Lyons was walking back into the cottage when her phone rang.
“Hi you,” Mick Hays said in a slightly gravelly voice.
“Oh, hi. You sound a bit hungover. How was it?”
“Late. I met up with that guy from Dungarvan, Fergal Mannion, you remember him, he was an inspector when we knew him last. Anyway, we got into reminiscing about the good old days, and it went on most of the night,” Hays said.
“Helped along by a bottle of the best Irish whiskey, no doubt,” Lyons said.
Hays didn’t respond to the jibe.
“So, what are you up to?” Hays said.
Lyons told him what had happened and where she was.
“See. I can’t leave you alone for more than five minutes before you go getting involved in all sorts of mischief. Need any help?”
“It’s OK thanks, Superintendent. Why don’t you go and have a nice greasy breakfast somewhere and then if you’re sober enough, drive home? I’ll catch you later.”
“Good plan. I should be back around four or five. I’ll go straight home, maybe catch up on some sleep,” Hays said.
“Right. See you later then. Oh, and don’t get pinged on the M6 – the local boys would just love that! Bye.”
* * *
The forensic team continued with their painstaking work at the house. They dusted all the door jambs, handles and surfaces for fingerprints, and collected quite a few, although they had no idea if they were connected to the murder. They checked for dirty drinking glasses and cups from the dishwasher, taking them away for saliva examination later back at their lab. They examined the only bedroom that appeared to have been used, removing the bed linen for further exploration in Galway, and they collected up a number of personal items, such as a hairbrush, toothbrush and cosmetics from the en suite bathroom.
“God, that’s gruesome,” Sinéad Loughran said, holding up a clear plastic evidence bag containing the knife that she had taken from the woman’s chest.
“Tell me about it. Are there any prints on it?” Lyons said.
“I’m going to wait till we get back into town to give it a good going over. I don’t want to contaminate anything here. There might be, but then again…”
“We’d hardly be that lucky,” Lyons said, finishing Sinéad’s sentence for her.
“Exactly. We’re about ready to remove the body now, if that’s OK with you?” Loughran said.
“Yes, fine. Did you get anywhere with the labels on her clothes?”
“Just your average stuff, mostly M&S, but when we get her back to town I’ll have a more thorough look – see where exactly they came from,” Loughran said.
“Probably not local then. There’s no M&S this side of Dublin as far as I know. But I’ll get Séan Mulholland to check the mispers just in case. Thanks, Sinéad, I’ll let you get on.”
* * *
Eamon Flynn and Sally Fahy looked in the window of the estate agency belonging to Matthew Gilsenan on Clifden’s main street, before going into the shop. They noticed that there were two houses in Owen Glen for sale, numbers five and sixteen, both with “Reduced” stamped across their details in red ink.
Inside, there was a man of about fifty years of age dressed in a mid-grey suit with a blue shirt and dark tie, seated at one of the two desks. He looked up as the two detectives entered, hoping that they were a couple about to make some significant purchase.
“Hello there. Nice morning, isn’t it?” the man said cheerily, standing up and extending his hand to Eamon Flynn.
Flynn introduced himself and Sally, and Gilsenan’s cheerful demeanour left him, his hopes dashed, even though he tried not to show it.
“How can I help you today, folks?” he said.
“We’re investigating an incident out at Owen Glen, Mr Gilsenan. It’s number twenty-two. Would you happen to know who owns that one?” Fahy said.
“I should do. We sold that whole estate after it was built in 2007. Let me see, twenty-two – I’ll just look it up in the files. Won’t be a moment,” he said, turning his back briefly on the two detectives to rummage in a steel grey filing cabinet behind his desk.
“Owen Glen, Owen Glen – yes, here it is. Twenty-two. Sold for five grand below the asking price in 2007 to Batty McCutcheon, that is Mr Bartholomew McCutcheon. He’s from Westport,” Gilsenan said.
“And would you happen to have an address for Mr McCutcheon at all, sir?” Flynn said.
“I have. But he runs the shop there on the main street – Eurosaver, I think he calls it. You can’t miss it. They sell all sorts of stuff – cosmetics, household goods, sweets, batteries – you know the kind of place, all bright colours and cheap stuff from China,” he said.
“I see. Well, just in case, could you let us have his home address too, please? We might need to call on him,” Fahy said.
Gilsenan obliged, and the two detectives thanked him for his time and assistance and left.
When they were gone a few minutes, Gilsenan lifted the phone and made a call.
“Batty, is that you? It’s Matt here from Clifden. Look, I’ve had two coppers in here asking about you and that place you rent out up at Owen Glen. I think you can expect a visit sometime soon. I just thought you should know.”
* * *
The body of the unknown victim was bagged and loaded into the anonymous black Mercedes van to be taken to the morgue attached to the regional hospital in Galway city where Dr Dodd would conduct the post-mortem the following morning.
The forensic team finished their grim work, and Garda Peadar Tobin was instructed to secure the premises. Sinéad Loughran chatted to Lyons outside the house as she removed her white paper suit, mask and overshoes. She flicked her blonde ponytail out from her jacket collar, and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Any initial thoughts?” Loughran said to Lyons.
“Not really, Sinéad. No sign of a struggle, but someone obviously didn’t like her very much. It’s very odd that she was strangled after she was stabbed. I haven’t seen that before. After all, the killer clearly knew she was dead, and as far as I know, you can only die once! Will you be able to get any clues from her neck?” Lyons said.
“I hope so. Whatever he or she used will probably have left traces buried in the skin. But we’ll have to see.”
“Do you think it could have been done by a woman?” Lyons said.
“Possibly. I won’t rule anything out till we know more. Where are you going now?”
“I’ll stop by to see Séan. It’s his patch after all.”
As she was saying goodbye to Loughran, Lyons’ phone rang. It was Sally Fahy giving an update on their visit to the estate agent.
“OK. Well, can you and Eamon get over to Westport and interview the owner of the house? Find out who he had it rented out to, and let me know as soon as you have any information. We need to find out who the victim was.”
Chapter Three
“Ah, ‘tis yourself Maureen. Come in and sit yourself down. I was just about to put the kettle on. Will ye have a cup of tea? You look fair worn out,” Mulholland said.
“Thanks, Séan, that would be great,” Lyons said, sitting down at a spare desk in the back office of the Clifden Garda station.
Mulholland busied himself making a nice big pot of tea, and returned a few minutes later carrying the teapot, a small jug of milk and two pottery mugs.
“Would you care for a little something in your tea, Maureen? It’s a bad business this,” Mulholland said, pouring Lyons’ tea, but leaving plenty of room for a tot of whiskey.
“Just a drop then, Séan, thanks. I’m driving after all,” Lyons said, grateful for the consideration of her colleague, who had his own particular set of procedures for these situations that weren’t to be found in any instruction manual.
“Do you know anything about this McCutcheon character, Séan?” Lyons asked, sipping her reinforced tea.
“Well, a bit. He’s some kind of big shot in Westport. Has that shop in the main street that sells all sorts of
shite mostly from China. It does well though, by all accounts, especially since the crash. And he has a few properties around and about, including that one out in Owen Glen. I can get the lads out in Westport to give us a bit more if you need it,” Mulholland said.
“Let’s see what Eamon and Sally get out of him. He may not have anything to do with anything just because he owned the house. But we’ll know more later.”
“And what about you, Maureen. Are you OK?” Mulholland said.
“Ah, I don’t know, Séan. Sometimes I think all this is a bit much for me. I know we’ve had more than our fair share of murders out here in the last few years, but they don’t get any easier. Take this one, for example. We have no idea who this poor woman is, or what she was doing here. I’m a bit at a loss to be honest,” Lyons said.
“But it’s early days, Maureen. You haven’t left one in the cold case file yet. It’ll work out for you, wait till you see. And if there’s anything at all we can do for you out here, just say the word.”
“Thanks, Séan, that’s helpful. Don’t mind me, I didn’t sleep well last night. I’ll be fine,” Lyons said.
“Are you going to set up the investigation out here in Clifden?” Mulholland asked.
“I don’t think so, Séan. We’ll need all the resources we can muster back in the city. But I’d say we’ll be out and back quite a bit. Have to train my new car to drive the N59 by itself!” she said, feeling a bit cheerier. Mulholland may not have been the dynamic force that the Garda seemed to be demanding of its officers these days, but his heart was in the right place, and he was a good cop, and a decent man as well, Maureen reflected.
“Thanks for the pick-me-up, Séan, I’d better be away back to the city,” Lyons said getting up to leave.
“Fair enough, Maureen. Mind how you go now. See you soon,” said the sergeant, gathering up the dirty mugs and tidying away the three-quarters full whiskey bottle.
* * *
Sally Fahy and Eamon Flynn drove out along the N59 through Letterfrack, then on to Leenaun and into the Mayo town of Westport. In the midday sunshine, the scenery was breath-taking, and they took their time so that they could enjoy the magnificent views as they passed by the various lakes and imposing hills that surrounded them.
“What do you make of this lot?” Fahy said to Flynn.
“It’s a right old mystery so far. Maybe McCutcheon will be able to tell us who she is and what she was doing there,” Flynn said.
“Yeah, but even so, how did she get there? She didn’t appear to have any transport, unless whoever killed her stole her car. And how come there was no paperwork anywhere? That’s bizarre,” Fahy said.
“And what about the way she was killed? Who the hell strangles someone after they have stabbed them? That’s just weird.”
“Do you think Maureen is up to it?” Flynn said.
“Yes, I do. And even if she has to get a bit of help from Hays, she’ll crack it all right. Do you not agree?” Fahy said.
“We’ll see. I know she’s good, but this will test her mettle to the limit, wait till you see. Anyway, let’s do as much as we can to help her out. It’s not just her reputation that’s at stake. The whole unit will come under scrutiny if we mess this up.”
* * *
They found the Eurosaver shop in Westport easily – indeed you could hardly miss it. It was painted in gaudy bright yellow and red paint, with an enormous illuminated sign over the entire shop front. The window was festooned with large posters advertising this week’s bargains, which did seem to be very cheap indeed.
Inside the shop, several young girls dressed in black trousers and black t-shirts, with the word ‘STAFF’ emblazoned in large white letters both front and back, were busy serving customers and stacking the shelves.
While Flynn browsed the merchandise, Sally Fahy approached one of the young girls busy packing cleaning products onto a shelf near the door. The girl was short, with long dark hair scraped back over her head and tied off with a hair band at the back.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Mr McCutcheon,” she said.
The girl stood up, displaying a name badge that identified her as Rami, and said, “I don’t think he here today. Wait. I ask.” She headed off down the back of the shop and through a door marked Staff Only. She was back a minute later.
“Mr McCutcheon’s not here today. He working from home,” Rami said rather sullenly, and went to go back to her task.
“Do you know where he lives?” Fahy said.
“No. You’ll have to ask in the office.”
“Thanks. Can you tell me where you are from?” Fahy asked.
“Lithuania, near Klaipeda, on the coast,” the girl said.
“Do you enjoy working here?”
“It’s OK. Pay is poor, but the boss rents us a room at a special price, so all good,” Rami said, almost smiling.
“Hmm, OK. Where is the office then?” Fahy said.
“Down back. Staff door. Just knock, Mary will tell you. I have to work,” the girl said and went back to stacking the shelves. Fahy got the impression that she was worked pretty hard. She would love to know exactly how much the girl was paid, and how much she was charged for rent. But that was for later, if at all. Right now, they had more important matters to attend to.
Fahy had to produce her warrant card to get Mary to confirm McCutcheon’s address. He lived a little way outside the town on the coast road near Lecanvey.
“Go past the pub, and the church. Ignore the first turn to the right – that goes down to the pier. Then take the next on the right, and just down there before the holiday cottages, there’s a bungalow on the left painted yellow – that’s Mr McCutcheon’s house,” Mary said.
“Great, thanks. Could you just give him a call and make sure he’ll be there in about twenty minutes?” Fahy said.
Mary made the call, and confirmed that her boss would be at home. He wanted to know what the unexpected visit was about, but Fahy just said that she would explain when they got there.
On the way out to Lecanvey, Flynn, who was driving said to Fahy, “How do you want to play this, Sally?”
“It’s up to you, boss. What if you lead, and I have a bit of a snoop around and see what I can pick up from the house, or the wife, if she’s there? Would that suit?”
“Yeah, OK, let’s do it that way. Look, here’s Lecanvey now. I presume that’s the pub Mary was talking about, so it should be the second turn on the right after the church,” Flynn said.
He slowed the car down to a crawl, they passed the church, which looked far too big for what must be a very small population in the village, and after a moment they came to a right hand turn with a brown sign pointing to “Lecanvey Holiday Cottages”.
The road down to the cottages was no more than a track, with weeds growing in the middle of it, but it had at one time been tarmacked. Flynn turned the car onto the lane and almost immediately a large bungalow, standing on an elevated site, came into view. By contrast to the road, the driveway leading up to the house was immaculate. New tarmac had been laid, and the gardens that swept up to the house were neatly manicured with early summer flowers of various colours set out in orderly beds. A new and expensive Hyundai jeep stood on the drive outside the house, flanked by a three series BMW, also with a recent plate.
“McCutcheon does well for himself selling cheap Chinese tat,” Fahy remarked as Flynn brought their scruffier vehicle to a halt.
“Doesn’t he though,” Flynn replied.
The bungalow had obviously been quite a modest affair at one time. It had the customary three arches adorning the front – just like almost every single dwelling built recently in the west of Ireland – but had been extended on both sides to turn it into a house of substance. Flynn knocked on the solid oak door and stood back.
The woman who opened the door was in her late forties. She was very well dressed, and her neat figure showed off her fashionable clothes to good effect. Her long straw-coloured hair was tied up behind her head, a
nd her makeup was subtle and flattering. She spoke in a neutral, well-to-do accent.
“Good morning,” she said, pulling the door wide to reveal a fully tiled hallway, “you must be the police that Mary called about. Come in, please,” she said, standing back and ushering them into the hallway.
“We’re in the kitchen. Can I get you tea or coffee?” the woman said, walking towards the back of the house.
“Thank you, a coffee would be lovely. What a nice house you’ve got,” Fahy said.
“Yes, thanks, a coffee would be great,” Flynn said, not quite sure if he should add some compliment too.
When they entered the kitchen, it immediately became clear just how much work had been done to the house to bring it to its current state. The entire back of the place had been made into an enormous kitchen diner, with modern units, the very latest in appliances, and a dining table with a sofa and two easy chairs further along in front of a generous open fire. All along the back wall, picture windows looking out onto the ocean had been installed, and the view down over the holiday chalets, across the rugged coast and on out to sea was extraordinary, made even more so by the sunny weather.
Bartholomew McCutcheon was seated at the table with a newspaper in front of him, and a large mug of coffee. He got up as the trio entered the room.
“Good morning, officers. Come in, take a seat. Eleanor will get you a hot drink,” the man said. McCutcheon was from different stock than his rather gracious wife. He was a big man, with a large paunch protruding out and over the waist of his well-worn grey slacks being just about held in place by a creased, pale blue shirt. He had a ruddy, weather-beaten complexion, and a thinning crop of rather greasy grey hair scraped across his scalp. It appeared that he hadn’t shaved.
Flynn sat down at the table, but Fahy stayed upright, and went to see if she could help Mrs McCutcheon with the drinks. Flynn noticed McCutcheon spent a little longer than was polite eyeing the shapely figure of the young Sally Fahy as she stood at the counter with her back to him.
Murder at the Holiday Home Page 2
