Chapter 5
Once the body was removed, Siobhán headed back to the storage room. It would be a disaster if this case was closed as a suicide and a murderer got away. The thought of a killer running around during the Arts and Music Festival was horrifying. A game-playing, sadistic killer.
First things first. Suicide. She would go through it, step-by-step, see which way the evidence pointed. She took in the thick rope still hanging from the wooden beam and put aside the fact that someone would have needed a ladder to reach the beam and tie off the rope. Whether it was suicide or murder, the missing ladder was still a mystery they would need to solve. The rope was approximately twenty feet long. Eamon was at least six foot. If it was suicide, he had stood on the chair, adding another foot, and then kicked the chair out from underneath him. Would the measurement of the rope be slightly different if he had been sitting and strung up by someone else from behind? Math wasn’t her forte but someone else could surely figure it out. If he was sitting down would the measurement of the rope be any different as opposed to standing? Unless the killer adjusted the rope after to mimic the measurements of a man standing on a chair and kicking it out from underneath him. Too far-fetched? Or were they dealing with someone that cunning?
And either way, how could they use rope distance as proof of which way it occurred? She doubted suicide victims were concerned with exact measurements . . . but maybe they would be able to tell from the fibers on the rope if it was used to pull Eamon up over the beam. Eamon Foley had been in good shape, but he was tall. It would have put some strain on a rope. Were there stray fibers on the floor?
Siobhán glanced at the pristine floor. Not now there weren’t . . . Is that why the floor had been mopped? Is that why the mop disappeared? Not only to hide footprints but rope fibers as well?
She took out her notepad: Check the fray of the rope. Check the beam for rope fibers. Check the mop for rope fires.
Scratch that, she thought.
Find the mop. Check the mop for rope fibers.
“Can’t beat the Dead Man’s Hand . . .” That’s a taunt, she knew it. And the playing cards? The calling card of a killer?
If Clementine Hart or Shane Ross was the killer, would either one of them be stupid enough to throw suspicion on themselves by placing those cards in Eamon’s pocket?
What if that’s exactly what they wanted her to think? After all, they were dealing with cardsharps here. Someone was playing a very dangerous game.
Clementine Hart and Shane Ross stood to benefit from Eamon’s death. The top competition wiped out. But, surely, they didn’t think the poker tournament would continue after this? At least not here, not now. Maybe they didn’t realize that? Or maybe someone had a better motive to kill Eamon. Maybe the tournament had nothing to do with it? Still, it was hard to ignore a prize purse as large as this one. If this was murder, it also appeared to be carefully planned. Where did the rope come from? In order for it to be spontaneous, the rope would have had to be lying around. At least that fact would be quick to check. Hopefully, Rory Mack would know if there had been a twenty-foot rope lying about the storage room. And if there had been, what an eejit! Mixing alcohol with rope, a small room, and wood-beam rafters was not a bright thing to do.
Brass knuckles. No money. No keys. No mobile phone. A mopped room, with no mop. A missing ladder. Dead Man’s Hand. Dead bolt.
Darn. Macdara was right. They had to figure out how someone could have killed Eamon, locked the door, and exited some other way with a mop and ladder in tow, not to mention keys, mobile, and billfold. It was so crazy, it was almost comical. What if this was a suicide? That still didn’t explain it. Eamon could have bolted the door—and as Jeanie tossed out there, mopped the floors first as part of an obsessive suicide-contemplation ritual, but a dead man could not make ladders and mops disappear. If Eamon had taken his own life, it was planned in advance. He didn’t strike Siobhán as that type.
As far as the missing items from his pockets, those were easier to explain. Knowing he was going to kill himself, Eamon could have tossed them or given them away. Suicide victims often gave away their belongings before they died.
Or someone could have come across the body and rooted through his pockets without reporting his death. In that scenario the question of the exit and the dead bolt remained, not to mention you had to swallow the ludicrous thought that this bystander suddenly decided also to remove the ladder and mop.
Macdara was right. She really did need a mug of tea. Siobhán had not been prepared to go straight into a possible murder probe and quietly lamented her lack of caffeine.
Her mind returned to the suicide note. The page had been torn from a notebook. Where was the notebook? They’d found none, nor was there a biro with black ink lying around. Everything was missing!
Siobhán rewound and went back to the beginning: A pregnant wife. Baby due any day now. An image of Rose’s hard eyes flashed in her mind. Was the colorful pair having marriage problems?
If so, could Eamon Foley have taken his life in this manner out of spite? Leaving her, knowing full well that just by waiting and winning he could have left her rich? Was this one last insult? Despite his winnings rumor had it that the Octopus was not good at hanging on to his money.
What in the world had happened here last night?
* * *
“Everything?” The skinny young guard looked as if she’d just slapped him across the face. “You want us to remove everything?”
“Everything,” Siobhán said. “We need to check every inch.”
“Where do you want us to put the items we remove?”
“Just outside the door.”
“But isn’t the entire pub a crime scene? If there was a crime, that is?” Two grim faces awaited her answer. Siobhán stepped out and examined the area just outside the door. Hundreds of people had been in here last night. The leaked urine had already been documented. She laid a plastic sheet on the floor. “This area is clear.”
The guards did not move. The skinny one spoke again. “Let’s say we find a great big hole in the wall. How did the killer put the shelves back, like?”
“First I want to know if there’s a big hole,” Siobhán said. “Then we’ll deal with the shelves.”
“I don’t think it’s possible that someone moved these shelves, escaped, and then moved them back.”
Siobhán resisted the old cliché—we don’t pay you to think—even though it ran through her head. Besides, she was the newest guard on the force. Diplomacy was in order. “Our job is to examine this storage room. That’s what we’re going to do.”
“Did the detective sergeant approve this?”
“Would I be doing this if the detective sergeant didn’t approve it?” They stared at her, waiting. She sighed. “Yes. D.S. Flannery is the one giving you the order, I’m simply the messenger.”
“Messenger,” one said. “Is that what you call it?”
“They probably exchange a lot of messages,” the other said under his breath.
“Excuse me?” They know. She and Dara had been fooling themselves. They all suspected the two of them were together, and she could only imagine what other guards were saying behind their backs. “Remove the shelves.” Her voice didn’t waver. She was grateful.
“We’re on it.”
With her gloves on, she began moving cans and rolls of paper towels out of the way so that she could get a look at the back wall.
It only took thirty minutes to confirm there was no passage or hole on the walls behind the shelves.
Siobhán looked down. “Now the floor.”
They were incredulous. “The concrete floor?”
“Unless you see any other floor.” She was losing her patience with these two.
They spread out, running their hands along the floor, searching. They found normal cracks, but no possible way of exiting through the floor. No hidden tunnels.
“That’s it,” the skinny guard said. “There’s nothing here.”
Siobhán’s eyes landed on the window.
“You’d have to be a pigeon to squeeze through there,” the guard quipped.
That left the ceiling. She looked up. The guards groaned as they followed her gaze.
“We have to make sure,” she said.
“We’re looking for Spider-Man, are we?” The guards laughed.
“Fetch the ladder from the patio, will you?”
“This is ridiculous,” one of the guards said. “It was a suicide.”
“The ladder,” Siobhán said.
“You can see the ceiling is intact.”
“It looks intact. But we have to get up on the roof and touch it, go over every inch and make sure nothing gives.”
“You’re joking me.”
“I’m not.”
“You don’t mind if we double-check this with the detective sergeant, do you?”
Yes, she did mind. She minded very much. She minded so much, she used her mam’s secret weapon. She smiled. “No bother at all.”
* * *
Siobhán and Macdara stood just outside Sharkey’s, staring out into a field as the scent of sugar and yeast filtered through the air. The guards had just informed them that there were no signs of any kind of disturbance on the roof. They photographed every inch. “We’ll compare the handwriting on the note,” Macdara said. “If it’s Eamon’s handwriting, and the postmortem doesn’t hold any surprises, I don’t see any other choice. I’m going to close this as a suicide.”
Siobhán was running out of leverage. “If blood alcohol levels show he was blotto—which I’d guess he was—wouldn’t you need some coordination to hang yourself?”
“Maybe it was just enough to allow him to do it.”
Dutch courage. Where did that ridiculous saying come from? What did the Dutch do to deserve it? The Irish certainly drank and they didn’t call it Irish courage.
Why did these questions haunt her at the worst times? Maybe it was a defense mechanism. “Where did he get the rope?”
“We’ll have to ask Rory,” Macdara said.
“You don’t seriously think Eamon brought a twenty-foot rope with him and nobody noticed?”
Macdara flicked her a look. She was getting wound up. A second run might be in order. Or she could whittle something. It had been a while since she’d whittled. There was something calming about shaving little pieces of wood with a sharp knife. “The note. Maybe the brass knuckles. And the killer’s calling cards.”
“What calling cards?”
“The queen and the jack.”
“I could make a case that the playing cards are proof that he took his own life.”
“Do make it.”
Macdara rose to her challenge. “He was furious with Clementine Hart and Shane Ross for accusing him of cheating. So why not take a dig at them—with both the note and the cards—before he goes out?”
“Why not win before he goes out?” She kept to herself her theory that he might have done it as a dig to his wife. She was trying to win the argument, not sabotage it.
“Maybe Nathan did announce his decision. Maybe Eamon learned he was out. Enraged, he takes his own life.”
They were going in circles. “Right. Which suggests impulsivity rather than preplanning.”
“Yes,” Macdara said. “And?”
“What did he do with his money, sunglasses, mobile?”
“Someone could have robbed him after. Or he gave them away. Suicide victims often do that.”
So we do think alike. “But you said it yourself. He would have needed time to tie the rope up to the rafters.” Macdara sighed. In the distance Rory Mack leaned against his pickup truck. Siobhán nodded to him. “Do you mind if I speak with him?”
“You’re doubting I was thorough?” It seemed a rhetorical question. He gestured to Rory. “Speak away, boss.”
* * *
Macdara followed her as Siobhán stepped up to Rory. “What time did you leave Eamon here on his own?”
Rory scratched his chin. “Must have been almost four in the mornin’.”
If he was correct, the time of death was narrow. She was no expert, but he looked as if he’d at least been dead for several hours, putting the time of death shortly after Rory Mack left. Or shortly after Rory Mack killed him. She needed to remember that every witness was a possible suspect until they were ruled out.
“What went on here last night?”
Rory glanced at Macdara, who nodded. Siobhán clenched her fist. Was it because she was female that they did this or because she was a new guard?
Rory shifted. “A few games, a bit of craic. You know yourself.”
Siobhán had her biro poised over her notepad. “Who else was here by the time you left?”
“It was just me and the Octopus. I’m not running a hotel.”
“But you let him spend the night?”
Rory nodded. “I thought it was for the best, given his missus is expecting and all. She probably needs her sleep.”
“You’re telling me you let him stay out of concern for Rose Foley?”
Rory threw his arms up. “He’s a celebrity. He was langered. There was no harm in it.”
“Did he ask if he could sleep here or did you offer?”
Rory took a minute to think about it. “He wanted more shots. I told him he had a big game in a few hours and he needed his sleep.”
Macdara turned to Siobhán. “Wouldn’t he be thinking along those lines himself if he planned on continuing the tournament?”
Macdara had a very good point. What professional poker player, even an Irishman who liked his pints, would do that to himself pregame? Maybe Nathan Doyle had announced his decision last night, and maybe it hadn’t gone in Eamon’s favor.
“I believe it was my idea,” Rory said. “I thought he was just drunk. If I had any idea where his head was at, I wouldn’t have left him on his own.”
Siobhán made a note. Bet the wife wasn’t happy he stayed out all night. “You mentioned taking naps in the storage room. Wouldn’t you have a cot in there?”
“Aye.”
“We didn’t see it.”
“I got rid of it. If you’re a good enough detective, you’ll figure it out for yourself and save me the embarrassment of tellin’ you why.”
“She is,” Macdara said. “She will.” He edged closer. “Is there any way in or out of that storage room other than the one door?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Did you by chance mop the storage room last night?”
“Me?” Rory said, affronted. “No. Eddie does that.”
“We’re going to need to speak with him,” Macdara said.
Rory nodded. “Suit yourselves.”
“We’ll need a list of everyone who was working here last night,” Siobhán added.
Rory sighed. “No bother.” It clearly was.
Siobhán shifted gears. “Did you have rope in the storage room?” Rory shook his head. “Did you see anyone in here last night with rope?”
Rory sighed. “We were jammers. It was wall-to-wall people in here most of the night. Everyone was having the craic! Music, dancing, drinking, playing cards. The Octopus was cleaning up. No. I didn’t see any rope.” He shook his head in disgust. “You’re going to want to talk to Miss Queen of Hearts.” Disdain dripped from his voice.
“Oh?” Siobhán said. “Why is that?”
“She was a raving lunatic. The minute it hit midnight she was after that official to disqualify Eamon. I tell ye. I’d be afraid of coming home to that one. No doubt she knows how to swing a frying pan.”
Siobhán wished she were swinging a frying pan this very moment in the vicinity of Rory Mack’s big head, but she kept her gob shut. It was better to let the witnesses talk even if they were offensive.
“You’ve stated that no decision was announced,” Macdara said. “Is that still your story?”
“’Course it is. Yer man said everyone would reconvene at half ten in the mornin’ for the verdict.”
Someone didn’t want to take the chance that Eamon would still be in the games. Siobhán thought of the playing cards still strewn on the tables. “You said Eamon was cleaning up in the games here last night.”
Rory gave an appreciative nod. “That’s putting it mildly. Boy-oh-boy, he was something else. Nobody could beat that man. I’m tellin’ ye, he would have won this tournament.”
“Who were last night’s big losers?” Siobhán pressed. And where is Eamon’s big wad of cash?
Rory slumped. “I don’t understand why you’re investigating. At the end of the day he’s the one who done it. It’s a right shame. ’Tis. But there’s only one man to blame. No one could have predicted this.”
“Your job is just to answer the questions,” Siobhán said.
Rory’s eyes shifted to the distance. “You’re not going to ticket me over letting the lads have a few wee bets, are ye?”
Siobhán shook her head. “That’s not our concern at the moment.”
“Who were the big losers?” Macdara pressed.
“I’d say they’re winners now,” Rory mumbled.
Siobhán felt a chill go up her spine. “Excuse me?”
“A dead man isn’t going to be collecting his winnings now, is he?”
No. He’s not....
“The big losers,” Macdara said again. “Who are they?”
Rory did not want to talk out of school, but he had no choice. He gazed into the field. “You’ll be wanting to have a chat with Henry Moore.”
Macdara took out his notepad. “How much did he lose?”
Rory laughed. Shook his head. “Well, let me think, so. How much does that racehorse of his weigh?”