Brian McGilloway - The Nameless Dead (Inspector Devlin #5)

by Brian McGilloway

  I moved around the rear of the house. The garden was no more than a plot of clay which the builder had not even prepared for seeding. Despite this, a few hardier tufts of grass and weeds had struggled through the lumps of hard-fill littering the ground. I glanced over the low fence bordering the garden at the outline of Islandmore in the distance, rising out of the river. In the stillness of the morning I became aware of the constant running of a motor and realized that the dig had resumed. Millar had said they would be back to dig further around the site of Cleary’s burial, in case they had missed anything. I could not see the dig itself for it was on the opposite side of the island.

  I moved back up towards the house, picking my way through the piles of clay. Standing up on tiptoe to see in through the window of the kitchen I missed the figure coming around the corner of the house.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  I turned to face a tall, forbidding woman, her features sharp, her hair tied back from her face. She looked in her late fifties. She carried two carrier bags emblazoned with the logo of the local supermarket.

  I realized that she would not have known that I was a guard, as I was in plain-clothes rather than my uniform.

  ‘I’m Garda Inspector Benedict Devlin,’ I said. ‘I believe you had an incident last night with one of your neighbours. I’m just following up.’

  ‘The lunatic across the way? What about it? I told the young fella out last night I didn’t want to do anything about it.’

  ‘Miss Cashell’s not mad. She lost a child recently and is having some difficulty in coming to terms with it.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Christine Cashell. She lost her baby.’

  The woman stared down at the shopping she held, her manner softening. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know who she was.’

  I was unsure how knowing who she was made a difference, but I was mollified by the woman’s apparent understanding.

  ‘She believes she can hear a baby crying in a neighbouring house. None of her other neighbours have children and she was wondering if it was coming from here; your child or grandchild maybe?’

  ‘I don’t have any children,’ she answered sharply. ‘She didn’t hear anything coming from my house.’

  ‘This is your house, Miss . . .?’

  ‘Clark. Sheila Clark. I’m renting here for a few months; my own house is being repaired.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘But you haven’t had a child in your house that Miss Cashell might have heard?’

  ‘Despite being the one attacked last night, I get the feeling I’m being interrogated here,’ Shelia Clark replied.

  ‘I’m sorry it seems that way, Miss Clark. I’m just following up on things. I’ll let you get on with your shopping. Would you like a hand in?’

  ‘I can manage fine, thank you,’ she replied tersely.

  I went back round the side of the house to my car, waving across to where Christine Cashell stood nervously at her window.

  As I sat in the car I noted the registration number on Clark’s car. She may have claimed that she did not have a child in the house, but I had seen a box of baby milk through the translucent plastic of her shopping bag.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I looked for Joe McCready when I got to the station, but Burgess told me he’d called to say that he’d be late; his wife had a scan.

  ‘I need you to do me a favour,’ I said.

  Burgess stared at me, not replying lest it encourage me to continue with my request. I did so anyway.

  ‘I need to know who owns the houses in Islandview.’

  ‘Every house?’

  ‘Not the individual owners; I mean who owns the estate now.’

  ‘Why?’

  I shrugged. ‘Someone is selling drugs out of one of the houses there; I want to know who’s giving them the okay to use the property.’

  He seemed to consider this for a moment, before finally nodding. ‘I’ll get on to it,’ he said.

  Joe McCready did not make it into the station until after ten-thirty.

  ‘How did it go?’ I asked as I poured us both a coffee in the station kitchen.

  ‘Great. It’s really great. Everything is okay, the heart was beating okay, the baby was moving, everything was . . . it was all good.’

  He inhaled deeply and held the breath a moment, then let it slowly out, slumping his shoulders as he did so.

  ‘You need to relax about it, Joe,’ I said. ‘It will all be fine. The hospital has never lost a father yet during a labour.’

  Joe attempted a smile. ‘It’s not that. I’m . . . I’m nervous about being in there, during the birth. About watching Ellen in pain and not being able to do anything. What if I’m useless?’

  ‘You will be,’ I said. ‘Your job is to take the flak from the midwives for leaving your own wife in this condition in the first place. You just have to stand there and take it.’

  He smiled more warmly as I handed him his cup.

  ‘We, on the other hand, have a taxi to track down today,’ I began, then explained all that had transpired the day before.

  Two coffees and seven phone calls later we located the taxi driver Burke had mentioned. The penultimate company I was planning to call knew who he was and gave me his home address in Castlefinn.

  Jeff Bryant fairly much fitted Burke’s description, despite the young boy being drunk when he saw him. Bryant stood just over 5'5" in his house slippers, his head smooth, his skin sallow. He wore thick glasses that magnified his already widened eyes and blinked constantly as we spoke to him.

  He remembered Cleary when I showed him a picture. He had dropped him off in Strabane.

  ‘You didn’t think to contact us about it earlier?’

  He blinked furiously, glancing from me to Joe McCready, who was circling his car.

  ‘I didn’t think it was important, like,’ he said. He spoke with a Belfast accent, his vowels short and abrupt.

  ‘This is a nice car,’ McCready said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Bryant said, his blinking increasing.

  ‘Your taxi plates are for a different registration, though,’ McCready added.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The taxi licence on your car is for a different vehicle.’

  Bryant laughed forcedly for a second. ‘I changed car and never got round to changing it. I’ll do it today.’

  McCready took out his phone. ‘I can do it for you,’ he said. ‘The number on your licence is your old car, is that right?’

  Bryant licked his lips, running his hand across his smooth head.

  ‘They might have a bit of difficulty tracing it. I can do it later.’

  ‘It’s no problem,’ McCready continued. ‘It’s ringing now.’

  ‘Wait, wait.’ Bryant held up his hand in placation. McCready made a show of shutting his phone again.

  ‘A mate of mine passed on his plates to me when he packed up the taxiing. I never got round to changing the number.’

  ‘Which is why you didn’t contact us, is that right?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘I’ve not done anything wrong. I just didn’t want the hassle.’

  ‘We’re looking into a murder. You may have been one of the last people to have spoken to the victim. You understand that?’

  ‘I didn’t speak to him,’ Bryant added sullenly. ‘He didn’t say anything to me when I picked him up. He was on the phone, talking about something or other. He told me to take him to Beechmount Avenue in Strabane and that was it.’

  Bryant cocked his head, his eyes half-closed as he struggled to remember something. ‘No, that’s not right,’ he said, correcting himself. ‘He wanted to go to Doherty’s bar on the Derry Road, then changed his mind halfway through. It was like he was arranging to meet someone on the phone. He asked to be dropped opposite the old factory. That was it.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone hanging around when you dropped him off?’

  ‘Actually, there were a group of kids
across the way, sitting around a fire or something, in the factory grounds.’

  ‘We know. We’ve spoken with them.’

  Bryant bristled slightly. ‘Then you know I drove off and left him there.’

  ‘No one suggested otherwise,’ I said. ‘I’m more interested in the start of the journey. Where did you pick Cleary up from?’

  ‘Coneyburrow Road,’ Bryant said. ‘I’d been up at the garage getting diesel when the call came through and I took it because I was so close.’

  ‘Cleary’s own home,’ McCready said to me.

  ‘You don’t remember what number, do you?’

  ‘If I do, will we forget about my overlooking the change in details?’

  ‘That depends,’ I said. ‘Give me the number first.’ I knew Cleary’s mother lived in 28.

  Bryant went across to the car and opened the driver’s door. A yellow Post-it pad was attached to the windscreen with a sucker. He flicked through the first two pages, which were covered with scribbled addresses, then tore them off and scrunched them up in his pocket. He rifled through the side pocket on the inside of the driver’s door and pulled out a handful of balled-up Post-its. He unravelled each until he found the one he wanted.

  ‘Lucky I don’t clean it out every night. Number 142. I picked him up at 10.25 p.m.’

  I made a note of the number myself. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Bryant,’ I said. ‘If you do remember anything else, please do get in contact.’

  ‘I know that number,’ McCready said as we got into the car. ‘I’ve been there before.’

  We headed straight across to Coneyburrow while I called Jim Hendry to update him.

  ‘Burke was lying, Jim. Sean Cleary definitely had a phone. The driver says Cleary was arranging to meet someone while he was in his taxi.’

  ‘We’ll try picking Burke up again. He was let out with a caution over the twenty euro. The DPP thought it wasn’t worth the effort. The young fella lives in a hostel down town. His folks turfed him out of the house a year back apparently.’

  ‘If we can get Cleary’s phone we’ll know who he was arranging to meet.’

  ‘I’ll get the number off his mother and try some of the mobile companies. We might be able to get his call listings without the phone itself. I’ll be in touch if I hear anything.’

  ‘On an unrelated topic, the bonfire up at the factory. Would you let your daughter go to it, if you were me?’

  ‘If I were you, my daughter would be in a nunnery already,’ Hendry quipped. ‘Trust me, I’m the worst person you can ask for parenting advice. My own kids hardly speak to me anymore.’

  ‘Seamus O’Hara,’ McCready said suddenly from beside me. ‘That’s who lives in 142.’

  As soon as he said the name I realized he was right. Seamus O’Hara, the ferryman Reddin had named when I visited him.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  O’Hara’s house stood on its own grounds of about half an acre, bordered on all sides by leylandii trees, which obscured it from the road. Only when we pulled into the driveway did we notice that the curtains were drawn across the windows, as they had been when we called the previous day.

  As I approached the house, I could see thick-bodied flies flitting against the small pane of glass in the centre of the front door. I banged on the door a few times, then leaned down and, opening the letterbox, shouted, ‘Mr O’Hara? It’s the guards.’

  There was no response, but I could see more flies flitting in the light shining through the door glass.

  I stood back and, aiming my boot as high as I could, kicked the door. It shuddered in the frame but did not shift.

  ‘Might be best if I try,’ McCready said, stepping back then taking a run at it, shouldering the door open before tumbling into the hallway.

  I moved past him, helping him to his feet. The hallway was dull save for the light from the doorway, the wallpaper old fashioned, the carpeting dark and worn. Ahead of us the kitchen door yawned open, the remnants of an evening meal still sitting on the worktop by the sink. The air in the hallway was damp and heavy with the musty smell of old books, and something sharper and more visceral, which confirmed our worst fears. Heavy bluebottles buzzed back and forth, alighting on the door frame.

  To our immediate left was the living room. A number of large mahogany bookcases dominated the wall facing us as we entered, their shelves sagging a little beneath the weight of the books they had once borne, but which now lay scattered on the floor. An old TV lay on its side on the ground, still playing soundlessly. On the floor nearby, his hand stretched towards the TV, was Seamus O’Hara.

  He was on his back, clad in his pyjamas, his housecoat hanging open. His belly bulged through a gap in his nightshirt and I noticed his skin had already developed a distinctive greenish tint. Small blowflies flitted from the body to the curtains.

  ‘He’s dead a few days, I’d guess,’ I said, moving closer to the body. There was no need to check for signs of life; O’Hara’s eyes were clouded and unfocused, his face and neck peppered with small black pellet wounds around which his blood had crusted.

  ‘Shotgun pellets?’ McCready commented.

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  He had fallen in front of an old worn armchair positioned by the fireplace. Heaped ashes were piled in the hearth. O’Hara’s pipe lay on the tiles nearby. A tumbler of whiskey sat near the leg of the chair, its contents shining amber in the dim light.

  While McCready called the station to request SOCO and the pathologist, I moved through the rest of the house.

  To the rear of the living room was a small office. The room was neat and clean; the only objects that appeared to be out of place were a newspaper lying open on the desk and a pair of scissors next to it.

  I moved through into the kitchen. The rear door to the property stood ajar and the glass from one of its four small square window panes lay shattered on the floor.

  ‘Anything?’

  I shook my head, opening the door and glancing out.

  ‘I’ll check upstairs,’ McCready said.

  As he did so, I moved back into the living room. The TV had not been taken, but then its age would have hardly made it the most appealing prospect for a burglar. As I looked at the glass of whiskey I silently considered O’Hara’s last night. Presumably he had left the glass there with the intention of lifting it in the morning, in the expectation that the morning would come for him. The room with its books but no photographs of family or children saddened me. It was as if the man’s life was further diminished in death by the fact that no one had even noticed he was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A junior doctor from the local health centre arrived within twenty minutes to confirm death. He blanched at the sight of the body and I assumed he’d had little experience in dealing with such ripe corpses. He conducted his checks with little conversation, confirmed death, and left again as hurriedly as he could.

  Our forensics technician, Michael Doherty, arrived just before noon, toting his black sampling cases. He worked the scene while waiting for the State Pathologist, Joe Long, to arrive and examine the body. Patterson and I stood in the living room. McCready had already begun canvassing neighbours with a team of uniforms, but considering the isolated nature of the house, surrounded by the high tree-line, it was unlikely anyone would have seen anything of use to us.

  ‘Fucking pathetic,’ Patterson muttered.

  He guessed from my expression that I was unsure what he meant, so he gestured around the room.

  ‘This. All these books. What did the man have, like? He’s dead how many days, and no one even noticed?’

  ‘It’s sad,’ I agreed.

  ‘So, a robbery, then?’

  ‘Looks like it. The kitchen-door window was smashed to gain access to the house. Whoever they were, they came in here, trashed the place looking for something.’

  ‘Didn’t take the TV,’ Patterson commented. ‘Anything else obvious gone?’

  I shook my head. ‘No comp
uter, no DVD player. A few old VHS tapes but no sign of a video player.’

  ‘VHS? Jesus,’ Patterson said to the SOCO dusting the hallway doorframe for prints, ‘was he afraid to spend money or something, eh?’ Then, to me, he said, ‘What about upstairs?’

  ‘McCready checked it,’ I admitted. ‘I took a quick look around, but I’m not sure about anything missing.’

  I followed Paterson up. O’Hara’s bedroom was to the front of the property. The small bedside lamp was still turned on, the bedclothes tossed back, though the bed was otherwise undisturbed. A tumbler of water sat on a bedside cabinet, its contents spilled slightly onto the wooden surface. The wardrobe facing the bed lay open a little. On top of the bed lay a paperback book.

  I moved across to the window. It was pulled closed, but the handle was not fully turned to lock it shut. I looked across to the neighbouring houses, only just visible over the tops of the trees. I could see McCready standing at the doorway of one, talking with the occupant.

  Patterson began opening the drawers of the bedside cabinet. One contained socks and underwear, the next pyjamas. He flicked through the contents of each.

  ‘No money lying around,’ he commented. ‘Oh ho,’ he added, pulling a magazine out from beneath the clothes in the middle drawer. ‘O’Hara was one of them.’

  I glanced at the cover; it was a gay pornographic magazine.

  ‘That’s why he never married,’ Patterson added, flicking through the pages.

  For my part, I found this was the most unpleasant part of our job. O’Hara had lived alone but even then had hidden the magazine beneath clothes in his drawer, presumably out of embarrassment. Through the necessary steps of investigation we learned things about victims that their own families would not know; every secret, every embarrassment laid bare.

  I glanced back out of the window and saw Joe Long’s car arrive outside, the uniform manning the cordon lifting the crime-scene tape to allow the car to pass under.

  Doherty finished working around the remains to allow Long to examine the body, and moved out to the kitchen in the hope that those who had broken in might have left prints around the door.