Murder on Clare Island: A Garda West Novel (A Garda West Crime Novel Book 3)

by Valerie Keogh

  When they pulled into the car park beside Roonagh Pier, they saw Hall standing chatting to a couple of elderly women. Seeing the car, Hall headed over, reaching it as West climbed out.

  ‘There was a moment when I didn’t think I was going to see you again,’ the young garda said, reaching for West’s hand and shaking it. ‘Lord, what a night you gave us.’ He bent to peer into the car. ‘You ok, Kelly?’

  She smiled and nodded. ‘Honestly, I’m fine. Don’t forget, when all of you were running around, we were both asleep.’

  Nobody had looked at it from that point of view. West chuckled, and then the others joined in. The two elderly women, who still stood watching them, put their heads together.

  ‘We’re shocking the locals,’ West said, leading the way to the pier where the garda boat stood waiting.

  Twenty minutes later, they were disembarking on Clare Island. ‘The pub has rooms, doesn’t it?’ Andrews asked Hall.

  ‘You’re staying at the Clare Island Lighthouse, both of you. You too, Eamonn if you’re staying over.’

  ‘Morrison will have a heart-attack,’ Andrews said. ‘We’ll stay in the pub, we’ll be fine there. And you two can have a bit of privacy.’

  ‘I wasn’t asking you to share our room, Peter,’ West said. ‘I insist. It’s my treat, and the least I can do after you both rode to my rescue.’ He waited with bated breath, hoping Andrews wouldn’t see it as some kind of charity. He was sensitive when it came to things like that, as West knew only too well. ‘Please, Peter,’ he said, ‘I owe you so much.’

  Kelly added her persuasive skills to the mix. ‘Oh, do say yes, the food is lovely.’

  Andrews looked across at Sam Jarvis. ‘What d’you think, Sam? Will we spend a night watching these two making cow-eyes at one another for the sake of a decent meal?’

  ‘Cow eyes,’ West said in disgust, putting an arm around Kelly’s shoulder. ‘We do not do that.’

  ‘I don’t know, Peter, we’ll start getting a reputation if we check in together again.’ Jarvis commented.

  ‘You’ve told Baxter and Edwards that story, haven’t you?’ Andrews said with a baleful look at the younger man, knowing by the glint in his eyes that he had. ‘My reputation is ruined. So I suppose we may as well stay at this posh place to compensate.’

  West and Kelly exchanged a confused look.

  Andrews shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you about it some day.’

  ‘I’ll be heading back,’ Hall said, ‘but thank you, I appreciate the invite. Do you want to go into the pub and we can discuss the next step?’

  It was agreed by all to be a good idea. Heading inside, they took over a corner near the fire, moving chairs to make themselves comfortable.

  ‘Pints all round?’ West asked.

  ‘And a coffee for me,’ Kelly said.

  Minutes later, West returned with a tray holding four pints of Guinness. He put one down carefully in front of each man. ‘He’s bringing your coffee in a sec,’ he said to Kelly before sitting beside her. ‘It would be nice just to stay here drinking excellent Guinness all day, wouldn’t it?’

  Andrews shook his head. ‘Not with that bastard on the loose. I’ll enjoy a pint more when he’s locked away.’

  Kelly’s coffee arrived. She took a sip and then sat back.

  ‘So you think it was Finbarr,’ Hall asked, before picking up his pint and taking a long pull.

  West shrugged. ‘We were discussing this last night. I wasn’t sure about his involvement before. His criminal drug history is just that...history...but he is a user, and the local drug squad have been keeping an eye on him, so they’ve had their suspicions. Someone was definitely using the passageway to smuggle something in or out.’

  ‘Eoin Breathnach probably found out. Maybe he threatened to turn him in. So he killed him,’ Andrews said.

  Hall looked from one to the other. ‘So it all ties together.’

  West, in the act of lifting his pint, stopped and held it for a moment. ‘It seems to, doesn’t it?’

  ‘But you’re not convinced?’

  He smiled and took a drink. ‘I’ll be happier with some hard evidence. When’s the scene-of-crimes officer coming?’

  Hall checked his watch. ‘She should be here in about an hour. She’ll ring me when she gets near. I can take her to the passageway myself if you’d prefer not to go back.’

  West shook his head. ‘I have a vested interest in making sure she does a thorough job, Eamonn, but thanks.’

  They chatted about the case as they waited. Jarvis, still fascinated with the working of the Civil Defence, asked Hall if he had worked with them before.

  Hall smiled. ‘Yes, we use them quite a bit. With the islands and mountains to cover, we get a lot of search and rescue calls. They’re a huge asset; they have medics, the rope-rescue responders you saw in action last night, search and rescue people. They have hand-held radios, ultra-high frequency, that work on parts of the island where we can’t get signals. They have boats too and have inter-boat communication.’

  ‘Why didn’t they use their radios to contact the coast guard last night?’ Jarvis asked. ‘Morse code is a bit slow?’

  Hall took another mouthful of Guinness. ‘Their hand-held radios are for on-site use, to communicate within a disaster area, that’s all. So they could communicate with the rope rescue responder, but not the coast guard vessel.’ He drained his pint just as his mobile rang. He answered it, checked his watch and said, ‘I’ll be waiting.’ Hanging up, he smiled at the attentive faces watching him. ‘That was the scenes-of-crimes officer, Fiona Wilson. I’ll head back to the mainland and pick her up. We should be back in about an hour.’

  After he left, West thought he’d better ring the inspector, get the no-doubt sarcastic comments out of the way.

  He was surprised, however. Morrison seemed genuinely pleased that he was all right. ‘Are you sure you are cleared to be back at work?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m feeling fine, sir. We both are, thank goodness. I’ve more reason to get this case settled now, anyway.’

  Morrison grunted down the line. ‘You’re thinking it’s the same person?’

  ‘Clare Island is small, Inspector. The average population is two hundred people. I think it’s highly likely.’

  West’s next call was to Seamus Baxter. ‘Seamus,’ he said, ‘any more info for us on any of the characters here.’

  ‘Sergeant West,’ Baxter said, ‘you ok?’

  West was tired of answering the question. ‘Fine, Seamus, I’m fine. I could do without any smart remarks though.’

  Baxter, who was about to make one, bit his tongue and thought better of it. There was plenty of time to get a dig in at a later date. ‘I’ve dug around a bit but so far, nada. But there’s other places to look. I’ll give you a shout if I come up with anything.’

  ‘Ok, thanks Seamus,’ West said, hanging up. ‘Nothing,’ he told Andrews. ‘But he’ll keep digging.’

  ‘Like a mole,’ Kelly said, sipping her coffee.

  Both men smiled. The description suited the slightly chubby Baxter.

  ‘You don’t need to come to the passageway with us, Kelly,’ West said, ‘why don’t I drop you at Toormore House, maybe Sylvia will be feeling sympathetic and offer to show you her studio. I know you’re dying to see more of her work.’

  Kelly’s eyes lit up, and she sighed with relief. She hadn’t wanted to return to the passage and now she had a way out. ‘I’d love that,’ she said, giving him a warm smile.

  A little over an hour later, Hall pushed through the door followed by a slight, pretty woman who looked, at first glance, to be in her late teens. Hall made the introductions. West, grasping the woman’s firm, dry hand, decided his first impression was off by at least twenty years. Up close, she was still pretty, but faint lines told a story of experience, adding rather than subtracting from her looks. She was, he decided, an interesting looking woman.

  Offered a coffee, Fiona Wilson shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’
d prefer to get on, if that’s ok. I’m heading to Dublin immediately after, so I’ll take the samples with me.’

  Nothing else needed to be said. With a wave to the barman, they headed out just as Tadgh pulled up outside the pub. ‘I gave him a shout,’ Hall explained, ‘we’d never all fit into my car.’

  ‘Well done,’ West said. ‘We’ll go with him. I want to drop Kelly at Toormore House first. We’ll catch up.’

  Tadgh brushed off any attempts West and Kelly made to thank him for his part in their rescue. ‘We pull together here,’ was all he said, and took off up the road at his usual speed, leaving Hall’s car still standing by the harbour wall.

  The gates to the house were closed. ‘Hang on here, Tadgh, I’ll take Kelly inside and come back,’ West said.

  They walked around the garden and up to the front door. ‘You’ll be ok, won’t you?’ West asked, ‘I should be back for you in about an hour.’

  Kelly kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Stop worrying, I’ll be fine. If Sylvia isn’t in the mood to show me her studio, I’ll just persuade Edel to make me some coffee.’

  When the door opened to a less than welcoming Edel, West grinned at Kelly. ‘Good luck with that,’ he said with a smile, and headed back to the car.

  Kelly fixed the smile on her face, and said, ‘Hi, Edel, I was hoping to have a word with Sylvia.’

  Edel looked her up and down. ‘You look pale,’ she said, her voice more friendly than Kelly had ever heard it. Standing back, in an invitation for Kelly to enter, she continued, ‘I’ll go and see if she’s free.’ And leaving her standing in the hallway, she vanished through a door.

  Kelly, looking around the large hallway, wondered why it wasn’t filled with Sylvia’s paintings. Instead, there were a few dull landscapes, a heavy, and rather ugly, hall table and nothing else. No chair. And she would really like to have sat down. Her recent experiences had taken more out of her than she’d expected.

  She was still standing several minutes later when Finbarr came through one of the doors, his eyes brightening when he saw her. ‘Someone to play with,’ he said cheerfully and then added, ‘perhaps not hide and seek though, eh?’

  Resisting the impulse to punch him, Kelly offered a forced smile. ‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed and tried to ignore him, hoping he would continue to wherever he was going, wishing Edel would return and rescue her.

  She was in luck, just as Finbarr reached the final step, Edel returned. She shot Finbarr a baleful look. ‘You’re supposed to be entertaining the Tilsdales,’ she said, her voice tight with annoyance. ‘Go and do something with them, will you?’

  Finbarr sighed dramatically and with a wave at Kelly, disappeared though another doorway.

  Edel glanced after him, her ears cocked. Finally, she nodded and turned her attention back to Kelly. ‘He’ll stay five minutes and then leave again, and they’ll be after me asking for coffee and herbal teas. They’d never dream of helping themselves,’ she went on, ‘unless it’s to wine and whisky. The sooner they all go the better.’

  ‘They must be a support to Sylvia, though,’ Kelly suggested.

  Edel, in a return to her usual acerbic manner, glared at her. ‘You know nothing.’

  Kelly clearly heard the unsaid you stupid girl.

  As if reading her mind, Edel nodded and then said, ‘I’m sorry. It’s not your fault they are driving me crazy. They don’t bother Sylvia; she never comes out of her studio. I don’t think she’s even seen them since Eoin died. They’re just sitting around like vultures.’

  ‘Like vultures,’ Kelly repeated, surprised. ‘They’re not expecting anything in his will, are they?’

  Edel looked momentarily confused and then shook her head. ‘No, I meant they’re eating and drinking at his expense. We’re using four or five bottles of wine a night and I’ve lost track of the amount of whiskey we’ve gone through. Good stuff too.’

  Kelly smiled to herself but put on a solemn face.

  ‘Anyway,’ Edel said, shaking her head, ‘you didn’t come to hear my woes. Sylvia will see you.’

  Kelly felt a shiver of excitement as she followed Edel to the studio. She was going to see paintings by a famous artist that have never been seen by the public.

  Edel knocked at the very ordinary door and waited. Seconds later, they heard the rattle of a key and the door opened. Edel, with a quick look around, nodded, stepped back and was gone before Kelly could offer her thanks.

  Sylvia B stood to one side so that Kelly’s first view inside her studio was of the sea, stretching into the distance to blend with huge grey clouds. Her gasp of awe was involuntary and raised a low chuckle from the woman who stood watching her. ‘It has that effect on me every day.’

  ‘It’s breath-taking,’ Kelly said, walking toward the window. Closer, the cliff was visible but only a few feet stood between this part of Toormore House and the sea. Remembering Roger Tilsdale’s comments, Kelly thought she could see his point. How soon would this amazing room be at risk?

  ‘It’s inspiring,’ the woman behind her said.

  Turning, Kelly looked to see if grief had impacted on the artist. If it had, there were no visible signs. But then, the woman was already pale and thin. Her black cap of hair was tousled, and, as before, she wore no make-up. The dress she wore, another of her favoured floating, gauzy numbers was liberally speckled with paint, as was her face and hands.

  Kelly gave a surreptitious glance around to see what she was working on but she was in the wrong position, all three canvasses on the easels had their back to her. Did she work on them simultaneously, she wondered, waiting for the opportunity to ask, afraid to alienate the artist by jumping in too soon.

  ‘You had a terrible ordeal,’ Sylvia said, approaching her. ‘I’ve heard all about it, the basic facts from Edel and a rather more dramatic account from Finbarr.’

  Kelly tried to smile. ‘It was pretty awful.’

  Sylvia narrowed her eyes. ‘It was awful and all you want to do is forget about it, don’t you?’

  ‘Am I that easy to read?’

  ‘Artists are good at seeing subtle nuances,’ Sylvia said with a shrug. ‘Come and look at my paintings, maybe they will help replace bad memories with good ones.’

  Kelly held her breath as she walked around and then gasped.

  Sylvia, her melodic voice perfectly in harmony with the subject matter, explained. ‘I had originally planned a bigger, single painting, but the logistics of such a size were beyond me so, instead, I decided on a triptych. Apart from a few minor changes, it’s finished.’

  It was the view from the window. Sea and sky, painted in hues of blue and black. The beauty, power and destruction of nature untamed. It was thrilling, over-whelming. Kelly was speechless.

  As if pleased with her reaction, Sylvia smiled and then, moving to a corner of the room, she poured two cups of coffee, adding milk to both. She took them over, held one out to Kelly who took it automatically, and stood with her staring at the paintings.

  ‘They’re stunning,’ Kelly said eventually.

  ‘People look at art in different ways,’ Sylvia said, ‘some will look at these, and see sea and sky, nothing more. Others will see it as an allegory for something or other. I’d be interested to know what you see.’

  Kelly shivered suddenly. She gave the question some thought before answering, the artist standing quietly beside her, waiting. ‘It would be easy to dismiss them as very good paintings of the sea, easier, perhaps, than seeing what they represent.’ She turned to face her. ‘Good and evil. The power of each, and how focusing on one can fool you into ignoring the other. The sea can be stunningly beautiful, but you ignore its destructive capability at your peril.’

  Sylvia smiled.

  Kelly looked at her curiously. ‘Is that what you were trying to express?’

  ‘I never share what I’m trying to express, it ruins it for some. People buy paintings because they like what they see or because it means something to them. They don’t really want to know
what it means to the artist.’ She gestured to the far corner of the room. ‘Come and I’ll show you some other pieces I’ve done recently.’

  There were several other smaller canvasses, mostly seascapes, gentler, less threatening versions than that portrayed in the dramatic triptych. There were also a couple of landscapes with the sea as a backdrop. Kelly exclaimed over one depicting the lighthouse. ‘That’s where we’re staying. How lovely.’

  When she had seen them all, Sylvia invited her to sit and poured more coffee.

  ‘Will your agent take all your completed canvasses with him when he goes?’ Kelly asked. She would love to know how much they cost, wondering if she could afford to buy the one of the lighthouse. If he were taking them with him, perhaps she could visit the gallery and find out.

  But Sylvia merely shrugged. ‘Tell me,’ she asked, changing the subject, ‘who does your policeman friend think is responsible for locking you inside the passage?’

  It was Kelly’s turn to shrug. And then, because she suddenly, inexplicably felt sorry for the woman who had lost her husband and who might very well lose her son, she said, ‘They think the passage was being used to smuggle drugs.’

  Sylvia caught her gaze and held it. ‘Finbarr?’

  Kelly tried to look away and then tried to turn but Sylvia reached out a hand and caught her around the wrist. ‘You’re hurting me,’ she said, surprised to hear a quiver of fear in her voice.

  Sylvia must have heard it too. She let her go, and turning away, walked to the window. ‘It was inevitable, I suppose. They’d have had to dig into all of our lives, our histories. So they’ve probably found out about Finbarr’s bit of trouble in school. It’s hard to keep secrets in this part of the world; people have long memories when they’ve nothing else to do.

  ‘He’s been in trouble with drugs on and off ever since. The psychologist I sent him to described him as having an addictive personality type, if it weren’t drugs it would be alcohol or gambling or sex. Or a combination of them all.’ She smiled, making the resemblance to her son more striking. ‘Thankfully, Finbarr is mono-addictive. It’s only drugs and even then, it’s a bit of weed or the occasional foray into the latest designer drug. He’s never, to my knowledge, done heroin.’