Peter stared at Jim Brennan. He must be taking the piss, surely? But Jim’s smiling face radiated sincerity.
‘You haven’t been working with Des for very long, then?’ said Peter.
‘Five years now,’ Jim said cheerily, and he turned and led the way into the station.
Peter was familiar with Roundstone Garda Station. Des had brought him there once or twice when he was a child, on the rare occasions when he hadn’t managed to completely avoid his parental responsibilities. The building was a small converted cottage. Peter remembered a tiny reception area just inside the front door, and behind it one large office with a few desks and shelving units, a small bathroom at the very back. By the bathroom was a second small room with bars on the window and a reinforced door – used as a short-term holding cell. The main office had always smelled damp and musty and had been stuffed with stacks of paper files. The bathroom at the back was always freezing, even in summer, and had smelled faintly of wee. Jim unlocked the door to the station and ushered him inside. Peter was relieved to see there had been a few small improvements.
‘Welcome, anyway,’ Jim said. ‘I’ll put on the kettle. I have a few muffins too, left over from yesterday, if you’ve a bit of a sweet tooth like myself.’
Some things were the same. There was paper everywhere and the shelves along the walls were filled to overflowing with hanging files. But the smell of damp was gone, replaced by the smell of coffee – Peter didn’t miss a new-looking coffee machine installed on a small table in the corner. It was warmer too. They must have replaced the insulation, or the heating, or both.
‘You’ve upgraded a few bits,’ Peter said.
‘Not really,’ Jim said. ‘We only get what’s left over, you know yourself. Have you been in the new station in Galway city yet? The new HQ, I mean.’
Peter shook his head. The room was so bloody small. He would be sitting cheek to jowl or face to face with his father, with nowhere to hide, every day for months.
‘Where do I sit?’ Peter asked.
‘That’s Des there,’ Jim said, pointing to the desk to Peter’s left, the one nearest the door. ‘I’m opposite.’ Jim pointed to the desk on the right. ‘You can take this one, if you like. It’s all set up.’ It was the desk to Des’s left, near the coffee machine.
Peter took off his coat and sat. He hit a few keys on the keyboard. The familiar garda logo and the log-in prompt for the PULSE system came up, and he was unexpectedly comforted by it. He shifted some of the files to make a bit of space, and logged in. Jim made the promised tea and delivered a mug to Peter’s desk.
‘Thanks.’
Jim nodded. ‘It’s good you’re here,’ he said. ‘I’m three days a week in Clifden, and with this murder Des has too much work on his plate. Your being here will make a difference.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Busy, is he?’
‘It’s the paperwork,’ Jim said chattily. ‘Your dad has always been a more hands-on kind of man. He’d rather be out and about, meeting people, shaking hands and having a chat, not filing three versions of this and four of the other.’
‘He’s not one for computers then, no?’
Jim grinned. ‘He’ll use the system all right,’ he said. ‘He’s as good as any cop at getting it to spit out the information we need, better than most. But he doesn’t like to feed it, as it were.’
Who was this guy? He was almost a caricature of a jolly police officer – he had the same round, happy face as Mr Plod in the Noddy cartoons Peter had watched as a little boy. It was unsettling.
‘That’s where you come in,’ Jim continued.
‘Oh?’
‘You’ve worked a murder. More than one, I’m told. We thought you could get on top of whatever procedural stuff we haven’t quite managed ourselves. Dot the i’s and cross the t’s.’
‘I see.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jim said. ‘It’s just a bit of tidying up on this end, that’s all. The SDU in Dublin took over the formal investigation. It’s not closed, but they know who did it. One of those Dublin gangs. They came down, looking to rip off a pensioner, and things got out of hand. So all the hard slog is being done elsewhere. We’re just needing someone to keep on top of the paperwork.’
‘Right.’
Jim was looking puzzled now, picking up on Peter’s lack of enthusiasm. ‘You’re probably like your dad, are you? You’d rather be out and about? I’m sure Des will bring you on some of his rounds, teach you a bit about community policing. There’s no better man for it.’
‘Ah no, Jimmy,’ a voice came from the door, and it dripped sarcasm. ‘Peter’s above all that. He’s a detective garda. He wants to be solving real crimes, the tough stuff, not dealing with petty misdemeanours in our little village.’
Jim laughed as if the comment was a bit of good-natured teasing.
Des Fisher made his way comfortably over to the coffee machine and set about making himself a cup. The room already felt smaller.
‘I was just filling Peter here in on the murder,’ Jim said. ‘Or at least, I was about to.’
Des nodded and continued with the coffee machine, without looking up.
‘It was about four weeks ago,’ Jim went on. ‘On a Saturday.’
‘Saturday, third of October,’ Des put in. He found the pod he wanted, inserted it in the machine and chose a cup.
Jim nodded. ‘That’s right. The victims were Miles Lynch and his nephew, Carl. Miles had a bit of a farm, and Carl worked it with him. They lived together in the farmhouse, and that’s where they were killed.’
‘How?’ Peter asked.
‘They were beaten to death,’ Des said flatly. ‘Someone picked up the poker where it lay in the grate and beat the living shite out of them. Miles was in his late seventies. Carl was a young man. Thirty-two.’
‘What makes you think it was a Dublin gang?’ Peter asked.
Des laughed. ‘Why? Who do you think it was, Peter? Sharon down the shop?’
Jim Brennan chuckled. ‘It wasn’t much of a mystery,’ he said. ‘There was a spate of robberies in the area at the time, from Oughterard to Maam Cross. They lifted a Land Cruiser from south County Dublin and went on a bit of a spree down west, then dumped and burned out the car near Mullingar. There were Cruiser tyre tracks at the scene – not too many of those around here, you know.’
It didn’t sound like much to base a theory on to Peter. ‘Who inherits the farm?’ he asked.
Des laughed again, sounding genuinely amused. He turned around, leaned back against the coffee table, cup in hand. ‘Aren’t we in luck, Jimmy? Peter’s here, all the way from Galway, ready to solve this great big mystery we have on our hands. We’re only poor country gardaí, only fit to manage a few lost heifers. Thank god we have Peter here to set us straight.’
‘I’m not trying to set anyone straight,’ Peter said. ‘I’m just asking the obvious questions.’ God, but he couldn’t stand his father. Couldn’t stand his slick little gibes or his grinning face. Peter aimed his remarks at Jim Brennan. ‘You’ve already been through all of this. But I’m just catching up. So these are new questions to me.’
Des took a sip from his coffee, his eyes on his son, measuring. ‘Tell him about the farm, Jimmy.’
‘Well. You know yourself. It’s not the best farming country. Miles had fifty acres or so, another nine of commonage. He’d a bit of road frontage, some nice views over Dog’s Bay. Back in the boom someone might have gone for planning permission. But these days it wouldn’t be worth a lot. Maybe two hundred thousand. Three hundred at the outside.’
‘And the “heir”?’ Des used his hands to draw imaginary quote marks in the air.
‘That would be Carl’s sister, Miles’s niece. Naoise. She’s a bright girl, Naoise. She studied computer science at the GMIT. She lives in California.’
‘She’s a software engineer,’ said Des. ‘Married to a heart surgeon. Two children. Lives in a six-bedroom mansion in Orange County. Hasn’t visited Ireland in twelve years. She’
s president of her PTA. Based on the pictures on her Facebook page, I’d say she’s five feet two inches, weighs about a hundred pounds. What do you think, Peter? Do you think she took a secret trip to Ireland to beat her uncle and brother to death with a poker?’
Peter shook his head. ‘No. I’d say it doesn’t sound likely at all.’
‘No,’ Des said.
Silence fell.
‘Was anything taken?’ Peter asked.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Des rolled his eyes, went to his desk and picked up a file, started to leaf through it. It was clear he wasn’t willing to engage on the subject, but Jim was happy to talk.
‘It’s hard to know. The place was messed about. Books thrown around, a few bits of ornaments smashed. We found a bit of cash, but there might have been more. You know the way these old fellas are. They don’t trust the banks.’
‘Can’t blame them for that,’ Peter said.
Jim laughed appreciatively. ‘You can’t. That’s right, Peter. So it’s hard to know. Miles and Carl kept to themselves mostly. Carl had been doing a line for a time with a woman from Recess, but that had broken up about six months earlier, and she’d never been to the farm. The gang might have taken something, and there’d be no way for us to tell, really.’
Peter nodded. ‘Tricky,’ he said.
‘There’s nothing tricky about it,’ Des said. ‘A gang of gougers came down from Dublin. They target vulnerable people living alone on remote farms. That’s what they do, and that’s what they did here. Miles was tough. He was old but he wasn’t a pushover. He told them where to go and they didn’t like it. They killed him for it. That’s what happened.’ Des’s eyes were hard.
Peter stared back at him, unable to hide his hostility. Des clenched his jaw.
‘The paperwork is there,’ Des said. ‘You know what to do. Get on with it.’
Peter looked through the files on his desk, found one marked Lynch, and got to work.
Peter took his time with the file. He started by orienting himself geographically. The Lynch farm was located about halfway between Roundstone and Errisbeg. He ran a Google Maps search, switched to Street View, scrolled and clicked for a while, but couldn’t find the farm. He searched through the file again for a map but found nothing.
‘Jim?’ he said.
The other man looked up.
‘Could you give me a hand? I’m just trying to figure out where the farm is, exactly.’
Jim Brennan wandered over.
‘Having a bit of trouble?’ He leaned over Peter’s screen, squinting. He put his hand on Peter’s mouse, zoomed out a bit. ‘You’re nearly there.’ He pointed one thick finger at the screen. ‘It’s about there, I think,’ he said. He sounded uncertain.
‘You’re sure?’ Peter asked.
‘It’s around there,’ he said.
Des shifted in his seat, and Jim returned to his desk.
‘Thanks,’ Peter said. He’d have to go out and find the place. That was the only way to be sure. The farm was definitely off the beaten track.
He went back to the paperwork, started with the forensics reports. He read through them slowly, taking note of anything that stood out as unusual. The first nugget came from the fingerprints report. The farmhouse had been comprehensively dusted. Not just the living room, where the murders had taken place, but the kitchen, bedrooms and even the bathroom. Five separate sets of fingerprints had been found in the house. Two sets belonged to the victims. The other three had not been traced. Peter couldn’t find anything in the file to indicate that the prints had even been run through the system, though they surely must have been. He thought about asking Des, decided against it. Anything that could be interpreted as criticism would provoke a narky response, and he just wanted to get through the day. He sent off a request to run the prints himself. It would take a day to get the results. He wasn’t expecting a gotcha moment to result from the exercise, but at least the file would be a little more in order and that was, after all, what he was there for.
Only three sets of prints other than their own. Clearly Miles Lynch hadn’t had any little grandchildren running around, touching surfaces with sticky fingers. Peter flicked to the witness statements, which were sparse. No one had seen or heard anything, it seemed. The closest neighbour, who was half a kilometre away, said that the Lynches lived a quiet life. They hadn’t been social, though based on what Maggie had said, Miles at least had played the odd game of cards with old friends. Not hermits, exactly, but . . . isolated. By choice. Which was sad. According to the statements, Miles Lynch had worked his farm his entire life, and Carl had grown up just outside Roundstone, had attended primary school in the village. Was it odd that they had been so lacking in connections? Maybe not. It happened. With farmers, in particular those who didn’t marry. They worked their own land, could choose, if they wished, to interact little with the wider world.
The fingerprint report indicated that the first set of unidentified prints had been found in multiple locations throughout the kitchen – inside and outside cupboards, on the table, on the outside of the fridge. That was interesting. It suggested someone familiar, someone who felt comfortable moving around the kitchen, looking after themselves. So perhaps there had been at least one friend, or maybe a housekeeper. The other two sets had left far fewer prints. One set had shown up in three places – one perfect fingerprint on the doorbell button, and the same print and a thumbprint on the antique dresser that stood in the hall of the farmhouse. The final set had been found in four locations in the living room – on the mantelpiece, on a coffee table and twice on the arm of a chair.
Peter moved on. The bodies had been discovered by the local GP, who’d been treating Miles Lynch for diabetes. According to the doctor’s statement, Miles had a history of managing his disease poorly. As a result he had developed peripheral vascular disease and was prone to foot ulcers. He also suffered from peripheral neuropathy – a numbness in his hands and feet – that increased the risk of injury. When Miles had missed an appointment and the practice nurse failed to reach him by telephone over the following days, the doctor decided to call over to the Lynch house after his clinic the following week. The front door had been open and blowing in the wind. He’d found the bodies of Miles and Carl Lynch in their living room, Carl on the floor in front of the fireplace, Miles still sitting up in an armchair. According to the doctor’s statement, he’d gone to both bodies, confirmed that they were dead, and then withdrawn straight away. He’d called the station and Des and Jim Brennan had both attended. They’d taken photographs then taped off the scene, and immediately called in the big guns. Forensics arrived first, about three hours after the call. Two detectives from the SDU in Dublin arrived the following morning. By then the bodies had been removed to the morgue in Galway.
Peter turned to the photographs. Miles and Carl had been dead for a week by the time they were found. They’d died in September, the weather had been warmer, and the door to the house had been left open. It was clear from the photographs that putrefaction had begun. The bodies were swollen. There was clear evidence of insect activity. Christ. It was stomach-churning just looking at the photographs. How much worse would it have been in real life, with the smell, and knowing the men personally? It would have been traumatic for the doctor to stumble across the body of a patient in circumstances like that. Peter made a mental note that he should talk to him as soon as the opportunity presented itself. People talked to their doctors – even lonely, isolated men like Miles Lynch. If the Lynch murder hadn’t been a random act of violence, the doctor might have some insight into circumstances in Lynch’s life that might have exposed him to the murderer.
Peter sat back in his chair. He was supposed to be cleaning up the paperwork, not re-investigating a murder. Des wanted to put him in a tight little box of bullshit nothingness. But if he was going to be stuck in this place for a month, or even two . . . he wouldn’t last if he didn’t have something to occupy his brain. As long as he was there, he might as well
do the job right.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Cormac drove to Dublin on Wednesday afternoon, left his car in long-term parking at the airport and boarded the plane to Belgium. It was a journey he knew well. He’d made the trip at least once a fortnight for the past eight months, ever since Emma had decided to walk away from her work in Galway. He’d agreed with her decision – they’d both felt that she’d had no choice. The ethical compromises she would have had to make to stay working in the lab in Galway would have been too profound, too fundamental, but resigning from the project before it was completed had triggered a penalty clause in her contract. The company she had been working for had taken ownership of the intellectual property rights to a design that Emma had created, and which was now proving to be extremely valuable. Worse than the loss of the money was the fact that the project was now moving forward without her. They didn’t talk about it anymore, but he knew it was hurting her. She’d always been driven. Now she was angry, more determined to make her mark and control her own destiny. The opportunity in Brussels came up unexpectedly, when a former colleague had had a family crisis that forced a return to the United States, leaving his project without a lead. They’d discussed it, briefly, and the following day Emma had agreed to take on the project for the six months that her colleague expected to be away. The six months had become eight months, and there was no end in sight.
The plane landed on time. Cormac got the train to Central Station, a tram to the Châtelain district and walked the rest of the way. Evenings in the Châtelain district were usually busy, the bars and restaurants popular with locals and tourists alike. Cormac moved quickly down the street, zipping his jacket to his chin, and shifting his bag to a more comfortable position on his shoulder. Music spilled out of the restaurants he passed. He could smell good food and hear the buzz of lively conversation. His spirits lifted. He reached the apartment building, swiped his way inside and nodded hello to the concierge. The lift required a key card and a six-digit number before it started its climb to the penthouse. The lift opened to a private hall and a second locked door that required a second key card. Cormac fumbled in his wallet, found it. He swiped, then knocked and opened.
The Good Turn Page 12
