Where She Lies

by Michael Scanlon

  ‘Will you lave me a-a-alone?’ Ned whimpered.

  ‘We will,’ Beck said. ‘We’ll leave you alone.’

  Seventeen

  The County Hospital was built in the grounds of the old workhouse. The original perimeter stone wall still stood, and outside of that, what was once a muddy track was now the main Galway road. A bronze plaque embedded in the wall read: ‘IN MEMORY OF ALL THE WRETCHED AND NAMELESS WHO PASSED FROM THIS LIFE AND LIE BENEATH HERE’.

  The hospital car park was full, so Claire nudged onto the footpath near the door, across double yellow lines. They got out and were walking towards the hospital when a security guard with a pinched face came through the revolving doors wearing a hi-vis jacket, ‘Hospital Security’ emblazoned across the front.

  ‘You can’t park there.’

  ‘Guards. We won’t be long,’ Beck growled. He was still smarting from the encounter with O’Reilly earlier.

  ‘Guards? Where’re you going?’

  ‘The morgue,’ Beck said, drawing level with him.

  ‘It’d be quicker that way,’ he said, smiling now, pointing back along the way they had come. ‘Turn left there. Straight ahead. It has a separate door. You’ll see the sign. You don’t have to go through the hospital at all.’

  ‘We still have to leave the car.’

  ‘That’s alright. I’ll keep an eye on it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Beck said.

  They turned and walked along the path, went left and stopped before a door in the ivy-covered wall. Beck could see a sign through the leaves: MORGUE.

  An orderly was stacking boxes in the hallway when they went inside. The air was cold and musty, smelt of bleach and antiseptic.

  ‘Where’s Dr Gumbell?’ Beck asked.

  The orderly looked at them. He recognised Claire, nodded his head. ‘The guards,’ he said, huffing, mumbling something to himself. ‘I’ll have to sign you in. Over here.’ He led them to a cubicle, went inside and placed a ledger on the counter, a pen tucked underneath the clip. Beck signed and the orderly led them to an office, bare except for a metal table and some chairs. High on the wall was a small window. A light bulb inside a yellowed shade hung from the ceiling at the end of a long cord.

  ‘I’ll get him. A couple of minutes.’ The orderly turned and left the room.

  ‘This place gives me the creeps,’ Claire said.

  ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘No, surprisingly. There hasn’t been a proper murder in this town for years. And Coroner’s Court is held in The Hibernian when it’s needed.’ She looked around. ‘This place, no. Thank God.’

  Footsteps approached outside, stopped at the door. The old brass handle turned. Dr Gumbell came into the room, leaving the door open, a sheaf of papers pressed to his chest. He barely glanced at them as he walked around the desk and sat down. He placed the papers before him, the palms of his hands on the desk on either side, and looked over his glasses, first to Beck, then Claire.

  ‘Preliminary results,’ he announced. ‘Yes, yes, what have we got here?’ He sifted through the documents, took some out and set them to one side, scratched his nose.

  Claire reached into her handbag and took out a notebook and pen. She opened the notebook and rested it on her knee, the pen held ready.

  ‘Notes,’ Gumbell said. ‘I keep telling you to take them, Beck. You could learn from that girl. Now, on with the show. No surprises. Cause of death… erm, just before I deal with that, just to let you know, there were traces of Xanax and marijuana in the victim’s body. She wasn’t high at the time of death, but recently had been. Okay? Now, as I was saying, cause of death…’

  ‘Question,’ Beck asked. ‘Was she a regular user? Of narcotics in general, that is?’

  Gumbell sighed. ‘If you want the greater details, Beck, then read the bloody report.’

  ‘And is it in there? That detail?’

  Gumbell pointed a finger, said in a fake American accent, ‘You. You. You’re good, you.’ Beck recognised it as a line from Robert De Niro in the movie Analyze This. Gumbell became serious again. ‘I would say she liked to smoke cannabis. As for anything else, I don’t know. But she hadn’t been smoking cannabis for very long, I would suggest. The reason I say this is that I scoped the trachea and observed signs of irritation, need I say separate to the blunt force injuries caused by the compression of the strangulation itself. There was also mucus culmination, and there’s slight bronchial inflammation to the lungs. But for anything more definitive we’ll have to conduct a hair follicle test. Classic symptoms of novice cannabis usage, I would argue. These symptoms dissipate and disappear over time with continued use. But she didn’t pass this stage. The conclusion is that she was either a very irregular user, or had recently taken up the habit. I would say the latter. May we move on now?’

  Beck nodded.

  ‘Cause of death: manual strangulation. The use of hands, or throttling, to use the older, what I consider more brutal, expression. The time of death, as I said: midnight. Thereabouts. She’d had sexual intercourse before she died. The act appears to have been consensual. There’s no bruising or any signs of force; the vaginal lining is normal. A pubic hair that is not from the victim was found in the crotch area along with traces of fluid, both taken for DNA analysis. Fragments of grass and dirt were on the underside of the clothes, but not much – not as much as you’d expect if she’d simply laid down on the ground. My guess is a blanket, or something of that nature, was used. But there was nothing found at the scene, no blankets or anything like it, by Scene of Crime. What happened I imagine is the victim and her lover arranged to meet, one of them brought along something to lie on, they met, had sex – not a romp by the way, this was organised – and afterwards she fixed herself up. They’d done this before, this was their place.’

  ‘How do you know all that?’ Beck asked. ‘And what defines a romp, by the way?’

  Gumbell shook his head, gave Beck a wry smile. ‘You think I have a crystal ball? I don’t know. It’s my intuition, my instinct, that’s all. Because, figuratively speaking, the bed was made and the room was tidied. Neat. Not a romp. Which to me translates as energetic, maybe even rough, sex. This doesn’t appear to be any of those. The victim had even brushed her hair. I could be wrong. Yes indeed. But that is the – unofficial – opinion of the state pathologist, based on little more than this.’ He tapped his belly a couple of times. ‘Oh, and a little thing called experience, in this case twenty-five years. Happy?’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Claire interrupted. ‘I don’t know how or why it doesn’t make sense, it just doesn’t.’

  Gumbell looked at Claire, then at Beck. ‘It never does, my dear. It’s not supposed to make sense, any of it. To kill someone, in the flower of their youth, no, of course that doesn’t make sense. Beck, you’ll catch him, won’t you? That may sound like a question, but it’s not, it’s a statement. Made with great certainty. By the way, how are you this morning?’

  ‘I won’t be catching anybody. This is not my case. I already told you that. I’m strictly working to order. Nothing more. Nothing less. I’m okay… and you?’

  ‘And me? Why, I’m wonderful. And why wouldn’t I be?’ He took a deep breath. ‘The smell of formaldehyde in the morning makes a man feel young. By the way, I’m staying over again tonight. Same time and place, my man – okay by you?’

  ‘Let me get back to you on that,’ Beck said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Gumbell said. ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’

  Claire looked at Beck with a knowing expression.

  ‘As I was saying, there was no sign of force,’ Gumbell continued, ‘except for, of course, the quietus, the final act, the coup de grâce, the death – call it what you will. Quite straightforward, no theatrics. The killer simply placed large powerful hands around her neck and squeezed until there was no life left. He was facing her.’

  ‘What?’ Claire asked.

  ‘He was facing her,’ Gumbell repeated. ‘Sometimes a kil
ler might come from behind, you know, for purposes of expediency, but mostly because he doesn’t want to have to look his victim in the face. But this was from the front. He wanted to see her, and her to see him; he wanted to watch her die. You find cases like that sometimes in domestic violence. A husband will strangle a wife half to death in a fit of rage, from the front, but they usually stop, give up just before it’s too late, their rage spent by the whole effort of it all. If that weren’t the case, there’d be many more wives and partners lost to strangulation in this fair land of ours, that’s for sure. But that’s not the case here. His rage was measured and controlled, carefully calculated. He squeezed and squeezed with brutal determination until there was no doubt that she was dead. An ice man cometh, Beck. Oh, and another thing.’

  ‘Yes? What’s that?’

  ‘The layered effect of the bruising indicates that the pressure was not consistent. That he relaxed at times, just a little, before applying pressure again. He played with her, is what I’m saying.’

  ‘You mean, like hovered her between life and death?’

  ‘Exactly. What about lunch?’ Gumbell said.

  ‘Lunch. I can’t think of lunch right now,’ said Claire.

  Beck looked at his watch. It was already two o’clock.

  ‘Why are you looking at your watch?’ Gumbell asked. ‘Time is a manufactured state of mind, Beck. People once lived by the sun and they did perfectly fine.’

  ‘Did they?’ Beck asked.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Gumbell said. ‘Let’s eat. Jack! Jack!’

  Gumbell gathered up his papers, shuffling them into a neat brick. The orderly came into the room. Gumbell said, ‘Take these up to the girl in the office, Jack. Soon as you can, good man.’

  The orderly crossed the room and picked up the papers. As he was turning again to leave, Beck saw him raise his eyes heavenward and mouth something to himself, what seemed like the word ‘gobshite’.

  Eighteen

  The name was written over the door in Irish: ‘O’Ceallacháin’. The pub was near the river, on the corner of Bridge and Clifden Streets. A little further on and it would have had a view of the water through its large front windows. As it was, it looked out on nothing but the row of buildings opposite. The pub was like a good whiskey: aged and full of character. The barman was in his mid-fifties, heavyset but not fat, wearing a white shirt with a red tie and a white apron. The apron struck Beck. He’d only ever seen those worn by bartenders on a visit to New York City once. Pretentious, was the word he’d use for it.

  The barman ran his eyes over them, taking them in, deciding whether or not to smile.

  ‘Lunch?’ Gumbell said in his best booming courtroom voice.

  A stubby finger pointed in the direction of the menu board, fixed to a pillar by the counter.

  ‘What do you recommend?’ Gumbell pressed.

  The barman picked up on the refined diction and made his mind up. Smiling now, he said, ‘The fish pie, with cod, salmon and smoked haddock in a creamy béchamel sauce.’ Then, looking at Claire: ‘Don’t I know you?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ she replied.

  ‘Aha, yes, I’ve seen you about… You all gardai, then?’

  ‘He’s not,’ Beck said, pointing. ‘He’s the state pathologist.’

  ‘Well now, is he indeed? You’re welcome to O’Callaghan’s’, he said, beaming, using the English version of the name. He leaned on the counter and extended a hand. ‘Michael O’Callaghan, grandson of the original Michael who first established this great institution.’

  Gumbell spoke to him in Irish. ‘Sin go hiontach, nach bhfuil an tádh ort?’

  O’Callaghan smiled sheepishly. ‘You caught me. I can’t speak a word myself, I’m afraid.’

  Gumbell grinned. ‘It means, “That’s great, aren’t you lucky?”’

  ‘Does it now?’ O’Callaghan said, not certain if it was meant as a compliment or an insult.

  They ordered three fish pies – no alcohol, just water – and went and sat at a table. But then Gumbell got up and went back to the counter. When he returned he was holding a small glass in each hand, quarter-filled with amber liquid. He sat down, pushed one across to Beck.

  ‘You can blame me, Beck. It’s not your fault. I bought them. Peer pressure. You wouldn’t have bothered if it weren’t for me. Drink up quick before you can think about it and change your mind. I know you’d do the same for me. Come on, bottoms up.’

  The double whiskey burned and caressed the back of Beck’s throat all at the same time, and instantly he felt it begin to spread through his bloodstream, the warmth of a glowing sun. Oh shit, he thought.

  Claire sipped from her water. She looked at the empty glass Beck put down on the table.

  Gumbell spoke. ‘Get the pints in, Beck. We have to have a chaser.’

  ‘I thought it was the other way round,’ Claire said, with an edge of sarcasm in her tone. ‘The shot was the chaser.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Gumbell asked, picking up on it. ‘Does it fucking matter? This is all merely a ritual, young lady. It doesn’t matter, none of it. Why do you keep asking questions that don’t matter?’

  Beck stood. ‘I will have to pace myself.’

  ‘Beck,’ Claire said. ‘Sorry to spoil the party, but aren’t you making trouble for yourself? O’Reilly and everything…’

  Beck gave a wary smile. ‘I will have to avoid him then. Don’t worry, Claire, it would be unfair of you to worry if I’m not.’

  She gave a resigned shrug of her shoulders.

  Beck ordered two pints of Guinness at the counter. O’Callaghan was businesslike, not engaging in conversation. And there was no conversation between Gumbell and Claire when he went back with the drinks and set them down on the table.

  Beck looked around. ‘I’ve never seen so many suits.’

  ‘This is where the suits come,’ Claire said. ‘Business types. Everyone in Cross Beg who’s someone comes here. Big fish in a small pond. It has a reputation.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Really. You see the way he looked at us? When we came in. There’s a pecking order. Guards below the rank of inspector don’t quite fit in it.’

  Beck laughed. ‘Yes. But the doctor here does.’

  Gumbell scowled, raised his glass and took a long swig. When he put the glass down again, it was almost empty. Without a word, he got up and went to the bar to order another round of drinks.

  Beck clapped his hands. Claire shot him a look.

  ‘Fish pies?’ the young waitress announced.

  The plates were placed on the table before them, hot and steaming. Beck took his knife and cut into the delicately layered mashed potato. He heaped some onto his fork and placed it in his mouth. It was very, very good.

  When she’d finished, Claire pushed her empty plate away. ‘I’ll be leaving. I’ll take the autopsy report with me, shall I?’

  ‘Yes. Good idea.’

  ‘I presume you’re not coming?’

  ‘The doctor wants to discuss some things with me. Strictly in the interests of the case, mind.’

  ‘It’s not even your case.’

  ‘It doesn’t stop him discussing it with me, does it?’ Gumbell snapped.

  Claire stood. ‘I’ll pay for my lunch on the way out.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’ll look after it,’ Beck said.

  ‘No. Why should you? I’ll get it myself.’

  Beck watched her as she walked away. As he did, he became aware of a conversation at a nearby table. He glanced over, saw two men – one young, with gelled-back hair, the other older, wearing a tweed jacket.

  ‘… twenty K should do it,’ the younger one said.

  ‘You think so?’ the older man replied.

  ‘Oh ya, no more. Put another twenty K in and it’s making money for you.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘It’s all about costs, Vinnie. Keeping those down, I mean – get a youngster working for you, sixteen or thereabouts. No requirement to pa
y full minimum wage at that age, it’s a little over six euro an hour. You’re saving what? Maybe a hundred a day, between everyone.’

  ‘That’s a big saving for sure.’

  Beck thought of the waitress, who looked no more than sixteen herself.

  Gumbell peered at him over the rim of his glass.

  ‘Christ,’ Beck said. ‘You’re drinking like a camel at an oasis today.’

  ‘After it’s been in the desert for six months,’ Gumbell added, allowing himself a wonky laugh.

  Nineteen

  Blackness. Utter and complete blackness. Lost within it, floating, no sound, no sight. Beck snored, a loud, stuttered explosion of noise through his mouth that seemed impossible would not wake him up. He had not drawn the curtains, and so the room itself was not completely dark, the light from the street outside turning the night a shade of sepia.

  But there was noise. Other than his snoring, that was. A loud rapping on the front door, with it the hoarse croaking of the buzzer. The noise would stop for a few seconds, then start again: bang, bang, bang, croak, croak, croak.

  Beck moved, shifting from his back onto his side. The snoring stopped. For a moment there was silence. Then it came again: bang, bang, bang, croak, croak, croak. This time his eyes partially opened. Bang, bang, bang, croak, croak, croak. His lids fully lifted and he stared ahead into the washed darkness.

  Beck didn’t know what had woken him. Time slowed. In an instant his brain spluttered and churned with a multitude of images – the final moments of a drowning man, his life played out before his eyes. He attempted to put order and sequence to the images, to play them back as if in a movie, to make them coherent. But it was impossible. All he had was a beginning.

  The feeling inside him, like something was squirming about, it caused his chest to tighten, his breathing to become shallow and rapid. And with it a fear, a terrible fear, as he held up the pieces of his shattered memory and tried to understand. The walk from O’Callaghan’s, clear and focused, pints, in quick succession, in a couple of anonymous pubs, the familiarity of The Hibernian Hotel, the image hazy and vague, then gone. Nothing but that blackness.