As she pulled on her protective clothing, she glanced up at the building again. It stood three storeys tall above her, though in other places it was only two storeys. A small chapel was attached to the side, its slated roof thick with the fresh fall of snow, unblemished by the prints of birds nestled tightly on a weathervane. Light spilled from the windows and a lamp over a doorway cast a yellow hue on the macabre proceedings beneath it. The distinct smell of fried food reached her nose, carried on the crest of a breeze, and she wondered if the kitchen was close by. She hoped the smell might dilute the death odour.
Jim McGlynn, SOCO leader, had arrived before her. He was busy shouting orders at his team, and his eyes tracked her, almost daring her to impinge on his crime scene.
‘Is it another suicide, Jim?’ Her expelled breath stilled like a reluctant fog in the air. He had done well to get here so quickly, and hopefully he’d left a competent team at Hill Point. She knew the importance of forensics in establishing whether a crime had been committed and building evidence against an accused. That was if they got to that stage.
McGlynn looked at her as if to say do you think I’m a magician? But he remained silent.
Boyd joined her, zipping up his white clothing, and scrunched his eyes at the body. ‘Is she wearing a wedding dress?’
Lottie gave him the same stare McGlynn had thrown her way. She addressed the SOCO team leader. ‘Can you turn her over, please?’
‘Detective Inspector Parker, I’m trying to do my job.’
‘If it’s a suicide, what’s the big deal?’
McGlynn leaned back on his haunches, checking the victim’s bare arm. ‘If it is suicide, it’s the third suspected case in three weeks, and the second one in this area alone.’
‘It is suicide, then?’ Lottie jumped on his statement. She recalled the recent death at Lough Doon Forest, less than three kilometres from the village.
‘I didn’t say that. And you and I both know that Ms Dunne’s death looked very suspicious.’
She watched as McGlynn instructed an assistant to take photographs of the body in situ and another to video their actions and movements.
‘What are you photographing?’ she said.
‘Her arms.’
‘I can see that, but I can’t see the relevance.’ A bitter east wind momentarily lifted the material of the victim’s dress, before it rested back on the flesh.
‘There might be signs of a struggle,’ he muttered.
‘And are there?’
‘You have no patience whatsoever.’
‘I know.’
She inched closer. The young woman’s arms were outstretched. The silk of the sleeveless wedding dress billowed slightly once again. Her legs were bare. No shoes or tights. Her jet-black hair made a stark contrast to the side of her white face that was visible. ‘Was she dead on impact or beforehand?’
McGlynn hunched over the body. ‘God give me patience with you.’ He sighed a long breath into the wind. ‘Nothing evident from examination by sight, but the pathologist will be able to determine cause of death. Look at that, though.’
Lottie leaned over and noticed a large gash on the forehead. ‘Pre-mortem trauma?’
McGlynn glared at her. ‘If that’s what you call sustaining a head wound shortly before death, then yes.’
‘Did she fall or was she hit with something?’
‘I’m not a—’
‘Magician. Okay.’ She glanced over at the small crowd who’d gathered in the snow outside the cordon. ‘Who found the body?’
‘How would I know?’ McGlynn grunted.
Lottie and Boyd headed to the garda sergeant who was struggling to keep the stragglers behind a taut crime-scene tape. ‘Who was first on scene?’
He checked his notebook. ‘A nurse. Alan Hughes.’
‘A nurse?’
‘This is a nursing home.’
‘I know that.’
Lottie glanced back at McGlynn, who was now working under a hastily erected tripod with a halogen light. Some of his crew were trying unsuccessfully to raise a tent over the body. It was looking more like a crime scene. Second death in the space of a few hours, both women in wedding dresses. Too much of a coincidence, Lottie thought as she scanned the crowd. She was surprised to see her friend Father Joe Burke standing amongst them. What was he doing here? Before she could approach him, a man stepped forward. Hair hidden beneath a black beanie hat, a rough beard lining his jaw, and from what she could see, his eyes were as dark as his hat.
‘I’m Alan Hughes.’ His voice was gruff and hoarse. ‘I found her.’
‘Are you okay?’ Lottie asked.
‘Flu.’ He sneezed into a paper tissue.
Lottie turned to her uniformed colleague. ‘Take everyone’s details and note down whatever information you can gather. Where they were. When they last saw the dead woman. You know the score. And make sure no one contaminates the scene. Nobody is to leave until all are interviewed. Boyd, you stay with McGlynn and see what you can find out. I’m going to have a quick word with Mr Hughes in the car.’
She stripped off the white protective gear, shoving it into a proffered paper bag before dipping out under the tape. She led Hughes towards the unmarked garda car. She could have brought him inside the abbey, but she thought he might talk more freely away from it. Sometimes having a demarcation from the scene helped witnesses to open up. When he was seated in the passenger seat, she sat in on the other side.
He was visibly shivering as he tore off his hat. His hair was tightly cut, peppered with grey strands, and his hands were big; more like a farmer than a nurse, she thought. He twisted round on the seat and she caught a glint in his eyes. Fear, or sadness? Sometimes she found those emotions hard to tell apart.
‘Mr Hughes … Can I call you Alan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alan, tell me everything. From the beginning.’
‘What do you want to know?’
Oh God, Lottie groaned silently. ‘Do you know the young woman’s name?’
‘The dead woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s Fiona Heffernan,’ he said. ‘I worked with her.’
‘She’s a nurse?’
‘She was a nurse.’
‘Did she quit?’
‘No. She fucking flung herself from the roof.’
Lottie tapped her knuckles against the steering wheel. ‘Was Fiona working today?’
‘Yes. Her shift was eight thirty till three.’
‘Where did she live?’
‘I don’t know that.’
‘Was she local to the village?’
‘I don’t know!’ His voice rose an octave, losing the gruff, hard-man timbre.
‘Do you have any idea what she did after her shift?’
‘Look, Inspector, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d only just arrived for work. I’m on the afternoon shift. I parked my car and was heading inside when I saw her. Lying there like a snow angel.’ He stifled a sob.
‘That’s a good description.’ Lottie glanced through the window, over his shoulder, scanning up along the building to the roof and back down to the body. ‘Do you have any idea why Ms Heffernan would be wearing a wedding dress?’
‘Not really.’ He shrugged. ‘Not today, anyway.’
Lottie frowned. ‘Not today? What do you mean by that?’
‘I’ll tell you what I mean. Fiona wasn’t due to get married until tomorrow.’
After she’d arranged for Alan Hughes to be swabbed and taken to the station for fingerprinting and a formal interview, she sought out Father Joe. He was shivering in a heavy parka jacket, the hood tight around his face. She’d recognise him anywhere.
‘What brings you here?’ she said.
‘Afternoon visitation. Administering to the sick is part of my priestly duties, you know.’
‘But this is not your parish,’ she said, massaging her hands furiously to keep the blood flowing.
‘Father Curran couldn’t make it today, so
he asked me. He’s the local parish priest, by the way.’
‘Okay. How are you doing?’
‘I’m fine. Keeping busy.’
She smiled, remembering all he’d endured two years ago. ‘Did you know the dead woman?’
‘I haven’t seen the body, so I can’t swear on a stack of bibles.’
‘Her name was Fiona Heffernan. She was a nurse.’ Lottie could have sworn his face paled. ‘You knew her?’
‘Not Fiona? That’s terrible. Met her on my rounds a few times.’ He looked up at the roof and down to the ground, and shook his head.
‘How often do you visit the sick out here?’
‘Not often. I think this is my third or fourth time. I only do it when Father Curran asks me to fill in for him. You should have a chat with him. He lives in the parochial house beside the church, in the village.’
‘Right. Thanks.’ She spied Kirby getting out of his car. ‘I’d better get inside and start my investigation. Chat soon.’
He smiled; the smile she remembered that lit up his eyes.
‘Lottie?’ he said, grabbing her sleeve as she turned away. ‘You can talk to me any time about anything. You know that.’
She nodded and pulled her hood up to hide the blush she felt flaring on her cheeks. Maybe she should talk to him about her engagement to Boyd. Or maybe not. She wouldn’t be having a church wedding anyway, Boyd being divorced. There’d be no white dress for her, she thought as she walked away.
Chapter Ten
The Railway Hotel was not where Steve O’Carroll had envisaged he’d be following his career. It gave him a chip the size of a four-by-four plank weighing down on his narrow shoulders. His mother had had hopes for him to reach the heights of a different kind of bar. He had studied at King’s Inn, in Dublin, but failed his final-year exams. Not his fault. No way. But he couldn’t explain the true reason to anyone. No one would have believed that Steve O’Carroll had suffered a breakdown. And now? He found himself giving orders to an imbecile behind the bar in Ragmullin’s Railway Hotel.
‘What are you doing? I told you already: the white wine goes in the fridge, not the red. Why don’t you listen to me? How long have you worked here?’
‘Two weeks.’ The barman had a squint in one eye that made him appear to be constantly winking. Steve had had enough of winks, nods and nudges to last him a lifetime.
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Benny.’
‘Are you colour blind, Benny? If you can’t learn the difference between red and white wine, you’re in the wrong career. Hurry up. We’ve a wedding reception tomorrow and you have another crate to unload and shelves to stock. I want a full inventory in an hour. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
Steve leaned his elbows on the bar and put his head in his hands. Why was life such a bitch? Not to mention the one real bitch. But he wasn’t going to think of her. He had enough on his plate with the reception tomorrow. A small one, but his standards were high. He knew that five-star TripAdvisor reviews would bring in more customers. And maybe get him his ticket out of this shit town, once and for all.
Lowering his hands, he watched Benny take bottles from the crate to stock the refrigerator. It was hard to find anyone with experience, and Benny’s CV had read well. Maybe he should have checked out the references before hiring him.
As he turned to make sure the white linen tablecloths had been delivered from the launderette, he saw a garda walk in the door with a tall man, his head glistening with snowflakes, hair shaved so tight that Steve wondered what number blade he used. His own brown hair was tied in a neat ponytail at the back of his neck. He felt it added an air of mystery. Not something one expected to find on the head of a hotel assistant manager. Even if it was only the Railway Hotel.
As the man approached, shaking his jacket free from his shoulders, Steve decided that if he ever cut his own hair, he was going to shave it off entirely. He liked the look. Mean and lean.
He smiled, straightened his shoulders and patted down his lapels, hoping no flecks of dandruff were visible. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’
‘I’d like to speak to Steve O’Carroll.’
‘That’s me.’ He indicated a small table under the window with four chairs around it. ‘Have a seat.’
‘We’ll stand, if you don’t mind.’
Instantly, Steve felt his nerves prickle. ‘How can I help you?’
The bald guy checked his phone, then stared back at him. ‘You were engaged to Cara Dunne, is that right?’
‘Sure was. It’s all over now. Thank God.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Steve didn’t like the tone. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked warily.
‘I’m afraid I have to inform you that the body of Cara Dunne was found this morning at her home.’
‘Cara? Dead?’ Steve bit his lip. He wanted to sit down, but remained standing. ‘Are you having me on?’
‘I don’t make a habit of playing practical jokes on people I’ve never met before.’
‘But … I don’t understand. She’s dead? How? What happened?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say at the moment. But I’d like to ask you a few questions. Maybe we should sit down after all.’
As he moved towards the table under the window, McKeown kept his eyes firmly on Steve O’Carroll. O’Carroll in turn kept his chin pointed upwards with a touch of arrogance. He carried his wiry frame with ease, gleaming hair tied in a ponytail. It looked a little odd with the black suit, white shirt and blue tie. There was another thing McKeown had noticed. From the moment he’d broken the news that Cara Dunne was dead, O’Carroll had shown little emotion. This was going to take some skill, and McKeown was confident he was the man for the job.
He flung his damp jacket over the back of a chair, then took a breath and released it through his nose. He’d had to wait until the school was on lunch hour to get talking to the teachers, and then only two or three of them remembered Cara Dunne’s ex-fiancé’s name. That didn’t say much for Steve O’Carroll, or perhaps they’d just been in shock.
‘Can you tell me where you were this morning? Say from seven a.m. to ten p.m.?’
‘Hold on a minute. You’ve just told me Cara is dead. You haven’t told me how or when, and then you ask me where I’ve been.’
‘Mr O’Carroll. Steve.’ McKeown sat, stretched his long legs out to the side and placed his hands on the table. ‘Tell me what you were doing this morning.’
‘I will, once you tell me what’s happened to Cara.’
‘Her body was found at her apartment earlier on today. Looks suspicious.’
‘Looks or is?’
‘You don’t seem too concerned about her death.’ This cat-and-mouse shit did McKeown’s head in. He fought the urge to grab O’Carroll by the shirt collar and yank his ponytail. Instead, he stared at him, slit-eyed. It did the job.
O’Carroll sighed. ‘Cara and I split up three months ago. I may as well tell you now, because you’ll hear it from her teacher pals, it wasn’t mutual. I’ve no feelings for her any more. The fact that she’s dead, well, it’s sad. She was a good teacher. But we were no longer on speaking terms.’
‘Why did you split up?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘It’s mine now.’
‘I think I’ll call my solicitor.’
‘That just makes you look guilty of something.’
‘I’ve studied law. I know my rights. I also know I’m the first person you’ll try to hang this on.’
‘Strange choice of words there, Steve.’
‘What do you mean?’
He was one cagey fucker, McKeown thought. ‘You know what happened to Cara.’
‘Is that a question or a statement?’
‘Statement.’
‘I have no idea what happened to her.’
‘Then you won’t mind telling me where you were this morning.’
O’Carroll let out a long sigh. ‘I was at home, then I
came into work.’
‘What time?’
‘Around ten. Usual time.’
‘I’m sure we can verify when you arrived. Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts before then?’
‘Nope. Are we done here?’
‘No, we are not.’ McKeown scratched the side of his jaw, trying to get a handle on his opponent. One thing was sure. O’Carroll would make a great poker player. ‘When was the last time you saw Ms Dunne?’
‘Are you deaf? We split up. I don’t know when I last saw her. Now, I’m calling my solicitor. Unless you’re here to arrest me, I’d like you to leave.’
‘We need your fingerprints and a sample of DNA. Elimination purposes.’
‘After I contact my solicitor.’ O’Carroll stood up and moved behind the bar, where he started to slam bottles into the cooler.
Nodding at his colleague, who’d remained standing at the door, McKeown rose, shrugged on his jacket and pulled the door open to a blast of freezing air. His boss would certainly be interested in this O’Carroll character.
‘I’ll be back,’ he said, feeling like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Now, if only he could get rid of the smell of vinegar from his fingers …
Chapter Eleven
Once Lottie had updated Kirby, they found Boyd and entered the building, heading towards the locker room where a member of staff stated she’d seen Fiona heading after her shift.
SOCOs were already in place. They’d found a small area on the floor with a trace of blood. Fiona’s head wound, Lottie thought. After a cursory look around, she told Kirby to check the lockers and showers, while she and Boyd took the stairs to the roof. They were constructed of stone. By the time they reached the top step, she felt her head spinning.
‘No sign of a struggle along the way,’ Boyd said. ‘That’s if she was brought up here against her will.’
Examining the door in front of her, Lottie twisted the old brass knob. The door opened outward without objection. The wind slapped her in the face as she stepped outside. It took her a moment to catch her breath. She had donned overshoes and gloves, and Boyd, still suited up, carried a brown paper evidence bag. Just in case they found anything suspicious. Two SOCOs were already taking photographs.
Broken Souls: An absolutely addictive mystery thriller with a brilliant twist (Detective Lottie Parker Book 7) Page 5
