Where She Lies

by Michael Scanlon

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Theresa Frazzali. Tanya, my daughter, didn’t come home last night. I told the officer, over there…’ She nodded her head in the direction of the public counter. ‘This morning, that is, she didn’t come home. I mean last night. God, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since last night is what I’m trying to say. The officer told me to wait for you. Why would he do that? Is something wrong?’

  She was on the verge of tears now, but holding back, waiting for reassurance, waiting for him to say, ‘No, Mrs Frazzali, nothing is wrong. The officer asked me to see you because he wanted me to tell you not to worry – that’s all, you know. This kind of thing, unfortunately, happens all the time. Your daughter will be home shortly, you’ll see’.

  But that was not what he said. What he said was: ‘Your daughter. Can you describe her?’

  Mrs Frazzali stared at him, her eyes widening. ‘Why? What’s wrong? Have you found someone?’

  ‘Mrs Frazzali,’ Beck said, ‘if your daughter was missing, like you think she might be, then I’d need to know what she looks like, and also what she was wearing, wouldn’t I? But that doesn’t mean anything has happened to her.’

  Mrs Frazzali relaxed. ‘Of course. Yes, of course. You would. Wouldn’t you? Let me see, Tanya’s about five six, my height… Actually, she looks a lot like me, but a much younger version.’

  ‘Do you remember what she was wearing, Mrs Frazzali?’

  ‘What she was wearing? I didn’t see her before she went out. I don’t know what Tanya was wearing. I can’t be sure.’

  Beck said nothing for a moment, considering, then asked, ‘Does she have, by any chance, a pink polo-neck jumper, and Timberland boots?’

  Mrs Frazzali stared at Beck. He could see the confusion on her face.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  He placed his hand gently on her elbow, guided her to the bench. They sat down.

  She tried to twist the tissue in her hands, pressing her fingers into it, the tips white, but the tissue was so tightly knotted it couldn’t move any further. She looked at him and lifted the corners of her lips into a faint, desperate smile, then reached into her handbag, took out her mobile phone, pressed a button, scrolled through it and offered it to him.

  ‘It was taken two weeks ago. At her cousin’s birthday. It’s Tanya.’

  Beck took the phone. The photograph of three girls, laughing, arms intertwined across each other’s shoulders, was taken at close range, so Beck could clearly see their faces. He thought of the body in the forest, peeled away the death mask, gave colour to the flesh, reset the eyes, buffed up the hair. And saw her. The girl in the middle. Tanya.

  He handed the phone back to Mrs Frazzali.

  ‘Mrs Frazzali,’ he began, but already she was holding her face in her hands, palms squeezing her cheeks as she stared at him, like she was trying to stop herself from falling apart.

  Six

  ‘The body is that of Tanya Frazzali. Fifteen years old.’

  ‘Really. How’re you so sure?’ O’Reilly’s disembodied voice at the other end of the line.

  ‘Her mother. I just spoke with her, at the station. She reported the girl missing.’

  ‘I see. No doubt?’

  ‘No doubt. She showed me a photograph, on her mobile phone. It’s her.’

  ‘We’ll have to wait for an official identification, of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You still at the station?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stay there. There’s a briefing in one hour.’

  Beck put the phone in one of his pockets, reached into another for a pack of cigarettes, fished one out and lit up, leaning against the front red-brick wall of Cross Beg garda station. The building was, supposedly, a prime example of period architecture, circa 1890. The Office of Public Works hung flower baskets from its front wall each spring. It was October now, and they were overdue in coming to take these down again, the baskets still hanging there, the flowers all withered and dead.

  He watched Mrs Frazzali walk along the pavement and turn into the car park of Crabby’s supermarket at the end of the street. Beck had offered to have someone drive her home, but she’d refused. He gave instructions to the officer on desk duty to forward her name to victim support immediately.

  Seven

  The first forty-eight hours, Beck knew. The Window, they called it. Which came after The Golden Hour. Which came after the crime. Forty-eight hours. Then the window started to close, the investigation slowed, momentum was lost.

  Forty-eight hours.

  * * *

  Beck sat at a desk in the deserted Ops Room. The weak October sunlight filtered through the high, narrow windows, and the old wrought iron radiators made a clicking noise as the water circulated inside them. The door to the public office was open. He could hear the desk officer out there, answering a phone that never seemed to stop ringing. As he listened, the clicking from the radiators appeared to grow louder and louder, and Beck remembered the sounds of the revolver chamber turning. Click, click, click…

  The telephone rang in the public office again, a loud, shrill noise. It sounded twice before being answered: ‘Hello, Cross Beg Garda Station...’

  The Ops Room was filling, uniform and plainclothes officers arriving from outlying stations and districts. Beck sat listening to the jumbled sounds of their conversations.

  A whiteboard was wheeled in at the top of the room, Superintendent Wilde and Inspector O’Reilly following, standing on either side of it. Wilde had a marker in his hand, holding it in the air like a conductor’s baton. O’Reilly’s hands were clasped in front of him, head bowed, as if deep in prayer.

  ‘Quiet, people,’ Superintendent Wilde said, waving the marker about as the room fell silent. He allowed the silence to percolate, then continued. ‘First things first. For the duration of the investigation, briefings take place at 9 a.m. daily in this room. Understood? Good. Now, at 3.07 a.m. this morning, a 999 call was received in the Comms Room here at Cross Beg. The caller, male, reported finding a body in Cool Wood just outside the town, that of a young female. The call was made from a phone box in the square. The caller wouldn’t give his name or any details, but he had a pronounced stutter. The officer who took it thinks it’s Ned Donohue, or Neddy, as most people know him. And most of us here know him. When Neddy gets nervous, the stammer comes out. I’ve listened back to the tape myself, and I agree that it’s likely him. A unit’s been round to his house twice already, but he’s not home. Now, yesterday was Monday, dole day here in Cross Beg, and Neddy likes to drink cider and get out of his head. He’s known to wander about the place when he’s like that, including Cool Wood. We need to find him as soon as possible. Anyone who doesn’t know Ned, check the system – there’s a photograph of him on there. Ned doesn’t like the gardai, and can get very anxious when he has to deal with us. Due care and attention when dealing with him, please.’

  Wilde turned to the whiteboard and wrote ‘Ned Donohue’ on it in a heavy scrawl. He went on: ‘The victim is believed to be a local girl, Tanya Frazzali, fifteen years old. The body has not been formally identified, but we’re confident that’s who it is. Her family own the Frazzali restaurant on Main Street – been there over fifty years, very popular place, originally Italian, as the name suggests. The victim was a student at St Malachi’s College… Sergeant Beck, you spoke with her mother. She reported her missing, correct?’

  Beck cleared his throat and stood. ‘Yes boss, that’s correct. Mrs Theresa Frazzali came to the station earlier today. She was upset her daughter, Tanya, had not come home last night. From her description and a photograph of Tanya she showed me on her mobile phone, I’m satisfied the body is that of Tanya Frazzali.’

  ‘Did anyone else agree with this opinion?’ It was Inspector O’Reilly, raising his head now and staring at Beck. ‘Did you ask?’

  Beck said nothing.

  ‘Well, did they?’ O’Reilly pressed.

  ‘I have no
doubt,’ Beck said. ‘It’s Tanya Frazzali.’ Beck wanted to smile, because getting up someone’s nose the way he seemed to be getting up O’Reilly’s was a compliment of sorts.

  O’Reilly gestured with his hand, as if brushing Beck away.

  ‘Scene of Crime are still processing the scene,’ Wilde went on. ‘Likely to be there for the rest of the day, and tomorrow too. They haven’t found a mobile phone, by the way. Whether the victim had one with her, of course, we don’t know, not as yet. The cause of death, the state pathologist believes at this stage, is asphyxiation. The victim was strangled. This will not be officially confirmed until after the autopsy, which takes place tomorrow morning at the County Hospital.’

  Wilde looked about the room.

  ‘Suggestions, people,’ he said. ‘Who could have done this? I want to see some hands in the air… yes, you.’

  ‘A boyfriend? It’s usually the way, isn’t it?’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘I agree. In the woods and all – has to be a boyfriend, a lover.’

  ‘And you?’ Wilde pointed towards the back of the room.

  ‘Maybe she wasn’t killed in the woods at all. Maybe her body was dumped there.’

  Wilde wrote ‘family and friends’ on the whiteboard, circled it twice. ‘It appears she was murdered in the wood, by the way,’ he said, and continued, ‘Anyone’s radar showing possibilities? I want names.’

  ‘Anyone’s capable of it. Especially the clients we deal with.’ The same voice from the back of the room.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Wilde said. ‘But specifically, does anyone come to mind? Come on now.’

  The room fell silent again.

  ‘How wide do you want to throw this net?’ a female voice asked.

  Wilde pursed his lips, thinking about that. ‘For now, I’m talking about Cross Beg and the station’s district.’

  ‘That narrows things down considerably. You’d be the best judge of that yourself.’

  Wilde looked a little uncomfortable now. His conversation was coming full circle.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, turning to the whiteboard. He began writing down names. ‘Malcolm Nugent, Vincent Fletcher, Darren Murphy…’

  ‘Don’t forget Raymond “Nobby” Clarke.’

  ‘How would I forget him?’ Wilde said, writing the name down. ‘I thought he was sectioned in the psych unit in Galway indefinitely.’

  ‘He was released under supervision into a community-based programme,’ someone said. ‘The voices in his head have stopped, apparently.’

  ‘Claire Somers.’ It was O’Reilly. ‘Claire, where are you?’

  A hand rose. ‘Over here.’

  ‘Welcome back.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re with Detective Sergeant Beck, okay? The man has a tendency to go solo. Not in Cross Beg. And Beck?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The family of the deceased. The Frazzalis. Visit them. That should keep you out of trouble. And assure them we’re doing everything we can. Don’t let me keep you. Get on with it.’

  That suited Beck fine. Going through the motions. Beck had no intention of doing anything other than tinkering around the edges of this if he could help it. It seemed O’Reilly was of the same mind.

  Eight

  Detective Garda Claire Somers had short blonde hair, was of stocky build, dressed in blue jeans, a grey NYU hoodie, white sneakers. They were standing in the hallway outside the Ops Room. She extended a hand and Beck took it. Her grip was firm, the flesh tough but soft at the same time.

  ‘He doesn’t like me running about on my own, seemingly,’ Beck said.‘Did he tell you to report back on what I might get up to?’

  A look flittered across her eyes.

  ‘That’s okay,’ Beck said. ‘He would do, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘If it’s any help, I think he’s an arsehole too.’

  She went and got the keys to a car – a Ford Focus – and found it using the registration number on the key fob; it was double-parked by the main door of the station. The car chirped once as she pointed the remote and unlocked it.

  ‘I haven’t seen you about before,’ Beck said as they got in.

  ‘I’ve been away. Got married, actually. Travelled Europe for two months on my honeymoon. That would explain it.’ She put the key in the ignition and turned it. ‘The Frazzalis live on River Road. I should know the house.’

  ‘You’ve had reason to visit there before?’

  She did a U-turn and drove along Main Street. ‘Yes. Mr Frazzali. He killed himself number of years ago. Went into the river – it’s the method of choice locally.’

  Beck thought about that. ‘Into the river? How so certain? He could have just fallen in, couldn’t he?’

  ‘There was a witness. When they recovered the body, his hands were still in his trouser pockets. He didn’t put up any fight… on the contrary.’

  ‘Any suicide note?’

  Claire changed gears as she took the Focus round a sharp bend. ‘No, nothing. Seemingly most don’t leave one. Not in Cross Beg, anyway. Unusual. Alcohol plays a part, increasingly drugs. Probably seems like a good idea at the time, I suppose.’

  ‘And was Mr Frazzali under the influence of anything?’

  ‘Antonio? No, no. Completely clean.’

  Beck looked out the window. ‘Any other children?’

  ‘A son. Tony. A handsome lad. He manages the restaurant.’

  ‘I see,’ Beck said. ‘On a lighter topic, who’s the lucky man?’

  ‘The lucky man?’

  ‘Your new husband.’

  ‘You mean lucky woman. That’d be me.’

  ‘Yes, but your husband?’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t have a husband. I have a wife. I married a woman.’

  Beck said nothing for a moment, taken off guard. ‘Oh,’ he said then.

  ‘“Oh” – I get that a lot.’

  ‘I bet you do.’

  ‘Are you shocked? Some people are.’

  ‘Shocked? No. That’s a strong word. If that shocked me, I’d spend every day shocked by something or other. Life would be one long shock.’

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you got a problem with it?’

  ‘I don’t have a problem with it.’

  ‘Just asking. Some do.’

  ‘Things have changed, the referendum and all that… By the way, did you ever think I might be gay? Or are you just assuming that I’m not?’

  ‘I’m not assuming anything. Are you?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. Not so far, although I’d like to think I’d try anything once.’

  They both laughed, the atmosphere lightening.

  ‘So, your wife. Who’s she, the lucky woman?’

  ‘Lucy Grimes. Journalist with The Connaughtman in Galway.’

  ‘Did she take your name? Or you hers?’

  ‘We both kept our names. It’s simpler.’

  ‘No, I’m not shocked. I’m pleased.’

  ‘Not everyone feels the same way, as I say. And you?’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘You married, or…?’

  ‘No, I’m not married or…’

  ‘Really? Never married?’

  ‘No. You sound surprised.’

  ‘I am. You’re quite… presentable. I’m sure there was, or is, interest.’

  Beck shifted in his seat. ‘Yes,’ he said vaguely, ‘I’m sure there is.’

  Nine

  River Road twisted by the bottom of low hills at the edge of Cross Beg, the river on one side, the tops of prominent houses peering out over ivy-crusted walls on the other.

  ‘Can we pull in somewhere?’ Beck asked. ‘I’ve just thought of something.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She turned into an agricultural gateway a short distance ahead, a narrow track disappearing into a thick hedgerow on the other side of a galvanised steel gate. Claire cut the engine.

  Bec
k got out of the car and stood, breathing in deep, looking over the gate along the track towards the field.

  ‘Unless my sense of direction is completely off,’ he said as Claire joined him, ‘it should be possible to reach Cool Wood from here, from this road, shouldn’t it? I mean, that field up there runs behind these houses.’

  ‘It is possible. The field does run behind these houses. At the top is the town cemetery. Beside it, Cool Wood.’

  Beck considered. Did he want to do this? No was the answer. But his damned cop’s curiosity did.

  ‘Fancy a walk?’ he said.

  ‘Not really.’

  You heard her, she doesn’t. Forget it. Go and talk to the Frazzalis. Like you’re supposed to. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  But Beck walked to the gate instead, placed a foot onto a lower cross bar and began to climb over. He waited on the other side while Claire followed.

  They walked up the narrow track and into the field. It stretched all the way along the back of River Road to a point further ahead, where it dipped abruptly down into the Brown Water River. On the other side Beck could see the grey uniform drabness of a housing estate.

  ‘Chapel Park?’ he asked.

  ‘The one and only,’ she said, as if referring to an unruly child.

  They walked to the top of the field, the ground rough and spongy beneath their feet. They stopped at a low stone wall; inside it, amid the high grass and weeds, old headstones stood like lopsided dirty teeth.

  ‘This is the old section,’ she said. She pointed off to the right. ‘That’s the town over there.’ She swivelled her arm. ‘And there’s Cool Wood.’

  Beck turned slowly in a half-circle, hands on hips, taking it all in. His view gave him a sense of perspective, the town spread before him like a tapestry, colours of sand and yellow, of white and blue, of grey and black. He hadn’t expected so many colours. At the edges green curled round, tucking everything in, while in the middle the thick ribbon that was the river cut across, and everywhere wisps of smoke rose from chimneys like delicate embroidery. From a distance, Cross Beg looked almost pretty.