by Erin Hart
There was another problem as well. The scenario he had just imagined assumed only one attacker, and there might have been more. A conspiracy? Stranger things had happened. In the famous Missing Postman case, several upstanding citizens had been involved in covering up an accidental death, transporting the body and concealing it down a well.
Now that they knew how the man had died, they would have to wait and see if he turned out to be this Brazil fellow. Once again, thinking the name, Ward felt unsettled. Ever since Teresa Brazil had sat here in his office yesterday morning, he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that he should know that name, but he couldn’t place it. Nothing recent—it was something old, unfinished.
He turned to the computer on the corner of his desk, typed “Brazil” into the system, and started scanning the dozen or so items that came up: joyriding, petty burglary, public drunkenness. No, none of those; the first names were wrong. Then he spotted it, and everything came back to him. The case had been one he’d handled himself, eight years earlier, with his old partner, Eugene Larkin. A postman making his rounds on the bog road between Kilcormac and Loughnabrone had discovered a lamb hanging by the neck from a scrub tree at the edge of the bog. Whoever had put the creature there had also cut its throat, and with the blood had drawn three circles in a sort of triangular formation on the ground below. It was just the sort of incident that fanned the flames of fear and intolerance in a small rural place. The killing had been discovered just after a full moon, and a sort of mass hysteria had taken hold of the community. The air was rife with rumors of clandestine rituals and blood cults. Perfectly innocent activities became suspect. When a second animal was found slaughtered after the next full moon, on the same stretch of road and in much the same condition, anonymous tips began pouring in. Ward had taken several of the calls himself, and could still hear the voices: Better look to that Brazil lad, Charlie. He’s a right quare one, he is—a desperate odd character. Not the full shilling, out walking on the bog at all hours. What’s he get up to out there? No good, I’ll promise you.
After the second incident, they’d decided to interview the boy, if only to eliminate him from the inquiry. Why the community had all settled on this boy in particular was a mystery. All that set Charlie Brazil apart from his fellows, apparently, was that he kept to himself, displayed a pointed lack of interest in football and hurling and girls, hadn’t been seen inside the church these last two years, and was seen walking in the bog at all hours of the day and night.
But after the official visit from the Guards, it seemed as though the suspicion and whispering only escalated. Emboldened by their neighbors, more voices began chiming in, a chorus of indictment. One person claimed her cousin’s daughter had seen the boy in nothing but his pelt, dancing around a bonfire. But whenever they had pressed further—for proof, any physical evidence, eyewitness statements placing Charlie Brazil in or near that part of the bog on the nights in question—the anonymous accusers had vanished like mist. They’d all heard about Charlie and his midnight rituals from a neighbor or someone in the pub. For some of them it was proof enough that the animals involved belonged to the boy’s mother; naturally she wouldn’t be interested in pressing charges against her own son.
The last and most violent incident had involved a kid goat. The third time they’d questioned Charlie Brazil with no result, Larkin had tried flashing a few photos from the scene. But the boy hadn’t looked at the pictures, nor at the men who were questioning him; he had maintained his composure, kept his eyes averted, and calmly continued answering their questions, with the photographs strewn on the table before him. Ward recalled that to Larkin, the boy’s lack of reaction had been proof enough of guilt. He himself hadn’t been so sure.
The Brazils were an odd family; that much was true. Ward had sensed a deep disconnect in the room with them—three individuals completely separate from one another, each consumed with maintaining that separation. He recalled the father’s dark expression, the way he’d hung back beside the door while the boy was being questioned, as though he wanted to be able to bolt at any moment. A powerful man, Dominic Brazil was, with hands like two spades. Ward had interviewed dozens of fathers like him, inexplicably silent men whose own fathers had been rigid and unforgiving, fearful of any weakness in their offspring. At least the mother had been concerned about what was happening to her son. Teresa Brazil, the woman who’d been in his office this morning, had looked at every grim photo that day so long ago without flinching. He was surprised that he hadn’t remembered her; she’d impressed him back then with her unwavering support for the boy. After looking through the pictures, she had turned and spoken slowly to him and Larkin, shaking her head. My son could not have done this. As though trying to convince herself, Ward had thought. As though willing it not to be so was enough. It was possible the boy had done it, of course. Anything was possible.
In the end, they hadn’t been able to find a single scrap of physical evidence tying Charlie Brazil to the incidents and consequently had never charged him. After the third and most grisly occurrence, the mutilations had stopped, and the case had eventually been shelved for lack of evidence. Ward hadn’t seen the lad since. He must be in his early twenties now, probably working for Bord na Mona as a ditcher driver like his father.
Ward remembered what he’d been going through himself at that time—it hadn’t been long after Eithne’s death—the night sweats, the fearful dreams of drowning, of watching her head slide beneath the water and being frozen with horror, unable to act. He’d probably been easier on the boy than he should have been. But there had been no compelling evidence. And inflicting needless suffering had never been one of the attractions of his job.
It was both curious and disturbing that the animal mutilations and the body from Loughnabrone seemed to involve similar ritualistic spilling of blood. But was that a connection or just a coincidence? What age was Charlie Brazil—about twenty-two, twenty-three? That meant he hadn’t even been born when Danny Brazil left home.
The key to the Loughnabrone case was how long the body had been in the bog. At this point Ward only had Teresa Brazil’s word for the date when Danny had disappeared from Loughnabrone. Maybe he’d never gone away. Or maybe he’d left for a while and come back, tried to get in contact with someone he shouldn’t have. Ward looked down at the list of known associates he’d been working on, people they might have to interview in the next few days: the Brazil family, of course; Danny’s coworkers at the workshop; his former mates on the hurling team, those erstwhile local heroes turned middle-aged butchers and electricians and publicans. He wondered whether Danny Brazil had been headed to Australia of his own free will, or whether he’d been banished there—and if so, by whom.
When he got back to the office, Liam Ward watched Maureen on the phone with her husband, cradling the receiver against her left ear, and wondered whether he’d ever again have the opportunity to hear a woman’s voice soften like that over the telephone. He thought about picking up his own phone and ringing Dr. Friel. Perhaps she was still in the area, and wouldn’t mind having dinner with him. That was all it would be: a meal and some conversation.
He flipped through the numbers in his diary, and was just about to dial her mobile when Dr. Friel herself appeared in front of his desk. She was wound up about something, but from all appearances, it looked like something good.
“Hello, Liam. I hope you don’t mind me just popping over like this, but we’ve got a positive ID on the second body from the bog. It is Danny Brazil, no question about it. I made the preliminary comparison, and the odontologist just confirmed it; he says there are too many matches in the dental work for it to be anyone else. I have both sets of X rays here if you want to have a look.”
Maureen overheard, and put down the phone to join them at the window. In the ghostly image against the pane, the dense teeth glowed white, the fillings and metal crowns a translucent gray.
“Can you see the missing bicuspid here on the left? And the gold crow
n is pretty unmistakable in both. A person’s teeth have very distinctive features, very individual facets and root systems.” Ward looked, and saw some of the similarities, and was glad there were experts whose obsession served the greater good.
“These are a bonus,” Dr. Friel said, pulling out a pair of X rays and holding them up to the light. “Turns out Danny Brazil was treated for a blow to the face during a hurling match—they tell me he played midfield for Offaly. These X rays were taken at the time of the injury and were in his file at the dental surgery.”
Ward looked more closely at the shadowy radiographs of Danny Brazil’s skull. On one he could see the leather cord still hanging loose around the throat. The soft tissue—the eyes, ears, and the tongue—were gone, the sockets round and staring. It was probably best not to imagine all that was inside us, Ward decided. Not to dwell on it at least. And yet she thought about it all the time, Catherine Friel did. It was her life, the same way his life was thinking about what went on inside people, perhaps in a somewhat less literal, less visceral way. But there were those who preferred not to think about either. He was acutely aware of her close beside him, of the hand that held the X ray up to the window. No wedding band.
“It was great of you to bring these by,” he said.
“I have to admit I had an ulterior motive.”
Maureen cleared her throat and excused herself with a look that said Ward had better be listening carefully. Was his attraction to Catherine Friel that obvious? They both watched Maureen go, then Dr. Friel turned back to him. “I was wondering whether you might join me for dinner. I’ve another case over in Athlone tomorrow, so I’m here for another day at least. I’d love to talk over this case a bit more—if you’re free.”
It was as if she knew what he’d been thinking since the first day they’d met out on the bog. Of course, he’d have to go and speak to Danny Brazil’s family before he did anything else. “I really should—”
“Perhaps another time.”
Ward could see that she was reading his hesitation as reluctance, and he wanted to dispel that notion. “No, it’s just that I should go and talk to the family right away this evening. What about tomorrow?” He felt sudden perspiration on his palms, but was relieved when she smiled.
“I’m staying at the Moors. It’s out the Banagher road—do you know it? There’s quite a nice restaurant in the hotel, if that would suit. Is eight o’clock too late?”
“I’ll see you there tomorrow at eight.”
As he drove out to the Brazils’ farm, the fact that he had a grim visit to pay to a bereaved family kept Ward from thinking about dinner with Dr. Friel the following night—and that, he reflected briefly, was probably just as well. He passed by the Scully house and felt a tug of guilt. Ward hadn’t been to see Michael for nearly a fortnight. He could stop by after talking to the Brazils—but something just beneath his breastbone told him he wouldn’t do it, not tonight, in any case. There would be enough of bereavement tonight. Perhaps tomorrow.
He pulled into the yard at the Brazils’ farm and wondered how significant it was that Teresa had come forward so early to identify the body. He decided to play it neutral and not mention that fact just yet. Better hold it in reserve to see if he needed it later.
One car stood in the yard. The place looked like a lot of the smaller farms in the area, barely able to justify the burden of work it took to maintain. Crowded into an old foundation beside the house, small green cabbages stood in three neat rows. Alongside them ran a dozen potato drills, a few rows of runner beans, and various other vegetables. Two sheds with horseshoe roofs stood at a right angle to the garden, one housing a load of turf, the other a small tractor; muddy hoof-prints, evidence of cattle, tracked across a corner of the yard. Washing flapped on the line, but Ward knew from experience that it was impossible to keep things clean out near the bog. Everything got covered in peat dust—the laundry, the tabletops, the people. Got inside them as well, muffled their speech, their thoughts.
The large single-pane window faced the back garden, and through it he could see Teresa Brazil expertly peeling potatoes with a small kitchen knife. He watched her sure, rapid motions as the long spiraling ribbon fell away and the glistening, naked potato slipped under the surface of the water in the saucepan. Then she looked up and saw him, and immediately understood the reason he’d come. She grasped the edge of the sink and bowed her head. She’d known it was Danny; that was why she’d come forward, after all, Ward told himself. But to have it confirmed, and so quickly, must still be a shock.
She came to the door, and waited until Ward had stepped several paces into the room before she turned to face him once more.
“It was Danny,” she said. The words were not a question.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. We just got a positive identification from the dental records. I’m very sorry.”
Teresa Brazil spoke in a low voice, glancing toward the door to the sitting room. “He doesn’t know I came to you. He doesn’t even know about the body. Couldn’t you just tell him that—I don’t know—that someone phoned anonymously?”
“If you wish,” Ward said. He would go along with that for the moment at least, to see how that simple omission colored things. After all, her husband would be a primary suspect in this case. Always look closest to home when investigating a murder; that was one of the rules.
Teresa Brazil finished wiping her hands. “Let me speak to him first. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps silent on the carpeting.
Ward turned to take in the space behind him, a sort of combination kitchen and sitting room. Blue delft stood on display in a dresser against the wall, and two places were laid at the table. In addition to the potatoes Mrs. Brazil had been peeling, the makings of a substantial dinner sat ready beside the cooker. The room spoke of order and cleanliness, the kind of existence where you knew exactly what you were going to get for your dinner seven nights a week. The radio, tuned to the Midlands station, droned in the background. In the corner farthest from the kitchen area stood a trio of tall sea green oxygen tanks, their shiny cautionary labels warning against use near an open flame.
“You can go in to him now,” Mrs. Brazil said, and ushered Ward into the sitting room. Her husband sat stiffly in an overstuffed chair. One might almost have imagined that, apart from his barrel chest, the man was slowly disappearing into his clothes. A thin, clear tube snaked up to his face, which had the hollow eyes and bluish-gray complexion that accompanied afflicted lungs. Dominic Brazil was perhaps sixty, but looked older, blue veins standing out on the pale hands that emerged from his sleeves, his once-dark hair now a dull gray. Voices tinkled merrily from the television in the corner, but above its sound a faint hiss filled the room, like air escaping from a slow puncture, and Ward realized it came from the oxygen tank that stood beside Brazil’s chair. What was this before him but a man slowly drowning, dying a little more each day?
Teresa Brazil hovered at the door, apparently unsure whether she should stay or return to the kitchen, until Ward said, “I’d prefer you to stay, if that’s all right.” She sat down in a straight chair near the door.
Ward moved to sit down opposite Brazil on the sofa, feeling like an awkward suitor in his collar and tie. Brazil’s wheezy breath grew perceptibly faster, in through the nose, but out through pursed lips, and each exhalation seemed to take more effort than the last. “Mr. Brazil, my name is Liam Ward; I’m a detective.”
Brazil nodded, evidently not wanting to waste his breath in responding when every ounce of oxygen was precious. Ward continued: “I’m here to tell you that workers at Loughnabrone Bog discovered a body two days ago. I’m sorry to inform you that it’s been positively identified through dental records as the body of your brother, Danny.”
Brazil said nothing, but closed his eyes and concentrated fiercely upon each breath. Just as he seemed about to speak, the man pitched forward in a violent coughing fit—a ragged, tearing sound from somewhere deep within. His
wife was beside him in a second, pulling his shoulders back, and Ward noticed once again her smooth, youthful hands. Her husband gripped her forearm, hard enough that Ward thought it must be hurting her; he could see the pain in her face, but she said nothing. At last Brazil sat back in the chair, exhausted, bright tears streaming down his face, but whether they had been brought on by the news of his brother’s death or by the coughing fit, Ward couldn’t be entirely sure.
“I’m also sorry to have to tell you that your brother’s death doesn’t appear to have been accidental. I’ll have to ask you a few questions. I can do that now, if you’re up to it. If not, I can come back later.”
“What do you want to know?” wheezed Dominic Brazil. “He left. Went off to Australia, we thought.” His voice was like a child’s wind-up toy running out of steam. His hand still rested on his wife’s forearm, but she slowly withdrew it, and rubbed the spot where he’d held her fast. Had that grip been just a reflex, a spasm, or some sort of communication?
“When was the last time you saw your brother, Mr. Brazil?”
He thought for a moment. “It was Midsummer’s eve, but the year—what was the year?”
His wife reminded him. “It’s twenty-six years ago tomorrow.”
“You say you thought he’d gone away. Did you ever hear from him after he left home?” Dominic Brazil shook his head fractionally.
“Did no one worry about him not staying in touch with the family?”
“He could be dreadful mulish.”
“Why did he want to leave?”
“Nothing for him here. He hated the bog like poison.”
“I understand he hurled for Offaly, but he was injured?”
Brazil nodded. “After that blow to the head, he couldn’t play anymore. He suffered from fierce headaches. That’s when he started talking about Australia.”
