‘Mr O’Malley. It’s the guards. About Tanya. Tanya Frazzali.’
Mr O’Malley observed them silently. He had the build of a child but the head – bald except for tufts of hair over each ear – of a sixty-year-old. Beck guessed he was probably in his early forties. Naturally raised eyebrows gave him a permanently surprised expression.
Still, he did not speak.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this,’ Beck began, ‘but the body of Tanya Frazzali was found this morning in Cool Wood. She’d been strangled to death. We wanted to inform you officially, before you heard it anywhere else.’
The school secretary took a short intake of breath. Her voice came out as a whimper. ‘My God. My God. Tanya.’
The principal was silent for a long time. Finally, he spoke. ‘Inform the staff, Mrs Cunningham. Discreetly. And contact the school counsellor. We need her. Immediately.’
‘One moment,’ Beck said. ‘We need to speak with Melanie McBride, Tanya’s friend. I’m sure you can understand the urgency of this situation.’
‘You need to speak to Melanie? What, right away?’
‘Yes,’ Beck said. ‘Right away.’
‘I’m about to ring her mother. I’ll do that first, shall I?’ Mrs Cunningham added.
Mr O’Malley sighed. ‘I suppose so.’
Twelve
Karen McBride was a tall, regal-looking woman with delicate features, dressed in a beige trouser suit, her neck and hands draped in jewellery and her skin glowing with what Beck was convinced was a well-applied professional fake tan.
When the school secretary brought Melanie in, the girl went immediately to her mother, who took hold of both her hands, nudged her into the seat beside her. She was a pretty girl, Melanie, with long, thick black hair and the same delicate features as her mother, though her build was a little on the heavier side.
‘Mam. What’s all this about?’ She looked about the room, and her eyes settled on Beck and Claire. ‘And who’re they?’
Beck had assumed the school secretary would already have told her about the police who had come to speak to her. Obviously not. There were no other chairs in the room, so Beck and Claire remained standing, leaning against Mr O’Malley’s desk.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Finnegan Beck, Melanie. This is my colleague, Detective Garda Claire Somers. I need to ask you some questions.’
Melanie considered this information and observed them both, her expression blank, said, ‘Ya. I don’t see any ID.’
Karen McBride glared at her daughter. ‘Melanie!’
Beck reached into an inside jacket pocket, pulled out his wallet and opened it, displaying his ID card.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘My mistake. Sorry. I should have done this first.’
Melanie didn’t even bother to look. She folded her arms as her shoulders slumped and she curled into her mother.
‘That’s alright, darling,’ her mother said, putting her arms round her, pulling her close. She looked at Beck.
Beck wondered at Melanie’s behaviour. After all, no one had told her the reason for this visit. So why the theatrics? Did she think they had come for her, maybe? He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
‘We’d like to ask you some questions, Melanie,’ Claire said gently. ‘In relation to Tanya Frazzali.’
There was silence for a moment. Melanie’s head was buried in her mother’s chest now.
‘What? Tanya? Why?’ the girl said, her voice a couple of octaves too high, clearly surprised. There was a sniffling noise, like she’d been crying. Melanie pulled away from her mother and looked at Claire. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Beck was curious about that too, but that was for another time, if ever.
‘Melanie,’ her mother said slowly. ‘A body was found in Cool Wood. This morning. A young woman. That’s why the detectives are here. They believe it’s Tanya.’
‘Tanya?’ Melanie said, with curiosity more than anything. ‘Are you saying that she’s dead? In the woods? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, Melanie,’ Beck said. ‘That’s what we’re saying. So you see, any information you give us – like if she maybe had a boyfriend – could help us apprehend the person responsible.’
‘Melanie,’ her mother said, ‘if there’s anything you know, you’ve got to – you must – tell the detectives here.’
Melanie swept her head from right to left, like she was following the trail of an insect flying about the room. Then she stopped and turned her head to the ceiling.
She said, her voice low, ‘There’s nothing much to tell. She was seeing somebody. But I don’t know who. She wouldn’t say.’ She paused. ‘I mean, not that she wouldn’t say who she was seeing, but she wouldn’t even say she was seeing anybody in the first place. She wanted to keep it a secret. I didn’t like that. We have no secrets, me and Tanya. But I knew she was seeing somebody. So I asked her. But she told me she wasn’t. She lied. Why? Maybe it was somebody she shouldn’t have been seeing. Some boys are off limits, y’know. They’re going steady. But that don’t stop them sneaking around behind their girlfriends’ backs. Had to be something like that. Still, she could have told me. She could have told me anything. Unless he was like, old, or something, maybe, I don’t know, or like, married. But I don’t think Tanya was into any of that.’
‘How are you so certain?’ Claire asked. ‘That she was seeing somebody, that is. I presume you mean romantically?’
‘Romantically?’ Melanie said, putting her head to one side, like a puppy dog hearing a sound for the first time.
‘So. She was in a relationship?’ Beck clarified. ‘How did you know?’
‘I just did. ’Cause I know Tanya better than anyone, that’s how. And something wasn’t right, like I say. Why make it a big secret if it isn’t? She went beetroot one day when I asked her about it. I says, “Tanya, are you seeing someone?” I knew right then. She went beetroot. That was well suspect, that was. I mean, I felt hurt. We had no secrets, like I say.’
‘You never saw her with him, did you?’ Beck asked.
‘’Course not… well, not really.’
‘Not really? What do you mean, “not really”?’ It was Melanie’s mother. She wasn’t pleased with having to listen to any of this.
‘What I mean is, I thought I saw her. A couple of months back. I was with you, Mum. We were driving by Cool Wood. It was evening time. I could swear it was her. She was with somebody. A man, I think. I couldn’t get a good look, though. They ducked into the trees as we passed, but I didn’t say nothing.’
‘You didn’t say “anything”, Melanie, it’s not “nothing”.’
‘We drove past,’ Melanie went on, ignoring her mother. ‘I remember thinking, “What’s she doing out here at this hour?” That was well suspect, too. But she said it wasn’t her, when I asked her in school next day. I remember she looked really tired. I started thinking it probably wasn’t her after all.’ Melanie paused, stretched out the fingers of one hand, and added, ‘You know her dad died a couple of years ago? Her mother and brother run the restaurant now, so Tanya’s at home on her own a lot. I always thought that was really cool. Now I’m not so sure.’
Her mother pulled Melanie close.
‘Oh Mum,’ the girl said, losing all her swagger and sounding like the child she really was. ‘Oh Mum, poor Tanya…’
‘I think that’s enough,’ Karen McBride said. ‘Can we finish this now? By the way, does Gerry know you’re here?’
‘Gerry?’ Beck said.
‘Inspector O’Reilly. He’s a good friend of the family. I don’t think he’d appreciate your line of questioning either, by the way.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. I don’t.’
Beck nodded. ‘I’ve asked everything I need to ask for the present. We can finish this now.’
Thirteen
The street lamps threw down cocoons of light along the old crooked streets of Cross Beg as Dr Gumbell walked through the door of The Hibernian, one of t
wo hotels in Cross Beg. The other was The Brown Water Inn, a couple of miles outside town and considerably beyond even his own generous overnight allowance. His room had already been booked and paid for by his office in Dublin. He checked in without fuss, went to his room, showered and changed into fresh clothes and came down to the bar. Beck was already there waiting for him. Dr Gumbell sat on the stool next to him.
‘My room smells of mould,’ Gumbell said. ‘Or maybe it’s just the smell of death that permanently follows me.’ He reached for a bar menu, perused it.
A pint of Guinness sat on the counter in front of Beck. He picked it up, took a long swallow, put the glass down again.
‘Pint of stout?’ Gumbell said. ‘You’re taking to this country caper better than I ever imagined… Are you eating, Beck?’
‘Yes. The joint of the day, roast beef.’
‘Good enough for me.’
They spoke little while they ate; silence was not something to be filled in for either of them. They knew each other too well for that.
‘Dry as the sand of the Gobi Desert,’ Gumbell grumbled when he’d finished and was pushing his plate away. He had cleared it all the same.
They ordered more drinks: Beck another Guinness, the pathologist another bottle of the strong local craft beer called ‘The Final Nail’, which Beck thought apt, considering the occupation of the person drinking it.
They moved from the counter to an alcove. There were perhaps a dozen people in the bar – a few lone men at the counter and mainly couples spread about at the tables. The curtains had not been drawn, and the lights along Main Street glinted through the windows. It was a place that was easy to hide in: large with corners and alcoves lost to the shadows of the murky light.
‘It’s the most intimate of deaths, in my opinion,’ Gumbell said. ‘Strangulation. The killer has to get right in there, look his victim in the face, press his hands around the neck, squeeze until the life drains away before his very eyes and the victim is dead. A total of four minutes, on average – a long time considering the intensity of the procedure. The killer must be both very determined and physically fit. Strong. It’s not as easy as it appears in the movies, Beck.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ Beck said. ‘But she was a girl, Tanya, a slight girl. Would the killer still need to be so strong?’
‘No, probably not. But he was, anyway. The amount of force exerted was far in excess of that required. Most likely the killer is naturally powerful, possibly works out. He also has large hands – the marks on the neck are almost an inch wide, not consistent with the use of a ligature or chokehold. His bare hands did the work. He throttled her to death. And something else: blood under the fingernails, minute particles of flesh. She scratched him, Beck.’ Gumbell picked up his glass and swirled the beer around, took a sip.
‘DNA?’
‘Yes,’ Gumbell replied. ‘But only of value if there’s something to match it to. Useless otherwise.’
Beck said nothing for a moment. Gumbell could treat people as imbeciles sometimes.
‘I know that,’ Beck said.
‘I need a chaser. How about it, Beck, you too?’
Beck thought about it. ‘Why not? Two scotches?’
Gumbell looked about the room. ‘I suppose it’d be too much to ask for table service in a place like this. No Beck, not scotch. Who do you think you are, James Bond? We’re Irish, Beck, for God’s sake. Two Jameson’s, man.’
Beck got up. ‘I’ll look after it.’
Gumbell nodded towards his glass. ‘And a pint of Guinness this time, instead of this hipster rubbish. When in Rome, and all that…’
‘Have you presented this to Superintendent Wilde?’ Beck asked when he came back with the drinks.
Gumbell nodded, knocking back his Jameson in one gulp. ‘Yes. I was on the telephone to him before I came here. I told him I was meeting you.’
‘Good. Because it wouldn’t do if I was to hear about things first.’
‘Oh, I see. Pecking order, is there?’
‘Something like that. Any other injuries?’
‘Not that I could see. The autopsy is tomorrow. But I suspect not.’
‘Any evidence of sexual activity?’
‘None. But there well could be. Again, the autopsy.’
‘Time of death?’
‘I’d put it at about midnight, give or take, last night.’
Beck stared into space, thinking. ‘Could there be prints, fingerprints, on the neck?’
‘Hmm. There might be a possibility, but lifting latent fingerprints is not simple, you know that. Anyway, it doesn’t apply in this case. Because I’m pretty certain of one thing. The killer wore gloves. Leather. And not very good ones. The victim’s sweat mixed with the black dye. The colour ran. It’s just about visible.’
‘Really, gloves? I hadn’t thought of that. Does that mean he came prepared? Ties in with something I was thinking of earlier.’
‘It always does,’ Gumbell muttered. ‘Don’t look into it too much. It was a bloody cold night.’
‘Her phone’s missing,’ Beck said, and added: ‘I need a cigarette.’
They went outside and lit up, Gumbell sucking on his cigarette in that awkward way that occasional smokers do. They were standing in the doorway of a disused shop just down from the hotel. A light drizzle was falling, the wind picking up; an occasional car passed by.
‘A movie set,’ Gumbell said, spewing out cigarette smoke. ‘An Irish version of, I don’t know, Magnum P.I.’ He gave a rare laugh. ‘But you don’t have a moustache, Beck, the top of your head is bald, you don’t drive a Ferrari and this place is no fucking Hawaii.’
‘You’re talking shit,’ Beck said.
‘Isn’t it great?’ Gumbell replied. He held his cigarette by the filter, pointing it into the air, staring at it, turning it round and round. ‘I can get drunk with you and not have to worry about it, Beck. Almost anyone else on the force I wouldn’t feel comfortable with. You should feel privileged.’
Beck looked up Main Street, away from the hotel. Some shop windows still had their display lights on. The Supermac’s near the corner was the brightest star in a dark galaxy. Beck could see shadows on the street outside as the people moved about behind its windows. Loud, slurred voices floated up the street through its open doors: ‘Ya bollocks, Macky, I’ll give ya a smack on the mouth so I will.’… ‘Ah, fuck off.’ … ‘Leave him alone, Tulip, will ya, leave him alone’… ‘Make me. You want a smack too?’… ‘Up Chapel Park. Up the Chapel Park, boys.’
Beck flicked the stub of his cigarette into the air, watched it tumble upward and then down again, like a shooting star, dying on the wet road.
‘Come on, doc, let’s go back inside,’ he said.
Fourteen
The town slept. All shops and houses along Main Street and those off it were in darkness. The town appeared deserted. The only illumination came from the street lamps. Cross Beg was as it was a hundred, maybe two hundred years ago.
In Cool Wood, the motor of a portable lighting unit made a low grinding noise that carried off into the night. The SOC officer in charge had approved a night shift, concerned about the forecast for bad weather in the morning.
In a house emptier than it had been two days before, Tony Frazzali could not sleep. He sat staring with unfocused eyes at the fifty-two-inch TV, its sound muted, the stub of a thick spliff held between two fingers. His mother Theresa was two doors down from her son. She had finally woken from her drug-induced slumber and now lay staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, groggy and too numb to cry. Father Clifford had been at her bedside when she’d opened her eyes earlier. He’d said he’d been praying for her. He’d told her Tanya was in heaven, along with Antonio. Mrs Frazzali found such comfort in those words. And Father Clifford had said that one day they would all meet up in heaven, that nothing could ever separate them again. They would be together for all eternity. Father Clifford had given her such peace. She looked on it differently now. Tanya and Antonio w
ere not dead. They were merely waiting.
Ned had finally gone home, creeping through the alleys, crossing the streets, scurrying up Plunkett Hill, and now he sat in his cold kitchen with a blanket wrapped around him, a blunt kitchen knife in his hand. He did not sleep. His eyes were closed but the lids flittered about, drool hanging from a corner of his mouth. He was waiting.
Melanie was in bed, but not asleep. The light from her phone washed her upper body in a dull glow as she texted furiously. Once the police had finished in the wood, they would gather and remember Tanya. They would have a party. That’s what Tanya would have wanted. One hell of a party.
Tanya slept. The sleep of the dead, her body taken from Cool Wood in the back of a private ambulance with blacked-out windows. It lay now on a cold steel tray in a freezer at the mortuary of the County Hospital.
Fifteen
The morning light filtered through the curtains. Beck raised an arm, covered his eyes and moaned. He had been unconscious more than asleep, his nightmares silenced by the alcohol in his blood, banished to the wastelands of his mind. But now, as he began to wake, his tongue felt like a strip of sandpaper in his parched mouth, and his head pressed down on the pillow like a ship’s anchor.
He’d gone and done it again. And what goes up must come down. His bladder was painful, as if someone was sitting on it inside his belly. Still, he did not move. Eventually, he reached out and fumbled on the bedside locker for his watch, before he noticed that it was on his wrist. He raised one heavy eyelid and peered at the time: 8.40 a.m. He cursed. The briefing was in less than a half hour. He pulled back the duvet and twisted his body and plonked two feet onto the cold floor. The room pitched, as if he were on a ship in a heavy swell. He closed his eyes and waited for it to pass, then opened them again. He got up and went into the shower, pushed the heat regulator all the way into the blue zone, and turned the water on. The shock of the cold water on his flesh instantly cleared his mind, peeling the hangover from him, temporarily at least.
Where She Lies Page 4
