Where She Lies

by Michael Scanlon

  ‘It must be very different for you,’ Claire said. ‘Compared to Pearse Street, that is.’

  Everyone knew there was a story to tell about Beck. Even Claire, on her first day back at work, knew that. He was a one-time hotshot, a detective inspector in the proven busiest station in the country, Pearse Street, the very heart of the action, dropped like a rock to the rank of detective sergeant in, of all places, Cross Beg. Yes, there was a story to tell, but Beck, in his silence and in the way he set his jaw, was making it clear that he wasn’t going to tell it.

  He counted with his fingers. ‘Four from the end, in that direction,’ he said, ignoring the question. ‘The Frazzalis, correct?’

  ‘Um.’ She worked it out too. ‘Yes, you have it.’

  ‘So, Tanya could have left her house and come this way to Cool Wood.’

  He led the way to the wall and over it, careful not to dislodge any loose stones. The graves in the old section were completely overgrown. He was careful too as he walked not to trip on the rough edges hidden beneath the grass and weeds. The remnants of another stone wall marked the border between the old cemetery and the new, but it had mostly crumbled away. On the other side of it the grass was trim and the headstones laid out in neat symmetrical order. Beck walked between graves in the direction of Cool Wood, stopping at the high cement block wall running down the side of the cemetery and partially camouflaged by the overhanging branches. If Tanya had come this way, how had she got over that?

  ‘There is a way in,’ Claire said, reading his thoughts. ‘This way.’

  He followed her to a low section of the wall with steps.

  Beck placed a foot onto the step and started over, Claire behind. On the other side they stood on a narrow strip of soft ground between the wall and the trees. He looked ahead. This was not a forest designed to have any recreational value. Its existence was purely for commercial reasons. The fast-growing pines would be ready for harvest within twenty years, a relatively quick turnaround for timber. But pine was not a native species, and within a forest like this nothing much lived – it was an eerie, silent, even forlorn place.

  He noted the seemingly abstract tangle of branches and trees in front of him, like a confused drawing in heavy strokes of charcoal, flashes of green and brown mixed in. But gradually, a pattern began to emerge: the straight-line symmetry of the trees, a trench running down between each row where the ground had originally been scooped out to make the raised beds for the planting of seedlings. It was impossible to walk in these trenches now; the tangle of branches with their prickly wild hawthorns were better than any barbed wire.

  ‘How did she get through all that?’ Claire asked.

  Still he looked, his mind trying to decipher the knotted tangle. Off to the left, little beads of a colour lighter than those surrounding it caught his eye. Beck approached, and the little beads meandered off into the forest. He identified them as the exposed pale bark of cut branches. Beck saw now that a tunnel had been carved through the branches and brambles, clearing a pathway through the trees, the discarded cuttings lying on the forest floor like a loosely knotted rope mat. This was probably one of many like it cut by the forestry service in preparation for the arrival of machines for harvesting.

  ‘This is how,’ Beck said, but more to himself than to Claire.

  They walked to the entrance of the makeshift tunnel, spheres of weak light filtering through the branches. Beck thought of The Lord of the Rings. But who was the Dark Lord Sauron of this particular tale?

  Ten

  A Mercedes-Benz and two BMWs were parked side by side at the top of the tree-lined driveway to the Frazzali house. Standing next to the cars was a small knot of people, talking quietly to each other. They scarcely glanced over as Beck and Claire passed by. The front door was open. Beck and Claire stood before it, looking in at an open-plan reception area, a table in the centre, a vase with flowers on top, behind the table a chaise longue with carved wooden legs. It had the appearance more of a hotel than a private house. Beck was about to call out when a door opened and a young man emerged. He appeared not to have noticed them, began walking away in the opposite direction.

  ‘That’s Tony,’ Claire said.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Beck called. His words came out much louder than he’d intended.

  Tony stopped and turned, paused for a moment before walking over. He was dressed in a tight white T-shirt that showed off pumped biceps and a Mediterranean olive complexion. His features, both face and body, were in perfect proportion. Sad green eyes in a very handsome face stared back at Beck.

  ‘Tony Frazzali,’ Beck said. ‘Detective Sergeant Finnegan Beck, and Detective Garda Claire Somers. I know this is a very difficult time. But could we have a word?’

  Tony slowly moved aside and nodded for them to enter. They followed him to the chaise longue and he sat down at one end. Beck and Claire remained standing. Beck could feel a coldness in the air. It wasn’t a physical coldness, but a coldness nonetheless, and he had felt it before, too many times. It came only with tragedy.

  ‘Is your mother here?’ Claire asked gently.

  Tony sat back, his hands by his sides, staring ahead. ‘My mother has been sedated. She’s sleeping.’

  His voice was gentle, soft, dreamlike, and yet in the acoustics of the open-plan room, it carried with it a powerful, precise clarity.

  Beck looked at Claire.

  ‘There’s a lot of people working on this, Tony,’ she said. ‘Just so as you know. We won’t stop. We called to let you know that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘Tony,’ she said, ‘I hate to mention this, but we’ll need to make a formal identification at some stage…’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Of course. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Thank you. Someone will be in touch with the details.’

  Tony’s eyes shifted now, taking in Beck.

  ‘Someone told my mother about you. That’s why she asked at the station – asked for you. You’ve done this before, isn’t that right? Investigated…’ The word seemed to stick in the back of his throat: ‘Murders.’

  ‘Yes,’ Beck said. ‘I have.’

  Tony leaned forward suddenly and swallowed a couple of times. He raised his hands to his face and rubbed them across it briskly. ‘She was only a girl, a girl… Ah, Jesus Christ.’

  Beck sat down next to him, said softly, ‘Do you know who might have done this? Can you think of anyone who might have wished your sister harm? I have to ask.’

  Tony blinked, regaining his composure. ‘No, nothing like that. Jesus Christ, no.’ He wrapped his arms tightly around himself.

  ‘What about friends? Did Tanya have many?’

  Tony smiled. ‘Oh yes. Loads. Her best is… oh God, was, Melanie. Melanie McBride. They went to St Malachi’s College.’

  Beck saw Claire with a notebook in her hand now, writing something down, presumably the name.

  ‘Has Victim Support contacted you?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘They will. Very soon. Have you got anyone with you, Tony? Family, a priest, anyone like that?’

  ‘Some cousins outside. And our priest, Father Clifford, has said he’ll visit when Mum wakes up.’

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘Did Tanya have a mobile phone?’ Beck asked.

  Beck saw Claire turn and look at him out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘They didn’t find it, Tony,’ Claire said.

  ‘Didn’t they? I was ringing it earlier, before we… Oh God, before we got the news.’

  ‘Do you know where she might have kept it?’ Beck asked. ‘Here at home, that is?’

  ‘She always had it with her. Always. She never bothered with an iPad. Just that.’

  ‘Would you mind if we maybe looked in her bedroom?’ Beck asked.

  Claire shifted from one foot to the other.

  Tony took a slow, deep breath, exhaled. ‘Her bedroom.’ He poin
ted to the stairs. ‘Up there. The one with the pink sign on the door… I won’t go with you though, if that’s alright.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Beck said, standing. ‘Thank you.’

  They crossed to the staircase with its twisted wood spindles and went up the wide steps to the first floor. The door with the pink sign was midway along a thickly carpeted corridor opposite. A boy band with suitably brooding expressions stared down from a poster on the wall in Tanya’s bedroom. Beck looked around – at the clutter of shoes and the clothes piled on the floor in a corner, the dresser by the window, its top a mixture of cuddly toys and make-up, a wardrobe door left open, brightly coloured clothes hanging haphazardly inside; bright colours, lots of pink. Everything was exactly as it had been when Tanya was here last, but everything had irrevocably changed now. The pink duvet on the bed, with its white lace trim, was crumpled as if Tanya had just been lying there and had left the room and would be back in a minute. But Tanya would not be back in a minute. Tanya would never be back again.

  Beck noted everything.

  He took the pair of latex gloves he always carried from a pocket, separated them, held one out to Claire.

  She looked at it. ‘This isn’t a crime scene.’

  ‘You don’t know that. That’s for forensics to decide. If and when they get here.’

  Claire snatched the glove from him, pulled it on.

  Beck used his mobile phone camera to take photographs of the room, in case these were needed later.

  Claire started with the drawers – the places where intimate items might be kept – while Beck looked everywhere else.

  There was no phone.

  When they went back downstairs, Tony was gone. They found him outside, standing with his relatives, smoking a cigarette. There was a subtle similarity in the appearance of the group that Beck had not noted earlier. As he looked now, he could see it.

  Traditionally, Beck knew, Italians in Ireland traced their origins to the province of Frosinone, pronounced fros-e-no-knee, which was south of Rome and north of Naples. They had come to the country during the 1950s, seeking opportunities following the war, and unlikely as it was, had found them. Italian restaurants, takeaways and ice cream parlours flourished.

  ‘Thank you, Tony. We’ll be in touch,’ Claire said.

  ‘Did you find it? The phone.’

  ‘No. We did not.’

  Tony drew on his cigarette and blew out a thick stream of smoke without inhaling. ‘I rang it,’ he said, ‘while you were in the room, searching.’

  ‘It didn’t ring,’ Claire said.

  Tony’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, it did. It rang. I heard it.’

  ‘It did?’ Claire answered, looking at Beck, who was looking at her with the same expression of surprise.

  * * *

  ‘The phone,’ Claire said as they walked back down the driveway from the house. ‘Where is it?’

  Beck took a moment to reply. ‘The obvious answer,’ he said, ‘is that the killer has it. Maybe kept it as a trophy, a trinket. That changes things, and in a way I don’t like.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well… it brings a new perspective.’

  ‘Yes,’ Claire said, slightly irritated. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Certain types. Like… well, serial killers.’

  ‘Did you say serial killers? You mean, like Ted Bundy? Aren’t you running away with yourself a little there?’

  ‘Certain types, I said. Anyway, it’s just a thought – a suggestion. I think it would be a good idea to visit the school. Speak to this Melanie girl.’ He checked his watch. ‘We still have time.’

  ‘I don’t know. Shouldn’t we run it by O’Reilly first, or someone? We’d need to give it a little time. The poor girl’s body’s just been found.’

  ‘That’s precisely why we need to do it now,’ he said. ‘We wallow in time until it runs out. And time is already running out. Anyway, if that’s how you do things in Cross Beg, I don’t want to waste my energy swimming against the tide. We can leave it. Play it safe. Run it by O’Reilly first, like you say.’

  Nothing more. Nothing less.

  They reached the car and Claire stood by the driver’s door. As she was about to open it, a 1990-registration Toyota Crown pulled in from the road and parked in front of them. The big old car looked all of its twenty-nine years. Behind the wheel Beck could see a long-faced man with black hair. The white dog collar in his black shirt was stark against his sallow skin.

  Father Clifford got out and bounded over. He seemed to be a man of excessive nervous energy. He smiled, a strained smile, the smile of a man who grappled with the big-ticket questions and knew he didn’t have all the answers.

  As he approached, he seemed to have to force himself to slow down. Beck tried to calculate his age, but his complexion was ageless, like an ecclesiastical Peter Pan. He introduced himself, his handshake firm.

  ‘Are you family?’ he asked.

  ‘Cross Beg gardai,’ Claire said.

  ‘God be with you in your hunt for whoever is responsible,’ he said, his accent imbued with the gentle west of Ireland lilt. ‘It is the devil’s work. No doubt about it. Shocking. Utterly shocking. I will pray that He helps you to quickly find this, this… animal.’ The priest blessed himself. ‘I find it very hard to be forgiving. Such an innocent child. How could this happen? How could it? All I know is that I must be here for them in their hour of need. Goodness knows how poor Theresa will deal with this. Forgive me, but I must go. If there is anything I can do, please let me know, won’t you?’

  ‘I will, Father,’ Beck said. ‘Thank you.’

  The priest turned and walked quickly past them, turned right and disappeared into the house.

  Claire looked at Beck. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘What you said makes sense. We should go to the school after all.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I think.’

  Beck sighed. ‘Let’s get on with it then.’

  Eleven

  St Malachi’s College was a little out of Cross Beg, built on a low hill; it was a sombre, grey stone building with a slate roof and narrow windows. Every town in Ireland had a building like it, whether a school, convent, or old workhouse, a lingering reminder of a time when colour did not exist, when everything was either grey or black and white. The old part of the school was to the front, a newly built section at the back.

  They climbed the wide steps to the open front door and went in, stood in an alcove on a coarse-haired mat, and Beck pushed down the gleaming handle on a second door. They stood for a moment in the eerie silence of a school in session, began walking down the chequerboard corridor, the walls on either side half panelled in wood, the grey above leading to a vaulted ceiling with thick wooden beams. At regular intervals pale rectangles stood out from the wall, reminders of frames that had once hung there.

  At the end of the corridor a central rotunda separated the old building from the new, corridors running off it – gleaming blue linoleum floors, bare concrete block walls, banks of lockers, a couple of display cases with trophies inside next to a noticeboard. There were four doors side by side in the wall. A notice on the first door said ‘School Secretary’. It was slightly open. Beck went to it and knocked.

  ‘Come in.’

  He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. She didn’t look like a school secretary. She wore loose jeans, sandals and a multi-coloured patchwork top. She looked like someone who’d just strolled in off a 1960s San Francisco street. Her hair was white and tousled, but at the same time, Beck considered, a great deal of effort had gone into making it look that way: it appeared too carefully arranged, too brushed, to be simply haphazard. She had black, thick-framed round glasses and a necklace of brightly coloured beads.

  Her smile disappeared as he said, ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Finnegan Beck, and this is Detective Garda Claire Somers. We need to speak to the school principal, please.’

  A nerve began to twitch beneath her right eye. ‘To M
r O’Malley? Why? Is something wrong?’

  ‘Tanya Frazzali. She was a student here, I believe.’

  ‘Still is. You said “was”.’

  Beck was about to answer when the secretary asked, ‘This has nothing to do with that body found in Cool Wood this morning, does it? I heard about it earlier. A young girl. Jesus, it’s nothing to do with that – tell me that’s not why you’re here.’

  Beck hesitated. Couldn’t she just get on with it and go and get the principal?

  ‘Oh, God,’ she muttered. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you could get Mr O’Malley, please.’

  She said nothing for a moment, then, her voice dazed: ‘I’ll bring you to his office.’

  ‘And something else,’ Beck said. ‘We’d like to speak with Melanie McBride. She’s a student here too.’

  The twitch beneath her right eye became even more pronounced. ‘Melanie. Why do you want to speak to Melanie?’

  Beck felt like shouting, telling her to mind her own bloody business and do as he’d asked. But he also knew that this was her business; this was everybody’s business.

  ‘I need to ask her some questions,’ he said instead, ‘that’s all. She and Tanya Frazzali were friends, I believe. Best friends.’

  ‘Melanie’s parents will have to be present.’ Her tone was suddenly professional. ‘At least one of them will, anyway. I mean, this will be – this is such a shock… for everybody.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Beck said, ‘but if it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t ask, believe me.’

  ‘I’ll ring Melanie’s mother.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll show you to Mr O’Malley’s office now, then. This way.’

  It was two doors down. She knocked once and went in without waiting for a reply. The school principal was behind his desk, talking on the phone. He was clearly surprised to have people barge in. He glanced to Beck and Claire, said into the phone, ‘I’ll have to ring you back’, and hung up.