The Mystery of Sundays Well

by Anne Crosse

  “Put it back where you found it, and we will deal with it later,” Robert said, then left the room and made his way down the stairs.

  Mrs Dillon approached him the minute he landed in the hall, and he couldn’t help noticing she looked fairly anxious.

  “Thank you for being so accommodating, Mrs Dillon,” he said, with a smile.

  “Don’t mind your blooming Mrs Dillon, call me Nellie like everybody else does. Well, not everybody, some do call me Mrs Dillon but…”

  “Nellie, that’s a nice name, is it a shortened version of Ellen or Helen?” Robert asked, interrupting. Nellie the elephant had crossed his mind, but she was hardly named after the said elephant, he thought.

  “Eleanor, actually, is my full name. Strange the way a lot of us aren’t called by the name we were christened. Nicknames and shortened versions become the norm. Dick’s real name is Richard, and Pat’s is…”

  “Patrick,” Robert interjected.

  “That’s a lovely carpet you have on the stairs,” James stated as soon as he joined them. He had done a last-minute spot check of both rooms.

  “It was a gift,” Nellie replied.

  Robert was already heading for the front door, which slightly irked James. He would have liked to have done a bit more probing.

  The carpet was a gift, that sounded interesting. From whom? he wondered.

  “Come on, James,” Robert called over his shoulder.

  “Nice to have met you, Mrs Dillon,” James said.

  “Nellie, though I’m really Eleanor. I told him already, he will tell you if you ask him.”

  “I’m sure he will when I ask him,” James said.

  He would be asking no such thing, because he knew he’d been told not to be bothering with idle tittle tattle which bore no relevance to the case. Everything bore relevance to the case, but how could you get that across to an impatient man, James wondered.

  CHAPTER 12

  “This is like something out of a Charles Dickens novel,” James said in an exaggerated ghostly voice as he and Robert surveyed the mahogany panelled walls.

  The floor was a sea of even darker wood, and the ceiling, not wishing to be left out, was more of the same. It was like they’d just stepped into a very large timber box.

  “Will you look at the grandfather clock? This is just like the old curiosity shop. Any minute now, Little Nell and her grandfather will make an appearance.” Robert stifled a laugh as soon as he made the observation.

  How many trees did they have to kill to kit this place out, James was about to remark when the opening of a door right down the back distracted him.

  “So, you are not too impressed with our premises.”

  Nothing wrong with this old gent’s ears, Robert thought as he made his way towards the man he presumed to be Mr Kelly.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Carroll,” Robert said as he held out his hand. “And this is my assistant, James Sayder.”

  Robert realized his offer of a handshake was not going to be reciprocated, so he dropped his hand to his side and tried not to look too bothered by the rebuff.

  “I know who you are, at least I now know which one is which.”

  “Bring them in,” a voice called out from inside.

  “This is my brother Bob, and I’m Jack, by the way. We have no curiosities here to sell, we just deal in cider. Yellow in colour, made from apples.”

  The dig did not register with Robert, and James felt he had to apologize on his boss’s behalf.

  “Sorry about that, a bit of a stupid remark on our part, but I’m sure you will understand we are all a bit wound up over what’s happened to the Dillon brothers. Please accept our sincere apologies, no harm meant,” James said.

  If Jack was the thinnest man on the planet, his brother was the polar opposite, James thought as he turned his attention to the two Kelly brothers. Fatman and Needleman would be good nicknames for them. He would share his thoughts with Robert later. But then again, maybe not.

  “We want to talk to you about your employees, or should I say, past employees, Dick and Pat Dillon,” Robert began.

  “That Dick fellow was a right article, pulling all sorts of scams. We couldn’t prove it, of course; you know how it is.”

  “Was he stealing money?”

  Needleman delegated himself to be spokesman. “Just bottles of cider he knocked off, which were all probably sold on to his old cronies at a bargain price. But he’d still make enough out of the deal. A right smart lad, that one, up to all sorts of shenanigans, and as for his docile brother, he went along with everything to save himself from getting a beating.”

  “So, how did Mr Dick manage to account for the missing cider?” James asked.

  “He’d make out he dropped a crate and all the bottles broke, which they would do if you actually dropped them.”

  “That was clever,” Robert remarked. “Any other stuff?”

  The fat man took it upon himself to answer the question. “Look, we don’t want to be upsetting ourselves, what’s done is done.”

  “Would the scamming they were doing amount to something like a few thousand euros?” James asked.

  “A few thousand euros!” Needleman laughed.

  “Our accountant is on the ball, he would have spotted that kind of discrepancy, wouldn’t he?” Fatman nudged his brother.

  “He would indeed. You want to see the questions he asks about the petty cash,” Needleman said.

  “What happened to the box of biros you bought last month is his favourite,” Fatman said, and laughed.

  “Are you writing memoirs, he asks – bloody sarcasm. And we’re taking that kind of abuse and paying for it,” Needleman said.

  “The only thing that’s saving him from getting the boot out the door is he’s cheap.” Fatman winked.

  “What we are trying to do is build up a picture of how much the boys were disliked,” Robert said.

  “Everyone hated them. But there’s one who really hates them now,” Needleman said, taking the reins.

  “Who’s that, then?”

  “Counsellor John Hanton.”

  “Why’s that?” Robert asked.

  “Well, now, here’s the thing. The discovery of their bodies is holding up the works that the good counsellor fought so hard to get for the town. Considers himself a hero, no less,” Needleman expounded.

  “It will be held up until the matter is resolved,” Robert said.

  “And that could take years, according to our esteemed counsellor. As far as he is concerned, you two are like the Keystone Cops,” Needleman said, grinning.

  “What a cheek,” Robert retorted.

  “He said you two couldn’t catch a cold.” Fatman added insult to injury and didn’t hide the fact he thought it was funny.

  “Would you mind telling us where this gobshite lives? We haven’t questioned him yet, have we, James?”

  “No, we haven’t, sir,” James answered.

  Needleman scribbled the address down on an envelope he retrieved from the wastepaper basket and handed it to James.

  “Do you know what, James? The Dillons were right to rob them two fucks, Laurel and fucking Hardy, up to the eyeballs,” Robert said when they finally emerged out onto the street.

  * * *

  When Robert and James arrived at the counsellor’s residence, Robert was still fuming.

  James opened the gate and immediately came to the realization that they’d walked in on a huge row.

  The counsellor’s wife was roaring out the top window. “Get out of here, you two-timing toad.”

  “Ella, you don’t understand, let me explain.”

  An array of suits and shirts came sailing through the air.

  “Those are Armani suits and Ralph Lauren shirts,” James remarked.

  “Now, take your stuff and piss off to your pommes frites bitch.”

  The counsellor groaned as he tried to turn his key in the front door. “What’s wrong with this bloody lock?” he said.

 
Then the truth hit him, there was no way his key was going to work because the lock had been changed. It had been a hasty job too, judging by the chisel marks on the surrounding timber.

  “What are you playing at, you silly cow?” he shouted upwards.

  “I’m going to take you to the cleaners, you cheating pig! And I’m not talking about the ones who do your suits.”

  The curtain next door twitched. Counsellor John Hanton glared at the figure lurking behind it with a cordless phone to its ear. “Relating everything to one of your old cronies? You nosey old bag, with your one foot in the grave. Get your other one in, ’cos you’ll be no loss,” he roared and made rude gestures with his finger.

  Robert pointed to the net curtain with the flying ducks pattern. “It’s worse than Old Macdonald’s farm,” he said, nudging James.

  Seething with rage, John Hanton gathered up his clothing and made his way down the path. It was only then that he spotted Robert and James.

  “What do you two want?” he asked. He swept past them and dumped his belongings into the boot of his car which was parked outside. On hearing the front door opening, he rushed back into the garden. “What have you done to your hair, Ella?” he asked.

  “Highlights, Mark did them for me, and he changed the locks too.”

  “He should stick to hair locks,” the counsellor said with a sneer.

  “I’ve got a job as a barmaid. So now I can do without you and the paltry few pounds you expect me to manage on.”

  “Barmaid? You can’t even pour a bloody cup of tea, never mind pour a blooming pint.”

  “Now piss off before I call the law.” Ella scowled.

  “They’re already here, but I doubt they will be of much use to you.” The counsellor gestured towards Robert and James.

  Ella brought her hand out from behind her back. “Don’t forget this,” she said.

  The counsellor watched as she aimed the object at him.

  She did not miss, he realized, as he hit the ground with his head reeling from whatever it was that was after striking him.

  “You’ve hit me with a brick and you’ve probably caused me brain damage, you silly woman. I’ll end up in a wheelchair,” the counsellor moaned.

  Robert and James tried not to laugh when they saw the offending object lying a short distance away.

  “It’s just a block of chocolate, which is ironically called death by chocolate,” James said.

  “He’s some drama queen.” Robert laughed.

  James put out a hand to help the counsellor up, but Robert ordered him to stop.

  “Best phone for an ambulance, we don’t want to be accused of doing anything untoward,” Robert said.

  James took out his mobile phone and dialled the appropriate number. He hoped that no poor deserving person was going to be done out of care while they attended to this overreacting idiot wriggling on the ground. There was something about the snivelling man that he didn’t like.

  “Sneaky fucker, calling us the Keystone Cops. Maybe we should help him up and give his arm a bit of a twisting,” Robert said.

  “As you quite rightly said, sir, no point in getting accused of anything untoward. Wouldn’t be worth it,” James said.

  Counsellor John Hanton wiped the drool from his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, and wished for a swift and sweet holy death. Oh, the embarrassment of this, he thought when he heard the ambulance siren in the distance. Every bloody man, woman and child would be laughing at him before the night was out, and that witch next door with her one foot in the grave would take pleasure in spreading the news, the miserable old gossipmonger, he thought.

  CHAPTER 13

  Doctor Morris made a hasty departure after imparting the news that the Dillon boys had been shot. On further examination, he had discovered bullet holes in both their skulls, and if he was not mistaken, according to the size of the bullet holes, they had more than likely been fired from a small gun.

  He was not one bit pleased at the way the detective had sneered at him. The young fellow was alright, but Detective Carroll was a proper pain in the arse. From now on, he would be conducting all business with the said gentleman either by phone or note, because he was not going to tolerate that rude man.

  Robert turned to James as soon as the doctor was out of earshot. “If we are the Keystone Cops, then that fellow is a painting by numbers coroner,” he said.

  James could appreciate what a difficult job it must have been for the doctor to examine the bodies, seeing they had been dead for a while. The man should be commended for discovering the real cause of their deaths, but, of course, Robert had his own ideas on the matter, so there was absolutely no point at all in trying to stand up for the unfortunate Doctor Morris.

  “Small bullets fired from a small gun, did you hear him?” Robert said, sneering. “Fucking comedian.”

  James nodded as if in agreement, just to save himself from one of Robert’s long-winded rants.

  “Ring that builder fellow and tell him to get his arse in here immediately, if not sooner,” Robert said.

  James took himself off to the phone in the absent Celine’s office. Wasn’t she the lucky one, out in Spain for herself, and not here having to put up with Robert’s moods. Then, on the other hand, she might be the type of woman who would take no shit from nobody. She might be the sort of woman who would put Robert in his place, like Maggie Lehane did.

  Robert sighed, he was sick of this case already. Sick of this town. Sick of everything about it. To distract himself from his negative thoughts, he stared at the blackboard. James had such neat handwriting, he noticed, so unlike his own spidery scrawl. Everything about James was neat.

  Martin Hayes arrived a half an hour later. “Are you having a laugh?” he said.

  “What’s the problem?” Robert asked.

  “You want me to search Sundays Well to see if there’s bullets out there? That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “We need to find the bullets to know what kind of gun they were fired from,” Robert explained.

  “But don’t you have some kind of forensic team?” Martin asked.

  “This is Magnerstown, not Miami for fuck sake,” Robert spat.

  “Miami Vice, I loved that on the telly,” Martin said, and laughed. “They don’t make them like that anymore.”

  “Find the whole thing amusing, do you?” Robert asked.

  “You will owe me big time,” Martin conceded.

  “Listen here, two murders have been committed, and you, my dear fellow, will have to co-operate whether you like it or not. Else, you can be done for… What can we do him for, James?”

  Martin Hayes knew by the look on James’s face that he didn’t know the answer. But then, maybe there was no answer, Martin thought as he proceeded to walk towards the door. Thick as he was, he knew there was such a thing as perverting the course of justice, but that hardly applied in this situation, did it. The lad was right, there was no answer, and with that in mind, he gave the door one hell of a bang as he left the room, and felt a huge sense of deep satisfaction for having done so.

  “You are so right, sir, this is Magnerstown, not Miami,” James said, trying to diffuse the situation. “We can only do our best on what little resources we have, and I think we are doing very well given the circumstances.”

  Robert seemed to calm down a bit on hearing these words.

  “Right, James, chalk that up, will you, about the gun that fired the small bullets,” Robert said with a grin.

  Bullets in the victims’ heads came from a small gun as confirmed by Doctor Morris, James wrote on the blackboard.

  Robert’s mood suddenly improved. “A small gun; was the doc talking about a water pistol?” he said, and laughed.

  “I will google small guns tonight,” James said.

  “No you won’t,” Robert said. “Take some time off.”

  “If you say so, sir, I don’t mind if I do.”

  “What I would l
ike you to do, though, in your own time, is a check up on The Crier. See what kind of stuff they are churning out at the moment, see what kind of shite they are printing about the Dillons,” Robert said.

  “As you know, sir, The Crier was well ahead of the game during the Joubert murders. They knew everything before we did.”

  “Maggie Lehane, yes indeed. Our esteemed editor was so ahead of the game alright,” Robert agreed.

  James cursed himself for alluding to Maggie Lehane. Robert and herself, that is if he had picked up on the situation correctly, seemed to have had a parting of the ways. It didn’t surprise him one bit though, and much as he had the greatest of respect for his boss, he could well imagine that the man would be a terribly hard individual to live with.

  “How the hell that rag is managing to survive beats me. Advertisements, I would say, are keeping it going. If the two fools operating it had a brain between them, they’d be dangerous,” Robert said.

  James did not agree with that analogy. Mossie Harrington was excellent at the job of turning out the paper, and Joey Tyrell the photographer was gifted. He could have gone places if he wasn’t so fond of the cider and the whacky backy, not that there was anything wrong with that, each to his own, as the fellow says.

  “So, where do we go from here, James?” Robert asked.

  “At the risk of sounding cheeky, sir, perhaps a bite to eat wouldn’t go astray.”

  “You have the uncanny habit of reading my mind,” Robert said, smiling.

  CHAPTER 14

  Robert’s first impression of Brigit Barry was that she was an extremely pretty girl. He could see she had good skin, which was why she didn’t have to plaster on make-up, he presumed. Her hair was bottle-blonde but he could forgive her for that. You couldn’t blame her for wanting to look her best. She had a child whose father was dead, so, naturally she was on the lookout for someone else to take her on. Good luck with that, he thought. Not many men would be willing to take on another man’s child. And even if she had it adopted, she was, as the old timers used to say, second-hand goods.

  A young woman came into the room and placed a tray on the table. Tea and biscuits for the guests, Robert noted. Two china cups and saucers. He cringed. He would have felt more comfortable with a mug.