Death at Whitewater Church Read online

  “I like the gear,” I called out.

  He grinned, making him look even younger.

  “Protective clothing. We all have to wear it now. Can’t be trampling all over the crime scene.”

  “You on your own?” I asked.

  “I am now.”

  “Last one to leave turns out the lights?” I said.

  “Something like that. The crime scene lads have just finished. It was pretty crowded earlier on.” He looked around him. “Just as well they got most of what they needed done last night. The ground’s completely frozen.”

  “So I see. They’re done then, are they? Can I tell the Kellys that you’re finished with the place?”

  “I think so. For the moment.”

  “I’ll contact them this afternoon. Did you find out anything about where the bones came from?”

  McFadden looked uncomfortable.

  “It’s all right,” I reassured him. “Molloy told me it was likely they were moved into the crypt from somewhere else.”

  He relented. “Aye, well, they found some disturbed ground in the old graveyard. A good bit away from the graves, over by the trees.”

  “A shallow grave, you mean?”

  “They’re not sure. But they’ve taken some soil samples away to be tested anyway. From there and from other places around here. See if they match the soil found on the bones.”

  I knew from the deeds that the tiny graveyard had been separated from the church property before Kelly had bought it. The church trustees had retained it and continued to maintain it. I presumed it was to that graveyard that most of the human remains from the crypt had been moved when the church was deconsecrated.

  “Any idea when they’ll have the results?”

  “Monday evening, I think. Same as the DNA results, they hope.”

  I pulled my jacket and scarf from the back seat and locked the door.

  “Did you know Conor Devitt, by the way?” I asked.

  “Aye, I knew him surely.” McFadden looked at the ground and kicked the gate to dislodge some snow from his boot. “I’ve known the family all my life. Conor was a good few years older than me, but we played football together. Good player he was. Always thought it was strange, him disappearing like that. Didn’t fit. I’ve never met a more responsible kind of a fella, if you know what I mean.”

  “So I hear. I know Claire,” I said. “She’s in the Drama Club with me.”

  “’Course.” He nodded. “That’d be her kind of thing.”

  “And he disappeared just before his wedding, I hear?” I said, pulling on my jacket and wrapping the scarf tightly around my neck.

  “Aye. I was supposed to go to it. Awful for poor Lisa. Every woman’s nightmare, I’d say, being stood up on your wedding day.”

  “Lisa was his fiancée?”

  “Aye, Lisa McCauley as she was. Pretty girl. She used to come and watch us play. Out in all sorts of weather she was. Mad about him. They were together for years.”

  “God. Did she ever meet anyone else?”

  McFadden smiled ruefully. “Would you believe she got married a fortnight ago? Due back from her honeymoon any day now, she is.” He added quietly, as if in disbelief, “And now this happens. It’ll have to set her back.”

  I made a face. “What a thing to come home to.”

  “Aye.” McFadden opened the door of the squad car. “Well, maybe we’ll have some answers on Monday. Enjoy the rest of the weekend.”

  I watched McFadden drive away, then walked farther on up the road until I came to an old pedestrian gateway with an ornate iron gate and an arch with a stone cross above it. The snow had settled on the arms of the cross like icing sugar. This was the entrance to the old Whitewater Church graveyard.

  The gate whined as I pushed it open and closed it again behind me, and I trod carefully up the path over the immaculate and undisturbed snow. Mine were the first footsteps; the guards must have done all their work here the day before, meaning that I had no way of telling where they thought the body had been buried. It was even difficult to tell where the footpath was in parts, since the snow had drifted a little here and there.

  The winter sunshine did nothing to reduce the strange sense of melancholy that comes with walking alone in an old graveyard, but still it was oddly beautiful. The only sounds came from a family of rooks calling to each other high up in the laden yew trees, and the creaking of the snow beneath my feet.

  The sea lay in the distance, a patch of blue above the white, the line separating water and sky invisible. I looked around me. The gravestones were simple and weather-beaten, and all the more dignified for that. Some of the gravestones were half-buried, some half-fallen maybe. It was hard to tell with the snow. Others were taller, or on higher ground. These somber gray soldiers cast long shadows across the white. They were covered in lichen, demonstrating, if at all necessary, the purity of the air.

  I peered at some of the names, those that weren’t yet obscured by time. The family names were familiar – all common to the peninsula: Dohertys, McLaughlins, McDaids – their common nature the very reason for the local reliance on nicknames. As a blow-in I’m still a bit of an amateur at their usage, but I’m getting there. I knew it was two generations since Phyllis Kettle’s grandfather had sold pots and pans in the town, but there wasn’t a soul who called her Doherty.

  Most who were buried here were long dead, twenty-five years ago or more, I noticed. Family plots were the exceptions: new names added to ancient gravestones. I noticed one or two more modern-looking stones, but they had dates from even further back. I wondered if they marked the burial sites of bodies moved from the crypt when the church was deconsecrated. Had the skeleton in the crypt made an eerie journey in the other direction, I asked myself, from the graveyard to the crypt? I looked around, wondering, if so, from where it had departed.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge gull swooped down right in front of me, making me jump, missing me by inches. Heart pounding, I watched as it flew low along the ground for a short while and then rose again to soar off into the distance. I waited until my breathing had calmed down, then continued on my walk.

  As I made my way back along the path that meandered through the graves, I thought about my reasons for coming up here. It wasn’t just for my clients. A phone call would have sorted that out. But being here, in this peaceful place, gave me space to think.

  Inishowen is an easy place to lose yourself, to cut yourself off from the rest of the world. But sometimes the walls you build up don’t feel so secure anymore. A familiar ache had been returning gradually to my heart over the past year. I had suppressed it, was afraid of what lay beneath, afraid I would revert to asking the questions I had come to Donegal to forget. The ones I knew would never be answered.

  I had told Molloy nothing of my past or my reasons for coming to Inishowen, although recently I had come close. We had begun to spend time together outside of work, to talk about things that weren’t work-related, to eat together whenever our jobs kept us in town late. That was, until New Year’s Eve, six weeks ago.

  I had been out with Maeve, drinking too much, something I have a tendency to do when my unhappiness spills over – usually at major Christian festivals, I have discovered. Stupidly, I stayed out long after Maeve had gone home, despite her attempts to persuade me to leave. Molloy drove by the Oak, saw me standing outside talking to a Scottish cousin of Tony’s who was home on holiday, and offered me a lift back to Malin. I took it, his sudden appearance bringing me to my senses.

  We stayed sitting in the squad car outside my cottage talking for a long time. The conversation was easy and natural; two friends chatting in the dark, not looking at one another’s faces. I came so close to telling him then, to pouring it all out, but I found myself having more fun than I’d had all evening and I didn’t want it to end. And then something changed. The car was cold, I asked him in, and he said no. Suddenly I was embarrassed. I wasn’t sure exactly what I had intended by my invitation but I felt rejecte
d, foolish.

  But then I had been about to get out of the car in hurt silence when he turned to face me, and our eyes met in a way they never had before. Without a word from either of us, a line was crossed and we both knew it. He leaned in close, close enough for me to see the dark flecks in his gray eyes, to breathe in the faintest trace of aftershave. As he reached for me, his phone rang. He pulled back immediately. His eyes scanned the number and his expression changed: it was as if someone had switched off a light. “I’ve got to take this.” Matter-of-fact, businesslike, not a trace of apology or regret in his tone. He waited until I was out of the car to return the call – I saw him on the phone as I walked away.

  Since that night, neither of us had spoken of it. In fact, until the discovery of the bones in the church, we had spoken very little at all.

  And so the position remained the same; no one in Donegal knew who I was or why I had come here. I was beginning to wonder if that was a mistake.

  I looked around me, at the snow-covered mounds: graves of people who for the most part, I assumed, had been allowed to die a natural death. Not everyone was so lucky. Even as a teenager I wondered what it was that made people kill. Not in war, that’s a different issue – you know there are other factors at play – but what is it that drives one person to end another person’s life, to take the most extreme, irreversible action? To look someone in the eyes and take everything away from them? And then continue to exist afterwards. That’s the bit that truly gets me, and always has.

  Ironic really, the way my life has turned out. That I should have to ask myself that very question; that fate would provide me with enough empirical evidence to have a go at working the answer out for myself.

  The muffled sound of a tractor on the road dragged me back to the present. I cast my eyes around to get my bearings and saw that at some point I must have veered off the footpath. I caught sight of the gate again and started to make my way towards it. Suddenly, my right foot sank deeply into a drift and I lost my balance. I put my hand out to steady myself and gripped one of the gravestones.

  With difficulty, I managed to extract my soaking foot and regain my balance. As I raised my head again, I saw the inscription on the headstone.

  Jack Devitt born February 1, 1950 died August 12, 1987.

  There were no details of family. I stood there for a minute rereading the name and dates. Jack Devitt: Conor’s father, maybe? Claire had made no mention of her father. I wondered if this Jack Devitt had been fortunate enough to die a natural death. It seemed unlikely, given that he had been only thirty-seven when he died. A young man. Silently, I thanked him for breaking my fall.

  Was it possible that the bones in the crypt were this man’s son? And if so, how had they ended up in such a strange position? And how had he died? These were questions to which the family deserved answers – but it wasn’t my job to find them. That was up to the guards. I had my own issues to resolve.

  Chapter 7

  ON MY WAY back into town I rang Kelly, but he didn’t pick up. I’d try again later. What I wanted to say didn’t feel appropriate for a voice message.

  When I stopped in the square to buy a newspaper, the town had a busy, bustly Saturday-morning feel about it. I narrowly avoided a head-on collision in the doorway of the shop with a large pink creature laden down with two shopping bags.

  “Sorry about that. Always have been a bit on the clumsy side.”

  “Morning, Phyllis. Not in the book shop this morning?”

  She made a face. “I have my nephew doing Saturday mornings for me as a favor to my brother, but he’s driving me up the wall. I had to get out of there, but now I’m away I’m convinced he’s going to burn the place down.”

  I grinned. “That seems a bit unlikely, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m not so sure. Not a difficult thing to do with a book shop, you know, and he’s perfectly capable of it. I keep catching him smoking out the back.”

  “Ah.”

  “Have you got a second?” she whispered.

  I nodded and she beckoned me to the window of the wool shop next door, dumped her bags on the footpath, and let out a long breath.

  “You haven’t heard anything more about that Whitewater business, have you?” she asked. “If they know whether it’s Conor Devitt or not?”

  “I haven’t. The tests take a few days, I think.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  She lowered her voice even further. “Well, it’s wee Danny.”

  “Danny?”

  “Danny Devitt, Claire’s brother. I’ve just seen him. He’s drunk – and it’s not even midday. I don’t think he’s handling it very well.”

  I remembered Claire’s comments on the beach the day before.

  Phyllis looked anxious. “I don’t really know him but I wondered if there was something I should do. He’s always been a bit odd; he might not welcome any interference.”

  “How old is he?” I asked.

  She gave it some thought before replying. “Thirty-six, give or take a year or two?”

  I smiled. “He’s an adult, Phyllis, I’m afraid. He’s free to have a drink if he wants to. And it’s kind of understandable this weekend. Where did you see him?”

  “Just going into the Oak.”

  “Tony’ll take care of him. He’s not going to serve him if he’s in a bad way. He’ll probably even drive him home.”

  “Aye, I suppose you’re right. Only I feel a bit helpless.”

  “I know what you mean. I met Claire on the beach yesterday. What’s the story with their father, by the way? She talked about her mother but she didn’t mention him.”

  Phyllis’ face fell. “Jack Devitt? Oh, he’s dead. He committed suicide years ago – shot himself with his own shotgun. God, it was awfully sad. I think it was wee Danny who found him in one of the outhouses. Poor kid …” She trailed off. Something was distracting her on the other side of the road. My eyes followed hers.

  “So they’re back,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Who’s back?”

  She gestured towards a tall, dark-haired man going into the Oak. “That’s Alan Crane. Lisa McCauley’s new husband.”

  I tried to call Raymond Kelly again before I set off for Derry, but there was still no answer. For the first ten minutes, driving conditions were actually okay. Maeve was right: the main roads had all been gritted and the temperature had risen, meaning that the snow was starting to melt anyway. However, by the time I reached the coast road, the sky had darkened ominously and it started to sleet. Dirty, icy rain splashed down on the windscreen quicker than the Mini’s wipers could clear it. I drove along at a snail’s pace, struggling to see out through the brown sludge.

  I decided to drive via Buncrana on the off chance I could catch Kelly at his pub. It would save me chasing him on his mobile all weekend. The rain finally stopped as I arrived and parked in the main street of Buncrana, a large town about ten miles from Glendara. For a pub along this stretch, Kelly’s was pretty grand. It looked as if it might once have been an old bank or public building.

  The owners had used the whole premises, all three floors. There was a fine old mirrored bar downstairs with booths and leather seating, brass lighting, and an impressive staircase leading to the upper two floors. A sign on the wall indicated a restaurant upstairs. A Miles Davis tune played quietly in the background.

  The bar was empty of customers. I looked at my watch. It was early, twelve o’clock. There were two people behind the bar: a young barman of about eighteen with spiky black hair, in black trousers and a white shirt, and a woman. They were having a laugh as they polished glasses and filled the dispensers.

  The woman saw me and came over. Her black hair was tied loosely at her neck. She was striking, with heavy dark eyes and a full mouth. Tiny lines under her eyes only served to make her look even more intriguing. She was one of those rare specimens for whom age is not the enemy.

  “What can I get you?” she asked.

&
nbsp; “Nothing, thanks. This is Raymond Kelly’s bar, isn’t it?”

  “It is. I’m his wife, Alison.” She spoke with a hint of an American lilt. I realized it was a similar rounding of consonants that gave her husband’s accent its distinctive quality, though I thought his had something extra.

  “I’ve spoken to you on the phone, but we haven’t met. I’m Ben O’Keeffe.”

  The woman gave me a smile, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “You’re the solicitor? Ray’s mentioned you. This is my son, Trevor.”

  The boy with the spiky hair shot me a grin. He had his mother’s looks. Lucky boy.

  “I was wondering if I could have a quick word with Mr. Kelly.”

  “Sure. He’s in the office pretending to do paperwork. No doubt he’ll be glad of the interruption.”

  Alison emerged from behind the bar and led me down the back of the building towards a door marked Private. I liked the feel of the place, even empty. I said so.

  “Thanks,” Alison replied. “We really wanted this one to work, and it’s doing well. It’s our third. We also have two pubs in the west, and one in London, too, that I try to check up on a couple of times a year. But I’m sure Ray’s told you all that.”

  “Well, no actually. I’ve done very little for him so far, to be honest. He just asked me to have a look at a possible remortgage on the church and said he might have some more work for me after that.”

  She smiled, a knowing sort of smile. “He does that. He’s not too happy with the solicitor we’ve been using in Buncrana so he thought he’d give you a go. Liam recommended you.” She put a hand in front of her mouth in a mock whisper. “You’re on probation.”

  I grinned. “Fair enough.”

  “We’ve a couple of other properties that Liam is selling for us though. Ray will probably get you to act for him in those.” She sighed. “If they ever sell in this financial climate.”

  “Well, this place looks great.”

  “I think so.” She looked around her. “We brought the bar over from the States, and some of the lighting. And we have the restaurant, of course.” She indicated upstairs. “Great chef. You should try it sometime. He’s particularly good with fish.”