Where She Lies

by Michael Scanlon

  Dark grey clouds hung over Cross Beg as he walked to the station. Every second shop seemed to have a ‘For Sale’ or ‘To Let’ sign in its window. He lit a cigarette but after a couple of pulls felt nauseous and threw it away again. The town was slowly waking, the lanky buildings along Main Street pressing in on either side, their facades weathered beneath moss-veined black-slate roofs. Most shops didn’t open for business until 10 a.m. – there was little point. It struck Beck that above the stripes of colour that were the ground-floor shop units, like rouge on old whores, everything above the shop sign was neglected, paint peeling and mottled curtains stuck to dirty glass in old window frames. People didn’t look up above the door lines, there was no need. A sharp wind stirred the air.

  Images of the night before flittered about in his mind. He remembered leaving The Hibernian, but, as for anything else afterwards, there was nothing. He consoled himself that if anything of importance had happened, from experience he knew he would have remembered it.

  And then, from the back of his mind, a memory stuck its tongue out at him, goading him, thumbs in ears, fingers wiggling. It brought with it a memory of him talking into his phone. Beck felt the first stirrings of fear inside him. He stopped and took the phone from his pocket. The blasted thing was dead; he’d failed to recharge it.

  He continued to the station, went through the doors and was struck by the silence. He’d forgotten the security code for the keypad on the wall by the public counter. Then it came to him, and he punched it in. The door clicked and he pushed through onto the corridor on the other side and then took the first door to the left into the Ops Room.

  The briefing had already begun, O’Reilly standing at the top of the room by the whiteboard, holding a sheet of paper in his hand. ‘… hopefully we can find out what happened. You’ve got the details. Look after it, you two.’ He paused, looking at Beck. All heads turned. ‘Thanks for joining us, Sergeant Beck. We haven’t taken you away from anything urgent, I hope.’

  A ripple of sycophantic laughter wafted through the room. Superintendent Wilde was absent, which meant there was no one to trim O’Reilly’s sails. All seats were taken, so Beck joined those standing by the wall, like stragglers at the back of church during Sunday mass service. He realised he was sweating.

  O’Reilly’s eyes were still on him. ‘Sergeant Beck. Now, as I have just said, Ned Donohue was brought in less than a half hour ago. Real results are achieved by a concerted, planned approach, not by freelance operators.’ Again, a ripple of laughter, at what Beck had no idea. O’Reilly added, ‘I could have suggested we simply write and request that he come in and merely help us with our enquiries. I heard they do that up in Dublin, would you believe that?’

  Beck could taste stale cornflakes at the back of his throat. He swallowed quickly a couple of times.

  O’Reilly paused for emphasis. ‘Tell you what, Beck, I’d be interested. You come and join me in interviewing him after this briefing.’ He paused again, looking about the room and smiling to his audience. ‘We’ll see how good you city boys are, huh? Coming down here trying to tell us how it’s done. Well, we’ll see.’

  For the third time, laughter spread through the room, as predictable as a greasy breakfast in a roadside café.

  O’Reilly pointed to the whiteboard. It was beginning to look a little cluttered. Then he looked at Beck once more. ‘Something else,’ he said. ‘Don’t be late for briefings again.’ And, pointing down the room: ‘Andy Grimes?’

  ‘Boss.’

  ‘The house-to-house. Throw up anything?’

  ‘Nothing. No one heard a thing. The nearest house is a half-mile from the wood. Unlikely, anyway.’

  ‘CCTV, who’s looking after that?’

  ‘Me. Tom Weir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Canvassed a number of places. By places I mean the creamery, the filling station and the council offices. I’m waiting on the creamery. I’ve collected other footage from businesses in the town. I’m going through it. Nothing so far, but I’ll need everything to spot any patterns. Going through it, like I say.’

  ‘Who’s looking after Nugent, Fletcher and Clarke? Someone speak to me.’

  ‘That’d be me.’

  O’Reilly looked down the room. ‘Okay, Jackson, go ahead.’

  ‘Nugent and Fletcher can be discounted. Nugent’s moved to Cork – living with a girl down there…’ A chorus of ‘Aahh’ went through the room. ‘They have a baby, supposedly he’s turned his life around. All I can say is God help her and the baby. As for Fletcher, he’s in the university hospital in Galway, has been for a couple of months. I can’t pronounce it, but I’m glad to report that what he has is terminal. So there’s justice in this world after all. Nobby Clarke, however, is still outstanding. Nothing’s changed with him from what I can gather, still hearing those voices in his head. Could bring him in for questioning, but I’d rather wait until we have something concrete, otherwise it’ll just be a waste of time.’

  O’Reilly looked at his watch. ‘Okay, Jackson, but keep an eye on him. That goes for you all. We’ll wrap this up. You have your lists. Beck and Somers, County Hospital, preliminary autopsy report should be ready. Think you can handle it, Beck, after we finish interviewing Ned, that is?’

  Here it comes, Beck thought. And right on cue, the warbling twitter rippled through the room.

  ‘Okay,’ O’Reilly announced. ‘Briefing over. Get on with it, everyone.’

  The room began to clear. Beck saw Claire Somers talking with two uniformed officers on the other side, nodding at something one said. Then she turned and came over.

  ‘I tried ringing you, Beck. Have you got your phone switched off?’

  ‘It’s dead.’

  ‘Give it to me. I’ll give it some charge while you’re in there.’

  ‘Oh…’ He took it from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And here.’ She gave him a mint. ‘Your breath…’

  He took it, popped it into his mouth. He realised that Claire Somers was a ‘carer’. Beck had come across lots of carers in his time: mothers of wayward sons, spouses of violent alcoholics, collectors of lost pets and abandoned souls. And he knew being a carer brought with it its own problems.

  Beck could see O’Reilly leaving the room and started to follow. In the hallway outside, the inspector was waiting for him.

  ‘The way I see it, Beck, is you have a natural ability to fuck things up,’ he said, his voice ugly. ‘All by your lonesome, with no help from anyone else. You think you can fuck things up down here, too, don’t you? It doesn’t work like that, not in Cross Beg. Not on my patch.’

  ‘You’re safe enough,’ Beck said. ‘I plan on staying in Cross Beg only as long as I have to. I’ve no interest in this case beyond what I would call the affliction of curiosity that comes with being a police officer, which, despite everything, I still am. That aside, you stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.’

  O’Reilly smiled. ‘Sensible man,’ he said.

  ‘You still want me in on this, or shall I go get myself a coffee? I think a coffee is a better idea.’

  ‘No,’ O’Reilly said, his tone curt. ‘You’re with me on this.’

  Sixteen

  Ned had moved his chair into a corner of the room, away from the interview table, and was sitting on it, arms folded tightly over his chest and his feet crossed beneath him. He had on an old frayed sports jacket that was a couple of sizes too big for him, a flat cap with a dirty frayed peak, red Nike runners and green trousers. If someone didn’t know, they might have thought his dress style bohemian. The reality was he dressed in whatever he could find at the local charity shop. He looked at O’Reilly, kept his eyes on him, ignored Beck.

  ‘Sit over here, Ned, like a good man,’ O’Reilly said, pulling a chair back from the table, purposefully scraping it across the floor and sitting down.

  Beck pulled out a chair and sat down next to him.

  O’Reilly spoke again, louder. ‘Get
the fuck over here, Ned. Now. You don’t want to upset me. You know what happens if you upset me.’

  Ned looked at Beck for the first time. Beck met his eyes and held them, smiled.

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Finnegan Beck, Ned. Come on. We’ll turn on the video and voice recorder and everything will be fine.’

  Ned shifted in his chair. He uncrossed his feet, but his arms remained folded across his chest. His expression changed, his features softening.

  ‘He-he-here,’ he said. ‘Finnegan. Like in Ja-Ja-James Joyce?’

  Beck nodded. ‘Like in that, named for him, in fact. Yes, Ned.’

  Ned smiled now, a big gormless smile, one front tooth missing. He got up, took his chair with him and came and sat on the other side of the table. He sat well back into it, his eyes wary, flicking from O’Reilly to Beck.

  O’Reilly looked at his watch. ‘Interview with Edward Donohue, better known as Ned or Neddy, suspect in the murder of Tanya Frazzali…’

  ‘Here,’ Ned squawked. ‘I’m no sus-sus-suspect in anything. I towelled you…’

  O’Reilly placed a palm in front of Ned’s face and he fell quiet. O’Reilly went on ‘… Present Inspector Gerald O’Reilly and Detective Sergeant Finnegan Beck. Interview commencing now’ – he glanced at the big white-faced clock on the wall – ‘at 9.53 a.m. on 17 October 2018.’

  ‘Here,’ said Ned to Beck. ‘Your mother must have been fi-fi-fierce smart to want to give you a name like that. Was sh-sh-she now?’

  ‘Edward Donohue,’ O’Reilly said. ‘I put it to you that you made a 999 phone call to Cross Beg garda station in the early hours of Monday – that is, yesterday – reporting finding the body of a young female in Cool Wood, the identity of whom has been officially confirmed earlier today as that of Tanya Frazzali of Bridge Street, Cross Beg. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, co-co-correct,’ Ned said.

  ‘Why didn’t you give your name to the operator when you called? You could have saved us time and effort if you had,’ O’Reilly asked.

  ‘No comment,’ Ned said.

  ‘No comment? What do you mean, no comment?’

  Beck could see a vein begin to throb on the side of O’Reilly’s head.

  ‘I want me so-so-solicitor,’ Ned said. ‘No comment.’

  O’Reilly turned off the recorder. He looked at Beck. ‘It breaks down sometimes. I told them we need a new one. We’re still waiting. Okay, Beck?’

  Beck said nothing.

  O’Reilly turned his attention back to Ned. ‘Listen, you little prick. You don’t need a fucking solicitor. You’ll be walking out that door in five minutes if you answer my questions. If you don’t answer them, you’ll be carried out in twenty-four hours. Do you understand that now?’

  Ned folded his arms again. ‘I want a so-so-solicitor, I want a solicitor, I want a solicitor.’

  A tearing sound as O’Reilly’s chair scraped across the floor and he got to his feet. He leaned onto the desk. ‘Jesus Christ! You’re asking for it. By Christ, you’re asking for it. Answer the fucking question.’

  Ned covered his head with his hands as if expecting O’Reilly to strike him at any moment. Beck knew they were losing him.

  ‘I wi-wi-will not,’ Ned said, but it was more a whimper. ‘I will not, I will not, I wi-wi-will not.’

  O’Reilly towered over him like a snorting bull.

  Beck sighed. He wasn’t slow to use force himself sometimes. The difference was in knowing when and how to use it. He couldn’t watch this any more.

  ‘Ned,’ Beck said gently. ‘If you answer the questions, I’ll give you €20. You can buy a few cans.’

  Beck hoped O’Reilly wouldn’t speak now. If he did, they could lose Ned completely. Beck saw the inspector turn towards him out of the corner of his eye. Beck thought: Keep your mouth shut.

  Ned looked at Beck with the expression of a child, a child who’d been scolded but was now excited again at the prospect of being given a treat. ‘Make it a €50 and I’ll sing like a ca-ca-nary.’ He pointed to O’Reilly. ‘But I’m not talking with him here. Not him. I’ll talk to you. But h-h-him, that man, he’s a t-t-terror so he is, the whole town knows it.’

  ‘First off,’ Beck said before O’Reilly could say anything. ‘It’s twenty euro, Ned. Now, I can’t promise anything else.’ Beck looked at O’Reilly: Ball in your court.

  O’Reilly was quiet, calculating, staring ahead at the wall. ‘Okay, okay, whatever it takes. I’ll send Somers in. You and Neddy boy here are good company for each other. Two misfits if ever I saw them.’

  ‘I know you. You’re not a bad s-s-skin,’ Ned said when O’Reilly was gone and Claire Somers had sat down in the chair vacated by him. ‘You were one of the ones following me for a wh-wh-while, weren’t ya?’

  ‘Following you?’ Claire said.

  ‘Aye. Following me. You were following me, weren’t ya, the whole l-l-lot of ye? Youse been following me for years. Did ya think I’d not twig it? I often ca-ca-catch one of ye walking behind me. I’m not as thick as I look, y’know.’

  ‘The guards aren’t following you, Ned,’ Beck said. ‘Sorry to have to tell you this, but you’re not important enough, although that might change after today. But if the guards were following you, for whatever reason, believe me, you’d be the last to know about it.’ Beck pressed the button on the tape recorder. ‘Interview with Edward Donohue recommenced at 10.06 a.m. Now, tell me, Ned, where were you last Sunday night into Monday morning…?’

  Ned fumbled in the pockets of his jacket. Then he pulled at the top of his trousers. Then he rearranged his cap.

  ‘Ned,’ Claire said. ‘We’re waiting.’

  ‘I know you’re wa-wa-waiting. Everyone is waiting. God above is waiting. The whole world is wa-wa-waiting. They’re waiting up at the railway station for the train to Dublin, so they are. Aye, and you’re waiting. I seen him do it. I s-s-seen him kill the poor girl. I seen it. There was a moon, a big fat moon. I could s-s-see the North Star and the Milky Way, so I could. I know all o’dem stars. I s-s-saw everything, so I did. And it was horrible cruel what he done.’ Ned fell silent. Then, his voice a whisper: ‘I was there in the bushes, with me bag of ca-ca-cans. I musta had about ten. I was well on it, so I was, so I fell asleep. I woke up with the cur-cur-curse of the cold on me. I didn’t know what I was seeing at first. I thought I was having a nightmare.’ He took a deep breath, calmer now. ‘The young wan was standing no more than twenty yards away from me in the clearing. And he was standing in front of her. I thought he was t-t-trying to kiss her, he had his hands around her neck. But th-th-then when the legs began to buckle under her I-I-I knew what he was doing, I knew he was squeezing her to death – he was str-str-strangling the young wan.’ Ned’s voice rose, his eyes widening, and his hands began moving through the air as he emphasised his story. ‘I called out, so I did, I said, “Le-le-leave the young wan alone. Clear off, you. Go on. Cl-cl-clear off.” But he only turned and looked at me and I swe-swe-swear to God – but you know what he done next?’ Ned looked at them both. ‘Do you know what h-h-he done next?’ he asked again.

  ‘No,’ Beck said.

  ‘He started to la-la-ugh at me. Swear to God. Ah, here, the poor young wan was being killed and he was laughing at me. The strangest laugh ever, like a hyena.’

  ‘Who?’ Beck asked. ‘Who did you see?’

  Ned took a deep breath. He folded his arms again and sat back in his chair, as if trying to make himself disappear.

  ‘I don’t know who I seen. I don’t know his name. ‘

  ‘Who was it?’ Beck realised he wasn’t asking, he was demanding.

  Ned bowed his head, said nothing.

  ‘Tell me,’ Beck said.

  Still, Ned remained quiet.

  ‘Ned…’ It was Claire.

  ‘Johnny Cash,’ Ned said finally. ‘The Man in Bl-bl-black. He’s come back from the dead, so he has.’

  ‘Are you trying to be smart now, Ned?’ Beck asked, keeping his voice even.


  Ned shook his head. ‘Ta-ta-tall, he was, with black hair – dressed in black from head to foot. Johnny Cash.’

  ‘Okay. So he looked like Johnny Cash.’ It was Claire again.

  ‘Ah, I dunno, I dunno,’ Ned whimpered. ‘I want to go home. Will ye lave me alone? Lave me alone, will ye? St-st-stupid auld Ned. That’s it, isn’t it, stupid auld Ned? I don’t know what I seen. It was dark. Lave me alone! I want to go home. Lave me alone! Lave me alone! Lave me a-a-alone!’

  ‘Ned,’ Beck said. ‘Calm down. You said there was a moon. You said you saw it all. You said that.’

  ‘Sure – who’d believe me? Stupid auld Ned, simple, he is. You’d be stupid to believe a word out of his mouth.’

  Beck sighed. This was going nowhere. He was starting to think the whole story might be nothing but a figment of a simple, deluded mind.

  ‘And what did you do then?’ Claire asked.

  ‘I ran. I took off. I ran like the fox with the hounds on its tail. I know the paths through the tr-tr-trees like the back of me hands, so I do. I ran. I ran like I never ran before, and I didn’t stop till I got to me house. I stayed awake the whole night and I haven’t slept since. He-he-he’ll come for me next, so he will.’

  ‘He didn’t try to follow?’ Beck said, mock surprise in his voice. ‘And when you took off, did you take your cans with you? Because there was nothing found up there.’

  ‘No, he didn’t try to follow. I had a pack of twelve. I only drank ten. I wasn’t waitin’ for him. Stupid auld Ned’s not waiting round like an auld beast dow-dow-down at the slaughter house to be killed and strung up. Ah, no.’

  ‘Ned, let me see your hands,’ Beck said. ‘Come on, put your hands on the table.’

  Ned slowly placed his hands on the table. Beck looked at them, turning them over. They were small and bony, a heavily nicotine-stained index and middle finger on the right. He could tell that underneath that oversized jacket he had on there was the typical malnourished body of a chronic alcoholic. Ned barely had the strength to choke a cough.