Hall nodded. ‘Seems likely.’
‘Do you have an evidence bag big enough for this,’ West asked. The stake was about four feet long. ‘If not we’ll have to improvise.’ Remembering the transport of Breathnach’s body, he sincerely hoped Hall had a well-equipped boot.
Casting an eye over the stake, and making a rough estimate of its size, Hall wagged his head from side to side. ‘I think so.’ He headed to his car, returning minutes later. ‘Here you go,’ he said, opening one end of the large evidence bag.
West slowly manoeuvred the stake in, holding it in place until Hall grabbed hold from the outside. Then he sealed the top and breathed a sigh of relief. They’d have to wait for forensics, but he was in little doubt that they had the murder weapon. It was a huge part of any murder investigation, a giant piece of the puzzle. It didn’t always lead to an arrest but it often helped to make the picture clearer. Not just at the moment, West admitted to himself, but eventually.
Hall took it from him. ‘I’ll lock it into the car.’
‘Are you ok?’ West asked Kelly when they were alone. ‘You know, this isn’t going to be a quick and easy case. Perhaps it would be better if you went home to Dublin.’
Kelly gave him a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I’m fine. Really. And no, I don’t think going home to Dublin is a good idea. Unless,’ she looked closely at him, trying to read his face, ‘I’m getting in the way. Taking your focus off the job?’
West smiled. ‘No, you’re not in the way.’
Kelly smiled back. ‘And I did find the murder weapon, after all.’
17
When they got back to Toormore house, the housekeeper let them in on the first ring.
‘Mr Blacque has been waiting in the lounge to speak to you,’ she said, and then reluctantly, she asked if they would like some refreshments.
‘That would be nice,’ West said, thinking they deserved something at that stage. ‘I’ll have coffee and...’ He looked at the others.
‘Coffee would be lovely, thank you,’ Kelly agreed.
Garda Hall nodded. ‘Coffee would be great, thanks Edel.’
Julius Blacque turned an unhappy face their way when they opened the door into the lounge. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages,’ he said, not troubling to hide the irritation in his voice.
‘Murder investigations tend to be troublesome for all concerned,’ West said. ‘Why don’t you sit down Mr Black, and perhaps we won’t have to keep you long.’
‘It’s Blacque,’ the man said, stressing the first vowel.
West sighed. ‘I apologise, Mr Blacque, and for keeping you waiting. Why don’t you take a seat? My name is Sergeant West; I’m in charge of the investigation. And assisting me are Eamonn Hall and Kelly Johnson.’
The man sat, reluctance in every muscle. ‘I heard Eoin was murdered. Well, good luck to you finding the one person who killed him among the hundreds who wanted to.’
‘You didn’t like him,’ West guessed.
‘There’s a lot of hypocrisy about not speaking ill of the dead,’ Blacque said. ‘I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but hypocrite is not one of them. Eoin Breathnach was a rude, arrogant pig, Sergeant. The world is a far better place without him. But, before you ask, I did not kill him, nor do I know who did. But I hope I get to meet him to shake his hand, and say a hearty well done to the chap.’
It was a tirade of venom that left Julius Blacque exhausted and the three-person audience exchanging glances.
‘I gather you are hoping to persuade Sylvia to open a new gallery,’ West said.
Blacque’s rather dull eyes brightened. ‘Did she tell you that? She said no but I was sure she would change her mind.’
Curious, West asked, ‘Will her husband’s death make it more or less likely?’
The agent threw up his hands. ‘I’ve been wondering the same myself. On the one hand, at least he can’t arrive at the gallery and embarrass her, so she might do it. On the other hand, she has this place to herself now; he won’t be banging on her studio door interrupting her, so she might be happier here.’
‘He embarrassed her?’
Blacque nodded. ‘She had a gallery showing a couple of years back, he arrived drunk, told people her success was due to him.’
‘Was it?’
Blacque glared at him. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Her talent is her success. Ok, I’ll admit, his money made it easier to get her work shown at the bigger galleries, but her talent would have got her there anyway – maybe a year or so later – but it was inevitable.’ A sudden thought came to him. ‘Have you seen her work?’
West shook his head.
‘I have,’ Kelly said.
‘Then you will know I’m right,’ he said.
‘Her work is mesmerising,’ Kelly admitted. ‘I saw an exhibition a few years ago. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘Why did she stay with him?’ West asked.
Blacque frowned. ‘Why did she marry him in the first place,’ he spat out. ‘He hasn’t changed, you know. He was just as much a boor then. I asked her why, at the time. She was twenty-eight; he was more than twice her age, a not-very-attractive sixty.’ Blacque’s eyes blinked rapidly as he thought back to a conversation with Sylvia more than ten years before. ‘She was having trouble with that idiot Finbarr,’ he continued. ‘He was up to all sorts of shenanigans. After she married Breathnach, he was moved to a strict boarding school. Kylemore Abbey, I think. That takes a lot of bucks.’
‘More than she had at the time?’
Blacque shrugged.
Something struck West. The ages. ‘She was twenty-eight when she married Breathnach, you said. If Finbarr had started in secondary school, he must have been fourteen at least. So she was only thirteen or so when she got pregnant.’
‘That’s not in her biographical details,’ Kelly said, surprised.
‘Twenty five years ago, these things were hushed up. It’s not like today,’ Blacque said. ‘She’s not ashamed of it, but she wants people to concentrate on her art, not a mistake she made a long time ago.’
‘Who is the father?’ West asked.
Blacque shrugged again. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea. Some pimply boy in the town, I expect. It’s not something we ever discussed.’
West wondered if this was a line worth pursuing. Maybe a blackmail angle. Give me a gazillion euro or I’ll tell the press what your wife and I got up to when we were just children. Unlikely, but not impossible.
‘Finbarr goes by the surname, Breathnach. Was he legally adopted?’ West asked, puzzled by the relationship.
Blacque smiled unpleasantly. ‘Of course, he was. Just because Sylvia is an artist, don’t think she’s a fool. As Eoin Breathnach’s legally adopted son, Finbarr stands to inherit a tidy sum of money.’
Something else that will have to be looked into, West knew. The oldest motive in the book. Money. ‘He doesn’t appear to have any filial feeling. Did they ever get on?’
‘No idea,’ Blacque said, sounding bored. ‘Finbarr was in boarding school until he was eighteen. During school holidays, he went to live with his grandparents. Sylvia spent her time, in those days, between Dublin and London where Eoin had apartments, and New York where she stayed in a hotel. They bought a house in Westport, but rarely spent time there. I think she saw Finbarr once or twice a year. Eoin, I gathered from her, spent most of his time in the Dublin apartment, but he was often away on business, he had a lot of concerns in Thailand, and the Philippines, I think.’
‘I didn’t realise he was involved in property development abroad,’ West said.
‘I don’t know if he was,’ Blacque admitted with a careless shrug, ‘But Sylvia often said he was in Thailand, or in the Philippines on business.’
Interesting, but relevant? West didn’t know; he’d just file it in his head with the rest of the details.
‘You said he used to bang on the studio door and interrupt her,’ he asked Blacque just as the door opened and the housekeeper arrived with a tray o
f coffee.
She put it down on a side table and with a nod, said, ‘I’ll leave you to help yourselves. Sylvia asked me to include some sandwiches,’ she said, making sure they knew it wasn’t her idea to feed the gardai.
It was late afternoon, they hadn’t had lunch, and breakfast was like a distant memory of a long ago holiday. ‘Do you mind?’ West asked the agent.
Blacque sighed loudly before shaking his head.
The sandwiches were good, the coffee excellent. Soon, refreshed, they returned to the interview. ‘You were going to explain why Eoin interrupted Sylvia.’ West reminded him.
The agent pursed his lips. ‘Well obviously I don’t know exactly why he did it but he seemed to take pleasure in interrupting her. It was never for anything important, you know, just some nonsense or other, or to complain about Finbarr. But Sylvia immerses herself in her work; being pulled out of it was often detrimental to the finished product. She destroyed more than one painting because of the effect it had.’
‘So he made her angry,’ West asked.
Blacque smiled. ‘You’d think so, but no. Anger isn’t something Sylvia has ever demonstrated. For an artistic person, she lacks that typical over-the-top temperament. She shows absolutely no diva-tendencies, at all. Something I wish I could say about some of my other clients.’ His smile faded. ‘It’s strange, to be honest, she becomes cooler, more distant when annoyed. Almost,’ he said, ‘as if she was switching off.’
‘Is she capable of murder,’ West asked, deciding to be blunt.
Blacque, blinked, startled. ‘Murder? Sylvia? Absolutely not. She hasn’t a violent bone in her body.’
It didn’t take violence to commit murder. Often the cool, collected type were the ones to watch, the dedicated planning, calm implementation and cool response designed to fool the unwary. Anyway, West decided, Blacque was unlikely to be objective. He had a fiscal interest in ensuring Sylvia B kept painting.
Kelly must have thought the same thing. ‘You mentioned other clients, Mr Blacque,’ she said, drawing all eyes to her. ‘I saw you interviewed fairly recently and you said she was your only client. That makes you very much a martyr to her welfare, doesn’t it?’
West smiled to himself. He couldn’t have put it better. He waited for the man’s reaction. It was as he’d expected.
Julius Blacque drew himself up, lifting his chin. ‘If you’re insinuating that I would lie to prevent Sylvia being brought to brook for this heinous crime just because she is my client, then you are mistaken. When I referenced other clients, I was referring to those who purchase paintings from my gallery, not those that I represent.’
‘So she is your only client,’ West asked, seeking clarification.
The man nodded stiffly. ‘She is my only client.’
So definitely a fiscal interest in her welfare. West drew a deep breath. He’d get Andrews to dig into the man’s finances, see what was under the stones. ‘How did you get on with the deceased?’ he asked.
‘I’d little to do with him,’ Blacque shrugged. ‘Usually I’m only here for a few hours. This is the first time I’ve stayed a few days. We all had dinner together. His conversation is dull, his manner boorish. He certainly wouldn’t be someone I’d choose to spend time with. But,’ he smiled without humour, ‘neither would I choose to kill him. Why would I?’
Why would he indeed?
18
They took a break before they interviewed the housekeeper.
West ran a hand over his face and tried to put his thoughts in order. So far he was no wiser, in fact, if anything, he was more confused. No motive had popped up. But then again, it was rarely that simple.
‘It’s tiring this, isn’t it?’ Kelly said, standing and stretching.
West smiled. ‘The dull plod of police work generally is.’
‘Have you heard anything of interest yet,’ Hall asked, looking at him hopefully.
West laughed. ‘Just because I have more experience at this kind of thing doesn’t mean I am a miracle worker, Eamonn. All that I have now, that I didn’t have earlier, is more questions. The biggest one, and it’s probably totally irrelevant to the case, is why did Sylvia marry Eoin Breathnach? By all accounts he wasn’t a particularly likeable bloke. Was it just for the money?’
‘She doesn’t have an alibi,’ Hall said. ‘She could have pushed him into the pond; it wouldn’t have required a lot of strength especially if she waited until he did his putting-his-toe in the water nonsense.’
‘But what would her motive be?’ Kelly asked, looking from one to the other. ‘If she was tired of him, she could just have divorced him, couldn’t she? She’s independently wealthy, so he couldn’t have had that hold over her.’
‘Maybe she did but he threatened to keep the house,’ Hall suggested. ‘She adores this place, there’s no way she’d want to lose it.’
Kelly nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, she mentioned her studio being her haven, didn’t she?’
‘Blacque say he spends little time here. I can’t see any divorce court awarding him the house when she could easily prove she is committed to living here,’ West said, putting a damper on their excitement. ‘Let’s keep our minds open for the moment, ok? I’m going to phone Peter Andrews, give him the list of names and see if he can tell us anything more interesting about these people. I’ve a feeling they’re not telling us everything.’
‘You won’t get a signal here,’ Hall warned him.
West took out his phone and checked. Hall was right. No landline, no mobile phone signal. It really was an isolated place. He’d have to ring Andrews later, from the guesthouse. Thankfully, they had a good signal there.
‘Let’s get on with it then,’ he said. ‘Eamonn, go and ask the housekeeper to come in.’
He was back within a few minutes, the housekeeper at his heel, her disapproving face letting them know exactly what she thought of the state of affairs.
‘Please sit down, Mrs...’ West suddenly realised he didn’t know the woman’s surname and cursed himself for being remiss. He waited.
‘Edel is fine,’ the woman said. ‘I’m just the housekeeper.’
The modesty was feigned and West’s intuition was sharpened. ‘We’ll still need your surname, I’m afraid.’
She shrugged one shoulder. ‘It’s Higgins.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Higgins.’ West did quick introductions. ‘We won’t keep you long; there are just a few questions we need to ask.’ He met her gaze calmly. ‘Can you tell us your movements yesterday, as closely as you can?’
The woman blinked. ‘I was here. All day. Got the breakfast, lunch, dinner, same as usual.’
‘When did you last see Mr Breathnach?’
‘At breakfast. He has a full fry up every morning...or had, I should say. So he never wanted lunch. He didn’t even make the effort while the Tilsdales were here. I make a pot of coffee and leave it in the dining room so people can help themselves; he usually had some of that during the morning.’
‘You bring lunch into Mrs Breathnach, I believe.’
‘That’s right. Otherwise she wouldn’t eat. She doesn’t eat breakfast at all. Just drinks coffee all morning.’
‘From the pot in the dining room,’ West asked, trying to get a handle on where everyone was.
The housekeeper looked at him as if he were stupid. ‘Of course not. Once she goes into her studio, she never comes out. I set a pot of coffee going there in the morning before she arrives.’
‘Ok,’ West said, ‘so what time do you bring lunch in?’
‘One o’clock.’
‘The same time every day.’
‘Every day. She unlocks her door just before one; I bring it in and leave it on the table without disturbing her. She hates being disturbed.’
‘And she locks the door after you’ve left.’
‘I guess so. I don’t ask. There’s no reason for me to go back. The tray stays there until the next morning when I go to make the coffee. I take it away then.’
; West decided to switch topics. ‘How did you get on with Mr Breathnach?’
‘I’m the housekeeper,’ the woman sneered, ‘he barely acknowledged my existence.’
‘Do you know why anyone would want to kill him?’
‘You don’t get to be as wealthy as he is without making a few enemies, Sergeant. I’d imagine there’s a few who won’t be sorry he’s gone.’
‘Are you included in the few,’ West risked asking.
‘I won’t have to do a fry up in the morning. So my life will be easier,’ she said with a touch of a smile on her lips.
‘What about his relationship with others? His son for instance?’
‘You’d have to ask him that,’ she replied, playing the trusted retainer role.
‘He sometimes disturbed Sylvia in her studio, didn’t he?
‘You’ll have to ask her about that,’ she said again, and this time the smile was smug.
West knew when he’d had enough. ‘Ok, you can go now Mrs Higgins. We may need to ask you more questions, at another time. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to ask your husband to come in.’
Muttering that he wouldn’t tell them much, she took herself off.
It was almost twenty minutes before Jim Higgins turned up, West annoyed at the delay had just asked Hall to go and find him when the door opened and he walked in. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and indeed looked apologetic. ‘I was just clearing those damn Lampreys out of the pool when I got your message. I had waders on and was in the middle of the pool so it was a bit difficult.’
‘What’ve you done with them,’ Hall asked, remembering Bill’s request.
‘They’re in a tank. I’m going to dump them into the sea when you’re finished with me.’
‘We need to take one,’ Hall told him, relieved.
‘You can’t eat them, you know,’ Jim said, his face puzzled.
Hall smiled. ‘No, we don’t want to eat the horrible thing; the coroner wants to have a look at one. If you could put it into some kind of box for me, that would be great.’
Murder on Clare Island: A Garda West Novel (A Garda West Crime Novel Book 3) Page 12