THE NEXT MORNING I had that nauseous, dry-mouthed feeling that comes from too little sleep. Between the blond pathologist in Glendara garda station and flashbacks of what I had seen in the crypt, the night was haunted by images I could have done without.
I was sure I had seen a spark of recognition in the pathologist’s glance. It wouldn’t take her long to work out where she had seen me before, if she hadn’t already. I was disturbed by the idea that when she did, she would feel the need to share that information – and I wasn’t sure what I could do about it. In the meantime, that woman had brought with her a raft of memories I had worked hard to suppress, and I needed to hammer them back down to a safe level if I was to function in any way normally.
By midday there had been no new developments to do with the discovery at the church. According to Leah, Kelly had called twice looking for news. I let her take messages each time. I wasn’t ready to speak to either Kelly or Molloy. Eventually, I gave up trying to concentrate on work and crossed the square to Paul Doherty’s office.
I was glad to see he looked a lot less green than the last time I had seen him, but infinitely more hassled. He was on the phone, so I sat in his reception area and flicked through a magazine. When he finished his call, he left the receiver off the hook and raised his eyes to heaven.
“Kelly ringing you, too, by any chance?” he asked.
“Twice. Was that him?”
“Not that time, thankfully.”
“How are you doing?”
“Okay.” He perched on his desk and stretched his arms. “Jesus, I wasn’t expecting that yesterday though.”
“Me neither, I can tell you.”
“Any news from the postmortem?”
“Not yet.”
He shook his head. “Did you not think that was the strangest thing you’ve ever seen?”
“I guess it’s not something you’d come across too often in your line of work.”
“It’ll stay with me a long time, I can tell you.” He shuddered. “God, the way it was left. Creepy as hell.”
“You mean rolled up in the blanket?”
“Aye, with the pillow under the skull.”
I inhaled sharply. “I didn’t notice that.”
He smiled weakly. “Really? That’s not like you.” His brow furrowed. “Actually, I didn’t see it the first time either, come to think of it. But that second time when I went down with the sergeant I got a clearer look. He pulled the blanket back further than either of us did. You could see there was a pillow squashed up underneath the skull.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely serious. It looked like some kind of macabre sleeping bag.”
“Jesus.” I paused. “Do you think the bones were put there by someone then, in the crypt?”
“I suppose they could have been.” He braced his shoulders, as if gathering courage to revisit the image. “The blanket was an old Irish wool blanket, the kind most of us had on our beds before duvets. Half the houses in the country would have one like it.”
I nodded. A flashback to my childhood bedroom.
“I’d say that bolt had been used recently enough, too. It opened a bit too smoothly for my liking. And then of course there was Andy finding that cut padlock.”
“So you think someone broke in and left the remains there?” I asked.
He shrugged. “God only knows. I’m no expert, but the blanket looked fresh enough to me. And the bones sure as hell didn’t.”
“Maybe I’ll give Molloy a call and see if there’s any news.” Paul gestured towards the phone. “Kelly’s not happy.”
“I know.”
“I think he holds me responsible for finding the body.” He smiled ruefully.
“Sounds like him all right. You’re just too thorough, Paul.” I looked around the office. “You on your own?”
“Yep. Both of them off sick at the same time. Typical. Claiming the winter vomiting bug.”
“And the cigarettes?” I asked.
“Haven’t had one since yesterday.” He grinned. “I ran out.”
I called Molloy on his mobile. I didn’t block the number like I usually do when calling a client, so he must have known it was me. But still he answered in his usual formal way.
“Molloy.”
Sometimes it bothered me more than others. Today it bothered me – paranoia, maybe. I didn’t like the idea of him having cosy chats with the pathologist.
“Tom, it’s Ben. Any developments on the postmortem? You said you’d give me a shout when you were finished up at the church.”
“Where are you?”
“In the square. Outside Paul Doherty’s place. Why?”
“Come down to the station. I’ll be here for another half an hour or so.”
Molloy was eating a tired-looking ham sandwich at his desk. He didn’t look much better himself: there were dark circles under his gray eyes. He offered me a tea, which I accepted, despite my better instincts. I was handed a mug with a big red heart and the words I love Montenegro scrawled across it. As expected, the tea was strong enough to chew.
“I’ve been talking to Paul Doherty about the way the bones were found,” I said.
“Right.”
“Pretty strange, wasn’t it?”
“Certainly.”
Molloy has always been hard to gauge. For five years our professional lives have intersected. I like his kindness, his commitment to his work, his quiet intelligence, the fact that his sense of humor surfaces when least expected. He has made me laugh when I least wanted to, when I most needed to.
I like to think that he regards me as an ally, a friend even. But there are times when it isn’t so clear-cut. He is a guard and I am a solicitor, after all. I guess there are limits – it just feels sometimes as if it is always Molloy who remembers them. And then six weeks ago, something changed between us. New Year’s Eve. There was a moment. A moment that seems to have cleaved a distance between us I don’t entirely understand. So I hesitated before asking my next question.
“Were they put there by someone?”
He didn’t respond. I tried again.
“I mean, presumably the man didn’t die like that. Wrapped in a blanket with a pillow beneath his head.”
He relented. “It seems that the bones may have been moved into the crypt from somewhere else.”
“From where?”
“There were traces of soil on them. Minute, but not matching what is in the crypt.”
“So they were buried somewhere else first?”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“Where?”
“As I say, we don’t know. We’re looking.”
I thought about that for a minute. “So we’re not talking about grave robbers then. The bones weren’t buried in a coffin if there was soil on them, were they?”
Molloy’s eyes flashed at me. “Is this general curiosity, or are you asking these questions for the benefit of your clients?”
I colored, aware that Molloy was under no obligation to give me any information at all. As he continued to chew on his sandwich, I tried to read his face. It was only then that I realized he must have had his own reasons for asking me to come down.
His expression softened. “Would it be okay if I asked you a question for a change?”
“Sorry. Of course. Go ahead.”
“Thank you. Did you see Doherty touch the bones at all before you called us?”
“Paul?” I said in surprise. “No. He just did what I did. He moved the top of the blanket aside so he could see what was underneath. That’s all.”
“And where were you when this was happening?”
“At the entrance to the crypt. It was pretty dark, but I had a torch. Then I went down after him.”
Molloy nodded and took a bite of his sandwich. I decided to risk another question, this time in what I hoped was safer territory.
“Is it true you think it might be Conor Devitt?”
Molloy raised his eyebrows.
“Claire, his sister, is in the drama group.”
Molloy sniffed. “Not many secrets in this town,” he said.
I smiled. “No.”
“The family seems convinced it is him,” he said. “And the bones do belong to a male who could have been Devitt’s age at the time he disappeared. Conor was thirty-three. But they could also belong to someone ten years older or ten years younger.”
I whistled. “Pretty broad range.”
“It’s the level of decomposition that’s the problem. It means we can’t be absolutely precise about the date of death either. Or cause of death for that matter, at this stage, although that may be established by the postmortem. But the date of death is also in range of when Devitt disappeared.”
“Are you doing DNA testing?”
“Yes. It’s the only way we can be sure. The Devitts have all been called to the hospital in Letterkenny to give swabs. The mother, your friend Claire, and the other son. We’re using dental records, too. We should have some idea by Monday morning.”
“God love them.”
Molloy threw the remains of his sandwich in the wastepaper basket and leaned back in his chair. “We tried our best to find out what happened to him at the time. Without much success, unfortunately.”
“Was there anything missing?” I asked. “Money, passport?”
“He’d taken out some money over the previous couple of days, but he was about to get married so that was hardly surprising. And his passport wasn’t missing. But then you don’t need a passport to go to England on the boat.”
“Must have been rough on the family.”
“I’m sure it was.”
I sipped cautiously at my tea. “So someone dug up a set of bones from somewhere, wrapped them in a blanket and put them in the crypt, with a pillow beneath the skull?”
I was back in dangerous waters. Molloy threw me a warning look. “There are things I can’t tell you at this stage, Ben, you know that.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “Can I ask one more question?”
Molloy sighed.
“Is the skeleton intact?”
“A couple of the smaller bones are broken, and some are not in the right position – but yes, it’s almost intact.”
“I presume no fingerprints on anything?”
Molloy gave me a what do you think look.
“Well, you did say that the pathologist is still working on them,” I said brightly.
“Yes.”
“So something else may come to light.”
I got up to leave, then remembered what I had come to ask him. I cleared my throat. Molloy looked up.
“Any idea when you’ll be finished up at the church? Kelly is going to want to know.”
He looked away. “It’ll take as long as it takes.”
It was as if I’d tipped my cold tea over him.