I never liked Father Clifford. I felt there was something not quite right about him. Call it intuition. And my feelings have been vindicated. A statement issued by Inspector Gerald O’Reilly of Cross Beg Gardai identified the primary suspect in the spate of killings as Mr Benedict Farmer, Father Clifford’s and Angela Farmer’s illegitimate son.
Evidence supporting this was found in the ruins of Cross Beg presbytery, namely a passport in Benedict Farmer’s name. Sources state that a victim – who cannot be named for legal reasons and who is recovering in hospital – revealed to gardai that Farmer admitted killing Father Clifford and impersonating him. When contacted this week, there was no one available to comment at either the diocesan office in Galway or the headquarters of the Missionary African Fathers in Maynooth.
Detective Inspector Finnegan Beck and Detective Garda Claire Somers were hailed as heroes for their actions in the ordeal. They both remain in hospital today following the dramatic events of Sunday night. Events that began with the gruesome discovery of the body of Garda Justin Smith hanging from scaffolding at a shop front, and the unnamed victim being persuaded by Detective Somers to jump from a burning window. Detective Inspector Beck gave chase to Farmer and followed him down to the Brown Water River where, in an ensuing struggle, they both fell in.
It is believed that Benedict Farmer died in the struggle, though his body, at time of going to press, has not yet been recovered. An extensive search by gardai and volunteers continues.
Inspector Gerald O’Reilly of Cross Beg gardai told this reporter that officers Beck and Somers were merely doing their jobs. He went on to praise the determined efforts of the dedicated task force led by himself and Superintendent Andrew Wilde, which was, he said, responsible for ‘flushing’ the culprit into the open, and so bringing to an end the spree of killings. He said that the Garda Síochána was a dedicated and proud force of officers, and that it would be unfair to single out any member for special attention. ‘This was a team effort,’ he said. ‘People were merely doing their duty.’
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What We Don’t Know...
I spent all day Monday this week trawling through official death records in the HSE offices in Galway. I wanted to follow up on something I had heard people in Cross Beg talk about for years. It was this: a dramatic increase in suicide rates in the town during the early 1980s. This was at a time when suicide rates were being massaged downward, when it was considered almost a national humiliation that any suicide should take place in the country at all. Yet, despite this, between January 1982 and January 1984, nine people ended their lives by suicide in Cross Beg, mainly by throwing themselves into the Brown Water River. This figure dropped to zero in the year following Benedict Farmer leaving the town. And in the last two years, the rate had started to creep up again. Coincidence? We may never know. Because it seems that the death of Benedict Farmer took more than his life – it also took his secrets.
Detailed report and analysis by our team of reporters on the ground in Cross Beg: pages 4, 5, 7 and 8.
Epilogue
Four weeks had passed. Farmer’s body was snagged in the propeller of a boat in the estuary of the Brown Water River, not far from Haven Bay. It was bloated and rotting and mutilated, but bore the remnants of a priest’s cassock matching the one Farmer was last seen in. A DNA sample was extracted and matched a sample taken from a niece of Angela Farmer, who was tracked to Galway city where she lives. The body, or what remained of it, was buried alongside his mother and her husband, Willie Kelly. The funeral took place early on a Monday morning before Cross Beg had fully shaken itself awake. A howling gale blew in from the sea as the last shovel of dirt was thrown onto his grave, the sky a swirl of black. There was a low and constant rumble of thunder – with it bolts of lightning, pulses that fizzled and glowed, rupturing the black sky and striking the earth, where, instead of impacting the ground, they seemed to disappear beneath it.
People later talked about it in hushed tones. They said something evil had returned to where it had come from that day: Hell.
Beck, standing at the graveside, the lone mourner, would laugh about this when he heard it. His mind had no place for such nonsense. People sought explanations for the inexplicable in any way they could.
But the truth was that Benedict Farmer, lying in his grave, would never be forgotten. Dead most certainly, but he would always live on in the minds of people, certainly for a generation, but maybe, in some way, forever.
He would, Beck mused, probably have quite liked that.
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A Letter from Michael
I want to say a huge thank you for choosing to read The Quiet Hours. If you did enjoy it, and want to keep up to date with all my latest releases, just sign up at the following link. Your email address will never be shared, and you can unsubscribe at any time.
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Every cloud has a silver lining is a phrase that is so true to me, never more so than now with the publication of my debut novel. I always wanted to be a writer, and by that I mean I always wanted to write stories that people would want to read. And all my life I’ve been doing this, but most of my work, short stories and long, complete and not-so-complete novels, remained hidden in the bottom of wardrobes and lockers. I never felt I was good enough.
But in 2014, I became gravely ill while on holiday in Spain. I spent three months in hospital in Tarragona with (what remains) a mystery illness, hovering between life and death. For the following two years I was in and out of hospital. Throughout this period, once the initial symptoms subsided, I wrote. And I read. I read and I wrote more than I have ever done in my life. It kept me sane, it literally stopped me from falling into a black hole of depression. And out of a very dark period in my life something good has come, as I braved sending my work to an editor again. It took over three years and a life-threatening illness to finally get round to it. And boy, am I glad I did! And another silver lining: I don’t worry or fret like I used to. I simply do the best I can.
Finnegan Beck is a character who is very close to my heart, too. As a civilian employee of An Garda Síochána, I know the pressures that officers work under. I also know of the commitment they give, which often goes far beyond the call of duty. For Beck, flawed as he is, his job, essentially, is his life, although he would never admit it. I hope you’ll spend more time with Beck in my subsequent novels, getting to know him better. There is a lot to know.
I hope you loved The Quiet Hours, and if you did, I would be very grateful if you could write a review. I’d love to hear what you think, and it makes such a difference helping new readers to discover one of my books for the first time.
I would love to hear from you, too, and am on Twitter if you’d like to reach out!
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Thanks,
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Michael
Acknowledgements
First, I would like to thank you, the reader, for taking the time to read this book. Equally, I would like to thank Isobel Akenhead and Bookouture for spotting something in my writing and taking a chance on me. I hope to live up to expectations. Truly, thank you.
To Eileen, my wife, for always being there, and my beautiful daughter, Sarah; words will never be enough. To Breda Jennings, Rosemary Flaherty and Marian Nagle, all crime book enthusiasts who gave me honest feedback and allowed me to alter course when required.
Again, to Isobel Akenhead, also Rachel Rowlands and Jenny Page, for their hard work and invaluable expertise during the editing process. And to Noelle
Holten and Alexandra Holmes. Thank you all.
To my civilian colleagues at An Garda Síochána, especially Declan, Ruth and Michelle. To Patrick Feeney, a man with a heart as big as his musical talent. To Dr Dustin Portilla at Hospital Universitari de Tarragona Joan XXIII, Spain, and Natalia Higuera Haines, Tarragona, Spain – truly, there are angels who walk amongst us.
To Dr Luke O’Donnell at University Hospital, Castlebar, and my GP, Dr William Brunker. To the kindness of strangers and the goodness of the human spirit. When I needed both, I found them in abundance.
To the writers who have influenced me and whose brilliance has intimidated me in equal measure. I hope I’ve found my own voice now.
Published by Bookouture in 2019
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An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
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Copyright © Michael Scanlon, 2019
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Michael Scanlon has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-78681-743-3
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Where She Lies Page 25
