‘Thank you, Mr Reddin,’ I said, as I jotted the names down.
‘O’Hara might be able to help you best. He was the ferryman, you know?’ He winked blindly as he spoke.
‘The ferryman?’
‘From when people used the island for their babies. A cillin.’
I nodded, worried that the conversation was simply going to be repeated.
‘It means little church, did you know that?’ Reddin said, raising his chin interrogatively.
‘I didn’t.’
‘O’Hara ferried across the babies. To bury them. The church knew all about it; they were happy for him to do it.’
I could see that Reddin was no longer looking at me, his vision seemingly locked on something in the middle distance, which I knew he could not see.
‘I used him once. The missus lost one of ours. He came too early, hadn’t a chance. I called the priest but he wouldn’t do anything for us. He said a quick prayer. We asked him to baptize the wee critter. Padraig, we wanted to call him, but he wasn’t allowed, he said. “Put him in a shoebox, with a scrap of white wrapped round him and take him to Seamus O’Hara. I’ll tell him to expect you; down at the island.”’
The whiteness of his eyes shone through the tears that had gathered over them.
‘It was a spring morning, the mist on the river just beginning to burn off. I carried him down there, the shoebox under me arm, like a lunchbox, like I was going to work for the day. Marion wanted to see him one more time; she wrapped him in a white sheet. We blessed him ourselves, with holy water. I didn’t give a tinker’s curse whether it was right or wrong. We christened him ourselves, then we laid him in the box like he was sleeping. Marion wouldn’t let me dry the water off his wee head. I could still see the dampness of the cross we’d made with our thumbs when I reached the island.’
He turned towards me, lifting his hand and wiping his eyes.
‘O’Hara was there. Him and his boat coming across through the mist. “I’ve it dug already,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” I wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t let me. “You can’t cross over,” he said. “Don’t be fretting about it. I’ll look after it for you.” I had to hand him over the wee boy, laid the box on the floor of the boat. O’Hara stood there waiting, until I palmed him a few florins. Then he pushed away from the bank. I never saw where he laid him.’
He raised his head as if to stymie any further tears. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, though. That wee lad is with Marion now, and the two of them are looking down on me, waiting for me to join them. Padraig was on God’s right hand the day he was buried, baptized or not, and no bastard will ever tell me otherwise.’
I laid my hand on Reddin’s arm. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said.
My speaking seemed to bring him back to the present, for he wiped his face quickly with the sleeve of his cardigan and turned to me. ‘I didn’t give you those names,’ he said, raising a finger towards me. As he spoke he looked past me, waving and smiling genially to one of the other residents who was being led into the room.
‘Your eyesight seems to be okay now,’ I said, following his gaze.
‘I’ve no bloody idea who they all are,’ he muttered, blinking like Tiresias as he continued to wave. ‘They’re all just outlines. I imagine they’re good-looking, which helps. I know Maisie, for she always sits in that seat. The rest of them are a blur.’
Chapter Fourteen
My sergeant, Joe McCready, was standing in the small kitchen in the station in Lifford when I stopped off on the way home. He was pouring himself a coffee with one hand while his other held his mobile.
‘That’s fine, I think. Didn’t he say that was okay?’ His tone was nervous, the speech hesitant, unconvinced.
I could hear the ghost of the voice on the other end of the call while I poured myself the final coffee from the flask.
‘Maybe you should phone and double-check with him.’
He nodded, though the speaker could clearly not see the gesture.
‘I’m not worrying,’ he said. He shifted away from where I was standing and lowered his voice. ‘I just want to be sure everything is okay.’
I took my coffee and walked down to the office where we worked. It had once been a sizable cleaning store but had been converted for a murder enquiry and had never been changed back again. As I sat down, the door opened and McCready followed me in. Outside I could hear the main phone ringing.
‘Everything all right, Joe? I thought Burgess was the only one in today.’
He nodded. ‘I’ve bits and pieces of paperwork to do. I fancied getting out of the house for half an hour, to be honest.’
I nodded at the phone still in his hand. ‘Things getting a bit heavy?’
‘Ellen’s having contractions. But it’s too early. She says they’re Branston Hicks.’
‘Braxston. I remember Debbie having them.’
‘They’re okay, aren’t they?’
I nodded. ‘She’s how long left?
‘About six weeks.’
‘They’re perfectly normal.’
During the conversation, our desk sergeant, Burgess, had pushed open the door. He held a Post-it note in his hand.
‘I’m too long in the job when the station chat is about babies,’ he said, without humour. ‘This one will be right up your street. It’s the partner of one of the Cashell girls. He asked for you directly, Inspector. Apparently his missus’s hearing a baby crying in her baby monitor.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t make the calls, Inspector, I just answer them. He asked for you by name; what do you want me to do?’
The last time I had seen Christine Cashell had been a year or so after I’d investigated the murder of her sister, Angela. Christine’s father had been a career criminal, a petty thief and enforcer whose actions had resulted in the death of his daughter. Christine had had a baby then and was working in the local pharmacy, despite being only in her late teens; she would now be in her mid-twenties.
When we knocked at the door, it was a young ferret-faced man who answered, snuffling into his hand.
‘Are you Devlin?’
‘That’s right. This is Garda McCready.’
He raised his head in acknowledgement of Joe, then nodded at me. ‘She wants you.’
He stood back to allow us to enter the house, pointing across the hallway to where a door lay ajar. We passed him and went into the room. Christine was lying on the sofa. Though older, she had not changed that much physically. Her red hair was still striking in its lustre, her expression still one of defiant vulnerability. But, when I saw her now, it was clear something fundamental had changed, something had broken inside her.
She smiled when she saw us, though the gesture did not reach her eyes, which were puffy and raw with crying. I noticed that a baby monitor perched on the arm of the sofa by her head, its hiss a constant, unbroken soundtrack to our conversation.
‘Hello, Inspector.’
‘Miss Cashell. Or are you Mrs now?’
It was Christine’s partner who responded. ‘Christ, no,’ he said quickly. ‘We’re not married. We’ve moved in together.’
Christine looked at him and I suspected for a moment that the speed of his denial had hurt her.
‘You wanted to see me, Christine.’
She nodded. ‘Thanks for coming out. I wondered if you were still about.’
‘Is everything okay?’ The man’s fidgeting, her recent tears, his nervous pacing near the doorway bore all the hallmarks of the aftermath of a domestic-violence incident.
‘She’s hearing a baby crying. In that thing,’ he nodded towards the monitor. He snuffled again into one hand, rubbing at his nose, then wedged his fist into his pocket again.
‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘Andrew,’ he said, pausing in his pacing. ‘Andrew Dunne.’
‘Would you like to sit down, Mr Dunne, and tell me what’s wrong?’
He stared at me a second, as if reluctant to capitu
late to my request. In the end, he moved across to the armchair in the corner and rested one buttock on the arm of it in a vague compromise.
‘She says she’s hearing things in that thing. A baby crying.’
I nodded, looking at Christine. She returned my glance, her eyes a little wide.
‘Is that not normal?’
‘It’s not my baby crying.’
‘And where is your baby?’ I said, smiling. I glanced around the room, half expecting to see a child sleeping in a carry-cot, but could see none. I nodded to Joe who drifted out into the hallway to take a look around.
‘My baby’s Michael.’
I nodded. ‘That’s a nice name. You have an older child, don’t you?’
Christine smiled briefly. ‘Tony. He’s at school.’
Dunne stood again. ‘You need to do something. She’s balling her eyes out constantly, hearing a baby crying in that thing.’
‘Someone hurt it,’ Christine said.
‘What?’
‘Last night. I heard the baby crying,’ she explained. ‘I heard him crying. I thought he was Michael. I asked Andrew to check but he wouldn’t . . . you wouldn’t check.’
‘It wasn’t Michael crying, Chrissie,’ Dunne said. ‘I told you that.’
‘He cried on and on. Then I heard someone shout at him. I think they hit him. He didn’t cry after that. I’ve been listening all night, but he won’t cry.’
‘And you’re sure it’s not your baby.’
‘It’s not our baby,’ Dunne replied tersely, gritting his teeth. ‘I told her that. It won’t go in.’
Joe McCready wandered back into the room. He looked at me and shrugged lightly.
‘Where is Michael now?’ I asked again.
Dunne shook his head.
‘He’s sleeping,’ Christine said.
‘Jesus,’ Dunne snapped, suddenly leaving the room.
‘Are you okay for a second, Christine?’ I asked. ‘Garda McCready will take a statement from you.’
I nodded to Joe, who moved over and sat on the edge of the sofa beside Christine. She smiled wanly, lifting the monitor and cradling it in her hand, her eyes fixed on the display.
Dunne was in the kitchen when I went out, lighting a cigarette.
‘Is there something I’m missing?’ I asked.
‘She’s the one with something missing. A fucking screw,’ he said, pointing towards the living room.
‘Maybe keep your voice down, sir,’ I said. ‘You might wake the baby.’ I had meant the final comment to be light hearted. It had the opposite reaction.
‘There is no fucking baby,’ Dunne spat, flecks of saliva catching in the faint moustache of hair on his upper lip.
‘What?’
‘She lost her baby. Stillborn. There is no baby, there’s no crying, there’s nothing. She lost the baby, now she’s lost her fucking mind.’
‘Why is she listening to the baby monitor, if you don’t have a baby?’
‘Because she’s nuts,’ Dunne stated, as if talking to a child. ‘She bought it before the baby came. I came in one night and she’s sitting with it on. In case Michael cries; I’m up and down those fucking stairs every ten minutes checking on an empty room for her.’
He stared at me plaintively, a thin column of ash dangling from the end of his cigarette. It dropped onto the floor, shattering lightly on the linoleum.
‘I never signed up for all this . . . shit, you know,’ he said, his anger spent now. ‘I just wanted to do right by her.’
He slumped heavily onto the seat by the table, propped up his head on his hand, his elbow resting on his knee. He took one drag from the cigarette, then stubbed it out on the saucer he was using as an ashtray.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Everyone’s sorry,’ he replied bitterly. ‘Doctors, nurses, priests, everyone’s sorry.’
I stood a moment before excusing myself to go back in to Christine who, no doubt, had heard the entire exchange.
‘I didn’t mean none of that,’ Dunne said behind me. ‘Sorry I took it out on you.’
I nodded, then moved back into the living room as Christine wiped her eyes free of tears. Joe McCready looked little better and I realized that, for a man worried about his pregnant wife, this call-out might not have been the best for assuaging his fears.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Christine,’ I said. ‘I truly am.’
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, sniffed loudly. A final tear trickled down her cheek and she wiped it away, too.
‘I’m not mad,’ she said. ‘I did hear crying. Someone hurt that baby. You believe me, don’t you?’
She looked from Joe to me and back, willing us to believe her.
‘Of course,’ I said.
But she must have read something different in my eyes, for she turned from me.
‘I’m sorry I bothered you,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d care.’
Dunne stood at the doorway with us. The darkness had thickened, but the street lights along the pavement outside offered no light, being little more than decapitated poles with occasional wires hanging loose from the top of them.
‘This place doesn’t help,’ he said, raising his chin slightly as he gestured towards the estate beyond.
I could understand his concern. Island View, where they lived, was one of a number of ghost estates along the border; housing developments begun just before the property bubble burst and never completed. The skeletal outlines of the houses standing around us were not the only unfinished element of the estate; the road was potholed and weedy, the pavements loosely comprising hard-fill but no tarmac.
The houses were in varying states of completeness. Island View was begun during the final yelps of the Celtic Tiger by a speculator who convinced the banks to loan him enough to build eighty houses. The money had run out halfway through, the contractors folded, the developer long since fled to the North, where he had claimed bankruptcy to avoid having to pay any of the men who had worked on the houses. It was just as well; the development had been built on the expectation of the continued influx of immigrant workers to bolster an Irish workforce wealthy enough to be choosy about the employment they would seek. The death of the Tiger had seen the workers leave again, and the jobs no one would take became the jobs everyone wanted but no one could get anymore.
Only thirty of the houses had ever been fully finished; they sat along the first street of the estate, near the road, completed early to attract potential buyers to set deposits on the houses further back, out of view, squatting spectrally in the dark. In addition to the €400,000 each of the thirty buyers had paid for their homes, there were unforeseeable additional costs: the empty houses further back in the estate were a magnet for couples seeking quiet spots for half an hour, or kids, too young to get into the bars, looking for shelter as they drank their carry-outs on a Saturday night.
‘It’s a rough-looking spot, all right,’ McCready said.
‘It’s a shit-hole,’ Dunne said. ‘The builder used the cheapest stuff he could get in the houses. We were in a month and the plaster started falling off the ceilings. The bloody door locks were so cheap we found out our door key could open all the neighbours’ houses as well, and theirs ours.’
‘Builds neighbourly trust, I’d imagine,’ I said.
‘Can they do nothing to get it finished?’ McCready said.
‘Who? The Council?’ Dunne snuffled into his hand, rubbing his nose vigorously. ‘They won’t even fix the shitters.’
Of all the problems facing the inhabitants of Island View, the worst by a stretch was the fact that the sewage-pumping station had broken soon after the developer had fled the jurisdiction, meaning that the effluent of the households pumped out of a pipe to the rear of the estate into a mound in the corner of a field. In autumn, sodden nappies and the detritus of each household floated in the pools created by the heavy rains. Even that, though, was preferable to what happened to the same area in the heat of summer.
‘It’s not right,’ Dunne added. ‘Christine shouldn’t have to live in a place like this. I wanted better for her. You know?’
I nodded, my estimation of the man rising significantly.
Chapter Fifteen
As we reached the main road, having left Christine Cashell’s, a red BMW pulled in past us and continued on towards the back of the estate. I was fairly certain I recognized the driver.
‘I want to check something for a minute, Joe,’ I said, doing a U-turn and following the car.
The driver of the BMW was a local thug named Peter O’Connell. We’d been aware of O’Connell for months now; he’d slotted into the gap left by Lorcan Hutton, one of our most proficient drug dealers, who had been murdered a year previous.
We followed at a distance, helped somewhat by the fact that I was driving my own vehicle rather than a marked squad car. Finally we saw the flash of the brake lights as the car pulled up outside number 67, one of the unoccupied houses to the rear of the development. It was in relatively good repair in comparison with the shells surrounding it; notably it was one of the few unoccupied houses that had managed to maintain all its windows unbroken.
O’Connell climbed out, shutting the door and locking it with his key fob. He was a tall fella, just shy of 20, his face still red and pock-marked from adolescent acne, his hair spiked and tipped. He glanced around, then placed one finger tight against his left nostril and snorted the right one clear of mucus onto the pavement. Pinching his nose between finger and thumb, he wiped it clean, then rubbed his hand against his trouser leg. He hoisted at his belt, pulling his trousers fractionally closer to his waist. Such was their style, they dropped again towards his hips, exposing the white of his underwear. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his top, then sauntered towards the front door of the house, exaggeratedly rolling his shoulders as he walked.
At the front door he withdrew a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one and opened the door. A moment later the room to the rear of the house illuminated. The houses had not been wired for electric this far into the estate, which meant he had lanterns in the house.
Brian McGilloway - The Nameless Dead (Inspector Devlin #5) Page 6
