Death at Whitewater Church Page 8

  I stood up, my voice shaking a little. “I’m going to have to ask you to calm down, please, Mr. Devitt.”

  I wondered if I should call Leah. B for bouncer – I thought that might be pushing it. As it turned out, I didn’t need to. Danny unclenched his fist and his shoulders slumped as he lifted his arm and wiped his sleeve across his face. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and spoke again, calmly this time.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Maybe you should tell me what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You don’t know what to do about what, Mr. Devitt?”

  He turned to face me. His eyes were shining. “I need to know who it is. Can you find that out?”

  “Who who is?”

  He was silent, as if I should know what he meant.

  “Are we talking about the body in the church?”

  He nodded. “Can you find that out?” he said again, more urgently this time.

  “Well, not really, Mr. Devitt. But I know the guards are working on it at the moment. I’m sure they’ll have an answer soon.”

  His eyes welled.

  “Why do you need to know?” I asked. “Do you know something about it?”

  Without replying, he turned back towards the window. I stood up and approached him. With trepidation I touched him briefly on the arm.

  “Mr. Devitt, what do you know?”

  He spun violently around. I leaped back. Shockingly, there were great, glistening tears streaming down his face. He was crying like a child cries, letting the tears fall as if he were powerless to stop them. As if he expected a parent to be there to catch them. I flushed, staring at him, helpless and unsure what to do.

  I know I should be better at this by now – after all, there’s a reason why solicitors keep tissues in their desks. But I am ashamed to say that I have never been great with people who cry. I freeze in the face of emotion. My old master used to say that even if the work is everyday drudgery to you, most people who come to see a solicitor come at an important or traumatic point in their lives. It isn’t everyday drudgery to them. He was right. But grief frightens me. The best I could come up with was to hand Danny the box of tissues I keep in the drawer of my desk.

  He grabbed a handful and started clumsily to mop his face. He blew his nose loudly and, at last, he took the seat I had offered him, although I was concerned for its ability to take his weight.

  “This was a mistake. I’m sorry.” His voice was hoarse.

  “Don’t be sorry, for God’s sake. You’ve all been through a rough time.”

  My words sounded limp, one of those useless platitudes that come from the right place but that sound so hollow by the time they leave your mouth.

  I tried again. “Talk to me, if you need to. That’s what I’m here for. I meant it when I said that anything you say to me is completely confidential.”

  “I’ll sort it out myself. I know what I have to do.”

  He stood up and faced me with his shoulders back and legs apart, shoving the sodden tissues into the pocket of his coat.

  “Do you think the sergeant would be there now? At the station?”

  “Molloy? I expect so. Do you want me to ring and check? I can come down with you if you like.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll go down myself after a while. There’s something I need to do first.”

  “Are you sure I can’t do anything?”

  “Aye, I am. Thanks for your help.” He shook my hand.

  “Well, I haven’t really done anything.”

  He set off back down the stairs. I heard the front door slam and he was gone.

  I went over to the window to watch him leave. He walked across to an old black-and-white sheepdog tied to a street lamp on the other side of the road. The dog looked up adoringly at him as he untied the rope, and the two of them headed off towards the square. One thing was clear: he wasn’t going in the direction of the garda station.

  What had he wanted to tell me? And why was he so concerned about the bones in the crypt? I spent the next ten minutes twisting a pen in my fingers and staring at the wall, trying to figure out what I should do. But there was nothing I could do – my hands were tied. I just hoped he would talk to Molloy …

  I was in another world when the phone buzzed.

  “Shouldn’t you be gone by now?” Leah asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Court …”

  I looked at the clock. It was twenty past ten. Court started at half past. I sprang up from my seat.

  “Oh, shit!”

  “The files are down here. They’re all ready.”

  I barreled across the square towards the courthouse, briefcase in hand, keeping a half-eye out for Danny Devitt. There was no sign of him. I was relieved to see the judge’s car drive past the courthouse and turn into the car park at the back as I was walking up the steps. It meant I had five minutes. I jumped when someone grabbed my elbow. I turned around to be greeted by a broad grin on a freckled face.

  “Hey, Solicitor.”

  The Oak’s barman, Eddie Kearney, took a deep drag on the cigarette between his fingers. “What’s going to happen this morning?” he asked in a bored tone.

  “Not much probably, unless you want to plead guilty today to the possession charge.”

  “Do I fuck? That weed wasn’t mine. I told you that.”

  “Okay. It’ll go back to another date then, for the State to have the Certificate of Analysis in court.”

  The Certificate of Analysis is an essential proof in a drugs case. The prosecution requires a certificate from the Medical Bureau to prove that the substance recovered is a proscribed drug. Without it, there is no case. The difficulty for the State is that the lab is now so overworked that it can take months to produce the Certificate, which inevitably delays the proceedings.

  Eddie’s grin got broader. “Right, I can head off then, so. I have a shift at eleven.” He made to head back down the steps.

  “Not so fast,” I called after him.

  He stopped in his tracks and turned back to face me.

  “What?”

  “You’re on bail to appear today. You have to be in court or the judge will issue a warrant for your arrest.”

  The grin disappeared to be replaced with a look of gloomy resignation, and its wearer shuffled reluctantly into the courthouse ahead of me.

  I made my way up to the solicitors’ benches at the top of the courtroom. Molloy was sitting on the State side with a stack of files in front of him and a queue of guards and solicitors waiting to speak to him. Molloy prosecutes the criminal and road traffic cases for the State. I cursed inwardly. Stupidly, I had forgotten that he would be in court this morning. Not surprising, considering I had forgotten that I was supposed to be in court this morning myself. But it meant that Danny Devitt wouldn’t be able to get hold of him until court was over. Molloy glanced over at me as I took my seat. I smiled at him. He looked back coldly and returned to what he was doing. Not even a nod.

  The court rose for lunch at one o’clock. I knew Molloy was always last to leave, so I feigned great interest in some road traffic charge sheets until I was sure everyone else had gone, leaving him with no choice but to walk out with me.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  He didn’t look at me. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You look tired.”

  “Yes.” He opened the gate and let me through. I stood and waited for him as he closed it.

  “So are you? All right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, don’t bite my head off.”

  His face softened a tad. “Sorry. Yes, I’m tired. We got a report of another break-in last night. I was out there till two a.m. Another couple of newlyweds home from their honeymoon to be greeted by an empty house.”

  “Empty?”

  “Yes, empty. The whole place cleared out. Everything taken. Wedding presents, all their new appliances, cooker, fridge, furniture, even light
fittings. The thieves must have had a van.”

  “Jesus, that’s a mean sort of a crime, isn’t it?”

  “Third this month. Second one in three days, the last one was Saturday. They target rural, newly built houses, full of new stuff, no neighbors to disturb them. They wait till after the wedding, when they can be sure that the couples are away for two weeks and they can do the job at their leisure, completely undisturbed.”

  “So now you have that to deal with on top of the body from the church?”

  “Yes.”

  We walked up the street towards the square. I buttoned my coat and wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck. The wind was like a knife accessing any bit of skin that was even slightly exposed.

  “And the bones aren’t Conor Devitt’s, I hear?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Hard for the family.”

  “Yes.”

  “Back to not knowing.”

  “They were utterly convinced it was him. But there was no real reason to think it would be – they were told that.”

  “Really?”

  Molloy stopped walking for a second.

  “Actually, there’s a coincidence,” he said. “The break-in on Saturday was at the house owned by Lisa and Alan Crane.”

  “Conor Devitt’s ex, Lisa McCauley?”

  “Yes. Her new husband is Alan Crane, a plumber from Buncrana.”

  “I’ve seen him. God, she’s had a tough weekend.”

  “Mmm.”

  “So is there any progress on the identification?”

  “None.”

  “Pathologist still in Letterkenny?”

  Molloy’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  I looked down. “No reason. I just wondered. I presume she’s still working on the body and doing tests on the blanket, that kind of thing.”

  There was silence for a minute. Neither of us moved. I bit my lip.

  “It’s almost a quarter past one. Do you want to get a sandwich in the Oak?” I ventured.

  “I haven’t time. I have some work I need to do before two.” He turned to go.

  “Tom?” I said.

  He turned back to face me. “Yes?”

  “Is there something else bothering you? Have I done something to annoy you?”

  “I don’t know. Have you?” he asked.

  “It just seems as if—”

  He interrupted me. “I wish you trusted me, Ben, that’s all. I thought you did.”

  “I do trust you.”

  I reached my hand out to touch his arm. He looked down at it. His eyes widened as if he was about to say something and then he changed his mind.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  I WATCHED MOLLOY stride off in the direction of the garda station with a strange, bitter sensation in the pit of my stomach. He knew. I was sure of it now. That pathologist woman had told him who I was. Why would she have done that? More to the point, why hadn’t I managed to summon the courage to tell him myself before she got the chance? He had been so distant. I was surprised to find how much it hurt.

  I heard a knock on glass and realized Molloy and I had been standing outside Phyllis Kettle’s book shop. I wondered how much she had heard. I pushed open the door, causing the bell to tinkle. Phyllis’ shop is an Aladdin’s cave of books: her practice of giving people discounts on new purchases when they return the books they’ve read means that the stock keeps growing and growing, with the result that the shop is fit to burst.

  Gravity-defying stacks are piled all over the floor and on the stairs; early editions of P. G. Wodehouse rest on top of Jackie Collins paperbacks with no apparent order, but closer inspection shows that all have their prices carefully pencilled on the inside flap in Phyllis’ neat hand. For despite the apparent chaos of the place, Phyllis Kettle is a canny businesswoman. Her trade in old and rare books has given her a comfortable living for many years, and allows her to take off to obscure, far-off places for several months every year.

  Today she was perched on a high stool behind the counter looking like an enormous kingfisher, clad in bright blues and reds and yellow. I looked down at my black suit and mourned the convention that requires lawyers to wear dark colors.

  “So, you got rid of the nephew then?”

  She sighed dramatically. “Oh, I did, thank the Lord. He was gone by Saturday evening. What a liability. Anyway, I know you’re very busy, but I’ve managed to unearth a few plays that might fit in with what we were discussing last night.” She thrust a couple of paperbacks in my direction. “Take them with you and have a look when you get a chance. They’re all written by Derry playwrights, as a matter of fact, and there’s a fair bit of black humor in them, which should satisfy Tony”—she winked—“with a bit of misery thrown in to keep Hal happy.”

  “Great,” I replied with a grin.

  She looked at my suit. “Are you heading back to court?”

  “Not till two. I must try and get a bite before I have to go back.”

  “Fancy some mushroom soup?” she asked. “I have some warming on the stove upstairs.”

  Phyllis lives in the cosy flat above the shop. It’s like an extension of the shop, full of books and plants, with food and wine thrown in – great food and wine in my experience.

  “I was going to have some myself down here at the counter,” she said. “It’ll save me closing the shop. Not that there’s ever anyone about on a Tuesday afternoon anyway. But you know people. They’d be the first to complain if I put the Closed sign up. You’re welcome to join me if you want?”

  I looked at my watch. I didn’t have time now to go back to the office or the Oak for that matter. And I could smell the soup; that was the real deciding factor.

  “That would be fabulous, Phyllis. Thank you. I’d love it.”

  “Excellent. You can sample some of my walnut bread, too.”

  She climbed the winding wooden staircase leading to the upper floor of the book shop, skirts rustling. I started to flick through the plays. The first one was called Mary Magdalene. It had been written in the 1980s. The second was After the Rain and had been written more recently. I looked at the Cast of Characters first: both were relatively short. That would suit our little group. And they looked like black comedies. Perfect.

  I heard the rustling of skirts above me again and looked up to see Phyllis struggling down the stairs with a laden tray. She cleared some space on the counter and lifted off two steaming bowls of soup, a basket of soft homemade bread, and some butter.

  “That smells fantastic, Phyllis.”

  “Doesn’t it! You drag up another stool from behind that shelf, and I’ll be back down in a minute with the tea.”

  The food tasted as good as it smelled. Fifteen minutes later we had finished the soup and were leaning back with cups of tea.

  “You haven’t seen Claire, by any chance, since last night’s revelation?” Phyllis asked.

  I shook my head. “You?”

  “Nope. Must ask Eithne how she is.”

  “Eithne seemed very involved in the whole thing. I hadn’t realized she and Claire were so close.”

  “You know Eithne used to be a nun before she trained as a pharmacist?” Phyllis said.

  “No!” I exclaimed in surprise.

  “Spent some time in Uganda in the missions.”

  “Really? Any idea why she left?”

  “Couldn’t take being told what to do, that’s what I reckon. She’s still big into doing her Christian duty anyway.”

  “The Devitts are probably glad of her support.”

  “Hmm, maybe.” Phyllis clicked her teeth. “Bit of an anticlimax all the same, wasn’t it? I saw Danny again this morning. He’d sobered up since the last time I saw him.”

  “When did you see him?”

  “About eleven o’clock. He drove by the shop with that dog of his sitting up in the passenger seat like a child. Not a man that drives too often, I’d say, by the state of the wreck he was in.”

>   Uneasily, I wondered if I should tell Molloy that Devitt was looking for him when I went back to court, but decided it wasn’t my place. Also, things were more than a little weird between us at the moment.

  “Any other possibilities for the body in the crypt?” I asked. “Conor Devitt seemed to be the only name mentioned.”

  “I have absolutely no idea. I suppose he was the obvious one.” Phyllis gestured at the books I had left on the windowsill. “So what do you think of the plays?”

  “Great. I’ll have a better look at them tonight, but they seem to be just what we were after.”

  She picked up the first one I had looked at and said, “I’m not sure we should do this Feargus O’Connor one, to be honest.”

  I looked at it again. “Why not?”

  “It was written in Long Kesh – and there’s nothing wrong with that; it was a long time ago and he served his sentence. But he’s back in the Midlands Prison, convicted of membership of one of those dissident groups a couple of years ago. And all sorts of other nasty stuff.”

  “Fair enough. Maybe a step too far.”

  “But I do think Tony’s right. We should do one of the Derry plays. To hell with people’s sensitivities, it’s about time we got over ourselves. More tea?”

  She sloshed a hot drop into my cup before I had a chance to reply.

  “Was Inishowen much affected by the Troubles?” I asked.

  “Aye, a bit. Nowhere was completely immune. We were too close to avoid the odd sideswipe. And, of course, there was the Sadie.”

  “The Sadie?”

  She widened her eyes in surprise. “You’ve never heard of the Sadie?”

  “No. Tell me what happened.”

  “It was a cargo ship that was blown up by the IRA in 1985.”

  “Where?”

  “Along the Foyle. They hijacked the pilot boat at Whitewater and got aboard that way.”

  “What’s a pilot boat?”

  Phyllis laughed. “How long have you been in Inishowen?”

  “I know. I’m still learning.”

  “When a large ship enters an estuary, a local pilot is taken out to the ship in a small boat. The pilot then takes over from the captain and directs the boat up the estuary and into the harbor. There used to be a pilot station down at Whitewater, just below the church. I can’t believe you’ve never heard about the Sadie. Sure, that’s what happened to the Devitts.”