Death at Whitewater Church Page 3

  “Did you show them the crypt?”

  He shook his head. “No. Didn’t know it existed, to be honest. I just assumed that wee gate led down into some kind of an air vent.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him as I took a gulp of my coffee.

  He caught my look and his face fell. “Oh, Jesus, you’re not saying them bones were there the whole time I was showing those people around?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Whoever it is, the pathologist reckons the person’s been dead at least five years.”

  “That English couple will hardly go ahead with it now, will they?” Liam sighed. “Not really what you want for your new home, is it – a body in the cellar?”

  “Suppose not. Although I doubt if they know about it yet.”

  “It’s not something I can exactly keep from them.”

  “No.”

  He stared into the fire, his expression glum. “I’m never going to be able to sell the damn place now, am I?”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” I agreed as I took another gulp of my coffee.

  Liam groaned and made his way up to the bar to order a pint.

  Ten minutes later I finished my coffee, pulled on my coat and scarf, and reluctantly left the Oak and its fire to head down to the Beacon Hall, leaving Liam chatting to Eddie at the bar. The icy wind hit me as soon as I opened the pub door; the temperature must have been well below zero. No snow yet, but it was coming. You could feel it in the air.

  As I walked down the hill, the footpath ahead of me glistened under the street lamps as if someone had sprinkled tiny crystals everywhere. I always liked the town at this time of the evening. It was quiet and still. The shops were closed; it was time for TV and homework and indoors. I felt calmer.

  I reached the bottom of the hill, crossed the road, and walked in through the high pillars to the old hall, stone chippings crunching beneath my feet. The car park was shrouded in grainy shadow, and I picked my way carefully between the cars. Condensation was forming on their windscreens; in an hour they would be opaque, laced with spiders’ webs of ice. I looked up at the huge Georgian windows, which were dimly lit. The main door was slightly ajar, a chink of light casting a white line across the footsteps.

  I pushed it open and ran up the warped wooden stairs. It was impossible to tell if it was colder inside or out. In the main hall I was greeted by a friendly wave from a large, yellow-clad arm near the stage. The only heat in the room was coming from an old gas Superser heater fizzing bad-temperedly and ineffectively in the corner, impotent against the hall’s high ceilings and old wooden floors.

  Two men and two women in heavy coats and scarves were huddled around an old card table, ragged strips of green baize hanging from the edges like a fringe. They stopped talking as I approached, and the older of the two men got up and dragged an extra chair to the table.

  “Thanks, Hal. Always the gentleman.” My breath came out as a white mist.

  “Chairman’s duty.” He tipped his cap at me with a grin. Hal McKinney, master of the pun. It was Hal who had persuaded me to join the drama group. As well as being the local undertaker and mechanic, he was also a Commissioner for Oaths. I sent clients to him to have documents sworn. It was a running joke that Hal could bury you, sign the probate papers, and then sell your car.

  Looks were exchanged as I took my seat. I was beginning to feel as if I had interrupted something.

  “How is everyone?” I asked cheerfully, examining the faces around me.

  “Baltic.” Phyllis Kettle, the owner of the yellow-clad arm and the town’s secondhand book shop, stated the obvious. She was wearing an incredible ensemble of yellow coat, mittens, and blue shawl, which, weirdly on someone of her considerable size, worked. The dark skin helped, and the kind eyes. She had a notebook and pen in front of her, though how she planned to write with mittens on I had no idea. She certainly seemed disinclined to take them off.

  “Right, let’s get this over with as quickly as possible,” she said. “And that means no big speeches.” She directed her comment at the mournful-looking, long-faced man with the beard sitting opposite her. Tony Craig, local publican, owner of the Oak and enthusiastic raconteur, had the ability to make a riddle last the length of The Iliad.

  Well aware of his reputation, he grinned back at her, his smile transforming his face.

  “Are we all here?” I asked, looking around. Claire Devitt, the club’s set designer, poster artist, and general publicity person, was missing. Not that surprising. Claire was unreliable and had become even more so of late.

  “Claire’s not coming,” said Eithne O’Connell, as if reading my mind.

  “Oh?”

  The local chemist’s quavering tone always irked me for some reason. There was something almost parasitic about the tragic air she adopted when passing on someone else’s personal drama. As if she herself were personally affected by it.

  “They think they might have found Conor,” she said, her eyelids fluttering closed as she spoke.

  “Who is Conor?” I asked.

  “Conor Devitt. Claire’s brother,” Phyllis said. “He disappeared six or seven years ago.”

  I looked up. “Disappeared?”

  “Vanished. Without a trace. It happened just before his wedding,” Hal said.

  “You wouldn’t have met him.” Phyllis patted my forearm. “It would have been the summer before you came up.”

  Hal coughed. “As a matter of fact, we thought you might know something about it.”

  “Me, why?” I asked.

  They looked at each other. Phyllis was the first to transfer her gaze to me. She held it there as if waiting for something to register. And it did, of course. I can put two and two together. While they all looked at me expectantly, I played for time, Molloy’s words echoing in my ears.

  “When you say they think they’ve found him …?”

  “Up at Whitewater.” Hal’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You were up at Whitewater yourself with the sergeant earlier on today, weren’t you?”

  I had been seen. “Ah, that’s why you think I might know something,” I said. “Well, I don’t, I’m afraid. You know more than I do.”

  A short silence ensued during which all four regarded me doubtfully.

  Phyllis sighed. “Well, the family thinks it might be Conor they found up there. Eithne was just telling us before you came in. As soon as word got out about the body, Claire was on to the guards to see if it might be him. They’re all up at the mother’s now, waiting to hear.”

  “God, that’s pretty grim,” I said. “Are they doing DNA tests?”

  Eithne nodded solemnly, her face a picture of tragic concern. “Claire said the guards were looking for the name of his dentist to get his dental records,” she told us, her eyelids closing again. “It’s just so awful.”

  There was a collective shiver around the table.

  “Should we postpone the meeting, do you think, out of respect?” Tony said after a few seconds. “Till we find out if it is Conor? Seems a bit callous to carry on as normal and start choosing plays while Claire’s going through something like this.”

  “Agreed,” said Hal immediately. “Same time next week, instead?”

  “Or what about Monday night?” Tony suggested. “We could have our meeting in the pub. I might even stretch to a few sandwiches, if one of you manages to buy a pint.”

  There was a nod of agreement around the table and everyone stood up. The sense of relief seemed to lift the temperature of the room.

  “Careful. They look pretty lethal,” I said as Phyllis made her way precariously down the glistening steps outside. Eithne put her hand out to help, but Phyllis waved her away impatiently.

  “I’m not an invalid, you know. I’m fat.”

  Eithne’s hand flew to her mouth, a wounded expression on her face.

  Phyllis’ tone softened. “Entirely self-inflicted, Eithne, and much fun doing so. Save your charity for someone who deser
ves it.”

  Somehow she managed to reach the foot of the steps without incident. She leaned against the wall for a minute to catch her breath.

  “Speaking of deserving charity, why is it that some families seem to get it so much worse than others?” she said. “They’ve had such a rough time of it, those Devitts.”

  “Dreadful to have someone you love disappear like that,” Eithne said in a whisper. “No closure. It’s been so terrible for poor Claire.”

  I decided to keep my views to myself on this occasion. I knew they weren’t objective. You see, I have never been too sure about the need for closure. I know it is a common thesis, but I’ve always been of the view that if there’s no body, at least there’s hope. But I guess that can’t go on indefinitely either. Six years is a long time.

  “And for his mother and brother,” Phyllis said. “Awful for his fiancée, too, of course. God love her. Day of her wedding and he just didn’t turn up. No explanation. Can you imagine?”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t.

  I jumped suddenly when a dance music track blared into the night and Eithne scrambled to find her phone. She retrieved it from her bag and hurried away to answer it, heading towards her car – an old Fiat Punto parked by the gate.

  “Odd ringtone for someone like Eithne,” I commented as I walked with Phyllis in the other woman’s wake.

  Phyllis grinned. “I know. You’d expect it to be a hymn or something.” She lowered her tone. “I think that was Claire, by the way.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “The expression on Eithne’s face.”

  I smiled. “Seriously? You’re good.”

  “Okay, a guess then. Did you know Claire used to work for Eithne when she was a student?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “They’re very … close.”

  There was something about the way she said it that I couldn’t quite decipher. She crossed her arms and rested her large rump against the back door of Eithne’s old Punto as Eithne paced up and down in front of the gate and I stamped my feet to avoid losing the feeling in them completely. Phyllis didn’t seem to notice the cold anymore. She appeared distracted, studying Eithne with great interest as she finished her call, and slapping the car door with her gloved palm as the chemist walked back towards us.

  “Still driving this old rust-bucket, Eithne?”

  “As long as it gets me from A to B, it does me just fine.” Eithne’s lips were pursed.

  “Fair enough. That’s me told.” Phyllis grinned at me.

  Eithne opened the car door, got in, and turned on the engine to defrost the windscreen, clearly anxious to get off.

  But Phyllis wasn’t going to let her leave that easily. She held the door open, leaning in. “There were those who said he’d done a runner, weren’t there?”

  “What was that?” Eithne said distractedly.

  “Conor. People thought he’d just upped and gone to England. But Claire never believed that, did she? Claire never believed he just left?”

  Eithne looked up blankly. It seemed to take her a couple of seconds to register the question.

  Eventually she replied, “She said he’d never have left their mother like that. It wasn’t in him.”

  “Looks like she might have been right,” Phyllis muttered ominously, as Eithne revved the engine and drove out through the gate in front of us.

  Chapter 4

  THE NEXT MORNING I had that nauseous, dry-mouthed feeling that comes from too little sleep. Between the blond pathologist in Glendara garda station and flashbacks of what I had seen in the crypt, the night was haunted by images I could have done without.

  I was sure I had seen a spark of recognition in the pathologist’s glance. It wouldn’t take her long to work out where she had seen me before, if she hadn’t already. I was disturbed by the idea that when she did, she would feel the need to share that information – and I wasn’t sure what I could do about it. In the meantime, that woman had brought with her a raft of memories I had worked hard to suppress, and I needed to hammer them back down to a safe level if I was to function in any way normally.

  By midday there had been no new developments to do with the discovery at the church. According to Leah, Kelly had called twice looking for news. I let her take messages each time. I wasn’t ready to speak to either Kelly or Molloy. Eventually, I gave up trying to concentrate on work and crossed the square to Paul Doherty’s office.

  I was glad to see he looked a lot less green than the last time I had seen him, but infinitely more hassled. He was on the phone, so I sat in his reception area and flicked through a magazine. When he finished his call, he left the receiver off the hook and raised his eyes to heaven.

  “Kelly ringing you, too, by any chance?” he asked.

  “Twice. Was that him?”

  “Not that time, thankfully.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Okay.” He perched on his desk and stretched his arms. “Jesus, I wasn’t expecting that yesterday though.”

  “Me neither, I can tell you.”

  “Any news from the postmortem?”

  “Not yet.”

  He shook his head. “Did you not think that was the strangest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  “I guess it’s not something you’d come across too often in your line of work.”

  “It’ll stay with me a long time, I can tell you.” He shuddered. “God, the way it was left. Creepy as hell.”

  “You mean rolled up in the blanket?”

  “Aye, with the pillow under the skull.”

  I inhaled sharply. “I didn’t notice that.”

  He smiled weakly. “Really? That’s not like you.” His brow furrowed. “Actually, I didn’t see it the first time either, come to think of it. But that second time when I went down with the sergeant I got a clearer look. He pulled the blanket back further than either of us did. You could see there was a pillow squashed up underneath the skull.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely serious. It looked like some kind of macabre sleeping bag.”

  “Jesus.” I paused. “Do you think the bones were put there by someone then, in the crypt?”

  “I suppose they could have been.” He braced his shoulders, as if gathering courage to revisit the image. “The blanket was an old Irish wool blanket, the kind most of us had on our beds before duvets. Half the houses in the country would have one like it.”

  I nodded. A flashback to my childhood bedroom.

  “I’d say that bolt had been used recently enough, too. It opened a bit too smoothly for my liking. And then of course there was Andy finding that cut padlock.”

  “So you think someone broke in and left the remains there?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “God only knows. I’m no expert, but the blanket looked fresh enough to me. And the bones sure as hell didn’t.”

  “Maybe I’ll give Molloy a call and see if there’s any news.” Paul gestured towards the phone. “Kelly’s not happy.”

  “I know.”

  “I think he holds me responsible for finding the body.” He smiled ruefully.

  “Sounds like him all right. You’re just too thorough, Paul.” I looked around the office. “You on your own?”

  “Yep. Both of them off sick at the same time. Typical. Claiming the winter vomiting bug.”

  “And the cigarettes?” I asked.

  “Haven’t had one since yesterday.” He grinned. “I ran out.”

  I called Molloy on his mobile. I didn’t block the number like I usually do when calling a client, so he must have known it was me. But still he answered in his usual formal way.

  “Molloy.”

  Sometimes it bothered me more than others. Today it bothered me – paranoia, maybe. I didn’t like the idea of him having cosy chats with the pathologist.

  “Tom, it’s Ben. Any developments on the postmortem? You said you’d give me a shout when you were finished up at the church.”

  “W
here are you?”

  “In the square. Outside Paul Doherty’s place. Why?”

  “Come down to the station. I’ll be here for another half an hour or so.”

  Molloy was eating a tired-looking ham sandwich at his desk. He didn’t look much better himself: there were dark circles under his gray eyes. He offered me a tea, which I accepted, despite my better instincts. I was handed a mug with a big red heart and the words I love Montenegro scrawled across it. As expected, the tea was strong enough to chew.

  “I’ve been talking to Paul Doherty about the way the bones were found,” I said.

  “Right.”

  “Pretty strange, wasn’t it?”

  “Certainly.”

  Molloy has always been hard to gauge. For five years our professional lives have intersected. I like his kindness, his commitment to his work, his quiet intelligence, the fact that his sense of humor surfaces when least expected. He has made me laugh when I least wanted to, when I most needed to.

  I like to think that he regards me as an ally, a friend even. But there are times when it isn’t so clear-cut. He is a guard and I am a solicitor, after all. I guess there are limits – it just feels sometimes as if it is always Molloy who remembers them. And then six weeks ago, something changed between us. New Year’s Eve. There was a moment. A moment that seems to have cleaved a distance between us I don’t entirely understand. So I hesitated before asking my next question.

  “Were they put there by someone?”

  He didn’t respond. I tried again.

  “I mean, presumably the man didn’t die like that. Wrapped in a blanket with a pillow beneath his head.”

  He relented. “It seems that the bones may have been moved into the crypt from somewhere else.”

  “From where?”

  “There were traces of soil on them. Minute, but not matching what is in the crypt.”

  “So they were buried somewhere else first?”

  “We don’t know that yet.”

  “Where?”

  “As I say, we don’t know. We’re looking.”

  I thought about that for a minute. “So we’re not talking about grave robbers then. The bones weren’t buried in a coffin if there was soil on them, were they?”