Death at Whitewater Church Page 6

  She pushed open the door and led me down a narrow hallway cluttered with drinks crates and cardboard boxes to a second door marked Office. Here, she knocked briefly and without waiting for an answer walked in whilst I hovered outside. Through the gap I could see that her husband was sitting at a desk completely buried in paper, punching numbers into a calculator with some force, an expression of abject misery on his face.

  “Visitor for you, Ray,” she told him. “I said you’d be very upset to be dragged away from your beloved accounts.”

  She perched on the desk in front of him and beckoned me in. Kelly peered around her and caught sight of me for the first time. His face registered momentary surprise and then his features clouded again, as if reminded of something unpleasant. I didn’t take it personally. Solicitors aren’t always welcome. Still, he managed to force a smile and waved his hand in the direction of a seat on the other side of the desk, which I took.

  “Sorry to interrupt. I have a bit of news for you,” I said.

  “Hope it’s better than the last news I got.”

  “It is. I wanted to let you know they’ve finished with the church for the moment. I’ve just come from there.”

  “Nice of them to tell me,” he grumbled.

  “Well, they only finished this morning. I’m sure you’ll get a call later on.”

  “What have they found out?” he asked.

  “Not a lot, I don’t think. They’re still working on identification.”

  “So they don’t know who it is yet?” That was Alison.

  “Not yet,” I replied. “There’s a possibility it could be a man named Conor Devitt. He disappeared a number of years ago. They’re doing DNA testing with his family to make sure one way or the other.”

  Alison nodded. “We heard that.” She shuddered.

  “Did you know him?” I asked, surprised.

  “Oh, not really. Well, a little,” she said quietly. “We knew each other when we were children.”

  Her husband touched her gently on the arm. “They were school friends.”

  “I went to Whitewater primary school for a while, that little school on the way up to the church? It’s a ruin now, too.”

  “So you’re local?” I asked. “I assumed …”

  “You’re wondering about the accent?” She smiled. “My parents are Irish-American. They came back to Inishowen for a few years when my sister and I were kids. I was the new kid in school, the Yank …” She looked down. “And Conor was nice to me. Kinda like a big brother. One of those good kids that notices the shy ones, you know? But my parents couldn’t make it work in Donegal. They ran a shop, but it closed down.”

  “Seems neither of them had their daughter’s head for business. Kept giving out credit apparently,” Kelly added with a grin. “Couldn’t see you doing that, eh, Alison?”

  Alison ignored him. “They only stayed for a few years and then we all moved back to the States. Broke my heart.”

  Kelly put his arm around her and kissed her shoulder. “It’s just as well you did or you’d never have met me.”

  “You met each other in the States?” I asked.

  “Yeah – Boston. I spent a long time there learning the pub trade,” Kelly said. “We came back, what,” he looked at Alison, “nine years ago?”

  She nodded. “The three of us. We had Trevor in the States.”

  “I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea, but Alison was dead set on it. And as you’ll learn, Miss O’Keeffe, my wife always gets what she wants.”

  “I love that part of the world around Whitewater. It’s so beautiful up there. I never forgot it,” Alison said.

  “It’s why I decided to buy the church,” Kelly explained. “Not my best business decision, I have to say. We thought we might be able to do something with it, naively as it turned out. Something for the community.” He sighed. “And then this happens.”

  “You didn’t know Mr. Devitt yourself, then?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. I never met him.”

  Alison picked up a pen from the desk and started to draw lines on a sheet of paper. “Imagine, they think that might be him – in our church. Weird, isn’t it? What on earth was he doing there, I wonder?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Assuming it is him, of course. They don’t know that for certain yet. They’re still doing tests.”

  “Is there anything we can do for the family?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so, to be honest. They just have to wait for the results,” I said.

  Alison leaned in towards her husband and rested her head on his shoulder. I noticed there was quite an age gap. Kelly was a good ten years older than his wife.

  “I’ll be sure to let you know if I hear anything more,” I added.

  “Thank you.”

  I turned to go then paused at the door. “By the way, do you still want to go ahead with the remortgage now that the sale is off? I had put it on hold when Liam told me you were selling.”

  Kelly gave me an odd look. I thought I saw a flash of anger but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “No, it’s fine. I’ll leave it for the moment. Send the deeds back to the bank.”

  Chapter 8

  I DROVE ON into Derry, following my usual route down the Strand Road, past the row of pubs and nightclubs clustered at the bottom of the hill below Magee University and along the river. The streets were considerably quieter than they usually were on a Saturday afternoon and buried under a filthy layer of slush. A centuries-old shipping town, Derry is now the most westerly port in the United Kingdom. The city centre with its sophisticated riverside restaurants and bars usually gives the impression of being a million miles from the huge old shipyards, but not today. The quayside was a foul-looking industrial brown, and the river battered against the crash barriers, its water level as high as I had ever seen.

  Across the river, on the Waterside, the sky was oppressive, the clouds a steely gray looking fit to burst. The huge expanse of housing estates covering the hill seemed to be cowering in anticipation of the coming deluge. I looked over towards the “Peace Bridge,” the new pedestrian footbridge connecting the two sides of the city. Those few brave souls who were prepared to risk it were battered mercilessly by the wind as they fought their way across.

  I parked in the Foyleside shopping centre and ran onto Shipquay Street, barely halfway there when I was stung by pelting, icy rain. Thirty seconds was all it took for me to get completely soaked. I crossed the road and dived into the covered craft village with its shops and restaurants. Grateful for the warm blast that greeted me, I shook myself off like a dog in the doorway of the Tavern as I scanned the restaurant for Maeve. No sign. I found a table by the window, and ordered a tea. I discovered that there was a radiator running along the wall under my table and surreptitiously removed my shoes to toast my wet, socked feet.

  I looked at the menu and realized I was starving. Apparently, a good bracing walk in a graveyard brings on an appetite. I was immersed in semi-delirious thoughts about a piping-hot bowl of seafood chowder when Maeve suddenly appeared in front of me bringing a blast of cold air in with her.

  “Jesus Christ, what a dirty day,” she said as she took off her jacket and scarf.

  “I know. I’m still drying my feet.”

  She looked under the table and made a face. “Ugh.”

  “You’re late, by the way.”

  “I nearly didn’t make it at all,” she retorted. “I could be in the garda station as we speak, or the bloody morgue.”

  “What happened? Are you all right?” Maeve wasn’t usually prone to exaggeration.

  “Just about. I was coming through Glendara, out the Derry road, doing no speed at all when Danny Devitt staggered right out in front of me.”

  “Drunk?” I asked.

  “Completely pissed. Out of his head. At one o’clock in the bloody afternoon.”

  I nodded. “I heard he was drinking.”

  “I swear, Ben, if I hadn’t been driving the jeep with its
snow-tyres, he was a goner.”

  Just at that moment the waitress came over to our table. Maeve wanted an extra minute and I watched the waitress as she ambled gloomily back to the bar. The place was quiet; she had little to do.

  “I swerved and nearly ended up in the ditch,” Maeve went on. “And your man Devitt kept on going as if he never even saw me.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I mean, what if I’d had the kids with me?”

  “I know. You have to feel for him though. This must be a hell of a weekend to get through. I think if I was in the same boat I might drink my way through the next forty-eight hours.”

  “He should be at home, supporting his mother and sister. That’s what Conor would be doing if he were still around.”

  I took the course of least resistance. “You’re right. He should.”

  “Although in fairness, that Danny Devitt has always been better with animals than people.” Maeve shook her head. “He doesn’t often venture into town. You can see why; it doesn’t suit him.”

  The waitress reappeared and we speed-read the menu then ordered some food.

  Maeve leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “So the whole peninsula is waiting with bated breath. I hear you were actually there when they found the body?”

  “Who told you that?”

  She gave me a wry look.

  “Okay, fair enough.”

  “I hope your presence was just a coincidence?”

  Molloy is not the only one aware of my tendency to stick my nose in where it’s not needed.

  I grinned. “Utterly. Nothing to do with me.”

  “Good.” She uncrossed her arms. “So, is it likely to be Conor Devitt, do you think?”

  “No idea. He’s the only missing person from the area so he’s the obvious possibility, I suppose. I had never even heard of him until these bones turned up,” I added. “I don’t think anyone ever mentioned him to me.”

  “No, they wouldn’t have. People stopped talking about him – I think they were afraid to upset the family. He disappeared the year before you came up here. They’d given up looking for him by the time you arrived. I think everyone just assumed he’d done a runner, taken the boat to England.”

  “Did you know him?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah. Everyone knew him. He was a carpenter – a good one. He did my mother’s kitchen. Straightest guy you’d ever meet. We could have done with him by the time it came to do ours. Bloody cowboys.”

  I let that one go. It could have gone on for a while.

  “He worked for Mick Bourke,” she continued. “Did his apprenticeship with him, I’d say. I think Bourke was a bit of a father figure to him after what happened to his own dad. Though there was no comparison in terms of what they could do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bourke’s pretty average, but Conor was a brilliant craftsman, really talented. He even used to do some wood carving – plaques, figures, that kind of thing. He should have gone to college but he didn’t get the chance, he started work so young. We have one of his pieces in the sitting room – over the fireplace. That one was to benefit the Lifeboat service.”

  I pictured it. I had stared at it more than once, glass of wine in hand. It was a striking abstract piece with angry figures.

  “The boys don’t like it, for some reason,” Maeve said. “They say it’s scary. Oh, thank God. Here comes our food.”

  The waitress arrived at our table with a tray laden with steaming bowls of soup and thick sandwiches. She returned within minutes with an enormous pot of tea. As I poured, the room darkened and a sudden shower of hailstones clattered violently against the window.

  I groaned. “Talk about four seasons in one day.”

  “That’s Donegal for you. By the way,” Maeve said through a mouthful of sandwich, “do you fancy going to a play at the Millennium next week? We could have something to eat beforehand.”

  “What’s on?”

  She grinned. “Thought it might be right up your street. Not that I want to encourage you or anything. It’s an Agatha Christie play: Witness for the Prosecution.”

  On Sunday afternoon I was curled up on the couch, with Guinness snoring gently on my knee, surrounded by the Sunday papers. I had combed them for any mention of Whitewater but could find nothing. The discovery of the bones had made the back pages of the national papers on Friday as well as the radio and television news, and the Derry Journal on Saturday. But there had been nothing since.

  The fire was beginning to have its usual soporific effect, and I could feel myself dozing off. With a huge effort I shook myself awake and summoned the enthusiasm to go into the office for a few hours to make up for the early afternoon I had taken on Friday. To his ill-concealed disgust, I tossed Guinness off my knee and picked up my keys. I drove slowly into town with the window rolled down, hoping the salty air would revive me. The sleet and hailstones had stopped for the time being, but the sky was dull and laden with the promise of a further attack.

  My grand plan to work was abandoned the second I felt the freezing temperature in the office. I put my hand on the radiator behind the reception desk. Icy. The heating was off. I checked my watch; the heating was due to come on at this time for an hour each day over the weekend. I peered inside the oil tank in the backyard: empty. What wretched timing, in the middle of the worst weather we’d had all winter! Cursing, I dragged an old electric heater down from the attic to reception, ready to be used on Monday morning, bashing myself on the ankles more than once in the process.

  On impulse, I decided to take home the title deeds to Whitewater Church. Even though I knew it was absolutely none of my business, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the placing of the bones inside the crypt had to be significant, especially now it appeared that they had been moved there. The placing was so utterly deliberate, the wrapping of the bones in a blanket and the placing of a pillow under the skull such a strange act of kindness. Whitewater Church itself was key in some way; I was convinced it had to be. It was also a possibility – remote, I accepted – that there was something significant in the deeds. And for the moment at any rate, I had them. But I would have to send them back now that the sale was off.

  As I was leaving, I caught sight of Claire Devitt. She cut a lonely figure, walking up the hill. I wondered if she was going to look for Danny. I unlocked my car and got in, dumping the deeds on the passenger seat. I was about to pull away when a squad car appeared, speeding past me along the deserted street, McFadden at the wheel, a guard I recognized from Buncrana in the passenger seat. They were headed in the direction of the square, the same as Claire. I hesitated for a second then turned off the engine, locked the deeds in the boot, and set off up the hill after them on foot.

  The squad car was parked up on the footpath outside the Oak, blue lights flashing. Alone on the street and feeling conspicuous, I hid in the doorway of the newsagents, closed now for the afternoon. The door of the Oak burst open and I watched as McFadden and the other guard marched a large bearded man out onto the street and hustled him into the back seat of the squad car. The man’s head was bowed.

  Before McFadden had closed the door of the car, the pub door was flung open again with considerable force and a tall man with dark hair stormed out, shouting and waving his fists. He pressed his face up against the back window of the squad car and shouted something at the man inside. McFadden pulled the dark-haired man away from the window and into the alleyway to the right of the pub. I couldn’t see the alley from where I was standing, but shortly afterwards, the man reappeared, followed by McFadden, and went silently back into the pub. As he did so, I caught sight of his profile. It was the man Phyllis had pointed out to me the day before, Lisa McCauley’s new husband, Alan Crane. I emerged from the doorway and the squad car drove past me, the bearded man in the back seat gazing expressionlessly out of the window. I waited for a few minutes to see if Claire reappeared, but the street remained deserted.

  The sound of Van Morrison gre
eted me as I pulled open the door of the pub. There were only two people in there, one standing behind the bar and one sitting on a stool drinking a pint of Guinness. Neither of them was Claire. Tony glanced up and gave me a rather odd look and I smiled, feeling a little stupid, knowing I was about to walk straight back out again. Alan Crane spun around on his stool, gave me the briefest of disinterested looks, and returned to his pint.

  As I closed the door of the pub behind me, I saw Claire walking very quickly on the other side of the road. She passed the chemist shop, stopped at Eithne’s front door, and knocked. I decided to leave her alone.

  Back at home I threw some turf on the fire and spread the deeds out in front of me starting with the most recent. The Deed of Conveyance, from December 14, 2005, had transferred ownership of the church, the access lane, and an acre and a half of land to Raymond and Alison Kelly, excluding the graveyard, which was retained by the trustees. They had paid a considerable sum for it, even at a time when property in Ireland was overvalued. Molloy was right – it was a hell of a lot more than they were selling it for now.

  The original of the map I had given Paul Doherty was pasted to the back of the 2005 conveyance. The one that had omitted the crypt. It did, however, show the subdivision of the church site from the graveyard and the narrow lane connecting the two. I checked the deed. It contained a clause agreeing that this access was to be closed up; the properties were to be truly separate. The Kellys had been the first buyers since the church was deconsecrated in 1995. The trustees had taken their time in selling it: ten years. I wondered what it was that had made them finally sell. Did they need the money?

  The 2005 deed carried over restrictive covenants from a previous deed, the 1995 Deed of Deconsecration. Maybe that had been part of Kelly’s difficulty in getting planning permission? I opened the Deed of Deconsecration and smiled to myself as I read it. There was a covenant forbidding the consumption of alcohol on the premises, outside of the celebration of Holy Communion. That shouldn’t have caused him any trouble; it was a covenant that was unlikely to be enforceable today.