And just like that, he was gone. She puffed out a breath of air as she recalled their conversation in the bar. He’d been down in the dumps, but that was understandable, wasn’t it? He’d just gotten out of prison on a charge that most of the town didn’t think was a legitimate reason to send someone to jail. Put that way, she was surprised he’d been doing as well as he was.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember every word of their conversations in the past few days. She wished she’d pushed him more to tell her how he felt. She had stopped herself, not wanting to seem nosy or pushy. Was there something he might have told her that could have helped her prevent…?
She shuddered and stood up quickly. She knew there was no sense in thinking like that but she couldn’t stop dwelling on it.
She got a glass of water from the tiny kitchen and sat at the two-seater kitchen table instead. Soon she was drumming her nails on the surface, incapable of sitting still. It was as if all her senses were on high alert.
“Why am I so wired?” she muttered.
Sure, she’d had two lattes in quick succession that morning, but that was it. She’d had a huge breakfast that should have taken the edge off.
She sighed and closed her eyes before leaning back in her chair. The front legs came away from the floor and she carefully eased further and further back until her shoulders made contact with the wall behind. It was a movement she had to make carefully or risk sliding off and breaking her back.
“Breaking my back,” she whispered. “Is that what happened to Dec?”
Her father’s doctor friend hadn’t been specific—or if he had, Francis McCabe had chosen not to share the details with his family.
And then she knew. Once she landed on it in her mind, she realised she had known it all along. After all, a thirty-year-old guy doesn’t just die naturally, does he? Except it happened all the time. She sat forward, making a thud as the chair legs reconnected with the floor.
It was known to happen, but she was sure it hadn’t in this case. And then she knew why.
“The guy with the glasses,” she whispered, remembering. So many people seemed so rattled by his presence… except for Dec. Why was that? Who is he?
She reached for her phone and paused, realising what she was about to do was ridiculous. After all, she knew next to nothing about the case. The guards, on the other hand, would know everything there was to know. She sighed—not that she trusted the Gardaí of Ballycashel anymore.
She put the phone down and stood, brushing imaginary crumbs from her jeans.
She decided she would stop mulling over macabre theories and do something useful, like cleaning the floor in the pub downstairs before she got a visit from the health department. It would be just like Sergeant Brennan to set the bureaucrats on her and she’d be ready for them when they came with their clipboards and uptight expressions.
BUT THE UNSETTLED feeling wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard Fiona scrubbed and cleaned and wiped. It took an hour of intense activity before she finally started to feel her anxiety begin to ebb away somewhat. So she was startled out of her wits when there was a loud banging on the door.
She was so numb it took her a few seconds to realise what it was. She jumped to her feet and tore off her pink rubber gloves with great difficulty.
“We’re actually closed,” she called as she hurriedly opened the first door. “We’ll be open this evening.”
She had decided to open that evening after all—to give her something to do, more than anything.
“Ah,” she said, heart sinking. “Sergeant Brennan.”
She’d been lucky, she supposed. He hadn’t darkened her doorstep in a long time.
“Don’t look so pleased to see me,” he snapped in his efficient way.
“Don’t worry,” she muttered. “I won’t.”
Behind him, Garda Fitzpatrick cleared his throat. “Miss McCabe? We’d like to speak to you if you’ve got a moment.”
She nodded and moved out of the way to let them in so she could lock up behind them. “Sure. Go on through, I’ll just lock this back up.”
“Worried about someone getting in?” the sergeant asked. “Have you had trouble lately?”
She rolled her eyes at his ram-rod straight back. “Of course not. No sense in leaving it open and having people wander in thinking we’re open.”
He turned and smirked back at her. “Chance’d be a fine thing, says you.”
“I said no such thing. Things are going well here, Alex, you’ll be pleased to know.”
“It’s Sergeant Brennan,” he snapped.
She moved inside the bar. This was her domain, she reminded herself—he could throw his weight around all he wanted and it wouldn’t change a thing. “Ah, I thought this was a social call seeing as you were so concerned about my business.”
“Unfortunately not,” he said with a tight smile. “We’d like to talk to you about Declan Hanlon.”
She took a deep breath and told herself not to say anything that might stand against her. It was difficult, looking at his smug face across the bar, making himself comfortable in her place.
“What are those ciders like?” he asked, staring at the fridge behind her.
“Sorry,” she said with a tight smile. “Till’s closed.”
He grunted.
“You wanted to ask me about Dec,” she said.
“Yes. We’ve had a number of reports that the deceased was seen here in the hours leading up to his death.”
She winced. “Can you not… never mind.” There was little chance of humanity from Sergeant Brennan, whom she was sure was a card-carry sociopath. Her diagnosis was entirely unprofessional, having been made with reference to episodes of Dr. Phil and articles in the newspapers, but that didn’t stop her from discussing it with her family, who all agreed wholeheartedly.
Alex Brennan looked affronted. He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, we’re here to ask you about—”
“Dec,” she said, holding up her hands. “Yes. He was here last night.”
“Did you notice anything strange? Did he argue with anyone, for example?”
She shook her head. “No, not last night. He had a bit of a run-in with Gerry Reynolds the night before alright but—”
“So he was in here the night before as well?”
She nodded. “Yeah. First time I’d seen him since he got out.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. Christ, she was angry—she couldn’t even think about her friend without remembering why he’d found himself locked up in Mountjoy for three months. “Anyway. He kept himself to himself both nights, apart from…”
“Apart from?” Garda Fitzpatrick looked up from his notebook.
“There was a man. A stranger. Never seen him around here before. He came in and asked for a gin and tonic; got a bit shirty when I said we were all out of gin. Then he sat and chatted to Dec for ages. At first, I thought he was harassing the poor guy but there was no shouting; no aggression.”
“What did they talk about?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t hear.”
Sergeant Brennan snorted. “What, don’t tell me you had a rush of customers in!” He turned to Garda Fitzpatrick, whose laughter was as weak as it was forced.
“Very amusing, sergeant,” she said, struggling not to roll her eyes. “Highly inappropriate given that you’re here to investigate the murder of my friend.”
He stopped writing and looked up at her. “Murder, you say. And how did you come to that conclusion? Did you fit a degree in forensic science somewhere in that illustrious career of yours?”
“Good God, Alex; you’re even more bitter than I thought.”
Garda Fitzpatrick sniggered but quickly changed it into a cough when his superior officer swung around and glared at him.
“I assume it’s a murder. He’s my age and he just got out of prison. Well, is it? Can you share or are you gonna sit there and simmer in self-importance for a little while longer?”
His eyes were narrowe
d to tiny slits. “You know I could arrest you for perverting the course of justice.”
“I know it well,” she said, leaning over the bar, so close to him that she could feel his astringent breath on her skin. “Didn’t you do something similar to Dec and God knows he paid for it.”
The sergeant went pale.
There, she thought. Did it.
She had told herself over and over that it wasn’t worth getting into a verbal sparring match with Alex Brennan, but deciding that and trying to act on it were two different things entirely. She disliked him with every cell in her body and not just for what he’d done to Dec. But he was the Garda Sergeant in Ballycashel now, and like it or not, he held a lot of sway in the place.
She sighed. “Look, I just want to know what happened to my friend. Was he murdered? Can you at least tell me that?”
He wrinkled his nose. “I suppose. Yes. That’s what we suspect, though we’re waiting on the state pathologist. We think it’s—”
She held up her hand. “Stop. I don’t want to know the details.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “That’s all I can think of. That man with the glasses and cap.”
“And you’d never seen him around here before?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Do you think,” the sergeant said, stroking his moustache. “That you could help one of my artists come up with a sketch?”
Fiona resisted the urge to point out that Sergeant Brennan didn’t have an army of artists at his sole disposal. It wasn’t the time. Nor would she have considered making the suggestion that she was about to make if it wasn’t dire circumstances. But it was. She wanted them to find whoever did this to Dec, and she was willing to help in any way she could.
“I can do you one better,” she said, pointing at a spot above the bar. “I can show you.”
7
“IT’S a bit grainy at times, but he was at the bar for ages,” she said, rummaging in the cabinet under the TV for her laptop. “Hopefully you’ll get a still you can use to identify him.”
But Sergeant Brennan wasn’t listening. Fiona pulled out the ancient laptop and stood to find him surveying her combined dining and living room with undisguised disdain.
“You actually live here, McCabe?”
“Yes,” she said, refraining from making a crack about his rich father—just about. “Do you want to see the footage or not?”
His lips turned up in a smile that was gone a fraction of a second later. “Of course.”
She took the seat beside Garda Fitzpatrick and turned on the laptop, trying not to flinch as she felt Sergeant Brennan move right behind her. Thankfully she had shut it down after she’d used it last so he wasn’t able to see the fifty tabs of YouTube videos she usually saw when she flipped it open.
She opened a browser and logged into her camera software. The footage was saved for two weeks so there was no urgency in getting to it. She scanned through the list of filenames and clicked the one that covered the night before.
“Here we go,” she said. “The camera is right above the bar, somewhat camouflaged by the menu board. To be honest I’ve never had to review the footage before, but it seemed high quality when we tested it after it was installed.” She fell silent and watched. The time stamp said three in the afternoon. “Why don’t I speed this up? It wasn’t until later that your man came in.”
“What time?”
She shrugged. The entire night was a blur to her now that something of such magnitude had happened. She wished she’d paid more attention, but how could she have known? “Maybe five? I’m not sure. It was busier than usual.” She caught the smirk on his face. “Can we focus on Dec? You can get your digs in later. I’ll even give you a deferred dig card if you’d like?”
“There’s no need to be childish.”
“You’re…” she stopped and blew out a breath. “I can’t remember what time. But I’ll speed this up to eight times normal and then we’ll see.”
They sat in silence and watched as Dec entered and took a seat at the bar. Mrs Flannery shuffled in not long after and paid Dec no heed as she ordered a sherry and moved to a table at the back. Fiona slowed down the video to four times normal speed. The figures became slower and less jerky.
“Who was that who came in before Mr Hanlon?”
“Noel Cassidy,” she said from memory. “And one of his friends.”
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you realise it’s a serious crime to serve alcohol to minors.”
Fiona sighed. “He’s eighteen. And haven’t you got bigger things to worry about?” She slowed the video to normal speed as someone zoomed in the door.
“There he is,” she said, pointing at the stranger.
At this point, she and Dec had their heads bent together, deep in conversation. In the video, she didn’t even look up. She stared at the screen aghast, wondering how she could have tuned out the sound of the bell.
Sergeant Brennan smacked his lips. “What’s wrong with the sound?”
“No sound,” she said, eye still glued to the screen.
“What’s the point in that?”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s a strange statement, Sergeant Brennan, when we’re watching a video that might help you identify the killer.” A shiver ran down her spine. “Who needs sound when you’ve got a visual? The cameras with proper sound were a little out of our price range. And to be honest, I only agreed to have this installed to keep my mam happy.”
“Ah,” he said, with a voice that sounded like it was dipped in vinegar. “The indomitable Mrs McCabe.”
Fiona bristled. No one got to slag her mother, especially not Robocop. But she was too fascinated by what was happening on screen to call him up on it. Not that there was any point—her mother could take care of herself without Fiona rushing in on her white horse to save the day.
“There!” she said, tapping the screen.
Sergeant Brennan sucked in a breath. She could almost visualise him wincing. “You’re not supposed to touch the screen.”
“It’s my laptop, Mr OCD. Would you look—this is it; the moment where he first makes contact with Dec.”
“Makes contact,” Sergeant Brennan mocked. “Someone’s been spending too much time watching detective shows.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure that’s where most of your detective experience has come from too, Alexander. What’s the worst crime that happened in Ballycashel since you arrived? Johnny Baker’s sheep breaking into Clancy’s field? The kids at the primary school evading tax on the proceeds of their bake sale?” Her voice lowered. “Dec Hanlon not paying his TV licence?”
“Alright, calm down,” Garda Fitzpatrick said quickly. “Let’s just focus on this case without bickering.”
“Fine,” Fiona said, puffing out a breath. Why was she letting him get to her like this? She’d spent years despising him, but she’d managed to remain civil out of pure indifference. She told herself to get a grip.
“Are ye seeing this?” she asked after a few moments silence. “They’re chatting away.”
“Aye,” Garda Fitzpatrick said with a nod. “Still no sign of your man’s face.”
Fiona gasped as the minutes ticked by in the corner of the screen. He was right. Everyone else who came into the bar looked up at the menu or the ceiling or somewhere. This guy, though, kept his head down the entire time.
“Do you think he was deliberately avoiding the cameras?” she asked, astonished. “Like he planned this whole thing out?”
It was becoming more and more likely. They’d been talking for several minutes and the guy still hadn’t looked up. He managed to get off his stool and move out of view without once lifting his face. It looked even stranger when compared to the frequent glimpses they got of the other patron’s faces.
Now, Dec glanced up at the menu and then looked away. A few more people entered the bar. Gerry came and sat beside Dec and they chatted for a while. Dec glanced back towards the toilet.
�
��I think we’ve seen all we need to see,” Sergeant Brennan said.
But Fiona was transfixed. The man was back now, and there was something about Dec’s demeanour that was different from before. “Look,” she whispered, tapping the screen. “He’s jerky now. Agitated.”
He was indeed. His movements were more pronounced. He stretched his arms out and tapped them against the bar rail several times. Fiona frowned. To a stranger it might have looked like a weird little quirk, but she couldn’t recall him ever doing something like that before.
“Did you see that?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the screen. “The way he’s moving. It’s—”
“Don’t read into things,” Sergeant Brennan snapped. “Why don’t you speed it up a bit—I want to see if this gentleman’s face makes an appearance. If not, I’d like you to work with one of my artists to come up with a sketch.”
Fiona did as he asked and increased it to twice normal speed. The hen party came in, taking up most of the screen. They danced around the bar, for half an hour. The strange man left and Dec followed not long after him, as did Mrs Flannery.
“That’s enough,” Sergeant Brennan said.
Fiona shook her head in disbelief. “I had no idea. He seemed to be acting normally that night. Do you think he was deliberately avoiding the camera?”
Sergeant Brennan nodded. “That’s what it looks like. I saw every other face that was in that bar, even the people who were sitting down the back.”
She shuddered. “I think I can describe him. I’m not sure. Glasses. Grey hair and a cap. Around forty-odd.”
“The artist will be able to get that out of you.”
“Have you…” she hesitated. “Have you any other suspects?”
He smiled tightly. “I can’t discuss the case with you at this point. We’ll let ourselves out.”
Fiona nodded and remained seated at the table. She stared at the frozen picture on the screen, with happy faces caught in various stages of laughter and merriment. She hadn’t even noticed Dec leave, she’d been so busy with the crowd of customers.
Apple Seeds and Murderous Deeds: An Irish Mystery Page 4
