by Anne Crosse
Robert eyeballed the pot of coffee and the glass of iced tomato juice. “I feel there is a request coming on, James. Best spit it out so I can enjoy my hangover cure in peace,” he said.
“I know you think my theory is a load of rubbish, sir, but if you could just indulge me this one time.”
“I am listening,” Robert said.
“Could we get Martin Hayes to have a look down the well? Just for the purpose of elimination, if you get my drift.”
“You are like a dog with a bone, James.” Robert sighed.
“I met Mrs Hanton in the post office yesterday and I told her that her husband has done a runner from the hotel. Then, I asked her if he had returned home by any chance.”
“Did she say you were a nosy old so-and-so, and to mind your own business?”
“She was, as it happens, very interested. She told me he hadn’t returned home, and here’s the best bit.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” Robert said with a grin.
“She said she found it odd that the council rang and asked where he was. She said, on reflection, she thought he might have gone off for a few days with his ‘bit on the side’. She wasn’t exactly that nice about it, not that I blame her.”
James congratulated himself on telling two lies and appearing to get away with it. Well, needs must, after all. He was slightly annoyed that Robert had dismissed his theory out of hand, that something untoward had gone on out at the well. James had a gut feeling Hanton had come to an untimely end, but what would he have to do to convince Robert.
“I told you about the disturbance out at the well, didn’t I, sir? I told you about the broken tape, the tyre marks and the mud on the wall of the well.”
“To be honest with you, James, I was half cut when you called to my room.”
Robert stared into the distance after James outlined his take on the situation, and James knew from past experience it was not wise to interrupt one of Robert’s staring moments.
“Get it organized, James. Bear it in mind, though, that you will have to take full responsibility for wasting police time and money if you are wrong.”
“I will get it organized, and take full responsibility in that order.”
“He’ll want payment, the smart Martin Hayes, for searching the well. Strikes me as the type who is always keen to make a buck,” Robert said.
“What if we asked that Mick McCarthy fellow instead? A pint might be all the reward he’d be asking for, or maybe we could stretch to a second one,” James suggested.
“No, we can’t ask him. Hayes would say we went behind his back. He is the boss, after all,” Robert replied.
Yes, he was the boss after all, that was true, James thought. Robert was good with the old sly dig, but this was a double dig.
James knew Robert thought he was a bit too smart for his own good, but he always tried so hard not to give the man reason to dislike him.
Robert poured out a cup of coffee and did his usual milk and sugar additions. He took a huge gulp from the clinking glass, and then picked up his coffee.
“Now, James, I don’t know about you but I am absolutely starving. I could eat a small horse and ask for seconds,” he said.
CHAPTER 22
Martin Hayes resurfaced from Sundays Well looking like someone who had just seen a ghost.
“Spit it out,” Robert demanded.
“There’s something down there alright, and it’s wrapped in plastic,” Martin said.
“Small, medium, or large?” Robert asked.
“Large. I don’t want to jump the gun, but I think it’s a body,” Martin replied.
“For the love of fuck,” Robert said with a groan.
James felt a sense of relief. His hunch was right, so he was not going to get a bawling off about wasting time and money. A bit of praise wouldn’t go astray, but there was fat chance of that. Robert didn’t like one-upmanship, not that that had been the intention.
“Right,” Robert said. “Listen to me, you two.”
James and Martin looked at Robert.
“This time we do it by the book,” Robert said.
Martin Hayes took out a packet of cigarettes and opened it with shaking hands. He held the packet out to Robert.
Robert shook his head. “I’ve given up, yet again,” he said.
“I’d say you are a non-smoker,” Martin said, addressing James.
Cheeky sod, James thought as he felt annoyance welling up. Insinuating he was some sort of nerd. Why you had to smoke and drink to be a real man was something he could never fathom.
Robert held both his hands up. “Now, this time, as I said, we do it the right way,” he announced.
Martin Hayes tried hard to suppress a laugh. He had heard rumours that Robert Carroll and his sidekick were nicknamed the Keystone Cops. Do it the right way, that would be a miracle, he felt like saying out loud. Better not though, the best thing was to stay on the right side of the law, he thought.
“James, you get on to your uncle and tell him we need a forensic team out here, pronto,” Robert ordered.
James fished his phone out of his pocket.
“And as for you, Mr Hayes, you better keep your big mouth shut, or else we will be arresting you for compromising a murder scene.”
Martin Hayes gave Robert a look. What in the name of God was he talking about? He was told to go down into the well. If that was compromising a murder scene, then why didn’t the man who thought he was better than Sherlock Homes go down himself?
“Do you mind staying here until the boys arrive, James? I’m walking back to the station. I need a bit of fresh air after all this bloody shit,” Robert said.
“Well, there’s gratitude for you,” Martin whispered to James.
“I think he meant…”
“He doesn’t know what he meant,” Martin said with a snarl.
James was inclined to agree with Martin, but he was hardly going to admit it. A Judas was something he could never be.
“How in God’s name do you put up with him? He’s giving you a bad name, do you know that?” Martin said.
“It’s just his way, you soon get used to it,” James said.
“Do you know something? I’d give him such a massive toe up the hole if he was my boss,” Martin said.
James laughed.
“I’ve a fellow who thinks he’s the boss. I have to keep my eye on him. Mick fucking McCarthy is his name. He thinks he’s better than me. It’s a cut-throat world we live in now, everyone watching everyone else’s job. Everyone thinking they could do better than the one who’s really in charge,” Martin said.
“Right, you did good, thanks very much, Martin,” James said.
“You, my dear young man, are a true gent, unlike that twat of a boss you have. You know what? You should be the boss, not him.”
“I prefer to muddle along, makes life much easier,” James said, smiling.
“Do you want me to stay here in case I’m needed?” Martin asked.
“No, it’s alright. The fellows who are coming will have their own ways and means,” James said.
“You mind yourself now, and don’t take no guff from him, do you hear me?” Martin said before hurrying away.
James looked at his watch. Hopefully the boys in the white suits would be there before dark.
CHAPTER 23
James looked at the number coming up on his mobile phone. It was his uncle calling, he realized. He had expected this, Robert was being bypassed.
The forensic findings would be faxed to Magnerstown Garda station, marked for the attention of Detective Inspector Robert Carroll, just to keep him happy, and Doctor Morris would be perfectly capable of doing the post-mortem and report. A brief synopsis of the findings was rattled off, and finally came the request not to ring anymore with happenings in that dead-end town. Fair enough; James offered assurance he would adhere to the request, and then the line went dead.
James lay down on his bed and mulled over what he had been told. Acco
rding to forensics, the plastic sheet the victim was wrapped in contained wool fibres, which were identified as having come from a carpet. The victim had been shot in the head, and the bullet was still embedded in the skull. Death was more than likely a result of loss of blood. The victim was lying on the sheet on a carpeted floor when he got killed, was the suggestion.
So, why was he lying on the sheet on a floor? James wondered. The killer hardly said lie down there while I shoot you, and the victim hardly complied.
The best bit was, the killer didn’t bother removing the victim’s identity. His wallet was still in his pocket. And the victim was, indeed, the one and only Counsellor John Hanton.
But why dump him in the well? The killer would have known that John Hanton would be found if the revamping of the area went on. But would it go on with the main man out of the way? So many questions, and so few answers.
James awoke at six o’clock, still fully clothed.
* * *
James arrived at the hospital mortuary feeling awful.
“I have just got a copy of the forensic report,” Robert informed him.
“That’s good,” James replied.
Doctor Morris smiled at James. “We must stop meeting like this,” he said.
James mustered a laugh. Doctor Morris was a great man for the clichés.
“It’s Hanton,” Robert said.
“Good lord,” James said, feigning surprise.
“Bullet from a small gun in the head,” Doctor Morris said, taking centre stage.
“Go on,” Robert said.
Doctor Morris produced a silver bowl containing something that looked like a marinade for meat. “Our man here had consumed a cocktail of alcohol and sedatives before he died,” he said.
There’s the answer then, James thought. He wasn’t asked to lie down on the plastic sheet, he more than likely slid down onto it after drinking the lethal cocktail. Hardly a slippery nipple like the one Lilly likes to drink. But would he not have wondered what the plastic sheet was doing on the floor in the first place? Why would it have been there? Why had he not suspected something was afoot and made a run for it? Why didn’t he detect the sedatives in the drink? Well, you wouldn’t then, would you? Not until they actually worked. Why did he accept a drink in the first place? Was it someone he was used to socializing with? Was it a woman he knew, or one he didn’t know?
“According to the forensic report, there were wool particles on the plastic sheet,” Robert said. “What do you make of that, James?”
“Now, here’s the thing,” Doctor Morris said.
“So, what’s that then,” Robert asked.
“If I might make a guess.”
“If you must,” Robert said.
“We could be looking at the same gun that killed the two boys. No, I will stake my life on it, we are looking at the same gun that killed all three.”
“So, what would the Dillon brothers and Counsellor Hanton have in common, I wonder?” Robert asked.
“That’s for you to find out,” Doctor Morris said as he removed his purple plastic gloves and binned them.
“Thanks, Doctor, you have been very helpful,” James said.
“Yes, I suppose you have, Doctor,” Robert admitted.
“Now I’m off to prepare my master chef dinner for tonight. I am entertaining a guest,” Doctor Morris said, and laughed.
“Oh, what are you having?” James asked.
“Spatchcock chicken marinated in peri-peri sauce; it’s all the rage now. I lobbed it into the fridge this morning. The longer it’s marinated, the better it is.”
“You can get sachets of peri-peri sauce. I’ve seen them in the supermarket. You just put the chicken into a plastic bag and add the sauce,” James said.
“Oh God, no. I make my own,” Doctor Morris said.
Robert eyed the contents of the silver bowl and had a disgusting thought.
“I expect you will be visiting Mrs Hanton to tell her the good news,” Doctor Morris said.
“That’s a bit insensitive, isn’t it?” Robert said with a frown.
“She’s a good-looking woman, she will have a queue of suitors lined up at her door, I bet,” Doctor Morris said.
Robert laughed as he and James stepped out onto the street. “Do you think the good doctor will be at the front of the queue at the widow Hanton’s door?” he said.
“He is still the same, always chasing some lady,” James said.
“Spatchcock, yeah, how apt,” Robert said.
Was that Robert’s attempt at making a joke? James wondered.
“There will be no spatch, but plenty of the other thing,” Robert said, and laughed.
“How old would you say he is?” James asked.
“He’s well into his sixties, but what’s that got to do with anything,” Robert said.
“I didn’t mean…”
“Only pulling your leg, James. Now, let’s go and get a decent mug of coffee, and I quite fancy a chunk of carrot cake. Then we will go and deliver the sad, or happy news to Mrs Hanton,” Robert said.
CHAPTER 24
“I know what you’ve come to tell me,” Mrs Hanton said.
“So sorry for your loss,” Robert said.
“That’s what she said too, but I put her straight.”
“Who?” Robert asked.
“A social worker, she said she was, you’ve only just missed her.”
“You mean you already know…”
“That he was found in the bottom of the well, yes, I know,” Mrs Hanton replied.
“It’s standard procedure for a liaison officer to visit the next of kin, and as we don’t have one at the station, a social worker is the next best thing,” James said.
“Did your husband have enemies, Mrs Hanton?” Robert began.
“Do you have a week to spare, and at least ten notebooks to jot down all the names?” Mrs Hanton replied with a wry smile.
“We have plenty of time to spare, and we can send out for a few more notebooks, apart from the one James has in his pocket,” Robert said.
James took the hint and fished out his small notebook and pencil.
“You do know the good man was instrumental in getting those houses between the jewellers and the chipper condemned,” Mrs Hanton said as a matter of fact.
“Can you elaborate on that, Mrs Hanton?”
“Two of the people who lived in the houses had to resort to going into the nursing home. Those poor misfortunates, imagine having to give up the place they spent their lifetime in – heart-breaking.”
“Was it Mary I’s they went into?” Robert asked.
“The very place,” Mrs Hanton confirmed.
“The third man got a heart attack and died; all that stress, not good at all having all that drama foisted upon you when you have got on in years.”
“And the fourth man?” Robert prompted.
“He was lucky his employer allowed him to live in her house.”
Robert knew who she was referring to, but he felt he had to ask anyway. “So, who was this fourth man?” Robert said.
“Mossie Harrington.”
“Forge Cottage is the place where this Mr Harrington is now residing, I do believe,” Robert said.
“That’s right.”
“So, let’s get this straight: your husband had an ulterior motive for having the street closed down, am I right in saying that?” Robert asked.
“Yes, he wants the whole street closed down, or should I say he wanted, to use the correct terminology, now that he is himself past tense.”
“For what purpose did he want the street condemned?” Robert asked.
“A supermarket, would you believe.”
“Was he going to build a supermarket?” Robert asked.
“A supermarket crowd wanted to open here in town, and they were going to give him four million notes for his pains.”
“That’s a lot of dosh,” Robert said, and laughed.
“It certainly is.”
“That left Miss Kneeshaw the jeweller and Con McGrath in the fish and chip shop to deal with. So, how was he going to buy them off?” Robert asked.
“He had a direct line to Con McGrath’s wife, and I wouldn’t put anything past that woman,” Mrs Hanton said, smiling sardonically.
“Hanne McGrath,” Robert said.
“Do you know her?” Mrs Hanton asked.
“I met her briefly,” Robert replied.
“She’d do anything for money, that one. He probably promised her a few thousand quid if she managed to persuade her husband to sell up and go.”
“You have been most helpful. We might be calling on you again, if you don’t mind,” Robert said, indicating the interview was over.
Mrs Hanton took a copy of The Crier from the kitchen worktop and threw it down on the table. “By the way, have you seen this?” she asked.
‘Counsellor Knee-deep in Conspiracy to have Street Demolished’ was the bold headline.
“Could I borrow it?” Robert asked.
“You may keep it, what would I want it for?” Mrs Hanton said, snapping.
“Notice anything?” Robert asked when they left the house.
“Indulge me, sir,” James said.
“She never mentioned the affair her husband was having.”
“Oh yes, what was it she said before she hit him with the block of chocolate that day we called to the house?” James said.
“‘Fuck off to your pommes frites bitch,’ or words to that effect,” Robert replied.
“No, sir, it was piss.”
“What!”
“She said piss off to your…”
“She is probably ashamed, poor woman; ashamed that her geek of a husband strayed from the fold. Her confidence has probably gone underground,” Robert said.
“Low self-esteem is the term used, sir.”
“Coffee, James. My self-esteem is in danger of exploding.”
* * *
“Gerry tells me you have a new boyfriend, Lilly, love.”
“No, he is not my boyfriend, just a friend.”
“He’s a man, and men aren’t friends.”
“Maybe that was the way it was in your day, Grandad.”
“So, who is he, this new man of yours?”
“His name is James Sayder.”
