WE DROVE TO THE MAINLAND, following a garda vehicle. The second murder on the little island merited investigation higher up the chain, at Westport Garda Station. The square, stucco building wasn’t very inviting, but then again, what jailhouse is? It didn’t help that we were ushered in through the back door.
Sergeant Flynn unsmilingly explained that back-door entry was a courtesy, so we wouldn’t be seen by the general public. Small comfort, that. Flynn handed me off to a female guard and took Toby down the hall. I was left in a small room, painted an unnerving yellow. I suppose the sunny walls were meant to make up for the lack of natural light, as there were no windows. The room didn’t even have a two-way mirror, the kind you see on detective shows. But then I noticed a wall-mounted video camera, which was already on. I could see my image in the monitor next to the camera. My lips were pressed thin with tension. My frown made me look hostile. Would I trust somebody with that nasty face?
It was a long time until Detective Inspector O’Donnell arrived. He offered me a cup of tea, which I declined. His mug was in his hand. He plunked it on the table and sat opposite me. He dunked a biscuit, fumbled as it crumbled on the way to his mouth, salvaged a bite, and dusted the crumbs from his lap. He slumped back and folded his arms. “You know, suspicious deaths on Achill are a rarity. Yet you discovered a body the day after you arrived. Here it is, less than a week later, and you’ve come across another one. Now, I ask you, what are the odds of that?”
“I know how it looks, but I’m telling the truth,” I insisted. “We stepped into the church and saw him lying there. Are you saying I’m a suspect?”
“I didn’t say you were a suspect. You’re here voluntarily, to make a statement, since you discovered the body.”
“Then why am I being recorded?” I pointed to the camera.
“For future reference. It’s routine. Perhaps you can tell me why you were at Kildownet this afternoon.”
“Frank Hickey had invited us to his house for tea, and Kildownet was on the way, so we stopped to see it. I’d been there once before and wanted to show my husband the monument for the Clew Bay drownings.”
He rocked back on his chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. “You say you were invited for tea. If Mr. Hickey expected you at his home, what do you suppose he was doing at Kildownet Church?”
“I don’t know, Inspector. He might have been there in the morning when he was . . . when whatever happened to him happened.”
“You were going to say ‘when he was killed’?”
“I suppose so. All I know is that my uncle was murdered and Frank was his partner. There was ill will toward both of them on the island, as I’m sure you’re aware. So, yes, my first thought was that he was killed. Have you determined the cause of death?”
“Not yet,” said the inspector. “The autopsy will provide that information.” He looked at me for a long moment before continuing. “How well did you know this man? You say he invited you for tea.”
“We met twice, once at my aunt’s house and once at the Annexe Bar, but I hardly knew him. The reason he invited us over was to see a painting he and my uncle owned. I told him I’d like to see it.”
“Oh? What painting is that?”
“A landscape of Achill Island by Paul Henry that they planned to use for a poster to promote their steam train and hotel.”
“How valuable a painting are we talking about?”
“I haven’t seen it, but it could be worth a substantial sum.”
“Give me an idea.”
“Two hundred thousand euros, maybe more. If you need a professional evaluation, you might ask Declan O’Leary. He’s a Dublin art dealer who has a summer home here.”
“I know who he is,” said the inspector. “How do you know him?”
“A friend introduced us. Paul Henry came up in the conversation. He mentioned he wanted to buy that painting himself, but my uncle outbid him for it at auction.”
This information interested O’Donnell. He wrote something on the pad next to his mug. “How did Mr. O’Leary take that? Was he bitter about losing the painting?”
I hadn’t meant to compromise Maggie’s ex, but the inspector had a point. Declan might be willing to kill to get his hands on a painting that meant a great deal to him. I pushed aside the thought and shrugged.
“Where is it now, the painting?” asked O’Donnell. “Is it in Mr. Hickey’s house?”
“I assume so. We were asked there to see it.”
Inspector O’Donnell continued scribbling notes.
I was having second thoughts about mentioning Declan’s name to the inspector. “Don’t you think there are far more likely suspects?” I asked. “Frank Hickey and my uncle had real enemies here, all those people who want to preserve the greenway and prevent the railway project.”
“Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”
I described the attempt last night to frighten us with fake ghosts. “And then there are the descendants of the Achill tragedies who might have their own reasons to want the project stopped, Michael O’Hara for instance.” I mentioned the fight he had provoked with Frank at the Annexe Bar over dishonoring the dead.
“I’m well aware of the protests,” said O’Donnell. “Garda Mullen has an eye on the leaders. We’re working closely with him.” The inspector tilted his chair back on two legs again and asked, “Can you suggest any other person who had a reason to attack Frank Hickey?”
The image of Bobby Colman’s claddagh ring flashed through my mind. The mark on Frank’s cheek could have been caused by such a ring, but Bobby had no reason to harm Frank that I knew of, and besides he seemed to me a sweet guy. Not to mention that Angie was gaga over him. So I replied, “No.”
I felt my strength ebbing and wanted to end this if I could. “You said my presence here today was voluntary. If that still holds, may I be excused?”
“You’re free to go if you wish. We’ll draw up a statement on the basis of what you’ve said. Come by tomorrow to review and sign it.”
I meant to walk away with the nonchalant glide of the innocent, but I don’t think I succeeded.