Murder
on
Clare Island
In loving memory of my mother, Kathleen.
13.11.1920 – 11.11.2015
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
My grateful thanks to the owners of the Clare Island Lighthouse for permission to use it in this novel. I have tried to be true to the description of this boutique guesthouse but have made some changes for the sake of the story-line. Anyone wishing to stay should check out the website for details where they can also see some fabulous photographs.
http://www.clareislandlighthouse.com/en/
My characters, Daisy and Tadgh, who manage the guesthouse in my novel, are not based in any way on the owners whom I have not yet had the good fortune to meet.
I hope I have managed to do both this wonderful place, and Clare Island, justice.
Valerie Keogh
1
Detective Sergeant Mike West was having a rare morning off. He’d got up at the usual time, dressed and readied for the day and then thought, what the hell, made coffee and sat reading the newspaper. Starting with last week’s he worked his way through the days until by nine he had only yesterday’s to read. At nine, on the dot, he stopped and rang Foxrock Garda Station, leaving a message with the duty sergeant, saying he’d be in later.
Andrews, he knew, would be flummoxed. Grinning at the thought of his partner’s face when he heard the news, he went back to his newspaper, turning a page with a sigh of contentment.
His Greystones house was, despite many improvements and additions over the years, an old house. Doors opened and closed noisily and almost every floorboard squeaked so he knew when Kelly was up and about. He moved to fill and switch on the kettle, anticipating her arrival, humming under his breath. When she didn’t appear, he assumed she’d gone back to bed. Maybe he’d bring her up some coffee. She liked a strong cup of coffee to start her day. Smiling, he shook his head. He was getting used to her ways already.
Upstairs, Kelly had indeed woken but in that shadow time between sleeping and waking, everything had come hurtling back, her eyes snapping open to dart frantically around the room, her mind momentarily disorientated. With a soft cry she closed her eyes as she remembered everything, Heather’s betrayal, her assault, the absolute fear. She sighed. It would get easier, wasn’t that what they said. She rubbed her eyes, ran a hand over her face. They advised her to talk about it too, but, instead, she held her hand up at the first mention of her ordeal, her hand remaining raised until whoever was speaking stopped. She wasn’t ready to talk about it; after all, what did they know anyway?
Opening her eyes again she blinked at the light streaming in through the uncurtained windows. West had apologised when he’d brought her to his home three days earlier, had wanted to rush out and buy curtains for the unused spare-bedroom. But the hours spent in that small dark space at Heather’s mercy had taken its toll and the bare window suited her just fine. She lay there looking at the clouds drifting gently across an incredibly blue sky and took a deep breath. Perhaps, she thought, today might be a good day to venture outside.
Her room faced the road and apart from the occasional car, it was usually quiet. This morning, however, there was the sound of heavy doors opening and closing, grunts of exertion, banging. Throwing back the duvet, Kelly climbed out of bed and stood to one side of the window. Being careful not to be seen, she peered round the edge. There was a removals van parked out on the road, boxes and furniture being off-loaded and carried in next door. She watched for a few minutes, picturing herself doing the same if she decided to sell her house on Wilton Road. If. Shaking her head, she knew she was being stupid. It had to go; after all she couldn’t face living there. Too many memories of her ex-husband still clung to it.
But first, as always, she needed coffee. Checking her watch, she saw it was later than she had expected. Nine o’clock. Mike would have long gone. She looked down at what she was wearing. A camisole and French knickers. Mike had gone to Wilton Road to fetch her some clothes before she’d left the hospital. She supposed she couldn’t really complain at the assortment of items he’d brought her. Lots of knickers, for example, but no nightclothes. She was usually happy to sleep naked, but not in someone else’s house, especially when there was no en-suite. She pulled on jeans and a jumper every time she needed to use the loo during the night but, listening to the silence in the house, she thought it was safe to go there now in what she was wearing.
Moments later, back in the bedroom, she flicked through the few clothes hanging in the cavernous wardrobe. Men, she thought, discounting the too tight dress, constrictive skirt, uncomfortable jeans. The legging she wore yesterday would have done another day if she hadn’t spilt something sticky on them the previous evening. Her other pair had gone into the washing machine yesterday, surely they’d be dry.
Opening the door, she listened a moment, holding her breath. Then letting it out in a gust, she picked up yesterday’s unfinished coffee and, mug in hand, started down the stairs. She was half-way down, just at the point of no return, when a door below opened and she froze.
West, freshly made coffee in hand, looked up the stairway in time to see a vision in lace-trimmed camisole and French knickers. He had just enough time to admire an outfit that exposed as much flesh as it revealed before the lace-clad vision was lying in an undignified tangle at his feet. The half-empty mug of cold coffee flew from Kelly’s hand as she fell, sending a jet of coffee in a spiral before it clattered from step to step in her wake, emptying itself on the way.
Tyler, the Chihuahua, frightened by the noise, ran out, yapping and adding to the confusion. West shushed the dog, put the coffee he was holding down on the hall table and stooped to help her, pulling the camisole down over an exposed breast. ‘Jesus, Kelly,’ he said, ‘are you ok? Have you hurt yourself?’
Dignity. Pride. Self-respect. All hurt. But, moving her limbs, trying to move into a more dignified position, Kelly decided nothing was broken. ‘I’m ok,’ she mumbled and then shaking her head looked back up the stairs. ‘Oh God,’ she cried, ‘what a mess I’ve made.’
She had indeed. West took a look at the brown stains on the cream walls, the splashes of coffee that spattered almost every stair. He was about to say it’s not that bad, when he caught Kelly’s eye. He couldn’t lie. There’d been enough of those. Looking back up the stairway, he smiled. ‘I’m sure it will wash off the walls, Kelly. And, to be honest, I’ve never liked that carpet. It was there when I bought the place, I’ve just been too lazy to change it.’
Standing, he reached down for her hand, pulled her to her feet. ‘Now, how about I go and get you a dressing gown and you come and have some breakfast.’
They sat around the walnut table that dominated the dining end of the extended kitchen, the bifold doors opened fully so it was almost like sitting outside. West kept the conversation deliberately light, speaking of the garden, the plans he had for planting and then, laughing, they talked about what colour carpet would be suitable for the stairway. He didn’t mention her plans for Wilton Road, her ex-husband or the recent disastrous foray into volunteer work that had almost killed her.
He made more coffee and opened a packet of biscuits, emptying them onto a plate and bringing them to the table with a flourish. ‘Morning coffee,’ he said with a smile.
When there was a lull in conversation, Kelly mentioned the removal van she’d seen outside the house.
West nodded. ‘The house next door is rented. There was a family in it until about six weeks ago; they bought a house in Kilternan.’ With tha
t, he glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was nearly mid-day. ‘We’ve talked the morning away, I’d better get moving,’ he said, ‘will you be ok?’
Kelly smiled at him. ‘It’s such a nice day; I thought I might go for a walk.’
It was the first time she’d mentioned leaving the house since he’d brought her home from the hospital. It was probably a good sign; he probably shouldn’t worry about her. But he loved her and she had a tendency to get herself into scrapes of all sorts – life threatening one at that. So why wouldn’t he worry? He settled for saying, ‘Don’t overdo it then.’ And with that restrained comment, and a smile, he left.
2
Kelly sat a while longer after the front door shut. She saw the worry in Mike’s face. It was understandable, she supposed. He’d rescued her and saved her life, but she wasn’t a child, she didn’t need watching. It was mid-afternoon before she was finally ready to venture out. She didn’t walk far, just to the local shops about ten minutes away. She bought a couple of bottles of wine, some biscuits and a packet of doggie shaped treats for Tyler.
The removal van was gone by the time she returned, the usual peace and quiet of the street restored. Wondering who’d moved in, she stopped and looked toward the house. The curtains were open, but she couldn’t see anyone walking inside. She was about to move on when the front door opened, and a man appeared. Tall and broad, he stood and stared at her, his face unsmiling and, most definitely, unwelcoming. ‘Sorry,’ she said, rushing to explain her nosiness, ‘I live next door, well, actually, I don’t, but I’m staying there.’ She was babbling, she realised and stopped. ‘I’m sorry,’ she tried again, ‘I saw the removal van earlier, I suppose I was just trying to see who moved in.’
The man stood a moment longer. Then with a brief look behind, as though someone had called him, he said, ‘Me and my wife,’ then he stepped back and closed the door.
The tears that came instantly to Kelly’s eyes, told her, more than anything, that she wasn’t quite recovered from her recent ordeal. Shoulders a little slumped; she walked on to West’s house, pushed open the gate and trudged up the path. She hadn’t been doing any harm, she thought to herself, throwing a look of dislike at the house next door, surprised to see a face looking out at her – not the man but a rather attractive woman. As soon as Kelly saw her, the face vanished.
‘Strange pair,’ she muttered, opening the door and heading inside. For a first outing, it hadn’t been too successful. Except for the wine. She took out the two bottles, admired the labels, hoped they were half-way decent, and put them on the table.
She’d had a look in the fridge earlier, and decided to cook dinner. For the last couple of days, she hadn’t been hungry, toast and coffee being as much as she could manage. But she’d spied some minced meat, and opening cupboards, found the ingredients for a lasagne. She had no idea, she suddenly realised, if he would be home for dinner or not. Their’s wasn’t what you would call a normal relationship. In fact, it wasn’t a relationship, by any definition. He’d kissed her in the hospital, but since then, nothing.
She knew he had feelings for her. But her feelings for him were more complicated. She owed him a lot. For goodness sake, the man had saved her life. But gratitude wasn’t any basis for a relationship. He was kind, trustworthy, handsome. Was that enough?
She was skinning tomatoes when a thought struck her. She’d said it to him, hadn’t she? When he brought her here the first day, she’d said she owed him so much, how could she ever repay him. She’d seen a strange look on his face. She understood it now. ‘Idiot,’ she said, squashing the tomato with a wooden spoon. He was kind, trustworthy, handsome and extremely intelligent. He wouldn’t kiss her again until he was sure she wasn’t responding because she owed him! ‘Aargh’ she yelled, squashing the second tomato just as West opened the kitchen door.
‘Are you trying to frighten that tomato into submission,’ he said calmly, picking up one of the bottles of wine she’d bought, an eyebrow raising, so Kelly guessed it must be good. Or maybe very bad?
‘I’m making lasagne,’ she said, hitting the tomato with less force. ‘You didn’t have any tinned, so I’m using fresh.’
‘I love lasagne,’ he replied, opening a drawer and taking out a bottle opener. ‘I also like Chateau Neuf du Pape. I’ll open it, let it breathe a bit.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’m not usually home this early actually. But Andrews has everything under control so I thought I’d take an early afternoon.’
Kelly shook her head. ‘Late morning, early afternoon, do you ever actually work?’ She grinned at him, knowing exactly why he was home early, he was worried about her. ‘You could have just rung, you know,’ she said.
West smiled but said nothing. ‘I’ll fill up Tyler’s feeding stations while you’re beating up those tomatoes.’
Tyler belonged to his friend, Brendan, who had gone on an extended holiday. West had the occasional e-mail from exotic places but there was never any mention of his returning home so it looked like Tyler’s stay was going to continue. West didn’t object, he’d become fond of the little dog, even if his epicurean taste was costing him a fortune.
There was a cosy domesticity about it all. Kelly cooking dinner, West feeding the dog before sitting at the table and taking out that day’s newspaper, reading out snippets he thought would interest her. When the aroma of lasagne began to waft into the room, he poured them both a glass of wine. ‘That smells delicious,’ he said.
Kelly checked her watch. ‘Five minutes,’ she said.
To her delight, it turned out perfectly, and tasted even better. ‘Ok,’ West said, accepting a second helping, ‘you are now the official cook.’
The silence that followed quickly became uncomfortable as each considered the temporary nature of the current situation. Finally, Kelly, unwilling to upset the mood of the evening, smiled and said, ‘I’ll settle for that title.’ The future, she decided, was just that. It could wait. Instead she switched the conversation to the strange couple next door and told him what she’d seen.
‘Very odd,’ she finished.
‘Not really,’ West said. ‘Moving house is very stressful; you probably just caught him off-guard.’
‘I suppose, but there was something just a bit strange about his reaction, and then I saw a woman peering at me from behind the curtain.’
West looked at her without saying a word, taking in her pallor, the dark shadows under her eyes. She’d been through so much. He’d been with her when she left the hospital; had stayed, at her request, when the doctors told her that being kept prisoner might have delayed psychological impact, as might the morphine she had been injected with. So far she had seemed ok, but this paranoia, was this something new?
Oblivious to his concerns, Kelly continued. ‘I thought I heard some banging and shouting shortly after.’
‘They’re unpacking, Kelly,’ he said, keeping his voice even. ‘It’s not a quiet or enjoyable process from what I remember. I think you’re reading too much into it.’
Kelly was about to pursue the matter when she saw the look on his face and, almost frantically, searched for a safer topic. ‘I was thinking about your stair-carpet,’ she said remembering that she had indeed looked at the ruined carpet and wondered about its replacement. ‘The wooden floor in the hallway is so lovely, I wondered if you’d consider staining the stairs to match and then having one of those runner types, with stair-rods. You know the ones I mean?’
It was the perfect topic of conversation and they chatted amicably for the rest of the meal, the only contentious issue being when Kelly insisted she’d pay for it, and even this was ironed out by West’s insistence that several delicious dinners, like the one she had just provided, could be her contribution.
It was dark when Kelly returned to her bedroom. Leaving the light off, she moved to the window and looked at the house next door. It was in complete darkness, almost as it was the night before when nobody lived there. She was being foolish, she thought, shaking her head.
Her recent experiences had left her suspicious of everyone except West.
Switching on the light, she put the people next door out of her head. Everything was perfectly normal. Then she shivered. Hadn’t that been what she’d thought of Heather Goodbody? And look how that had turned out.
3
West sat in his office reading the latest crime statistics. Finishing, he picked up the first of that month’s of persons-of-interest list, scanning the names and checking out the available photographs before committing them to memory. Some of them were nasty characters, their list of crimes including assault, rape, robbery, and drug dealing.
‘There’s always drug-dealing,’ West muttered, putting the first page down. They’d taken Adam Fletcher out of the equation and it hadn’t made a dent. ‘May as well throw a stone in a pond,’ he added picking up the next list.
‘Talking to yourself?’ his partner Detective Garda Peter Andrews said, coming into the office.
‘Stones, ripples, and how quickly they settle,’ West replied, and then with a smile he shook his head and threw the lists across the desk to Andrews. ‘More pictures to add to your collection.’
‘I thought they were going to stop sending paper copies,’ Andrews said, flicking through the pages, wondering at the same time why the pile never seemed to get smaller.
‘Have you ever seen DS Clarke sitting at his computer?’
Andrews gave a half-smile to this sally, and dropped the reports back on the desk.
They’d taken an immediate liking to one another when West was transferred to the Foxrock station after a disastrous and, very short-lived, posting to Glasnevin. The story of what happened was common knowledge, causing more than one colleague to look at West with narrowed eyes. Andrews had taken the new Detective Sergeant under his wing, initially from profound pity, followed quickly by genuine regard. They were cut from the same cloth; honest, straightforward, solidly decent men. West, having spent several years working as a solicitor, brought skills to the job that Andrews admired. West, on the other hand, admired Peter Andrews’ street-savvy, his ability to winkle information from the most unlikely source. They made a good team.
Murder on Clare Island: A Garda West Novel (A Garda West Crime Novel Book 3) Page 1