As we had grown older, though, we had begun to recognize our similarities more clearly, and accept one another a little better because of it. If Tom was stubborn, then he was no more so than I. And in him I saw reflected my own determination to do my best, though Tom carried with that a good-heartedness that made those who knew him well love him well.
Afterwards Debbie and I sat and watched a movie. She lay stretched on the settee, her legs on my lap, wriggling her toes in a vain request for a foot rub.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said, though privately my thoughts were with Fearghal Bradley, who would be sitting vigil that night by his brother’s coffin.
Chapter Fifteen
Monday, 16 October
The church was almost full by the time I arrived that morning. In fact I’d had difficulty getting a parking space, for the street outside was lined with cars and several camper vans.
I recognized a number of the people in the congregation. Fearghal stood at the front, Linda Campbell in the pew behind him. The crusties had gathered to one side and I noticed the older man, Peter, with whom I had spoken on Saturday. He nodded over at me solemnly, his greyed hair tied back from his face. I scanned the pews for An Garda representatives but saw none.
Tom had told me he would meet me in the churchyard, though he had yet to arrive. I did, however, spot someone unexpected. Ted Coyle stood near the back doors, dragging a last pull from a rolled cigarette before the funeral started. His arm was in a cast and he leant on a crutch. I approached him on the pretext of needing a light for my own cigarette.
‘You’re that cop,’ he said.
‘That’s right. You’re the nutcase that started the gold rush.’
He bowed slightly. ‘Guilty as charged.’
‘I was sorry to hear about the attack you suffered. You were mugged, is that right?’ I asked as he held out a lit match.
He snorted dismissively while I puffed on my smoke to get it lit. ‘So they say.’
‘Who?’
‘Your crowd. It was no mugging. I caught them in my tent. They took my water. Not my gold piece; just my water.’
‘What water?’ I asked.
At that moment, the choir inside broke into song and the service began just as Tom came running up the church driveway towards us.
‘We’ll speak later,’ I said to Coyle, nipping the tip off my cigarette, though not quickly enough to prevent Tom saying, ‘Still smoking, I see,’ as we made our way back inside.
The service was more ceremonial than I had expected. Fearghal had never been particularly observant and I knew Leon had little interest in organized religion, though I suspected he had been spiritual in the manner of one who sees God in the forest, or in rivers.
The priest spoke about Leon affectionately. He commended him on his stance on the environment and the principled stand he had taken against war and aggression.
‘Have you arrested anyone for this yet?’ Tom whispered, as we sat during the offertory.
I shook my head.
‘Any suspects?’‘A few.’
‘Did you tell me he was playing around with a married woman?’
I nodded and attempted to look disapproving at his raising the topic at the funeral.
‘Is she here?’ Tom went on, regardless.
‘She’s dead too.’
‘Jesus Christ. Were they together when they died?’
I shook my head.
‘Was it over their affair?’ he persisted.
I glanced sideways at my brother. Though he was younger than me, the years had worn us equally. His hair was thinning a little, his midriff widening.
‘Possibly,’ I said.
Fearghal had helped carry the cruets of water and wine to the altar. The priest was adding a drop of water to the wine, in remembrance of the water that had mixed with the blood of Christ as it ran down his side. But Fearghal didn’t see this. His head was turned, one of his hands resting on the lid of his brother’s coffin, his tears running freely down his cheeks. I placed my hand momentarily on my brother’s, before some impulse drove us both to straighten up and simultaneously fold our arms.
At the end of Mass, the priest led the procession down the aisle and out into the autumn sunlight, swinging the thurible, the smell of incense sweet and heady in the still air of the church. Tom and I waited to join the back of the procession. As Fearghal passed, Leon’s coffin heavy on his shoulders, he looked in our direction. He saw Tom and seemed unable to catch his breath. The pallbearer next to him must have sensed this, for his grip on Fearghal’s shoulder tightened.
Outside, Tom went over to speak to Fearghal while I hunted out Coyle. I wanted to know what he had meant when he’d said his water had been taken. I also wanted to find out what Janet Moore had been speaking to him about the day I saw her out at the Carrowcreel.
He was standing with a few of the crusties, including Peter, sharing a match to light their cigarettes. Someone must have said something for they turned and looked at me as I approached.
‘I’d like to finish that conversation, Mr Coyle,’ I said, taking out my own cigarettes.
He squinted against the light, then nodded.
‘Tell him nothing,’ one of the crusties muttered.
‘You were saying you didn’t believe the attack on you was a mugging. Is that right?’
He nodded vigorously. ‘They took the water from my tent. I’ve been collecting it for weeks.’
I began to suspect that his reputation as an eccentric was not exaggerated.
‘What water?’
‘I’ve seen things since I’ve been there. Changes. That’s how I got friendly with Leon. I told him and he said he knew someone who could help.’
I was lost in the conversation and said as much. ‘You need to explain to me what you’re talking about,’ I said.
‘The dead fish,’ he stated with exasperation.
Since his arrival, weeks ago, Coyle had noticed an increasing number of dead fish floating downstream. At first it had been one every few days. Now he was seeing a couple per day. He figured that there must be something wrong with the water and had begun collecting samples, taken each day from different parts of the river. One day, as he was collecting a sample, he realized he was being watched by Leon Bradley, and he had told him that he believed the river was being polluted. Leon had told him he thought he knew someone who could help him; a few days later, he introduced Coyle to Janet Moore. Leon reckoned the pollution in the river must have been coming from Orcas, which lay a mile or two upstream. Janet had said she would run a story on it, if it were true. She had taken one water sample from Coyle for testing and had promised to get back to him.
‘I’m still waiting for her to call,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have a long wait,’ I said.
Tom came back to our house for dinner. The kids were delighted to see him, their only uncle, and even happier when he produced presents. For a few hours, I tried to forget about the events of the past weeks. I reminded myself that I was suspended. Yet I watched the clock frequently, wondering when I would get a chance to phone Nuala and find out whether or not she had met Janet on Friday night and, if so, where. Belfast was almost two hours’ drive away, so it was unlikely Janet would have met Leon at 8 p.m.
After dinner, Tom and I stood outside the back door so I could have a cigarette. He sat on the doorstep, far enough away from me to avoid the smoke but close enough for me to see his look of disapproval.
‘You’re going to kill yourself with those, you know,’ he said. ‘And you with a young family.’
‘I got shot at a few weeks ago,’ I said.
‘Jesus. Were you hurt?’
I shook my head, took a final drag of my cigarette and stepped on the butt.
‘Does Debbie not worry about you?’
‘I’m sure she does. It doesn’t happen that often, to be honest.’
‘Still and all, Ben, you have a family. Maybe you
should be taking it a bit easier. Look after yourself, you know.’
‘What about you?’ I asked, keen to change the subject. ‘Still with What’s-her-name?’
‘Emma? Nah.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Was it serious?’
He smiled up at me. ‘The fact you don’t know her name should tell you.’
‘Fair enough.’ Tom had been in a long-term relationship which had ended just under a year ago. Since then he had drifted restlessly through a string of one-night stands and short-term romances.
‘Are you OK? With things, you know?’
He arched an eyebrow, feigned nonchalance. ‘I’m fine. It’s you I’d be worried about.’
‘Nothing’s going to happen to me.’
‘I’m sure Leon Bradley thought the same thing,’ he said, standing up and opening the kitchen door to go back inside.
Tom left just after nine and we got Penny and Shane ready for bed. Penny had begun asking God for a new brother or sister – not to replace Shane, she stressed, but so the two of them wouldn’t get lonely. The last time she had asked for something, it had been a hamster called Harry, who had survived for just over a year. Frank, our basset hound, had been on the receiving end of Penny’s affections in the immediate aftermath of Harry’s death, but she had now apparently moved on. Shane, strangely, had become more attentive to the dog, frequently pulling on Frank’s one remaining ear and earning a lick on the face in return.
‘We’ll see, sweetie,’ I said to her latest request. ‘You’ve got Shane no matter what.’
‘Why did God give you Shane and me?’ she asked, propping herself up in bed on her elbows.
‘Because I must have been really good when I was younger, He gave me you to take care of for Him.’
‘That’s why you can’t break any more promises, like the one to that man in the shop,’ she said, earnestly.
‘I’m trying my best, sweetie,’ I managed, even as my stomach turned at the reminder of Natalia and her fate since her disappearance.
‘If you keep being good, He might give you another one of us to take care of,’ Penny suggested.
‘Only if you’re very good though, mind,’ Debbie said, her eyes twinkling.
Penny looked between us for a few seconds, as if aware that there was a layer to the conversation she couldn’t quite grasp. Finally she seemed to give up and simply stated instead, ‘I’m glad God gave you Shane and me.’
‘So am I, sweetie,’ I said.
Chapter Sixteen
Tuesday, 17 October
The following morning I drove Penny to school. As we walked across from the car park to her classroom, she held my hand as she discussed what she wanted for her upcoming ninth birthday. Then, outside her classroom, she met one of her classmates and, chattering excitedly, they walked into the room without so much as a goodbye.
When I got back into the car I noticed a missed call message on my phone. I recognized the number as belonging to Nuala, Janet Moore’s friend. I had tried calling her several times the previous night, after the kids had gone to bed, but each time had been transferred to her answering machine.
‘Is this Nuala . . .?’ I asked tentatively, hoping she would provide her surname, which she did.
‘McGonagle. Who’s this?’
‘I’m a Garda inspector. Benedict Devlin,’ I said. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about Janet Moore, if you wouldn’t mind.’ I wasn’t sure if she knew what had happened to Janet.
‘She’s not got herself arrested, has she?’ She laughed.
‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘It’s a . . . I thought you’d have been told. There’s been an incident. I’m afraid Mrs Moore is dead.’
Nuala laughed once, a snort of derision, as if she suspected me of some prank. Then the line went quiet, though I could hear her breath fuzzing against the receiver. ‘Are you serious?’
‘I’m afraid so, ma’am. I thought you’d have heard.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ The exclamation was punctuated with a sob, then the line went silent.
‘Ms McGonagle? Are you OK?’
I could hear her sobbing, muffled over the phone. After a moment she spoke again, her voice raw.
‘I’ve been away over the weekend. I had Monday off; I’ve only just got your . . . what happened to her?’
‘We’re not entirely sure. Were the two of you very close?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’ve known one another for years. Are you sure it’s Janet?’
‘I’m afraid so, ma’am, yes. I’m sorry.’
‘How did she . . . how did it happen?’
‘It’s being investigated at the moment,’ I said, a little ambiguously. I guessed the PSNI would be doing some sort of an investigation, even if it meant waiting for Karl Moore to recover sufficiently to explain what had happened to his wife. ‘When did you last see Mrs Moore?’
‘Well, was it an accident? Was Karl hurt?’
‘I can’t really say, ma’am,’ I said. ‘It’s being investigated. I can tell you that it wasn’t an accident.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ she muttered. ‘And what about Karl?’
‘It’s being investigated,’ I repeated, more firmly. ‘So, when did you last see Mrs Moore?’
She paused for a moment before responding. ‘At the weekend. She came up here on Friday.’
‘Here being . . .?’
‘Belfast. She came up to the labs.’
‘This is where you work, is that right?’ I said, hazarding a guess.
‘Yes. I’m a lecturer in Queen’s University. Janet called me last week and asked me to analyse something for her. A story she was working on. She came back up on Friday to get the results. I assumed you knew where I worked; you phoned my office number.’
‘We found it in Janet’s diary.’
‘Yes,’ the woman interrupted. ‘The number is new. She wouldn’t have known it by heart yet,’ she explained, though I hadn’t asked.
‘I see. At what time did you meet her on Friday?’
‘After my last class; after six sometime. She stayed up for the night. We had a few drinks and something to eat. To catch up.’
‘Was this organized at short notice?’ I asked, wondering why she would arrange a meeting with Leon at eight that night, when there was no way she could have made it in time if she was meeting Nuala in Belfast after six.
‘No. We’d been planning it for weeks. A girly night.’‘Did she ever mention Leon Bradley?’ I asked.
Nuala paused and I guessed she knew about Janet’s affair.
‘We think she’d arranged to meet him on Friday night here in Donegal at eight.’
‘Not a chance.’
‘But you know the name Leon Bradley?’
‘Yes, Inspector, I know the name,’ she said, a little bitterly.
‘This sample she’d asked you to examine. It wasn’t a water sample, was it?’
Again, Nuala did not speak for a moment. ‘Why?’ she asked, finally. ‘Does it have any bearing on her death?’
‘It might, ma’am,’ I said. ‘At this stage, anything might help.’
‘She told me it was a sample taken from a local river. She wanted it tested for pollutants.’
‘And were there any?’
‘Yes. Significant amounts of acid. Sulphuric acid, mainly.’
Ted Coyle had been right.
‘When will Janet be buried, Inspector?’ Nuala asked, interrupting my thoughts.
‘I’ll find out and let you know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we could meet for a chat when you’re down here. I’d appreciate copies of those test results, if you still have them.’
Coyle, Janet and Leon had all been involved in investigating pollution in the Carrowcreel. Each of them had been attacked or killed within the past week. And it still didn’t explain why Janet would organize a meeting with Leon on Friday night, when she knew she’d be almost a hundred miles away at the time.
I called Jim Hendry and told him I had spoken with Nuala McGona
gle. I added quickly that she had called me.
‘What’s the big issue with you and Janet Moore anyway?’ he asked.
‘She arranged to meet with Leon Bradley. I promised his brother I would find out what happened to him. Someone shot him. If Janet didn’t make the arrangement to meet him, someone else did. Someone who had access to her phone.’
‘The husband would seem to be the obvious one for all this, Ben. Finds out about the affair and cracks.’
‘Has he been questioned yet?’
‘He’s still unconscious. They tell us he’ll live; they just can’t say when we’ll be able to speak with him. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you informed.’
‘What about Janet? Was a post-mortem done?’
‘Yes, Ben, it was,’ he replied with exasperation. ‘She was strangled, pure and simple. No mystery there.’
‘When will the funeral be? Ms McGonagle wants to know,’ I explained.
‘Tomorrow at ten in St Mary’s,’ Hendry said.
‘Did anything turn up from Eligius?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Maybe it was held up in the post,’ I suggested.
‘Forensics were at the house again yesterday, Ben; there’s nothing there. When are you back on the clock, by the way?’ he added, a tacit reminder that I was on suspension.
‘Monday,’ I said.
‘Take a rest, Ben. Enjoy a few days’ break.’
I contacted Nuala McGonagle again and told her of the funeral arrangements. I also suggested we meet at the cemetery after the funeral, and said I would take her for a coffee.
Bleed a River Deep (Inspector Devlin Mystery 3) Page 11
