The lad shrugged. “Friday week.”
“What was his name?”
Out came another shrug. “I was half in the bag.”
Siobhán sighed. This was turning out to be a waste of cleavage. She was dying to put on a jumper.
“Jimmy might remember.” One of the lads yelled across the pub, and a few seconds later a man, presumably Jimmy, ambled over. He was in his thirties with pale hair and an easygoing grin. “Yer man there, Friday week,” the lad who called him over said. “Tell us the story.”
“The two Yanks?” Jimmy said. His eyes gleamed. He was ready to entertain.
This was news. Siobhán straightened up. “There were two?” She was dying to take out her notebook, but couldn’t run the risk that they’d clam up at the sight of it. Lads were strange creatures. They loved a girl who would hang on every word, but they’d get twitchy if you started recording those words.
Lads shook their heads, claiming there was only one.
“I said there were two,” Jimmy insisted as he swayed side to side. “Peter, Peter, and Pumpkin Eater.” He threw back his head and roared with laughter.
“Were they together, or did you encounter two separately?” Siobhán asked, her impatience growing. She was dying to grab his shoulders and steady him. He was making her dizzy.
“What?” Jimmy shook his head as if her question was too complicated.
“You said there were two lads—”
“He was probably seeing double,” one of the men cut in. Rowdy laughter followed.
“You’re gorgeous,” Jimmy said, sliding Siobhán a drunken grin.
“Were there two men?” Siobhán asked again.
Jimmy was still grinning. “I might have been seeing double.” His wide mouth revealed gaps in his teeth.
Lovely.
“Do you have a story for us, or not?” Maria barked. She shoved a stool under him. Jimmy plunked down.
“I remember one thing for sure,” Jimmy said, his voice taking on a somber tone. “Young or old, one or two, this one thing I remember.”
“Yes?” Siobhán said, clenching her fists and resisting the urge to kick his stool out from under him.
“I’ll never forget what he said.”
“Spit it out,” Maria said.
Jimmy pointed at the bar. “He sat right up there, lifted his pint, and announced that he had come to Ireland to ‘right a great wrong.’ ”
* * *
The following day Siobhán was at her desk an hour early. She had typed up every comment she and Maria had gleaned in the pub the other night, although they hardly added up to anything. Most of the witnesses described seeing an older American man in and out of the pub the past week. Several said his first name was Peter, he was staying in Cork City, and that he was here researching his family tree. A few others said they didn’t remember his name but they were quite sure it wasn’t Peter. One or two lads said the man in question mentioned something about a big television event. Several swore they heard the old man talking about his brother. She looked at all the tidbits she gathered:
Name: Peter . . . ???
Staying in Cork City
Researching Irish heritage
Possible television show . . . ?
Brother
One man or two?
Young or old?
“Right a great wrong.”
Most of the accounts matched. The ones who thought the man was younger could have been mistaken. Or they had met a different man than the others. It was within the realm of possibility to have more than one American tourist in town. Perhaps Peter had come to Kilbane with someone or met him here.
She had also asked if any of them had seen any tall, strange old ladies about town, and as she had feared, that had elicited a comedy hour rather than any real answers.
Macdara and the state pathologist from Dublin were expected to arrive at the station sometime today. Siobhán hadn’t slept a wink.
She took out her photos—she’d had them enlarged and printed—and began taping them up on her wall. She stood back to look at them, paying special attention to the headstone. John Mallon. She didn’t know anyone in Kilbane with the surname Mallon. Next she glanced at the photo of the poor old man lying on the cold, hard ground. “Are you Peter?” Was there a wife or children staying in Cork City wondering where he was? If so, what had brought him from Cork to Kilbane?
She stared at her notes. Family tree. Something wiggled in the back of her mind, a memory, a reminder, but she couldn’t catch it. She took some deep breaths and tried to think calming thoughts. Gorgeous snowflakes. Cappuccinos. Crackling fires. The rolling green hills of Ireland. Fluffy sheep. She’d read somewhere that the subconscious mind cooperated best when it was relaxed and under no pressure. But before she could figure out what was nibbling at the back of her mind, she heard a man clear his throat. She whirled around and there he was, Detective Sergeant Macdara Flannery, his tall frame leaning in the doorway, his brown hair soft and messy as always, his beautiful blue eyes watching her. The sight of him hit her like a gut punch. She let out a little gasp.
“How ya?” he said softly.
Two years had gone by since she’d spoken to him. Two years. She had to fight the urge to throw herself in his arms, and then pummel his chest with her fists. And then kiss him. And then slap him. And then start all over again. “Detective Sergeant.” Her voice was barely a whisper. She chided herself, wishing she had the chance to say hello again. Louder this time, a confident hello, as if the pieces of her broken heart weren’t rattling around in her chest attempting to put themselves back together at the very sight of him.
He nodded. “Garda O’Sullivan.” He broke out in a grin.
They both laughed. She’d been so worried about seeing him again, and now it all melted away with one goofy smile. He, too, seemed to relax, and stepped into her space. “Your first few days on the job and we’ve got a murder probe,” he said. “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” He sat on the edge of her desk. We? Was he going to have her work the case? He folded his arms against his chest and studied her. “You were the first guard on the scene?”
“Yes.” She handed him the folder with her notes and gestured to the photographs on the wall. “I know I should have called it in—”
Macdara held up his hand. “I’ve already spoken with Garda O’Reilly and Father Kearney. I’m going to assume that the next time anything like this happens, your first action will be to call the station.”
She prayed he couldn’t hear the thump, thump, thump, of her heart. “Absolutely.”
“A verbal reprimand was issued and went in your file. From now on, O’Sullivan, every step you make must be by the book.”
“Yes. I swear to God.” She held up her hand.
He gestured to the photos. “Let’s have a look.” He stood and they stepped up to study them. “The snow was a bit of bad luck,” Macdara said. “You were smart to take these.”
“Thank you.” She pointed to the photo that showed footprints barely visible. “I suspect these are Father Kearney’s prints. But perhaps we should compare them to his shoes.”
“Indeed.” He fixed his eyes on her. “I understand the murder took place just before the snow began to fall?”
“Just before,” Siobhán confirmed. “Father Kearney heard a single gunshot at one in the morning. He looked out his window and saw a figure running away. Just a blur, he couldn’t even be sure if it was a man or a woman. He dressed, ran down to the churchyard, and discovered our victim. By the time he arrived at my house at half one, the snow had just begun to fall. Our killer caught a lucky break.”
“Or . . . ,” Macdara said, starting to pace in the tiny cubicle. He stopped. She saw him take in the few items she’d brought to make herself at home. A picture of her siblings taken at her graduation from Templemore, proud grins on their faces, a picture of her at her graduation, a photograph of her parents, and a small lovebird she had whittled for her parents’ fortieth wedding anniversa
ry. Whittling was something she used to love to do. It kept her hands busy and her temper in check. She hadn’t had time to whittle lately. “Or,” Macdara said as he started to pace again, “our killer was paying attention to the weather forecast.”
Siobhán hadn’t thought of that. What a rookie mistake! Of course. A premeditated murder. The killer had learned it was going to snow. A rare event, one that could send the village screeching to a halt. There would be chaos. It would be harder to travel. And, most important, the killer knew it would cover up precious evidence. He or she bided his or her time. But how had he or she lured the victim to the cemetery at that hour of the night?
Once again she wondered if the victim had been chased into the cemetery, and she could imagine it too clearly: the adrenaline, the running in the dark in a strange country, the pursuit, the heart-thumping fear. She had no idea what happened, so it was no use torturing herself thus. She discussed both scenarios with Macdara.
“There’s a third possibility,” Macdara said.
“Go on.”
“Our victim could have entered the cemetery for reasons of his own and then our killer enters, taking him by surprise.”
“Or the killer could have been taken by surprise. The killer could have already been in the cemetery.”
“Numerous possibilities,” Macdara said. “Our task will be to try and eliminate as many as possible.”
“Everyone knows that weather predictions are often wrong,” Siobhán said. “How did he or she time it so exact?”
“True,” Macdara said. “A bit of luck then, and some educated guessing?”
“So many questions.” She filled him in on the mysterious old lady Father Kearney had reported as “stabbing around” his cemetery the week before, and the possibility that there were two American tourists in town. Lastly she pointed to the victim’s outstretched hand, his arthritic pointing finger, and the nearest headstone.
“Pointing to something,” Macdara mused. “Or reaching for something?”
“Looks like pointing to me.”
“Yes, but we can’t rule out reaching.” Macdara’s voice was that of a teacher. He probably didn’t need some fresh graduate stomping on his experience, or his new position. He stared at the headstone. “John Mallon.” He turned to Siobhán. “Researching his family tree?”
Siobhán grabbed her notes. “Yes. Several witnesses said the American man told them he was here researching his family tree. Also something about ‘righting a great wrong.’ ”
“Mallon,” Macdara said. “I don’t know any Mallons in town, do you?”
“No,” Siobhán said.
Macdara’s eyes roamed over the tiny space and the uniform she was squeezed into. Then he looked behind him and saw the photograph of himself hanging just beyond her desk. He looked at her. “Take your hour for lunch. There will be a few changes when you get back.”
An hour for lunch. She knew it.
* * *
When she returned from her lunch break, she found a new uniform hanging on the back of her office door, boxes and files had been cleared out to give her more room, the wobble in the desk was fixed, and the photograph of Macdara had come down and was replaced with a photo of the Cliffs of Moher. As soon as she finished changing into her new uniform, one that fit perfectly, she came out to find Macdara waiting for her.
“Come on,” he said. “The Cork City Gardai Station just called. They’ve got an American family that just filed a missing person’s inquiry.”
“Finally.” Siobhán felt an equal sense of relief and dread.
“There’s more.” Siobhán held eyes with Macdara. He pointed to the name Mallon on the headstone.
“No,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Our victim’s name is Peter Mallon.”
Chapter 6
It was both thrilling and strange to be back in a car with Macdara, headed for Cork City. Despite this, her nerves were on edge for the family. So far all they knew was that their loved one was missing. They were most likely holding out hope that Peter Mallon would walk in the door at any moment. She wished that were the case, and loathed the burden of delivering the life-shattering news. She wouldn’t want anyone other than Macdara Flannery by her side for such a sensitive task.
It was slow-going with the ice and snow, but Macdara was a careful driver. The fields were luminous, covered in a blanket of white, and the Ballyhoura Mountains were stark and gorgeous in the background. Every time Siobhán gazed out, she could feel her heart swell with pride. This gorgeous land was home. She felt sorry for the Mallon family, having tragedy strike when they were so far from where they lived. Siobhán supported the spirit of traveling, but she prayed that when she passed, it would be in this land that she loved.
The state pathologist was examining the body as they spoke; she would call in as soon as there was any news. In the meantime they’d learned from the Cork City Gardai that one Peter Mallon had been missing since the prior afternoon. His family had been calling, but his mobile was going straight to voice mail. Now the voice mailbox was full. Siobhán wondered if the state pathologist would find his mobile phone in his pocket. She was relieved that someone was finally examining the crime scene.
The car began to slide and Macdara eased off the accelerator. Macdara fiddled with the radio, but when a love song came on, he snapped it off. Siobhán turned her attention away from the scenery. “Should we mention the headstone bearing the Mallon name?”
“Not yet,” Macdara said. “We’re going to get information first. Not give it.”
“As I thought.” Still, they might have knowledge of it that could help their case. “Will we show them the photos of our victim?”
“I don’t know. Leave that to me.”
She didn’t see the point in drawing the suspense out any longer, but she kept her gob shut. He was the lead investigator.
As they entered Cork City, Siobhán gazed at the snow-covered bridge over the river and the flash of pastel buildings lining the street. Cork was a lively city and she always perked up whenever she was here. Had she not been on official business, she would be shopping, or taking a stroll, or hitting one of the pubs. Just like in Kilbane, the folks who were out and about seemed to be enjoying the snow day; and because there weren’t very many cars on the road, they had made good time. Macdara found a parking spot and after checking the address and map, they began the walk to the flat, their boots crunching in the snow. The Mallons had rented their vacation stay online, and were staying in a downtown flat. It would have been easier if it had been a hotel; they could have checked out camera footage of everyone coming and going.
“We should check the CCTV footage from Kilbane for the day and night of the murder.”
“I’ve already requested them,” Macdara said. “Although there won’t be any footage near the churchyard.”
“Hopefully, we’ll spot Peter Mallon on some footage and at least see if he’s alone or with someone.”
Macdara stopped in front of a plain three-story building with brown siding. “This is it.” He turned to look at her. The hum of attraction between them flowed stronger than ever, and hope lurched within her.
He fixed his gaze on a spot just above her head. She held her breath. “I’m only going to say this once. I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. I know I shouldn’t have just stopped talking to ye. I just . . .” The curtain of silence fell again.
“It’s okay,” Siobhán said softly. It wasn’t, not really. It was far from okay. He’d hurt her deeply, just as she had hurt him with her big announcement that she had been accepted at Templemore Garda College. But she didn’t want him to suffer, and he looked as if he was doing just that. The urge to throw her arms around him was strong, so she clenched her fists at her side and waited for him to speak again.
“It’s not. None of this is okay with me.” His face darkened. “And you should have told me how they were treating you back at the station.”
Siobhán straightened up. “I can
take care of myself.”
“I know ye can. You take care of everyone, and nobody could do a better job of it. And you were right to go to garda college. I should have made that clear a lot earlier. And you’re hands down the best person I could have on this case with me.” He finally met her eyes. Her heart lurched again. He was chewing on something.
“But?”
He gave a soft smile and a nod, acknowledging that she picked up on the undercurrent. “You and me? We’re strictly business. I can’t talk about the past, about us, and work alongside you at the same time. I knew it the minute you said you wanted to become a guard. That’s why I was so conflicted. I won’t mix business and pleasure. If there’s anything you need to say to me about anything outside of work. Just. Don’t.” His voice was thick and he was so close, she swore she could feel his heartbeat.
Pain gnawed at her insides. “One question,” she said. Her heart thundered in her chest.
“One.” He did not seem happy to grant it.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“That if I chose becoming a guard, I would lose you.”
He fixed his eyes on her. “You didn’t start a discussion with me,” he said. “You announced you were going to become a guard.”
He was right. She did. “I thought you’d be happy for me.” I thought we would make it work.
“I am. Truly, I am.” He looked away, shifted. It was apparent he had no more to say on the matter.
“I see.”
He nodded. “Are we good?”
“We’re good,” Siobhán said. And by “good” she meant she wanted to pull him in close, kiss him, and then gut-punch him.
* * *
Macdara pushed the buzzer and instantly they heard a click and they were in. It was a three-flight trudge to the flat. The door was flung open just as they reached the landing. In front of them stood a beautiful woman with platinum blond hair and intense green eyes. She was just a few inches shorter than Siobhán, and extremely shapely. She was probably in her forties, but could pass for younger. Siobhán couldn’t help but think of an American Barbie. The woman searched their faces. “Is it Father? Have you found him?”
Murder in an Irish Churchyard Page 5