White Bones

by Graham Masterton

  “I was walking back down when I met the fellow who lives downstairs from her. He’s had heart trouble or something so he’s on the unemployment. He said he saw her walking down the road in front of him at about five past nine, and a car stopped and she got into it.”

  “Has she ever taken days off before? Just gone off, without telling anybody?”

  “She might have done. She lives on her own now because of our family situation. But today was important. She had to finish the work for her leaving certs. That’s why I was going to take her out for her dinner. I thought she might like a bit of a treat.”

  Jimmy O’Rourke came back, followed by a young woman garda carrying a tray with four cups of coffee. “Frank O’Leary’s below, the witness. They just brought him down in a squad car. Do you want me to bring him up?”

  “Yes, please.” Katie pried the lids off the coffee cups and passed one to Mrs Buckley. “You want sugar? Here. Tell me about your family situation.”

  “I left my husband about seven months ago, the day after Paddy’s Day. He was always spending all his wages on drink and I suppose I just decided that I’d had enough. I went to stay with my sister and unfortunately her husband Kieran was a little too sympathetic, I suppose. We started an affair and this went on for three or four months before my sister found out. Me and Kieran left and for three weeks we had to live in his car because none of the rest of the family would take us in. My mam still won’t speak to me even now, and Kieran’s family treat him like he’s got the foot-and-mouth disease. Siobhan couldn’t stay with us, of course, and so my sister helped her to find a little room of her own on Wellington Street.”

  “You don’t think that your family situation could have upset Siobhan enough to want to go away for a while? Girls of that age, you know, they often get very distressed without telling anybody. Bottle up their feelings.”

  “We were getting along grand. Siobhan liked Kieran all right. She knew that Kieran makes me happy in spite of everything, like. And she would never have missed her college this morning without telling me.”

  “Do you have a picture of her?”

  Mrs Buckley opened her purse and took out a photograph. “This was her nineteenth birthday party.”

  Katie looked at the laughing redhead holding up a glass of champagne, while Mrs Buckley anxiously bit her lips. “You will find her, won’t you?

  Frank O’Leary was a proud, portly, slow-spoken man with thick glasses and a bobbly green sweater.

  “I saw Siobhan walking down Summerhill about maybe fifty yards in front of me, although the sun was in my eyes. I recognized her red coat and her red hair. She was almost as far as York Hill by the off-license when a big white car pulled up beside her and I could see that she was bending over and talking to the driver.”

  “You couldn’t see the driver?”

  “Not from that distance, no.”

  “How long did Siobhan stand beside the car talking before she got in?”

  “Oh, not long at all. I didn’t even have the chance to catch up to her. I was going to say hello but she suddenly opened the door and climbed in and then the car was away.”

  “Do you know what kind of a car it was?”

  “It was big, and it was white.”

  “No idea of the make?”

  Frank O’Leary shook his head, but said, “It could have been Japanese, you know. It had a sort of a Japanesey look to it.”

  “You didn’t see the license-plate?”

  “It didn’t really occur to me to look; and the sun was dead in my eyes; so I was what you might call half-dazzled.”

  “Did you see which way it went?”

  “Down to the bottom of Summerhill, then straight across the lights into Brian Boru Street, but I couldn’t see where it went after that.”

  “All right, Frank, you’ve been very helpful. If you can remember anything more – no matter how insignificant you think it is – please don’t hesitate to call me, will you?”

  Frank O’Leary finished his coffee and stood up. “I remember one more thing. The car had the Cork hurling colors on the aerial – the blood and bandages.”

  “That could be very useful, thank you.”

  When he was gone, Katie went to see Dermot O’Driscoll. Dermot was sitting at his desk, going through his in-tray.

  “Paperwork,” he grumbled, as Katie came in. “They won’t need to bury me when I die, I’ll already be six foot under in traffic statistics.”

  Katie closed the door. Dermot looked up. The only time that anybody closed his door was when they needed to talk about something personal, or highly confidential.

  Katie said, “I don’t know whether you’ve heard, but a girl of nineteen went missing from St Luke’s this morning. A fashion student called Siobhan Buckley.”

  “Jimmy told me, yes. But she’s only been gone for a few hours, hasn’t she? It’s not exactly unusual for a nineteen-year-old girl to go on the hop from college.”

  “Well, you’re right. But I don’t know… I’ve got an uncomfortable feeling about this one. We have an eye-witness who says that she accepted a lift from somebody in a large white car.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “It’s hard to put into words. I’m just wondering if we might postpone the media conference until we know a little more.”

  “What are you suggesting? Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about Tómas Ó Conaill? Most of the press boys already know that we’ve got him in custody. Conor Cronin shooting his mouth off, as usual.”

  “All I’m trying to say is that Siobhan Buckley disappeared in very similar circumstances to Fiona Kelly and perhaps we ought to wait for a while before we make any official announcement.”

  Dermot had a think about that, waggling his fountain-pen between his fingers. At last he said, “You’re sure in your own mind that it was Tómas Ó Conaill who murdered Fiona Kelly, aren’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t have arrested him if I wasn’t. And all of the forensic evidence we have so far supports it.”

  “Well, then, what are you worried about?”

  “I’m just being cautious, that’s all. Especially since Siobhan Buckley’s mother doesn’t think that she’d have taken a day off college without telling her.”

  “Is that her?” asked Dermot, nodding toward the photograph that Mrs Buckley had given her. Katie gave it to him and he put on his glasses to peer at it.

  “My God. What do girls expect if they dress like this?”

  “She wasn’t wearing a sequin micro-skirt when she was picked up.”

  “No, but all the same…”

  “Chief, I’d simply like to be sure about what happened to Siobhan Buckley before we tell the world about Tómas Ó Conaill. It could be that Ó Conaill had an accomplice, who’s still at large. There could even be a ring of killers.”

  Dermot handed the photograph back. “I’ve already told the Commissioner that we’ve wrapped this up.”

  “Oh, and you don’t want us to look like culchies, is that it?”

  “That’s nothing at all to do with it,” Dermot retorted. “We have overwhelming circumstantial evidence that Tómas Ó Conaill was involved in the murder of Fiona Kelly and that’s good enough for me. Don’t tell me that you don’t want to see him behind bars as much as I do.”

  “Of course I do. But I just have this nagging feeling that we’re still missing something.”

  Dermot tossed down his pen. “Listen, girl, I’m retiring in three-and-a-half months from now. I want to go out with the best possible record. Not only that, I want to feel that I’ve made a difference. Putting a major scumbag like Tómas Ó Conaill behind bars is really going to count for something. Even if he didn’t kill Fiona Kelly – which I think he probably did – he deserves to be locked up for everything else he’s done.”

  “Not our decision to make, sir – with respect.”

  “I wish to God it was. But that’s enough. The media conference is going to go ahead at fifteen hu
ndred hours, as planned, and we’re going to announce to the world that we’ve caught and charged the man who murdered Fiona Kelly. I’ll tell you what you can do, if it makes you feel any better – ask the lads at 96FM to put out a shout for this Buckley girl. She’s probably hanging around the Victoria Sporting Club with the rest of the riff-raff.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “By the way, any luck with Charlie Flynn? I’ve had another call from City Hall.”

  “I think I may have made a breakthrough, sir. Give me twenty-four hours.”

  “Do your best, then. I’m supposed to be making a speech at the civic reception on Saturday night… it would be very good for kudos to announce that we’ve cracked that one, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  36

  She went back to talk to Tómas Ó Conaill. When they brought him into the interview room he looked deeply tired, and he sat opposite her with his head resting in his hands, staring at the table.

  “Tómas… I want to ask you two questions.”

  “Go away, Detective Superintendent Witch. Leave me alone.”

  “Tómas, I want to know if you were working by yourself, or if you had somebody else with you.”

  “What? What do you mean? When I was selling those trotting-ponies in Limerick, or when I was nailing down that roofing-felt in Glanmire?”

  “When you abducted Fiona Kelly.”

  He raised his head and stared at her wearily. “I told you. I never saw her, I never abducted her, I never killed her. What do you want me to do, make a record, so that you can listen to me saying that a thousand times over?”

  “We know you did it, Tómas. Why don’t you just admit it? It’ll make things much easier if you do.”

  “And what else do you want me to admit? That I killed those women in 1915, as well? That I’m one of the fairy folk, who never grows old, and never dies, and delights in abducting women and cutting them up into fillets and chops and bodices?”

  “Are you?”

  He sat back, ramming his straight black-jeaned legs underneath the table. “So what if I am? Would you like me to be?”

  She picked up a plastic evidence bag and laid it flat on the table in front of him.

  “What do you make of this?” she asked him.

  His tiny eyes glittered at her. “What do you want me to make of it?”

  “I’m simply asking you, what do you think it is?”

  “A piece of lace, it looks like.”

  “That’s right, it’s a piece of lace. But where do you think it comes from?”

  Tómas Ó Conaill slowly shook his head. “I wouldn’t like to guess.”

  “What do you think you could make of it, if you twisted it around, and knotted it?”

  He didn’t answer for a long time, but then he slowly smiled. “A noose, to twine around your neck?”

  She was hurrying downstairs to the media conference when her cellphone warbled. It was Gerard O’Brien, and he sounded excited.

  “I’ve been doing some more research on Mor-Rioghain. A theology professor in Osnabruck has e-mailed me with some fascinating background information. Do you mind if I come round to see you?”

  “It’ll have to be later, Gerard, or maybe tomorrow. Keep it to yourself for the moment, but we’ve made an arrest. I’m on my way to announce it to the press.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Gerard, and his disappointment was obvious. “If you’ve made an arrest, you won’t really want to know about any of this.”

  “I will, of course. But not just now. Call me at five o’clock.”

  The media conference was packed, and when Katie stepped up to the podium there was an epileptic barrage of flashlights. She hesitated for a moment, waiting for quiet, and then she said, “Yesterday evening we arrested and charged Tómas Ó Conaill, 37, of no fixed abode, for the kidnap and subsequent murder of Fiona Kelly. A file is being prepared for the prosecutor’s office. That is all we have to say at the moment, except to thank you, the media, who gave us so much support in this investigation, and the scores of gardaí who put in days of extra work in order to ensure that Fiona Kelly’s killer would be brought to justice.”

  “Has Ó Conaill confessed to the killing?” called out Dermot Murphy.

  “No, he denies it.”

  “What evidence do you have that it was him?”

  “At the moment the evidence is still being examined by our technical bureau. But I can assure you that even our preliminary findings are enough to make us feel confident that we have the right man.”

  “What do you have to say about the allegation that you’re using Ó Conaill as a scapegoat, simply because he’s a Traveler?”

  “I refute it absolutely. And I think the Traveling community themselves would take it as an insult. Ó Conaill is not your typical Traveler in any respect.”

  “You said before that this might have been a ritual killing. Now that you’ve made an arrest, do you still hold that view?”

  “We’re looking into a number of different motives.”

  “Of which ritual killing is still one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a clearer idea of what kind of ritual this might have been?”

  “I have some idea, yes.”

  “Would you like to share that with us?”

  “Not at this time, no.”

  “This girl who went missing this morning – what’s her name, Siobhan Buckley. Do you think there could be a link with Fiona Kelly’s abduction?”

  Before Katie could answer, Dermot stepped forward and said, “There’s no evidence of any connection whatsoever. We’re very optimistic that we’ll find Siobhan Buckley safe and well. If she fails to return home within twenty-four hours we will of course be setting up a thorough search. But with Tómas Ó Conaill in custody I can reassure all the young women of Cork that it is very much safer for them to walk the city streets.”

  When she returned to her office, she found that the light on her telephone was flashing. She picked it up and pressed the button for the operator.

  “There’s someone downstairs to see you, detective superintendent.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m completely tied up right now. Ask him to leave his name and telephone number, and a short note of what he wants to see me about.”

  “It’s a woman, actually. She says it’s very important. Something to do with Siobhan Buckley.”

  At that moment Liam came in, with a stack of technical reports. He put them down on her desk and turned to go. “Liam – ” she said, holding out her hand. “Liam, I have to talk to you.”

  “I’ve got an appointment in Glanmire,” he told her, and he tapped his wristwatch. “I’m running half-an-hour late as it is.”

  “I’ll catch you later, then.”

  “What do you want me to do about this woman?” asked the operator, impatiently.

  “Ask her if she can wait for a couple more minutes. Then I’ll come down.”

  She picked up the technical reports and quickly thumbed through them. Most of them were fingerprint matches from the doors and steering-wheel of the stolen Mercedes, although there was also a preliminary DNA report on several blonde hairs found in the front foot-well. There was almost no doubt at all that they had belonged to Fiona Kelly.

  A search of the cottage itself, though, had still failed to produce any fingerprints that matched Tómas Ó Conaill’s, although blankets and bedding and cushions had been sent off for analysis, as had cups and glasses and cutlery and a bar of soap.

  After she had looked through the folder, Katie went downstairs to the main reception area. Next to the cheese-plant just inside the doorway sat a dowdy middle-aged woman in a brown knitted hat and a brown coat surrounded by plastic shopping-bags. Katie started to walk across to her, but the receptionist called out, “Superintendent!” and when Katie turned around, she pointed with her ballpen toward a tall attenuated figure standing in the far corner, staring at her own reflection in the window.

  Katie approached her. Her
hair was ash-blonde, cut very short and slashed back with gel. She wore a long black-leather overcoat, calf-length, with its collar turned up; and black leather high-heeled boots, which made her seem even taller than she was. Katie found herself standing up very straight.

  Katie said, “I’m Detective Superintendent Katie Maguire. I understand you’ve got some information about Siobhan Buckley.”

  The woman turned. She was probably about the same age as Katie, but her make-up gave her skin an extraordinary porcelain smoothness. She had angular, Marlene Dietrich features, with high cheekbones and feline eyes. She wore large rimless spectacles with purple-tinted lenses, above which her eyebrows had been plucked into immaculate arches. She was wearing a perfume that Katie couldn’t place, but which had heavy notes of roses and vanilla. She could have been a fashion model, or an actress.

  “Lucy Quinn,” she said, in a warm American accent, and held out her hand. She was wearing black leather gloves that felt eerily soft. “I’m so glad you could spare me your time.”

  “I’m very busy, as you can imagine. It would help if you got to the point.”

  “I read about the Fiona Kelly case in Time magazine, and all about those eleven skeletons that were dug up. The article said that they might have been victims of some kind of ritual sacrifice – and of course – well – that aroused my interest immediately.”

  “I thought you had some information on Siobhan Buckley.”

  “I’m so sorry, I should introduce myself. I don’t want you thinking that I’m one of those weird women who believes in witchcraft and writes love letters to Charlie Manson. I’m a professor in Comparative Mythologies at the University of California at Berkeley. Scandinavian and Celtic legends, those are my specialties. I’ve done years of research into ancient Celtic rituals, and I really think I could help you.”

  “Well, Lucy, I appreciate your offer, but we’ve already charged a man with murdering Fiona Kelly.”