Murder at the Holiday Home

by David Pearson

  “Thanks for seeing us, Mr McCutcheon. I’ll get straight to the point so as not to waste your time. I understand you own a property out at Owen Glen, the far side of Clifden. Is that correct?” Flynn said.

  “God, I do,” the man replied in a thick Galway accent. “I paid way too much for it as well, but it’s doing fine now, thank God.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I rent it out, you know, on this new-fangled thing, Air-b whatsit. It’s dead handy, though sometimes it’s hard to get on-line from here, so I do have to go into Westport to get a connection,” he said, looking a little nervously at his wife who was now arranging the drinks and some chocolate biscuits on the table.

  “And is it rented out at present, Mr McCutcheon?” Flynn asked.

  “Oh, God, no. ’Tis too early in the season. We sometimes get a few stragglers coming through around Easter, but the real season starts when the kiddies get out of school in about two more weeks. Then it should be full for the summer,” he said relishing the thought.

  “And you’re sure that it wasn’t rented out last night?” Flynn persisted.

  “I am. Why? What’s happened?”

  “I wonder if we could just have a look at your bookings on your PC, Mr McCutcheon?” Flynn said.

  As McCutcheon got up to go and fetch his laptop, Fahy asked his wife, “I’m very sorry, Mrs McCutcheon, but I wonder if I could use your loo?”

  “Of course. No problem, it’s down the hall, second door on the right,” she said.

  McCutcheon returned carrying a swish Apple MacBook, opened the laptop and fired it up.

  “We might not be able to get on, but let’s see,” he said, tapping the keys slowly with two pudgy fingers.

  “Ah, here we are. Look, you can see for yourself. It’s not booked till Friday week when we have a family of four coming for five days,” he said pointing triumphantly to the screen.

  “Hmmm. I see,” Flynn said.

  “Why? What’s happened? Did it go on fire or something? I hope I remembered to renew the insurance,” McCutcheon said.

  “No, no, nothing like that, Mr McCutcheon. It’s safe and sound. May I just ask you where you and your wife were last night?”

  “Well, I got back from the shop around quarter to seven. We had dinner, and then I had to go back into Westport – I had a bit of business to attend to. Eleanor, did you go out at all?” McCutcheon said.

  “No, of course not. I told you, Betty from the ICA was over. We’re doing the arrangements for the summer fair in the village. It’s on next month,” Mrs McCutcheon said.

  “Look, detective, what’s all this about? What’s happened?” McCutcheon said.

  Flynn explained the sinister goings-on at 22 Owen Glen the previous night, much to the horror of the couple who looked visibly shocked by the news.

  “Dear God in heaven, that’s appalling. Do you know who the poor woman is?” McCutcheon said.

  “No. We were rather hoping you might be able to throw some light on that for us,” Flynn said, letting the sentence hang in the air.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Well, if she had been booked in, then we would be able to identify the woman at least. We found no identity of any kind on her, or in the house. Right now, we haven’t a clue who she is or where she came from,” Flynn said.

  Fahy had come back into the room, and was standing with her back to the cupboards, leaning against the counter top, clutching her coffee mug. She noticed that McCutcheon was eyeing her up, getting a good look at her figure now that she had opened her jacket.

  “Was the house broken into?” Mrs McCutcheon said.

  “No, it doesn’t appear to have been, which in itself is odd. Can you tell us who has keys, apart from yourselves?” Flynn said.

  “Ah, sure don’t ye know, half the world has keys to these holiday lets. They never return the bloody things when they leave. I spend my whole life getting new ones made. That Owen Glen place is worse than anywhere else too,” McCutcheon said grumpily.

  “But is there a cleaner, or a handyman that has keys?” Flynn asked.

  “Oh, there is right enough. One of your fellas does a bit of work on the place if it needs something – Peadar Tobin he is. And there’s Agnes Greely who does the cleaning after the guests have left. She lives in Owen Glen at number twelve. She’s a widow, and the extra money comes in handy for her.”

  Flynn gently probed the McCutcheons for more information, but got nothing useful that could help with their enquiries. After another quarter of an hour, the detectives thanked them and left. McCutcheon asked if it would be OK to let the property if the opportunity arose, and Flynn told him that as it was a major crime scene at the moment, he should wait to hear from the Gardaí before allowing anyone near the place.

  Chapter Four

  It was well into the afternoon when Eamon Flynn and Sally Fahy had finished their interview with the McCutcheons, so they decided to drive straight back to Galway, and leave further enquiries until the next day. In any case, they would need to tell Senior Inspector Lyons about what they had been told concerning Peadar Tobin. That was an unwelcome complication.

  On the way back in Flynn’s car, they talked about the interview that had taken place.

  “What did you make of all that?” Fahy asked.

  “Interesting. McCutcheon certainly has a roving eye – did you see the way he was undressing you in his mind a few times?” Flynn said.

  “Yes, I spotted that – creep. And I don’t think they are sleeping together either,” Fahy said.

  “Oh. How do you figure that out?”

  “When I went walk about, I glanced into the bedrooms. It looks like they have separate rooms, unless there’s another woman living there, and I don’t think there is,” Fahy said.

  “Well, would you like to wake up beside Mr Batty McCutcheon every morning?” Flynn said smiling.

  Fahy swatted his leg, “Feck off, boss. No, I bloody wouldn’t!”

  * * *

  When Lyons got home to Salthill, Hays was just waking up. She had gone upstairs to change out of her work clothes, and found him in bed, just coming around.

  “Hi, hun. I fell asleep,” he said.

  “So I see. Feeling better?” she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and kissing his cheek.

  “Ooh, you need to brush your teeth,” she said getting up to escape his bad breath.

  “Damn. And there I was hoping,” he said.

  “Later, Superintendent, later. I need to eat. C’mon, get dressed, we’re going out for food – my treat.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, leaping up from the bed and heading to the bathroom.

  Fifteen minutes later, Hays was showered and looked a lot fresher. Lyons had changed into one of her favourite light summer dresses, and looked radiant with her dark, shiny hair and big sparkling brown eyes.

  “Where are we going?” Hays asked.

  “Let’s go out to Clarenbridge. I fancy some seafood.”

  “Mmmm oysters!”

  “Behave, Superintendent,” she said linking his arm as they walked out to his car.

  The food in the restaurant in Clarenbridge was delicious, and when they had both tucked away their starters, Hays asked her, “So, what’s the craic with this thing out west?”

  “Bit of a mystery to be honest. We haven’t identified the victim yet, and I’m not quite sure where to turn next. No one seems to have seen anything, and there was no ID at all on the body, or in the house. Any ideas?” Lyons asked.

  “I have, as it happens. Why don’t you do a ‘Maureen Lyons’ on it – get back out there? Soak up the place. Let your instincts talk to you. I bet you’ll find something. You always do.”

  “Well, not always, but I know what you mean. Fancy a drive out west in the morning?” she said.

  “I’m sorry, love, I can’t. There’s a budget meeting at ten that I have to attend. See what cut backs they want to impose on us this time. If I’m not there, we’ll all
end up on bicycles.”

  “Oh, right. I’ll take Sally with me for company then. She’s as sharp as a pin, you know.”

  “Yes, she is. And easy on the eye too!” Hays said.

  “I thought you preferred brunettes.”

  “I do – well, one brunette in particular. Just teasing.”

  * * *

  The following morning, Lyons held a briefing with the team before setting off to the post-mortem.

  “Right, everyone, what have we got so far?”

  Flynn and Fahy filled her in on the interview they had held with Mr and Mrs McCutcheon the previous day in Westport, except that no mention was made of Peadar Tobin’s part-time job as maintenance man at the holiday let.

  “Hmm, OK,” she said. “Well, clearly we need to check out McCutcheon’s alibi for the evening of the murder. He may have been with another woman, from what you say. So, Eamon, will you contact him at the shop and see what he has to say for himself, and then follow up on whatever information he gives you?”

  “John, I’d like you to check out that Airbnb thing for the cottage. I’d like to get a list of people who rented it over the past several months. Let’s see if there is any sort of a pattern to it. When I’ve finished at the post-mortem, I’m going back out to Owen Glen to have another look around, and I want you with me, Sally. Mary, you and Liam can open a murder book on the system and key in everything we have so far. I’ll see Sinéad at the post-mortem and get anything her team might have found as well. Let’s meet back at around five and compare notes, and remember, if anything significant comes up during the day, let me know immediately.”

  * * *

  Dr Julian Dodd had the post-mortem well underway when Lyons arrived at the morgue. The classic Y shaped incision had been made into the woman’s body, and the major organs had been removed.

  “Ah, Inspector, good of you to join us. Come in,” Dodd said in his usual slightly acidic tone.

  “Morning, Doc. Anything of interest?” Lyons said as she approached the bright stainless steel gurney on which the woman was laid out. The dead woman had been pretty in life, with shoulder-length blonde hair showing slight signs of grey here and there. It looked as if she had been slim, or at least not heavy, although her bone structure was solid enough. Her pelvic area was covered with a cloth for the sake of modesty, but Lyons knew that there would be no part of this woman’s body that Dodd would not explore in minute detail.

  “Yes, well, a few things. I’ve managed to recover a few strands of the ligature that were buried in the folds of skin at the neck. Only small pieces mind you, but maybe enough for Sinéad to get a fix on what kind of stuff it was made from. The knife wound is pretty self-explanatory. One single incision that went straight to her heart with almost instant death. She was standing up when she was stabbed, and her assailant was maybe three or four inches taller than her.”

  “Can we assume it was a man?” Lyons said.

  “You can assume whatever you like, Inspector. All I can say is that the person who stabbed her was a bit taller than she was. The attack wasn’t frenzied, it was a single, measured stabbing. Sinéad is examining the knife as we speak,” the doctor said.

  “Any sign of sexual activity – was she raped?” Lyons asked.

  “No, nothing that handy, I’m afraid.”

  “Anything else of note?” Lyons said.

  “Not yet, but I’ll be doing a full report later on and that will contain all the details.”

  “Very well, Doc, I’ll let you get on. Oh, one more thing – had she eaten before she was killed?”

  “Yes, she had. I’ll give you the details in my report, but I’d say about three hours before her life ended, if that’s any help.”

  “Thanks. I don’t know to be honest, but it might be,” Lyons said.

  Lyons then went in search of Sinéad Loughran, and found her in the Pathology Lab upstairs, staring into a microscope.

  “Hi, Sinéad. How’s it going?” Lyons said.

  “Oh, hi Maureen. Slowly, I’m afraid. What about you?”

  “Ah, ye know. So, what have you for us then?” Lyons said.

  “Well, I’m examining the tiny specs of the ligature that Dodd pulled out of the woman’s neck. I think it’s some kind of cotton fibre – not common these days,” Loughran said.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of rope or picture cord?”

  “No, I don’t think so. All of these things are made from man-made fibres. But I haven’t finished my examination yet. I’ll let you know when I have done some more on it,” Loughran said.

  “OK, thanks. By the way, was there anything washed down the sink – any trace of drugs or anything?” Lyons said.

  “We did look down the drains, as we always do. But Owen Glen is connected to the main drainage system and mains water – it was one of the big selling points when the houses were built. No messing about with septic tanks, or wells that could run dry in the summer. So you’re out of luck there, I’m afraid.”

  “Terrific. Typical!” Lyons said. “And what about her handbag?”

  “Didn’t find one. I thought that strange too, but there was no sign, and we searched all over,” Loughran said. “What are you up to now?”

  “I’m going to go back out there as soon as I’ve finished here. Mick thinks the location might have more to give up. I’m not sure, but it’s better than sitting on my hands in any case.”

  “Oh, OK. Well, if I find out anything from here, I’ll give you a call. Good luck,” Loughran said, returning to her microscope.

  Lyons collected Fahy and they set off from the city out west towards Clifden. When they were underway, Fahy broached the tender subject of Peadar Tobin.

  “Boss, there’s something you need to know,” Fahy said.

  “Oh, what’s that then?”

  “When we were interviewing McCutcheon yesterday, he told us that Peadar Tobin does some handyman work for him at Owen Glen – just maintenance things from time to time.”

  “Jesus, Sally. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Lyons said.

  “This is the first chance I’ve had where the whole station wouldn’t hear about it. I thought you’d prefer it that way.”

  “It’s bloody awkward. Wasn’t he the first responder?” Lyons said.

  “Yes, yes I think so.”

  “Christ, the whole case could be compromised if this gets out. You can just imagine what a decent defence barrister would make of that! You’d better keep this quiet and let me handle it – and tell Eamon to do the same. Will you both be OK with that?” Lyons said.

  “Yes, of course. Mum’s the word,” Fahy said, and the two continued in a sombre silence until they reached Owen Glen.

  “What’s the plan?” Fahy said.

  “I’m not sure. I want to start up at the cottage and walk down to the road, then try and figure out which way the killer would have gone – see if anything occurs to me.”

  “OK. What do you want me to do?” Fahy said.

  “Just stay close. I’ll tell you what to do when we get going,” Lyons said.

  The two detectives parked up near the entrance to the estate of houses and got out of the car. They walked together in silence around the entrance to the estate, observing their surroundings carefully. When they got back to the road, Lyons spoke out loud, more to herself than to Sally Fahy.

  “Let’s see. I’ve just murdered a woman, so I want to get away from the scene as quickly as possible in case anyone comes along. Which way do I turn – back towards Galway, or on towards Clifden?”

  “Galway,” Fahy said.

  “Yes, I agree. Come on, let’s go,” Lyons said, indicating that they should turn to the right.

  “You go that side, and I’ll stay on this side. Look carefully in the verge beside the road, and in the hedge. See if we can find anything that might have been thrown out of the killer’s car.”

  The two detectives walked slowly along the roadside scrutinising the long grass and small ditch at the edge of the roa
d. After almost a kilometre, they had found nothing, and Lyons was getting quite fed up.

  “Let the scene speak to me indeed, Mick. You have to be joking!” she said to herself in frustration.

  She shouted across the road to Fahy, “Come on, let’s go, this is a waste of time.”

  The two walked back to their car.

  “We’d better stop at the garage up the road and get some fuel. It’s funny, when the garage sold me the new car, they didn’t tell me I’d have to put petrol in it!” Lyons said.

  They pulled onto the forecourt of the filling station which had a large convenience store attached that sold everything from bales of peat for the fire to headache tablets, and of course a wide range of teas, coffees and soft drinks.

  As Lyons started filling the car from the pump, Fahy said, “Fancy a coffee, boss?”

  “Yes, please. Two sugars, and see if they have a sambo or something, I’m starving.”

  As Fahy entered the shop, she noticed a sheet of paper torn from a spiral notebook stuck to the inside of the glass door with black writing scrawled on it, “Set of keys found – ask inside”.

  While she ordered the coffees and browsed the sandwiches, a thought occurred to her.

  At the cash desk, she paid for the refreshments and produced her warrant card.

  “I’d like to see the keys that were handed in, please,” she said to the girl behind the till.

  “Hold on a minute, I think Martin has them. He’s out the back,” the girl said, and then disappeared through a grey door. A moment later she was back, clutching a small set of keys comprised of two Yale door keys, a brass Chubb key and a Ford car key with fob.

  Fahy was joined by Lyons who came in to pay, having filled her car.

  “What have you there?” she said to Fahy.

  “I asked them for the keys that were handed in. I thought we might try them up at number twenty-two, just in case.”

  “Hmm, good idea.”

  Chapter Five

  “Mr McCutcheon, this is Detective Inspector Flynn here from Galway. I was wondering if you’d have a few minutes? There’s just something we need to check.”

  “Well, it’s pretty busy here just now, but if you can make it quick,” McCutcheon said.