I STAYED. THE interview didn’t last long. Kelly wasn’t exactly forthcoming. His responses to Molloy’s questions consisted mainly of him insisting that he hadn’t been in the blessed place since he bought it and he was damn sure there weren’t any skeletons there then. And, in case they were wondering, he was sure his wife hadn’t seen any either. And yes, there had always been padlocks on all of the gates, including the crypt.
Molloy didn’t seem to want to press him any further at this stage, and so after half an hour, Kelly and I left the garda station together. I walked him to his Mercedes and left him wearing the expression of a man who has won the lottery and lost the ticket.
Alone for the first time in the driver’s seat of my old Mini, I put the key in the ignition but couldn’t turn it. Instead, I found myself staring at the windscreen, frantically trying to rein in my emotions. A cold hand reached down my throat and clutched at my insides. I knew there weren’t too many female pathologists in Ireland, so when Molloy had said “she’s on her way” up at the church, how on earth could it not have occurred to me that it might be her? Was it the “forensic anthropologist” bit that had thrown me? She had obviously acquired an extra qualification, and there was no law against that. But I had never imagined for a second that I would see her again – and certainly not here.
My phone beeped, making me jump. It was a text reminding me about a Drama Club meeting at seven o’clock. Pathetically grateful for the distraction, I looked at my watch: nearly half six. No point in going home, and as I hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch, there was time for a quick sandwich and a coffee.
As I hurried on foot across the square, I wondered if news of the discovery at Whitewater Church had reached the Oak. Now that would be a true test of the town’s radar. But the pub was deserted. The only live body in the place was behind the bar building a house of cards with beer mats. Although “live” might be pushing it, as a description of Eddie Kearney. I knew, too, the second I saw the cellophane-wrapped sandwiches left over from lunch, that my stomach was not yet ready for food. The choice seemed to be egg mayonnaise or egg mayonnaise.
“Hi, Eddie. Is the boss about?”
He looked up at me all acne-faced and bleary-eyed. “He’s gone home for a wee while and then he’s going to some meeting in the hall, I think,” he said vaguely.
“Grand. I’ll see him there. Can I get a black coffee, please?”
I had just taken a seat by the fire when the door opened and a tall man in a pink shirt and blue tie stuck his head in and surveyed the room. It was Liam McLaughlin, the estate agent. He made a beeline in my direction.
“I’ve just been over to your office. It’s shut. I’ve been trying to ring you there,” he said indignantly.
“That didn’t stop Ray Kelly ringing me, so it didn’t.”
“Oh God, yes. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to tell anyone yet.”
He sat beside me and lowered his tone. “Kelly says Paul found a body up at the church, is that right?”
“Well, yes, bones. Human remains anyway, in the crypt underneath the church. They’ve been there for some time, apparently. The guards don’t know anything about them yet, how long they’ve been there even. The state pathologist is examining them in Letterkenny.”
Liam whistled. “Jesus. Kelly’s not happy. My ears are still burning.”
“I know. I’ve just left him.”
“Do they know who it is? Or how they got there? I mean, did someone get trapped down there or what?”
“No idea yet.”
“Jesus,” he said again.
I hesitated. “You would have been up there a few times, wouldn’t you, showing the place to people?”
“Well, no. You see, the first people I showed it to was that English couple we were getting the survey done for. Fell in love with the place when they were driving by it. Called me out of the blue.” He grinned. “No accounting for taste. Why do you ask?”
“Did you show them the crypt?”
He shook his head. “No. Didn’t know it existed, to be honest. I just assumed that wee gate led down into some kind of an air vent.”
I raised my eyebrows at him as I took a gulp of my coffee.
He caught my look and his face fell. “Oh, Jesus, you’re not saying them bones were there the whole time I was showing those people around?”
“Looks like it.”
“Fuck.”
“Whoever it is, the pathologist reckons the person’s been dead at least five years.”
“That English couple will hardly go ahead with it now, will they?” Liam sighed. “Not really what you want for your new home, is it – a body in the cellar?”
“Suppose not. Although I doubt if they know about it yet.”
“It’s not something I can exactly keep from them.”
“No.”
He stared into the fire, his expression glum. “I’m never going to be able to sell the damn place now, am I?”
“It’s not going to be easy,” I agreed as I took another gulp of my coffee.
Liam groaned and made his way up to the bar to order a pint.
Ten minutes later I finished my coffee, pulled on my coat and scarf, and reluctantly left the Oak and its fire to head down to the Beacon Hall, leaving Liam chatting to Eddie at the bar. The icy wind hit me as soon as I opened the pub door; the temperature must have been well below zero. No snow yet, but it was coming. You could feel it in the air.
As I walked down the hill, the footpath ahead of me glistened under the street lamps as if someone had sprinkled tiny crystals everywhere. I always liked the town at this time of the evening. It was quiet and still. The shops were closed; it was time for TV and homework and indoors. I felt calmer.
I reached the bottom of the hill, crossed the road, and walked in through the high pillars to the old hall, stone chippings crunching beneath my feet. The car park was shrouded in grainy shadow, and I picked my way carefully between the cars. Condensation was forming on their windscreens; in an hour they would be opaque, laced with spiders’ webs of ice. I looked up at the huge Georgian windows, which were dimly lit. The main door was slightly ajar, a chink of light casting a white line across the footsteps.
I pushed it open and ran up the warped wooden stairs. It was impossible to tell if it was colder inside or out. In the main hall I was greeted by a friendly wave from a large, yellow-clad arm near the stage. The only heat in the room was coming from an old gas Superser heater fizzing bad-temperedly and ineffectively in the corner, impotent against the hall’s high ceilings and old wooden floors.
Two men and two women in heavy coats and scarves were huddled around an old card table, ragged strips of green baize hanging from the edges like a fringe. They stopped talking as I approached, and the older of the two men got up and dragged an extra chair to the table.
“Thanks, Hal. Always the gentleman.” My breath came out as a white mist.
“Chairman’s duty.” He tipped his cap at me with a grin. Hal McKinney, master of the pun. It was Hal who had persuaded me to join the drama group. As well as being the local undertaker and mechanic, he was also a Commissioner for Oaths. I sent clients to him to have documents sworn. It was a running joke that Hal could bury you, sign the probate papers, and then sell your car.
Looks were exchanged as I took my seat. I was beginning to feel as if I had interrupted something.
“How is everyone?” I asked cheerfully, examining the faces around me.
“Baltic.” Phyllis Kettle, the owner of the yellow-clad arm and the town’s secondhand book shop, stated the obvious. She was wearing an incredible ensemble of yellow coat, mittens, and blue shawl, which, weirdly on someone of her considerable size, worked. The dark skin helped, and the kind eyes. She had a notebook and pen in front of her, though how she planned to write with mittens on I had no idea. She certainly seemed disinclined to take them off.
“Right, let’s get this over with as quickly as possible,” she said. “And that means no big speeches.” She directed her comment at the mournful-looking, long-faced man with the beard sitting opposite her. Tony Craig, local publican, owner of the Oak and enthusiastic raconteur, had the ability to make a riddle last the length of The Iliad.
Well aware of his reputation, he grinned back at her, his smile transforming his face.
“Are we all here?” I asked, looking around. Claire Devitt, the club’s set designer, poster artist, and general publicity person, was missing. Not that surprising. Claire was unreliable and had become even more so of late.
“Claire’s not coming,” said Eithne O’Connell, as if reading my mind.
“Oh?”
The local chemist’s quavering tone always irked me for some reason. There was something almost parasitic about the tragic air she adopted when passing on someone else’s personal drama. As if she herself were personally affected by it.
“They think they might have found Conor,” she said, her eyelids fluttering closed as she spoke.
“Who is Conor?” I asked.
“Conor Devitt. Claire’s brother,” Phyllis said. “He disappeared six or seven years ago.”
I looked up. “Disappeared?”
“Vanished. Without a trace. It happened just before his wedding,” Hal said.
“You wouldn’t have met him.” Phyllis patted my forearm. “It would have been the summer before you came up.”
Hal coughed. “As a matter of fact, we thought you might know something about it.”
“Me, why?” I asked.
They looked at each other. Phyllis was the first to transfer her gaze to me. She held it there as if waiting for something to register. And it did, of course. I can put two and two together. While they all looked at me expectantly, I played for time, Molloy’s words echoing in my ears.
“When you say they think they’ve found him …?”
“Up at Whitewater.” Hal’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You were up at Whitewater yourself with the sergeant earlier on today, weren’t you?”
I had been seen. “Ah, that’s why you think I might know something,” I said. “Well, I don’t, I’m afraid. You know more than I do.”
A short silence ensued during which all four regarded me doubtfully.
Phyllis sighed. “Well, the family thinks it might be Conor they found up there. Eithne was just telling us before you came in. As soon as word got out about the body, Claire was on to the guards to see if it might be him. They’re all up at the mother’s now, waiting to hear.”
“God, that’s pretty grim,” I said. “Are they doing DNA tests?”
Eithne nodded solemnly, her face a picture of tragic concern. “Claire said the guards were looking for the name of his dentist to get his dental records,” she told us, her eyelids closing again. “It’s just so awful.”
There was a collective shiver around the table.
“Should we postpone the meeting, do you think, out of respect?” Tony said after a few seconds. “Till we find out if it is Conor? Seems a bit callous to carry on as normal and start choosing plays while Claire’s going through something like this.”
“Agreed,” said Hal immediately. “Same time next week, instead?”
“Or what about Monday night?” Tony suggested. “We could have our meeting in the pub. I might even stretch to a few sandwiches, if one of you manages to buy a pint.”
There was a nod of agreement around the table and everyone stood up. The sense of relief seemed to lift the temperature of the room.
“Careful. They look pretty lethal,” I said as Phyllis made her way precariously down the glistening steps outside. Eithne put her hand out to help, but Phyllis waved her away impatiently.
“I’m not an invalid, you know. I’m fat.”
Eithne’s hand flew to her mouth, a wounded expression on her face.
Phyllis’ tone softened. “Entirely self-inflicted, Eithne, and much fun doing so. Save your charity for someone who deserves it.”
Somehow she managed to reach the foot of the steps without incident. She leaned against the wall for a minute to catch her breath.
“Speaking of deserving charity, why is it that some families seem to get it so much worse than others?” she said. “They’ve had such a rough time of it, those Devitts.”
“Dreadful to have someone you love disappear like that,” Eithne said in a whisper. “No closure. It’s been so terrible for poor Claire.”
I decided to keep my views to myself on this occasion. I knew they weren’t objective. You see, I have never been too sure about the need for closure. I know it is a common thesis, but I’ve always been of the view that if there’s no body, at least there’s hope. But I guess that can’t go on indefinitely either. Six years is a long time.
“And for his mother and brother,” Phyllis said. “Awful for his fiancée, too, of course. God love her. Day of her wedding and he just didn’t turn up. No explanation. Can you imagine?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t.
I jumped suddenly when a dance music track blared into the night and Eithne scrambled to find her phone. She retrieved it from her bag and hurried away to answer it, heading towards her car – an old Fiat Punto parked by the gate.
“Odd ringtone for someone like Eithne,” I commented as I walked with Phyllis in the other woman’s wake.
Phyllis grinned. “I know. You’d expect it to be a hymn or something.” She lowered her tone. “I think that was Claire, by the way.”
“The expression on Eithne’s face.”
I smiled. “Seriously? You’re good.”
“Okay, a guess then. Did you know Claire used to work for Eithne when she was a student?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“They’re very … close.”
There was something about the way she said it that I couldn’t quite decipher. She crossed her arms and rested her large rump against the back door of Eithne’s old Punto as Eithne paced up and down in front of the gate and I stamped my feet to avoid losing the feeling in them completely. Phyllis didn’t seem to notice the cold anymore. She appeared distracted, studying Eithne with great interest as she finished her call, and slapping the car door with her gloved palm as the chemist walked back towards us.
“Still driving this old rust-bucket, Eithne?”
“As long as it gets me from A to B, it does me just fine.” Eithne’s lips were pursed.
“Fair enough. That’s me told.” Phyllis grinned at me.
Eithne opened the car door, got in, and turned on the engine to defrost the windscreen, clearly anxious to get off.
But Phyllis wasn’t going to let her leave that easily. She held the door open, leaning in. “There were those who said he’d done a runner, weren’t there?”
“What was that?” Eithne said distractedly.
“Conor. People thought he’d just upped and gone to England. But Claire never believed that, did she? Claire never believed he just left?”
Eithne looked up blankly. It seemed to take her a couple of seconds to register the question.
Eventually she replied, “She said he’d never have left their mother like that. It wasn’t in him.”
“Looks like she might have been right,” Phyllis muttered ominously, as Eithne revved the engine and drove out through the gate in front of us.