They say a person’s appearance can mirror who they are: an accountant will look like an accountant; a banker will look like a banker. Darren Murphy – well, he looked exactly like what he was: a thug.
‘Hello, officer,’ he said in mock formality, running a hand over his face. ‘You’re up early.’
‘It’s not that early, Darren,’ Claire said.
‘Can we come in?’ asked Beck.
‘Urgent, is it?’
‘Lippy as ever, I see,’ Claire said. ‘Yes, it is urgent.’
‘How urgent? Is it, like, just urgent, or is it, like, really urgent, or is it, like, really, really, urgent? That might do it.’
‘Do you want me to arrest you?’
‘For wha’?’
‘I’ll find something, believe me,’ Claire said.
‘You’d better come in.’
Darren stepped aside and Beck and Claire entered. They followed him as he hobbled down the thickly carpeted hallway to the kitchen. The floor here was marble-tiled, the kitchen appliances gleaming, the place remarkably clean. There was nothing standard-local-authority-issue about any of it. Outwardly, the life of a middle-ranking drug dealer was the polar opposite to that of his customers.
‘Home alone, are you?’ Claire asked, standing in the middle of the room.
Darren sat down on a leather button-back high stool at the breakfast island, hanging his crutch from the back of it. He didn’t offer either of them a seat. A half-eaten roll of some description was on the counter in front of him. Darren was looking over Beck’s shoulder. Beck turned. A flat-screen TV was mounted on the kitchen wall, the sound muted. It was hard to decipher what was on; it seemed to be night-time in whatever programme Darren was watching.
‘Who’s yer man?’ Darren asked, looking at Beck, picking up his bread roll.
‘Detective Sergeant Finnegan Beck,’ Beck said.
‘Finnegan Beck. What kind of a fucking name is that?’
‘Less lip, sunshine,’ Claire said. ‘We’re here in the service of the State. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here at all. But in the State’s eyes, all men are equal and all that nonsense. Though we know better than that, don’t we, Darren?’
‘I already made me statement,’ Darren said. ‘Yer should be off looking for that headcase what murdered Tanya.’
‘How do you know we’re not?’ Beck asked. ‘Did you know her, Darren?’
Murphy belched, dropped the bread roll back onto the counter. ‘Ya, I knew her.’
‘Professionally?’ Claire asked.
‘What’s that mean? I’m unemployed. Actively lookin’ for employment, I am. I’m professionally unemployed, if that’s what yer mean?’
‘I’ll tell you something, Darren…’ Beck said.
‘Will you now?’
‘It’ll really get your attention. Not a lot of people know this.’
‘Comedian, are you?’
‘No, Darren. I don’t think you’ll find this funny at all. It’s this. There was blood found under Tanya’s fingernails. She’d scratched someone, Darren. And guess who I’m looking at who has marks on his face?’
‘Ah, for fuck sake. No way. Jesus, you can’t… No fuckin’ way, man. Yer supposed to be here investigating da scumbags jumped me the udder night and did this.’ He pointed to his head. ‘Look. This. And now you’re wha’? Blood under the poor girl’s fingernails. Wha’? I can’t believe yer tinkin that I did it. I didn’t. I never killed Tanya. Don’t go there. Don’t.’
If Darren was lying, he was making a good job of it. Enough to fool Beck. And that would be a first.
‘Tell me about Tanya,’ Beck said. ‘I’m not going to make an issue of small stuff, understand?’
Darren looked pale. ‘Let me put it like this. She wasn’t doin’ nothing that no other young wan in this town wasn’t doing. Plenty are doin’ more than she ever did, a lot more, believe me.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Claire asked. ‘Was she taking drugs?’
‘Naa, not drugs, drugs.’
‘Strictly soft, then,’ Beck said. ‘Like weed.’
‘Ya,’ Murphy said. ‘Like weed. Something like that.’
‘What about the others?’ Beck asked. ‘You said they were doing a lot more than Tanya was.’
‘Ah ya, y’know.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Beck said.
‘What rhymes with y’know?’
Beck thought about it. ‘You mean, for money? Hoe?’
‘For wha’ever they can get,’ Murphy said. ‘But Tanya didn’t do that, she didn’t spread it about. She had her sugar daddy, so she had. She was strictly for his eyes only.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Everybody knows all this.’
‘Who was he?’ Beck asked. ‘This sugar daddy.’
‘Except that part, that is,’ Murphy said. ‘She kept that strictly, strictly to herself.’
‘Where exactly did this happen?’ Beck asked.
‘Everywhere, you gotta keep your eyes peeled.’
‘No,’ Beck said. ‘Your assault. Where exactly did it happen?’
‘Um, right. Church Hill. Halfway up. There’s a big tree behind the wall, the branches hang out over the street. Right there. That’s where I was ping-powed.’
‘Ping-powed?’
‘D’ya never hear of that? It’s street slang, man.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Beck said. ‘Any witnesses?’
‘Ya, the three bastards who done it, that’s who.’
‘They came from behind and you said you never saw them,’ Claire said. ‘That’s what you said in your statement.’
‘Ya, that’s right. I never saw them.’
‘Then how do you know there were three of them?’ Beck asked. ‘If you didn’t see them, that is.’
‘Mister, I wasn’t looking at nobody. I was tryin’ to protect myself from a hidin’ that could have killed me. That’s wha’ I was doing. But I knew there were three because I heard them mouthin’ off, okay?’
‘They were talking,’ said Claire. ‘What were they saying?’
Murphy placed a hand on the top of his head. ‘This really hurts, y’know. Ouch. I don’t know what they were saying. I wasn’t paying too much attention at the time. Like I say, I had other priorities – like saving me skin.’
‘Steady on there, Darren,’ Claire said. ‘Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic now?’
‘No. I’m not. That’s what happened. If you don’t believe me, tough. But you probably wouldn’t believe a word out of anyone’s mouth from Chapel Park, would ya? Your mind’s already made up.’
Deflection, Beck thought. ‘What about your face? Where’d you get those marks?’
‘When I hit the gravel,’ Darren replied. ‘Those little stones are like shotgun pellets, so they are.’
‘What do you know about shotgun pellets?’ Beck said.
‘I got a bellyful couple of years back. No one was ever caught for that either.’
‘We’ll let you know how the investigation progresses,’ Beck said, nodding to Claire that it was time to leave.
Walking back to the car, he said, ‘We’ll need to check the DNA database. See if there’s a match to the blood sample taken from the victim. I doubt it. Even if he did do it, he’d hardly advertise it by reporting he was assaulted. Doesn’t make sense. Another thing, if you’d just had stitches put into the top of your head, would you put a hand on it?’
‘No,’ Claire said, ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘Neither would I,’ Beck said.
Twenty-Two
‘Have you been in here before? You look familiar.’ The top of the barman’s lip was lost to a thick moustache.
Beck shook his head. ‘No. I’d remember if I had,’ he lied.
‘Seamie Doherty, you still alive?’
‘Good to see you too, Garda Somers,’ Seamie said. His voice was high-pitched like a girl’s, the flesh on his bony face tight as a drum’s skin. He sat on a stool, crouchin
g forward onto the counter. He reminded Beck of a stray cat he’d found curled up on his Dublin doorstep one time. It had been in a bad way. By the time he’d fetched a glass of milk from the fridge and gone back to feed it, the cat had died, lying on the ground like a discarded child’s toy.
Seamie was one of a handful of punters sitting along the counter, the rest having scarpered when Beck and Claire came in.
‘You’re new,’ Claire said to the barman. ‘Here, do you mind turning down that television? The FTSE 100 doesn’t interest anyone in here, does it? Hope I’m not being politically incorrect when I say that, not stereotyping anybody?’
‘You are,’ the barman said. ‘And I don’t work here, not as such. I’m doing a favour for Christy. He’s my brother-in-law.’
‘And what’s your name?’
‘Richie.’
‘That’s nice of you, Richie,’ Claire said, not sounding like she believed him, and to Beck: ‘Christy owns the place.’
The pub smelt of piss and bleach. The carpet was mostly threadbare and pockmarked with cigarette burns. The place was small and poky, the roof low, red imitation-leather bench seats against the wall, a line of grime on the torn wallpaper from where people’s heads had rested against it. Between the counter and the wall were a few small wooden tables with cushion-top stools. At the end of the bar were two tatty wooden doors; a sign on one said ‘Ladies’, the other ‘Gents’. Beside the gents was a dartboard. Beck was at a loss as to how the board could be used. It was above a bench seat and any dart thrown would have to go over the head of the person sitting underneath it. Maybe that was the whole point? It depended on who was sitting there.
The barman stood with his back against the cash register and folded his arms. A sign pinned to the shelf beside him said, ‘If You’re Rich, I’m Single’.
‘Darren Murphy was in here Sunday night,’ Claire said.
Beck was impressed with her confident and mildly aggressive approach. He liked that, and was happy to take a back seat.
‘Sooo?’ the barman said.
‘Sooo,’ Claire mimicked him. ‘He only got his head caved in on his way home. Who was in here that evening? You have CCTV?’
The barman scoffed. ‘CCTV. You think anyone’d drink in here if we had CCTV? No CCTV, darling. Anyway, why aren’t you off looking for the killer of that poor girl? Everyone in the town’s terrified.’
‘That’s what Murphy wanted to know too. Your concern is noted. By the way, you don’t look too terrified to me. And I’m not your darling.’ Claire looked up and down the bar. ‘Any of you gentlemen in here Sunday night?’
‘Aye, but I saw nuthin,’ Seamie said.
‘What about you, sunshine? Jimmy Doherty, isn’t it?’
Doherty had his back to them, watching the muted TV, doing his best to be ignored. He looked at Claire now. Beck guessed he was in his mid-twenties. He had a facial tic, his eyes repeatedly blinking. Beck found it hard to look at him without feeling the need to blink himself.
‘I wasn’t here Sunday night. I was workin’.’
‘Working?’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. Check if you want. The Hibernian. In the kitchen. I’m a porter, kitchen porter. Not proud, me. Work is work. Do anythin’, I will. Go and ask if you don’t believe me. They’ll tell you.’
‘I will,’ Claire said. ‘Don’t be in any doubt about that.’
‘And you?’ Claire said to an old codger with a quarter pint of Guinness in front of him. It was obvious by the colour of the residue along the side of the glass it had been there for quite a time.
‘Wha’ d’ya think?’ the old codger asked.
‘I think you were home in bed,’ Claire said.
‘With me girlfriend,’ the old codger said. The remark took some of the tension from the room, like air from a balloon. The bar laughed, including Beck and Claire.
‘Tell me,’ Beck asked no one in particular. ‘When Darren Murphy was leaving here Sunday night, did he have anything with him?’
No one spoke. Beck caught a glance exchanged between the barman and Seamie.
‘It’s not an incriminating question,’ Beck said. ‘It’s straightforward. Did he have a bag with him or not?’
The barman said, after a brief pause, ‘I don’t know if he had a bag. If he did, I didn’t see it.’
And Beck knew right off that he was lying. He could see it: the change in intonation, the shift in body language, the arms folding tighter.
Claire watched Beck with a curious expression.
‘I see,’ Beck said. ‘As I say, it has no particular relevance. That’s the last question. We’ll be on our way now. See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’
The barman unfolded his arms. ‘Don’t be in any hurry back, will you?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Beck replied. ‘I won’t.’
* * *
‘Why did you ask if he had a bag?’ Claire asked when they were outside.
‘Because I think he’s covering. I think he had something. And he lost it.’
‘Like what?’
‘A drugs consignment,’ Beck said. ‘Which he wanted to keep. Maybe Richie even gave it to him. I don’t know. Anyway, he says he lost it. Or was robbed of it. Whatever.’
‘But that’s just a guess.’
‘Of course it’s just a guess. But it happens. To drug dealers. A lot. Church Hill, Claire. Let’s get up there. Have a look around.’
On one side of Church Hill was a low stone wall, open ground on the other with a few houses, mainly bungalows, fronting the road. At the top of the hill, a right turn led down to Chapel Park. Claire pulled the Focus onto the pavement next to where the branches of a tree – as described by Murphy – overhung the pavement.
Beck got out of the car. He lit a cigarette and drew in deeply, feeling the kick at the back of his throat.
‘When you say Murphy lost something, why didn’t he mention it to us?’ Claire asked as she joined him.
‘Because drug dealers lose things all the time, comes with the territory.’
‘Well, you’ve lost me now,’ Claire replied.
He walked to the wall and peered across it. ‘You’ve been in Cross Beg too long,’ he said.
On the other side was a field of weeds and wild grass. He stood there thinking, smoking his cigarette. He flicked the stub into the field and climbed across.
‘Where’re you going?’ Claire called, leaning over, but making no attempt to follow.
‘Give me a minute.’
Beck moved from left to right, walking along by the wall on either side of the tree and out into the field. He came back and climbed over again, stood beside Claire and looked along the pavement.
‘It didn’t rain last couple of nights,’ Beck said. ‘And anyway, it’s sheltered here under the branches. So if he was assaulted like he says he was, there should still be blood here. He’d have lost quite a bit of it, by the way he described things.’
‘I see where you’re going with this,’ Claire said.
‘Drive me back to Murphy’s place.’
Twenty-Three
Murphy looked like he was going somewhere. He wore a lime-green anorak with yellow imitation fur surrounding the hood.
‘Going out?’ Beck asked when he opened the door.
‘What d’ya want now?’ His demeanour had changed. He had not expected Beck and Claire to call a second time.
‘Just a word,’ Claire said. ‘We won’t keep you. A couple of minutes, that’s it, then we’ll be gone. Alright, sunshine?’
Murphy turned. ‘Alright. But it better be quick.’
He brought them into a sitting room, small and clean like the kitchen, and expensively furnished.
‘By the way,’ Beck said. ‘I never asked. You live alone?’
‘Why ya want to know that for?’ Murphy hobbled to an armchair and sat down on the arm.
‘No reason.’
‘His mother,’ Claire said. ‘Darren lives with his mother, don’t you, son? Who’s at
work now, by the way, cleaning offices on the industrial estate. Works hard, your mother, doesn’t she, Darren?’
There was a prolonged silence as Murphy stared at Claire. Intimidation some might call it, but not a very good attempt, Beck considered.
‘There’s no easy way of doing this,’ Beck said, pointing. ‘Could you look at that, please?’
Murphy turned his head to follow Beck’s outstretched arm. Beck took his opportunity, pushed him from behind onto the settee, pinning him down so he couldn’t move. Murphy roared. Beck felt about for a bandage clip, but couldn’t find one. Instead he found a couple of safety pins, the type hospitals had stopped using over thirty years ago. Murphy jiggled like a fish, shaking his head from side to side. Beck fumbled to get hold of a pin and open it. He had to force Murphy’s head down into a cushion to do it. He finally got a pin and unclipped it – the tip went into Murphy’s head and he squealed like a pig, shouting about garda brutality, that he’d sue the lot of them, that they’d all lose their jobs, that the four horsemen of the apocalypse would run them down and send them all to hell, that the story would be on the front page of every newspaper in the country by morning. Beck unfurled the bandage, round and round, until eventually he pulled it from Murphy’s head, and Murphy fell silent, stopped his thrashing about and the only sound was that of his panting. Beck looked closely at the top of his head, at the dark stubble sprouting like young grass because it hadn’t been shaved in a couple of days. But other than that, his head was as smooth as a baby’s arse, with not a mark or a stitch in sight.
‘You were saying?’ Beck said. ‘Something about garda brutality.’
‘Ah, fuck off,’ Murphy said.
Twenty-Four
Murphy sat at the same interview desk as Ned Donohue had the day before, giving off an air of defiant indifference, but Beck could tell he was worried.
Where She Lies Page 8
