by Des Ekin
Chapter Five
THE UNIFORMED officer sat motionless until the room had become completely silent.
‘Thank you for coming here this morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said at last. ‘My task to pass on to you whatever information we have on the tragic killing of Mrs Ann Catherine Kennedy at or near her home at Barnabo, Claremoon Harbour, late on Saturday night or in the early hours of Sunday morning.’
He paused. A technician, bent double, scuttled forward underneath the cameras to adjust a microphone.
‘We intend to be as open as we can with you, and hope that in return you will treat this matter responsibly, assisting us with appeals to the public for information and, so far as is possible, respecting the privacy of the people of this village who have been visited by tragedy. Before proceeding, I would like to extend the sympathy of the Garda Siochána to Mrs Kennedy’s family, relatives and friends at this terrible time.’
He paused. At the back of the hall, there was a very audible whisper: ‘Oh, get on with it.’
The heads of the other journalists turned disapprovingly towards the source of the interruption. But, sitting alone in the back row, Gerry Gellick was busy taking notes and didn’t appear to have noticed them.
‘So, let us proceed,’ he said, shuffling his notes. ‘The facts are these. Mrs Kennedy, a widow of fifty-two and mother of two sons aged twenty-nine and twenty-seven, lived at her family farm at Barnabo with her elder son Fergal. On the eve of the murder, she was last seen leaving a social function at around midnight.
‘So far as we can ascertain, she proceeded directly back to her house. The following morning at around seven-twenty am, as a result of a phone call, a garda sergeant visited the scene and discovered her body on the floor of her kitchen. She had been stabbed more than twenty times with a kitchen knife or similar instrument. At any rate, a long and very sharp blade. At this stage we are endeavouring to establish precisely the time of death.’
‘Who called the gardaí to the house?’ asked a reporter in the front row.
‘The local garda sergeant, Sgt Stephen McNamara, received a phone call just after seven am. The phone call was from Mrs Kennedy’s son Fergal, who informed us that he had just discovered the body.’
‘And do you believe him?’
The superintendent ignored the question. ‘Mr Kennedy informed us that he had come home at around six forty-five am and, on walking into his kitchen, had discovered his mother’s body on the floor.’
‘Were there any other witnesses?’ asked a woman with a Cork accent.
‘None that we know of. That’s where we hope you can help.’
‘Any sign of a break-in?’
‘No, but so far as we can establish Mrs Kennedy was in the habit of leaving her doors unlocked.’
A skinny blond woman who looked about sixteen years old shouted: ‘Was she raped?’
The superintendent looked pained. ‘No. There was no sign of any sexual assault.’
‘But was she fully clothed?’ persisted the blonde.
‘She was in night-gown and dressing-gown. It was very early in the morning.’
‘Anything stolen?’ asked a red-haired man with a Belfast accent.
‘No. Robbery does not appear to have been the motive. Now –’ The Superintendent looked at his watch – ‘now, if there are no further questions, I think we’ll…’
‘How long can you hold Fergal Kennedy without charging him?’ another pressman called out.
The superintendent shot him a warning glance. ‘The official position is that a man aged twenty-nine was arrested at six pm yesterday under Section Four of the 1984 Criminal Justice Act, which, as you know, enables us to detain an individual if it is considered necessary for the proper investigation of any serious crime. Last night, under the powers granted by that same Act, a senior garda officer directed an extension of his detention and it was agreed that questioning be suspended between midnight and eight am for the purposes of sleep.’
‘How optimistic are you that charges will be preferred against this man?’
‘No comment.’
‘Off the record, super…did he do it?’
‘No comment.’
‘Have you any comment on anything?’ It was the same voice that had given the highly-audible whisper.
The superintendent ignored him. ‘We are appealing to the public for any information that may lead to the apprehension of the killer or killers. Anyone who saw anything in the vicinity of the Kennedy house at any time between nine pm on Saturday and around seven-twenty am on Sunday should contact detectives at Ennis, or his nearest garda station.’
He gathered his notes together with an air of finality.
‘Hang on, Super,’ called out a national newspaper reporter. ‘You haven’t told us anything about the junkie theory.’
‘I have no knowledge of any drug link in this killing. But we are anxious to trace a man who was seen on the road between the village and Barnabo late on Saturday night. At this stage, we simply wish to eliminate him from our inquiries. He was heavily built, wearing rough working clothes and a woollen cap.’
‘Age?’
‘Mid-twenties up to around thirty. Witnesses said it was hard to tell.’
‘So more than one person saw him?’
‘Three altogether, we believe. None of them got close enough to describe his face.’
‘Are you checking Ann Kennedy’s will? Was there any dispute over who would inherit the farm?’
‘We are of course exploring every avenue that could lead to a resolution of this case. Every avenue.’
‘What about insurance? Could young Kennedy have done it for the insurance money?’
‘No comment.’ The superintendent scooped up all his notes. The TV tape would have to be tightly edited for legal reasons, he thought. Better have a word with the programme producer just in case he didn’t realise.
‘That’s all, gentlemen and ladies,’ he said. ‘And in view of the tenor of some of your questions, I would remind you that gardaí are keeping a very open mind on this case.’
He walked off the platform. ‘We are, in me arse,’ he muttered under his breath.
There was a sudden release of tension and a deafening hubbub of talk. The television crews cornered the superintendent for individual interviews, and the daily newspaper reporters began talking urgently into cellphones.
Tara closed her notebook with a snap and turned to Andres Talimann. ‘And just what the hell did you mean by that?’ she demanded.
‘What?’ he asked innocently.
‘You know damn well what. “More than a professional interest.” That.’
Andres sighed. ‘You can rest easily, Tara. The secret of your close friendship with Mr Fergal Kennedy is safe with me. I do not intend to publish it. But I do not know for how long it will remain secret, in the circumstances. You should be aware of that.’
Tara stared at him. How had he learned so quickly of a relationship she’d tried so hard to safeguard? She maintained what she hoped was a poker-face.
‘Thank you for your advice,’ she said icily, ‘but one day your English teacher should teach you a phrase about noses and other people’s business. Excuse me.’
She rose to her feet, but the Estonian remained seated, blocking her way.
‘I have only come from arriving in this village,’ he said quietly, ‘but already I have talked to many people. And I am concerned that you could be in some danger.’
‘Oh, really?’ She stopped dead. Her heart was pounding again, her stomach was doing somersaults, and her mouth had turned so dry she could hardly speak. ‘From whom, exactly?’
He ignored the question. His voice dropped to a low whisper. ‘Before I can tell you that, I need to know how closely involved you are with Fergal Kennedy. Are you…’ He frowned as though fighting tactfully to translate some foreign phrase… ‘are you intimate with him?’
Tara gasped with disbelief. ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t even hear tha
t question,’ she said. ‘Excuse me, please.’
He rose and backed out of the row to let her past.
‘I ask only because I feel you are in danger,’ he repeated.
‘Right. Well, I’m a big grown-up person now, Mr Talimann, and I can look after myself, thank you. And anyway, I don’t see how my being in danger gives you any right to ask intrusive questions.’
‘Okay, I withdraw the question. I’m sorry.’ He was speaking urgently, trying to get his point across before she left. ‘Let me put another question to you. Just one.’
Tara kept her silence. He took this as assent.
‘Where were you on Saturday night? Prior to the murder?’
It seemed like an age before her vocal cords unglued themselves enough to voice the shock and outrage she felt.
‘That is none of your damned business, Mr Talimann,’ she hissed, pushing past him. ‘Now excuse me. I have some copy to file. Goodbye. I doubt if we’ll be talking again.’
‘I will see you later,’ he said.
She wasn’t sure whether it was his clumsy version of a goodbye or a statement of intent.
‘It’s a small town, Mr Talimann,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I suppose it’s unavoidable.’
Walking through the hall past the other journalists, Tara felt uncharacteristically flustered, as though every eye on the room was on her. She took several deep breaths and forced herself to slow down.
In the doorway, a Dublin reporter was talking into a mobile phone, one hand protecting his free ear against the babble of noise. ‘Yeah, it’s him all right. No doubt. Guilty as hell. Why? You tell me. Land row or something. Disputed will. Whatever. Yes, the cops mentioned the junkie theory, but if you ask me, it was probably just some tramp. Okay, if you want, I’ll do a bit of digging on that end too. Meantime, I’ll have the press conference, an interview with the parish priest, some local colour. I’ll be filing in twenty minutes.’
Tara pushed past him into the corridor, where brightly-coloured posters advised children to cross the road carefully and brush their teeth after every meal. At the other end, Sergeant Steve McNamara stood waiting for her.
‘Get what you wanted, Tara?’
‘What?’ She stared at him. ‘Oh, the press conference.’ She glanced around quickly. ‘Listen, Steve, we really need to talk.’
Steve checked his watch. ‘I’m due a break in fifteen minutes. Meet me for a sandwich in the café.’
‘Steve.’ Her eyes pleaded with him. ‘It’s really, really important.’
‘I’ll be there, Tara.’
‘Aw, lads, come on! Will yiz give us a break!’
Steve McNamara, six foot six tall and built like a granite pillar, was trying to negotiate two cups of coffee and a toasted ham sandwich through a café that was crowded with persistent press.
‘Sorry. No comment. Contact the press office. Theory? The only theory I have at the minute is that my toasted sandwich will be cold if I don’t get to eat it.’
He finally made it to the corner table where Tara was sitting. They had some measure of privacy, because the table in front of them was occupied by a family of Danish tourists who were totally bemused by all the activity in the village they’d chosen as a haven of Celtic tranquillity.
‘Jesus,’ said Steve, ‘give me a good riot any day of the week. I’d sooner face a mob of English soccer fans at Lansdowne Road than cope with this lot.’
His giant face, angular as a Druid statue, shook from side to side in a comic gesture of disbelief as he passed Tara a cup of coffee and swung his bulky frame into the seat beside her. The joints of the wooden chair groaned under the strain.
‘I know what you mean. Thanks for the coffee.’
‘You’re welcome. Who was that Russian fella you were talking to at the press conference?’ he demanded suddenly. ‘I’m just curious. He was trying to pump me for information earlier.’
Tara’s hand quivered with annoyance as she raised her cup. ‘His name’s Andres Talimann. And he’s not Russian. He’s Estonian.’
Steve snorted. ‘I don’t care if he’s from Outer Mongolia. Just be careful of him. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’
Tara stared at him. Did she detect a note of jealousy in the sergeant’s tone?
He caught her quizzical look. ‘These foreigners are all the same,’ he explained seriously. ‘They’re up to their necks in drug dealing and refugee smuggling.’ He opened his toasted sandwich and smothered it in salt. ‘And they drink like fishes.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Steve,’ she said. ‘You can’t lump people together like that. Andres Talimann is a respected war correspondent. But if it’s any consolation to you, if I ever see him in this life again, it will be too soon.’
She noticed Steve relax a little. So she’d been right.
‘Well, if you ever do see him again,’ Steve said through a mouthful of ham sandwich, ‘ask him what he was doing yesterday afternoon while the rest of you press boyos were up at Barnabo.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘I’ll tell you what he was doing. He was sitting in the back of the De Blaca Art Gallery with Godfrey Villiers, the two of them chatting like ould mates and working their way through a full bottle of vodka together. That’s what he was doing. And I’d like to know why.’ He thrust a giant finger in her direction. ‘You know as well as I do, Tara, that Godfrey is thick as thieves with the Viney family from Limerick. You know, the drug dealers. Their dirty money goes in one door of Godfrey’s shop and it comes out the other door on a hanger, wrapped in clear polythene and smelling of dry-cleaning. And when a stranger breezes in from Eastern Europe and gets all palsy-walsy with that crowd, I reckon our lads in the National Drugs Unit should sit up and take note. What do you think?’
Tara glanced around her. At any other time, she would have been very interested in Steve’s theories of a money laundering operation in Claremoon Harbour, but right now she had other things on her mind.
‘Listen, Steve,’ she said urgently. ‘I’ve been trying since yesterday to get a word with you alone.’
Steve held up his hand. ‘I know, I know. You’ve a job to do. And you want to know about the murder investigation. Well, we have to wait for the post-mortem, but the cause of death seems straightforward enough. Place of death – no doubt about that. She was killed where her body was found. Time of death is what we need. Plus a murder weapon. None of the kitchen knives in the house is missing, and none of the ones that are there fits the profile.’
‘What profile?’
‘Again we have to wait for the results of forensic tests,’ said Steve, forcing his words through another mouthful of ham, ‘but it looks as though the knife will be easily identifiable as the murder weapon – a long blade, very sharp. Not the sort of shaggin’ thing you use to butter your sandwiches.’
He opened the second half of his toasted sandwich and daubed it liberally with tomato relish. Tara winced.
‘Sorry, love. You knew her a lot better than I did,’ said Steve, looking up. ‘But from the little I knew of her, she was a lovely woman. I just hope this hoor confesses so that we can put him away for a long time.’
Her heart sank. So Fergal hadn’t been eliminated from the police inquiries after all. He’d obviously failed to tell them everything. It was all up to her, now.
‘You seem convinced he did it.’ Her voice was shaky.
‘I’d wager my overtime on it.’ Steve didn’t notice her distress. He was absorbed in his sandwich.
‘But what about a motive? Sons don’t just kill their mothers for no reason.’
‘That’s a tough one, right enough. Don’t pay any attention to the rubbish those fellas are talking in there – about wills and insurance and suchlike. We’ve checked the will with her solicitor. It’s completely straightforward – everything split between the two boys. But there’s a fair amount of debt, so even if the farm was sold, the bottom line is nothing to get excited about.’
‘And he
r life assurance?’ asked Tara, hearing her own voice coming from a long way away. She didn’t know why she was asking these questions. It was as though the journalist in her was still functioning on autopilot, while inside, all she wanted to do was scream out what was really on her mind.
‘Under-insured by a mile. There had been no attempt to change the policy.’
‘But all this tends to indicate he didn’t do it,’ she said, without much hope that he’d agree.
The big policeman shrugged silently.
Tara felt close to despair. She obviously wasn’t getting through to Steve. Only a few miles away Fergal was sitting in a cold interrogation cell. He desperately needed her help.
‘Steve …’
‘You obviously didn’t know him very well,’ he said. ‘From all accounts, he’s a fiery sort of fella, easily riled. Maybe he came back with a few jars on board and had an argument over something stupid. It happens all the time. Oops…here comes trouble.’
Tara looked up. Two figures were negotiating their way across the crowded café like skiers on a slalom, bending their bodies to keep horizontal the brown plastic trays containing bowls of soup and plates of sandwiches.
One was a local detective inspector. Tara had never met him, but knew him from some of the court cases he’d testified in. She struggled to remember his name. Rourke? O’Rourke. That was it. Phil O’Rourke.
He was a tall man of around fifty, solidly built but with a porter-belly that strained the belt of his plain brown suit. His hair, still thick and plentiful, was steel grey. He had the ruddy face of a man who likes his whiskey.
But Tara knew better than to underestimate this officer. His reputation as a hard man was well established. A couple of decades ago, social problems that the entire justice system would have failed to solve had been settled within minutes during a personal ‘interview’ down a back alley between this detective and a troublemaker who chose never to make trouble again. It was an old-fashioned approach to policing that had constantly got him into hot water. His defiant response was that his patch had always stayed remarkably free of the sort of urban blight that had elsewhere forced decent people out of their homes and transformed housing estates into wastelands. He was no longer allowed to conduct back-alley interviews, and the criminal activity on his patch was increasing at roughly the same rate as his blood pressure; colleagues hoped that neither factor would kill him before he reached retirement.
