She nodded. “This actually sounds like it might work.”
Marty had already taken off across the road and down a narrow street that led—via a series of other streets—to their house.
FIONA FELT VERY conspicuous sitting outside the deserted ice-cream shop across the street from the Garda station. It was April in Ireland—nobody in their right mind would venture out for ice-cream. In fact, the only reason the little shop stayed open was because its owners had set it up as part of some complicated tax dodge. Still, the ice-cream was nice and more importantly, it was the only place with outdoor seating where she could sit and watch the station. After all, she was apparently a suspect in the case, so she didn’t want the gossip mill of Ballycashel doing any more speculating about her.
She carved off a small spoonful of orange sorbet and tried to stop herself from shivering as it melted in her mouth. She stared at her phone. Marty hadn’t called her yet and she was starting to get worried. She unlocked the screen and stared at the bars. She had full reception and it was likely that Marty had too—there were enough cell towers in the vicinity to make sure of it.
“Is anyone sitting here?” a voice growled.
Fiona looked up and found herself face-to-face with Gerry Reynolds. “No,” she said, willing him to leave her alone. She usually had no trouble speaking her mind but that didn’t extend to thugs like Gerry Reynolds.
“Lovely morning,” he said, hands in pockets. At least the small cup of chocolate chip ice-cream he was ignoring was in no danger of melting in the arctic wind. It sat there abandoned, spoon still shoved in the top.
“Just gorgeous,” Fi said, telling herself not to be so sarcastic to a fella who was probably a murderer. She froze. What if this was his way of intimidating her into silence?
He laughed. “Terrible business with Dec Hanlon.”
The blood ran cold in Fiona’s veins. “Awful,” she said quietly.
“I was there that night.”
“You were what?” she hissed, before getting a grip on herself. “Oh, yes. In the pub.” Her voice sounded like a robot’s: unnatural and stilted.
“Yeah, of course in the pub. What, do you think it was me who murdered him?” He gave her a big leery grin.
Fiona squeezed her lips between her teeth and shook her head. As she did so, she took stock of her surroundings. Martha, the student who worked in the ice-cream shop, was all of five foot nothing. She’d be no help. The shops on either side were run by older women, who she couldn’t imagine being much use against Gerry Reynolds. No, her only option was the Garda station across the road if Gerry decided to attack. She stared at her phone, willing Marty to call. What if he tried to reach her when she was in the station?
I could tell them it’s an emergency, she thought.
“You’re very quiet. You’re normally the life and soul of the party,” Gerry said, squinting at her.
Fiona’s stomach lurched. Had he been watching her? Was he going to try and kill her? “My brother’s coming to meet me here,” she said quickly.
“Ah lovely,” he said, his smile not meeting his eyes. “Bit of quality time with the family.”
“Are you not eating your ice-cream?” she asked, mainly to fill the silence.
He glanced at it as if he’d never seen it before. “Nah. I’m not a big fan of sweet things.”
Fiona’s stomach lurched. “I have to go. Do. My. Passport photos,” she yelled, getting up in such a hurry that she almost knocked orange sorbet all over the table.
Clutching her phone, she raced across the road, barely stopping to check if there were cars coming. She hurried up the steps to the Garda station, afraid to look back to see where he was in case she slowed down and it allowed him to catch up with her.
“Watch where you’re going!” someone snapped.
“Sorry,” she said absently, hurrying past. She looked up and baulked. It was Pete Prendergast.
“You ought to be.”
She forced her legs to move; to get inside the doors of the station. Thankfully they cooperated. She rushed inside, lungs screaming for air. She needed to do more cardio, she knew—that’s if she survived all this.
21
GARDA FITZPATRICK WAS behind the desk. She could see Sergeant Brennan in his office. The door was open.
“Can I…?” she asked the guard without stopping to hear his reply. She’d have much rather dealt with Fitzpatrick, but he wasn’t the most pro-active. She’d rather talk to Sergeant Brennan than wind up dead. She glanced at her phone—Marty still hadn’t called.
She stopped in her tracks and dialled his number. To her relief, he answered on the first ring.
“Fi,” he whispered.
“Are you alright? What’s going on?”
“I’m grand. I’m on the way home. I found an envelope. We can look at it at the house.”
“Are you mad?” she hissed. “I told you to call me. That was our plan.”
“Ah, Fi,” he said. She could hear the smile in his voice. “I got there and realised how silly that was. There was no one around. And sure, I’d take on anyone that came at me. Ben never called. Everything is fine.”
“This isn’t a phone box, Miss McCabe,” a cold voice said.
“Gotta go,” she muttered. “See you back at the house.”
She hung up and spun around. “Sorry,” she said, not meaning it. “Urgent business.”
“I’m sure it was,” he said with a smirk. “Now, what can we do for you?”
She stared at him, suddenly getting the feeling that she was being shoved backwards down a tunnel at high speed. “We weren’t trespassing,” she said hurriedly, not meeting his eyes. She didn’t want to grovel, but she knew he’d throw the book at her if she was found in the wrong. “We were just going for a walk.”
Sergeant Brennan snorted. “And I’m supposed to be interested in your leisure activities?”
She froze. This wasn’t what she’d expected. But if Pete hadn’t gone to report them, what had he been doing at the Garda station? She glanced at Garda Fitzpatrick through the open door. Maybe he’d been renewing his gun licence, she thought. Still, something about the situation filled her with unease.
“Well?” Sergeant Brennan said.
“It’s Gerry Reynolds,” she said hurriedly. “He just tried to intimidate me in the ice-cream shop. I think he might be involved in Dec’s murder.”
“That’s quite a leap.”
She shrugged. “Not really.”
“Perhaps you’re just trying to take the heat off yourself?”
She shook her head. “I had nothing to do with it—you should know that by now. Have you not got the lab tests back?”
He pursed his lips and watched her coldly. “They came back clean.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because,” he said slowly. “You had ample time to wash away the evidence. Don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes.”
“I’m not! I wasn’t involved. You’ve got no evidence against me.”
He sighed. “If it’s out there, I’ll find it. Now. Tell me more about Gerry Reynolds.”
She moved to take a seat in front of his desk and then thought better of it. She stood in front of him. “He was in the pub the night Dec was killed. And he just followed me to the ice-cream place and made it very clear that he was only there to intimidate me. He was asking me about the case. I think he thinks I know something.”
“And do you?”
Fiona remembered Pete’s hasty departure from the Garda station and hesitated. “No,” she said. After all, she had no idea what Marty had found in the Beetle.
“Well then you should be fine.”
“Oh, that’s great. Thanks. I’ll let my family know to sue you if he murders me too.”
She turned and marched out of the office, resisting the urge to slam the door.
“How’re you, Fiona?” Garda Fitzpatrick said from behind the desk.
She smiled and nodded. “Can’t com
plain. And yourself?” She thought of something and walked over to the desk.
“Ah, grand now. It’s cold all the same.”
“It is,” she said, mind working furiously. “Here, Garda Fitzpatrick. Did I just see Pete Prendergast come out of here?”
He nodded.
Her heart raced. “And did he say where he was going? It’s just I wanted to talk to him about his bar tab. Would you know where I can find him?”
“Ah sorry, Fiona. I have no idea. He came marching in here and went straight to the sergeant’s office. They were in there for over half an hour. Blinds down and everything.” Noel Fitzpatrick tutted like it was outrageous carryon. “You’d swear they were being filmed for the telly or something.”
It took all the effort Fiona possessed to get her legs to work and carry her out of the station.
“WHERE DID YOU GET TO?”
Fiona had hurried back to the end of the street and turned left onto Church Street. She spun around even though she recognised the voice. Why wouldn’t she? She’d been talking to him not fifteen minutes before.
“Gerry,” she said, trying to smile. “Fancy meeting you again.”
He glowered back at her.
She looked around. It was typical—the town was usually busy on weekday mornings, but now it was empty. Worse still, most of the shops on that stretch of the street were closed or unoccupied. She’d never make it back to the pub. No, she was done for.
Desperation did away with the last bit of self-control she had left. “Were you following me, Gerry? What do you want? I don’t know anything about the murders; I swear!”
“I was,” he said simply, eyes everywhere except on hers.
Does that mean he’s going to kill me and he feels guilty? Hardly—he’s a hardened criminal. Unless… he feels guilty and does it anyway.
“Get away from me!” she cried, wishing there was someone in their vicinity who might hear them. “If you hurt me I’ll come back and haunt you.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he growled reaching for her arm. “I just want to talk to you.”
She pulled away just in time and managed to stay out of his grasp. She stared at him. He was tall with a lean frame, but years of drinking had given him a pot belly. She didn’t usually give him much thought, but now she tried to assess what that meant for his fitness. She’d seen him out the front of Phelan’s smoking, but what did that mean? Mike had smoked for years and he’d always been one of the fastest players on the pitch.
She looked around. The street was still deserted. She made a decision then. She’d try to talk him down and if there was the slightest hint that he’d try to attack her, she’d run for her life and go to the guards.
“Jaysus, what’s gotten into you?”
“I dunno,” she said, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “Might be something to do with the fact that someone’s after me.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“It is?” she asked warily. “So we’re just being open about this, are we? You’re hunting me down and you’re all chilled out about it?”
He grimaced. “I’d hardly say I was chilled.”
Oh my God, Fiona thought. I’m dealing with a psychopath here. Out loud, she said: “I don’t mean to be condescending, but have you ever thought about getting help? You know, if you didn’t feel like admitting anything to the guards you could always talk to Father Jimmy or Doctor Grimes, you know?”
He reddened. “You really think it’s a problem? Jeez, Fiona, I wasn’t expecting that reaction.” He stepped forward.
At that moment, a car rounded the corner. Fiona waited until the last possible moment before dashing in front of it. She heard the sound of squealing tyres and frantic beeping, but she didn’t look around or slow down until she’d run all the way back to her parents’ house.
22
“THERE YOU ARE,” Marty said, looking impatient. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Waiting?” she gasped, her breath jagged. “Waiting?” Gasp. “I’ve just.” Gasp. “Had Ger—” Gasp. “Threat—” Gasp. “Kill me.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the McCabe’s front room. They all stopped what they were doing for a moment before a cacophony of voices started screaming at her.
“One at a time,” Fiona sighed, picking up Kate’s water bottle and gulping down the pint or so that was left in it.
“Gerry Reynolds just threatened to kill me,” she said, looking around at them all.
“What? Where is he now?” her father paced the room, muttering to himself. “Is he out there? Have you called the guards?”
“No. It was on Church Street. A car came and I legged it. I don’t know where he went—I didn’t look back to check.”
“Good girl,” her mother said. “I’m ringing the guards. I know Brennan is an awful eejit but that Gerry fella needs to be locked up. What did he do?”
Fiona shook her head. “Nothing. He tried to grab me, but I got out of his way. He admitted to following me and said he was out to get me. I wasn’t sure I’d get away so I thought it was best to try and calm him down. When I suggested he talk to someone he got even madder. Then I ran for it.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Francis McCabe muttered. “I’ll kill him so I will. My only daughter.”
“Here,” Kate bellowed. “What about me?”
“It was a figure of speech,” their father said. “Right. Marty? Are you right?”
Mrs McCabe rushed to her husband’s side and Fiona shot a warning look at her brother. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“See? I’ll call the guards.”
“No,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “You won’t do that either.”
“What, so we’re just supposed to let Gerry kill you?”
Fiona shuddered. “No, that’s not ideal either. But we can’t go to the guards. I just saw Pete Prendergast there. He was in with the sergeant for half an hour. I think Sergeant Brennan might be involved in this somehow.”
“He’s not,” Marty said, more decisive than she’d ever heard him.
“But I just saw Pete in there. Remember Pete? Who tried to get us with his shotgun?”
“Not him,” Marty said.
“But the pheasants and the gun and him running to the sergeant. Oh yeah, and the sergeant knew nothing about us being on Pete’s land. So what were they talking about? And Gerry’s involved too apparently. Why else who he want to kill me?”
She shivered as she remembered Gerry’s questions about Dec and the journalist. He must have remembered that conversation. What if she was the only loose end that could tie him to the crime? She groaned in terror.
“Would you both shut up about Pete and Sergeant Brennan?” Francis hissed. “Who cares? There’s a madman after Fiona. Now, if you won’t go to the guards, you’re leaving me with no choice but to get my gun from the room and go out there and find him myself.”
“Oh God,” Fiona groaned. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place: neither choice seemed particularly appealing to her at that moment.
“I’m not joking with you. Nobody messes with my family. Who does he think he is anyway, with that stupid moustache and that ridiculous haircut?”
“DO you realise you look like a crowd of hooligans off to a football match? Ah Francis, for the love of God will you let it go?”
“No, love,” Francis McCabe said in a calm clipped voice that seemed utterly at odds with the hurley he brandished as a weapon.
Fiona rolled her eyes. “At least we convinced him to leave the shotgun.”
“Don’t laugh: this isn’t funny.”
“Sure there’s nothing I can do about it. I tried to make him see sense.”
“Come on lads. Are ye ready?”
The McCabe lads nodded their agreement. Both of them stood in the hallway. Marty held his hurley and Ben held the cricket bat that was bought at the height of Colm’s brief foray onto the cricket bandwagon after Ireland beat England in the c
ricket world cup.
Ben opened the front door.
“Ah stop it, would ye? I’ll never be able to show my face in town again after this. We’ll have to move to a caravan by the side of the road.”
“I’ve never been so mortified in all my life,” Kate said, bolting up the stairs and slamming the door of her bedroom.
“Please, Dad,” Fiona begged. “Just leave it.”
“And what then? What if he tries to come after you again?”
She shrugged helplessly. “I’ll carry a knife in my handbag. I don’t know. Maybe we won’t have to worry about it when he gets arrested—he’s obviously involved in this whole Dec business.”
“About that,” Marty said. “You need to see what I found—”
“Come on,” Francis McCabe bellowed. “No child of mine is going to be left too afraid to walk the streets in her own town.”
“I told you—I’ll get a knife.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Fiona. You have the coordination of a baby deer. Remember when I took you to the Irish dancing in the hall? You’re more likely to injure yourself than anyone else.”
“Oh for God’s sake!” Fiona cried, barrelling forward and slamming herself against the door. “Now! You’ll have to go through me if you want to get out there and I’m not budging.”
Her father looked nonplussed for a moment before he simply turned and walked through the house.
“Back door,” he barked. The others hurried after him.
“I THOUGHT you were dead against going after Gerry,” Ben said as they marched through the town. Net curtains fluttered in every window they passed.
“I am,” Fiona said, trying to pretend that no one was watching and judging them.
“That’s a pretty handy weapon for a pacifist.”
She clenched the hurley handle tighter. “I’m not a pacifist. I’m just opposed to my entire family acting like some kind of vigilante militia. I’m only here so I can talk some reason into Dad before something awful happens.”
Apple Seeds and Murderous Deeds: An Irish Mystery Page 12