Deadly Intent (16 page)

Superintendent Devane had not told the garda team whether he was confident of speaking to Patrick Latif soon, to hear his explanation of the call to Oscar. However, Latif's own movements on Thursday were being tracked via other calls he had made, as well as his mobile phone signals. Maureen Scurlock had been interviewed several times – she now admitted phoning Oscar after leaving the hotel, but stuck to the line that she had failed to speak to him.

There was also the mystery of the unknown phone. It was a prepaid rather than a bill-paid mobile phone, and therefore no owner's name had been registered for the number. Gardai had found out that it was purchased in France, and they were trying to pinpoint the exact date and place of purchase. The purpose of Redmond's door-to-door work was to establish whether the phone belonged to someone who had stayed in a local hotel, guesthouse or rented accommodation in Beara that week.

It was repetitive work, asking the same questions time after time. There was no problem getting B&B proprietors to open the door – the majority of them were women who loved to talk, and had ample opinions on the case. Some had clearly prepared their answers in advance, so Redmond and his colleague came to the conclusion that a chain of neighbourly phone calls preceded their every move from one B&B to another. Of course, the proprietors were also professionals when it came to offering tea and apple tart, not to mention a nice warm spot by the fire ‘to toast your feet after being out in that terrible rain', as several of them put it.

After refusing all such offers, Redmond found himself ravenously hungry by midday. He had decided a few weeks earlier to tackle his thickening waistline, and was on breakfast rations of a half litre of water plus a piece of crispbread. In order to prevent himself succumbing to the comfort food on offer, he allowed himself a lunch of two bananas, an apple and a litre of water, followed by oat biscuits at four o'clock.

By that time, he and his colleague had visited at least twenty B&Bs and two hotels. They had been told about visitors who had changed plans at short notice, or washed their car on the Friday night or Saturday morning, or done anything else remotely akin to suspicious behaviour. But they had nothing new on the unknown phone; and the word on the grapevine was that their colleagues had drawn a blank in other parts of Beara too.

‘I wonder if I could have a word with you privately?'

Redmond felt nervous as he put his question to Inspector O'Kelleher in Castletownbere station. He was not at all sure how best to explain the incident at the bridge, but he felt equally nervous of not mentioning it. But O'Kelleher countered with another question.

‘Have you ever been to the the Buddhist Centre a few miles from here?' When Redmond looked at him in surprise, O'Kelleher continued. ‘It's called the Dzogchen Beara, and there's a fine hostel there, as it happens. They also rent out a few houses to their visitors, so we could check out this business of the phone numbers with them, and have a quiet chat ourselves. It's some place, I promise you that, and now that the sky has cleared at last, we'll see it at its best.'

They drove southwest of Castletownbere on the Allihies road, and eventually took a minor turning towards the sea. The inspector talked about the pathologist's report, which was to be discussed at the following morning's briefing. Unfortunately, he said, the report gave no new indication of the time or place of death. Nor was it possible to identify precisely the material used to strangle Malden. The nearest the pathologist could suggest was a smooth cable, or perhaps a thin scarf of silk or other cloth that did not leave telltale marks, as a rope would, for example. It was confirmed, however, that Malden had been seated and his killer standing at his shoulder, as indicated by the angle of the injury on his throat; it was also clear that Malden had offered no resistance when approached from behind.

‘Why do you think the pathologist was unable to determine clearly the time of death?' O'Kelleher spoke in his usual soft voice, but Redmond realised that his senior officer was testing him, and he was glad he could answer promptly.

‘If a body is found within a day of death, its temperature indicates the number of hours since death, plus or minus two to three hours. But once twenty-four hours have elapsed, the temperature is so low that it's irrelevant as a factor. The evidence of rigor mortis also ceases to be useful, I believe, because after a day or two, depending on the air temperature and so on, the muscles loosen again.'

Redmond tried not to sound as if he was reciting from a book. ‘I presume, inspector, that as a result of these difficulties the Patrickhologist can only say that Oscar was killed on Thursday, some time between lunchtime and late that night.'

‘Very good, Redmond. You can move on from beginners to the intermediate class.' O'Kelleher was clearly enjoying his role as examiner. ‘Now, what might the pathologist have searched for, in order to determine where Malden was killed?'

‘The type of soil on his clothes, perhaps, if he had been lying on the ground outdoors for a period? But if Malden was seated, as you said …'

Redmond paused, worried that he did not have a pat reply this time. He knew that seeds and other such material could be very important, but O'Kelleher might expect him to be able to name the likely plants. Just in time, however, he remembered that insect evidence was crucial too.

‘It would be very helpful to determine whether death took place indoors or outdoors, inspector,' he said carefully. ‘So if Malden's body was placed in the plastic bag indoors, it's possible that a housefly got into the bag at the same time, and laids its eggs on the body. And in that case, the number of eggs or maggots could give some indication of the time period too.'

‘So it could. But unfortunately, our helpful fly didn't make it into the bag, and we're left wondering whether it would have been a housefly or one of its hardy country cousins.'

They parked in a large carpark and walked through woodland to the Buddhist Centre. Redmond half-wondered whether they would see barefoot monks in prayerful chant. But when they emerged on the far side of the trees, he gasped at the view that lay ahead: a series of green and russet slopes tumbling and curving down to the sea along Bantry Bay, whose wide waters glistened in the pink evening light. Other than the centre's neat buildings on the cliffside, no human habitation could be seen.

O'Kelleher led him to a tranquil garden high above the rocks. Redmond felt as if they were perched on the edge of the known world. He vowed silently that he would return on his own to absorb the utter peace of the place, which he found seductive and terrifying all at once.

O'Kelleher said nothing for a while, and it occurred to Redmond that perhaps he practised meditation regularly at this very spot. If so, that would explain the unusual calm of his working methods.

‘We'll have a word with someone in the centre's office shortly,' said O'Kelleher then. ‘But our precious phone evidence may not really amount to much.'

‘Is that because one person could have two or three mobile phones, for example? So the unknown phone may belong to someone we've already questioned?'

‘That's entirely possible, Redmond. And it's also difficult to rely on telecom evidence in a place like Beara, where masts are sparse and inconvenient mountains get in the way of straight lines. In an urban area, we might be able to pin down Oscar's location at a particular time by checking how his phone had tuned in to the nearest or most powerful mast in the area. But really, he could have been anywhere within a few miles of either Derryowen or Coomgarriff when he was in contact with our mystery caller.'

Redmond found it strange to discuss the mechanics of murder in a lovely garden by the sea. He finally made himself recount the incident with the two women, giving the impression that he had chanced upon them by the bridge.

‘I'm grateful to you for telling me this, Redmond,' was O'Kelleher's bald comment when he had finished. The inspector pondered in silence for several long minutes, while Redmond glanced anxiously at his lean profile. ‘Tell me something else,' the inspector said then. ‘I sensed a particular tension between yourself and Nessa McDermott when we interviewed her, and I wondered why that might be?'

‘I'm sorry, I don't understand what you're getting at.'

‘My own impression is that she's a shrewd woman, and very alert to the world around her. But she certainly has a rather direct manner, and maybe you found that difficult?'

‘Well, no, but I thought—'

‘In our job, as you know, it's important not to make instant judgements about people, whether we like them or not.'

‘I thought you were wary of her yourself, inspector, and didn't trust her?'

‘What gave you that idea?'

‘You said something last week about expecting trouble from her …'

‘Did I? Well, maybe I didn't mean it quite as literally as you assumed at that instant.' O'Kelleher smiled gently, to take the sting out of his words. He interlocked his long thin fingers, and hunched his shoulders in a way that reminded Redmond of his father.

‘One of the great challenges of garda work,' he continued, ‘is how to be wary of people and still win their trust. Without that mutual trust and respect, they won't tell us anything, but of course we can't be such fools as to believe every word we hear.'

Redmond nodded, to avoid saying the wrong thing again.

‘I'd like to mention another little thing, Redmond, now that I have this opportunity. We've been in each other's company quite a lot recently, and yet you still call me by my fine official title, as if we'd only met the day before yesterday.' Redmond looked quickly at his companion and saw the kindness in his eyes. ‘For goodness sake, just call me Trevor, the same as everyone else does!' He laughed lightly. ‘Or cig, if you prefer the Conor Fitz way of doing things.'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't intend—'

‘What's more, you shouldn't watch me like a hawk, in case you might displease me. You've plenty of ability, son, but you need to stand on your own two feet and make judgements for yourself. Not instant ones, mind you, but the sort that will teach you when to take the initiative and when to hold back.'

Redmond stared out at a darkening sky over the sea's silky expanse. He wished the conversation would end, so that he could sit alone in the garden instead of listening to kind words from a man of his father's generation. He didn't want to be reminded of his father or mother, whom he would never see again.

His companion was speaking as if from a distance. ‘It's up to you how you live your life, Redmond, but it might be good for you to go out with the lads from time to time, do you understand what I'm saying? If you keep yourself apart from them, there's always a risk of resentment and backbiting, instead of enjoying yourself and relaxing for a while in their company.'

D
rimoleague and Dunmanway, Enniskeane and Inishannon. Nessa recited place names to herself as she studied the route eastwards to Cork city. She had always loved Ordnance Survey maps, not just for the way they evoked the landscape, but for the names of villages, valleys, rivers and hills, that echoed like songs full of memories of lives long ago. Ballineen came from the original Béal Átha Fhinín in Irish, which she figured meant the Mouth of the Ford of Finín, whoever he may have been; and Inishannon was Inis Eonáin, the island or water meadow of Eonán, who could have lived a millennium or two earlier. The Irish ‘cnoc' for hill was dotted across her map: Knockgorm, the blue hill; Knocknagarrane, the hill of the groves; Cappaknockane, the tillage field on the hillock. Those same words were familiar to her from Beara, where she had compiled a trove of local information for Cnoc Meala's guided walks.

But as she and Sal travelled towards the city in Darina's van, she knew well that gazing at a map was just a way of distracting herself from the challenges of the day ahead: a visit to Maureen's hospital bed in Cork, and then an hour's journey to Oscar's home area in County Tipperary, to attend his funeral. His remains had been released by the authorities, and as was usual in Ireland, his family arranged to bury him as soon as possible. Nessa knew she would have to attend – that was customary for everyone connected with the deceased, but after three days of seclusion at her friends' house in Dunmanus, she felt unsure of the outside world.

She was relieved, however, that Ronan had clamoured to stay on in Dunmanus, very happy to have two other boys to play with all day long. Their games featured variations on the theme of murder, as Ronan suggested more and more ways to act out their fears and fantasies, but the adults allowed them to get on with it, on the grounds that play-acting in daylight was better than struggling with nightmares. They drew the line, however, at a vociferous competition in which the boys thought up new and unusual methods of strangulation.

Nessa was also greatly relieved to have had a long phone conversation with Patrick the previous evening. This time, she did not hold back on the details of Oscar's violent death, and she told him to expect a phone call from Superintendent Devane. Her husband was shocked to realise that Oscar had been murdered, and so soon after he himself had left Cnoc Meala, and immediately said he would return home to Ireland on the next available flight. Meanwhile, he explained all he could to Nessa about his contacts with Oscar on the day of the murder.

‘I don't get the logic. I mean, it was bad enough …'

Nessa put aside her map. Their stay in Dunmanus had been marred by Sal's constant grumbling. Even her style of speech was driving her mother mad.

‘I think you should, like, make up your mind what you want,' Sal continued. ‘There we were three days ago, getting the hell out of Beara as if an actual war had started, but today, it's all “let's make it happen, people, the world is waiting to welcome us”. Honestly, I could just about take this dreary funeral in Tipperary, but visiting Maureen in hospital is
way
too much. I mean, what's the plan? A cheery bedside chat with Dominic? I
don't
think so.'