I DROVE INTO Glendara to meet George on Monday afternoon. There was a strange feeling around town. The benign, lazy atmosphere that usually prevailed in the days between Christmas and New Year was absent, replaced by an uneasy chill. Much of the snow had been cleared, leaving slushy roads and footpaths. The lights seemed duller, the tree a little bit more bedraggled and the expressions on the faces I met were devoid of any Christmas cheer. The absence of the Oak didn’t help; the pub would usually have been the hub of social activity during the holidays, with people meeting for coffee and Christmas treats or a sneaky pint in the afternoon. A couple of other places in town had taken up the slack, but it wasn’t the same without the roaring wood fire and cozy dark timbers of the Oak. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the town had been attacked at its heart. I hoped Tony would be able to rebuild, to somehow re-create the atmosphere of the original. Although I knew the fate of its barmaid would always hang over it now.
The office was freezing – the heat had been off since Wednesday – so I dragged an electric heater into reception. I decided to see George in the waiting area; not having the formality of a desk between us might serve to emphasize that I could not take him on as a client.
I made us both a coffee when he arrived, more for warmth than anything else, and we sat beside one another as if at some kind of support meeting. A quick glance told me that he looked better. Still shaken, but less shell-shocked than on Saturday and more in touch with reality. He gripped the mug with both hands, elbows resting on his knees.
“I thought she was in contact with some other guy. That’s what I thought,” he said. There was a catch in his voice.
For the first time I noticed an earring, a small stud in the upper part of his ear.
“Why did you think that?”
“I saw texts.”
I made a mental note to ask Molloy if Carole’s phone had ever been found. Whether he would tell me or not was another matter.
“Did you ask her about them?” I asked.
George shook his head. “It sounds crazy now, but at the time I just decided to ignore the whole thing – I thought if I let her have her freedom, it might go away. We were used to spending time apart anyway. We get along better that way.” There was a sudden shocked look on his face, as if he realized the implications of what he’d said and that the tense was no longer apt.
“Did you tell the guards about the texts?” I asked.
He shook his head again. “I’ve been afraid to. I didn’t tell them when she was missing, and now this has happened. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe they could have done something if they’d known.”
There was no point in my offering any false comfort on that score. The truth was that he was probably right. But then it’s easy to be wise after the event.
“They’ll see me as a suspect if they think she was playing away, that I knew and didn’t tell them.” His voice broke. “I couldn’t bear it if they took me away from the boys … even for a night.”
I leaned forward. “I hate to have to tell you, but they’ll probably see you as a suspect anyway, no matter what you do. The husband is always the first person they look at. You’re far better off being honest with them now if you have nothing to hide.”
He looked up. “You know she was seen in Derry … with someone?”
I dropped my gaze. I wasn’t sure how much I was supposed to know. “Who told you that?”
“The sergeant asked me if I had any idea who it might have been.”
“And what did you say?”
He shook his head. “Not a notion. It’s the truth. I don’t know who she was texting and I don’t know who she was with. I wish to God I did.”
I remembered what Molloy had said about George’s response to where Carole had been found. “Have you any idea why she might have been up there on Sliabh Sneacht?” I asked gently.
A peculiar expression crossed his face. He didn’t reply immediately.
“George?”
He frowned. “It’s not so much where she was found; it’s the cottage. The sergeant took me to the wee cottage.”
“Pete Stoop’s old place?”
“Aye.” He looked at me, his eyes so dark the pupil merged with the iris. “Carole used to go out with Dominic, Pete’s son. No one around here would know that; she never told anyone. He was trouble, hot-headed, got himself into all kinds of violent stuff. He ended up doing time for it. They met in England, years ago when they were younger, long before she met me.”
“I thought he went to Chicago?”
He shrugged. “Maybe he did, but Carole met him in England. She’s never been to America.” Again, his face clouded, as if suddenly realizing the places Carole would never go, the things she would never do.
“Do you think that could have been who she was in contact with?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I always thought she still carried a torch for him – she stayed in touch with him a long time after they split up.” He gave a sad smile. “The bad boy.”
“So he could have been the man she was with in Derry?”
He shrugged again. “Maybe.”
“What about the texts?”
He smiled weakly. “All I know is they were from a ‘John.’”
“And you don’t know a ‘John’?”
George looked at me as if I needed help. There was even the ghost of a smile. “We know about twenty Johns, so there was no way she’d have the name in her contacts with nothing else. It must have been a cover. And the way she was behaving, all secretive, I knew there was something up.”
He stared hard at the wall as if the answers he sought were there, looking suddenly lost, out of his depth. I felt out of my depth myself. I’d been asking him too much without letting him know I couldn’t represent him, and I realized that wasn’t fair. It was time to be straight with him.
“Eddie said you wanted to come and see me last week? Before Carole was found?”
He nodded. “I wanted to know what my rights might be when it came to the boys, in case we split up.” He rubbed at his beard. “Seems awful now that I was thinking like that, while she was lying up there … or worse.”
I placed my hand on his arm. “You were just being a good father. Don’t feel bad about that.” I paused. “How are they doing?”
“They’re wee kids – I don’t think they really understand. They were back to running around like lunatics yesterday.”
I smiled and George stared into what remained of his coffee. “They’re very attached to Emma and their grandmother. Most of their mothering came from Emma anyway.”
He fell silent, not realizing or not caring how disquieting that sounded in the aftermath of his wife’s murder. I took a second to gather my thoughts.
“So you’ve no idea what happened to Carole on Saturday night after she finished work?’
He hung his head. “None. Do you think this John person had something to do with it?”
“I don’t know. Did you get to read any of the texts?”
“No – she wasn’t too happy when she found me with her phone; said I wouldn’t like it if she was reading my texts. So I said nothing.” His brow furrowed and he ran his hand through his hair. “I keep going back over the past few weeks, wondering if she was meeting him.”
“Do you think she was?”
For a few seconds he didn’t reply. Then he looked up suddenly, placed his mug on the table and sat back with his arms crossed. His tone hardened. “Do you know, she was working for that Grey fellow and I didn’t know anything about it? What kind of a muppet am I, not knowing what my own wife was up to?”
I wondered if George suspected that Ian Grey was the other man. It would explain the exchange in the pub in Culdaff.
“And she took the plane down to Dublin when she pretended to me that she’d taken the bus. Why did she keep lying to me?”
I remembered Carole’s luggage. “Did she take anything to Dublin with her, as if she was planning to be away for a few days?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know; she left early so I didn’t see her. There could be clothes missing and I just wouldn’t know.”
I nodded. Unless it was something obvious like a toothbrush, it would be impossible to tell from someone else’s belongings. And you can always buy a toothbrush.
He looked at me again, his anger dissipated. “What do you think I should do?”
I felt suddenly uncomfortable. “The thing is, George, I can’t represent you. I know it’s a weird situation, but …” I didn’t relish bringing it up again, but I had no choice. “Since I was one of the people who found Carole, I may have to give evidence, so there’s bound to be a conflict.”
He gave me a sad smile. “In case I’m charged.”
I decided to sidestep that one. “If you want my opinion – and it’s not a legal one – I think you should talk to Sergeant Molloy. The more information the guards have, the more likely they are to find out who did this. But if you want to speak to another solicitor before you go to the station, then do that. It’s probably advisable.”
He uncrossed his arms and held his hands out. “What could I possibly have to hide? I’ve lost my wife, the mother of my kids. I just want the bastard caught.”
At George’s request, I went with him to the Garda station, where he told Molloy everything that he had told me. Molloy was kind; he took notes and said he’d contact George in the morning to make a formal statement. But he asked one question at the end that seemed to unnerve him.
“What were you doing on the night of Saturday the nineteenth? Were you at home with the boys?”
A shadow crossed George’s face. He swallowed. “Is that when … ?”
Molloy shook his head. “I’m not saying that, George. We just need to know. It’s the last time Carole was seen.”
George looked at the floor. “I was playing music.”
“Where?”
“In the Bunagee Bar in Culdaff.”
The admission that he’d been playing music at the very time when his wife was in trouble seemed to take the last bit of fight out of George, and he left the station with his shoulders hunched as if he’d just seen the last of his world come crashing down.
As the door closed behind him, Molloy stood at the counter with his arms crossed. “Are you representing him?”
“I don’t think I can since I found the body. I’ve told him that.”
“I think that’s sensible. You can’t have any kind of professional role in this.”
I had to stop my hackles from rising; I knew he was right, but it sounded like a warning. Who I chose to represent is my decision, not Molloy’s. But I decided not to say that.
“Does he need it, do you think?” I asked instead. “Representation.”
“Maybe. It’s too early to say. But he should have a solicitor with him tomorrow when he makes his statement.”
“I’ve told him that. Did you find Carole’s phone, by the way? To see if he was telling the truth – about those text messages she was getting?”
Molloy shook his head. “No. But he was certainly getting texts from her, telling him that she was all right. We’ve seen that from his phone.”
“Can you retrieve Carole’s texts from the phone company?”
“Unfortunately not. Phone companies are under no obligation to retain data, and for the most part, they wipe it immediately. In this case, that’s exactly what they did. Carole’s phone has been off since Christmas Eve.” He went back behind the counter, picked up his own mobile, checked it and put it back down. He looked distracted.
“No fire report yet?” I asked.
Molloy shook his head. He picked up a sheet from the desk and was about to say something when his mobile rang. Brow furrowed, he made the five-minute sign to me and took the phone into the interview room at the back.
I waited for him, elbows resting on the counter, watching through the glass door as he paced left and right. The minutes ticked by and I couldn’t help myself from glancing at the desk, at the sheet he had just handled. I caught sight of the heading: Postmortem results – Carole Harkin.
I glanced at the door, reached over the counter, turned the sheet toward me, and snuck a quick look: … death by asphyxiation. Victim was strangled, probably with a belt.
An image crept into my mind. Had Carole been strangled with her own belt? Had whoever killed her removed her boots, socks, and belt? I checked the door again, then glanced back at the sheet.
No signs of sexual assault.
Oddly relieved and becoming bolder, I turned the page. Rigor mortis passed … Initial presumption that she had been dead for more than thirty-six hours, further complicated by cold temperatures that delay the onset of rigor and preserve the body …
Molloy’s voice made me turn. My heart was beating loudly, but the interview room door was still closed. His voice was raised, his Cork accent more apparent than usual. He sounded angry.
I risked another look: Lividity in the backs of her legs and posterior indicates victim was in a seated position for some time after death. I knew that lividity was pooled blood. I knew too that lividity shifted position if the body was moved within the hours after death. I worked back. We’d found Carole on Friday, Christmas morning, which meant she’d been dead by Wednesday evening at the latest, but it could have been longer than that. When we’d found her, she was on her stomach, so she had to have been moved, and some considerable time after she died. So was she killed in the cottage and then moved to the hill?
Hearing a goodbye from the interview room, I quickly replaced the page and pulled back, but not before I caught the signature: Laura Callan, pathologist.
The door opened and Molloy reappeared. He looked stressed.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Fine.”
The shutters were up. I could knock on them all I wanted, but they wouldn’t reopen until Molloy himself pulled the cord. George Harkin’s words came back to me: the way she was behaving, all secretive, I knew there was something up.
“Okay,” I said. “Shall I go?”
Molloy exhaled and put his phone back on the desk. “No. I’m sorry. Difficult day.”
I took advantage of the softening. “Have you any idea when Carole died yet?”
He gathered up the postmortem report and placed it in a file. “The estimate is that she was dead at least four days when we found her. Fibers from the armchair in the cottage discovered on the body indicate that she was killed in the cottage and moved to the hill. They can’t be sure how long she was on the hill, but given how well preserved the body was, it’s unlikely she was exposed to the elements for very long.”
“So she could have died shortly after the fire on Saturday night?”
“Within a period of thirty-six hours, they reckon.”
I digested this. “So most of the time we thought she was missing, she was dead? Lying in that awful cottage. And then she was taken out to the hill and left there?”
“It looks like that. Yes.”
“Why? Surely that was a risky thing to do.”
“We can only assume that the killer wanted her found,” Molloy said. “It could have been weeks before she was found in that cottage. Remember Pete Stoop.”
I shuddered. “God. That would have been a grim discovery. I wonder why he would want her found, though? Assuming it was a he?”
He placed the file in the filing cabinet and pushed the drawer shut. “It most probably was a man. Carole was slight, but it would have been difficult for a woman to carry her alone as a dead weight.”
“Was there anything in the cottage?”
“No DNA, unfortunately. Whoever it was had been careful to burn everything he touched.”
“The old solid-fuel cooker?” Molloy nodded.
“Someone knew what they were doing.”
“And …” Molloy paused. “They found traces of petrol on Carole’s hands.”
“Oh. So she might have been the one who started the fire?”
“Yes. We’ll be looking at alibis from Saturday night, Sunday morning. We need to know where Carole went after the pub closed and who she was with. And whether she went voluntarily or otherwise.” He crossed his arms. “Anyway, most of this will be released.”
Molloy was making sure I was under no illusions that he was giving me special treatment, which made me feel guilty about sneaking a look at the postmortem results. But he was right: the important question now was what had happened to Carole after the pub had closed on Saturday night.
My phone buzzed with a text from Leah as I left the station. She’d had a chat with her sister, done some checking up on Susanne Craig – “snooping” was the way she put it, with a smiley face emoji – and would be in town the following day if I wanted to meet at the office. I suspected she also wanted to hear about my Christmas morning. So I texted back saying I’d meet her at eleven, glad of the distraction.
When I got to the square, I saw that the bank had reopened. My exchange with Leah reminded me that there were some checks in the office I hadn’t had a chance to lodge before Christmas, so I went to fetch them.
Back at the bank, I collided with Tony Craig in the doorway, dropping my checks. He apologized profusely but didn’t help me pick them up, which wasn’t like him; just stood there and watched while I did it, looking hassled and stressed.
When I’d straightened myself, I asked how he was doing, though it hardly seemed necessary. The answer was right there in front of me in his unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes.
“I’m worried sick that the insurance company won’t pay out to rebuild the Oak,” he said. “Especially if they think one of my employees had something to do with it.”
“Carole?” I wondered if he knew they’d found traces of petrol on her hands.
He nodded. “I know that’s what they think. But they won’t give me an answer one way or the other.” He lowered his voice. “Some people are saying that I did it myself, for the insurance.”
“Ah no. I don’t think people really think that, Tony. It’s just talk and the insurance company is probably waiting for the final report.”
He looked defeated. “I don’t blame them. I’d probably think it myself. I feel guilty even mentioning it when Carole’s poor family is going through this. I mean, what’s money when it comes to losing a loved one, a wife, a mother?”
“It’s still your livelihood, Tony. And the people of Glendara would be broken-hearted if the town was to lose the Oak permanently. I know I would be.”
He gave me a weak smile. “It’s kind of you to say so.”
“Any idea when the report will be ready?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. The time of year doesn’t help. The insurance office has been closed for the past few days, but I’m hoping to get something tomorrow.”
“I hope you do. Anyway, I’d better get on or I’ll miss the bank.”
I’d noticed that the security guard was sliding the locks at the bottom of the door. It was almost closing time. He stepped aside to allow someone out and I was surprised to see it was McFadden, dressed in jeans and a heavy jacket. I smiled at him, but he walked past as if he didn’t see me, his face like thunder. He looked haggard, his weight loss more obvious somehow out of uniform.
“There’s a man with even worse problems than I have,” Tony said under his breath.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
But Tony knew he’d said too much. He shook his head. “Ach, trying to solve everything that’s happened this last week can’t be easy. Small-town guards just don’t have the resources. We’re lucky to have a station open at all.”
There was a meaningful cough from the security guard. I took a step towards the door.
“Have you given any more thought to what I asked you last week, by the way?” Tony asked.
“About Susanne?”
“Aye.”
“I’m sorry, Tony, but I haven’t really had a chance,” I said. “I promise I’ll let you know by the end of the week. Is she sure she wants to work in a solicitor’s office, though? She might find it pretty dull.”
The publican sighed. “Dull will do her no harm. We could all do with a bit of dull for a while,” he said as he gazed after McFadden’s departing figure.