by L. J. Ross
They might have missed him, were it not for the swirl of white smoke that rose up against the night sky as he smoked his way through one of his rollie cigarettes.
“Evenin’ Paddy,” Niall said, as their footsteps clattered across the wooden slats. “Mind if we join you?”
“Free country,” he replied.
He’d draped a thick blanket over his shoulders and, beneath that, he wore his customary wax jacket. Neither Gregory nor Niall had intended to sit outside in the cold weather, and they were already beginning to shiver in response to the icy blast rolling in from the water.
“On second thought, any chance we could move this indoors?” Niall asked. “I’m freezin’ m’ bollocks off, out here.”
Padraig let out a grunt, which might have passed for a laugh, and rose to his feet.
“This way.”
They followed him back along the jetty towards the boathouse, and beyond that to a tiny cottage. The Land Rover was parked alongside, and Gregory asked whether it had been fixed.
“Engine’s gone,” Padraig replied. “I’ll take it apart tomorrow.”
Inside, the cottage was cosy. The front door led immediately into a narrow porch that reeked of dry mud and led directly into the living space, which also served as the kitchen and dining room, both of which were spotlessly clean.
Padraig kicked off his rubber boots and hung his coat on a single peg by the door, then indicated that they should sit in one of the three armchairs arranged in a triangular formation around a log-burning fireplace. Gregory wondered why there were three chairs, and Padraig must have read his mind, for he answered the unspoken question.
“Three’s more’n enough,” he said gruffly. “Any more’s a crowd.”
He moved to the kitchen area and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, about three-quarters full.
“Drink?” he asked them.
Niall stared at the bottle and felt the tug in his system, the yearning for a taste—
“Thanks, Paddy, but we’re still ‘on duty’,” Gregory answered, deftly taking the decision out of his hands.
Niall felt a wash of anger rage through him, frightening in its intensity—then it was replaced by an even more shameful feeling of tearful desperation.
To hide it, he took a turn around the room.
“Like what you’ve done with the place,” he joked, looking around the room at the spartan décor.
“I’ve no use for trinkets,” Padraig replied. “All they do’s sit around, gatherin’ dust.”
Gregory happened to agree with him.
“So, come to ask if I did it, have you?”
Padraig threw back a finger of whiskey and set the glass back on the counter.
“Thought you’d have come knockin’ before now.”
“We’re asking a lot of people, Paddy—”
“You’d better ask your questions, then, and be on your way.”
Niall nodded.
“Fair enough,” he said, and recited the standard cautionary words. “Do you understand?”
“It’s not the first time I’ve heard it said,” Paddy replied. “Aye, I understand, right enough.”
“Good. Then, can you tell me where you were last night, between the hours of five-thirty and ten?”
Gregory watched panic flit over the man’s face, before it was masked.
“I was here, till after eight, then I took a wander over to O’Feeney’s. Saw Colm McArdle in there.”
“Anybody vouch for you?”
“Anybody who was in there, same time I was,” came the surly response.
“Alright,” Niall said. “You say you were here until eight. Can anybody confirm that?”
There was the briefest of hesitations, then Padraig shook his head and reached for the whiskey bottle again.
“Didn’t see anyone on the path into town, neither.”
“Which path do you normally take into town, Padraig? The one that runs through the hotel grounds past the tennis courts, or the road that runs over the bridge?”
He looked over at Gregory, and gave a slight shrug before downing his second finger.
“Depends whereabouts I’m going,” came the cryptic reply.
Just then, the outer door opened without a warning knock, and Seamus Murphy let himself into the cottage.
“Paddy, I—oh, sorry! I didn’t realise you had visitors. Hello Niall, Alex,” he said. “I, ah, Paddy, the boiler on the second floor isn’t working properly and a couple of the guests have complained. I wonder if you’d mind coming to have a look at it?”
“I’ll be up in a minute,” he said.
Seamus excused himself, with an embarrassed smile.
“Must be nice to have such a friendly boss,” Gregory remarked. “Most people would just use the phone.”
“We’re a friendly bunch, for the most part, round here,” Niall said.
“Evidently,” Gregory muttered.
* * *
As the skies darkened outside, the red-headed woman pottered around the living room, scooping up toys from the floor before dumping them into a wicker basket in the corner with a teddy bear embroidered on the front. She hummed to herself, some old show tune she’d heard on the radio, while her mind wandered.
She worried for her child.
And she was right to; there was plenty to be concerned about. The long, quiet spells, the mood swings and tantrums—they were all out of the ordinary.
But what could she do?
From the shadows outside, they continued to watch her. She was a tall, slender woman with fine-boned hands and strong shoulders; strong enough to bear the burden of two people. She had a soft voice and pale skin that bruised as easily as a peach.
The woman threw the final toy into the basket—then paused, suddenly, and looked around the room.
Were there tears in her eyes?
There would be, soon enough.
CHAPTER 31
Sunday
The baby was crying again.
Alex heard it, louder than ever before, through the walls of the confessional box. He tried to get out, but there was no door and it was so dark. He ran his fingers over the wooden walls, desperately seeking a way out, the pads of his fingers beginning to tear as he clawed away at the darkness that seemed to be closing in, all around him.
“Help! Help me!”
“God is listening, my son.”
He held himself very still as a whispering voice filled the small space. From nowhere, two candles ignited, one slightly larger than the other, illuminating the small space with their faint glow. Through a small, cross-hatched window he saw a shadowy figure with their face in profile.
“Who is it?” he cried out. “Tell me who you are!”
“You know who I am,” the voice replied. “You’ve always known.”
“What do you want? Tell me what you want!”
Suddenly, the figure turned and pressed its face against the window, pushing forward until its eyes bulged against the cross-hatched wood.
“I want my rosary,” Cathy hissed. “Give me my rosary back.”
Her tongue darted out, forked at the end, and became a snake, slithering through the gaps in the wood. It fell onto the floor at his feet and writhed around there while Alex pressed himself back against the wall, frantically seeking a doorway.
She laughed, and then turned to blow out the two small candles.
In the darkness, black as night, he screamed.
* * *
Gregory awakened to a loud, banging noise.
At first, he imagined it was the sound of his own fists as he fought to break through the wood of the confessional box. Then, when the banging grew more persistent, he realised it was coming from the door of his hotel room.
“I’m coming!” he called out, and heaved himself off the bed to find some pyjama bottoms.
He didn’t own any, so he tugged on the trousers he’d worn the previous day and then hurried to answer the door.
Maggie stood on the other
side of the doorway, dressed in jogging pants and a matching hoodie in a fetching shade of pale pink. On her feet, she wore her ubiquitous brown boots and her grey hair stood out at all angles. The overall effect was something high-end stylists probably took hours to create.
“Thank the good Lord,” she declared, and turned to her brother, who was hovering nearby. “Call off the cops, Seamus, our boy here’s just had a nightmare, by the looks of things.”
“Sounded like bloody blue murder,” he said, peering first at Gregory’s clammy face and then over his shoulder into the hotel room, as if to make sure an intruder wasn’t lurking somewhere behind the brocade curtains.
“I’m sorry to wake everyone,” Alex said. “Please apologise to the other guests—”
“Never mind about that,” Maggie said, waving away the formality. “Besides, it’ll probably boost the hotel ratings on TripAdvisor if people start to say the place is haunted.”
Seamus visibly perked up.
“D’you think that’s true?”
Maggie rolled her eyes.
“Aye, Seamus. Now, why don’t you get off back to bed and start planning those ghost tours?”
When he headed off, Maggie looked Gregory up and down.
“At least you’re decent,” she said, and stepped inside the room. “A woman of my position and obvious attractions needs to protect her reputation, you know.”
Gregory grinned and closed the door behind her.
“You shouldn’t have come all the way over, just because I was having a nightmare,” he said.
“Seamus didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t get the door open, and it honestly sounded as though someone was in there murdering you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I left the telephone off the hook and I have a habit of leaving the key in the door when I lock it, so he probably couldn’t use the same keyhole from the outside to open it.”
The hotel was one of those rare breeds that hadn’t resorted to key cards.
Maggie looked across at the bed, with the covers halfway on the floor and the pillows thrown across the room. A desk chair stood just to the left of the door, looking very much out of place, and she guessed it had recently been tucked beneath the door handle as an added layer of defence.
Against what, she didn’t know.
“If behaviour mirrors personality, then I’d say you’re a wee bit jumpy there, Alex.”
Gregory huffed out a laugh, and walked over to the coffee machine. It was after four, and he knew there’d be no chance of getting any further sleep that night.
“Coffee?”
Maggie nodded, and automatically straightened the covers on his bed.
“Do they always haunt you?” she asked.
“The dead, or the living?” he replied.
“Either. Both.”
He handed her one of the fancy glass coffee cups the hotel had provided.
“Either and both,” he said, and clinked his cup against hers before downing an espresso in one gulp.
“It sounded like a bad one was chasing you tonight,” she said, and took a seat on the sofa beside the window, so she could watch the dawn rising over the lough. “Want to talk about it?”
Alex was tempted.
It would be so easy to slide into conversation with this warm, understanding woman who could laugh at the darkest of moments.
“Your sons are lucky to have you,” he said quietly. “It’s that kind of generosity of spirit the killer covets. They’re desperate for what you’ve just offered me; a tiny piece of your heart, which is big enough to share. Be careful, Maggie. There are people out there who see it—and want to make sure nobody else ever does.”
She heard the warning but, beneath that, she heard pain.
Saying nothing, she got up and walked around to where he stood beside the window, and put her arms around him, where they stayed for long minutes until the fight drained out of him.
* * *
Later, when the sun had risen and Maggie had returned to her own home, Alex went for a long swim in the hotel pool. It helped to shake off any remaining disquiet following what had, admittedly, been one of the worst nightmares he’d experienced in a while—and to focus his mind on what was really important.
Finding the killer’s next target.
The interviews Niall had conducted the previous day had only served to throw up more possibilities. Every one of them, with the exception of Tom Reilly, had the means, opportunity and moreover the unique personality type to kill. Each had unresolved issues with a mother figure and had suffered childhood trauma of some form or another.
None of that took into account the trustworthiness of the Garda detectives themselves. Despite asking more than once, Niall and Connor had failed to provide him with a statement giving their whereabouts at the time of both murders. Niall admitted to being at home alone on Saturdays, thereby giving him ample opportunity to walk to the Kelly house. That still left Friday night, when Aideen died. Connor was in even worse shape, having told him he was manning the Garda station alone on the Saturday morning when Claire died, but giving no information at all about his whereabouts on the Friday night, either.
Gregory quickened his kick, slicing through the water as he considered his next move. Eggs would be broken, he thought, and remembered Maggie’s face when she’d told him about Niall and Connor. He only hoped the damage could be repaired, before all was said and done.
CHAPTER 32
By the time Gregory made his way into Ballyfinny, the wind had changed.
In the far distance, dark clouds were gathering and, though it remained bright over the lough, it was as though the animals sensed that a storm was brewing. There was no sound of birdsong in the trees, nor the rustle of woodland mammals scavenging in the brush.
All was silent and still.
The wind had changed direction at the Garda station, too.
Many of the support staff and guards had taken themselves off to Sunday Mass, but Connor, Niall and a few other key members of staff remained to deal with a new maelstrom that now threatened their investigation. It came in the form of Superintendent Carole Donoghue, whom Gregory recognised as the tall, blonde woman who’d attended the police briefing at the hotel the day before. She was Niall’s direct superior at Divisional Headquarters in Castlebar and had been given orders to remove Niall, Connor and Gregory from the case.
“Ma’am—with respect—why are you doing this? We’ve been working around the clock to find this arsehole,” Connor argued.
“I’m under orders from Garda Headquarters,” she said, flatly. “They’ve received complaints and allegations of police bias, owing to your familial relationship, not to mention your ties to the Mayor. They’ve also expressed concerns about the level of credence being given to the profile produced by Doctor Gregory.”
All three men spoke at once, and she held up her hands.
“This isn’t up for debate,” she said. “They didn’t like the headlines after the press conference, and, frankly, neither did I.”
“That’s what this is really about,” Niall said, with obvious disgust. “They’re worried about their precious politics, again. Can’t have anybody making the Chief Constable look bad, can we?”
“That’s enough,” Donoghue said. “I’ve had the brass buzzing in my ear all morning and I’ve had it up to here.”
She flattened her palm and gestured to a height above her own head.
“Niall, I want you back at Castlebar and at your desk by lunchtime,” she ordered. “Connor? You can stay on here, but strictly as family liaison since the locals know you. And…”
She side-stepped the two detectives and walked over to where Gregory was standing, just inside the doorway, awaiting his turn at the executioner’s block.
“Doctor Gregory, I want to thank you for the work you’ve done for our department,” she said, sincerely. “Whilst I’m under orders to take over the investigation and to bring our working relationship with you as a cons
ultant to an end, I’d like to say that I found your discussion highly informative at the briefing yesterday. I may be under orders, but I don’t necessarily agree with them. I happen to believe that profilers and the police can work very well together, and often do.”
He read between the lines.
“Thank you,” he said. “And, of course, I fully understand your position. Although I’m quite happy to relinquish any formal relationship the Garda has with me, I hope you won’t mind if I stay on for a few days, here in Ballyfinny. I’m due some holiday time.”
She cocked her head to one side.
“Doctor, you wouldn’t be planning to hang around the town hoping you might be able to work with us in an informal capacity, and risking further embarrassment to the pencil pushers in Dublin, now would you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “But, if I did, I’d also tell you that the person you’re looking for won’t wait as long as they did last time. They’re more skilled, more confident and, on some level, more aware that they can’t continue their spree indefinitely. They’re running out of time—and so are we.”
Donoghue nodded, and spoke in an undertone.
“I’ll have officers patrolling twenty-four hours a day, for the next seven days,” she said. “Are there any in particular on your list of suspects that you feel we should keep under surveillance?”
Gregory let out a long breath.
“Several are near-perfect fits for the profile I created, and which I still stand by,” he replied. “But I think you should keep an extra close eye on the church, and in the meantime, seek a search warrant to seize copies of Father Walsh’s personal papers. In there, it lists the name of the mother who gave him up as a baby, and she’s still living here in Ballyfinny. She could be an intended target.”
Donoghue’s eyes darkened.
“Failing that, look at recent traumas to narrow the pool,” he murmured. “Deaths, marriages, even births. Look for where a relationship has broken down or they’ve been rejected in some other way. It’s in there, somewhere.”
Donoghue held out a hand, which he shook.
“I’ll be in touch,” she said.