Death in the Burren

by John Kinsella

  So it seemed.

  The ocean was smooth and peaceful as McAllister drove south along the now familiar coast road. Inland Slieve Elva and Knockauns mountain ascended to form a majestic skyline, their ageless balding surfaces patterned by low stone walls writhing like snakes up the slopes.

  He passed Poll na Doibe and noticed that Cloch an Oilc was submerged by high water. As the road rose beyond Poll na Doibe the low wall to his right had broken down and was punctuated by rusting steel drums ringed with bands of red and white paint, a salutary warning to night travellers. Having drifted briefly inland the road once more skirted the ocean as he approached Poll Salach.

  McAllister parked the car in a narrow layby close to an irregular stretch of stone wall, donned his shoulder bag and prepared to set off across the jagged landscape.

  He once again marvelled at his surroundings.

  The name Burren, the Barony of Burren, from the Irish “boireann”, meaning a rocky place, while accurate, is a master-piece of understatement, covering, as it does, an area more than twelve miles North to South and twelve miles West to East at it’s widest points.

  The bare limestone landscape is the result of a series of natural processes over hundreds of millions of years, and the grazing of cattle with resultant soil erosion during the past four thousand. Layers of undersea deposits built up and compressed into rock. The sea retreated and the rock was eroded. Then the sea returned with more deposits and finally the area was raised by gigantic upheavals in the earth’s crust. Ice Ages then advanced and retreated grinding and scouring the plateau into it’s present form. Overgrazing since the Stone Age and the removal by weathering of the soil from the hillsides have intensified the Burren’s austere and serene beauty.

  The sound of an approaching bus roused McAllister from his contemplations and he returned the handwaved greetings as it passed.

  Crossing the road he stepped onto the broken limestone terraces which sloped down to the sea. One had to be sure-footed here. Every step was a calculation. One slip could be the last for some time. Stopping from time to time he noted with satisfaction the shy but abundant plants. There would be plenty for him to demonstrate on the coming field trips.

  The green, yellow and lavender sea asters above the waterline, sustained by spray from the waves. Pink petalled thrift sometimes called “Lady’s cushion”, and groups of yellow green samphire abounded. Mayweed, sea lavender and sea milkworth added their subtle beauty to this magic carpet.

  McAllister, with notebook and pen in hand, methodically covered a large area of ground. Poll Salach would be one of the more important points on his planned lecture tour and he wanted to quietly note everything of interest and make sure all it’s secrets would be revealed to his students.

  As the morning progressed there were occasional showers but they were light and the rain was soft so his work was not interrupted. Looking at his watch he was surprised at how time had passed. It was almost one o’clock.

  McAllister decided to have his flask of tea and found a comfortable niche at the cliff edge. The day had lightened and the sun was trying to make a contribution, so he was able to relax and enjoy his break.

  He noted that the sea had retreated, exposing, for a time, the rocks which land and sea regularly traded.

  Some time later McAllister decided to resume his journey and stood up to pack away his flask. As he did so he caught sight of a colourful object peeping out from behind the bottom of the cliff to his right, just at the waterline. This had been obscured from his view while sitting. It seemed to be part of an article of clothing and was strangely familiar.

  He couldn’t remember why, but became curious and decided to investigate.

  The route down, while quite short, was difficult to negotiate and he had to rely on hand and foot holds in the rock face to lower himself the thirty feet or so to the corner of the cliff.

  McAllister had worked out that he could then make a short jump onto a flat topped rock jutting out into the water and then look back to see what the object was. Beyond, there was an alternative route by which he could make his way back.

  His plan worked with the exception of an anxious stumble when he landed on the rock.

  Steadying himself he looked back and could now see that it was a colourful lumber jacket oddly crumpled into a crevice on the waterline. He was convinced he had seen it before and lying prone on his rock platform reached out to grasp the coat.

  It was just within his reach, and when he eventually got sufficient grip he pulled smartly on it but without success.

  He tugged once more and this time the coat made a strange rolling movement towards him and fell into the water. McAllister was sickened to see the dead body of Des Hyland, the lifeless face staring open mouthed at him from the surface of the water, the body swaying gently to and fro anchored by a foot caught in the crevice.

  Numbed, McAllister could see that one side of the head was badly cut and covered in blackened blood. The opened coat also revealed that extensive bleeding from the chest had seeped into Hyland’s shirt front. Without warning he found himself retching at the shock of what he had seen and lay back on the rock gripping it tightly with his clenched hands.

  Looking at the body again McAllister saw that it was still caught in the crevice and decided that it would be better if he got help rather than try to extricate it himself. It would probably remain there until high water.

  Shakily he worked his way around the water’s edge and scrambled over boulders to regain the broken limestone terraces which led back to the road.

  Unusually there was nobody to be seen, even in the far distance, no holidaymakers wandering around whose help he could enlist, so he sped the three miles or so to the Gardaí in Lisdoonvarna.

  As he drove along, his mind, with equal urgency, but less sense of direction, attempted to grapple with his discovery.

  Des Hyland dead…..but not simply dead….he had died violently. Had he fallen over the cliff edge during the night?….that presumably would have been a sufficient fall to cause the terrible injuries….or would they?

  He didn’t know Hyland from Adam but nobody deserved to die in such a way. What in Heaven’s name could have happened? …and at Poll Salach of all places….What had Hyland been doing there?

  Whatever did happen must have taken place during the previous night because Hyland had obviously been dead for some time but his body would almost certainly have been spotted if it had lain there yesterday.

  “However it’s not for me to tackle these problems,” thought McAllister as he drove across the bridge and swung up the hill into the centre of Lisdoonvarna.

  He parked in the own centre, outside Lynch’s Hotel, and made his way towards the Garda station.

  CHAPTER 5

  SOLEMNLY, THE FOUR FIGURES peered over the cliff edge into the water. Garda Sergeant Casey and two of his men had followed McAllister to Poll Salach and he was now pointing to where the body of Des Hyland lay swaying with the gentle movement of the waves.

  They looked in silence for a while and McAllister was struck by the normality of the scene. The sun was shining through gaps in the clouds and he could pinpoint some of the white painted houses out on the islands. There was virtually no breeze and the screams of a flight of oyster catchers rang clear as they swept past. The drone of a slow moving car carried from the road above the slope behind them.

  Normal…with the exception of the pathetic floating corpse below.

  Sergeant Casey quietly issued orders to his men and they made their way down to the flat topped rock carrying some ropes which they had brought from the car. It was a tricky operation made more difficult by the fact that the rock was now partly submerged, but eventually the corpse was brought to an area of level ground and gently laid down. An ambulance had arrived and a doctor began carrying out a preliminary examination.

  Some sightseers gathered out of curiosity but they were asked to keep to the roadway.

  Three more police cars arrived and McAll
ister saw Con Curtis step briskly from the leading one. Casey went to speak with him. Soon the area became a hive of activity with Gardaí taping off the entire location.

  Curtis was shown where Hyland had been found and having made a cursory examination of the body came to speak with McAllister.

  They exchanged muted greetings and at Curtis’s request McAllister recounted in detail how he had noticed the body.

  “It’s fortunate you went to have a look, John, otherwise he might have been washed out to sea and become another missing statistic.”

  Casey beckoned to Curtis and spoke briefly to him.

  “First impressions are that it’s not an accident we’re dealing with,” Curtis said on returning.

  “You mean…”

  “I mean we have to consider foul play of some kind.”

  “Murder?” suggested McAllister slowly as he narrowed his eyes and looked penetratingly at Curtis. “I did wonder…”

  “Wonder what?” asked his friend.

  “Oh, I’m not sure. I had a strange feeling when I first saw Hyland. An instinct that there was something more to this than a simple accident. Maybe it was the positioning of the body in the crevice, or the injuries,” he paused for a moment, “Oh I don’t know, perhaps shock sends the mind racing. Anyway you’re the expert, Con, if there is anything to be uncovered the problem is in good hands.”

  “You can be sure of that, John. By the way there’s no need to remain here any longer if you want to move on. I would like to speak to you later, though. Will you be at Frank’s place?”

  McAllister said he would return to the guest house now and be there for the remainder of the day as he had some writing to do.

  Frank and Susan were chatting in the lounge and asked him to join them for coffee.

  “Something a little stronger please,” he grimaced.

  Having settled for a neat Paddy McAllister recounted the events of the afternoon and as he did so noticed that Frank was back to old self.

  They were naturally shocked to hear of Hyland’s death, despite Frank’s negative opinions about him, but as the conversation went on McAllister was surprised to find himself avoiding any reference to Con Curtis’s suspicions about the cause of death. Instead he steered the discussion towards Frank himself and how he was feeling.

  “Oh I’m fine now, John. A good night’s sleep is a cure for most ills. I didn’t get back to the land of the living until noon and I haven’t been outside the four walls yet, so I’m well rested.”

  They discussed the Ennis concert and then McAllister, relaxed by the whiskey, went to his room to sort out some notes.

  He found it difficult to concentrate on his work. His mind was uneasy so he left the papers aside and gratefully took a nap.

  It was after dinner when Curtis called. McAllister had returned to his room to catch up on the work he had left aside earlier, and was just finishing when the telephone rang. Curtis was at reception and asked if he could come to see him as the restaurant and lounge areas were busy.

  He had a Garda with him and introduced him to McAllister as Sergeant Cronin from Ennis.

  “I want to go over today’s events in more detail, John, and try to pinpoint times as accurately as possible. Also there may be one or two other things we glossed over this afternoon.”

  McAllister tried to recall every detail and Curtis was eventually satisfied.

  “Now about last night. Can you tell me what time you and Susan set out for Ennis?”

  “We had a quick bite about six o’clock and I imagine we left here shortly before seven.”

  “I take it Frank wasn’t interested in a night of Boccherini?”

  “On the contrary he seemed to be very keen but wasn’t feeling well and decided to have an early night.”

  Curtis raised an eyebrow, “He looked O.K. when I spoke to him a few moments ago.”

  “Yes he’s fine now. He was a bit upset over the fracas on Monday night at the Orchid, it took a lot out of him.”

  “I haven’t seen any reports about trouble at the Orchid.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you will. It was all over in moments.”

  “What happened?”

  “Susan, Frank and I drove there for an after dinner drink. While we were chatting Andy O’Lochlen and Des Hyland came in……”

  “Des Hyland?” interjected Curtis.

  “Yes he was very much under the weather and picked a fight with Frank. But it was all over in seconds.”

  McAllister described Holland’s quick reactions and how Balfe had discretely covered over the situation and removed Hyland from the hotel.

  Curtis looked quizzically at Sergeant Cronin for a moment.

  He turned back to McAllister. “You said Frank had trouble with Hyland before?”

  “He said something about being harassed and that he would have to put a stop to it.”

  As he said this McAllister hesitated and saw that the two Garda officers were staring intently at him.

  “Wait now Con I don’t like the way this conversation is going. It was a straightforward situation and, as Susan explained to me, Hyland was known to take exception to people simply because they had come from elsewhere to live in the Burren. After all he had called Susan a bitch and no self respecting husband would let that go.”

  Curtis looked doubtful. “I can understand that part of it but the incident seems to have shaken Frank to a most remarkable degree.”

  “Tell me again about Tuesday night,” he went on, “you said Frank would like to have gone to the concert in Ennis but decided to have an early night instead.”

  “Yes that’s what happened. He even went as far as sleeping in one of the guest rooms so that Susan wouldn’t waken him when we returned. That seemed pretty sensible to me.”

  “And you didn’t see Frank after the concert?”

  “No, that was the whole idea. He was sound asleep some

  where when we got back. That must have been about eleven or eleven thirty I’m not quite sure.”

  “O.K., John, thanks for your time. You’ve been a great help.”

  Curtis ended the interview abruptly and both he and Sergeant Cronin departed.

  McAllister was left gloomily coming to terms with the implications of what had taken place. There was absolutely no doubt that a rather nasty situation was building up around Hyland’s death.

  The Gardaí were considering murder as an option and this would be established one way or the other when the medical evidence was complete.

  Now, as a result of his conversation with Curtis, he had to face the fact that circumstances were going to point them in the direction of Holland. But this was totally ridiculous. Frank wasn’t the type who would carry revenge that far. And anyway revenge for what? An altercation in a bar and an insult to his wife? And from a young thug who obviously didn’t know any better?

  This wasn’t the stuff of murder.

  On the other hand he knew what was in Con’s mind. When it came to motive and opportunity he would have to put Frank Holland on the spot. There was no doubt about that.

  He realised, however, that he was allowing his mind to race too far ahead because, in the first place, it may not have been murder at all, just a simple but gruesome accident.

  He stared ruefully at his notebooks and realised that, once again, he would have to put them aside.

  Would he ever have his work in order?

  It seemed that Fate was frowning on his efforts and conspiring to undermine his whole project.

  Nonetheless, there was no point in persisting tonight so McAllister resolved to go for a walk and let the sea air clear his head.

  As he passed the restaurant building in the fading light he could see through the window of the small office.

  His heart sank as he noticed three figures talking solemnly inside. They were Curtis, Sergeant Cronin and Frank Holland.

  McAllister walked on and tried to clear his mind of idle speculation.

  He filled his lungs with the fres
h night air and concentrated on his surroundings. The looming and barely discernible mountains on his right, and the sense of the vast ocean to his left, gave him perspective on his concerns and he was eventually able to shrug them off if only temporarily.

  CHAPTER 6

  A PLEASANT CONTRAST TO THE STARK and grim happenings of Wednesday was provided on the following evening when McAllister found himself at an impromptu musical gathering in the Orchid Hotel.

  Eileen O’Leary had telephoned Susan to say that she had persuaded the Quintetto di Lucca to play informally for her. She invited Susan, Frank and McAllister to come along.

  They had to decline as Thursday evening was a free night for most of the restaurant staff but McAllister accepted gratefully and drove over to the Orchid after dinner with a light heart. The chance to hear these great musicians perform a second time was one he could not miss. It was such a beautiful dusk too, warm and balmy with not a hint of breeze, that he began to relax for the first time in quite a while.

  He was surprised to find the lawn to the side of the hotel bathed in light but soon realised that the music making was to take place outdoors and that the ad hoc lighting was for the quintet. Music stands and chairs were in position.

  Eileen welcomed him and McAllister was once again impressed by her grace and poise. Her expression was also a little more animated than when they had first met, keyed up at the prospect of an outdoor concert in such unique conditions, he assumed.

  “Isn’t this simply perfection,” she said in greeting, “I’m so glad to see you again.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed this for worlds, Eileen, and thank you for the invitation.” He was glad to see that her melancholy had lifted and sensed in her a great warmth of personality.

  Balfe emerged from the front entrance of the hotel and came across to them.

  “No positive identification on those French people you bumped into at Black Head I’m afraid. Couples like that on a motoring holiday are a bit of a stereotype without some identifying feature. Are you positive you took no note of the registration number, even a digit or two that would give us a lead?”