Where She Lies

by Michael Scanlon

  Claire shook her head slowly. ‘To think, at her age… I hadn’t even been kissed, by the way, by boy or girl.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Beck said, handing her the envelope, ‘I don’t know what value these hold for us. Except as a depressing sentiment, maybe. Itemise them when we get back to the station. Now, we have a house to search.’

  Thirty-Eight

  They got out of the car and stood looking at the row of houses on one side of the hill. Opposite was another row, but most of the houses here were derelict, windows and doors bricked up. There was also an open yard, a street sign announcing ‘Hand Car Wash €6’. All of the houses on both sides were small and hunched together, but on the ‘good’ side, only one was in ill repair.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Claire said, pointing. It was unpainted, moss sprouting from its eaves and the single ground-floor window by its front door cracked.

  Beck wondered if the dereliction disease was spreading from one side of the street to the other.

  He considered how they might gain access as he walked towards it. He stopped in front and looked at the door. It wouldn’t take much to force it open.

  ‘Is he in trouble again?’ A small birdlike woman appeared in the doorway of the house next door. She stepped out onto the street now, looking at them.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Claire said, ‘Ned is dead. He drowned in the river. His body was discovered this morning.’

  ‘The poor craythur,’ the woman said, but didn’t seem all that surprised. ‘To tell the truth, I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen to Ned for years. Do you need to get into it, the house?’

  ‘Yes,’ Beck said.

  ‘It’s not locked. Just walk in.’

  ‘Not locked?’ Claire said.

  ‘No. Ned never locked it. He had nothing to steal.’

  Beck went to the door. The handle on it was loose. He nudged it down with the palm of his hand and pushed it open.

  ‘One more thing,’ Beck said. ‘Did you see Ned recently? Did you notice anything odd about him, maybe?’

  ‘Odd? Ned was already odd. But he got an awful shock finding that girl’s body in the wood. It had a terrible effect on him, the poor craythur. Ned didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking. He wouldn’t kill a fly. No matter what anyone says. You talked to him. I know you did.’ She shook her head. ‘Still, killing himself. He hated water, y’know. He loved sitting and looking at it, but he was frightened of it. So why would he do that? Throw himself into the river? I don’t know any more. I really don’t know any more. But I think he’s better off now.’ She shook her head again, stepped back into her house and closed the door.

  ‘Right,’ Beck said. ‘Let’s get on with it. You got gloves, Claire?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Beck stepped into the hallway. It was narrow and short; at the end was an open doorway, another door leading off before that. Beck pulled on his gloves and flicked the light switch on the wall next to him. Nothing.

  He walked slowly along the hall, immediately aware of the smell: a heavy, acrid stench, like a mixture of paint and burnt wool. He opened the first door, pressed the light switch inside on the wall. Again, nothing. Beck stepped into the room, covering his mouth. He’d found the source of the smell. In the fireplace were the remnants of burnt traffic cones, a single intact black base still in the grate, the residue of the burning plastic that had cooled around it now looking like hard lava.

  ‘The poor fucker,’ Claire said. ‘Burning traffic cones to keep himself warm.’

  They looked about the room. The floor was bare concrete, empty cider cans scattered across it. An old armchair was next to the fireplace, a couple of blankets strewn across the back. There was no other furniture. Presumably, any furniture that had been here, Ned had already burned.

  ‘The next room,’ Beck said to Claire, moving towards the door.

  This was the kitchen. They knew it was the kitchen because there was a cooker in it, a remarkably clean cooker with the appearance of hardly ever having been used. There was a fridge too, but without a door. In it, of all things, was a used tea bag, sitting in a small puddle of coloured water. The sad poignancy of it was not lost on either of them. In the sink was a mug, the inside crusted brown. Against the wall in a corner was a mound of empty cider cans. Beck could smell the stale sweetness of them, sanding down the rough edges of the scent of burnt plastic.

  There was nothing in this house but sad desperation and a handful of letters, all from the Department of Social Welfare in Galway. Beck looked at one of them: an enquiry into the efforts Ned was making in trying to secure gainful employment. Beck realised that Ned did not have a life. He had an existence. Throwing himself into the river would have been a release for him. Except, that was, that he didn’t like water.

  They went upstairs and into a bedroom – nothing in it but a bed with a filthy mattress on it. The next room was bare except for a cardboard box containing some odd socks. The last room was the bathroom, a bar of soap on its grimy sink and some old newspapers torn into strips on the floor next to the brown toilet bowl.

  ‘There is nothing in this place,’ Beck said.

  They left the house and stood on the street outside. Beck lit a cigarette, took a long, deep pull.

  ‘We need to organise to have that front door secured,’ Beck said.

  Claire nodded. ‘I’ll contact the council.’

  As they walked back to the car, Claire said, ‘I’m meeting Lucy for lunch. Want to join us?’

  ‘Lucy, your wife?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Something I have to do first. Can I meet you there?’

  ‘Of course. It’s McCarthy’s,’ she said, and gave him directions.

  Beck fell behind and reached for his mobile phone. He noted he was almost out of charge. He punched in the number and listened as it rang out. He was about to give up when finally the state pathologist answered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Beck.’

  ‘Yes, I know it’s you, Beck.’

  Beck could hear the sound of an engine in the background. ‘You on your way somewhere?’

  ‘What, old boy? Can you speak up?’

  ‘Are you on your… never mind. DNA results. I need your help.’

  ‘DNA. I have nothing to do with DNA. Not directly, old boy, you know that. Barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘Yes, I know all that,’ Beck said. ‘But I also know a telephone call from you can speed most things along. I need these results as quickly as possible.’

  ‘My pet hate, Beck,’ Gumbell said, ‘as you well know, are those officers who ring up my department, or any other department for that matter, and take up valuable staff time trying to hurry things along. A right pain in the arse. Everyone is in a hurry. I mean, have you seen the way people drive? No one has patience any more. Things take time, Beck. You should know that.’

  ‘That’s a no then, is it?’

  Gumbell sighed. ‘The girl in the forest?’

  ‘Yes,’ Beck said. ‘We got DNA comparisons to the samples you took from the body. The quicker I can have the results…’

  ‘Don’t let emotion get in the way of objectivity, old boy,’ Gumbell said. ‘Not like you.’

  ‘That’s alright for you to say, sitting in the back of a chauffeur-driven car. I’m looking up from way below, on the second-to-last rung of a very long ladder to nowhere. You should try it sometime.’

  ‘You should have been a poet, Beck. But don’t forget, justice is on your side, I have no doubt. The words of Edmund Burke: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing”. Now, I have to go, we’re stopping for something to eat. Do you need any more of those little yellow saviours, to pull you through, my man? I’m concerned for you, you know… Yes driver, right here, park round the back.’

  ‘About the DNA? Will you look after it?’

  ‘Yes, old boy, of course I will. Anything for you, a fellow traveller along the Lone
some Highway – that’s the title of a Hank Williams song, by the way. I’ll send my size nine and a half boot up somebody’s arse. Oh, by the way, are you really going to retire?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You were adamant the other evening, said that you’d had enough, you were going to retire and move to – I can’t remember the name of the place, sounded very exotic. Spain or somewhere, you described it beautifully. So beautifully, in fact, I thought I might retire there myself.’

  Beck had no recollection.

  ‘You can’t remember, can you?’ Gumbell said. ‘I would suggest an MRI of your head, Beck. Your inability to remember anything after one drink is worrisome.’

  ‘On that note, by the way.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The other day, when we left O’Callaghans – the pub.’

  ‘Yes, what about it? Don’t tell me you don’t even remember that, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I remember leaving it. But after, I don’t remember very much.’

  Gumbell laughed. He never outwardly showed any drinker’s remorse, not even to Beck. But the little yellow pills he took, Beck knew, were testimony to a type of angst that he felt all the same.

  ‘We got hammered,’ Gumbell said. ‘But no one would ever think it. We were paragons of upstanding, if inebriated, citizenry. I did worry about you when you left The Hibernian, though. You were mumbling at that stage. You tottered off into the night. But nothing happened.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Beck said. ‘And about those little yellow…’

  Silence.

  Beck took the phone from his ear and looked at it: dead.

  Thirty-Nine

  It said ‘McCarthy’s Restaurant, Vegetarian a Speciality’ on the glass panel of the door; Beck pushed against it and entered. The restaurant was long and narrow, with tables on either side of a walkway down its centre. Paintings hung from the walls, discreet price tags pinned beneath. A handwritten sign in cursive script announced, ‘McCarthy’s, Supporting Local Artists’.

  Claire waved to him from a table. She was sitting with a petite blonde woman wearing scarlet lipstick and a low-cut, tight black top. As he sat his eyes studiously avoided the display of ample cleavage. He was embarrassed as to what he was thinking, which was that lesbians weren’t supposed to look this good. He smiled broadly, camouflaging his discomfort.

  ‘This is him, Lucy. Sergeant Finnegan Beck.’

  ‘I don’t know how to take that,’ Beck said. ‘What’s she been saying?’ He extended his hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you, Lucy.’

  She observed him with her warm, large blue eyes. She had a ready smile and her handshake was firm. She was also drop-dead gorgeous.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lucy said. ‘It was all good, once she finished telling me about all the bad, that is.’ She laughed. ‘How’re you finding Cross Beg? You’re not long here, are you?’ She glanced at Claire. ‘It’s okay, darling, I’m not going to pry, I promise. She warned me not to, you know. But I’m a reporter, what can I do?’

  ‘No,’ Beck said. ‘I’m not here that long.’

  ‘So, where did you come from?’

  Beck reached for the menu. ‘From my mother, if that’s what you mean?’

  There was an awkward silence, then Lucy laughed. ‘Point taken.’

  ‘Actually, I’m joking,’ Beck said. ‘Pearse Street. I’ve been transferred from Pearse Street.’

  ‘Hmm, Dublin South Central, a busy place.’ But she didn’t pry any further.

  ‘And you?’ he asked. ‘The Connaughtman, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It won’t win me a Pulitzer Prize, but it pays the bills.’

  ‘And are you running a story on the murder? Is that why you’re here in Cross Beg today?’

  ‘No. Actually I’m covering the district court in Ballinasloe. Life goes on. Thought I’d take a detour to see my baby.’ She looked at Claire, closed her eyes and smiled. Beck thought it all looked a little over the top to him. ‘Do you know,’ she added, ‘the story, the murder of that poor girl, doesn’t seem to have generated much coverage, in the national papers that is. A sign of the times, unfortunately, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you ready to order?’

  The waitress was in her late twenties, with freckled skin, a mass of curly hair and a nose ring. She placed a jug of water on the table along with glasses.

  Beck didn’t find anything on the menu appealing. Claire told him to try the stuffed pasta shells.

  They gave their orders, and as they sipped water, Beck noted Claire looking at Lucy, who had turned her head towards the front of the restaurant. Beck followed her gaze, saw a woman sitting at a table inside the front window looking back at her, smiling.

  ‘I’m such a flirt, aren’t I, Claire?’ Lucy said, turning back again.

  Beck rearranged his cutlery.

  ‘Christ, Lucy,’ Claire said.

  ‘Oh come on, just because we’re hitched doesn’t mean we can’t look.’

  ‘You’re embarrassing Beck here, is what I mean.’

  ‘Am I?’ She turned to him. ‘Can I refer to you as Beck…?’

  He nodded.

  ‘We love each other very much, really. I just enjoy being mischievous, that’s all.’

  ‘Such a bloody drama queen,’ Claire said.

  ‘The district court?’ Beck asked, changing the subject. ‘Anything interesting?’

  Lucy thought about it for a moment. ‘A pretty standard list,’ she said. ‘There’s one story I’m particularly interested in. Listen to this – it may sound like a joke, but it’s not, it’s true, honest to God: guy goes into a filling station riding a horse – well, he crossed the forecourt on the horse, but leaves it at the door while he goes in and holds the place up with a knife. True story. He was arrested soon after, nearby. You can’t get very far on a horse after all. But you’ll never guess his name?’

  ‘I agree,’ Beck said. ‘I’ll never guess.’

  ‘George Cassidy.’

  Beck gave a blank stare.

  ‘The real name of Butch Cassidy, you know, as in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. What a headline: “Butch Cassidy holds up Ballinasloe Filling Station”.’ Lucy threw her head back and laughed. As she did, Beck felt her leg press against his under the table. He glanced at her, saw that she was staring at him now, a playful grin on her face. Beck tucked his legs beneath his chair.

  They talked easily about a range of topics as they ate – politics, the weather, everything except the investigation into Tanya Frazzali’s murder. But now, as they finished their meals, Lucy brought the subject up.

  ‘Because I’m a journalist,’ she said, ‘a journalist who’s married to a police officer, I have to be extra-special careful. I can’t have anything that could get Claire here into trouble, be accused of leaking information. Everything has to be on the record. If it’s not, people’ll think she’s the source. So I’m going to ask a pretty standard, innocuous question, and it’s this: is this case any closer to being solved? Anything you’d like to say?’

  Beck wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘Nothing I’d like to say,’ he said, ‘and that’s a pretty standard, innocuous answer.’

  Claire stood. ‘I’m going to the bathroom. Can we drop the shop talk?’

  ‘You were brushing against my leg earlier,’ Beck said when she left.

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yes, you were.’

  ‘I didn’t notice.’

  ‘I think you did,’ Beck said.

  ‘And are you complaining?’

  ‘You’re just married. What about Claire? How would she feel?’

  ‘Our secret, then.’

  ‘Christ,’ Beck said, sitting back in his chair.

  When they were making their way from the restaurant back to the car, Claire said, ‘She’s just a drama queen, completely, she doesn’t mean any harm. Did she feel your leg under the table, by the way?’

  Beck spluttered. ‘Yes. She did. You knew?’

  ‘She’s always doi
ng it. She must think you’re married. She only does it to married men. Wants to test their reaction. Most rub her back, by the way.’

  ‘What’s she do, then, when they do that?’

  ‘Oh, stops immediately, point made, writes them off as lecherous bastards.’

  ‘A dangerous game.’

  ‘I thought she’d change her ways after we married.’

  Beck laughed.

  ‘What?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Where did I hear that before? Tell me, do you know if St Malachi’s College is open today?’

  ‘The school? Why?’

  ‘Because the girl, Melanie McBride, stopped me in the street yesterday. Told me, as she put it, to look at a Mr Sweetman. He’s a teacher there. Said he and Tanya were very friendly. She emphasised the “very friendly”.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘Ken Sweetman,’ Claire said. ‘I know him. Not personally. Just to see. The school was closed for a day on Tuesday. The funeral is Friday. Today it should be open. Don’t we need evidence here too? Doesn’t his reputation matter?’

  ‘Oh, his reputation matters alright. I think Melanie knows that very well. And she knows child protection laws are strict. We have to speak to him. Immediately. If Mr Sweetman is up to something and we do wait, we could find ourselves up at Garda HQ manning the gate barriers. Here’s the thing. I don’t think I believe her. There’s something about that girl. So we need to be discreet.’

  ‘But you believe Murphy?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. But why would he lie? He knows he’s going to get caught out if he does. Wouldn’t make sense.’

  She checked her watch. ‘We could go there later, wait outside. For him to finish. Be about another hour and a half.’

  Beck nodded. ‘We can do it that way.’

  Forty

  It was just gone four when they turned into the car park of St Malachi’s College. Students were streaming out through the front doors and the gates beside them that led to the sports fields and the new school building compound behind.