‘Doesn’t make it any easier.’ The window blind rustled in a breeze. ‘Billy Hamilton’s been transferred to Galway.’ Wilde added. ‘We need to get him before a judge, otherwise he’s out, pending file. I think he could do himself in.’
‘I don’t.’
‘That’s a fifty-fifty chance so. One of us has to be right. For sure.’ A flicker of a grin, gone as quickly. ‘The DPP recommends manslaughter for the death of Edward Roche. A murder charge won’t stick.’
‘If he does get out, and kicks off again…’
‘That’s a chance we have to take. Anyway, I think he’s done all his kicking off for now. Maybe forever. Something like this can change a person. Still doesn’t solve the counterfeit currency issue.’
Beck didn’t really care about the counterfeit currency issue. Not at this moment.
‘Maybe it was just Edward Roche. Maybe he was a one-man operation.’
‘Maybe,’ Wilde said, looking past Beck, beginning to daydream again. ‘If his death takes it out of my in-tray for a while, I’ll take it. Or better still, permanently. We can always live in hope.’
Out of sight, out of mind.
‘You interviewing Maurice Crabby soon?’
Beck nodded. ‘Yes. Just waiting for him to be booked in. And his wife was there at Kelly’s Forge too. The day Samantha Power was killed.’
‘You’re kidding me.’ Wilde fell back into his chair as if he’d been punched. ‘I won’t be taking part in any interviews. I know them, so there’s a conflict of interest. You taking her in?’
‘Not just yet. I’ll see how it goes with him first.’
‘We don’t have much, do we?’
‘We have enough. If the fingerprints on the handle of the passenger door and the roof match. We should have the results soon.’
‘Hhmm. And of course, considering he ran from that checkpoint. So if I was a betting man…’
Beck got to his feet.
‘Odds on favourite then?’ Beck said.
Wilde shook his head, a smile breaking through. ‘His wife. Now there’s a dark horse.’
‘Neck and neck maybe?’
‘That’s enough, Beck. Run along.’
Seventy-Seven
They carried mugs of instant coffee in with them to the interview room, placed them onto the table top and sat down.
‘Would you like something?’ Beck asked. ‘I can get you a tea or a coffee.’
Crabby stared into space, not replying. Beck repeated the question, louder this time.
‘Tea? Coffee, Mr Crabby?’
Crabby turned his eyes to Beck and focused. He shook his head now, and spoke in a soft voice, so soft Beck could not hear him.
‘I can’t hear you.’ Beck said. ‘Can you speak up?’
‘I don’t want anything. Thank you. No. Wait. Water. A glass of water. Thank you.’
He sipped from the water when Claire brought it in. She sat down.
Beck explained he was to be interviewed in connection with the murder of Samantha Power, that he was not being charged for this crime, and was not under arrest in connection with it. His admissions were to be made voluntarily. If he agreed to it, that is.
‘Unless, Mr Crabby,’ Beck said. ‘You force me to charge you with her murder, I can do that. I can charge you and work backwards. But I think it would be better if you agree to talk to us. Do you agree?’
Crabby was motionless for a long time, then slowly nodded. Beck was about to turn the recorder on when there was a knock to the door. It opened and Garda Dempsey put his head in.
‘A word, please.’
Beck exchanged glances with Claire, then got up and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
‘Yes?’
‘SOC,’ Dempsey said. ‘The fingerprint comparisons with those found on the passenger door of Samantha Power’s car…’
An elbow, once again, into Beck’s stomach. ‘Yes…?’ when Dempsey didn’t answer right away, forcing himself to keep his voice down a notch.
Beck stepped back into the interview room and resumed his seat. He looked at Crabby, but Crabby would not look him in the eye.
‘Listen to me,’ Beck said. ‘Listen carefully. Are you listening now?’
Seventy-Eight
Beck’s tone caused Crabby to lose that vacant stare of his, an alertness creeping in now. He nodded slowly.
‘Yes. I’m listening.’
‘When I turn on this recorder,’ Beck said. ‘I want you to answer my questions. Again, you are not under arrest for the murder of Samantha Power. Will you answer my questions, or will you waste my time? Tell me now.’
Crabby spoke, loud enough for them to clearly hear.
‘I’ll answer your questions.’
‘Right then, let’s get on with this.’ Beck switched on the recorder. ‘Interview with Mr Maurice Crabby commencing,’ glancing at his watch, ‘at 17.03 hours. Present, Detective Inspector Finnegan Beck and Detective Garda Claire Somers.’ Beck paused briefly, then: ‘Mr Crabby, did you murder Samantha Power?’
Crabby squinted his eyes, almost closing them.
‘I… don’t know. I don’t know anything any more.’
Beck and Claire exchanged glances.
‘Were you at the scene? Kelly’s Forge. Last Tuesday. Were you there? Specifically, between four and six o’clock?’
Crabby looked down, placed a hand under the calf of each leg. Beck had seen it a thousand times before. Crabby was thinking.
‘I was there,’ no embellishments, just matter-of-fact.
‘You were there?’ Beck repeated.
‘Yes. I was.’
‘When exactly?’ it was Claire. ‘What time?’
Crabby folded his arms, sat back.
‘I don’t know the time. Not exactly. But it was that day. Tuesday.’
Beck leaned forward.
‘You know, Mr Crabby, Samantha Power was killed that day. She had been in your shop beforehand. You were observed on CCTV, driving out from the supermarket shortly after she had left, travelling the same road in the same direction as Samantha Power’s Citroen Picasso. So, when you tell us you were actually there too, at Kelly’s Forge, where her body was found… Think about it, Maurice. If you were me, what questions would you be asking right now? What would you be thinking?’
‘That I killed her. That’s what I’d be thinking.’ Crabby sighed, lowered his head and cradled it in both hands, sighed again. ‘Can I tell you something?’
‘Go ahead,’ Beck said.
Crabby folded his arms now, and lowered his head, staring at the table.
‘They took my mother away, you know. They said she killed her baby. That was my sister. The baby’s name was Bernadette. They locked my mother up and I never saw her again. Not really. So forgive me if I have a sense of déjà vu about this whole thing.’
‘What you’re saying,’ it was Claire, ‘is that if you didn’t kill…’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ Crabby interrupted. ‘I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘You just said you weren’t sure,’ Beck said. ‘Which is it?’
‘… if you didn’t kill her,’ Claire went on, ‘that you can be still locked away. Is that what you’re saying? Without any evidence? You believe you could be locked up? Just like that?’
Now that it was voiced aloud, his fear, his torment, became like a balloon released, flittering about the room, the air escaping, landing now, flat and lifeless. Yes, he really had believed that.
‘Oh, God,’ as he began to cry.
‘Mr Crabby,’ Beck said. ‘Why were you at Kelly’s Forge the day of the murder? And why didn’t you tell us you had been there?’
Crabby wiped his eyes with the back of his hands.
‘My mother was never the same again,’ Crabby said, still with his head bowed, staring at the table. ‘I lost my sister that night. But I also lost my mother.’ Crabby’s head jerked up suddenly. He stared at Beck. ‘The big policeman took her.’
‘Wh
en exactly did this happen?’ it was Beck.
‘The Marian Year,’ Crabby replied. ‘1954. October. The whole country was on its knees. To Our Lady. 30,000 people marched through Dublin in May that year in a Marian procession. I prayed to her, I prayed and prayed. Night and day. That she would return my mother to me. But my prayers weren’t answered. My mother never came home again.’
‘Where was your father?’ Claire asked.
Crabby sat back in his chair. He closed his eyes, as if he was no longer able to tolerate the memories.
‘He was in England. They said he left my mother for another woman. But I don’t know. No one ever told me. My mother was only twenty-two at the time. Twenty-Two. He was older, in his thirties. He came back. Once. He brought me to see her in, in that place, but he went away again, left me with my mother’s brother, uncle Paddy, and his wife. I heard from him down through the years, from my father, on and off. He married again too. And then he forgot all about me, and all about Kelly’s Forge. A cursed place. And still is. Looking back, I can understand why he did what he did.’
‘Who is this big policeman you mentioned?’ Beck asked.
Crabby lowered his voice again, like he was afraid to mention the name, and his eyes opened.
‘Inspector Padráic Flaherty. He came over from Galway. I remember him in the cottage, his head almost touching the roof. I went in beside my grandmother in the hag, I was so frightened of him.’
Crabby fell silent, wrapping his arms about himself.
‘And then,’ Claire asked. ‘What happened?’
‘He told my mother he didn’t believe in monsters or any of that nonsense. He wasn’t very nice to her. He got the village to look for the child. But they didn’t look for long. His mind was made up. In the early morning he took my mother away with him in his car. Just the two of them. She never came back.’
‘Where is your mother now?’ Claire asked.
Crabby’s eyes widened.
‘Haven’t you heard what I said? I told you. She’s locked up. She’s still locked up. They mightn’t actually lock the doors there any more, but she’s legally detained. In Saint Bridget’s. Ever heard of it?’
‘In County Clare?’
Crabby nodded.
And both detectives now understood. Beck had thought his reference to losing his mother was metaphysical. But it wasn’t, it was literal. Beck understood the trauma that would cause a child, a trauma that would not have been understood back then. A trauma that might keep a part of Crabby forever five years old, endlessly reliving that night, over and over, a perpetual loop of torment. Yes, Beck knew all about that too.
‘You still haven’t told us why you were there,’ Beck said, although he was beginning to think that he might.
‘I went there that day, Tuesday, because it was my sister Bernadette’s birthday. I often think of her, of her lying there, alone, in the cold earth of that place.’ Crabby’s eyes began to well up. ‘And the next morning, I went there too. I can’t get the place out of my head sometimes, see. I try, but I can’t. I went there on my bike, for the same reason as anyone who goes to a grave does. To remember. To remember my sister. Yes, and my mother too. Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine that my sister has not died, but has lived, that my mother and father have stayed together, that we were all one happy family living together in a house in the woods. Crazy, isn’t it, and also that the place that gives me the greatest torment also can give me the greatest peace. And that’s why I go there, and that’s why I went there that morning when I… I found the body. It makes no sense to anyone but myself. Because, after all, I am the one living this torment, every waking day of my life. 1954 does not exist, it is long gone. But not for me.’
He paused. ‘But I did not follow her. That evening she was killed, Tuesday. I remember she was in front of me for a time, when I left the supermarket to make deliveries, but I was in the van, and I turned off for the village of Kiliter. There’s sat nav in the van, so you can check. It was earlier that day I went in the Range Rover, I left a single rose. I remember thinking how small and inconsequential it was, how…’
Crabby fought back the tears.
‘Why were you making deliveries?’ Beck asked.
‘Because my staff can’t get things right, that’s why,’ his voice stiffening. ‘It was a mix-up. And it was left to me to sort out. As usual.’
Which would explain Crabby’s apparent agitation when Samantha Power passed him on her way out of the shop.
‘I know it was earlier,’ he added. ‘When I went to Kelly’s Forge. Because I remember it was before I made those deliveries. That’s how I’m so certain.’
‘What time?’
‘I don’t know. But I know it was before I made the deliveries. I went there in the Range Rover.’
‘And how did you get blood on your clothes?’
Crabby’s eyes narrowed. There was only one way Beck could have known about that. They had been speaking with his wife.
‘She was there too, you know,’ he said. ‘My damned wife.’
‘We know,’ Claire said. ‘She told us. She told us she wanted to… catch you.’
‘That again,’ Crabby said. ‘Catch me… I cut myself on the damn shutter. Later, that evening, when I was closing up. It got stuck and I had to push it down and the edge caught me, tore my shirt. There you have it. As simple as that.’
He became quiet.
‘We found fingerprints,’ Beck said. ‘On the passenger door of Samantha Power’s car.’
Crabby’s eyes narrowed further still. ‘And?’
Seventy-Nine
‘They’re not yours, Mr Crabby,’ Beck said. ‘The fingerprints on the door are someone else’s. Of the person who killed Samantha Power. That’s what I think.’
Crabby considered those words, from the man before him, the man who had come into his supermarket that night, staggering and speaking gibberish. The man, now sombre and sober and with the full power of the State behind him. Back then he had given the policeman a bottle of tequila and Beck had left happy. The juxtaposition of the two Becks led him to a conclusion now. The detective did not have to mention anything of fingerprints. He could have left him wondering. But he didn’t. This man had a croí, a heart.
‘But we found skeletons,’ Beck said. ‘Of children. Babies. In a place near Kelly’s Forge.’
Crabby’s head snapped up to look at him.
‘What? More than one?’
‘Sounds like you already know about one,’ Beck said. ‘Do you?’
Beck watched Crabby, who slowly nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do. There was a monster… but it wasn’t an animal.’
‘Monster,’ Beck said. ‘What monster?’
‘My mother?’
Eighty
‘I went to visit her,’ Crabby said, lowering his head, resting it on his chest. ‘My mother. Yesterday evening. She told me what happened, to my sister, Bernadette. She told me of how Michéal Peoples took her into the forest, where my sister was killed and offered up to the spirits of the forest, a… a sacrifice.’ Crabby began to cry now. ‘My poor, dear sister.’
Beck tried to make sense of it all, and did not have the patience to allow time for Crabby’s grief.
‘What happened,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’
Crabby was quiet for a moment, then he looked at Beck, and he began to tell him, exactly what his mother had said, in a voice that was strong and unwavering, as if expounding the demons from within himself.
After he’d finished, the two detectives were quiet for a time.
‘That’s quite a story,’ Beck said.
‘What will happen now?’ Crabby asked.
Beck thought about that. His instinct, that innate thing that had served him well throughout his career, all his life, spoke to him, telling him that Crabby was speaking the truth. But then again, the hawk had missed the mice in the long grass, so he could not be certain.
‘My priority is the current investigation. The un
it for historical crimes against children will be notified immediately.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Crabby said. ‘What she said, what she told me, was such a shock. Please, you must understand that. So that when you asked, about that poor girl, Samantha Power, I just… I just, I don’t know. I doubted myself. I mean. I doubted my sanity. Because, well, anything seems possible now, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Beck said, ‘I suppose it does. One piece of good news though, Mr Crabby,’
Crabby raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes?’
‘We have no reason to hold you any further. You’re free to go.’
‘But my mother,’ Crabby said. ‘She’s not a murderer. She did not kill my sister. She was a child herself don’t you understand, the events of that night pushed her over the edge, made her temporarily insane. Whatever happened was not her fault. I can see that now. She was a victim too. Inspector, what will become of her, my mother?’
Whatever happened that night, Beck considered.
‘Maybe we’ll never know what happened that night,’ he answered, voicing his thoughts aloud.
But there was one way that might help him to find out.
Eighty-One
Claire led the way down the stairs into the dank basement. She reached up and pulled a cord, turning on the light. Their footsteps echoed as they walked along the narrow hallway. They went through an open door into a room. Light seeped in through air vents high on the wall, shadows slicing across them intermittently, with it the sound of footsteps: Main Street.
She flicked the light switch just inside the door. It was old-fashioned, circular, stubby and black. In the room was a table, stacked with papers and old files, the floor along the walls similar.
Eventually she found it. It wasn’t a file. It was two sheets of yellowed paper held together by a treasury tag, the tag’s metal tips thick with rust. She placed it onto a stack on the table. They both stood over it, staring down at the spindly handwriting. Then Beck picked it up, brought it closer, turned it so that they both could read:
The Child Before Page 21
