I WATCHED MOLLOY stride off in the direction of the garda station with a strange, bitter sensation in the pit of my stomach. He knew. I was sure of it now. That pathologist woman had told him who I was. Why would she have done that? More to the point, why hadn’t I managed to summon the courage to tell him myself before she got the chance? He had been so distant. I was surprised to find how much it hurt.
I heard a knock on glass and realized Molloy and I had been standing outside Phyllis Kettle’s book shop. I wondered how much she had heard. I pushed open the door, causing the bell to tinkle. Phyllis’ shop is an Aladdin’s cave of books: her practice of giving people discounts on new purchases when they return the books they’ve read means that the stock keeps growing and growing, with the result that the shop is fit to burst.
Gravity-defying stacks are piled all over the floor and on the stairs; early editions of P. G. Wodehouse rest on top of Jackie Collins paperbacks with no apparent order, but closer inspection shows that all have their prices carefully pencilled on the inside flap in Phyllis’ neat hand. For despite the apparent chaos of the place, Phyllis Kettle is a canny businesswoman. Her trade in old and rare books has given her a comfortable living for many years, and allows her to take off to obscure, far-off places for several months every year.
Today she was perched on a high stool behind the counter looking like an enormous kingfisher, clad in bright blues and reds and yellow. I looked down at my black suit and mourned the convention that requires lawyers to wear dark colors.
“So, you got rid of the nephew then?”
She sighed dramatically. “Oh, I did, thank the Lord. He was gone by Saturday evening. What a liability. Anyway, I know you’re very busy, but I’ve managed to unearth a few plays that might fit in with what we were discussing last night.” She thrust a couple of paperbacks in my direction. “Take them with you and have a look when you get a chance. They’re all written by Derry playwrights, as a matter of fact, and there’s a fair bit of black humor in them, which should satisfy Tony”—she winked—“with a bit of misery thrown in to keep Hal happy.”
“Great,” I replied with a grin.
She looked at my suit. “Are you heading back to court?”
“Not till two. I must try and get a bite before I have to go back.”
“Fancy some mushroom soup?” she asked. “I have some warming on the stove upstairs.”
Phyllis lives in the cosy flat above the shop. It’s like an extension of the shop, full of books and plants, with food and wine thrown in – great food and wine in my experience.
“I was going to have some myself down here at the counter,” she said. “It’ll save me closing the shop. Not that there’s ever anyone about on a Tuesday afternoon anyway. But you know people. They’d be the first to complain if I put the Closed sign up. You’re welcome to join me if you want?”
I looked at my watch. I didn’t have time now to go back to the office or the Oak for that matter. And I could smell the soup; that was the real deciding factor.
“That would be fabulous, Phyllis. Thank you. I’d love it.”
“Excellent. You can sample some of my walnut bread, too.”
She climbed the winding wooden staircase leading to the upper floor of the book shop, skirts rustling. I started to flick through the plays. The first one was called Mary Magdalene. It had been written in the 1980s. The second was After the Rain and had been written more recently. I looked at the Cast of Characters first: both were relatively short. That would suit our little group. And they looked like black comedies. Perfect.
I heard the rustling of skirts above me again and looked up to see Phyllis struggling down the stairs with a laden tray. She cleared some space on the counter and lifted off two steaming bowls of soup, a basket of soft homemade bread, and some butter.
“That smells fantastic, Phyllis.”
“Doesn’t it! You drag up another stool from behind that shelf, and I’ll be back down in a minute with the tea.”
The food tasted as good as it smelled. Fifteen minutes later we had finished the soup and were leaning back with cups of tea.
“You haven’t seen Claire, by any chance, since last night’s revelation?” Phyllis asked.
I shook my head. “You?”
“Nope. Must ask Eithne how she is.”
“Eithne seemed very involved in the whole thing. I hadn’t realized she and Claire were so close.”
“You know Eithne used to be a nun before she trained as a pharmacist?” Phyllis said.
“No!” I exclaimed in surprise.
“Spent some time in Uganda in the missions.”
“Really? Any idea why she left?”
“Couldn’t take being told what to do, that’s what I reckon. She’s still big into doing her Christian duty anyway.”
“The Devitts are probably glad of her support.”
“Hmm, maybe.” Phyllis clicked her teeth. “Bit of an anticlimax all the same, wasn’t it? I saw Danny again this morning. He’d sobered up since the last time I saw him.”
“When did you see him?”
“About eleven o’clock. He drove by the shop with that dog of his sitting up in the passenger seat like a child. Not a man that drives too often, I’d say, by the state of the wreck he was in.”
Uneasily, I wondered if I should tell Molloy that Devitt was looking for him when I went back to court, but decided it wasn’t my place. Also, things were more than a little weird between us at the moment.
“Any other possibilities for the body in the crypt?” I asked. “Conor Devitt seemed to be the only name mentioned.”
“I have absolutely no idea. I suppose he was the obvious one.” Phyllis gestured at the books I had left on the windowsill. “So what do you think of the plays?”
“Great. I’ll have a better look at them tonight, but they seem to be just what we were after.”
She picked up the first one I had looked at and said, “I’m not sure we should do this Feargus O’Connor one, to be honest.”
I looked at it again. “Why not?”
“It was written in Long Kesh – and there’s nothing wrong with that; it was a long time ago and he served his sentence. But he’s back in the Midlands Prison, convicted of membership of one of those dissident groups a couple of years ago. And all sorts of other nasty stuff.”
“Fair enough. Maybe a step too far.”
“But I do think Tony’s right. We should do one of the Derry plays. To hell with people’s sensitivities, it’s about time we got over ourselves. More tea?”
She sloshed a hot drop into my cup before I had a chance to reply.
“Was Inishowen much affected by the Troubles?” I asked.
“Aye, a bit. Nowhere was completely immune. We were too close to avoid the odd sideswipe. And, of course, there was the Sadie.”
“The Sadie?”
She widened her eyes in surprise. “You’ve never heard of the Sadie?”
“No. Tell me what happened.”
“It was a cargo ship that was blown up by the IRA in 1985.”
“Where?”
“Along the Foyle. They hijacked the pilot boat at Whitewater and got aboard that way.”
“What’s a pilot boat?”
Phyllis laughed. “How long have you been in Inishowen?”
“I know. I’m still learning.”
“When a large ship enters an estuary, a local pilot is taken out to the ship in a small boat. The pilot then takes over from the captain and directs the boat up the estuary and into the harbor. There used to be a pilot station down at Whitewater, just below the church. I can’t believe you’ve never heard about the Sadie. Sure, that’s what happened to the Devitts.”
I was confused. “I thought …?”
At that moment my phone rang. I reached over to get it, checking the time before I answered it. I stood up quickly, nearly knocking my cup over. It was 2:05 p.m.
“Ben, where are you?” It was Leah. “You’ve three clients waiting for you outside the courthouse and the judge has started already. He’s having a fit.”
“Tell them I’m on my way.” I drained my cup and replaced it on the saucer.
“Sorry, Phyllis, I have to go. I’m late. That’s the second time I’ve done that today. Can we continue this conversation later? I want to hear the rest of that story.”
I gathered my things together and shot out the door, calling over my shoulder, “Oh, and thanks for the soup!”
I was in court till six o’clock. I had just managed to get out of the office at quarter to seven and was heading to the car when my mobile rang. It was Maeve. As usual she was trying to make herself heard above a racket; this time it was dogs barking. She must have been still in the clinic.
“Hiya. You free this evening?”
“What’s left of it. What did you expect I’d be doing?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You could have some secret lover, for all I know. Anyway, you’re free?”
“I’m free.”
“Do you want to go and see that play I mentioned to you? I’ve checked and there are seats available tonight and none for the rest of the week.”
“The Agatha Christie?”
“Yep.”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
“Great. I’ll book the tickets. It’s at half eight. I’ll see you at the Millennium at a quarter to and we can have a drink?”
“Great.”
* * *
An hour and a half later I was sitting on my own with a glass of wine in the cavernous stainless-steel bar of the Millennium Theatre in Derry waiting for Maeve. She came blustering in the door as the final call was sounding, red-faced and breathing heavily.
“Sorry. Had to operate on a dog. Twisted gut. Nasty.”
“Spare me the details. Come on, we have to go in. Do you have the tickets?”
She produced them triumphantly as we joined the queue to enter the theatre. We found our seats and she looked around her with interest while I examined the program. Suddenly, she nudged me and I looked up.
“Hey,” she whispered, nodding in the direction of a seat about three rows in front of us. “Isn’t that …?”
I looked.
“I didn’t think this would be his kind of thing,” she muttered.
At least I think that’s what she said. I wasn’t really listening. My stomach was doing flips. Three rows ahead of us was Molloy: I would have known the back of his head anywhere. But that wasn’t the problem. Sitting beside him was the pathologist. What the hell were they doing together in a theatre? Were they friends or something? Or worse? My face started to heat up.
“Who is that with him?” Maeve asked.
Suddenly, I found it hard to breathe. The first time I’d seen her in the garda station had been a shock, but I’d handled it. I’d only seen her for a second, after all. This was different. I was forced to stare at the back of her head – at her neat blond bob and her narrow shoulders, exactly as I had done eight years ago as she had walked out of that awful courtroom.
Unbidden, memories started to flood back. She had given her evidence that day in a cold professional manner, just as you would have expected, appearing utterly unaffected by the pain her words would cause, the nightmares that would follow for years to come, and the pain she would inflict on my parents – a pain from which they would never recover. But I knew that was unfair; she was only doing her job. Without her, there wouldn’t have been a conviction at all, for murder or manslaughter. The manslaughter of my little sister.
God, I couldn’t relive those scenes here, in a theatre, in public. My head felt as if it was about to explode. I could feel the wine coming back up my throat. I gripped the seat rests, swallowed hard, and finally the urge to vomit receded. But my head was still swimming.
Maeve looked at me, her eyes widened in alarm. “Jesus, Ben, are you all right? You look awful.”
I swallowed again, hard, struggling to get the words out.
“I’m fine.” I closed my eyes.
“You looked as if you were about to throw up.”
I took a deep breath, and another.
She produced a plastic bottle from her bag. “Do you want some water?”
I took the bottle from her and drank from it slowly. Gradually my head stopped swimming and I began to feel better.
“It must have been something I ate. I’m all right now,” I said.
“Do you want to leave?”
“No. I’m fine.”
She looked at me doubtfully. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I am.”
We sat in silence for a minute or two while I gathered the courage to speak. “I think that’s the pathologist with Molloy.”
“Ooh.” She looked at them with renewed interest. “The pathologist who …”
“Yes. The one who was examining the body from the church.”
“And are they, you know – she and Molloy? Or are they just friends?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“They’re sitting awfully close.”
Amongst the overwhelming horror of the memories that seeing that woman evoked, I was dimly aware of another feeling. I felt hurt that Molloy was with her. I took another gulp of water while I stared at the stage, willing the curtains to open and the play to begin.
I have absolutely no memory of Witness for the Prosecution. Maeve tells me it was great. At the intermission I spent as long as I possibly could in the Ladies while she chatted to a farmer she knew. I slipped into my seat moments before the start of the second act and managed to avoid the encounter I dreaded.
Now at least I knew why she had told Molloy. It wasn’t simply random gossip. They knew each other outside of work. How much had she told him? Had it made him see me differently? And again, why the hell hadn’t I told him myself? But I hadn’t told anyone in Inishowen. Maeve thought I had left Dublin to recover from a broken relationship. Tell a lie as close to the truth as you can and you’re less likely to be found out, isn’t that what they say?
In any case, telling people would have defeated the whole point of moving here: to escape. Here I could pretend it had never happened. I could disappear, use my mother’s maiden name and a shortened version of my middle one. It was the only way I could have carried on. I ran away, simple as that, and it had worked, to a limited extent. Until now.
When the play was over, I turned down Maeve’s suggestion of a last drink on the basis that I had an early appointment in the morning, and drove home alone. I doubt she believed me, but she didn’t push it. Twice I found myself veering dangerously towards the edge of the road. Thankfully, the roads were dry. Had they been the way they were a few days before, I would have ended up in the sea. After my second fright, I forced myself to haul my mind back from the dark corner it was trying to clamber into and focus on my driving. But as soon as I turned the key in the lock of the front door of my cottage, that churning, panicky feeling returned. I poured myself a very large whiskey.