Murder in an Irish Churchyard

by Carlene O'Connor

  Not a drop of litter.

  Her alarm bells went off. Just the other day she’d noticed litter piled up in the back of the pub. There should be cigarette butts, empty crisp packets, at least a lone bottle of Bulmers. Someone had recently cleaned up every drop of rubbish. It could have been volunteers from the church, given the proximity. But every year Kilbane had a cleanup day, and it was always in the spring. Was Frank Mallon hiding out here? Had he cleaned up first?

  But if Frank was inside, he hadn’t entered through the back. Besides the padlock, none of the windows were disturbed or broken. She hugged the building, inching her way to the front entrance. Ironically, the Kilbane Gardai Station was only a few blocks away. Wouldn’t it be something if Frank Mallon was hiding right underneath their noses? There were only a few street lamps lit nearby. Kelly’s was dark, but the nearby lights were enough to see the front windows and door. Like the back, the front door was padlocked. Too many young ones would sneak in if the door was left to their mischievous plans.

  Siobhán’s current skill set did not include breaking and entering. If she had been on official duty, there would be guards she could call to ram down the door or saw through the padlock, but, of course, she was here simply as a concerned citizen with insomnia.

  She reached the front windows, cupped her hands, and peered in. Between smudges on the panes and the darkness inside, she couldn’t make out a thing. Her suspicions were rattled once again, for it appeared someone had purposefully smeared the dirt from the inside of the windows to make it harder to see in. She was on full alert. Frank Mallon was either here now or had been here. She was sure of it. She just hoped he hadn’t followed through with the threat in his note.

  If only Macdara was here. She was sure he would approve an entrance. She started to pace in front of the building. She went back to the window and tapped on it. It was more instinct than anything else. Maybe she would be able to sense movement. Maybe she would startle him and he would cry out. Her actions were met with silence.

  There was no outside latch on the windows. It was a squat stone building. How had he entered? She went from pane to pane, trying to see if she could open one. It wasn’t until she reached the very last window that she felt it give. Her heart rate tripled as she lifted it open. It stopped after a foot, but it was enough to crawl in. Frank was tall but thin; he could have wriggled through. Before she could talk herself out of it, Siobhán was already shimmying through the window. The front half of her body dangled inside the pub, and her hands searched the dark to find something to hold on to so that she could pull her legs in. Her torch was tucked down her pants—not the brightest move in retrospect. Her hands hit what felt like a bench, so she touched them down and brought her legs in. As she leaned more weight into the bench, a loud creak sounded and the wood beneath her hands caved in, sending her crashing to the floor. She landed with her full weight on top of her hands and cried out from the pain.

  She lay still for a few seconds, fully appreciating the mistake of having a torch down her pants. Paying her dues, as they say. At least it hadn’t been a long fall.

  So much for a stealthy entrance. If Frank Mallon was indeed alive, hiding in here, and asleep, he would probably be awake by now. She clamped her mouth shut, heart beating in her ears, pain roaring through her wrist. Please don’t be broken or sprained. She lifted herself up a few inches, going slowly, holding her breath. She moved her hands. Only a little pain. She brought them up, flexed them, moved them in circles. Oh, thank you, God. She stood, blinking, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the pitch-black surroundings.

  The pub had been closed for the past five years, but she’d had her very first drink here and she knew the layout well. She didn’t want to use her torch, unless she had no choice. It could draw attention from someone outside. If Frank was in here, the killer could be watching. She retrieved the torch and gripped it tightly. In a pinch it could be a formidable weapon.

  “Frank?” she called. “I’m here to help you.” Shapes were now making sense. Most of the red leather seats and booths remained, as well as the oak bar, with the gilded mirror and shelving behind it, and the heavy lamps hanging from above. Any object that could be carried out had already been spirited away, but what remained was oddly comforting, as if the past was right alongside her, instead of far behind. “Frank? It’s Garda O’Sullivan. I’m off duty.”

  Well, that sounded moronic. Too bad the pub was closed, or she could pull up a stool and ask him to join her for a pint. The odor of stale beer hung in the air, a smell she personally found appealing, right up there with the smell of petrol. She began to walk the length of the pub slowly, all senses alert in case someone wanted to sneak up on her from behind. Although guards didn’t carry guns, she did receive training in basic self-defense and combative moves. She walked slowly and had the torch on the ready.

  She was wrong. No one was here. She finished walking the length of the pub and turned to make her way back. He might have been here at one time, for someone had smeared the windows from the inside, but it was as silent as a tomb. “I don’t think you’re a killer,” she said. “I hope you’re okay.” She took another few steps, navigating tables and chairs in the middle of the pub. She was about to pass the last round table, but then she saw what appeared to be a figure sitting against the back wall of the pub, knees drawn up, dark eyes, which seemed almost to glow, staring at her. It was a man sitting still, but his eyes were open and he was staring straight at her. She cried out. “Oh! Oh! You’re here. You scared me.” The man did not move or speak, but continued to stare. It was the creepiest thing she’d ever seen, and she lifted the torch, fighting the urge to run.

  “Why aren’t you speaking?” She heard a moan, and turned on her torch. She saw thick bands of rope binding Frank Mallon’s hands and feet in front of him. A large knot hung just below his chin, as if it had once gagged him, but he’d spit it out.

  “Cant. Talk,” he said. His voice was hoarse. He must have spent his first few hours in captivity screaming.

  “Oh, God.” She hurried forward. “I’m here, I’m here,” she said. He nodded his head, eyes wild with fear, and then relief. She aimed the flashlight at the rope binding his hands and feet. It was tied tight and in several knots. She couldn’t get a single knot undone. “I have to find a knife.”

  He tried to say something, jerking his head toward the bar. “Good idea.” She hurried back to the bar, keeping the torch at high beam. So much for being the murderer. Surely, Garda O’Reilly would agree that this man couldn’t tie himself up.

  She stopped.

  But if she untied him and then called the guards, what would happen to her? Would O’Reilly fire her?

  Of course he would. He was looking for that very excuse. She couldn’t let them know she was in here. She hurried back to Frank and knelt beside him. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”

  He nodded his head. “I’m going to call the guards.” He jerked his head once again in the direction of the bar.

  “Knife,” he hissed.

  Poor fella. She couldn’t blame him. But she also couldn’t lose her job. “They can’t know I was here. They found your note and shut the books on the murder probe. If I step out of line again, I’m fired. I’m going to leave. And then I’m going to throw a large rock through the window. Don’t worry, I’ll aim at the windows away from you. Then I’m going to pull the alarm at the gardai station. I’ll find a hiding space, but keep a close watch to make sure you’re rescued. Will you promise not to mention I was here?”

  There was a long pause; then he nodded. “One more thing. Did you murder your brother?” He shook his head again, slower this time. “Did someone force you to write that confession?” His head remained still, his eyes unblinking. She saw terror lurking behind them. “Are you afraid for your family?” He nodded. “Okay. Okay.” She swore under her breath. “Will you tell me who did this? Will you help me catch the real killer?”

  Tears filled his eyes. He blinked several times.
Shook his head.

  “He has something over you?” He shook his head again. She had no idea what he was trying to say. They would have to wait until he could talk.

  “Does this have anything to do with Greta?” He kept bobbing his head. Her eyes traveled down and that’s when she saw it. A piece of paper sticking out of the pocket of his suit jacket. She plucked it out.

  I do not like the way my brother looks at my wife....

  She stared at Frank. Tears welled and started to run down his cheeks. She tucked the journal entry back in his pocket. “The guards will be here soon. You’re going to be okay.” She hurried out before she could be persuaded by his desperate moans and pleading eyes.

  Chapter 28

  Siobhán was helping with the breakfast service when she turned to find Macdara sitting at a table by the window. Time stood still for a brief second. If this had been a few years ago, she’d be approaching with his usual, an Irish breakfast and a mug of Barry’s tea.

  He gave her a look as she approached. “Frank Mallon was found last night.”

  “Was he?” Siobhán said, hoping her voice didn’t crack.

  “The alarm sounded at the gardai station. When that didn’t rouse anyone, an anonymous caller tipped off the guards to his location.”

  “Lovely.” There was only one pay phone left in town and she’d probably been the first to use it for its intended purpose in ages. She shuddered to think of all the unintended uses. Going above and beyond the call of duty, she was.

  Macdara lasered her with his pretty blue eyes. “Aren’t you going to ask me whether he’s alive or dead?”

  “Of course.” She waited.

  Macdara shook his head, leaned in, and lowered his voice. “What happened to ‘by the book’?”

  “I’m going to get you an Irish breakfast and mug of tea,” Siobhán said. “I forgot how cranky you can get before you’ve had your feed.” She whirled around and headed for the kitchen, trying to diffuse the huge grin spreading across her face.

  * * *

  Frank Mallon had been taken to hospital, although all predictions were that he was going to be released after he was treated for dehydration and a few rope burns. The family had delayed their flights back, and even Hannah remained behind.

  “We’re sorry we accused you,” Tracy was saying to Frank as Siobhán and Macdara entered the hospital room. Frank’s eyes flitted to Siobhán and he gave a quick nod, then broke contact. He hadn’t said a word about her to the guards. She was grateful.

  “He won’t tell us what happened,” Greta said. “I hope you can get it out of him.”

  “We will,” Macdara said. “In the meantime listen carefully, please. For your own safety we are posting guards at the entrance to your flats. We are also asking that none of you go anywhere alone, and that you are safely inside once it gets dark.”

  The group, weary and shell-shocked, nodded their heads. Siobhán bit her lip. Doesn’t that mean they’ll all be locked in with the killer?

  “Cameras have been set up in the hallways and in all of the rooms,” Macdara said. “I’m sorry for the intrusion of privacy.”

  “But one of us is a killer,” Brandon said.

  “I don’t want to stay there anymore,” Hannah said.

  “You can stay in my room,” Jay said. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “How generous,” Tracy said.

  “That’s enough, all of you,” Greta said. “We need to be here for Frank.”

  “Three days,” Tracy said. “And then I’m going home.”

  “Me too,” Brandon said.

  “Three for me,” Hannah said.

  Macdara sighed. “We’ll work as fast as we can.”

  “Three days,” Tracy said again. “And not a second more.”

  * * *

  Frank Mallon was ready and eager to tell Siobhán and Macdara his story. “I was in my room,” he said. “I must have forgotten to lock the door. Suddenly someone came up behind me. They immediately blindfolded me and stuck a gun up to my cheek. ‘Don’t move or scream,’ they said.”

  “Was it a male or female voice?”

  “It sounded male, but I could tell they were making an effort to disguise their voice.” He squinted. “He had an Irish accent too, but it sounded forced. Not natural like yours.”

  “As if he was pretending to have an Irish accent.”

  Frank nodded. “That’s my guess.”

  “You didn’t recognize his voice?”

  “I could barely hear over the beating of my own heart. I didn’t think I was so terrified of death, but you don’t know for sure until you’re that close to the hangman.”

  “Then what?”

  “I heard him place something on the desk in front of me. He told me he was going to remove my blindfold, but if I turned around, I would be shot. I agreed, of course. When the blindfold was removed, I saw what had been placed in front of me. A typed letter. Telling me exactly what to write.”

  “The confession,” Siobhán said.

  “Yes. The so-called confession. I was told if I didn’t write and sign it, he was going to kill me.” He threw up his hands. “What choice did I have?”

  “And then?”

  “After I wrote and signed the confession, the blindfold was put back on. I was then guided out of the room, down the stairs, and outside. I didn’t know it at the time but I was taken to Kelly’s pub. Tied up. I was left with food and water. Two days later I was found.” He did not look at Siobhán.

  “Were you blindfolded the entire time?” Siobhán asked. He was not blindfolded or gagged when she found him.

  “No,” Frank said, blinking rapidly. “My hands were tied in front of me. He told me I was free to remove my blindfold and gag after he left.”

  “Did he wear cologne? What did his shoes sound like on the footpath? Are you sure it was a man? Could you sense his height?” Siobhán couldn’t help it; the questions came spilling out from her. She felt Macdara’s hand on her arm.

  Frank held his head as if it hurt. “I was terrified. One never knows until death has you in its jaws how you’ll react. I couldn’t think, let alone see. I felt him more than anything. I can’t possibly guess his height, since I was blindfolded, and I didn’t smell him.”

  He was getting annoyed at the questions.

  “Why you?” Siobhán said.

  “Perhaps I was an easy target?” he ventured. “History repeating itself? Poetic justice? And everyone believed, didn’t they? His plan worked perfectly. Except, of course, he didn’t count on me being found.” His eyes flicked to Siobhán again, and Macdara glared at her.

  Siobhán ignored Macdara. “Why didn’t he just kill you?” Frank gasped. “Sorry,” Siobhán said. “But it’s a question we have to ask.” Was the killer toying with Frank? Or was there something he wanted from him before he murdered him? Or did the killer not want to kill again?

  “You have to catch him,” Frank said. “Or he might come back and finish the job!”

  Macdara shifted and looked around, as if trying to pretend they weren’t in a hospital. “We still haven’t found your briefcase.”

  “I don’t know who took it,” Frank said. “But I have something else. It’s not much.” He reached into his pocket. “The man who tied me up dropped this.”

  It was Jay’s business card. The one with the tree. “Can I see that?” He handed it to Siobhán.

  “I miss my brother,” Frank said. He started to cry, his shoulders heaved as the sobs increased. “It shouldn’t have ended like this. Not like this.”

  Siobhán studied the business card. In the top right corner she could see a smudge and a little hole. “What happened here?”

  Frank sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Jay used to have the American flag pin on his cards,” he said. “That one must have fallen off.”

  Siobhán felt a tingle up her spine. They stayed until a nurse came in and said that Frank needed to rest.

  “Wait!” Frank called before they exited. They tu
rned around. His eyes were wide. “I think it was a family member.”

  Siobhán stepped forward. “What do you mean? Tracy? Brandon?”

  “No, no. A descendent of John Mallon. You see, when John Mallon returned to Ireland, he went on to marry. They had a child.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I started to do some research. My research was in the briefcase too.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “John Mallon married a woman named Lucy. They had a daughter. Her name was Tara. That’s as far as I got. I was going to follow the thread to see whom she married and if she had children, but I didn’t get that far.”

  “Did anyone else know you had done this research?” He looked away. “Greta,” Siobhán said softly.

  He nodded. “I asked for her help. She’s good at tracking things down.”

  “Indeed,” Siobhán said.

  “It’s not what you think. Greta isn’t a killer.”

  “It’s not against the law to fall in love,” Siobhán said. “Did Peter know?”

  “No!” Frank said. “Nothing ever happened between us. I swear. There was nothing to know.”

  “We’ll take it from here,” Macdara said. “Don’t say a word to the others.” Frank nodded. “We’ll have a guard on you twenty-four/seven.”

  “Thank you,” Frank said. “And Greta? Someone is watching after her too?”

  “We’re watching everyone,” Macdara said.

  “One more thing,” Siobhán said. “Did you visit John Mallon’s grave recently? Did you place anything on the headstone?”

  Frank shook his head. “I told you, I was kidnapped and tied up.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “We’re here to ask questions, not answer them,” Siobhán said. Macdara slipped out the door ahead of her, but not before she caught the smile on his face.

  * * *

  Siobhán and Macdara stood outside the hospital. It was situated on a beautiful piece of land, surrounded by rolling hills. The skies this morning were a hopeful shade of blue. Siobhán took a moment to drink in the view. “Spill,” he said.