wondered if this was the house she’d built with Conor or if it was a new one. Whichever it was, it wasn’t to my taste, for all its show-house faux-Tudor grandeur. Light flooded the tarmacadam driveway as soon as I drove in, coming from a movement-sensitive imitation street lamp to the right of the front door. The house was huge – six bedrooms at least, I guessed – built off the back of either Celtic Tiger carpentry or plumbing.

  It was red brick, and for some reason the color of the door had been carefully chosen to match the brick exactly, which made it look as if it were completely bricked in, that once you crossed the threshold you would be locked in there forever. Luckily, Lisa had left the red front door slightly ajar. On the doorstep, I called her name.

  “Come on through. I’m in the kitchen fighting with a corkscrew.”

  I followed the voice through a vast entrance hallway dominated by a huge pair of chandeliers. The kitchen was a substantial space, with a dining table big enough for ten, and an island. Lisa was standing at the island, extracting the cork from a bottle.

  “Looks like you’re winning,” I said.

  “Huh?” she said.

  “Your battle with the corkscrew.”

  “Oh right.”

  She poured two enormous glasses of wine and perched on one of the stools. I joined her.

  “So I guess I can’t get him declared dead now that he’s back?” she said, clinking her glass against mine and giving me a half
-smile before taking a large gulp from her glass.

  “I guess not.”

  “Bastard,” she said.

  “Has he been to see you since he came back?”

  “Would you believe I haven’t even clapped eyes on him? I must be the only one in town who hasn’t.”

  “Seriously?”

  She took another gulp of her wine. It occurred to me that her glass would be empty before I had even started on mine if she kept this up. “Want some crisps or something?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Bastard,” she said again.

  “Maybe he’s afraid to face you,” I suggested, taking a sip from my own glass.

  She gave me a look that would have turned the wine to vinegar if what we were drinking hadn’t been pretty close already, so I tried a different tack.

  “I got the impression when you came to see me that you didn’t really think he was dead. Was I wrong?”

  She sighed. “I couldn’t be sure and that’s the truth. I know things weren’t great between us, but it just didn’t seem like him to run off like that. Conor always took care of me. Even before we started going out, he treated me like a little sister. I was Danny’s friend first, in secondary school. But then Conor kind of took over. It was as if he sought me out.” She smiled sadly. “I was flattered.”

  Yes. I knew what that felt like.

  “He made a big thing of the fact that we’d both had to grow up without fathers. Said I needed minding. Then a few years after I left school, we started going out, and for a long time, it was good. But after we got engaged, he changed.”

  When she frowned, the tiny lines around her mouth became more obvious, as if she’d been a smoker. She took another drink, set the glass back down on the island, and gazed into it.

  “He became obsessed with making money. Money had never been a big thing for him before that, he just worked hard. I was stupid enough to think it was the prospect of getting married. He was thinking of going out on his own, and I supported him in that. He wasn’t getting on with Bourke. Said he was dodgy, that he was getting up to some things he didn’t agree with.” She paused. “Looks like he was right about Bourke anyway.”