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

by Brian McGilloway

  The woman wore a dressing gown, which she clenched closed at her chest with one hand while the other hand rested on the door, barring our entrance.

  ‘We’d like to speak to Niall Martin,’ Hendry said. ‘Is he here?’

  Martin appeared behind the woman, wearing a pair of striped pyjamas bottoms beneath a white T-shirt. He was comparatively lean for his age, though he was beginning to soften around the trunk and the flabby outline of his belly and chest was clear under the tautness of the T-shirt.

  ‘What’s going on? Is it my father?’

  His glance shifted from Hendry to me, then seemed to harden as he recognized me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘You two know each other?’ Hendry asked. ‘That saves introductions. We’d like to come in, Mr Martin.’

  ‘He has no jurisdiction over here,’ Martin said from behind the young woman. She stayed where she stood but had turned her head to face him. Her outstretched arm still barring the entrance, it looked like she was protecting him.

  ‘He’s here on work placement,’ Hendry said. ‘He’s just observing. I have some questions I’d like answered, sir. It seems wiser that we do it here than in Strabane station.’

  Hendry waited a beat while Martin considered his choices. Finally he nodded lightly and the woman lowered her arm and stepped back.

  ‘Let me put something on,’ he said, disappearing into a room down the corridor from the main sitting area. The young woman followed him into the same room.

  Hendry arched his eyebrows. ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘I thought she was the housekeeper.’

  ‘She clearly provides the full service.’

  The room was gloomy. Martin had not turned on the main light and only the growing luminescence of the sky beyond the large plate-glass window provided some illumination. The objects in the room seemed to have lost their definition, as if their edges were blurred.

  Martin came out of the room alone, closing the door behind him. He had put on a light dressing gown and a pair of bedroom slippers, though he had been gone for longer than it would have taken him to do only that. I guessed he was giving instructions to his companion. For now, she remained in their room.

  ‘So what’s amiss that calls the sleepers of this house so early in the morning? Is this about that woman again?’

  ‘Sheila Clark?’ I shook my head. ‘No. Though I’d still like that address.’

  ‘And I told you I don’t have it,’ Martin countered.

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of Sean Cleary a few nights ago,’ Hendry said. ‘He was found shot in a playground in Strabane.’

  Martin nodded his head, smiling bemusedly, as if unsure how this appertained to him.

  ‘I heard about that. That’s right.’

  ‘Your phone number was the last one he dialled before he was killed,’ Hendry said. ‘Would you be able to explain why?’

  Martin composed himself. I suspected he was considering his options; there was no point lying about it, because we had his number. Furthermore, there was no point claiming it had been a wrong number, for we knew the call had lasted almost five minutes.

  ‘He called me about his father,’ Martin said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I worked with his father around the time he died.’

  ‘When your father donated money to St Canice’s?’ I added.

  He nodded. ‘My father offered them a lot of financial support, that kind of thing. He had been adopted himself and felt a bit of an affinity to the place,’ he explained. ‘In turn they employed me and a few mates for the summer.’

  ‘So what did Cleary want to know?’

  ‘He wanted to know why his father died. I told him that, as far as I knew, his father had been suspected of informing on that lad who was shot on the river.’

  ‘And how is your father now?’ I asked. ‘I trust he’s okay.’

  ‘He’s not recovered consciousness yet,’ Martin replied, his smile faded. ‘The hospital are doing all they can.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Hendry said. ‘Did you meet Sean Cleary that night?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Martin replied. ‘He phoned and we discussed his father. That was it.’

  ‘Did you leave the house that evening at all?’

  Martin tilted his head to the side, considering the question.

  ‘No, I don’t think I did.’

  ‘Can anyone verify that you were at home that evening?’

  ‘I’m sure they can,’ Martin replied. ‘Am I a suspect?’

  ‘We know that Sean Cleary phoned someone and arranged to meet them.’

  ‘And you know the content of the call because . . .?’

  ‘He was in a taxi when he made the call,’ Hendry said. ‘The taxi man overheard the arrangement being agreed.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The problem is that we have Sean Cleary’s phone and the only call he made or received after calling for a taxi was to you.’

  ‘He did ask to meet, now that you mention it,’ Martin said. ‘I told him there was no point. I didn’t know anything. Besides I couldn’t leave my father here alone.’

  ‘Your father is your alibi?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, if you put it like that, then yes, he is.’

  ‘Your unconscious father?’

  ‘I only have the one, unfortunately.’

  ‘What about your housekeeper?’ Hendry asked. ‘She wouldn’t be able to confirm whether you were here?’

  ‘You could ask her,’ Martin said, smiling as if at a private joke. He went back to the room and knocked softly before opening the door. ‘Maria. Are you decent?’ he said. ‘The police would like a word.’

  The young woman came out of the room sheepishly. She had dressed, despite the fact that it was not yet dawn. She wore skinny jeans which clung to her lower calves, accentuating their shape. Above them she wore a heavy woollen jumper. Her hair was scraped back into a pony tail, her face still a little bleary from sleep.

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of a man in Strabane several nights ago. Mr Martin tells us that he was at home for the duration of the evening of the 28th. Is that correct?’

  She glanced from Hendry to myself nervously, then turned to look at Martin, who nodded encouragingly. She turned to Hendry again and licked her lips quickly with the tip of her tongue. ‘Yes,’ she said, her accent sharpening the word. ‘He stayed here with me all night.’

  ‘With you?’ Hendry said. ‘You slept together all night. Or with you, meaning in this house.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied again. ‘The first, I mean.’

  ‘Mr Martin couldn’t have left and come back again?’

  She shook her head. ‘He did not leave,’ she said.

  Hendry nodded. ‘Thank you, Miss . . .?’

  ‘Votchek,’ she said.

  Hendry turned to Martin. ‘We’ll have to have forensics do a sweep of your house and clothing,’ he said. ‘Just to be sure. Perhaps you’ll submit for gunpowder-residue tests on your hands, too. And we’ll need to impound your car for forensics.’

  ‘The car won’t be much use to you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Why?’ Hendry asked suspiciously.

  ‘All the visits to my father, the car was beginning to stink of hospital. I had it valeted the other day to get rid of the smell.’

  ‘We’ll check it anyway, sir,’ Hendry said. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d get dressed and come into the station to make a statement.’

  ‘Maria has just told you I was here all night,’ Martin protested. ‘This is ridiculous.’

  Hendry nodded. ‘You were, as best we know, the last person to speak to Cleary before he died. You might remember something which would help us catch his killer.’

  Martin smiled archly. ‘I see,’ he said.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  I went home to get washed before going back to the station. Shane barely spoke to me over his breakfast. Debbie, on the other hand, compensated fo
r his silence when I told her that Burke was being released with a caution.

  ‘Was letting down one of the children in an evening not enough?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Penny trusted that you would do the right thing,’ she said. ‘What if she sees that young fella walking about again? How’s she meant to feel, knowing he got away with it?’

  ‘He got a caution,’ I said.

  ‘For all that’s worth!’

  ‘What would you rather I’d done? Beat him up a bit more myself? He’d already been given a kicking.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time you’d used your fists on someone,’ she retorted. ‘It was okay when you did it for Caroline Williams, but apparently not when it’s for your own daughter.’

  Caroline had been my old partner in the guards. Her abusive husband had been on the wrong end of my anger after he had driven her to attempt suicide.

  ‘He’s little more than a child himself. Trust me, the state he was left in, he’d had enough.’

  Shane slunk off his seat and padded up the stairs. I followed him out to the hall. ‘Are we still on for the flicks tonight, wee man?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not a wee man,’ he said.

  ‘You are to me.’ I climbed the stairs and sat on the step next to him, patting the carpet beside me to encourage him to sit, too. After some reluctance, he did.

  ‘I am so sorry about last night, Shane,’ I said. ‘Something came up and I had to deal with it. But I shouldn’t have put that before you. I promise you we will go the pictures tonight.’

  ‘What if something else comes up tonight?’

  ‘I’ll ignore it,’ I said. ‘Scout’s honour.’

  ‘Were you a scout?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But I won’t let you down again. Buddies?’ I held out my hand to him.

  He turned from me, but did not move away. ‘Buddies,’ he agreed finally, though he did not go so far as to shake on it.

  I was clearing up some of the outstanding paperwork on my desk in the station when the pathologist, Joe Long, phoned.

  ‘The Commission gave me the go-ahead on the bones,’ he said without any introduction.

  ‘So I believe,’ I said. ‘Good morning.’

  He grunted a return greeting. ‘It’s just as well, actually,’ he said. ‘The results came in this morning. I’d have had some explaining to do if they’d said no.’

  ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘Retinoids, apparently,’ Long said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Vitamin A,’ he said. ‘That what’s caused the disfigurements.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Increased levels of vitamin A in pregnant women can lead to birth defects or, depending on the levels, death of the unborn child. The most commonly reported defects include facial malformation, hydrocephaly, heart defects and problems with ears and eyes. It can also lead to mental-health issues with the adults using them, again depending on the levels of retinoids.’

  I knew little science but I recognized the term ‘retinoids’ at least.

  ‘I think Debbie uses retinoid cream,’ I said.

  ‘She probably does, though whether she’ll appreciate you telling people is another matter. Most women will use some type of vitamin A cream; it’s very good for the skin, especially as you get a little older.’

  ‘So how come our children weren’t affected?’

  Long breathed in slowly, as if considering how best to explain it to me. ‘Retinoids are used extensively in skin creams. There is, however, a type of cream called isotretinoin. It has very high retinoid levels; it was used in America to treat acne, under the brand name Accutane. They discovered that it caused birth defects in the children of pregnant women who had used it. It’s still available, as far as I know, though they now won’t prescribe it to pregnant women or those thinking of getting pregnant.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what happened to the Islandmore babies?’

  ‘I think it’s very possible. The bone analysis of the infants showed high levels of vitamin A. All of them.’

  ‘Have you told the Commission yet?’

  ‘I just spoke to Millar. He knew right away that I’d ordered the tests before he gave the go-ahead, but he was okay about it. He’s going back to his own people now for legal advice on how to proceed.’

  ‘This clearly means the children can’t be classed as “victims of violence”, mind you. I’d say they’ll have to let us investigate.’

  ‘Investigate what, Ben? Even if it was something to do with retinoids that led to those birth defects, there’s no malice involved. There’s no intent to kill. The Accutane findings didn’t show up for years, long after these bodies were buried.’

  ‘Where are you most likely to find a high proportion of acne sufferers?’

  ‘Among teenagers – schools and so on.’

  ‘And where would you have found high proportions of pregnant teenagers in the mid-seventies?’

  ‘A mother-and-baby home?’

  ‘A mother-and-baby home,’ I agreed.

  McCready arrived about half an hour later. I was online, reading up on the Accutane debacle. The images on the screen when he entered the office made McCready blanche; an ultrasound of a foetus with obvious facial abnormalities.

  ‘Some light morning reading,’ he commented, hanging his coat over the back of his chair. He eyes were red-rimmed with tiredness, his face pallid and pinched, the lack of colour accentuated by the stubble enshadowing his jawline.

  ‘You look rough. Bad night?’

  ‘Ellen can’t sleep,’ he said. ‘She feels it’s only fair that I should join her in this.’ As he spoke, his attention was constantly drawn back to the image.

  I scrolled down the screen to a text section.

  ‘How’s she feeling?’

  ‘Fed up. She wants the whole thing to be over, you know. Just get the baby out and make sure everything is okay. Intact, like.’

  I nodded. ‘I need you to do something for me,’ I said.

  ‘I’d rather not if it involves deformed babies, to be honest, sir.’

  ‘Only peripherally,’ I said. ‘You can do the easy part. I want you to run a background check on Alan Martin’s company. In particular, I want to see if they developed or were developing a topical skin cream for acne during the seventies.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, though I could tell he was wondering why.

  ‘Joe Long thinks the infants on the island may have been born with abnormalities because their mothers were using cream high in vitamin A.’

  His eyes widened. ‘Ellen uses vitamin A cream at night.’

  ‘I’ve been through this with him about Debbie. Skin cream is fine – it’s specifically a kind of acne cream, isotretinoin,’ I read the name from the notebook in front of me.

  ‘I’ll get to it, sir.’

  It was obvious that all the cases connected to St Canice’s. I recalled being vaguely aware of the place when I was child, but it had closed down soon after. Most of those I knew to be connected with the place were dead. Those who were still alive, such as Niall Martin, would not be forthcoming. In the end, I went back to the one person who I knew would help.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Olly Costello sat perched at the edge of his armchair, a wheeled table positioned in front of him. On it was a plate with a piece of fish, a small scoop of mashed potato and a mush of indeterminate vegetables. To the plate’s left was a small robin-egg blue bowl containing something that appeared to be neither creamed rice, nor custard, but a substance somewhere between the two. He scraped the knife determinedly across the plate, cutting off a small piece of the battered fish, then worked to spear it with his fork. That achieved, he raised it with shaking hand to his mouth, then began the whole process over again.

  ‘Meals on wheels,’ he explained, chewing slowly. He shifted the food around his mouth, then, raising his fingers, picked something from his lips and laid it at the side of the plate.

 
‘Kate says I’m getting too old to look after myself. She wants to put me in a home.’

  ‘You’re still too young for that,’ I said, though without much conviction.

  He nodded. ‘Two visits in a week. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I wanted to ask about St Canice’s Mother-and-Baby Home,’ I said.

  ‘Is this still about Declan Cleary? Or poor Seamus O’Hara?’ he asked, blessing himself.

  ‘It’s not quite Cleary that I’m interested in. What do you know about the home?’

  ‘It was one of those places that just . . . were there. Every county had one.’

  ‘Is anyone connected with running it still about?’

  He shook his head. ‘The last person I knew of was a young woman, Shana, Suzanne something, maybe.’

  ‘Sheila? Sheila Clark?’

  He repeated the name, as if testing out the sound of it.

  ‘That sounds about right. She was a real looker in her time.’

  I took out the picture of the group that O’Hara had given Cleary.

  ‘Is that her?’

  He took the picture from me and held it in his shaking hand.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘She managed the place till it closed.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Late seventies,’ he said. ‘It was your man there.’ He pointed to the page.

  ‘Who?’ I asked, moving beside him to see who he was pointing at. ‘The tall man?’

  ‘Aye. The drugs-company boy. What’s his name?’

  ‘Alan Martin?’

  ‘Aye. He bought the place out. The state was glad to be rid of it. He shut it down within a few months. The whole place was razed to the ground. He was trying to sell it off for development, but kept getting turned down because he had no roots in the county.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Drumaghill Road. I think they finally built on the site a few years ago. I don’t know if he still owned the land by then, of course. It’d have been worth a lot more than it was when he bought it. Not anymore, of course.’

  ‘Did you know him? What was he like?’

  He considered the question for a moment before answering. ‘Rich,’ he replied, scooping up a spoonful of the dessert, the spoon clenched in his fist in the manner Shane used to hold his when he was a baby.