Please, Róisín, don’t wake up, I’m almost finished here.
At the checkout two people were ahead of her.
Come on!
The old dear in front was taking her time, counting out the coins from her purse, holding them up for inspection before placing each onto the counter. Eventually, it was her turn. The girl at the checkout smiled, said hello, ran her purchases through. Samantha watched the cash register tally, realised her loose change would cover it. Now it was her turn to count the coins, but she didn’t care, because her €10 note had lived to fight another day.
She scooped up her items and headed for the main door. There was Mr Crabby again, standing by it, on his mobile phone, his back half turned to her, looking out the window. As she passed by, she could hear his voice: agitated. This surprised her, because the man suffered from chronic cheerfulness, even if, as Samantha had heard, his wife was a prime battle-axe.
She found herself turning as she passed, curious, and their eyes met. She felt uneasy, he was staring at her. His expression reminded her of Billy Hamilton’s when he was brooding about something, which was often. Those were the times when it was best to make herself scarce. Because she knew what would happen if she didn’t… Samantha walked on, feeling put out. She could see Crabby’s reflection in the door watching her as she left.
Beck stared at the screen. Then he spoke: ‘Return to normal resolution, and play on.’
Sergeant Connor zoomed out again, the pixels unifying, the screen becoming like a goldfish bowl once more.
‘She’s leaving the baby in the car,’ Claire said, surprised, as they watched Samantha walk from her car and disappear through the shop doors.
Sergeant Connor clicked the mouse. The screen switched to show the interior of the shop, the camera mounted opposite the front door. The footage here was clear, the format standard, like watching a TV soap. Music played in the background, an insipid combination of horns, guitars, and drums. With it the rattle of shopping trolleys bunching together outside as the door opened and Samantha entered, her long thick hair bouncing with each stride she took.
They followed her through the shop like invisible ghosts. They watched as she passed Crabby, speaking with him briefly while he packed crisps underneath the information booth counter. They watched as she went to the bread aisle, picking up a Crabby’s own-brand loaf of sliced bread, then on to the other side of the shop, picking up a two-litre container of milk and tub of yogurt, and finally to the checkout. They watched as she was leaving again, meeting Crabby a second time at the door. He was on his phone, partially turned from her, looking out the window. They watched as she turned to look at him as she passed, and then away again.
‘Hold it right there,’ Beck said. ‘Can you replay that? That moment as she passes him.’
‘What do you see?’ Claire asked.
Beck didn’t reply, waited while the segment was replayed.
‘There,’ he said, pressing a finger into the screen, causing a ripple on the liquid crystal display like a pebble into water. ‘Look. As they both turn. She doesn’t acknowledge him. No smile. Nothing. Not like before, when they seemed very friendly. Now she seems, I don’t know, maybe scared is a little too strong a word. But something. Anyone else see it?’
‘She doesn’t look comfortable, definitely,’ Claire agreed.
Sergeant Connor nodded, he could see it too.
Beck noted the time in the top corner of the screen: 16:43. He had no official time of death. Not yet. For this person, clutching a loaf of bread, two litres of milk, and a tub of yogurt, whose baby was sleeping in her car out front, and who would soon be dead, and whose baby would soon be missing.
Beck had never felt so helpless.
He wanted to jump through the screen.
Someone had to – and warn her.
The image of her body, throat slit, blouse torn open, skirt gathered about her waist.
Don’t get in the car, please!
Samantha crossed the roadway outside the supermarket to the car. They could see her point the key fob. Then she opened the door, reached in, placed her items onto the passenger seat, and got in the driver’s seat herself. The door closed, and a moment later the reversing lights glowed as she reversed. The car moved slowly along the roadway in front of the supermarket, following the curve as it completed the semi-circle between the entrance and exit points in the perimeter wall. They watched the brake lights glow as the car stopped briefly before turning left onto the main road. It drove on, out of sight.
Twenty-Seven
What happened between the time Samantha Power drove from Crabby’s supermarket car park and her arriving at Kelly’s Forge? Ultimately, she had been killed, that was the short answer. But Beck didn’t want the short answer. The explanation was in the long answer. Someone, somewhere, had gotten into that car, or, alternatively, she had travelled to Kelly’s Forge and met somebody there? So the likelihood, Beck considered, was that it was somebody she knew, somebody she knew well enough to do either of those two things. There was no other explanation, not that he could see.
Beck was considering this as he walked to the hospital. He wanted to hear what Dr Derek Gumbell, the State Pathologist, had to say. He could have taken the shortcut, but he’d decided to take the scenic route, by Bridge Walk, to clear his head, to give himself time to think.
He went from Bridge Street across the stone bridge over the Brown Water River. It was 150 years old, with nothing added in that time but coatings of tarmac to its roadway. He passed along in front of the cathedral, its towering, brooding presence rising above the town. It was here that the majority of the town’s inhabitants had had their heads sprinkled with holy water in baptism and would have their coffins sprinkled during the holy rites of burial. To the rear of the cathedral, hidden by a low hill, were the ruins of the presbytery. Beck thought of the night it had burned down, his fight for survival in the cold waters of the Brown Water. He glanced at the water now, calm and peaceful.
‘Inspector Beck.’
Beck looked across the road to where the sound had come from. Father Ignatius Cruise was looking at him from behind the white-painted railings of the cathedral.
‘One minute, Inspector,’ he called, moving to the gates and crossing the road. ‘We met before, briefly. Do you remember?’
Beck remembered. It was at the hospital. Beck was recovering from his injuries.
‘Oh,’ Beck said. ‘I think an apology is in order.’
Beck had been sleeping, had woken to find a person in his room. He’d been dreaming of the man who had killed four people and who had almost killed him. Half asleep, he’d woken to find Father Cruise, whom he’d met before, in his room. Had shouted, threw a plastic jug filled with water at the man.
‘It was understandable,’ Father Cruise said.
He was a young man, mid-thirties perhaps. A little on the chubby side, with a fresh face and simple brown plastic-framed spectacles that sat at an odd angle on his face. He was dressed in black priest’s garb, but his jacket appeared too small. Beck also noticed on his feet were a pair of frayed sneakers. He was not concerned with appearances, that was apparent.
‘I just saw you passing by. I wanted to meet you.’ He extended his hand and they shook. ‘Have you fully recovered from your ordeal?’
Beck nodded.
‘Yes. Some rest. That’s all I needed. How is the presbytery rebuilding coming along?’
Father Cruise looked past Beck to the river.
‘It’s not.’ He looked back again. ‘The ruins will be pulled down. A presbytery is of another era. A simple memorial will take its place. We don’t need presbyteries. That is my opinion. And the bishop agrees, thankfully. The church needs to be much simpler now. Inspector Beck…’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think has become of the child? Róisín. Of course, nothing can be done for her mother. She is in heaven now I am certain. But the child. I helped in the search. Earlier.’
‘Did yo
u? That was good.’
‘No, no. That is not why I mention it. Everybody was there. It was a refreshing display of community solidarity. If something is to come out of this, it would be that. But where is the child?’
Beck had no answer for that, so said nothing. In the silence, Father Cruise understood, and offered his hand again.
‘If ever you need me, Inspector Beck, you know where to find me. I feel the church has wronged you too, in a sense.’
Beck continued on his way. He thought of what the priest had said, his feeling that the church had wronged him in some way. Father Cruise had no idea what an understatement that was.
Twenty-Eight
The hallway leading to the mortuary was in darkness. There was still daylight outside, but inside it was permanently night. Ahead, Beck could see a rectangle of white suspended in the air. He walked towards it, pressed his face against the glass in the door. On the other side he could see Gumbell, dressed in blue medical scrubs, leaning over a stainless-steel table, white plastic chemical bottles by his elbow, writing on a notepad.
Beck tapped on the glass.
Gumbell turned. ‘Who the hell is that?’
‘Beck,’ pushing the door open. ‘May I come in?’
He immediately felt the welcome cool of the airconditioned room.
‘Blast you, Beck, can’t you see I’m busy.’
‘I’ll catch you lat—’
‘No. No. Come in. Come in, man.’
Beck went and stood next to the State Pathologist, who ignored him, continuing to write on the notepad. Minutes passed.
‘There,’ he said, finally putting his pen down.
Beck looked at Gumbell’s scrawled handwriting. It might as well have been Swahili. Or double Dutch. Whatever, it was all the same, completely illegible. However, the name across the top in block letters was decipherable: Senan Roy.
‘Who’s that,’ Beck asked. ‘I haven’t come across anyone in this case by that name.’
‘What name?’ Gumbell said, untying the knot on his scrub at the back.
‘Senan Roy. It’s there, written on that notepad of yours.’
‘Nothing to do with your case. That particular Senan Roy was found impaled on an iron railing on Monday in Kilkenny. He could have saved me a lot of bloody time and trouble if he’d just left a suicide note. I’ve only just worked it out now.’
‘Oh,’ Beck said.
‘Oh, indeed. I’m a little behind, Beck. I’m an investigative medical officer as well as the State Pathologist it seems. Two for the price of one. Is this a social call?’
Beck looked at the bank of six freezer doors set into the wall, arranged three high in rows of two. His last case had almost filled them all. One door was open, the tray fully extended on its rollers.
‘You sleeping in there tonight?’
This was a reference to Gumbell’s endless griping about what he referred to as his miserable expenses account.
Gumbell grunted, trying to stop the corners of his mouth from doing what they were genetically predisposed never to do – to rise into a smile, which they did now, just about. But it was gone again as quickly as a fly before a swatting newspaper.
‘Actually, I’m staying at the Brown Water Inn. I have hopes it will be a marked improvement on The Hibernian Hotel.’
The grass is always greener, Beck thought.
‘Is your phone flat?’ Beck asked.
‘My phone?’
‘I’ve been ringing you.’
‘It’s somewhere or other, damn nuisance of a thing. You know, before mobile phones were invented, we all got along perf—’
‘I hate to interrupt…’ Beck said.
‘But you are anyway.’
‘… I was hoping you might have something for me.’
Gumbell whipped off his medical scrub and carried it to the yellow plastic wheelie bin in a corner of the room. Stencilled across the front and sides, ‘Non-Hazardous Surgical Only’.
‘I thought you’d be back in the bosom of civilization by now,’ Gumbell said, opening a press high on the wall next to him, rummaging through its contents. It seemed to consist of boxes of rubber gloves and bottles of hand sanitizer. ‘In Dublin I mean. But you’re still here in the swamps. Where is the damned thing?’ His hand squirmed about amongst the sanitizer bottles. ‘There. Have it.’
He withdrew a brown naggin bottle, held it out for Beck to see, snapped the seal, unscrewed the top, and raised the bottle to his lips.
‘To your health, my man.’
Gumbell took a long swallow.
‘My lord, it’s good. Come on, before I finish it all.’
He walked over to Beck and held out the bottle.
‘I’ll pass,’ Beck said.
‘I should have known. It’s your eyes, Beck. Too damn healthy. It’s the best I’ve seen them in years. You on the wagon again?’
‘Call it what you will,’ Beck said.
‘I’ve told you before, Beck. Ultimately, it’s not in the best interests of your health. A body that’s conditioned to poison builds up a defence mechanism against it. On the other hand, a temple to the gods of healthy living crumbles before the first onslaught. Trust me, I should know. I’m a doctor.’
Now it was Beck’s turn to smile.
‘You don’t even know when you’re being funny, do you? You’ve just turned the whole paradigm of medical science on its head.’
‘If you’re on the wagon, Beck, you’re of no use to me. No offence old boy.’
‘About the victim? What can you tell me? No offence taken, by the way.’
‘That she’s dead. That’s a start. No mystery there. Nor the cause of death. A deep wound to the neck, severing both the trachea and carotid arteries. She would have been unconscious in seconds, dead within a minute. So, the first part of the puzzle has already been solved, unlike Mr What’s-his-name.’
‘The fact you can’t remember that victim’s name is an indication of the poison’s positive effect on your brain cells,’ Beck said. ‘You’ve said the same about me often enough. I presume you mean Senan Roy.’
Gumbell took another mouthful of whiskey, held the bottle up to the light.
‘These small bottles don’t hold very much, do they? It’s almost empty.’
He replaced the cap, and walked to the bank of fridges, pulled on the handle of the one to the middle right, and rolled out the tray. It was the hair. Beck knew immediately it was Samantha Power’s body.
‘Will the autopsy be tomorrow?’ Beck asked.
Gumbell peered down.
‘I don’t think it’ll be of much help. I mean, what am I looking for? Contents of her stomach? See if she ate her baby?’
Beck winced at Gumbell’s gallows humour.
‘If need be,’ he went on, ‘we can image the body. No longer is it necessary to fillet a corpse. Not in all cases. And I think this is one.’
He nudged the bottle in between the arm and ribcage of the cadaver.
‘What?’ he asked, catching Beck’s look. ‘She doesn’t mind. Now, the deep laceration to the neck. Caused by a sharp, but blunt instrument, if that makes any sense. Not so much an oxymoron as you’d think. What I mean is the wound is not clean cut. It’s serrated, depth varying from three to six centimetres. The flesh was pulled, or dragged, as opposed to cut smoothly. Hence, the item was sharp, but not sharp sharp.’
‘A blunt knife?’ Beck said.
‘I would discount a knife,’ Gumbell said. ‘Something else. A shank maybe.’
Beck thought about that. He could smell the whiskey on Gumbell’s breath, a contrast to the lingering odour of chemicals and decaying flesh, odours the extractor fans could never fully remove. These were part of the DNA of the building itself. But the corpse on the tray did not smell. Not yet. It was still within its sell-by date. Hence Gumbell’s placing his bottle where he had.
‘I’ve taken nail scrapings, but there is nothing to indicate anything other than subungual dirt,’ Gumbell said. ‘The body,
other than that one devastating laceration, appears free of any other external injuries, apart from some bruising to the right knee and upper chest. See there…’
Beck looked along Gumbell’s outstretched arm. High on the chest, beneath the shoulder blades, a flash of purple against the greenish and blue hue of the skin. Beck’s eyes wandered to the wound itself, the dark crimson of congealed blood, torn muscles, the rubberised end of the severed trachea, and, to the rear, the exposed cervical vertebrae like a flash of sunlight.
What I mean is,’ Gumbell added. ‘There are no defensive wounds. There is just the one. The fatal, deep, oblique, incised injury to the neck. I would hazard part of the reason for this is that she did not try to save herself, rather she concentrated on saving her baby. The incision appears left to right, the killer is probably righthanded, and the wound was inflicted from the rear. The bruising to the knee, she hit it off something, probably the gear stick, the pattern is similar, consistent with its shape. He compressed her upper chest, maybe in a tight arm lock, maybe while pulling her back, inflicting the fatal cut.’
‘He would be covered in blood then, wouldn’t he? Even if he cut her from behind?’
‘Well,’ Gumbell said. ‘The blood would have spurted outward. He certainly would have some blood on him, yes.’
‘But there was relatively little blood inside the car.’
‘Relative being the word,’ Gumbell corrected him. ‘Blood was in the car. But not much. Because I think the wound was inflicted while the victim was protruding from it, in the manner which she was found. Imagine this: the killer is in the passenger seat, he turns and grabs her while she is attempting to reach her baby in the back of the vehicle, he stretches forward, getting to his feet maybe, grabs her and pulls her back, they both fall backward, momentum carrying them partially out through the open door, at the same time, let’s presume, he panics, slices the blade across her neck, inflicting the wound, and the sluice gates open, blood splashes onto the inside of the windscreen corner, some onto him too, but most onto the ground beneath her. This is how I imagine it. I may be wrong, of course, after all Beck, I wasn’t there, but this description explains things the way I found them.’
The Child Before Page 8
