Deadly Intent (4 page)

‘God, give me patience with the medical profession, and the great wads of money we pay them for their exclusions and inclusions! Surely they can tell us what happened?'

‘The doctor did say that Mrs Scurlock's wound is not very deep. But it seems that its location at the back of her head makes both possibilities valid – that she tripped on a few stones accidentally, or that she was deliberately assaulted.'

Redmond glanced quickly at his companion, whose expression was difficult to read. He wished his own words did not sound so measured and stiff. But he thought there was no point in jumping to conclusions when there were so few facts available.

‘As you know,' he added, ‘they found evidence of alcohol in her blood, but it wasn't possible to identify the precise time she'd been drinking.'

‘No, heaven help us, and I'm sure it also wasn't possible to identify the precise quantity of booze she'd swallowed all day. But the young lad working in the hotel bar told Conor Fitz that Maureen bought just two coffees and then an orange juice.'

‘She may have been drinking on her own while she was out walking, I suppose?'

‘She may indeed, or she have been glugging with her desirable friend, Oscar Malden. He left the hotel up to half an hour ahead of her, and he'd chatted to the barman about his plans for a walk.' O'Kelleher paused to look down at his notes. ‘He was heading for one of those waymarked trails that are signposted for tourists – Coomgarriff Walk, it's called. But the bold Maureen wasn't as innocent as she made out to you, because when she was paying her bill, she enquired from the young barman how to get to the selfsame place.'

‘And is that where she was found? I don't remember the name Coomgarriff being mentioned.'

‘No, indeed, she was found in a different spot, say ten minutes walk away, where there are no helpful little signposts. So we don't know whether she lost her way, or maybe went there purposefully for a private encounter with Malden. When the track was searched, there were three or four fresh cigarette butts on the ground, which we may have to send to forensics, depending on how things go.'

‘What about Dominic Scurlock? Suppose he met his wife out there and they had a row?'

‘Dominic's story is that he spent the day fishing at Pooka Rock, a bit of a way down the coast from Derryowen Hotel.' The detective inspector flipped back to an earlier page. ‘Yes, here it is. Dominic says he saw nobody all day, not a solitary sinner apart from a few holidaymakers who passed him in a boat. He says he waved at them a few times but otherwise all was peace and tranquillity.'

Redmond fell silent as he gazed at the countryside. The blanket of cloud was slowly lifting from the hills. He saw a grey-green streak of sea ahead as they reached the far side of the Beara peninsula. Another seven miles or so to Derryowen, he thought. He had his own GPS device, but had decided not to use it in case the inspector had a low opinion of gadgets.

‘It's a tangled tale, right enough,' said O'Kelleher after a while. ‘Let's hope Malden himself will be able to straighten it out for us.'

‘I made three or four attempts to contact Mr Malden this morning. But his mobile phone is off, and his secretary has heard nothing from him either.'

‘Nor indeed has his son Fergus. That's if he's been telling the truth to Conor Fitz.'

‘Don't you think it's suspicious, inspector? Not hearing back from Malden?' Redmond thought he should make up for his earlier reticence. ‘Most businessmen keep their phones on day and night, surely? It suggests to me that he may have a reason to avoid us.'

‘The snag is that whether he has or he hasn't, we can hardly haul him to court for turning off his mobile phone. And Fergus Malden claims that his father has just such a habit when it suits him.' O'Kelleher smiled faintly. ‘What's more, Fitz has his own particular theory on the matter.'

The young police officer glanced quickly at his passenger. He felt a stab of jealousy each time Inspector O'Kelleher referred approvingly to Castletownbere's sergeant.

‘Fitz had a quiet word with a source of his earlier today, a man who knows Oscar Malden fairly well. What he learned was that our businessman friend goes incognito whenever he finds a fair maiden who'll spend a day or two under the duvet with him. And that's hardly a crime in this day and age.'

As Redmond drove into Derryowen, he noticed a signpost on the left for the hotel, down towards the sea. The village itself appeared straggly, with no real centre, unlike the picturesque multicoloured villages that adorned Beara's postcards. He turned right at a second signpost, up a winding road that brought them to Cnoc Meala.

Redmond decided to venture another opinion before they arrived at the house. ‘I suppose Mr Malden could make things difficult for us. His public image will hardly sit well with an accusation of assaulting a woman with a rock.'

‘I presume you're hinting at another reputation of his – that he has friends in high political circles? And you're worried we'll come under pressure to handle him with care?' To Redmond's relief, O'Kelleher laughed softly. ‘If Oscar Malden can provide us with satisfactory answers, he and his important friends will have nothing to worry about. And if not, who knows how interesting this particular job may turn out to be.'

The house at Cnoc Meala was hidden behind trees, and Redmond was halfway up the drive before it came into view. It was old-fashioned, built in a style favoured by gentry a hundred years earlier: wide stone steps up to the front door, which had imposing windows on either side of it; and ivy in autumn colours clambering on its squat two-storeyed walls. Just what foreign tourists would like, he thought.

‘Blast and damnation!' Inspector O'Kelleher spoke suddenly. ‘We're not the only visitors today. Pity I didn't see the fecker in time.'

A silver sports car was parked near the front door, where two people stood.

‘I'm sorry, who are you talking about?'

‘Jack Talbot, that's who. Look at the showy Merc over there – that's not your cheaper class of motor, I promise you.'

‘I've heard his name before, but I'm not sure … Is he a journalist?'

‘Yes, indeed, and a proud member of the nasty slimebag school of journalism at that. Surely you read the gospel he proclaims to the faithful every Sunday in his highly opinionated column?'

‘So what's he doing here? If he writes for a national paper, why would he bother?'

‘He has a well-appointed holiday cottage a few miles from ourselves in Bantry. I have to admit I hadn't pictured him as one of Nessa McDermott's bosom pals. But then again, she worked in the media for many years, and who knows the kind of favours given or received.'

Jack Talbot came striding towards the garda car, beaming at the occupants. O'Kelleher opened the door, unfolding his long lanky frame as he got out.

‘Don't utter a word about our business here,' he said quickly. Redmond saw him arrange a smile on his face. ‘Let's decipher the lay of the land first.'

‘What a pleasant coincidence!' Talbot grasped O'Kelleher's hand before it had been offered. ‘It's a delight to see an old friend out here in the wilds. I hope you haven't come bearing bad news?'

‘I hope you're not suffering from overwork, Jack, to find yourself so far from home on a Friday afternoon?'

‘Oh, don't get me started on overwork,
mon ami
. Sweat and toil is our daily lot, that's the sad truth of the matter.' Talbot clearly did a strong line in flattery. ‘But meanwhile, if there's any assistance I could offer you, inspector, please say the word. The fight against crime is most certainly the concern of every decent citizen.'

Nessa McDermott waited at the front door. Redmond's internet search had also told him that she was in her mid-forties, and a native of Dublin. What he noticed immediately was the way she gesticulated vigorously as she spoke, and the spiky style of her short auburn hair.

As soon as introductions were made, she resumed a conversation she had clearly been having with Talbot. ‘I appreciate your interest, Jack, but I think the best thing at this stage is to contact Oscar's public relations office.' She glanced at the two gardai with an air of unease. ‘Unfortunately, I've a lot on just now.'

‘I'm sure you have, my dear.' Jack gave a small tinkling laugh. ‘But all the same, you and I know that real journalists don't waste our time dealing with PR types.'

He turned to O'Kelleher and Redmond, smiling graciously. ‘What I have in mind, my friends, is a feel-good feature on one of our shining knights of Irish industry, to highlight his unselfish support for Ireland's niche-tourism, as demonstrated by his choice of holiday here.'

Redmond watched his senior officer carefully, appalled that McDermott and Talbot appeared to be concocting a plan to present a rosy image of Oscar Malden's stay in Beara – in a desperate attempt, presumably, to forestall bad publicity for Cnoc Meala.

‘Listen, Jack, we'll discuss it anon, but I can't promise you anything.' Nessa spoke briskly, and Redmond thought she was hoping to convey distance between herself and her old colleague. ‘As I said, I do appreciate the suggestions you've made.'

Nobody moved after she'd spoken, until Inspector O'Kelleher indicated to Talbot that he would like a word in his ear on a different matter. They walked off from the door, leaving Nessa and Redmond to regard each other in silence.

‘I'm sorry to have delayed you,' she said then. ‘I'd like to help in whatever way …'

Redmond thought it was best to be formal. ‘We're grateful for your assistance, Mrs McDermott, and I'm sure you appreciate the need to leave the investigation in the hands of the gardai. The role of the media in such a situation …'

Nessa looked at him wide-eyed. She probably had that arrogant belief, all too common among journalists, that their work carried an inviolable authority.

‘What I'd like to say,' continued Redmond, ‘is that it hardly seems advisable to publish stories about last night's incident while the relevant facts are as yet quite unclear.'

J
ust one more day, Nessa had said to herself when she awoke in the morning. One more day of putting other people first and anticipating her guests' needs before they were even aware of them. Mostly, she relished the stimulation of having strangers under her roof, but sainthood was not on her to-do list, and by mid-September, after several months of working around the clock, fighting irritability could be a losing battle.

The day so far had certainly been flush with irritations. The only information from the hospital was that Maureen was not well enough for visitors. A morning visit to Derreen Gardens, a place Nessa usually loved to go, was overshadowed by a recurring problem with the minibus she had hired. Sal was supposed to clean the kitchen after school on Fridays, but she had been shut away in her bedroom for hours, getting ready for her night out.

And worst of all, Jack bloody Talbot. Nessa had run into him several times during her media career, but she had no time for his style of journalism. His Sunday newspaper column was full of malice and snide commentary masquerading as substance. He had also gained attention for his interviews with public figures, in which he drooled and fawned at their achievements while enlightening his lucky readers with some choice secrets he claimed to have extracted from them.

When Nessa opened the front door to him that afternoon, he reminded her of a greyhound. His face was long and thin, and he seemed to pant excitedly as he spoke. His dress was as affected as his speech: a country gentleman's tweeds set off by a cheery cravat. Becoming a star in the media circus was at the expense of his own dignity, she decided.

He had his snout in the door before she could shut it on him, full of his planned feature on Oscar Malden and the alleged benefits flowing to Cnoc Meala as a result. It did not take long for Nessa to recall a conversation with Patrick a few days earlier, about a journalist's request to interview Oscar. She had not realised then that Jack Talbot was the journalist in question, but as far as she knew, Patrick had passed on the request to Oscar and nothing had come of it.

But now here was Talbot at the door, brashly presenting his credentials. She decided instantly to stay quiet about Oscar's early departure from Beara, not to mention Maureen's episode and Dominic's accusation. The less he knew the better. But Talbot refused to drop the bone between his teeth. His photographer was down at the hotel, he sallied, and really, there was no hurry. Nothing would please him more than to relax in the delightful environs of Cnoc Meala until Oscar returned from his afternoon outing.

Nessa filled the dishwasher in the kitchen and turned it on. Damn Jack Talbot and his silky pleadings, and damn the policemen too, for arriving while he was there. She could see Jack sniffing the air for a juicy story as soon as he set eyes on them. It was a relief when the garda inspector somehow encouraged him to leave. But then off he drove at full throttle to Derryowen, knowing well that the owner of the village pub and shop, Caitlín O'Donovan, was also a stringer for a local radio station, supplying them with snippets of news. When Jack quizzed her, she had little choice but to tell him the basic facts of Maureen's accident. Caitlín was a good friend of Nessa's, and as she recounted to her afterwards, he left the pub with tail aloft, eager to ferret out further details wherever he could find them.

Nessa pulled out a sweeping brush and got to work. In September, Cnoc Meala employed a cleaner only at weekends, so she would have to do Sal's share, and wait until the morning to phone Patrick. She had texted him several times since the previous night, and was surprised to have heard nothing back. Of course, there might have been a delay between connecting flights, or maybe his mobile battery was low. But she would love to hear his calm and sensible voice, and clear up her confusion about Jack's enquiries. For example, had Patrick promised to try again to persuade Oscar to do the interview, as Jack claimed at the front door?