Tuesday 27th September – 10.30 a.m.
James was already regretting his offer of help. His sea legs were non-existent.
Reading the text from Nell hadn’t helped his seasickness. But he’d sensed the urgency in her typed words: ‘Stolen painting is going on sale. Shannon and I are trying to track down seller. They must have posted it, with insurance. There’s only a few delivery depots and post offices who offer that service. Can Garda find out who sent it?’
With a sigh, James sent an email, having to redraft it several times, to Nessa and Sergeant Baptiste. They didn’t have a huge team to do legwork like this, so he didn’t hold out much hope. But they might start with an official statement from Shannon and some photos of where the painting had been.
When he finally looked up from his screen and pocketed his phone, he registered the tilting horizon. His stomach churned and nauseous heat slithered over him. Staring into the distance, he tried to take deep, even breaths.
But the bay wasn’t as calm as it had appeared from the shore, and the little chugging boat was no match for the surging tide of the Atlantic. Brandon kept the vessel as steady as possible while James was supposed to haul up the lobster pot, attached on its long line to the buoy on the surface, the orange balls forming a row across the bay. Leaning over the edge of the boat made him immediately retch and he stood up straight, breathing deeply again.
When he managed to pull up the briny basket, his triumph was short-lived – the unsuccessful catch adding injury to insult as he suffered two nips from the crustaceans within. He had to reward the undersized crab and (he saw from the v-notch) still-breeding female lobster with their freedom. So, now he had nothing to show for his brave efforts – and he’d got nothing out of Brandon either.
‘Well, I’m all ears,’ James puffed over the engine noise as he lowered the rebaited creel back into the water. ‘What were you doing that evening?’
‘It was an ordinary Friday, or so I thought. I’d spent the morning out here.’ Brandon chewed his thin cigarette – with the right side of his jaw – as he navigated to the next stop. ‘Got a decent haul. There are a few fellas I sell the stock to, but when I get something really premium, Cailithín Castle hotel likes me to give ’em first refusal. I had a premium lobster and a spider crab. I knew they’d make the special menu. So once I got back to the harbour I took them straight up, made a nice little deal.’ He pointed up the hill, where golden bunting fluttered, leading to the final venue of the Gin Tour. ‘Ask ’em if you want. The same family’s still running it. They’ll have it in their books if you want proper evidence.’
James nodded. He’d check up on any part of Brandon’s story. That was standard.
‘I came back to the harbour to sort out my gear and have lunch in the pub,’ he nodded at the modest waterside establishment, ‘and then I headed over to my parents. They were still in the farmhouse at the time, and they were looking after Ciar— Aoife.’
Brandon turned to face the wind whipping in from the ocean, buffeted by the force of the Atlantic. He stayed stock-still, facing the onslaught, and James realised tears were silently streaming down his face, trickling around the new, crusting scabs. ‘I was a terrible father. And a worse husband. Never know what you have until you lose it, do you?’
They’d reached the next location, and James hauled the pot up, manhandled it over the side of the boat and checked the catch: one lobster, the right age and size. He banded the claws and covered the catch with a damp cloth.
Returning the creel to the sea, he glanced at Brandon to see if he was ready to speak again.
‘And how were your parents, that day?’
‘Same as usual. Well, no, they weren’t, as it happens. They were in a critical mood. Couldn’t do anything right. I wasn’t making enough of a living with my boat. And then I was expecting free childcare. Sean was going to study for the rest of his life. And no one knew what the hell Conor was going to do with himself, since he’d come back from England. They were talking about taking one of their prize cattle to market, to free up some capital.’
He glanced at James. ‘That may not sound much to you, but that’s a big decision.’
James remembered Sean’s words, about Finn asking for funds. ‘Were they worried about money?’
‘Always. Farming’s never totally secure, is it? One infection can wipe everything out. I was surprised at the childcare comment though. They usually loved having Ciara. They only had her one day a week, when Siobhan ran errands, which she did on a Friday, so we could have a weekend together. You know, grocery shopping, seeing her parents for lunch, cleaning the house without the little one underfoot. So I asked what all the grumbling was about, and they told me to ask my brother. But Con didn’t know anything about it.’ Brandon’s expression darkened. ‘Of course, now I know why he was so distracted, and why he avoided talking to me. Next morning, he was in a real state.’ He glanced at James. ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it? Why that might be? Was it just that Siobhan had left without him? Or something else?’
James maintained a silence, honed through years of interviews, letting Brandon know he wasn’t rising to the comment. Eventually, he said, ‘And Siobhan? How was she on that Friday?’
‘Oh …’ Brandon threw his hands up. ‘She … I don’t know. She hadn’t been herself since the baby. It had only been a few months. But she was retreating deeper and deeper into herself. I felt like …’ He groaned. ‘I felt like I couldn’t reach her.’
‘Was it postnatal depression?’
Brandon sighed. ‘Probably. I didn’t know back then. I just thought that I was working all hours to set us up with a life, but it wasn’t enough. I think she was probably happiest when I was away on a long haul. But she didn’t seem to appreciate it when I got back.’
‘So did you argue?’
‘Yeah. More and more.’
‘Did it ever escalate?’
‘To what, losing our tempers? Throwing things at each other?’ He nodded. ‘Yep.’ He looked at James but couldn’t hold his eye contact. ‘I know what you’re asking. I’m not proud of myself. I couldn’t make her happy. Some days she couldn’t stop telling me that. Some days she said nothing at all. I just wanted … a reaction, I guess.’
‘Did you talk about divorce?’
‘Yes, more and more. She said I could blame her in the proceedings.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘So magnanimous, given I knew there’d be plenty of reasons. But I couldn’t bear the shame of it. The … the failure … I couldn’t do it.’
‘So what did you do?’
Brandon looked at James. ‘That Friday night, I did the same as I did most nights to blot it out. I got utterly and completely trashed.’
‘That all?’
Brandon nodded, then paused.
‘She was usually back for dinner. With Mammie and Da finding fault, as well as Siobhan, I felt a bit sorry for myself. I came back home and started drinking early. I thought she’d wake me up when she came back with the baby, and make my dinner. But she never came home.’
James winced; he couldn’t imagine dealing with such unrelenting domestic drudgery for a man who admitted he was drunk most nights.
‘Did you prepare anything for dinner?’
‘Nope. She didn’t cook, so I didn’t eat.’ He managed to make it sound like her fault that he’d starved, like he’d scored a point against her for husband neglect, missing the own goal entirely. ‘She hadn’t shopped, for that matter. Or cleaned. But she had packed, hadn’t she? Her clothes were gone.’ His voice was bitter.
‘Did Siobhan collect … the little one? From your parents?’
‘Oh yes, she called in early, just after I’d left, at about half two, telling them she had to race over to her folks for something. But she never saw her parents again, not after she’d had lunch with them earlier that day.’
Brandon thought for a moment. ‘She must have come home though. And walked to the bog, or got a lift with someone. Because her car was outside the house when I got up the next morning.’
‘You don’t know what time it got there?’ James leaned forward, hoping.
‘No chance. I was passed out on the sofa.’
James nearly groaned in frustration. But it was something. If Siobhan’s car was at home, Brandon was right; she’d have got to the bog another way. Walking was a risk, surely? It would take too long, and she’d stand out, be seen too easily. Especially with a baby in her arms, or in a pram.
And if she was meeting someone and they picked her up at the house, they’d have been on their way out of the village. So why stop at the bog?
Tuesday 27th September – 12.30 p.m.
Nell was pacing in the farmhouse. No one had come back for lunch. Raiding the fridge, Shannon had made herself a smoked salmon salad but Nell had settled for marmalade on toast. She’d never been the best cook, and she struggled to manage even that under the circumstances.
‘You should think of your protein intake. That’s all carbs and sugar,’ Shannon scolded.
‘Yeah. Well. Carbs and sugar are very … settling.’
‘No wonder you’re overly emotional with your blood sugar spiking about like that,’ Shannon criticised. As they cleared away, a car pulled up outside, followed by a knock on the front door. When Nell opened it and saw Sergeant Baptiste, her heart lurched.
‘What’s happened? Is everyone OK?’
Nodding, Baptiste said, ‘As far as I know. Had word about a missing painting that may or may not be related to the case. Can I take a statement? From Shannon Lanner? And have a look at where the painting was located before it was taken?’
‘Sure.’ Nell showed him the blank space above the fireplace. ‘And the frame’s in the attic. Without the picture. I can get the steps from the garage and show you?’
‘Thanks, that would be great.’
Once Sergeant Baptiste had viewed the hidden, empty frame, he sat down and took a statement from Shannon, noting the auction house that listed it for sale.
‘I’m working on getting the name from my contact there, so don’t go scaring the horses just yet,’ Shannon confided in a low tone.
‘Oh. Well, it can be helpful to know that sometimes our search warrants work even better than manipulation,’ Baptiste said.
‘Oh, I’m sure. But so painfully slow, isn’t it? Don’t you want results?’
‘Yes. I even want results that can deliver me a conviction.’ He fixed Shannon with a hard stare. ‘Don’t you know better, going out with a DCI?’
‘Well, if you’re quite finished rapping a helpful civilian on the knuckles, I’ll get back to my yoga and meditation.’ She flounced upstairs and Nell ignored the guilt squirming in her stomach over the fact that she’d been the one to suggest that Shannon find out the seller’s name. But she knew Shannon wouldn’t feel any guilt over her if their positions were swapped.
And she had to pay attention, as Baptiste turned to her. ‘Nessa’s gathering up CCTV from the places where the painting could have been posted. But how would this relate to Siobhan’s death?’
‘Depends, doesn’t it?’ Nell said. ‘On motives, circumstances. It could be misdirection. Or just theft, using all the discoveries about Siobhan as a distraction.’
Sergeant Baptiste nodded. ‘I’ve also come here to ask you for some help.’
‘Oh? Of course. I’d love to help. Anything—’
‘I’ve had some results in from my forensic team. But my forensic botanist has been commandeered for another case. So I’ll either have to wait. Or …?’
‘Or?’ Nell’s heart thumped.
‘Find someone else with those skills.’ He looked at her, and then said, ‘DCI Clark mentioned that you’ve done some forensic botany for the police before. So could you take a look, and tell me what it means?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Nell’s mind raced, wondering what the data would be.
‘I’ll need you to review the photographs at the station. Under supervision. It’s protocol. The station is always attended, you can come over any time. I’d appreciate it.’
Nell almost wanted to say ‘Now?’ But Rav hadn’t returned yet, and she was still worried. So she nodded.
Baptiste hesitated. ‘My specialist will still check this once they are back. I just don’t want a delay. It’s a criminal offence to—’
‘Yes. I know. I wouldn’t dream of … misinterpreting anything.’ But she felt her face flame. Wouldn’t I?
‘OK.’ Sergeant Baptiste stared at her, and Nell saw his friendly smile become cold assessment. ‘Just … let me be quite fair here. I am obliged to tell you that, if you gave me any inaccurate results, then that would be grounds to arrest you – and whoever your misdirection protected.’