Murder on Clare Island

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘Could you ask her to join us?’

  Finbarr considered the question for a moment. ‘Why?’ he asked finally.

  Hall threw the towel onto the arm of the chair. ‘Stop being stupid, Finbarr. Sergeant West has been put in charge of the investigation into your father’s death. He needs to speak to you both.’

  The eyes that turned to West were suddenly sharp. ‘Investigation? It was an accident.’ He looked back to Hall. ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s one of the things we are here to discuss, Mr Breathnach,’ West said watching him closely; ‘we have evidence that proves your father was murdered.’

  The reaction wasn’t one any of them expected. Finbarr started to laugh, a rich sound of genuine amusement. ‘Oh dear,’ he said wiping his eyes, ‘that is just so funny. I’ve been wondering for years how to kill the old bastard and now you tell me someone’s gone and done it.’

  West, not usually lost for words, found it difficult to know what to say next. Luckily for him, the door opened to admit a tall, thin woman who was obviously the progenitor of the man who sat in the sofa, the end of the laugh still bubbling in his mouth.

  The shock of black hair that sat so untidily on Finbarr’s head was a neatly cut cap on Sylvia’s, giving her an almost elfin look. She glared at her son before turning her attention on West. ‘Edel told me there were policemen here,’ she said in a curiously melodic voice. ‘I assume you need to speak to me.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Breathnach, we do. My name is Sergeant West; I’m in charge of the investigation. You know Garda Hall, of course, and this is a friend of mine, Kelly Johnson.’

  If Sylvia was surprised at a friend being invited along she didn’t say so, she merely nodded at them all and invited them to take a seat. ‘I assume my son hasn’t offered you refreshments,’ she said. ‘Would you like some tea or coffee? No?’ she said, as they shook their heads. ‘Very well, now how can I help you?’

  ‘They say Eoin was murdered, Ma,’ Finbarr blurted out before West could speak.

  ‘Murdered?’ she said, her eyes flitting from one face to the other as if to read the truth in one of them. Finally they settled on her son, ‘You told me it was an accident.’

  Finbarr grinned. ‘Seems I’m not a very good detective, doesn’t it? I thought he’d fallen in when he was trying to see if those horrible eels were hungry enough. You’ve warned him often enough about the sides of the pond being slippery, haven’t you?’

  West and Hall turned curious looks on the woman. ‘Is this true, Mrs Breathnach?’West asked.

  ‘I probably told him every day,’ she said calmly. She moved to take the seat beside her son. ‘But he never listened to me. He rarely did, you know,’ she added without rancour. ‘When we were planning the house here, he insisted on having a tropical fish pond on one side of the house and an unheated outdoor swimming pool on the other. I thought both were ridiculous. Nobody ever swam in the pool apart from him. The fishpond, on the other hand, he had heated so that he could buy whatever damn fish he wanted.’

  ‘Did he go out to the fish pond every evening?’

  Finbarr answered. ‘He was just interested in the feeding frenzy. He’d no real interest in the creatures themselves.

  ‘Were they more active at a particular time of the day?’

  Finbarr smiled. It wasn’t a particularly nice smile. ‘Are you trying to find out if he went to the pond at exactly the same time every day? If so, I hate to bear sad tidings, but he wasn’t such a creature of habit. Usually, he’d go after he’d been for a swim but sometimes he went before. And then there were days, of course, when he didn’t go at all.’

  West refused to be annoyed. ‘Thank you Mr Breathnach. Now, tell me please, who else was here?’

  ‘A list of suspects,’ he murmured.

  ‘Stop, Finbarr, please,’ his mother said, shooting him a quelling glance before turning back to West. ‘He delights in being irritating, Sergeant West, just ignore him. I was here, of course. Usually there would just be the three of us, and the staff. Edel, our housekeeper and her husband, Jim who does maintenance and gardening. But Eoin invited a couple of old friends to stay. Penny and Roger Tilsdale. They’ve been with us a week and, despite Eoin’s death, I think they plan to stay another couple.’ It was obvious by her tone of voice that Sylvia wasn’t too happy about this. ‘Oh, and Julius is here,’ she added almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Your agent?’

  ‘That’s right. Julius Blacque. He doesn’t normally stay long but he’s trying to persuade me to open a gallery.’ She smiled, and the likeness between her and her son increased. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. ‘He’s of the opinion that persistence pays. It doesn’t. Well, not in my case anyway.’

  ‘And that’s everyone?’ West asked.

  ‘Probably,’ Finbarr muttered.

  ‘Probably? What do you mean by that, Mr Breathnach?’

  ‘Oh do please call me Finbarr,’ the young man said testily, ‘it makes you sound very pompous when you keep calling me Mr Breathnach, you know. And I wasn’t, believe it or not, trying to be awkward when I said probably. Apart from the gate, this place is wide open. There’s lots of hiding places where someone could keep watch.’

  ‘So you think some unknown person is responsible for your father’s death? What motive would he have?’

  Finbarr laughed. ‘Tell him Eamonn,’ he said.

  Sylvia shook her head. ‘Oh do shut up, Finbarr. This isn’t the time for your warped sense of humour.’ She sat forward, cutting him off. ‘What my darling son means, Sergeant, is that my husband was much better at making enemies than friends and there are a number of people who will not grieve when they hear he has died. How many of that number would have done the act themselves? I have no idea.’

  Telling the truth or muddying the waters, at this stage, West wasn’t sure. ‘Where were you around the time he died?’

  ‘In my studio,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘Alone. My routine is very regular. I go in early every morning. Edel brings me in lunch, which I try to remember to eat but otherwise I keep going until I’m done, literally and figuratively.’

  ‘Every day,’ Kelly risked asking. She couldn’t imagine shutting herself up in a room every day, that kind of focus was rare.

  Sylvia slowly turned her gaze on the other woman. ‘My studio has floor to ceiling windows looking out over the Atlantic,’ she explained, and, as if that said it all, looked back to West.

  ‘And you didn’t come out when you heard about the accident?’West asked, curious.

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘What on earth for?’

  Finbarr chuckled.

  West drew a breath. Maybe they’d get more information from the other occupants. ‘We’ll need to speak to the others,’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ Sylvia said, standing. ‘I’ll send them in to you. Come along, Finbarr,’ she added, ‘they can manage without your assistance.’

  When the door shut behind them there was a collective sigh of relief in the room.

  16

  West took out a notebook and scribbled down the names he’d been given. He’d pass them on to Peter Andrews later; get him to do some digging. He looked at Hall who was doing some scribbling of his own. ‘How likely is it that someone was hiding out, keeping watch as Breathnach suggested?’

  Pocketing his notebook, Hall gave the matter some thought. ‘It’s a possibility, I suppose. It was one of the conditions of the planning permission for this house that they didn’t interfere with the ruins of the old settlement nearby, so the walls of it lie outside their grounds. They’d provide suitable cover to shelter behind.’

  ‘There’s only one road in though. So any car would be visible.’ West thought of the road from The Quay. ‘How long would it take to walk here from The Quay? It’s what, four or five kilometres?’

  ‘Six,’ Hall said. ‘I’ve walked it before. It takes about an hour.’

  West frowned. A determined person wouldn’t balk at an hour’s
walk. ‘Could someone have berthed there without raising eyebrows?’

  ‘Nobody monitors who comes and goes, if that’s what you mean,’ Hall said. ‘There was never any reason to.’

  ‘If a boat remained there a few days, would nobody comment?’

  Hall shook his head. ‘Why would they?’

  So an unknown assailant could have sailed to the island, walked the six kilometres and watched and waited for an opportunity to kill Eoin Breathnach. But why? Surely it would have been easier to have killed him in Dublin or London or any of the other places he was reputed to spend time. Why here? And why now? No, West decided, it was much more likely to be someone closer to home. Then another thought popped into his head. ‘What’s the population of Clare Island, Eamonn?’

  ‘About two hundred, usually. More in the summer,’ he answered and then, nodding, added, ‘So it could be someone who lives on the island.’

  ‘We’ll keep an open mind,’ West said. And then, remembering something else that Breathnach had said, he asked, ‘What did Finbarr mean when he said, tell them, Eamonn?’

  Garda Hall shrugged. ‘There’s little to talk about on the island so the conversation turns to the more colourful inhabitants. Listening to the gossip is part of my job. It keeps me in the loop as to what’s going on. I’ve already told you what I’ve heard, it isn’t much.’

  There was something more, West felt sure of it. Suddenly he felt very much the outsider among these people.

  A few minutes later, the door opened and a round, pretty face looked around its edge. ‘Sylvia told us you wanted to speak to us,’ the woman said, coming into the room, followed closely by a balding man of the same height. ‘I’m Penny Tilsdale, and this is my husband, Roger.’

  ‘Please come in, take a seat,’ West said, and quickly made introductions, this time introducing Eamonn Hall and Kelly Johnson without adding qualifications, leaving the couple to think what they wanted. Eamonn’s uniform made it clear who he was, if they chose to believe Kelly was a plain-clothes detective, well so be it.

  ‘Eoin Breathnach was a friend of yours I believe. Our condolences on your loss.’

  The corners of Penny’s mouth drooped and she reached, rather dramatically West thought, for her husband’s hand. ‘It was such a shock,’ she managed to say before holding her free hand over her mouth and squeezing out a tear.

  Silent until now, Roger put his arm around her and said, ‘It’s been awful, just awful. Poor Sylvia, we’re determined to stay as long as we can to support her through this terrible business. That son of hers is no use at all.’

  ‘You may already know, but we are treating Eoin Breathnach’s death as murder.’

  ‘Finbarr told us. Obviously, we were very shocked.’

  ‘Had you known the deceased for long?’ West asked.

  ‘Years,’ Roger replied. ‘Nearly twenty, I’d guess. We met on a flight to somewhere or other, got chatting, hit it off, discovered we were staying in the same hotel, and had dinner together a few times. We’ve kept in touch since. I was best man at his wedding.’

  ‘Was this a planned visit or spur of the moment?’

  ‘Gosh, it was planned, months ago. You couldn’t call on him on a spur of the moment basis; you’d never know where he was. Eoin has...had...been asking us to visit here since this place was built but work commitments,’ he shrugged, ‘you know how it is.’

  ‘What do you do, Mr Tilsdale?’ West asked.

  ‘I’m in the accommodation business,’ he said vaguely.

  West didn’t bother to try pin him down, they’d find out exactly what that meant when Andrews did his nosing around. ‘I see. Do you know if he was worried about anything in particular?’

  Tilsdale shrugged. ‘He wasn’t the worrying kind of man. If something annoyed him, he dealt with it.’

  ‘Was there anything in particular that annoyed him? Anything recently? Dealt with it is fairly vague and encompassing.’ Also rather worrying, West thought.

  Roger rubbed a hand over his bald head. ‘I didn’t mean anything in particular. Just that he wasn’t the kind of man who let things slide, you know? It’s like when he was having this place built, all the windows were to be triple-glazed but the company messed up and delivered double-glazed. They promised to have them remade but he told them they’d lost the opportunity, and he took his business elsewhere. That’s the kind of man he was. He didn’t believe in this three-strike business. They had one-shot, they failed and were out.’

  West made a mental note to look into the company who lost out. He didn’t know how many rooms Toormore House had but he guessed they were talking about a serious amount of money for the manufacture of the windows, and a hell of a lot more for transport. ‘That attitude wouldn’t have made him a lot of friends.’

  Tilsdale gave a snort. ‘Eoin’s motto was, have money, have friends. Believe me, Sergeant, there were always plenty of hangers-on.’ He gave his wife a side-ways glance and then leaned closer and said in a lowered voice. ‘Especially of the female variety, if you get my drift.’

  West nodded, hiding the distaste he felt at the other man’s less than subtle hint, regretting the need to follow the line of inquiry. ‘Was there anyone in particular, Mr Tilsdale? Anyone with a grudge, perhaps?’

  The man snorted again, loudly. ‘That’s another thing Eoin used to say, you know, have money, have grudges. He was a very witty man.’ Meeting West’s unamused eyes, he put on a more serious expression. ‘People in business collect grudges like flypaper collects flies.’

  West had had enough. There was just one more question to ask. ‘Where were you both on the morning he was killed?’

  Tilsdale nodded as if it was the question he was waiting for. ‘We had a late breakfast, then sat in here and read until lunchtime. After lunch, we were just about to head for a walk when Edel told us the news.’

  ‘We were devastated,’ Penny said, her voice thick with tears, her eyes fixed on West’s face.

  West nodded. ‘You didn’t hear or see anything out of the ordinary then?’

  Both the Tilsdales shook their heads and then, almost in unison, said, ‘Nothing.’

  Standing to indicate the interview was over, West said. ‘Thank you. We may have more questions at a later date.’ He handed them a card. ‘Just in case something comes to you later.’ He waited until the door closed behind them before turning to the others, and asking, ‘What did you make of them?’

  ‘He’s a little on the obnoxious side, isn’t he?’ Kelly said. ‘I wonder exactly what it is he does for a living, he was being very vague.’

  Hall agreed. ‘He didn’t paint a very pleasant picture of Eoin either, did he? Obviously birds of a feather.’

  Ignoring their comments, West said, ‘You’d better find out the name of that window company, Eamonn. The maintenance man may know it. We’ll need to follow that up.’ Standing, he stretched, and walked to the window. The sky was still grey and ominous but it looked as though the rain had stopped. ‘We’ll talk to the rest later,’ he said, turning around, ‘let’s have a look around outside while we can. We need to find that murder weapon.’

  Outside, the rain had indeed stopped but huge drops falling from the eaves of the house and trees along the narrow pathway forced them to duck and dive as they walked to the pond.

  They entered the clearing one at a time, Kelly following Hall’s rain-soaked back. She was just about to comment on the rain and its after-effects when she heard his barely disguised gasp. West, following quickly behind her, heard it too and reached out to hold her still. ‘Wait,’ he said firmly and stepped past her to join Hall.

  The Lampreys, floating on the surface of the water, their eyes opaque, their round sucker-like mouths gaping open, made a macabre sight. Macabre, but not dangerous. Looking behind him, West nodded to Kelly. ‘It’s the Lampreys. It’s not a pretty sight.’

  Kelly joined him, putting a hand on his arm. ‘How awful,’ she said grimacing.

  Hall, recovering quickly form his
first impulsive reaction, said, ‘We need to get one for Bill.’ And then, with a shudder, added, ‘I bet they stink too.’

  ‘I bet if you ask the housekeeper, she’ll be able to get you some kind of box to put one in,’ West suggested, glad he wasn’t going to be the one who had to fish one out and transport it. ‘Meanwhile,’ he said, putting the Lamprey’s to one side, ‘let’s see if we can find anything that would serve as a weapon.’

  The undergrowth was lush, tangled, wet and crawling. ‘Yuck,’ Kelly said, more than once as she moved fronds, branches and leaves aside, disturbing the creatures living there. ‘God, I hate woodlice,’ she said, dropping the branch she had picked up back onto a teeming mass of them. Stepping away, she backed into a small tree and almost tripped over the stake that supported it. Shaking her head at her clumsiness, she was about to move on with her search when she noticed something. The stake wasn’t attached to the tree.

  ‘Mike,’ she called loudly, looking around for him. It was Hall who responded first. He made his way over to her. ‘What do you think?’ she said, pointing to the stake.

  He bent to have a closer look, straightening when West joined them. ‘You said she’d be useful,’ he said with a grin. ‘You were right; I think she’s found our murder weapon.’

  West’s eyebrows rose and he moved closer to get a better look. ‘It fits the size and shape we’re looking for,’ he agreed. Taking out his phone, he took several photos before pulling a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and grabbing hold of it. It came away with little effort. ‘Not much of a stake, is it?’ he said. ‘It should have been attached with twine or something.’ Peering closely at the square, flat top of the stake, he imagined he saw blood and skin, but he guessed there wasn’t any, the rain would have washed anything visible away. But microscopic evidence would still be there. ‘Someone pulled it up, used it to push Breathnach in and then just shoved it back in.’

  Hall nodded. ‘Seems likely.’

  ‘Do you have an evidence bag big enough for this,’ West asked. The stake was about four feet long. ‘If not we’ll have to improvise.’ Remembering the transport of Breathnach’s body, he sincerely hoped Hall had a well-equipped boot.