Chapter 18
“It’s a photocopy,” Aretta pointed out. “But it is an exact replica down to the tear. The original is in the Evidence Room.”
Siobhán felt a tingle that often accompanied a shocking discovery. If only the twins had separated the rubbish according to each room, like they had requested. Now there was no way of telling not only who sent this note, but perhaps more informative, who received it.
“What are you doing here?” Macdara repeated, as if just uttering the words might help him figure it out.
“This may not be a smoking gun,” Siobhán said. “But it’s definitely loaded.” Macdara gave her a look. She grinned. “I can read westerns too.”
“Will you use a handwriting expert?” Aretta asked.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have sophisticated experts like they do on telly,” Macdara said. “We’ll send it up to Dublin of course, to see what they can do about it, but we won’t be given priority and it won’t be done quickly, I can promise you that.”
“We can compare it to the handwriting in Deirdre’s notebook, although one is all capital letters, and the other is cursive.”
“It’s hard to tell from this photo,” Aretta said. “But there was tape on the corners of the note.”
“As if someone taped it to the door to their room?” Macdara asked.
Aretta nodded. “Maybe there are traces of paint chips on the tape that we could match to the doors?”
Siobhán understood Aretta’s desire for forensic evidence. It was taught at Templemore and glorified by shows on telly. But the truth was that small villages did not have the capabilities to get that fancy, nor, as Dara had pointed out, were they given priority. “I think we can safely assume it was taped to the door, or somewhere the recipient would see it,” Siobhán said. “I don’t think verifying that fact would be worth the time and effort.”
“And money,” Macdara added.
“What else?” Siobhán asked.
“There is one more note. It does not appear to be the same handwriting.” Aretta put her hands up. “I do not claim to be an expert.” Her eyes danced with excitement. Siobhán was starting to think Aretta might make a good scribbler; she was definitely building up to something and enjoying the slow tease. She pulled the second note out of her satchel and slid it across the table. Siobhán and Macdara leaned in.
I DON’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS
“What in the world?” Macdara said.
“Is it a dialogue?” Siobhán wondered out loud. It was true that unlike the first note, this was scribbled fast and loose, and the handwriting at a glance did not appear to come from the same person.
Aretta raised an eyebrow. “A dialogue?”
“What are you doing here?” Siobhán said. “I don’t believe in ghosts.” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger before remembering she was in public and stopped. “Or . . . I don’t believe in ghosts . . . What are you doing here?”
Macdara and Aretta simply looked at her. Siobhán placed the two notes next to each other:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?
I DON’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS.
She stared at it for a moment, then switched the order:
I DON’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?
“If it’s a dialogue, the meaning is lost on me no matter what order they go in,” Macdara said.
“Are any of them writing about ghosts?” Siobhán mused. “Lorcan perhaps?”
“Why him?” Macdara’s back was up. He was still enamored with Lorcan Murphy. Heavens, if he was guilty he could still write his books from jail, could he not?
“It’s not that far of a leap from elves to ghosts, is it?” Siobhán asked.
“Perhaps it was a euphemism. Such as ghosting,” Aretta said.
“Ghosting?” Macdara said.
“It’s slang for when you stop texting or calling someone you once dated,” Aretta said.
“Kids these days,” Macdara said with the shake of his head. He took Siobhán’s hand. “I promise I’ll never ghost ya.”
“Tanks a million,” Siobhán said, withdrawing her hand. “I’ll reserve the option.” She gave him a playful kick to the shin so he would know she was joking and turned back to Aretta. “We need to find out if Deirdre was in a romantic relationship with one of our other suspects.”
“Or perhaps a lover had followed her here and we haven’t met him or her yet,” Aretta said, jotting down a note. “Are you thinking about that lurker?”
“Lurker?” Macdara asked.
“Sorry,” Siobhán said. “So much has been going on. Leigh Coakley has spotted a stranger in town. She said he was going through her rubbish bins. Big burly man with a red beard.”
“Could he be a Traveler?”
“She said she saw him pass by the Travelers’ caravans and they did not seem to be interacting.”
“When did you learn all this?” Macdara asked.
“I popped into the flower shop today, before I came here,” Siobhán said. “I didn’t get any sense that Leigh had anything to hide. But I did learn they plan to have a memorial at the bookshop as soon as it’s no longer a crime scene.” She studied the notes again. “What if this lurker is Deirdre’s secret lover?”
Macdara sighed. “So you’re saying Deirdre Walsh’s lover is a burly man who rummages through rubbish?” Aretta laughed. Siobhán gave him another kick underneath the table. “Anything else?” Macdara asked.
Aretta shook her head. “Those are the main items. The rest, as I mentioned, I put in the category of mundane rubbish.”
“The notes and the nuts,” Macdara said. “I’d say it was a good haul indeed.” A familiar figure walked past, and Siobhán caught a flash of a green suit pass by. Darren Kilroy. He was on his mobile phone, headed toward the patio.
“I have an idea,” Siobhán said. “Why don’t we hold the interviews with our suspects here?” The back section of the pub was quiet and far enough away from the counter that the regulars wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop.
“Because you want your friend Declan O’Rourke to have customers?” Aretta asked.
“And we want to put them at ease,” Macdara said. “Let them feel helpful. They’re likely to let their guard down.”
“We’re dealing with professionals,” Siobhán said. “They lie for a living. We need every advantage we can get.”
“In fact,” Macdara said, “I’d like to try something. Let’s speak with them as a group before getting them one on one.”
“What does that do?” Aretta asked.
“If one of them is lying, they’ll have to adjust to information given by the others. Then one on one they may start tailoring those adjustments, or calling another out on a lie.”
“Can you give our suspects a bell and ask them to come here?” Siobhán said. “Darren is on the patio. I’ll let him know.”
Aretta rose and nodded. “I made the right choice coming to Kilbane. You might be a quirky pair, but so far I am learning a lot.” She headed off to make the calls.
“Quirky pair?” Siobhán said, staring after her.
“She was looking at you when she said it,” Macdara said with a grin.
* * *
If Darren Kilroy was worried about anyone overhearing his conversation on the phone, he should have told his mouth that. Siobhán could hear him way before she ever breached the exit to the outdoor area. She wondered if she would find him smoking, but the only thing in hand was the phone. Today he was wearing a light green suit with white bow tie dotted with green polka dots. She wondered if he had always dressed so stylish, or had it been since the money started rolling in from Michael O’Mara’s books?
“I can’t tell you exactly how much longer; they’ve asked us to stay put for a few more days.” His back was to Siobhán, and although it hadn’t been her intention to listen in, she didn’t do anything else to alert him of her presence. Most people had a sense of when they were being watched, unless of course the other conversation was so intense that it overrode those instincts. This seemed to be the case here, and although there was nothing alarming in his words, it made her wonder whom he was speaking with. “No. No. No. That is not a good idea. Not now.”
Interesting. His Spidey senses must have clicked in for he suddenly whirled around and spotted Siobhán. She waved. “I have to go.” He clicked off without waiting for the other person to respond. She wished she had the power to summon his phone records, but she didn’t have enough evidence to get that kind of request approved. Not yet anyway.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, hoping there was an easier way to get him to reveal what that was all about.
“I hope this is over soon,” he said. “I have other clients and every single one of them thinks I only work for him or her. Writers are fragile, fragile flowers.”
“Was that your most famous client?” She wondered what Michael O’Mara was like. Living every man’s fantasy, making a fortune writing about dragons. She made a mental note to Google him.
“If it was, he has nothing to do with this case, and I’m sure you understand that I have a duty to protect the confidentiality of my authors.”
“I see.” She waited a moment, treating him to a long stare. He concentrated on his phone, but she could tell he was making a conscious effort not to be intimidated. “Do you smoke?”
“Not anymore.”
“How long has it been?”
“Twenty years.”
“Fair play.”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m sure you understand I have a duty to protect my investigations.”
“I do indeed.” He started to walk past her.
“Don’t wander too far. We’re going to be conducting the interviews here.”
“Here?” He sounded startled. Good. She wanted them on their toes.
“Will that be a problem?”
“Not at all,” he said. “I shall remain here.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief that matched his bow tie as he left the patio.
Aretta entered the patio as Darren made a hasty exit. She turned and watched him disappear. “Was it something you said?” she quipped.
Siobhán laughed. “You’re going to do just fine at our station.”
Aretta grinned. “Lorcan Murphy and Nessa have arrived.”
“Great.” Siobhán suddenly recalled that she had yet to tell Macdara about the third note, the piece of paper Nessa had given her with the one-star review and handwritten scrawl. THE HILLS HAVE EYES. How could she have forgotten? And as memory served, despite being capital letters it did not look like the handwriting on either of the notes found in the rubbish. Were they looking at three notes written by three different people, or three notes written by one person, but carefully disguised to look like three? Or was it something obscure that Nessa herself had written? Siobhán was going to have to ask her about it before she submitted it to evidence. She touched the pocket of her uniform and confirmed it was still there.
* * *
Lorcan Murphy was thrilled they were holding the interviews at a pub. He sat in front of a pint and fish and chips. “Declan,” Siobhán said. “Could you remove these items until after the interview?”
“Sorry, luv,” he said, taking the pint and plate away as Lorcan stared after it like a dog who’d just had a meaty bone snatched. Another figure hovered nearby. Nessa Lamb.
“Please,” Siobhán said. “Have a seat.”
“I thought this would be one on one,” Nessa said.
“We decided to shake things up a bit,” Siobhán replied. “Sit.”
Nessa perched at the edge of the booth, barely making eye contact with Lorcan Murphy. It took another five minutes for Darren to arrive. His face was flush. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “I had to grab a bite to eat before my blood sugar crashed.”
“Lucky one dat,” Lorcan said, throwing another glance in the direction his food and pint had gone.
“Sit.”
Darren looked around, then instead of sitting by Lorcan, he pulled up a chair from a neighboring table. Lorcan’s head was buried in his smartphone and suddenly he looked up and belted out a laugh.
“What?” Nessa Lamb asked when no one else did.
“The Irish Book Reviews said someone should check to make sure I have a pulse,” Lorcan said with a grin.
“You know that’s not a compliment, don’t you?” Nessa asked.
He shrugged. “Any time your name is mentioned as an author it’s a good ting.”
Nessa shook her head and crossed her arms. “Unless you’re being investigated for murder.”
“We’re not seriously suspects, are we?” Lorcan said, as if it had never occurred to him.
“Does this answer your question?” Nessa held her smartphone out for the others to see. It was a local newspaper out of Dublin, and the headline read:
LAMBS AND ELVES TO THE SLAUGHTER
Nessa Lamb, writer of Musings on a Hill,
is a person of interest in the murder of indie author
Deirdre Walsh, along with Lorcan Murphy, known
for his gruesome Dead Elf on a Shelf series.
“My word,” Darren Kilroy said. “That’s abominable.” All heads swiveled to Siobhán and Macdara.
“That didn’t come from our office,” Macdara said. “I promise you that.”
“This is a cruel business,” Lorcan said. “They didn’t even mention my westerns.” He shook his head. “Gruesome? They’re missing the point entirely!”
“I didn’t kill Deirdre Walsh no matter what anyone thinks,” Nessa said. She placed her phone down and shivered. “The sick thing is—my sales have skyrocketed since this article came out.”
“I’d better check mine,” Lorcan said, rubbing his hands together.
“Aretta, will you pass around the sheet?” Macdara said.
Aretta nodded and slid a sheet with the An Garda Síochána letterhead across the table. Darren was the first up.
“What’s this?” he said, pushing up his glasses.
“We just need you to write your name in capital letters,” Siobhán said. “Easy-peasy.”
“I see.” Darren’s biro hovered over the line. It was not one of his author’s biros. Perhaps he saved the swag for events. He signed his name in capital letters and passed it to Lorcan Murphy. Lorcan produced his own biro from his blazer, a simple black one.
“I thought you already had me autograph,” he said with a grin to Macdara.
“Print please,” Macdara said. “In capital letters.”
Lorcan scrawled it as fast as he could. Was he trying to hide his identity? He flung it over to Nessa. She stared at it.
“I know why you’re doing this,” she said. “You showed them the one-star review with the note.”
Macdara and Aretta’s heads swiveled to Siobhán. She stared back, hoping they wouldn’t say anything in front of the others. Let Nessa think it was her note they were following up on.
“We won’t be doing anything,” Siobhán replied. “But our handwriting expert will.” Once again she counted on Aretta and Macdara not contradicting her, and she was relieved when they did not disappoint.
“You have an expert handwriting . . . person?” Darren asked.
“Forensic document examiner,” Aretta said. “That’s her official title.” Siobhán suppressed a grin. She caught on fast.
“Given Nessa has already referred to this, I think everyone should see it.” Siobhán slid the one-star review to the middle of the table. Although Macdara and Aretta were not obvious about leaning in to read it, Siobhán could see they were doing their best to study it inconspicuously.
Lorcan frowned as he read it. “Tis terrible,” he said. “But we all get one-star reviews. It would be more unusual if you didn’t have any.”
Darren reached into his suit for a pair of eyeglasses, put them on, leaned in, and read silently, lips moving. “The Hills Have Eyes,” he said. “The horror film?”
“I think this was written by Deirdre,” Nessa said.
“Including the written note?” Siobhán asked.
Nessa tilted her head. “I don’t know. I had never heard of this movie—The Hills Have Eyes . . . ?”
“Mutant cannibals,” Siobhán said confidently. Macdara coughed, trying to squelch his shock. “Perhaps she was alluding to the competitive nature of writers?”
Darren took off his eyeglasses. “Could it be a threat?”
“It’s obviously a threat,” Nessa said.
Or someone accusing her of plagiarism.
“Why do you think it was Deirdre?” Siobhán asked. She really wanted Nessa to bring up the plagiarism accusation unprompted.
Darren let out a sound, something between a groan and a gasp. “I think I know what it means,” he said. “And it’s all my fault.”