THE FOLLOWING MORNING my phone buzzed on my bedside locker first thing. It was a text from Maeve.
Fancy heading into the sales in Derry? Finally have a day off and could do with a bit of light relief.
I knew what she meant. A morning’s potter around the shops and lunch out sounded good, in the midst of all this darkness. I typed a response.
Only if we’re back by four. I have an appointment for what Stan considers an emergency haircut.
My phone buzzed again.
You’re on. And from what I’ve seen of you lately, he’s probably right.
She signed off with a winking face emoji.
I put a pillow behind my head and lay in bed trying to block out the sound of Guinness mewing on the doorstep downstairs. I knew if I left him long enough he’d appear at my bedroom window, making his way up the tree outside and leaping across to the sill, but I needed to organize my thoughts. Today was Carole’s wake. Róisín had said it would be in Emma’s house, probably because it was big enough to handle the numbers they would expect. I tried to decide if I should give it a miss after the reception I’d received the last time I’d been there.
A scratching at the window interrupted my thoughts; the cat had given up waiting. I climbed out of bed, flung on a bathrobe and let him in. Downstairs, I made porridge, chucking in some banana, honey and cinnamon, and finished off with a big pot of coffee, while Guinness got his usual dried food and water. I wasn’t taking any chances with his diet since the incident with the salmon. By the time I threw the dishes into the sink, I had decided to avoid the wake and go to the funeral in the morning instead.
The radio forecast said icy weather, but when I looked at the sky as I left the house, I had a horrible feeling that snow might be on its way again. I really wasn’t sure I could face a third bout. But they were right about the ice – when I went out to the car, the windscreen was frozen.
While I was defrosting with the kettle, Charlie and Ash appeared at their gate.
“Another cold one.”
“Sure is, Charlie.”
He walked over, the little dog trailing after him, both of them standing to watch while I continued my task.
“No more bother with that handbrake?” he said, lips curling in amusement.
“No, Charlie.”
“Still closed for the holidays?”
I nodded and splashed water over my feet at the same time. So much for women being able to multitask. Charlie took a step back, clearly not trusting my aim. As did Ash.
“Any news on Tony Craig’s pub?” he asked. “Two weeks on Saturday since it burned.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Pity.” He smiled. “Wild man to tell a long story is Tony.”
“He hasn’t been doing too much of that lately, unfortunately.”
“Aye. Decent man all the same. Many’s the time he’s driven me home after one too many.” He winked at me. “Sure, we’ve all done it.”
A wave of embarrassment spread up my neck and into my face as it dawned on me. Charlie thought I had driven home drunk.
I took extra care on the roads on the way in. Driving through Glendara, I spotted Molloy and McFadden standing in front of what remained of the Oak, deep in conversation. I pulled in. They turned simultaneously as I climbed out of the car. McFadden smiled and Molloy’s expression softened. I was glad about both, although McFadden looked pale, with dark circles under his eyes. Molloy handed him the keys of the squad car and told him he’d meet him back at the station, and McFadden took them without a word.
“What’s going on?” I asked as we watched him drive off.
“We have to go to Letterkenny to meet with the super this afternoon.”
“Why? Has something happened?”
“The Garda forensics report is back. There was another inspection after we found Carole’s body.” He paused. “They found traces of explosives in the cellar.”
“You’re kidding.” I turned to face him. “Is that what caused the fire?”
He shook his head. “If it had, the whole town would have blown up. All those bottles of spirits. No, the traces were minute. Whatever explosives were there were removed before the fire started. But it’s a shockingly dangerous thing to do, keep explosives in a pub cellar.”
I whistled. “Beneath where people congregate.” I was horrified that I even had to ask the next question. “Do you think it was Tony?”
“It was his pub.”
“But why? What would he want with explosives? And why would he keep them there?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” Molloy said.
I hadn’t mentioned Stan’s noise complaint to Molloy, since I felt bound by solicitor–client confidentiality, and I felt uncomfortably duplicitous about it now. I decided to ask Stan to tell him.
“The concern is,” Molloy continued, “where are they now? And what is their intended use? You don’t just buy explosives on the off chance you might need them at some stage. They’re meant for something specific.”
He stared at the blackened walls of the Oak as if waiting for them to give up their secrets. Watching him, I had a feeling he was distracted by something else. So I asked.
He sighed, as if giving up all pretense of keeping anything from me. “That belt you found?”
I nodded and held my breath.
“They’ve identified DNA on it. Other than yours and Carole’s.”
I exhaled. “Carole’s was on it. So, it was the murder weapon?”
“It looks that way.” He paused and ran his hands through his hair. “But they’ve also found DNA belonging to Dominic McLaughlin. Dominic Stoop.”
“Pete the Stoop’s son?” I said, stunned. “Son of the man who lived in that cottage?”
“So he’s back? Was he the man Carole was seen with in Derry?”
Molloy shook his head. “He couldn’t have been.”
“Why not?”
Molloy closed his eyes for a second before speaking, then enunciated each word as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Dominic McLaughlin died in prison in the UK three months ago.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. He’d just begun a new sentence.”
“Are they sure?”
“It’s a prison, Ben. They’re sure.”
He broke off suddenly when Liam walked by. Eschewing his usual chat, the estate agent must have sensed a tense conversation. He passed us with just a nod, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. Molloy nodded back.
I lowered my voice. “Could it have been someone else pretending to be him? Serving his sentence? I mean, DNA is indisputable, isn’t it?”
Molloy sighed. “I’m not going down that road. We have to trust that the UK prison service know who they have in their cells. All we need to know is that the DNA on the belt matches a prisoner from Glendara by the name of Dominic McLaughlin. Who died three months ago.”
“Could it be family DNA? His father’s, even? Could it have transferred from something in the cottage?” I was grasping at straws, I knew. I didn’t really understand how long DNA lasted, how it transferred.
“No,” Molloy said firmly. “It’s definitely his. They took it from hair caught on the buckle. A few tiny follicles, but enough for them to get a sample from. We know it’s McLaughlin’s because we have his DNA on record here. He committed offenses in this state, too, served time here.” He shook his head in disbelief. “But he’s dead.”
“Was there anything in the cottage – DNA-wise?”
“A faint trace of material from a blanket found in the ashes in the cooker, but any DNA was destroyed.”
I was reluctant to make my next suggestion. “What about a twin – don’t identical twins have the same DNA?”
“I’m choosing to ignore that.” Molloy sounded exhausted. “And I’m going to go and have a word with Dominic McLaughlin’s uncle.”
With that, he walked off towards the newsagent’s.
I resisted following him into Stoop’s and drove on into Derry to meet Maeve, taking the road slowly and keeping an eye out for black ice. I had a feeling that despite his dismissal of my twin theory, Molloy would ask Stoop anyway. He was nothing if not thorough, even if he regarded the idea as ridiculous. But our conversation had left me feeling agitated. I knew Molloy was stressed, but it was beginning to feel as if our relationship had been suspended by recent events; our exchanges of late limited to the fire and Carole’s death. He’d cancelled on me a few times without giving me a reason, and there was that call he had taken in the station, the one he had been so secretive about. Was there something he wasn’t telling me?
When I reached the city, I decided to put all of that to one side for a few hours. I parked in the multi-story car park in the Foyleside Shopping Center on the same level where I’d parked the last time, a couple of days before Christmas, when Carole had been merely missing. It seemed a long time ago now.
As I made my way towards the shopping area, my phone buzzed with a text from my mother. She said how much she and my father were enjoying Iceland and that she’d speak to me when they got home. It was clearly a holding text; she didn’t want to engage, didn’t want me to reply, just wished me to know they were all right. I had been a little concerned, since she hadn’t answered any of my calls or texts, and I still wasn’t completely reassured, but I was glad to hear from her and sent off a brief reply. Despite my resolution, it made me think about the texts George had received while Carole was missing. The likelihood now was that she had been killed shortly after she disappeared, so who had sent them? Were they designed to stop people looking for her? Had she only been found when the killer wanted her to be? There was something distinctly Machiavellian about that possibility.
When I emerged from the shopping center, the icy wind hit me like a punch, and I wrapped my scarf around my head as I walked towards the wall and made my way under the arch at the junction with Artillery Street.
I had arranged to meet Maeve in a little café on Ferryquay Street, and a welcome blast of warm, bready air greeted me when I pushed open the door. I quickly spotted Maeve sitting at a table at the back wall. She was almost completely hidden behind a magazine, with a fruit scone and a massive black coffee in front of her. I planted myself by the table and she peered at me over the top of the magazine.
I grinned. “I was going to ask you if you wanted anything, but I see you’re all set.”
She closed her eyes. “God, this is bliss. No kids, no cows, no sheep. City life for a whole two hours.”
“I can leave you if you want. Let you have your afternoon’s peace.”
Her eyes opened again and flashed. “Don’t you dare. A spot of gossip will be the cherry on the cake.”
“Or the fruit scone.”
“Exactly.” She took a bite from the one in front of her.
I returned to the counter and came back with an only marginally smaller cappuccino and a pain au chocolat. Maeve had found a coffee shop that dealt in huge helpings; Phyllis would approve.
“Are you going to the funeral in the morning?” she asked, putting down the magazine when I joined her at the table.
The place was busy, a comfortable buzz of conversation and background radio allowing us to chat easily.
I nodded. “Thought I’d give the wake a miss after the last visit. I don’t want to upset them any further.”
“Fair enough. Any news on the investigation? Now that you’re so close to the local police.” She narrowed her eyes, then broke off as if something had just occurred to her. “That’s odd.”
“What?”
“I’ve remembered who asked me if there was anything going on between you and Molloy.”
“Who?”
“Carole,” she said slowly. “I remember thinking it was a bit odd at the time; it came out of the blue.”
“Why would she ask that?” I said.
“No idea,” Maeve replied. “I know she was a bit of a nosy parker about other people’s business, but she’d never showed any interest in you before.” She grinned as she spread some jam on the remaining half of her scone. “To be honest, I never thought she liked you very much.”
“Probably true.”
She took a bite. “So are they any further in finding out what happened to her?”
“They need to work out what happened after the pub closed on the night of the fire. That’s when she was last seen.”
Maeve frowned. “A few years back, you and I would both have been there on a Saturday night. Who would have been out, I wonder? I might ask around discreetly.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You’re the one who’s always telling me not to get involved in this kind of thing – to mind my own business.”
“I know. Usually I’d think that, but I’ve known that family for so long, I wish I could do something to help. I really did like her dad; he was one of my first clients.”
I stirred my coffee. “Is it true they’re really religious? Phyllis mentioned something about it.”
Maeve laughed. “The mother is, and she’s passed that on to her daughters. I think the father could take or leave it.”
“Did you know that Carole used to go out with Dominic Stoop?”
She looked up in surprise. “You’re kidding! Peter Stoop’s son? When?”
“Oh, years ago, I think. They were both living in England. The Donegal diaspora, I guess. But that’s why it’s so strange that her body was found close to the Stoops’ old cottage.”
I didn’t mention the fact that she was probably killed there.
Maeve gazed at the wall, where a vast selection of fruit teas was displayed. “God, I really hated going up there. Never knew what I was going to find. I don’t know why Pete even bothered to keep any stock – it’s not as if he made money out of them; they were always in such terrible shape that no one wanted to buy them.” She shook her head. “If I told him off about it, he’d plead poverty and say he’d try to do better. Until the next time.”
“Did you know Dominic?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not really. He was a bit of a shadow. Never said very much. Frightened of the father, I thought, although the animals were in better shape while he was there. He left as soon as he was old enough to get away. I’d have done the same in his shoes.”
“Did he have any brothers and sisters?” I asked.
She shook her head. “An only child. Unusual enough back then. Just as well – I don’t know how the three of them fitted in that tiny cottage.”
“And the father died after the son left?”
“Within months, I think.”
“Did Dominic come back for the funeral?”
Maeve shook her head. “When he left, he left. Never to be seen again as far as I know. Although to be sure, you’d have to ask his uncle.”
“Pat?”
She nodded. “If you can get him to talk about the black sheep of the family, that is. So Carole went out with Dominic, did she? She was in England for years. Lost touch with her family for a while, I believe. Then she came back, met George, and never left again.” She brushed some crumbs from her jumper. “Always thought they were a funny match.”
“George and Carole? Why?”
Maeve shrugged. “Carole being so religious and George the muso with the earring, I suppose.”
I smiled. “But he ended up teaching. Teaching’s fairly conservative.”
“I suppose it’s hard to be all free-spirited and broke when you have kids. And he’s popular – I’ll say that for him.”
There was an edge there that I couldn’t ignore. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe now’s not the time,” she said uneasily. “He’s just lost Carole. It seems a bit mean-spirited to talk about him like this.”
“But what if it’s relevant to what happened to Carole?”
Her eyes widened. “You don’t think … ?”
I shook my head. “Not necessarily, but you can never tell. What do you know?”
“Well, I don’t know anything as such. But I’ve heard rumors.” She looked uncomfortable. “And I did see something once, up at Knockamany Bends.”
“Go on,” I urged.
She lowered her voice. “One night I was coming from a call to Malin Head and I cut back by the road to the beach. I wouldn’t normally do that, but I’d had a calf die on me that I wasn’t expecting and I needed to clear my head. Wanted to stand and look at the sea for a few minutes. George’s car was there, parked. I thought it was a bit odd. Anyway, when I saw it, I changed my mind about getting out of the jeep, so I turned around to go home. The headlights of the jeep flashed on his windscreen as I was turning.”
“Go on.”
“George was inside. And there was someone with him.”
“A girl?” I asked.
“Girl or woman, I couldn’t be sure. But I can tell you one thing. It definitely wasn’t Carole.”