Where She Lies

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Where She Lies Page 13

by Michael Scanlon


  They sat watching the school for twenty minutes or so, the stream of students emerging reduced to a trickle. Various teachers followed. Beck spotted Father Clifford, who was carrying a battered briefcase. Presumably he had been teaching RE. Most of the cars in the car park had gone, and they were about to give up when—

  ‘There he is,’ Claire said, pointing to a figure rounding the side of the school, pushing a bike, a leather satchel slung by his side.

  They moved quickly, got out of the Focus and crossed the small hedge separating the car park from the roadway, blocking Sweetman’s path as he was about to cycle off.

  ‘Ken Sweetman?’ Claire said.

  Sweetman was underneath the glare of a street lamp. He looked towards them, balancing on the saddle of his bike. Beck and Claire moved into the pool of light.

  ‘Yes,’ Sweetman said, ‘that’s me.’

  ‘I’m Detective Garda Claire Somers, and this is Detective Sergeant Finnegan Beck. We’d like a word.’

  ‘A word? With me? Why? I’m in bit of a hurry – on my way to give a private tutorial, actually.’

  ‘We waited for you,’ Beck said. ‘When we could have made our lives a whole lot easier by simply going in and taking you out from your class. But we didn’t. We’d like a word.’

  Sweetman got off his bike and leaned it against the wall. He was dressed in drainpipe jeans and a North Face jacket with a red zipper and collar. He pulled on the strap of his satchel and moved it so it was resting against his back.

  ‘Sit with us in our car for a minute,’ Beck said, and Claire led the way to the Focus.

  Sweetman sat in the back and was clearly nervous. He had large dark eyes and was handsome, with a long, prominent chin softened by a goatee beard. He held the satchel across his chest like a protective shield. It was an expensive-looking satchel with thick metal buckles and was embossed with what looked to be an Italian designer name.

  Beck twisted in the front passenger seat to look back at him.

  ‘Mr Sweetman. We’re investigating the murder of Tanya…’

  ‘Yes, I know. Is that why you want to speak to me? Tanya, God. I had nothing to do with that. You hardly think…’

  ‘Mr Sweetman,’ Beck said, more insistent now. ‘If you could listen, please.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘In an investigation of this nature,’ Beck went on, ‘the public contact us with lots of information, most of it useless, but we must look into it – we must look into everything.’

  The teacher looked past Beck, out through the windscreen. ‘So what you’re saying is that someone gave you my name?’

  ‘Yes,’ Claire said, ‘that’s what we’re saying. Someone gave us your name.’

  Sweetman fell silent and pulled the satchel closer to him. ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Beck asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I have no idea why anyone would do that. What did they say, can I ask?’

  ‘That you and Tanya were close,’ Beck said.

  The teacher gave a loud sigh and rested his head back onto the headrest, looking at the ceiling now. He was perfectly still. In the grey light, he had the appearance of a painting.

  ‘I was close to Tanya, yes, if that’s the term you want to use. She was a very sensitive girl, liked to sing. Did you know that? Did anyone know that?’

  Beck shook his head.

  ‘Most people never did either. Her voice was very beautiful, a subtle vibrato, very sweet. I play guitar, and one day she sang that song covered by Alison Krauss, “Down to the River to Pray”, in my classroom after school. Does that make us close? What’s wrong with that if it does?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Beck said after a pause. ‘So why do you think your name was mentioned to us?’

  ‘It depends on who did the mentioning. I have an opinion on that.’

  ‘We’d like to hear it,’ Claire said.

  The teacher’s brow furrowed.

  ‘Was the person who spoke to you Melanie McBride, by any chance?’ he asked.

  ‘Why would you think that?’ Beck answered.

  ‘Because her name jumps to mind, that’s all.’

  ‘And there must be a reason for that,’ Claire said.

  Sweetman suddenly released the satchel and pushed it to the floor of the car, resting it against his feet. He leaned forward.

  ‘I’ve been teaching nine years, five of those at St Malachi’s College. Girls – how can I put this? – you have to understand them… That sounds really sexist, I don’t mean it like that. What I mean is…’

  ‘That Melanie was coming on to you?’ Beck said.

  The teacher fell silent, looking at him. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘She was, then?’

  ‘It happens from time to time,’ Sweetman said. ‘A teacher has to be very careful how he, or indeed she, handles it. You could crush budding emotions, feelings, that sort of thing, feelings that maybe have never been experienced before, and might not come again for a long time if you handle it incorrectly. A very delicate situation for everybody concerned.’

  The teacher’s choice of words brought to mind Gumbell’s remark: ‘You should have been a poet, Beck’. But he also considered that Melanie herself had not displayed any delicate budding emotions herself that he had noticed.

  ‘Everybody concerned?’ Claire said. ‘Like who?’

  ‘School policy is that the principal must be informed.’

  ‘And was he?’ Beck asked.

  The teacher said nothing, just shook his head.

  ‘I see,’ Beck said. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I meant to. I just didn’t get round to it. But I meant to. I did speak with Melanie, though. I explained to her. I thought that might be the end of it. To be honest, I put off speaking with the principal and then just, well, let it go.’

  ‘When you say you explained to Melanie,’ Claire said, ‘what did you explain to Melanie exactly? What did you tell her?’

  ‘The truth.’

  ‘Which is?’ Beck asked.

  ‘That I’m gay. It’s not something I advertise, but I don’t hide it either.’

  ‘I see,’ Beck said. ‘And did that put an end to it?’

  ‘Not really. She didn’t believe me.’

  ‘Didn’t she?’ It was Claire, surprised.

  ‘No. It all got a little crazy after that. She threatened she’d go to the principal, tell him I was seeing Tanya. I literally became ill for a time because of it. How would it look? I hadn’t gone to the principal myself. It would look like I had something to hide. It left me in an extremely vulnerable position, I can tell you. And still does. She reported me to you, didn’t she? I know you can’t say that she did.’ He sat back, ran a hand over his goatee beard and added, almost in a whisper, ‘There’s another reason why Tanya and I were friendly.’

  Beck and Claire did not speak, allowing the teacher time.

  ‘Myself and Tony, her brother, were involved. Had been for a long time. Tanya knew about it. She had no problem. But Tony wanted it kept secret. He hasn’t told his mother he’s gay, you see. He said he would, but something was stopping him. I think it’s because he’s an only son. Also his mother used to nag him about why it was taking so long for him to find a nice girl and settle down, said she wanted grandchildren and everything. Looking back, I think that was her way of getting him to open up about it. She’s his mother, after all – she knew, I think, she had to. But Tony didn’t want to discuss it. It’s the main reason why we broke up, actually. That was just over a year ago now.’

  ‘How did you find Tanya after that?’ Beck asked. ‘Did she seem the same to you?’

  ‘I didn’t see that much of her. I don’t teach third year. But the little I did see of her, no, she didn’t seem the same. There was something that seemed to have changed with her, something weighing on her mind. She wasn’t herself. What’s the word? She was never present, is the way I’d put it. That’s it – she was never present, her mind was always somewhere else. I
put it down to teenage angst. It’s a really shitty time, if you ask me.’

  ‘Can you still make your tutorial?’ Beck asked. ‘If you go now.’

  The teacher looked at his watch.

  ‘If I move fast. Maybe.’

  ‘You’re free to go, Mr Sweetman. Thank you for your help.’

  As the teacher got out of the car and crossed to the wall to retrieve his bicycle, Beck muttered, ‘Little Melanie is not all that she appears, is she? Some piece of work, eh?’

  ‘Neither,’ said Claire, ‘was Tanya. With what was found in her blood. Xanax and marijuana. Screwing around with some older guy. Not that I’m taking any moral high ground here. I’m not.’

  She made the sign of the cross.

  ‘What was that for?’ Beck asked.

  ‘Guilt,’ Claire said. ‘Don’t ask why. Gained from a lifetime of stifling, overbearing Catholicism. It just works every time, that’s all I know.’

  Forty-One

  Beck sat at his unofficial desk back at the station and checked Pulse. He saw that a post-mortem was due to be held on Ned’s body that night at the County Hospital. By morning there would be indications if not a certainty as to the coroner’s conclusion: suicide or foul play.

  His mobile phone rang on the desk by his elbow. He picked it up, looking at the screen. A Dublin number, one he knew by the first three digits to be the Garda HQ. He pressed the green button. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Finnegan Beck?’ the female voice asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The Office of the Assistant Commissioner An Garda Síochána, Maria Mulcahy speaking. You are requested to attend a meeting of the Incident Investigative Committee, reference number 5463, tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. at Garda HQ. Can you attend?’

  Beck glanced at the clock on the Ops Room wall.

  ‘Tomorrow? At 9 a.m.?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct. Can you be there?’

  Beck took a breath. ‘Um, of course.’

  * * *

  It was raining. Beck hurried along Main Street, the lights in the shop windows displaying their wares like a tacky version of an Arabian bazaar. A man, small and round, behind the window of a jeweller’s – Tuohill’s, it said over the door – was removing a tray of rings. He smiled as Beck passed, a smile as false as the claim on the tray in his hands that said ‘Pure Gold. Amazing Savings’. Beck nodded in return. He continued, passing the pub with a front window made up of different-coloured dimpled glass panels. He stopped to look at it. What do you call a window like that? Beck wondered. For some reason he decided he really wanted to know the answer to that question right now, so he went in.

  There were few people inside: three people sitting on stools along the counter, a woman in a blue nylon house coat standing behind it, staring at the door, a TV blaring in the corner. Beck didn’t care about finding the answer to that question now, saw it for what it was, an excuse. He turned and went back out again, continued along the street and went into the Centra supermarket at the end near the bridge. There he picked up a bottle of Spanish brandy for €19.99. Once home, he took a glass from the kitchen and sat in the sitting room, turned on the lamp on the low table beside him, opened the brandy and half filled the glass. He sipped.

  Spanish brandy retained a unique flavour, he had learned. Hues of sherry from the sherry casks it was aged in. To be fully appreciated it demanded time, and should never be rushed. In this way, the full flavour and the strength of its Iberian character came through. Or so it said on the back of the bottle. Beck drank the contents of the glass in one swallow.

  He needed to book a taxi to the railway station for the morning. He also needed to get a good night’s rest. In the meantime, he’d have one more drink. Only the one, mind, he told himself. He poured more brandy into the glass, filling it three quarters full this time. He drank slower now, taking two gulps instead of one to finish it.

  And then he felt the magic carpet slide beneath him, felt the lightness of his body as it raised him up. But there it hovered, not getting any higher, something holding it back. Beck refilled the glass, halfway this time, took a long gulp, finished it, but still he did not move. Instead the waves of memory washed over him, brittle and cold…

  The balmy July evening offered a false sense of calm, a sense that all was well with the world. Summers in Dublin were usually warm, sometimes dry, occasionally sunny, but rarely all three. They were parked along side streets in nine unmarked cars, a total of twenty-seven officers, all armed. Temple Bar was a heaving cauldron of bodies along its cobbled streets, every bar, restaurant and club packed to the rafters, every language under the sun spoken within a two-square-mile radius. It was Rio de Janeiro at carnival time, Mardi Gras in New Orleans, a typical Saturday night in Dublin’s party quarter.

  Beck was anxious. He wanted this to be over with as quickly as possible. He wanted the celebration, an acceptable reason for him to get shitfaced.

  They waited. And waited. At 11.30 p.m., the voice of Chief Superintendent Cavanagh, Special Operations, came over the radio: ‘Thirty minutes remaining. If there’s no movement, the operation terminates at midnight, all crews to return to base. Stand by.’

  Beck thought of the choice of words – ‘no movement’ sounded like something bowel-related to him. Continuing with that analogy, he knew that what often followed on from periods of constipation were bowel movements of a sudden and violent ferocity.

  And so it proved to be.

  ‘Be advised: target emerging from working men’s club, moving on to Essex Street East, in the company of a female,’ the radio crackled.

  The target was Jake ‘Razor’ Byrne: drug addict, dealer, armed robber and scumbag, vicious and unpredictable, the subject of discussion in the Irish houses of parliament no less.

  They moved.

  In hindsight, Beck should never have drunk that Polish beer. Polish beer was always strong, six of them certainly enough to impair judgement for most people. But Beck didn’t feel impaired, he felt empowered. His real mistake was in leaving the empty bottles in the unmarked patrol car’s boot.

  As they moved they lost sight of the target. He had disappeared into a doorway, leaving his female companion outside on the street. Beck’s radio erupted into life, a dozen different voices all shouting at the same time, all saying something different, forcing Beck to hold the radio to his ear, trying to decipher any meaning from the garbled words. And then the chant, as if at a football game: ‘FBI. FBI. FBI.’ The stag party had spotted him. They looked Scandinavian; big blond men wearing silly plastic Viking hats. They were also pissed, and the more Beck requested them to quieten down, the louder they became, jumping and pointing towards him. ‘FBI. FBI. FBI…’

  He was thinking that the whole operation was going pear-shaped when the first shot rang out, a loud, vicious crack that had no place on such a beautiful evening, a sound that temporarily silenced everyone, even the stag party. And two more shots followed, with it a chaos in direct proportion to the meticulously detailed planning that had gone into the operation. People screamed and ran in every direction. The teams stormed building after building looking for the shooter, the sight of the plainclothes officers with their firearms drawn adding to the bedlam.

  As Beck led the way in through another doorway – it had a glitzy neon sign on the wall next to it: ‘Dublin’s Number One Thai Restaurant, First Floor’ – he saw the body of Garda Jason Geraghty sprawled on the stairs, washed in the purple glow of the stripe lights running along the banisters on either side. His head lay in a pool of blood, the blood dripping slowly down onto the step below. Beck knew immediately that he was dead, because the pool was still, with no heartbeat to push more blood in to disturb it. Jason Geraghty, nickname Dynamo, who always joked he’d make it to Commissioner one day. The thing was, no one had thought it was a joke – they thought he’d make it. Jason Geraghty, who’d only joined the Serious Crime Unit six months before. Jason Geraghty, who was now dead.

  Beck stopped at the bottom
of the stairs, Jason Geraghty staring down at him, his eyes wide and unblinking and dead, a small red hole at the side of his forehead.

  ‘… Mr Beck, are you alright? I was knocking at the door. It wasn’t locked.’

  ‘What?’

  Beck turned. It took him a moment to realise that someone was standing in the doorway of the living room.

  ‘Mrs Claxton?’ he said finally.

  She stepped into the room. ‘Yes, it’s me.’

  Her eyes moved to take in the bottle on the table beside him. He looked at it too. It was half-empty… or half-full, whichever way you chose to consider it. He liked to think of it as being half-full, for now anyway.

  ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘It’s an acceptable time to visit, I hope. It’s not very late. No reason,’ she said.

  Beck laughed. ‘An unaccompanied lady visiting a single gentleman in his lodgings, the very landlady no less. What will people say?’

  She looked at him without expression. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea, shall I?’

  ‘Go right ahead,’ Beck said.

  She went into the kitchen. A short while later, when she came back into the room, a steaming mug in each hand, she noticed the bottle was empty now. She placed a mug next to it, sat opposite him on the settee. For a long time neither of them spoke.

  ‘You don’t look drunk,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t I? But I’m floating above the thermals, believe me. I had to eventually.’

  ‘Oh, I believe you alright.’

  Beck stood. ‘I’m going for a cigarette.’

  ‘You can smoke in here, I don’t mind.’

  ‘I like it out back, sitting on that bench of yours, that antique thing.’

  ‘I need to do something with that antique thing, as you call it. It’s quite valuable, you know.’

  Beck smoked his cigarette, imagining his mind as a chamber, opening the doors, allowing his thoughts free. With each exhale of breath he imagined pushing them out, until eventually the chamber was empty.

  He could feel the cold air on his face, hear the traffic in the distance, the tic tac of what sounded like high heels on a street somewhere, someone laughing. And between those sounds, he could hear the very air itself, an almost imperceptible static, like a radio not tuned properly to any station. He sucked on the last of his cigarette and went back inside, stood in front of the empty fireplace, clasped his hands behind his back.

 

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