“Not that I’ve heard,” Maura said. She wasn’t about to explain her special relationship with the Skibbereen gardaí, but this time around it hadn’t produced anything useful. “You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?”
Peter shook his head. “The dead man? He’s not one of us. Word would have got round if he was.”
An answer, Maura noted, that didn’t quite cover her question. But now was not the time to get into it. “Will you be staying around long?”
“Tryin’ to get rid of us already?” Peter responded with a humorless smile.
“No. I didn’t mean it that way. Look, I’d never heard of Travellers until last week. I don’t know much about your history, and I don’t know why so many people distrust you. But I’m not one of them. I’m kind of an outsider too. Bridget knows you, and she doesn’t have a problem with you. Should I?”
“Sorry,” Peter said. “We’re accustomed to being defensive. Don’t take it personally. We’ll probably be around another week or so, and then there’s some fairs farther west, where there’s horse tradin’ goin’ on.”
“Maybe we can sit down sometime and talk. Although I’m almost always at the pub.”
“Maybe we can work somethin’ out.”
“I hope so.”
Maura raised a hand in farewell and walked back to where she’d parked, thinking about Peter. And his people. Who were, she’d been told, genetically Irish, but who had been living on the fringes for centuries. But there was this underlying hostility among the people toward Travellers that had also been going on a long time. Odd. They looked and sounded like most people in Ireland, but generations back they’d chosen—or been forced onto—a different path. Then it had become a way of life.
She parked near Sullivan’s and unlocked the front door. Rose wasn’t in, not that she had expected to see her so early. Mick was probably at church with Bridget. That meant she was the one who had to clean up, but that was only fair, since Rose had done it the day before. She wouldn’t order her staff to do things that she wasn’t willing to do.
Cleaning gave her time to think. Sometimes that was good, sometimes bad. Right now she had to admit she was frustrated. Somebody had dropped a body on her property a week ago, and still nobody knew who he was or who had dumped him. She couldn’t accept that—it was wrong. She didn’t think she’d ticked anybody off enough to leave a dead body on her doorstep. She didn’t have any feuds going with anyone. Okay, then call it a coincidence. Somebody who needed to get rid of a body fast had thought the ravine would be a good place, and had known the bridge in the past. Or maybe there was some symbolic message that she just wasn’t getting. Heck, maybe the dead guy was a Donovan. Had anybody asked Jerry or Tim in town whether they were missing a brother or nephew? But that long-ago O’Donovan who’d given his name to the village was sort of a local hero, and he’d been dead a long time. Almost nobody would understand the connection now.
Okay, maybe she’d left her gate open, and plenty of people had to know it was never locked. Still, it wasn’t exactly obvious to anyone on the street, especially in the dark. Which again led her back to the idea that somebody must have known the property well enough to know it was there.
She was going in circles. So were the gardaí. This was ridiculous. Worse, she was losing business. She hadn’t done anything to deserve that.
She realized she was banging the mop harder than she needed to. She had no new ideas. At least Sean had come up with one, even if it seemed ridiculous. Yeah, maybe some high-tech computer scanner could take the dead guy’s face and put all the pieces back where they belonged to see what he looked like before someone smashed his face. But that was not going to happen. So Sean had turned to Gillian. Couldn’t hurt, right? Any small progress would be a good thing right now.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The day crawled slowly by. The weather was beautiful and it was high tourist season—but where were the tourists? Weren’t they here in Ireland to sample the authentic atmosphere of an old Irish pub with a lot of music history thrown in? No, more likely they were out frolicking in the meadows looking at cows or prehistoric stone circles. Or avoiding Sullivan’s.
Rose came in shortly before official opening time. She scanned the mostly empty room and said, “Maybe when church lets out…” She did not sound convinced. Billy joined the crowd—if three customers could be called a crowd—just after Maura opened the doors, and he made his slow way to his usual chair. Maura poured him a pint and carried it over to where he sat. “How are you, Billy?”
“Much as I always am. And yerself?”
“Frustrated. Although I guess I shouldn’t be. Things will turn around, right? People will forget the dead man, mostly because nobody ever knew him anyway—he wasn’t one of theirs. Oh, Peter told me the Travellers would be moving on soon—they’ve got horse trading to do, or something like that. Do they keep going in the winter?”
“Some do. Fer all that they’re the same tribe, in a manner of speakin’, they spread out and go their own way much of the time. But there’s those that have settled campsites—there’s one south of Cork city.”
“Do the kids ever see the inside of a school?”
“Most don’t, although that may be changin’. At least the government gives them the chance these days, but that doesn’t mean they grab fer it.”
Time to change the subject. “I saw Gillian earlier. She might stop by this afternoon, with Harry and the baby.”
“That would be grand,” Billy said, beaming, and Maura was reminded that he had no children and probably saw infants rarely. He would have been fun to have as a grandfather, she thought. “Is she settled now?” Billy asked.
“Yes and no. The place is livable—actually I kind of like it, because it’s simple and sunny. But she doesn’t have much chance to work on her art because she can’t find anyone to take care of the baby. At least Harry seems to be earning something now, and I think they got enough from the National Trust to buy the old creamery outright, so they’re not paying any rent or mortgage.”
“Word will get round in the townlands. It may be she won’t find a person for the whole day, but if her time’s her own, they could work out times when she could do her paintin’.”
“I hope so! Hey, maybe we could get Rose to work on a website for her, if she can’t travel far or spend time in Dublin these days. That might bring people to her instead.”
“Can’t say I know anythin’ about these website things, but sure and yeh can ask Rose. And mebbe she could teach Gillian a thing or two?”
“Maybe while she’s teaching me. We haven’t even talked about a website for this place—she started with setting up a way to keep track of tickets for the music. Maybe we could combine the two? Give Gillian a page on the Sullivan’s site?”
“Yeh’ve already lost me, Maura. Talk to Rose.”
“I’ll do that.”
Pour drinks, make coffee, clean up used glasses and mugs, repeat. Mick came in around two, after returning Bridget to her cottage. Rose went out to buy some lunch and brought Maura back a sandwich. It was a very ordinary day, until Gillian, Harry, and Henry arrived in the late afternoon.
For the regulars, especially Billy, the sight of baby Henry was welcome. For the strangers, they glanced at the baby and returned to their pints. When the greetings died down, Maura pointed Gillian and Harry to the table by the window and followed them over. “I don’t think we have any milk on tap. Are you still, uh…”
“Half and half. Don’t worry about it. Harry, you want a pint?”
“I’ll get it—you can talk to Maura.” Harry went over to the bar and struck up a conversation with Mick. Maura took his chair. “So?”
Gillian grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. I rather enjoyed the whole process. I came up with several variations, but the only things I changed among the boys were the details nobody had mentioned. The pictures are different enough so that no one would say they’re identical.”
“Boys?” Mau
ra asked.
Gillian sighed. “Well, men, I suppose, but from my advanced age, they seem very young. Let’s say I didn’t add any wrinkles.”
“Before I look, assuming you’re going to share them with me, did you come to any conclusions about the man?”
“I’m thinking he’s Irish, which doesn’t help much. I don’t think he’s Italian or Spanish or even middle-European, but I can’t claim I’m an expert. But he doesn’t look foreign to me. Maybe I’m biased—after all, I’m the one who recreated him.”
“You want him to be Irish, or everybody looks Irish to you?” Maura pressed.
Gillian didn’t take offense. “Or the only faces I’ve every drawn were Irish and that’s all I know.”
“You didn’t happen to recognize him, did you?”
Gillian shook her head. “You know I haven’t been getting out a lot in the past few months. If he was new to the area, I wouldn’t have seen him. If this guy had been around for long, somebody else will probably recognize him, if only from passing him on the street.”
“Show me, then,” Maura said. “Maybe he stopped in here a time or two.” Anything to erase that awful idea of the smashed face from her mind.
Gillian pulled a manila envelope out of the baby bag she carried, opened it, and fanned out three sketches on the table top. She didn’t say anything but watched Maura’s reaction.
Maura studied them carefully. Gillian was good: each picture looked like a believable person, but there were distinct differences among them. They could be brothers. But none of the images looked like anyone she could remember meeting. “Can I show Mick and Rose?”
Gillian shrugged. “If the gardaí won’t be angry. But you don’t have to tell them who’s seen them.”
Maura grabbed Rose as she passed with some empty glasses. “Does any one of these look familiar to you?” she asked in a low voice.
“Ah, Gillian’s sketches.” Rose looked at each, then shook her head. “I can’t say I’ve seen anyone like this here. I don’t think this is his kind of place. Good likenesses, though.”
“Can you send Mick over?”
“I’ll do that.” Rose collected her glasses again and went to deposit them on the bar. She leaned closer to talk to Mick and nodded at the corner table, and he came over quickly.
“There are yer sketches fer the gardaí, then?” he asked.
“They are,” Gillian said. “See anyone you know?”
He, like Rose, looked at each, taking him time. “I can’t say that I do.”
“So it’s unanimous,” Maura said. “None of us knows him. Can I call Sean now and tell him to come collect them?”
“Might as well,” Gillian told her. “My darling child will no doubt wake up sometime soon, and I’d like to explain to Sean how I approached his request before that.”
“I’ll do it now.” She pulled out her phone and hit Sean’s direct line, and he answered immediately.
“Maura, what’ve yeh got?”
“Gillian’s here at Sullivan’s, and she wants to show you what she’s put together.”
“I’ll be there in ten.” He hung up, and Maura could picture him running for his car.
She turned back to Gillian. “On his way.”
Gillian smiled. “Now I know how you feel—I have only to snap my fingers and the gardaí come running. I hope the sketches live up to his expectations.”
“Well, they’re better than the nothing he has now.” Maura went back to the bar to tell Mick and Rose what was going on. Rose looked excited, but Mick looked doubtful. “Have yeh not noticed how much we Irish look like each other?”
Was he kidding? “Well, yes, but if these pictures don’t look Irish to Sean, then we’ve learned something. Come on, Mick—you can’t just complain. If you have a better idea, then tell us. Or shut up.”
He threw up his hands in defeat and turned away. Maura felt bad for ticking him off, but she wasn’t about to apologize for trying to do something—at the request of garda Sean—rather than just whining about how unfair the world was. She hadn’t killed the guy in the ravine, but she was going to do her best to find out who had. She was taking this personally.
Sean arrived eleven minutes after he had hung up, but his delay was explained by the presence of Sergeant Ryan looming behind him. Sean was all business. He nodded at Maura, then greeted Gillian. Harry had joined her and was standing behind her chair. Henry was oblivious to the drama going on. “Gillian, you’ve met the sergeant here, am I right?”
Gillian nodded. “Of course. You helped us clear out the creamery. Sergeant Ryan, isn’t it?”
The sergeant nodded. Sean went on, “We thought it might be a good thing to have a second set of eyes on the drawings, and Sergeant Ryan’s from away, so he might see something we don’t. What’ve yeh got fer us?”
“Sit down, the two of you—you’re making me nervous, looming over me like that. Maura said she told you I don’t do portraits, and that’s true. But drawing faces is part of any art student’s education. I’ve done my best.” Like a fortune teller, Gillian laid out the drawings, one at a time. Since they were on standard-size paper, they took up a large part of the table, and she spaced them carefully.
Without speaking, the two gardaí studied each picture, one at a time. When they got to the third, the sergeant burst out, “Are yeh shitten’ me? Oh, sorry.”
Gillian smiled at him and said in a mock-stern tone, “Careful, sergeant, there’s an infant present. Wouldn’t want him to pick up bad habits. What do you see?”
Sergeant Ryan pointed to the middle picture. “Him. I’m thinkin’ I know him from Limerick.”
Sean was suddenly alert. “How do you come to know him?”
“You know I worked some with the Limerick gang unit—hard not to in one way or another. This one was new, just arrived when I was leavin’.” The sergeant nodded toward the picture on the table.
“No tattoos?” Sean demanded.
“No, he hadn’t been around the gangs long enough. Mebbe that’s what threw me off—I figgered ‘no tats, no gang.’”
“So he’s not local,” Maura interrupted. “What would he be doing here?”
“Any number of things. Just passin’ through—this is a main road, yeh know. Looking fer a friend. Transporting something that come by boat. Can’t say without more information.”
“Is this picture good enough to hand around, see who else might’ve seen him?” Sean asked.
Sergeant Ryan nodded once without hesitating. “It’s close enough. I’d put money on it bein’ him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Paddy Creegan. Could be he’s still got family up toward Limerick—if they’re not all dead. I’ll make a call to one of my mates, see if there’s any word about what young Paddy’s been up to lately.”
Sean picked up the picture and made a discreet mark on it. “This yer only copy?”
“I can’t exactly afford copy machines, Sean,” Gillian said. “Yes, it’s my only copy of the sketch.”
“I’ll see to it yeh get a copy. More than one, if need be.”
“Can we post one here?” Maura asked suddenly.
“Yeh may. But if yeh’re thinkin’ his killer might be hangin’ about, yeh should watch out fer yerself.”
“If he had half a brain, he’s long gone. But somebody might have seen this Paddy with someone else. Can it hurt?”
Sean looked at her seriously for a long moment. “Just keep safe. All of yiz.”
Sergeant Ryan interrupted. “Murphy, let’s get back to Skib. I want to start this ball rollin’, now that we’ve got something to work with. Oh, and Maura? Don’t be spreadin’ his name around, right? Show the face, ask if anybody saw him, but you don’t know who he is, nor do the gardaí.”
The Creegan family must be important in Limerick, Maura deduced, but she understood the sergeant’s meaning. “Got it. We don’t know him, but we welcome any information.”
“Right so.” He turned back to Gillian. �
�Gillian, yeh’ve done a grand job, and we appreciate it. You’ll get proper credit for what yeh’ve done, at least within our station.”
The two gardaí turned and walked out the door as Maura and Gillian watched. “You’ll notice he didn’t say anything about paying me for my services,” Gillian said wryly.
“True. But think of the publicity! ‘Come visit the site of the crime, and you can buy an original artwork by the woman who broke the case.’”
“Good point. We might polish it up just a bit, though. And he did say to keep it quiet, did he not?” Henry began to make mewling noises, so Gillian picked him up and said to him, “You missed all the fun, little man. Are you ready for your supper?” He answered with a cranky wail. “I’ll take that as a yes. I guess we’d best go home. Let me know if anything exciting happens.” She waved across the room to Harry, who made his good-byes to Mick and came over.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“I may not be, love, but the little one is.”
“Go, the two of you,” Maura told them. “And thanks for going along with the crazy idea, Gillian. It’s great that it paid off. Harry, you’ll keep an eye open?”
“What?” he asked, bewildered.
“I’ll explain on the way,” Gillian said. “Besides, who’d come after me? The gardaí have the picture, and I’m sure they’ll spread it around. My part’s done.”
She stood up and gathered Henry and his baby things. “Mick!” she called out. “Take care of her”—she nodded toward Maura—“and Rose. And say hello to Bridget for me.”
“I’ll do that. Safe home.”
Maura sat down on a barstool. “Wow, that was unexpected. I need a pint, since we don’t have any champagne.”
“The case is far from solved,” Mick reminded her.
“I know that, but this is the first break we’ve had. I’m glad I don’t know who the guy is personally, but if he’s a Limerick thug known to the gardaí, it’s no surprise somebody wanted him dead. And now at least our gardaí have something to work with.”
The Lost Traveller Page 18