Death at Whitewater Church Page 4

  Molloy’s eyes flashed at me. “Is this general curiosity, or are you asking these questions for the benefit of your clients?”

  I colored, aware that Molloy was under no obligation to give me any information at all. As he continued to chew on his sandwich, I tried to read his face. It was only then that I realized he must have had his own reasons for asking me to come down.

  His expression softened. “Would it be okay if I asked you a question for a change?”

  “Sorry. Of course. Go ahead.”

  “Thank you. Did you see Doherty touch the bones at all before you called us?”

  “Paul?” I said in surprise. “No. He just did what I did. He moved the top of the blanket aside so he could see what was underneath. That’s all.”

  “And where were you when this was happening?”

  “At the entrance to the crypt. It was pretty dark, but I had a torch. Then I went down after him.”

  Molloy nodded and took a bite of his sandwich. I decided to risk another question, this time in what I hoped was safer territory.

  “Is it true you think it might be Conor Devitt?”

  Molloy raised his eyebrows.

  “Claire, his sister, is in the drama group.”

  Molloy sniffed. “Not many secrets in this town,” he said.

  I smiled. “No.”

  “The family seems convinced it is him,” he said. “And the bones do belong to a male who could have been Devitt’s age at the time he disappeared. Conor was thirty-three. But they could also belong to someone ten years older or ten years younger.”

  I whistled. “Pretty broad range.”

  “It’s the level of decomposition that’s the problem. It means we can’t be absolutely precise about the date of death either. Or cause of death for that matter, at this stage, although that may be established by the postmortem. But the date of death is also in range of when Devitt disappeared.”

  “Are you doing DNA testing?”

  “Yes. It’s the only way we can be sure. The Devitts have all been called to the hospital in Letterkenny to give swabs. The mother, your friend Claire, and the other son. We’re using dental records, too. We should have some idea by Monday morning.”

  “God love them.”

  Molloy threw the remains of his sandwich in the wastepaper basket and leaned back in his chair. “We tried our best to find out what happened to him at the time. Without much success, unfortunately.”

  “Was there anything missing?” I asked. “Money, passport?”

  “He’d taken out some money over the previous couple of days, but he was about to get married so that was hardly surprising. And his passport wasn’t missing. But then you don’t need a passport to go to England on the boat.”

  “Must have been rough on the family.”

  “I’m sure it was.”

  I sipped cautiously at my tea. “So someone dug up a set of bones from somewhere, wrapped them in a blanket and put them in the crypt, with a pillow beneath the skull?”

  I was back in dangerous waters. Molloy threw me a warning look. “There are things I can’t tell you at this stage, Ben, you know that.”

  “Okay,” I said reluctantly. “Can I ask one more question?”

  Molloy sighed.

  “Is the skeleton intact?”

  “A couple of the smaller bones are broken, and some are not in the right position – but yes, it’s almost intact.”

  “I presume no fingerprints on anything?”

  Molloy gave me a what do you think look.

  “Well, you did say that the pathologist is still working on them,” I said brightly.

  “Yes.”

  “So something else may come to light.”

  “Possibly.”

  I got up to leave, then remembered what I had come to ask him. I cleared my throat. Molloy looked up.

  “Any idea when you’ll be finished up at the church? Kelly is going to want to know.”

  He looked away. “It’ll take as long as it takes.”

  It was as if I’d tipped my cold tea over him.

  Chapter 5

  I LEFT WORK early, before darkness fell. I needed to clear my head. I live in Malin town, which is a bit of a misnomer since it’s actually a small village, about five miles north of the real town of Glendara. I parked on the green in front of my cottage, ran in, did a quick change, and collected together what I needed.

  I drove out along the winding coast road, making for Malin Head, past the steep, grassy hills, each one dotted with small white patches of gravity-defying sheep. After three miles or so, I slowed down and took a left towards the sea, following the sign for Trá na gCuig Méar – Five Fingers Strand. Five Fingers Strand, or Lagg as the locals call it, is one of my favorite places on earth. I could feel my spirits lift as I drove down the narrow twisting lane, over the bridge and tiny stream, and past the little white chapel and myriad rabbit holes.

  After a while I felt the ground under the car soften, and soon I was driving on sand. I caught my first glimpse of the sea through the dunes planted like sentries at the entrance to the beach, turned off the engine, and sat for a minute. The gray hulk of Glashedy Island dominated the horizon. The sea was a deep, greeny blue, the sand beneath it golden. In the heat of the car it was possible to imagine I was looking at a tropical Caribbean scene. But I knew that was deceptive. This was Donegal. And the Atlantic Ocean. In February.

  The beach was deserted. Today that suited me perfectly. I grabbed my towel and clothes from the passenger seat and got out, not bothering to lock the car. I wouldn’t be long. This was not going to be a leisurely swim, more of a quick medicinal dip. I negotiated my way over the remains of the concrete path wrecked by erosion, and down onto the beach. As soon as I was out of the protection of the dunes, I was hit by a blast of biting sea breeze and I shivered, despite my warm jacket and scarf.

  It was always at this point that I doubted my sanity. But I knew the benefits of swimming in the sea the whole year round, and one of them was to preserve whatever sanity I had left. My grandparents had done it, and my parents did it, and it seemed to work for them, kept their hearts healthy. Although they had always done it a few degrees’ latitude farther south – and those few degrees can make a hell of a difference. Still, it made me feel closer to them on some level. Less guilty.

  I stood for a moment and looked, as I always did, across the bay to the five regal rocks that protruded from the sea to give the beach its name, and watched as flocks of seagulls swooped and dived off the cliffs above them. The towering Knockamany Bens.

  It soon hit me that standing still wasn’t such a good idea. The icy wind was numbing my face. I made my way down towards the shore over the smooth rocks and twisted kelp. The tide was on its way in, the water already halfway up the beach. Generally, Lagg is not a safe place to swim. The currents in the bay are dangerous and unpredictable. But all I needed was a quick dip: a tea-bag swim, or a three-stroker. One to get you out, one to turn, and one to bring you back in.

  I stopped at a large rock covered in green moss and put my towel on the driest patch I could find. The wind was whipping my hair about my face. I found a clip in the pocket of my jacket to pin it back, took a deep breath, and started to undress, pulling on my swimming togs and the pair of ancient blue flip-flops I’ve had since I was a teenager. I picked up my towel and put it around my shoulders for a minute, but hesitation is unwise when tackling a winter sea swim in Donegal. Gritting my teeth, I threw the towel off and ran down the beach towards the sea, discarding my flip-flops a couple of yards from the nearest encroachment of the tide and crying out at the freezing cold of the stones beneath my feet. Suddenly self-conscious, I scanned the beach to see if anyone was around, but it was still deserted. I hopped along towards the sea, and yelped again when the icy waves washed up against my ankles. Then I heard my father’s voice: Straight in, girl, that’s the only way to do it.

  I waded in until the water was up to my waist, hyperventilating all the way, then plu
nged in headfirst. As I submerged, the cold hit me like a ton of bricks; I thought my heart was going to stop. I managed two strokes of crawl out, turned in one, and two strokes back in, relieved when my feet found the bottom again. Desperate to get back onto dry land and into some kind of warmth, I splashed my way back in towards the beach like a drowning animal and staggered up the stones, shuffling into my flip-flops. Not easy, considering I could no longer feel my feet.

  But even though my teeth were chattering and parts of me were completely numb, I knew it had worked. I stumbled back up to where my clothes were and started to dry myself off, struggling out of my swimming togs and into my jeans and shirt. My head felt free, my mind clear. Always for these few minutes, and to a lesser extent for an hour or so after, I felt alert and happy. Short-lived but highly effective. I hummed to myself as I dressed.

  A voice interrupted my humming. I raised my head but couldn’t see anyone and decided it was probably the wind, although I did notice that darkness was falling. I went back to getting dressed. Again, I heard a voice – this time, I was sure someone called my name. I looked up to see a hunched figure walking towards me, waving. I dragged on my boots and coat and scarf, wrapped my togs in the damp towel, and set off to meet them. To my shame, when I finally recognized the face, I experienced that second of panic you get when you struggle to find the right thing to say.

  Claire Devitt was wearing a long tweed coat that was far too big for her and a huge green woolen scarf. Her high-pitched voice reached me long before she did. She sounded appalled.

  “What in God’s name were you doing? Did I see you get in for a swim?”

  “It’s something I do every so often,” I told her. “I’m not usually seen.”

  She was smiling but the strain was etched heavily on her face. Her skin had a waxy sheen and her long dank hair looked like it hadn’t seen shampoo in a week. Her mouth was smeared with bright purple lipstick.

  “Are you a lunatic or what? It must be completely freezing.”

  “It is,” I said.

  “Some old Dublin habit, I suppose. You wouldn’t find too many around here doing that. Unless for charity on Christmas Day or something.”

  She was speaking very quickly, as if she was trying to fill the air with noise to avoid giving me the opportunity to mention the obvious.

  “It helps to clear my head sometimes,” I said.

  Her smile faded. “Aye, I know what you mean. I could do with something like that. I thought a walk might help. I had to get out of the house.”

  “We’ve been thinking about you.”

  She looked down at her feet, clad in sturdy black workman’s boots. “Aye. Phyllis called me this morning.”

  Not for the first time it hit me that Phyllis’ nosy though caring approach was so often the kinder route than respectful distance.

  “I know Eithne’s been worried about you, too.”

  “Has she?” Her expression was hard to read.

  “How is your mother?” I asked.

  “She’s getting old, needs taking care of. I’ve been doing it since Conor disappeared. Not that I mind doing it, of course, but it’s not easy.” She stared off into the distance. “In a way we’ve been mourning him for six years. At least if we knew …”

  “I know what you mean. So …” I hesitated. “When will you know?”

  She clutched at a strand of her hair and started to pull at it. The skin around her fingernails was torn and red.

  “Monday. But I know it’s him. He used to go up to Whitewater Church sometimes. He must have gone up the morning of the wedding for a walk and fallen or something.”

  I looked down. It seemed Molloy hadn’t given any details yet about the way the bones were found. I presumed he wanted to wait until they were formally identified.

  She studied my face. “I know what people were saying when he disappeared, that he’d just taken off. But we knew he wouldn’t have left us to cope without him. He wasn’t that kind of person. Conor always took care of us.”

  “I believe he was about to get married, too,” I said.

  She frowned. “That wouldn’t have changed anything. He had responsibilities to his family.”

  “Of course. You have another brother, haven’t you?”

  “Aye. Of a sort,” she said bitterly. “Danny. God knows where he is.”

  “He doesn’t live with you?”

  “Not anymore. He’s never around when we need him. After Conor went missing, he took off, too. The rest of us were going through hell, not knowing if Conor was alive or dead, and where was Danny? We’ll never know. Came back weeks later looking like a tramp. And now he’s done it again.”

  She started to chew on her bottom lip, getting lipstick on her teeth in the process.

  “I come down here to dream.” Her voice drifted, and she looked off into the distance. “I have to allow myself to just be sometimes, you know?”

  I nodded.

  “Then I saw you and I thought … I suppose I just wanted to have a semi-normal conversation with someone for a few minutes.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not sure I’ve entirely managed that for you,” I said gently.

  “Not to worry.” She turned to face me again. “I’d better go and get some groceries. Who knows what next week will hold. We may have a lot of visitors.” Her expression was suddenly brighter, as if she were relishing the thought of a party.

  I frowned. “Yes, I suppose you might.”

  “In a way we’ve been mourning him for six years, you know,” she said defensively.

  But she had said that already.

  Chapter 6

  BY SATURDAY MORNING, the long-threatened snow had arrived. I woke early to the sound of Guinness complaining loudly on the sill outside my bedroom window. Guinness is an enormous black tomcat with a patch of white on the top of his head, who deigns to live with me and eat my food. When he feels like it. This morning he had managed to make his way up the lilac bush in the front garden and onto the windowsill.

  I pulled back the curtains and opened the window, shielding my eyes against the startling brightness. He leaped down onto the carpet and shook out one paw after the other in an indignant fashion, as if the whole winter wonderland outside was a conspiracy against him. Then he tried to clamber up onto my bed, which I strenuously resisted. There are limits.

  I leaned my cheek against the glass and gazed out the window. Malin is never exactly a heaving metropolis, but this early on a Saturday morning there wasn’t a soul around to spoil the view. Here and there seagulls hopped about, almost completely camouflaged by the layer of white icing that covered the houses, church, and park benches dotted about the green. Everything was perfect and still. Even the gulls’ cries were muffled by the snow. I live in a picture-postcard village at the best of times, but when it snows, no Christmas card can beat it.

  Guinness weaving impatiently in and out through my bare legs made me shiver and prompted me to shut the window and head downstairs, the cat trailing after me. As I warmed some milk, I replayed my conversation with Molloy from the day before and came to the conclusion that it was vintage Molloy, nothing more. The usual struggle between us. There was no need for me to suddenly be bothered by it now. That pathologist was here to do a job. She’d be gone in a day or two and that would be the end of it; I’d never have to see her again and I could close off those memories. In the white stillness of day I could rationalize, but it had not been so the night before. The swim had helped me sleep but hadn’t managed to block the dreams.

  I opened the blinds over the kitchen sink. The weather wasn’t going to make the guards’ job at Whitewater Church any easier. If they were trying to establish whether the bones had been buried somewhere nearby before being moved to the crypt, they would make no progress today.

  I had spoken to Kelly before I left the office. Liam was right about the buyers. The English couple who had been so sure that Whitewater was the home of their dreams had executed a rapid U-turn when the news of the disco
very in the crypt had reached them. Which it had, apparently, without Liam ever having to tell them. News travels fast in Inishowen. They had returned to England on Friday morning, having withdrawn their offer.

  Needless to say, this hadn’t helped Kelly’s mood. I had promised to let him know when the guards were finished with the church so he could get it back on the market as soon as possible. But I wasn’t about to ring Molloy again yet.

  I poured milk into Guinness’ dish, turned on the radio, and was just starting to make some coffee when the phone rang. When I answered it, I could hear kids squabbling loudly in the background. A female voice shouted at them to keep quiet.

  “Sorry about that.”

  It was Maeve, the local vet.

  “You not working today?” I said.

  “Nope. I was on call last night but managed to escape with about six hours’ sleep. Which isn’t bad for this time of year.”

  “Well done.”

  “And the good news is that my dear husband has promised to take the boys to their birthday party this afternoon. So I was wondering if you fancied a run into Derry? Lunch out, a bit of shopping, that kind of thing.”

  “Maybe. What are the roads like?”

  “Not too bad. The main ones are all salted. Should be grand into Derry. The sales are probably still on. It’s about six months since I’ve spent any money.”

  “Okay, then. Sounds good.”

  “One o’clock in the Tavern?”

  “Great. I’ll meet you in there. I’ve a couple of things to do first.”

  The main roads may have been salted but the secondary roads weren’t so healthy, I discovered, while maneuvring my poor old Mini back up the hill to Whitewater Church. The sky had turned a deep blue, the day was utterly still, and the snow was crunchy underfoot and precariously slippery. I had a couple of close encounters with the ditch. When I finally arrived at the church, a figure dressed in something resembling a boiler suit was closing the main gate. As I rolled down the window it took me a second to recognize Andy McFadden. McFadden must be thirty at least, but out of the garda uniform he looked like a kid.