by Des Ekin
Ms Ross’s crucial evidence about their sizzling all-night love tryst has finally solved the mystery of Mr Kennedy’s whereabouts at the time of the murder that has stunned the nation.
As a result of her unexpected statement to detectives, Mr Kennedy was finally freed to leave Ennis Garda Station after twenty hours of questioning.
Police are now no nearer to solving the brutal knife-slaying of the 52-year-old women’s rights activist in Claremoon Harbour on Sunday morning.
‘We’re right back to square one,’ one frustrated garda told me.
Meanwhile, the pair of lovers embraced, then walked together to a waiting car which they drove to an isolated spot overlooking the beautiful County Clare coastline.
After spending forty-five minutes together in the car, they drove back to the murder town of Claremoon Harbour with only a short time to spare before the funeral.
Then Mr Kennedy stood solemnly by the graveside as Ann Kennedy’s corpse was lowered into the ground. Ms Ross is believed to have been absent due to another more pressing engagement.
Twenty-four hours earlier, as Fergal Kennedy was still being questioned by detectives, gorgeous Tara (27) proudly declared her love for him.
In an exclusive interview, she told me: ‘I was delighted to be able to give Fergal an alibi, even though I know no one in the village believes me. I’d do anything to keep my lover out of jail.’
The beautiful 27-year-old brunette added: ‘Ann is dead, and nothing can bring her back again. All we can do is rebuild the shattered pieces of our lives. I love Fergal passionately. We want to marry and make beautiful babies together.’
Tara tossed the paper away with a loud groan of despair. ‘Give me a break,’ she said to the ceiling. ‘If he’s going to make up quotes for me, he could at least make up original ones. These are the oldest clichés in The Bad Journalist’s Dictionary Of Hackneyed Phrases.’
‘Calm down, Tara,’ said Melanie. ‘There’s no point getting yourself upset.’
‘I’m not going to calm down. This isn’t journalism. This is writing by numbers.’
‘Bloody reporters. They’re all the same,’ said Fergal, who was glaring over her shoulder at the article.
Tara and Andres both looked up sharply.
‘Present company excepted,’ Fergal said. ‘Of course.’
‘You can’t generalise like that,’ said Tara. ‘The other evening papers, the Evening Herald in Dublin and the Evening Echo in Cork, have been reporting the story fairly. The same goes for my old paper, the Evening Mercury. Ninety-nine percent of journalists are honest professionals who’d never dream of inventing a quote or fabricating a story. You get bad apples like Gellick in every profession.’
Fergal frowned as he read down through the report. ‘Did you really say all those things to him?’
Tara gasped. ‘Of course I didn’t, Fergal. He’s making it all up.’ She shook her head incredulously as she re-read the article. ‘He’s depicting me as a cretin as well as a heartless bitch,’ she moaned. ‘I’m not sure which I object to most.’
They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.
Andres put his hand on her shoulder. ‘We have succeeded in buying some time,’ he reminded her quietly, ‘but not too much time. Within forty-five minutes, this will be in the local shops.’ He looked at her keenly. ‘What do you propose to do?’
Tara sighed. ‘I really don’t know.’
It was true. For a start, she had found herself temporarily unemployed. She had naturally declared her involvement in the Kennedy murder case to the editors of all the newspapers she contributed to. Some of them had been delighted with the prospect of having a writer with the inside-track on the big story of the week. But Tara had refused to write another word on the topic, explaining truthfully that she was following legal advice. Instead, she’d decided to grant herself some long-overdue holiday leave.
Since then her mobile phone had been hopping out of her pocket with requests for TV and radio interviews and news-analysis articles. If she’d really been the heartless schemer portrayed in the Evening Report! story, she thought ruefully, she could have made herself a fortune. Instead, she’d switched her phone over to an answering service.
‘What’ll I do? Go home, I suppose,’ she said vaguely.
To her intense annoyance, Talimann began shaking his shaggy head. ‘I do not think so,’ he said, his strange Estonian accent making his words seem more dictatorial than they were meant to be.
‘What?’ she demanded, hackles instantly raised.
Fergal leaped to her defence. ‘Why the hell shouldn’t she go home?’ he asked Andres angrily. He glared round at the two women as though seeking support. ‘Listen, whatever your name is…’
Andres stood up to face him. ‘My name is Talimann. Andres Talimann. And I would remind you, Mr Kennedy, that I am trying to help.’
‘Help? By trying to stop Tara from going home? To her own house?’ Fergal’s face was only inches from Andres’s. ‘This is Ireland, friend. You’re not in Russia any more.’
‘I am not Russian,’ said Andres with dangerous calmness. ‘I am an Estonian.’
‘Stop it!’ Tara raised her hands. The two men slowly backed away from each other.
She walked over to Fergal.
‘I think we owe Andres a great debt of gratitude for travelling all the way from Dublin to warn us about Gellick’s article in person,’ she told him firmly. ‘He tried to warn me yesterday, but I didn’t believe him.’ She glanced apologetically at Andres. ‘I also know why he’s warning me not to go home. Within the next hour, there’ll be a steady stream of reporters calling at my front door. Maybe even camera crews. The place will be under siege.’
Andres nodded confirmation. ‘The first ones are already there.’
Fergal took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Sorry,’ he said curtly, shaking the Estonian’s hand. ‘I misunderstood you, Mr Talimann. We’ll talk this over. But not here.’ He glanced around the function room. ‘It’s too depressing. Come up to my house and we’ll discuss it over a beer.’
Melanie looked up from behind the newspaper and smiled for the first time. ‘Beer?’ she repeated. ‘Did somebody say the magic word?’
Tara was prepared for an emotional jolt when she returned to the kitchen of Ann’s farmhouse for the first time since their last dinner together. But what shocked her most was its sheer, normal, humdrum ordinariness. There were no overturned chairs, no smashed crockery, no shattered shards of glass.
Once the forensic experts had completed their arcane trade, the cleaners had moved in and left the place immaculate. It looked exactly as it had looked on the evening of her visit – a visit that seemed to have taken place several lifetimes ago.
Tara half-expected Ann to emerge from behind an open door, carrying a steaming casserole and smiling a welcome.
Instead, Fergal was handing out longneck bottles of chilled Labatts. ‘Canadian lager okay for you, Mr Talimann?’ he called out from behind the fridge door.
But Andres wasn’t listening. He was standing stock-still, like a pointer dog spotting a pheasant.
‘Wow,’ he said at last. It was a long, low syllable of pure worship.
Tara followed the direction of his gaze. He had spotted the Michael de Blaca seascape that had transfixed Tara herself during her first visit.
‘De Blaca,’ he breathed, recognising the painting from twelve feet away and at an impossibly sharp angle. ‘It is…magnificent.’
Fergal looked impressed despite his efforts not to be. ‘You’re familiar with his work?’ he asked.
‘De Blaca? He’s among my top three favourite Irish painters,’ said Andres, almost bounding towards the picture. ‘Along with Louis le Brocquy and Colin Middleton, naturally.’ He paused, preoccupied with a close-up examination. ‘Look at that brushwork. It’s like he’s piling it on with a trowel. He did it exactly the way he wanted to do it. And yet it works. You can practically smell the salt and seaweed.’
&nb
sp; ‘That’s because the window’s open,’ muttered Fergal grumpily. ‘It was painted from this room.’
He pointed through the window at a scene that had remained virtually unchanged for three decades.
‘I don’t believe it,’ breathed Andres. ‘He lived here?’
‘Well…yes and no,’ Fergal admitted. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Show him the sculpture, Fergal,’ suggested Tara.
Andres whirled around. ‘Sculpture? You have a sculpture as well?’
Fergal looked uneasy. He glanced at Tara, as though seeking advice. She shrugged.
Abruptly, he seemed to make up his mind. Tara watched the two men disappear into the living-room and shortly afterwards saw Fergal hand Andres the stone sheela-na-gig. After an interval, she joined them.
‘And that’s how it happened,’ Fergal was saying.
Tara caught his eye. This time it was his turn to shrug, in a sort of ‘what have I got to lose?’ gesture.
‘That is absolutely…incredible,’ said Andres, turning the stone piece over and over in his hands. ‘And you’re sure about this? Absolutely certain?’
Fergal looked at him for a moment without saying a word. His face grew darker than the dense clouds that were gathering over the slate-grey Atlantic. ‘I hope you’re not doubting my word, friend,’ he said softly.
Andres held up both palms defensively. ‘Hey, hey. Please do not take umbrage. It was just a…what do you say? A figure of speech. No offence meant and none, I hope, taken.’
‘Forget it.’
There was a silence as Fergal continued to stare out the window and Andres continued to examine the sheela-na-gig in the light. They were all relieved when the doorbell rang.
Melanie answered. ‘Fergal,’ she called from the hall. ‘It’s Godfrey Villiers. From the art gallery.’
‘What the blazes does he want?’ muttered Fergal with irritation. He unwillingly extracted himself from an armchair and headed for the hall.
Andres turned to Tara. ‘He seems rather prone to take offence, your friend,’ he whispered.
‘For God’s sake, Andres, he’s been living through a nightmare,’ Tara exploded. She was secretly seething over Fergal’s churlish attitude, but she knew she had no right to complain at a time like this. ‘How would you feel?’
Andres said nothing. He looked puzzled, turning the small statue over and over, apparently lost in deep thought.
Tara was irritated by his silence. ‘So do you mind telling me what that was all about?’
The tall Estonian sipped his lager slowly. ‘I don’t know. That is the short answer. There is just something odd.’ He looked up suddenly and his eyes were frank with genuine perplexity. ‘I honestly don’t know what I mean, Tara. It seems I shall have to return to…kindergarten. You have kindergarden in English?’
He pulled such a ridiculously sad face that Tara couldn’t help laughing out loud. The noise echoed unnaturally in the empty sitting room.
Andres smiled and rose to his feet. ‘And now, I must return to Dublin. No, it’s all right, I shall leave by the back door. Please give my goodbyes to Fergal.’
Tara shook his hand. ‘Goodbye, Andres. And many thanks for your kindness. After all this, I’m sure you’ll be glad to see the last of Claremoon Harbour.’
She leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. She had to admit that she was beginning to warm to this eccentric Estonian, but at the same time, she was glad he was getting out of her life for good. His presence just complicated things, in all sorts of ways that she didn’t want to start thinking about. And God knows, her life was complicated enough already.
‘Farewell, Tara.’ Andres turned towards the door. ‘But I have a feeling that we shall meet again in more tragic circumstances.’
Tara smiled at his lack of command of the idiom. ‘You mean, less tragic circumstances.’
Andres shrugged.
‘Perhaps,’ he said.
Tara and Melanie fidgeted awkwardly in the sitting room as they waited for Fergal to end his conversation with the art dealer Godfrey Villiers. They wanted to leave, too, but not without saying goodbye, and the exchange between the two men seemed too earnest to interrupt.
‘Well, Tara?’ Melanie asked eventually. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’
Tara shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe hide out in a B&B for a while. I can’t go home, that’s for sure.’
‘Well, if you’ve no plans,’ Melanie suggested, ‘why not come and stay at my house in Galway? Just as long as you don’t throw your dirty underwear all over the floor.’ She grinned. ‘You see, I wouldn’t be able to tell it apart from mine.’
Before Tara could reply, the conversation outside grew louder.
‘But my dear boy!’ They heard Villiers’ theatrical tones boom through the closed door, and then fade again.
‘I don’t care. Everything’s changed now.’
Fergal.
Then Villiers’ voice increased in volume as he moved deeper into the hall from the front door.
‘But you simply must reconsider. I have to tell you, Fergal, the canvasses that you have painted are brilliant…absolutely outstanding, a classic example of the genre. To keep these hidden from the world is a crime. We must form a dynamic partnership, a synergy which will enrich the world as well as, I hope, be of material benefit to us both.’
There was a pause. His footsteps could be heard in the dining-room where the de Blaca seascape hung on the wall.
‘I shall naturally give you top price for your works in an overall package deal which must, of course, include all the artistic works in your late mother’s home.’
Melanie grinned at Tara, who gestured for silence.
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve coming here on the day of my mother’s funeral,’ said Fergal.
Villiers began to protest, but a few seconds later the front door slammed.
‘But time, my dear boy! Time is of the very essence!’ pleaded the art dealer from outside the house.
‘You’re quite wrong, my friend,’ murmured Fergal, returning to the sitting room with a face like thunder. ‘I’ve got all the time in the world.’
Chapter Nine
LATER THAT night, Andres Talimann sat in his eyrie high on the sea-cliffs overlooking Dublin Bay. His hands flew over his computer keyboard, assessing facts, sorting information. The lights on his modem flickered frantically as they signalled contact with computers spread out over five continents. Laid out before him, in all its daunting complexity, was the vast storehouse of information known as the World Wide Web.
Andres completed his research for a magazine article on the Loyalist paramilitary organisations. He was about to close down the computer when, almost without his brain realising it, his hands typed in three words. Seconds later his screen changed its appearance, like the surface of a witch’s cauldron, to reveal the answers he sought.
Only two documents in the entire Web contained the linked words he was looking for. One was the gossipy personal website of a Newfoundland student. The other was from the on-line edition of a daily newspaper in Toronto.
Andres ignored the student’s website and opened up the newspaper article. It wasn’t the current edition, he quickly realised, but an archive clipping dating back several months.
It contained a lengthy collection of news briefs that had appeared in the national news section of the Canadian paper that day. He had to scroll through it for several minutes before he found the section that was relevant to his inquiry.
Andres read and re-read it. Then he rubbed his eyes, walked around a bit, opened a can of Coke, and read it again.
There could be no doubt. No doubt at all.
Or could there?
Andres took a decision. He lifted the phone on his desk, dialled Tara’s mobile phone number, and waited.
‘Hello?’ said Tara Ross, her voice almost drowned out by the clinking of glasses and the cacophony of shouted conversation.
&nbs
p; ‘Hello?’ she said again.
Andres Talimann was about to speak when he was suddenly overwhelmed by the same doubts he’d dismissed a few seconds ago. There were doubts, he thought. There were serious doubts. And he would have to resolve these uncertainties before he committed himself.
He checked his watch. Just after eleven pm in Dublin. Late afternoon, Toronto time. He still had time to burn up the phone lines to Canada. To plead for information from overworked cops, court officials, other reporters, anyone who would listen.
‘Hello?’ Tara Ross was still calling down the phone line. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’
Andres Talimann said nothing. Slowly, guiltily, he replaced the receiver.
‘Another crank call?’ shouted Melanie as Tara stared in bemusement at the cellphone in her hand. ‘Why don’t you switch your mobile off?’
‘I forgot,’ Tara yelled back, struggling to make her voice heard above the din of a jukebox that was belting out an early Elvis classic.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Melanie. ‘It was probably a wrong number. Chill out and have another beer.’
In the clamorous, almost rowdy atmosphere of The Docks, one of Galway’s most celebrated pubs, Tara could relax for the first time. After the traumatic events of the past forty-eight hours, it was sheer bliss to find sanctuary with Melanie in the cosmopolitan capital of the West, far away from Claremoon Harbour and its poisonously oppressive atmosphere.
‘No, I don’t think it was a wrong number,’ Tara said thoughtfully as the Elvis song ended and the jukebox went silent.
‘Well, what was it? Abuse or heavy breathing? If it was heavy breathing, pass him over to me next time. I’ll heavy-breathe right back at him.’
‘Neither. Just silence. There was someone there, but he just hung up.’ Tara frowned. ‘I’ve a feeling it was Andres Talimann.’
‘What are you, telepathic all of a sudden? He said nothing, but you still think it was Andres?’
‘Because of the Bach,’ Tara said.
‘Bach?’ Melanie obviously thought her friend had taken leave of her senses.
