by Erin Hart
His father had stuck close to Eliana ever since Claffey had barged in. She’d found a box of dominoes and had enlisted Joseph’s help in setting up a game. There was such a… what would you call it? An ease between her and the old man, a camaraderie he himself had never shared with his father. Seeing it stirred up a few unexpected and unwelcome feelings. Added to that was a tiny but undeniable concern. The old man was acting as though he knew this girl, when they’d only just met. What if the attachment strayed over the line of what was appropriate? The thought had never before occurred to him, and now he couldn’t shake it. He kept checking on the little scene playing out in the corner, Eliana and his father, heads conspiratorially close as they overturned the ivory-colored tiles. She was so natural with the old man, no doubt blissfully unaware of the undercurrent of familial tension into which she’d stepped. Probably for the best. He turned away and caught the last bit of what Nora was saying to Niall Dawson. “—and the middle finger is quite discolored.”
“What’s this?” Cormac asked. “What am I missing?”
Nora turned around. “I was just telling Niall that Dr. Friel and I wondered whether Killowen Man might have been a scribe.”
“And what made you think that?” Dawson frowned.
“Proper-looking calluses, for a start, and what seemed to be ink stains, just here.” She held up her right hand, indicating the thumb and first two fingers. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And now with the satchel, from the same spot where the body turned up…”
“You’re wondering if Killowen Man might have been a resident of the monastery at Cill Eóghain?”
“Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? I haven’t even told you the most interesting detail we found in the postmortem,” Nora said. “I had a suspicion, but Dr. Friel was able to confirm. He was definitely murdered.”
Dawson sat forward in his chair. “How do you know?”
“Cuts through his garments, matching multiple stab wounds to the upper torso. Dr. Friel said both sets of wounds looked as if they were made by some sort of double-edged blade, like a dagger.”
Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “Both sets of wounds?”
“There were two groupings. Probably too early to say for certain, but it looks as if he might have been waylaid by two assailants. Viking raiders, maybe?”
Dawson seemed stunned, trying to take it all in. “We’ll have to see what else the evidence says. Oh, I meant to tell you, I got through to the textile expert. She’ll meet us in the mortuary at eight, if that’s not too early.”
“Not at all.” The mention of a phone call reminded Cormac that he’d left his mobile in the car. “Will you excuse me for a second? Be right back.”
Outside, the clouds had dissipated, and the sky was almost unnaturally clear. No need for a torch this evening. Cormac went to the jeep and found the phone on the front-seat floor where he’d dropped it. He was rounding the corner of the house, checking for missed calls, when he ran full on into Anthony Beglan. Beglan cursed as he dropped the plate of food and a full carton of cigarettes he was carrying.
“Sorry,” Cormac said, rubbing his jaw where it had made contact with Beglan’s fist. “I didn’t hear you coming. It’s Anthony, right? Don’t know where my mind was—”
Beglan’s jaws snapped together three times before he could answer. “ ’Twas an accident,” he said, the words rushing out in a torrent. “You’re all right.” He was trying to gather up the spilled food, but it was no use; everything was dirt and gravel. When he had the plate partially reassembled, he climbed to his feet and took off at a quick trot up over the field without another word.
Why was Beglan carrying that plate of food? He’d sat down to table and eaten along with the rest of them, so where was he carrying leftovers? Cormac thought he remembered Claire Finnerty saying that meals at Killowen were communal. He glanced down and saw something glinting in the gravel. A key. Beglan must have dropped it when he’d fumbled the plate. Cormac turned it over in his hand. He could feel its sharp edge—newly cut, not worn down from use. Perhaps Anthony hadn’t noticed that he’d dropped it.
Cormac set off, following the shortcut Beglan had taken, over the fields and then down a small lane. He followed the curving lane for about a hundred yards, the last fifty of which was bounded by high hedges. Tucked away and a bit overgrown, Beglan’s farm was definitely rough-and-ready. A foul odor permeated the air—no wonder Anthony seemed to spend most of his time at Killowen.
The first building Cormac came upon was an old house—a water-damaged two-story ruin, its gaping door and broken windows crisscrossed with lengths of baling twine, on which hung glinting bits of aluminum and discarded CDs. Evidently an attempt to keep swallows from roosting inside. The adjacent barn looked as if it had been converted into a dwelling; a power cable stretched between the two buildings, there were patterned curtains in the windows, and an old cast-iron pot sat beside the door. The window beside the kitchen door was open, and a pair of voices came from inside—one male, one female.
“Don’t worry, Anthony,” the woman said. The voice was heavily accented, Eastern European. “I’ll find something else to eat.”
“I haven’t anything to give you. Muh-muh-bollocks barged right into me,” Beglan explained. “Sorry, eeh-eeh-Anca. Got your cigarettes, though.”
The girl gave a mirthless laugh. “That’s good. Cigarettes are more important than food.”
Anca. The name Nora had mentioned at dinner. Martin Gwynne’s apprentice, the one Claire claimed had left Killowen more than a month ago. She was obviously still here, so why would Claire lie? If the girl was a foreign national, maybe her papers weren’t in order. That could get a bit dicey, with the police everywhere, digging into everything at the farm. Whatever the immigration rules were for Eastern Europe these days, they weren’t likely very strict. Dublin was still full to bursting with Romanians and Bulgarians and Poles, although some had legged it off home when the Irish economy soured.
He looked down at the key in his hand. Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t make himself known. Not his business, any of this. He edged up to the door and set the key gently on the threshold, moving away silently the same way he’d come. One of them was bound to find it there, and he’d have discharged his duty. He felt guilty for ruining the girl’s dinner. She’d go hungry, and all because he’d been fixed on the bloody phone and hadn’t looked where he was going.
He found Niall and Nora still in the sitting room. They had cracked open the bottle of twelve-year-old whiskey from the side table. Nora looked up, and Cormac tipped his head at the corner where Eliana and his father had been. “Gone to bed already?”
“Yes. Your father was tired, so I helped Eliana get him settled. You were gone a long time.”
“Oh, yes, found my phone right where I dropped it. But then I ran into Anthony Beglan—literally, ran smack into him in the car park. Completely destroyed the plate of parmigiana he was carrying home.”
“So that’s how you got tomato sauce on your face?” Nora’s eyes glinted as she directed him to his left eyebrow. “Just there.”
“What? Oh.” Cormac touched his own forehead and brought away a small splodge of red sauce. “I guess it must have—” He looked around for something to wipe his fingers and finally took the handkerchief Niall Dawson offered. “But that’s not the most curious thing.”
He told Nora and Niall what he’d overheard at Beglan’s place.
“So Anca’s not gone away at all,” Nora said. “I thought it was strange that she’d left half-finished work on the writing table in the studio. Martin Gwynne seemed to regret my mentioning her tonight at dinner, didn’t you think?”
Cormac agreed. “I thought Claire seemed miffed as well, to tell you the truth. So they don’t want us to know she’s here, but why not?”
“The girl’s probably illegal,” Dawson said. He shifted in his chair, looking almost as uncomfortable as Gwynne had been at the dinner table.
“I thought of that,” C
ormac admitted. “But even if that is the case, they’re going to an awful lot of trouble to hide her, from us or from the police.”
Nora asked, “Did you ever meet the girl, Niall? She must have been here when you came last April.”
Cormac studied Dawson, watching his friend’s expression subtly change in response to Nora’s gentle probing.
“I don’t really remember,” Niall said. “I was only here briefly.”
Cormac thought back to the intimacy of the dinner table tonight. How could you forget the people you’d broken bread with at that table, even if it was a few months past? Nora seemed to register a touch of disbelief as well. “Come on, Niall, how could you not remember?”
“Well I don’t.”
Nora shot him a questioning glance, but Cormac signaled her with a tiny frown to drop it. Something was not right. He’d have to take up this subject with Niall when they were alone.
15
At nine o’clock on Friday night, Stella Cusack was at home watching the first of several digital videos she had requested from the RTÉ archives—Benedict Kavanagh’s chat show. The format featured an intellectual duel, each guest challenging the host over philosophical points that had about as much to do with any ordinary person’s life as how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. After twenty minutes or so, all the blather about “being” and “nonbeing” made her head ache. No surprise at all that the debaters were men, who evidently had time to sit around and think deep thoughts while their wives were at home managing the house and the children and the cooking and every-feckin’-thing else.
Still, it wasn’t difficult to understand people’s attraction to Kavanagh. He had a kind of effortless grace, a full head of hair just unkempt enough so that you knew he wasn’t vain—at least not in that way. Kavanagh seemed to focus on his guests, to take in and process what they were saying. Each guest would fall under his spell, relaxing into easygoing, spirited conversation. Which made it all the more surprising when the smiling host suddenly went on the attack at the end of the program.
Stella began running the video again, fast-forwarding through the arguments, instead focusing on what interested her, which was Kavanagh’s body language and that of his guests. If gamblers had their tells, so did philosophers, apparently. At some point in each of the debates, Kavanagh would purse his lips and wait a few moments, then interrupt whoever was speaking and cut him off at the knees. She watched another three videos, fast-forwarding through the chat just to watch the body language, and it happened at the same time in each one. It was as though Kavanagh knew exactly when to stop the discussion and make his fatal thrust before the credits rolled. She studied the faces of the guests as their host cheerily signed off: fuming at their own impotence, trying to make nice for the sake of the audience, but ready to strangle the man as soon as they got off camera. Had anybody ever thrown a punch at the studio? Easy enough to find out. Stella thought back to her conversation with Mairéad Broome. Did Kavanagh resort to the same tactics in the inevitable marital disagreements? Barry Cusack, for all his faults, had never made her feel like murdering him because he could lap her in an argument. But if Benedict Kavanagh was capable of outmaneuvering his brainy professional colleagues, what might he have done in a spat with the wife? Not forgetting the live-in assistant who might have rushed to her aid.
Stella dialed Fergal Molloy. She could hear music in the background as he picked up and remembered that it was Friday night. He probably had some girl at his flat.
“Sorry to bother you, Fergal—”
“No, it’s fine.” The volume of the music dropped.
“I was going through the archives of Kavanagh’s television program and wondered if you’d found out any more about the land records.”
“Have you had dinner?”
“No, actually, I started in on these—”
“Because I could pop round, pick up a curry, and we could go over a few things. What’s your usual?”
Stella surprised herself with a quick response: “Saag chicken and garlic naan.”
When she hung up, Stella was taken aback at what had just transpired. They’d sometimes stayed late at the office, going over case notes, but Molloy had never volunteered to bring dinner before. Was she missing something? And was the house presentable enough to receive a guest? She jumped up to clear away the few pieces of dirty crockery that tended to pile up in the sink when she was home alone, and then turned to the files that were spread across the kitchen table. Finally, she checked the fridge and found some bottles of ale still there from a few months back. That was fine—Smithwick’s was rather good with Indian.
Just then the bell went, and she opened the door to find her partner laden with a file tucked under one arm and two carrier bags full of take-away containers. “Didn’t realize your flat was so near,” she said.
“All right, I confess, I was in the car when you rang. Going for curry on my own.”
She showed him to the kitchen and they began unloading the food. “And here’s me, thinking you’d have someplace to go on a Friday night, somewhere a bit more exciting than going over case notes.”
“And if I was looking forward to it?”
“Then you are officially a pathetic human being.” The spicy curry smelled wonderful. Stella licked a bit of sauce from her thumb and realized that she was ravenous.
Molloy pulled the last package from the bag. “And garlic naan, as requested.”
“Thanks, Fergal. You didn’t have to do this.”
He waved away her thanks. “Best option I had for the evening, by a long shot.”
She leveled him with a look. “You can leave off the slagging right now.”
His gaze was steady as her own. “I happen to be deadly serious.”
A small voice at the back of her head told Stella something had just happened, that she ought to be paying attention. But whatever it was, the moment was so small, and so subtle, that she couldn’t say what it was. She went to the fridge and brought out two bottles of ale.
Molloy sat down to his curry and began flipping through the pages of his notebook.
“Killowen, including the turbary rights to turf cutting in the adjacent bog, belonged to a Thomas Beglan, bachelor uncle of Anthony, until his death at age eighty in 1992. Thomas had no heirs but his nephew, so the whole parcel went to him. Anthony Beglan still owns the land, both his own family farm and Killowen.”
Stella’s interest piqued. But first things first. “Kavanagh’s wife and her assistant are top priority in this case. I found it curious that even though they’d stayed at the farm multiple times, everyone I spoke to this afternoon denied that Mairéad Broome and Graham Healy were at Killowen during the last two weeks of April. And no one seemed to know what Kavanagh might have been doing in the vicinity. But Dawson, the archaeologist from the National Museum, he was at Killowen for a couple of days in April, right around the time of Kavanagh’s disappearance. Odd that he never mentioned it.”
“Want me to check him out?”
“Not yet. Dr. Gavin was telling me about an interesting encounter she witnessed this afternoon: Graham Healy passing a fat brown envelope to Vincent Claffey in the car park at Killowen.”
“Did you get anything from Claffey?” Molloy asked.
“More from his daughter than the man himself, not surprisingly. When I spoke to Deirdre Claffey, she didn’t admit knowing Kavanagh, but she seemed quite upset that he was dead. It’s going to be difficult getting anything more out of her—the father doesn’t want her talking to us. But we’ll have to find a way to get to her again. And it looks as if Claffey’s hiding something in his shed. He made a show of locking it up as I was leaving, almost like a deliberate two fingers to the world. I wish I knew what the hell he’s playing at.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Stella clicked through the list of interviews in her head. “I keep going back to that car buried in the bog. It’s partially drained, so the surface is pretty solid—you can�
��t just push the car in. Someone used a digger. And that’s the thing: you can’t just pick up and drive a JCB—it’s not that easy. Whoever buried that car must have had some experience with an excavator. But everyone at Killowen seems to have things they’re not telling us. I found out that the calligrapher and his wife, Martin and Tessa Gwynne, both knew Kavanagh, or were at least acquainted. Met at a conference in Toronto twenty years ago, some group called the Eriugena Society. Let’s see if we can find out more about that. And maybe you could also get some background on Claire Finnerty and Diarmuid Lynch. He gave me a story about being a farmhand in Spain—I don’t know, it sounded dodgy. Obviously, it would be great if we could take a closer look at everyone, but we’ve got to prioritize. Unless we can make progress—and soon—Special Crimes will pull this one from us.”
“Let’s make some progress, then,” Molloy said. “I’ve been through the missing person file on Kavanagh, and there are a couple of things that don’t add up.”
“Such as?”
“Well, if he was out here in April for more than just a day trip, where’s his luggage? Presumably he’d bring a toothbrush, a change of underpants. But there was no case in the boot of the car, right? So if he did have an overnight bag, where is it?”
“Come to think of it, there wasn’t any laptop in his Dublin office either. But no one ever came forward with those things when his disappearance was in the news. Speaking of, did you put out that photo to the television people?”
“Just like you asked.”
“So maybe we’ll get something. Good work so far, Fergal.” She glanced at her watch and sprang to her feet. “God, will you look at the time? It’s nearly midnight.”
“We’re only getting started.”
“No, it’s time you were off home. I want your little gray cells firing on all cylinders in the morning.”
