Apple Seeds and Murderous Deeds

by Kathy Cranston

  “What is it?” Marty asked. “It might work.”

  “No,” Mrs McCabe said. “No, it won’t. He probably has women calling him up at all hours of the day and night. He’ll have someone who answers his calls.”

  “Why would he have that, Mam? It’s not like he’s a big superstar or anything.”

  Her father spoke for the first time. “You’d be surprised. He’s like the Daniel O’Donnell of the written word for some women of a certain age—I mean, some Irish women,” he said hurriedly, looking hunted as his wife shot him a look of utter loathing.

  “What?” Fiona howled. “I’ve never heard of him. Have any of ye?”

  Her siblings all shook their heads.

  “Ye wouldn’t have, see,” Francis McCabe continued. “Whereas this one.” He pointed at their mother. “Her lot go wild for him. Ever since he did that expose about Fergus Conners and the banking scandal, he’s been a hero for middle-class women over fifty.”

  “I am not over fifty,” Mrs McCabe cried, folding her arms and looking utterly insulted.

  Fiona glanced around the table. Her look said it all: try not to laugh even though it’s hysterical. They couldn’t afford to get distracted; not now.

  It was too late, though. “Mam, Marty is thirty-six years old. You’re telling me you were no older than thirteen when you had him?”

  Fiona and her father sighed and threw their eye to the ceiling at the same time.

  “Now you decide to learn maths?” Francis said, shaking his head. “I suppose I should be proud even if it did take you twice as long as the rest of them.”

  “Right, come on you lot,” Mrs McCabe said, handing the printed sheet to Ben.

  They all stood and moved towards the sitting room. Fiona had dragged the couch cushions onto the floor to make it comfortable for all of them to sit there. After all, it would take them several hours if they were going to watch the footage in detail at normal speed. She had stocked up the fridge with soft drinks and the presses with Tayto, and sneakily hidden all of the beer and whiskey in the shed. Now was definitely not the time to hit the booze—not if they wanted to stay sharp.

  “It’s the old Beetle,” Ben said, showing no sign of moving from the table.

  No one really paid attention.

  “Come on, Ben,” Fiona said, lingering at the door. “Let’s get this over with. I’ll make everyone a massive roast when this is all done.”

  For once the prospect of food didn’t motivate him. He sat at the table, apparently rooted to the spot. He held up the sheet of paper. Fiona had never seen him look so concerned.

  “Are you kidding me? You don’t get what this means?”

  Fiona sat down heavily on the nearest chair.

  17

  “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, BEN?” Fiona hissed, pulling the paper off him and staring at it expectantly as if its meaning was going to reveal itself to her now. She was disappointed to see the writing on the matchbook was as nonsensical as ever.

  Ben smiled. “Don’t you see?” he whispered, tapping at the sheet. “Remember the old car in Hanlon’s field that ye used to use as a den?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Fiona asked with a frown.

  She remembered it well. A whole gang of children from the town had been drawn like magnets to the old car that was parked two fields back from Dec’s parents’ house. They had taken the back seats out and hung an old tarp they’d found from the trees, making a vast seating area. She couldn’t imagine the pleasure in it now, but it had kept them occupied for days.

  “The Beetle,” he said, looking more animated than she’d ever seen him look.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t you remember?” He stabbed the paper. “Danger. HQ. Dash. That’s what you used to call it. Headquarters. HQ. Remember, I was really small and ye’d never let me come in until I went crying to Mam. What else do you think he’s talking about? It has to be the car. We need to look in the dash; the glove box.”

  Fiona took the paper and stared at it again. Now that her brother had pointed it out, she wondered how they had all failed to miss it. “Brilliant, Ben. Thank God for your memory.” Her eyes scanned over the message again. Danger. HQ. Dash. That had to be it. “I thought he meant dash as in hurry. But this… this makes way more sense.”

  He nodded. “It has to be the car.”

  “Come on,” she said, hurrying to the door with the paper still in hand. “We’ve got to go check it out.”

  “But it’s dark now,” their mother said when they told her what they’d found. “You don’t know who’s out and about at this time. You don’t even have a torch, do you?”

  “I’ve a torch app on my phone,” Ben said.

  Fiona hesitated. “She’s right,” she admitted reluctantly. “We’ll go have a look first thing in the morning. That way there’s a better chance we won’t miss anything.” She heaved a huge sigh of frustration. “I suppose I better go call your man so.”

  “Let me do it,” her mother offered, at which her father rolled his eyes dramatically.

  “I’ll have a daughter in jail for murder and a wife off gallivanting with some journalist fella who thinks he’s a rock star.”

  “Dad!” Fiona hissed.

  “Ah I’m only joking, honey. Well, about you anyway. Your mother’d be off with that fella given half the chance.”

  “I would not,” Mrs McCabe said, shaking her head in disapproval. “No, it’s better if I do it. I can butter him up; flatter the man. He’ll think I’m one of his fans and then he’ll feel bad if he hangs up without answering my questions.”

  “Mam, it’s fine,” Fiona said, scrolling through the Saturn website. There was no number listed for Simon Moriarty but there was a number for the newsroom. “They’ll never put you through to him if they think you’re one of his fans.”

  “And what, you’re going to convince them you’re ringing about something legitimate?”

  Fiona nodded. “Exactly.”

  “SUNDAY SATURN,” said a voice that was just warm enough not to sound disdainful.

  “Yeah, hi,” Fiona said, trying so hard to keep her voice low that it immediately hurt her throat and made her want to cough. “I’d like to talk to Simon Moriarty. I have some information he might be interested in.”

  “I see,” said the woman.

  Fiona waited, assuming she was going to be fobbed off and told to call back in the morning.

  “Can I have your name?”

  Fiona cleared her throat. “I’d rather not give it. I… uh… it could be dangerous if I share my identity.”

  “I see.” There was a pause. “Hold the line.”

  Fiona looked around the empty room, fighting the desire to hurry back to the living room and tell them all ‘I told you so’. There was no way she could do that and still maintain her composure.

  “Simon Moriarty.”

  “Ah, hi, yes.”

  “Who is this?”

  “I can’t give you my name,” she said, swallowing hard to stop herself from coughing. “It’s in relation to one of your investigations.”

  “Oh?” he said. She caught the wariness in her voice.

  “Yes,” she wheezed. “Declan Hanlon. I have reason to believe that he was killed because of your visit to Ballycashel.”

  “Who is this?” he snapped. “I don’t have time for this. Are you calling me with information or are you another rubbernecker looking to get off on this?”

  “Neither,” she admitted. “Look, I was hoping you could help. Dec was my friend. I want to know what happened.”

  “Well go to the Gardaí and ask them,” he snapped, clearly wrong-footed. “I’ve told them everything I know.” He hung up without waiting to hear her response.

  Fiona opened the door and found her parents outside, heads suspiciously close to the door.

  “You’re up, Mam,” she said, holding out the cordless phone. “He hung up on me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you wa
nt me to speak to the receptionist? She put me through last time.”

  Mrs McCabe shook her head and laughed. “No, love. I think I’ll be just fine.”

  FIONA WATCHED in amazement as her mother, who had always strongly disapproved of lying, grinned and told the receptionist that she had an awful tale of woe altogether and would she mind transferring her to Simon Moriarty so she could share it with him.

  “She’s transferring me,” her mother hissed, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. “He probably thinks he’s onto something that’ll get him the Pulitzer.”

  Fiona shook her head in disbelief. “She always told me that lies are the devil’s work.”

  “Course she did,” her father said with a wry smile. “We have seven kids—how else do you think we might have maintained any semblance of control if ye were running around telling fibs? Ye were enough trouble as it was.”

  “I see,” Fiona said, holding her breath as her mother nodded furiously.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mr Moriarty,” she simpered. From the look on her face, she was enjoying this immensely. “Oh, what an honour. That report you did about those poor children.” She sighed. “It was on my mind for weeks. You’ve a mastery with words.”

  She paused and listened. Fiona shot her a quizzical look which she completely ignored.

  “Ah, would you go away out of that. Your mammy must be so proud of you. Is she still around?” Another pause. “Ah good. I bet she reads everything you put out and she couldn’t be prouder.”

  Fiona gestured for her to get to the point. She was ignored again.

  “Well, if you were my son, I tell you I’d have your picture up on the walls everywhere and no one would be able to walk into the house here without hearing all about your achievements. You’re a credit to them.”

  Fiona gave up and just listened hard for any clue as to what he was saying.

  Mrs McCabe laughed. “Well, I have seven and not one of them has given me cause to be, if you can believe it!”

  Fiona was about to object but stopped herself in time. She looked around, wishing her siblings were there to share her outrage.

  “I know, I know,” she sighed with mirth. “Look, I’m calling you because—oh Lord, I don’t even want to bring it up, it’s such awful business. And the guards involving you.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “A friend of mine, Mrs Hanlon; well her son was murdered here in Ballycashel. She’s in a bad way. And sure the guards aren’t interested—all they want to do is persecute good people like yourself.”

  By now, Fiona’s hands were wet with perspiration and she had them clenched into fists to stop herself from shaking. This was it—if he didn’t help them out now then there was no way they were going to get the information out of him, short of driving up to Dublin and bundling him into the boot of Marty’s station wagon. And Fiona was pretty sure that might be considered kidnapping and slightly frowned upon.

  “I know,” her mother said softly. “A terrible carry on.”

  She was silent for several minutes and Fiona strained to hear. Was he telling her anything useful? Or berating her for wasting his time? She had wanted to listen in on the extension in the hall, but Mrs McCabe had forbidden her in case she made noise and alerted Simon Moriarty to the fact that there was more than one person on the line.

  “I know she’d appreciate any information you could give us. A few of us have banded together—you know, from the ICA—and we’re hoping to get to the bottom of it. Did he tell you of any trouble he was in? What about his time in jail—was there anyone after him? I don’t know, maybe a drug lord he rubbed up the wrong way?”

  Mrs McCabe listened and all the colour leeched out of her face quite suddenly. “What do you mean, you weren’t talking to him about his time in jail? Wasn’t that why you met him? For your story, like?”

  Fiona inched closer. Mrs McCabe turned around so she was facing the other way.

  “I see. Ah, I understand. Ah, I do. I wouldn’t want to put you in an awkward position at all. Ah yeah, you’ve been very helpful. Give my regards to your mammy, won’t you? Oh, bye. Bye, bye, bye.”

  Fiona grabbed her arm, but the line was dead by the time she got the phone.

  “He didn’t tell you anything? What did he say, Mam?”

  “And what was that about the ICA?” Francis laughed. “You’ve never gone to that—you said it was for old biddies with too much time on their hands.”

  “Forget the ICA,” Fiona hissed. “Mam, did he give you anything?”

  Mrs McCabe pursed her lips and looked around at them severely. “Of course he did. He said he couldn’t give away the reason for their meeting.”

  “Ah, not at all? Did you push him? If you’d have push—”

  “Would you let me finish? He wouldn’t tell me—he was adamant about that. But he did say it was nothing to do with Declan’s time in jail.”

  “Oh,” Fi said with a frown. “But what then…?”

  “What indeed,” her mother said, shaking her head. “He mentioned exposing something. Or someone. His articles are usually investigations into corruption; that sort of thing.”

  “You mean there’s something going on in Ballycashel that was serious enough to call in a journalist? Why didn’t Dec say anything?”

  Her father cleared his throat and pulled off his glasses to clean on his shirt-tail. He didn’t often get nervous and that was the only tell he displayed when he did. “The poor lad must have been in fear of his life. Whatever’s going on had someone willing to kill him to keep a lid on it.”

  18

  FIONA GLANCED AT THE CLOCK. It was almost nine and they were still watching the security footage from the evening of the murder. Their progress was slow—they had agreed it was best that they stop every half hour to discuss what they’d seen rather than go through a whole bunch of information and risk forgetting something.

  So far they hadn’t seen much.

  Dec was in the bar. That was all. No one had approached him or even spoken to him except for Fi. She kept a close eye on Mrs Flannery, remembering the woman’s scrutiny of Dec, though Fiona didn’t really think the sweet old lady was capable of murder.

  “Can’t we fast forward?” Kate asked.

  “No,” Fiona and Ben said at the same time. Ben had become a lot more interested in their investigation since he’d solved the mystery of the matchbook.

  “We’ve got to scrutinise it in case there’s anything we missed,” Fiona said. “I’ll make you the best roast in the world, I promise. This is such a big help—no doubt they’ll manage to fabricate something from my kitchen and make it look as if I did it.”

  “They won’t get away with that,” Francis said fiercely. “They’ll have to put me in jail for what I’ll do if they try and lock up one of my daughters.”

  Fiona smiled though her emotions were threatening to boil over. “Thanks, Dad. That means a lot.”

  “I mean it too,” he said seriously. “I’d do anything for any of ye.”

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that,” his wife whispered, gripping his hand.

  They were another half an hour through the video when Marty powered through the door. Everyone turned to look at him as if he had uncovered the secret of the Pharaohs.

  “Don’t get too excited,” he said, holding up his hands. “I chatted to Steve Conway for hours. I don’t think he knows much more than what we know.”

  Fiona felt like someone had stuck a pin in her and let all the air out of her body. “That was our only shot. He really knows nothing?”

  Marty nodded. “Sorry, Fi. The only thing he could—or would—tell me was that the pathologist report estimated time of death at around two in the morning. We already knew the cause of death and where he was found.”

  “Ah,” Fiona said, rubbing her tired eyes and trying to remember what she’d read online. “So that means he was probably poisoned between… em… eight pm and two in the morning?”

  “That’s what the guards think, but it’s hard to be pre
cise in these matters apparently,” Marty said, throwing himself down beside her on the couch.

  “So it’s likely he was poisoned after he left the pub.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “So why the hell did they search the pub and my flat? It’d be different if they thought the poisoning had happened there.”

  Francis McCabe sighed. “I suppose they’re grasping at straws what with having no suspects. They’re probably under scrutiny for arresting your man Simon Moriarty too. Don’t worry, Fiona. Nothing’ll come of it, though it might make for an unpleasant few days. They have to try and pin it on someone after all.”

  Fiona shuddered at the thought. How far would they go? Would she see her face plastered all over the front pages of the papers like some actual murderer?

  “But there are suspects. Everyone who was in the pub that night. Don’t you see? It makes sense now. Only a local would have brought him to the lock.

  “Come on, love,” her mother urged. “I’ll make another pot of tea and we’ll keep watching the video. Something will come to us—you’ll see.”

  KATE TURNED and grabbed at Fi so suddenly that she yelled out in fright.

  “What on earth is going on?” Francis roared, grabbing the remote and pausing the TV.

  “There! Look!” Kate pointed to the frozen image. “It’s Will Connolly.”

  “So? He’s nowhere near Hanlon.”

  “No,” Kate said, hurrying over to the TV. “But look. Look at their hands and the way their heads are inclined. They’re talking to each other. But it’s obvious they’re pretending not to.”

  They all leant closer and their father hit play again.

  “Are they friends?” Fiona asked, remembering the strange look Will had given Dec in the bar that night. She couldn’t remember seeing them talking. Sure enough, she appeared on the screen shortly afterwards to serve Will and both men noticeably turned their heads away from each other.

  “I don’t think so,” Marty said. “I don’t remember them ever hanging round together.”