I STRUGGLED TO absorb what Molloy had just told me. Why on earth would someone have taken Stephen McFerry’s body from his coffin in the graveyard at Whitewater and placed it in the crypt of Whitewater Church? And in particular, why would Danny Devitt have done that? Did he even know Stephen McFerry?
I realized I had been silent for a few minutes. I glanced over at Molloy, who was staring into the fire, absently stroking Guinness’ fur, clearly absorbed in his own thoughts, probably not dissimilar to mine. The firelight cast a warm glow on his face, his firm jawline, his eyes alert. He looked good out of uniform, a confusing thought I batted away.
“What about the soil samples?” I asked.
“As I said, they were minuscule. Whoever moved Stephen McFerry’s body must have rested it on the ground at some stage and the soil was picked up that way. A dead body isn’t easy to carry. They’re pretty heavy.”
“So you’re assuming the body was moved not long after he died?”
“Yes.”
“When are you going to exhume the coffin?”
“Tomorrow morning, as soon as it’s light, to try to attract as little attention as possible. We only got this latest information this evening.”
“Did Danny Devitt ever mention Stephen McFerry to you?” Molloy asked.
I shook my head. “I was just thinking about that. No, he didn’t. But even if he did know him, why in God’s name would he steal his dead body?”
“He was always a little peculiar,” Molloy said.
“But it seems to be completely motiveless.”
“Yes, it does,” Molloy conceded. “It’s a mess. But at least it’s not a murder investigation. That’s something to be grateful for.”
“True. Unless …”
“Don’t say it.” Molloy sighed. “Unless someone else’s body is in Stephen McFerry’s coffin.”
“Exactly. And what if it’s …?”
Molloy finished my question. “Conor Devitt. I know. Believe me, the thought had occurred. Let’s wait till the morning when we see what the exhumation throws up.”
There was a brief silence as we both sat staring into the flames.
“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Molloy asked.
“Sorry?”
“I’m assuming you wanted to talk to me. I saw you outside the station.”
I could feel my toes curl in embarrassment. Had he seen me scrunched down behind the steering wheel? His face showed nothing but concern, pure and simple.
“I just wondered if there had been any developments,” I lied. “But you’ve filled me in.”
“Are you sure that’s all it was?”
I nodded, looked away. He didn’t push it.
“Okay, it’s time I got going.”
He lifted Guinness gently off his knee and stood up. As he pulled on his jacket, a voice in my head told me to suggest food, but the words never reached my mouth. I walked him to the door and stood there for a second with my hand on the doorknob. Procrastinating.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I stared at the ground. “Look, I know you know some things about me now. Things I never told you. I expect that pathologist woman, Laura, has told you everything.”
“She has told me very little, Ben. Only that she recognized you, and from where.”
I looked up. Molloy’s expression was kind.
“I did want to talk to you about it sometime, it wasn’t that I didn’t,” I said. “I haven’t talked to anyone about it. Not even Maeve. There are things I haven’t told anyone.”
“I understand. Talk to me about it when you’re ready. There’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s just …”
“Yes?”
“My mother rang today. My father’s had an accident. Not a serious one, but she wants me to go down. I haven’t seen them in a while. Usually I see them once a year, a quick visit, so that I don’t give them time to talk about anything.”
It came out all in a rush. My voice sounded as if it were coming from very far away.
Molloy responded with one word. “Go.”
“You think?”
“Yes. These things get harder, Ben, the longer you leave them. You’d advise anyone else in exactly the same way. Go visit your parents.”
“Maybe.”
He looked into my eyes. “What are you afraid of?”
“That I’ll remind them. That they’ll remind me.”
“It doesn’t look like you need reminding. I’m sure they don’t either.”
“That they blame me, then. If they did, they’d be right to. There are things I haven’t told even them.”
I could feel a painful lump in my throat. Don’t cry, for God’s sake, I thought.
Molloy touched me gently on the shoulder. I could smell faint traces of aftershave mixed with leather. The same aftershave as on New Year’s Eve.
“They want to see you, Ben. Just go. As soon as you can.”
I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
“Do you want me to stay a bit longer?” Molloy asked.
I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. Honestly. I have some packing to do, apparently.” I smiled weakly at him.
He smiled back at me. “I’m glad.”
I opened the door to let him out, realizing as I did so that I really didn’t want him to go.
Oddly, I slept well. Early the following morning, I phoned Paul Doherty to tell him I wouldn’t be accompanying him on the survey at Whitewater, after all. He took it reasonably well. I guess the prospect of the crypt was less awful in the early morning with a solid number of hours of daylight ahead. He might even have some company not too far away, if the exhumation was still going on. Not that he would know that.
I threw enough clothes for the weekend into an overnight bag and sent my mother a brief text to tell her I was coming and what time I’d be leaving home. I stood in my bedroom staring at the bag on the bed, wondering if it had been Molloy’s complete conviction that it was the right thing to do that had finally persuaded me to make the trip.
It had been a relief to talk about it; it was so long since I had confided in anyone. And Molloy cared about me, I knew that. But I sensed there was something holding him back, something I knew nothing about. I wondered if it had to do with the pathologist, his old college mate. I hoped not. Whatever it was, today I was simply happy to have his friendship back.
I thought about the rest of our previous night’s conversation as I drank a coffee at the sink. They would be exhuming Stephen McFerry’s coffin this morning. Maybe I should stay until the exhumation and then set off. I’d still have plenty of time to get to my parents by early afternoon.
The seagulls were putting on an impressive display, diving and swooping over the mud flats as I drove up along the coast road. It was a beautiful crisp winter morning, with a bright blue sky. I drove past the entrance to the church, and as I approached the wall of the graveyard, I could see a small crowd of maybe five or six people gathered outside the gate, all huddled together in winter coats, like funeral-goers awaiting the arrival of the hearse. They were facing in towards the graveyard. So much for not attracting attention.
There was white and red garda tape across the entrance, preventing public access to the graveyard. No wonder they hadn’t succeeded in keeping things quiet. Although I guessed it would be hard to keep something like the exhumation of a grave quiet in a place the size of Whitewater. I slowed down as I approached, looking over the gate towards the graveyard. The top of some kind of bright orange mechanical digger or crane loomed up.
I pulled in, feeling as much of a rubbernecker as anyone else. The first person I recognized was Phyllis, highly visible as usual. I tapped her lightly on the shoulder, and she whirled around, hand on her chest.
“Oh Jesus, it’s you, Ben. You gave me a fright.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s all this.” She pointed towards the graveyard. “It’s all a bit creepy, this, don’t you think?”
“What’s happening?” I said, feigning ignorance. It didn’t work. She peered at me closely.
“They’re digging up that poor McFerry kid’s coffin. Apparently, it was him that was buried in the crypt. Did you not hear?” she said.
“No, I did,” I admitted. “How far on are they?”
“I think they’re about to start now.”
An effort had been made to cordon off the grave from public view, but the height of the graveyard meant it was possible to see a lot of what was going on. We watched as the digger slowly cleared the topsoil from the grave.
Molloy and McFadden were standing close together dressed in white boiler suits. Phyllis gestured towards a hunched man on the other side of the grave also wearing a boiler suit, but a mask and gloves, too.
“Poor Hal,” she said. “He’s terrified he did something wrong.” She lowered her voice. “Like bury the wrong man.” She turned to me. “You don’t think that’s where Conor Devitt is, do you?”
“God knows. Who is that man beside him?” I asked.
“That’s Pat McFerry, the young fella’s dad.”
“God, this must be rough on him.”
“Horrific. Imagine spending years visiting a grave and all the while your son is lying on the other side of the wood in a cold crypt.” She shuddered. “The other man is the Environmental Health Officer – standard requirement for an exhumation, I’m told.”
We watched as the man who had been operating the digger climbed down and started to clear the remains of the soil with a shovel. He was joined by three other men. Using ropes, they slowly lifted a long black coffin from the grave. Soil fell from it as it rose, its sheen reflected brightly in the winter sunshine as if it had been freshly polished for the occasion. There was a general hush as it was lowered slowly to the ground.
Molloy guided Hal towards the coffin. Hal knelt on the ground, Pat McFerry hovering beside him looking as if he, too, didn’t know quite where to put himself. Hal started fiddling with the clasp on the lid of the coffin; this seemed to go on for an age. It was as if the crowd around me were holding their collective breath. I certainly was. Finally, something clicked and Hal lifted the lid.