Death at Whitewater Church Read online

  I was confused. “I thought …?”

  At that moment my phone rang. I reached over to get it, checking the time before I answered it. I stood up quickly, nearly knocking my cup over. It was 2:05 p.m.

  “Ben, where are you?” It was Leah. “You’ve three clients waiting for you outside the courthouse and the judge has started already. He’s having a fit.”

  “Tell them I’m on my way.” I drained my cup and replaced it on the saucer.

  “Sorry, Phyllis, I have to go. I’m late. That’s the second time I’ve done that today. Can we continue this conversation later? I want to hear the rest of that story.”

  I gathered my things together and shot out the door, calling over my shoulder, “Oh, and thanks for the soup!”

  I was in court till six o’clock. I had just managed to get out of the office at quarter to seven and was heading to the car when my mobile rang. It was Maeve. As usual she was trying to make herself heard above a racket; this time it was dogs barking. She must have been still in the clinic.

  “Hiya. You free this evening?”

  “What’s left of it. What did you expect I’d be doing?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You could have some secret lover, for all I know. Anyway, you’re free?”

  “I’m free.”

  “Do you want to go and see that play I mentioned to you? I’ve checked and there are seats available tonight and none for the rest of the week.”

  “The Agatha Christie?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “Great. I’ll book the tickets. It’s at half eight. I’ll see you at the Millennium at a quarter to and we can have a drink?”

  “Great.”

  * * *

  An hour and a half later I was sitting on my own with a glass of wine in the cavernous stainless-steel bar of the Millennium Theatre in Derry waiting for Maeve. She came blustering in the door as the final call was sounding, red-faced and breathing heavily.

  “Sorry. Had to operate on a dog. Twisted gut. Nasty.”

  “Spare me the details. Come on, we have to go in. Do you have the tickets?”

  She produced them triumphantly as we joined the queue to enter the theatre. We found our seats and she looked around her with interest while I examined the program. Suddenly, she nudged me and I looked up.

  “Hey,” she whispered, nodding in the direction of a seat about three rows in front of us. “Isn’t that …?”

  I looked.

  “I didn’t think this would be his kind of thing,” she muttered.

  At least I think that’s what she said. I wasn’t really listening. My stomach was doing flips. Three rows ahead of us was Molloy: I would have known the back of his head anywhere. But that wasn’t the problem. Sitting beside him was the pathologist. What the hell were they doing together in a theatre? Were they friends or something? Or worse? My face started to heat up.

  “Who is that with him?” Maeve asked.

  Suddenly, I found it hard to breathe. The first time I’d seen her in the garda station had been a shock, but I’d handled it. I’d only seen her for a second, after all. This was different. I was forced to stare at the back of her head – at her neat blond bob and her narrow shoulders, exactly as I had done eight years ago as she had walked out of that awful courtroom.

  Unbidden, memories started to flood back. She had given her evidence that day in a cold professional manner, just as you would have expected, appearing utterly unaffected by the pain her words would cause, the nightmares that would follow for years to come, and the pain she would inflict on my parents – a pain from which they would never recover. But I knew that was unfair; she was only doing her job. Without her, there wouldn’t have been a conviction at all, for murder or manslaughter. The manslaughter of my little sister.

  God, I couldn’t relive those scenes here, in a theatre, in public. My head felt as if it was about to explode. I could feel the wine coming back up my throat. I gripped the seat rests, swallowed hard, and finally the urge to vomit receded. But my head was still swimming.

  Maeve looked at me, her eyes widened in alarm. “Jesus, Ben, are you all right? You look awful.”

  I swallowed again, hard, struggling to get the words out.

  “I’m fine.” I closed my eyes.

  “You looked as if you were about to throw up.”

  I took a deep breath, and another.

  She produced a plastic bottle from her bag. “Do you want some water?”

  I took the bottle from her and drank from it slowly. Gradually my head stopped swimming and I began to feel better.

  “It must have been something I ate. I’m all right now,” I said.

  “Do you want to leave?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  She looked at me doubtfully. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  We sat in silence for a minute or two while I gathered the courage to speak. “I think that’s the pathologist with Molloy.”

  “Ooh.” She looked at them with renewed interest. “The pathologist who …”

  “Yes. The one who was examining the body from the church.”

  “And are they, you know – she and Molloy? Or are they just friends?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “They’re sitting awfully close.”

  Amongst the overwhelming horror of the memories that seeing that woman evoked, I was dimly aware of another feeling. I felt hurt that Molloy was with her. I took another gulp of water while I stared at the stage, willing the curtains to open and the play to begin.

  I have absolutely no memory of Witness for the Prosecution. Maeve tells me it was great. At the intermission I spent as long as I possibly could in the Ladies while she chatted to a farmer she knew. I slipped into my seat moments before the start of the second act and managed to avoid the encounter I dreaded.

  Now at least I knew why she had told Molloy. It wasn’t simply random gossip. They knew each other outside of work. How much had she told him? Had it made him see me differently? And again, why the hell hadn’t I told him myself? But I hadn’t told anyone in Inishowen. Maeve thought I had left Dublin to recover from a broken relationship. Tell a lie as close to the truth as you can and you’re less likely to be found out, isn’t that what they say?

  In any case, telling people would have defeated the whole point of moving here: to escape. Here I could pretend it had never happened. I could disappear, use my mother’s maiden name and a shortened version of my middle one. It was the only way I could have carried on. I ran away, simple as that, and it had worked, to a limited extent. Until now.

  When the play was over, I turned down Maeve’s suggestion of a last drink on the basis that I had an early appointment in the morning, and drove home alone. I doubt she believed me, but she didn’t push it. Twice I found myself veering dangerously towards the edge of the road. Thankfully, the roads were dry. Had they been the way they were a few days before, I would have ended up in the sea. After my second fright, I forced myself to haul my mind back from the dark corner it was trying to clamber into and focus on my driving. But as soon as I turned the key in the lock of the front door of my cottage, that churning, panicky feeling returned. I poured myself a very large whiskey.

  Chapter 12

  I WOKE THE next morning sweating profusely, with stabbing sunlight in my eyes and a cat on my stomach. My neck hurt like hell. When I finally managed to shift Guinness off my ribs and raise myself into something resembling an upright position, I realized I was still on the couch. Apparently, I hadn’t made it to bed but had somehow managed to let Guinness in to join the party during the night. And I’d turned the heating up. I had no memory of either. The house was like a sauna.

  The whiskey had done its job of stifling my memory; it was a pity it had less pleasant aftereffects. My mouth was sour and dry, and my head felt like it had a meat cleaver stuck in it. As I came to, the memories that I had been trying so hard to block last night started to trickl
e back into my consciousness, like a faulty tap with its insistent, insanity-inducing drip.

  I reached for my watch. With a degree of relief, I saw that it was 8:05 a.m. I had an hour to pull myself together and get into work. I had just lain my head back down on a cushion when Guinness leaped off the couch and trotted purposefully off in the direction of the kitchen. With a huge effort, I heaved myself off the couch and dragged myself after him.

  It’s amazing what a pot of coffee and a shower can do. By five to nine, I was driving along the coast road on my way to the office. The sunlight that had woken me so cruelly an hour earlier had been a false indicator of the day ahead, for the sky was gray and turbulent and the sea unappealing and murky. Rain was on its way again. As I drove, I tried to push away the sense of dread that was threatening to engulf me and to fill my mind instead with everyday things so there was no room for other, darker, thoughts. It wasn’t working. I turned on the radio.

  I had driven across the old stone bridge halfway between Malin and Glendara when I noticed something flashing in the distance on the coastal side of the road. A couple of sharp bends later and I came to an abrupt and unexpected halt about a mile out of the town. A line of cars snaked ahead of me.

  Glendara is not known for its traffic jams, so I craned my neck out of the window and spotted a blue and white garda sign in the middle of the road some way ahead. One side of the road was completely closed off. It was an odd time for a checkpoint, just before nine. Finally, the traffic started to crawl. As I got closer, luminous yellow garda jackets and traffic cones came into view. With a sinking feeling, it occurred to me that the squad car with its flashing lights must be blocking the scene of an accident.

  Eventually, I reached the front of the line of cars. The guard directing the traffic was McFadden. I stopped the car and rolled down the window. He was ashen-faced.

  “Andy, what’s going on?” I asked.

  “There’s been an accident.”

  “So I see. Was anyone hurt?”

  He leaned in the window. “It’s Danny Devitt.”

  My breath caught. I looked towards the ditch and caught a glimpse of the rear of a blue Opel Vectra. The back wheels were off the ground. I couldn’t see the front, but it looked as if the bonnet was in the ditch.

  I swallowed. “Is he all right?”

  McFadden shook his head. “He didn’t look good. He had some shocking-looking head injuries.”

  An image of a big bear of a man standing in my office with tears running down his face jumped into my mind.

  “What happened?”

  “It looks as if he drove his car into the ditch. He must have been going at some speed as the car’s a total write-off. The ambulance took him to Letterkenny about two hours ago. I haven’t heard anything since. I’ve just been standing here doing this.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “We’re not sure. He could have been here a while. I came across him about half six. He was unconscious at that stage.”

  “Was there anyone else involved?”

  “We don’t think so – he was on his own in the car.” McFadden paused. “He has been drinking a lot lately.”

  I swallowed, suddenly conscious of the taste of stale whiskey in my mouth as I stared at the crashed car. “Do you think he was drunk?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  I felt a lump in my throat. I caught sight of Molloy emerging from behind the squad car and I rolled the window back up and drove on.

  Leah looked grim.

  “Did you see the accident?”

  “I did. Drove past it just now – it looked awful. I hope he’ll be okay.”

  “Yes. And him only in with us yesterday morning, poor man.”

  I hung up my coat. “He was really distressed about something yesterday but he wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

  She handed me the mail. “Danny? How do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure. He wasn’t making much sense. And I saw him in town on Sunday being taken out of the Oak and bundled into the squad car.”

  Leah rested her chin on her hands. “Poor Danny. He was always a little odd. All his life. Bit impulsive.”

  “You knew him? When you were kids?”

  “Oh aye. When we were teenagers. He came to school here in Glendara. A bunch of them came down from Whitewater when it closed, but school didn’t really suit him. He was always skipping school and getting into trouble.”

  “A wild kind of a kid.”

  She smiled. “He sure was. Of course, his father was gone when he was still very young, so that can’t have helped. There was talk that he was the one that found his father’s body. Maybe he was traumatized by that. You know how his father died?”

  I nodded.

  “Conor was the eldest so he kind of took over as the man of the house. Though Conor was only thirteen or fourteen himself when his father died. It can’t have been easy on him. Although that probably wasn’t too easy on Danny, either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I always got the feeling he resented his brother telling him what to do. Especially when he was a teenager. Conor had a bit of a Daddy complex, if you know what I mean. He always had to be in charge.”

  Unbidden memories of my own teenage squabbles came into my head. It must have shown on my face. I pushed them away.

  “No family of his own then, Danny?” I said. “Wife, children?”

  Leah grinned. “Not unless you count Fred.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “His dog – a mangy-looking thing. They’re always together. God, Fred wasn’t in the car, was he?”

  “I don’t think so. So there’s no girlfriend or anything?”

  “I doubt if any female would be willing to live the way he does. He lives in that cottage up by Whitewater. You know the one. It’s on the road on the way up to the church, covered in ivy.”

  “God, I thought that was derelict.”

  “Not far off. I don’t think he has electricity or running water.”

  “What does he live on?”

  “I don’t know, the dole? I suppose he shoots birds and rabbits and so on.” Leah smiled to herself again.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’ve just remembered he had a big thing for Lisa McCauley in school. I’m trying to imagine her living like that, in that old cottage. She’s a real glamour puss.”

  “The same Lisa who was engaged to Conor?”

  “That’s right.”

  “God, so the two brothers loved the same girl?” I knew better than most how jealousy and resentment could destroy a sibling relationship, often outliving the desire for the prize itself.

  But Leah waved her hand dismissively. “Ah, no. Conor was a long, long time after that. And anyway, it’s not as if Danny and Lisa ever went out. They were just friends. In school, like.”

  I took the mail upstairs and tried to start putting together some contracts for the sale of a pub in Malin Head, but I couldn’t concentrate. The words swam in front of my eyes. I walked to the window and leaned my cheek against the cool glass while I gazed out onto the street. The wind was rising, the trees in the square swaying. A few spatters of rain hit the windowpane and made my head hurt more than it should have. I needed some painkillers. I muttered something to Leah about needing pen cartridges, grabbed my coat, and took off out the door.

  The square was deserted; anyone with an ounce of sense was inside, out of the wet. I, on the other hand, found the wind and rain oddly soothing. I’ve always loved storms. Sometimes it helps to have a reminder that nature is the one with the real power and we’re merely going with the flow. I suppose in a way that’s what people get from religion. The comfort of thinking that someone else is in charge, that it’s all someone else’s responsibility.

  I fought my way across the square towards the chemist shop. Opening the door wasn’t difficult; it swung violently inwards as soon as I turned the handle. Closing it was a different story. I was still wrestling with it when Eith
ne suddenly materialized beside me and helped me push. She was a lot stronger than she looked. I gazed at her in surprise. Eventually, it clicked shut.

  “Thanks, Eithne. Jesus!”

  “I’m going to have to get something done about that.”

  “I don’t think it’s the door. It’s wild out there.”

  She made her way back in behind the counter, which seemed to diminish her. It was almost as if, after her valiant battle with the door, she had shrunk back to her original size. I definitely needed painkillers; I was beginning to hallucinate.

  “Isn’t it awful about Danny Devitt?” she said, putting her hands to her face.

  I nodded.

  “He’s a drinker, you know,” she said in her tragic little whisper. “We all try our best to help him, but it never does any good.”

  I leaned back a little, hoping she couldn’t smell the stale whiskey on my breath.

  “I suppose he must have been drunk when he crashed?” she said, her eyes searching my face for some nugget of information.

  “No idea, Eithne. It’s awful for the Devitts though, isn’t it? This week of all weeks.”

  “It’s cruel. So cruel, what some people have to go through in their lives. When others have so much and squander it.” She shook her head sadly.

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “What can I get you?”

  “Just some painkillers, please. I have a bit of a headache, probably the weather.”

  I felt like a child lying to a teacher. Eithne wasn’t the kind of pharmacist you’d want to buy condoms from if you were eighteen. Or fifty-five, come to think of it. Still, she wasn’t about to cross-examine me. Business was business. She turned towards the shelves of tablets behind her, selected a packet of painkillers, and placed them on the counter.

  “These should do.”

  As she was ringing the price up on the till, the door opened and a blast of cold air hit the back of my neck.

  A loud voice came from the doorway. “Fuck!”

  I turned around to see a large, heavyset man with a sandy-colored comb-over standing straight up on his head shoving the door closed behind him, almost knocking down a large Valentine’s Day makeup display in the process.