Buried In a Bog

by Sheila Connolly

  “Come on, both of you.” Hurley gestured toward the barn. Maura followed reluctantly, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell of manure. When they reached the corner, she peered around and saw a dirty brown car.

  “Is that the car?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. There’s the cracked headlight, and a fresh-looking dent on the front fender.”

  “Then we’ll go have a word with Denis and Jerry McCarthy. You come along and tell me if you recognize young Jerry. If he’s not here, we’ll talk to his grandfather, see what he can tell us. I’ll go first—there’s always the chance he might be unwilling to let us in.”

  “Fine.” Maura realized her heart was pounding. She hung back behind Detective Hurley as he rapped on the door, then rapped again. He listened for a moment and then relaxed. It took another half a minute for Maura to hear the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching. Finally the door opened.

  The man who faced them was old, very old. He had probably been tall once but had shrunken into himself and was now thin and wiry, like his skin had shrunken to his bones. His face was beyond wrinkled: it was folded into lines worn deep by decades of use. His white hair wisped around his half-bald head. But, Maura noted, his eyes were sharp and knowing. He looked up at the detective and nodded to himself, then looked beyond him, taking in the uniformed garda behind. And then his gaze shifted to Maura, and she would have sworn she saw a flicker of surprise.

  Finally his eyes swung back to Hurley. “Gardaí, eh? I’ve been expecting you.”

  Hurley spoke. “Denis McCarthy?” The old man nodded again. “We’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind.” His tone was polite, even respectful. Denis McCarthy said nothing more but stepped back into his hallway to let Hurley pass, followed by Maura and then Sean. They found themselves in a long, narrow hall, with doors on either side.

  “Straight on to the back,” Denis said. Like dutiful children they filed down the hall, Denis making his slow way after them. Despite the tension, or maybe because of it, Maura found herself noting odd details. They passed a kitchen on the right, littered with dirty dishes, pots, and cans; it stank of long neglect. On the left, a dining room with a large table, strewn with papers, clothes, and odd pieces of greasy machinery. At the end of the hall they came to the formal sitting room. Maura wondered idly where the bedrooms were—behind, above? The room was filled with unmatched overstuffed furniture, faded and worn, and several generations of gewgaws—all in serious need of dusting. Clearly the McCarthys had not enjoyed the benefit of a woman’s presence for a long time.

  “Sit, will yeh?” McCarthy Senior had finally entered the room, and gestured vaguely around. One of the chairs clearly belonged to Denis, and he crossed the room and sank into it with a small sigh of relief, settling into the contours worn by years of use. Hurley waited for Maura to perch gingerly on a dusty straight-backed chair, then took the mate of the upholstered chair close to Denis. Sean remained standing at the door to the hallway.

  When they were settled, Hurley began, “Mr. McCarthy, I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Hurley, of the Skibbereen Gardaí. This is my colleague, Officer Murphy. We’d like to have a word with your grandson, Jerry. Is he here?”

  Maura could have sworn that the question surprised Denis McCarthy. Was he expecting something else?

  “He’s out seein’ to the cows. In the barn.”

  Hurley looked at Sean. “Murphy, would you go round him up?” Sean disappeared back down the hall.

  “You and your grandson live here alone?” Hurley continued.

  “Yes.”

  “And you have a car?”

  “I do—it’s out back, behind the barn.”

  “Does Jerry use the car?”

  “He does. What’re you after?”

  “Mr. McCarthy, I have reason to believe that your grandson has been harassing this woman.” He gestured toward Maura. “Her name is Maura Donovan, and she’s an American visitor. Do you have any idea why your grandson might threaten her?”

  “And why would he be doin’ that?”

  “That’s what we’d like to ask him.”

  Maura heard the front door open again, followed by the sound of heavy boots approaching. She looked at the doorway to see a young man, none too clean, his arm in the firm grip of Officer Murphy. Around Jerry’s neck dangled an incongruously modern iPod, which explained why he hadn’t heard them arrive. The odor of manure wafted into the stuffy room.

  Hurley stood. “Jerry McCarthy?”

  The young man gave him a sullen glare, then nodded. “Yeah.”

  Hurley looked to Maura. “Maura?” he prompted.

  Maura wrestled between confusion and disappointment: the young man looked vaguely familiar, but he was not the one she’d come face-to-face with in Drinagh, and she was pretty sure that if he’d been on the receiving end of her lamp the night before, it would show. “Detective, this is not the man I saw in the cemetery.”

  “You’re sure?” Hurley held her glance a moment, his eyes questioning, then turned back to Murphy and his charge. “Jerry, sit down. We have some questions for you, about the car.”

  Jerry’s eyes darted to his grandfather, then he pulled a chair from against the wall, dragged it next to his grandfather’s chair, and sat. The two exchanged a wary glance, and Maura wondered what they were worried about. “So?”

  Hurley resumed his former seat. “Where were you last night?”

  “Out. Round at the pub.”

  “Which one?”

  “Stopped in at a couple of places.”

  “And would one of those have been in Leap?”

  “No.”

  “What time did you return home, Jerry?”

  Again, the furtive exchange of glances with the old man. “Late, after the pubs closed.”

  Hurley turned to the older man. “Mr. McCarthy, do you know when your grandson returned?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. Me hearin’s not what it once was, and I sleep sound.”

  Detective Hurley lapsed into silence, and Maura wondered just what else he could ask. She had recognized the car but not Jerry McCarthy. Who else might have used the car? It couldn’t have been Denis McCarthy—no way the person she had seen was this old man.

  The elder McCarthy finally said slowly, “I hear there’s been a bit of a ruckus over to Leap—they’ve found a body? One that had been there fer a while?”

  The detective said, “Yes, sir, in a bog near Knockskagh. Why do you ask?”

  The old man sighed and seemed to deflate, settling deeper into his chair like a turtle into its shell. “I might know something about that. I’ve been expectin’ you at my door before, as I always knew it would come out. The body—I’m thinkin’ that would be me uncle Denis, my mother’s brother.”

  Chapter 26

  A thick silence fell. I was right, Maura cheered silently. The Bog Man was a McCarthy, and the odds were looking good that he was the missing uncle. She looked triumphantly at Patrick Hurley, who responded with a smile and a small nod.

  Detective Hurley turned again to Denis McCarthy. “Do you know how he came to die?”

  He nodded. “I do. My father killed him.”

  Maura was startled when young Jerry jumped up from his chair. “Grandda! Don’t tell ’em nothin’.”

  His grandfather regarded him gravely, and for a moment Maura saw a flash of his authority. “Jer, give over. It’s goin’ ta come out anywise. And it’s right that it should.” He squared his shoulders and faced Hurley.

  Hurley nodded once. “Can you tell us about it, sir?”

  “I will. But it may take a bit. Can I give you some tea, or something stronger?”

  “Thank you, but there’s no need.”

  “I think I need something. Jerry?”

  An exchange of glances ensued: Denis looked at Hurley with a hint of challenge in his watery eyes, Jerry still glared at his grandfather, Sean appealed mutely to Hurley for guidance, and Hurley glanced at Maura and considered. Finally he said, �
��Murphy, why don’t you take Jerry to the kitchen to make the tea? He won’t be going anywhere. I’m sure it’s in his best interest to have us hear what his grandfather has to say.”

  “Right, sir,” Murphy responded promptly, and he and Jerry clomped down the uncarpeted hall toward the kitchen.

  Hurley and Denis eyed each other appraisingly, as if sharing some unspoken dialogue. Denis spoke first. “The girl here—you say she’s from America?”

  Maura answered him. “Yes. I’m Maura Donovan, from Boston,” she said clearly.

  “Mmh.” He lapsed into silence, and Hurley did not press him. Maybe the rules of interrogation are different in Ireland, Maura thought. Or maybe everything is just slower here. After a few minutes, she could hear the other men coming down the hall, the clink of china. Jerry emerged from the hallway carrying a battered metal tray laden with mismatched mugs, a teapot, glasses—and a half-full bottle of whiskey. At the sight of the bottle, Maura almost giggled: this was definitely not the way things were done back home. Jerry thumped the tray down on a wobbly table, china rattling.

  “Here’s your tea, then.” He sat again and retreated to his sulk, under the watchful eye of Sean Murphy. All other eyes turned to the old man.

  Until another man appeared in the doorway, a twenty-something man who looked the worse for wear. Apparently he hadn’t expected to find a roomful of people: he was wearing only a grimy singlet and briefs, and he sported a clumsy bloodstained bandage taped to his forehead. Mid-twenties, small and weaselly—and given that he was in his underwear, couldn’t be hiding a weapon. “Wha…?”

  Maura stood without thinking, staring at the newcomer. “Detective, that’s the man from the cemetery!”

  If it had not been for the guy’s threatening glance and the startled reaction from the others in the room, Maura might have enjoyed the scene. Jerry had jumped out of his chair as well and backed away; he looked scared. Officer Murphy had come to attention and slid over to block the door to the front, so no one could leave that way. Patrick Hurley was out of his chair fast, turning to face the latecomer. Maura began to retreat, not that anyone noticed. The latecomer scanned the group in front of him and took their measure quickly—he was no stranger to the gardaí, Maura guessed. How would he play it? Bluff? Cut and run? Or attack?

  For a long moment everyone stood frozen, but then, having figured out his odds weren’t good, the young man turned to flee the way he had come, and Hurley moved quickly to intercept him. Unfortunately the younger man knew how to fight, and he reacted equally quickly. If the detective had hoped for an easy grab, he was disappointed, and found himself wrestling the man around the room, at the expense of the knickknacks. Old Denis McCarthy had shrunk back into his chair. Maura pressed herself against a wall, trying to keep out of the way; poor Sean Murphy was torn between keeping track of Jerry and joining the fray. But before Sean could make up his mind, Detective Hurley subdued the man, twisting his arm behind him.

  “Murphy! You have handcuffs?” Hurley barked.

  “Yes, sir!” Sean disentangled them from his belt and clapped them on the man, then stood eagerly awaiting his next instructions.

  “Sit him down there, and keep an eye on him,” Hurley ordered. Sean complied, pushing the man down into the chair Maura had vacated and keeping one broad hand on his shoulder.

  “Jerry, stay where you are.” Hurley remained standing. “All right, you. What’s your name?”

  The newcomer glared at him and said nothing. Hurley turned to Denis McCarthy. “You know this man?”

  Denis looked briefly at his cowering grandson. “He’s a mate of Jerry’s—he’s been stayin’ here. Name’s Danny Mullan, from Dublin.”

  “Shut up, old man,” Danny spit out.

  Denis seemed to swell. “This is my home you’ve dirtied, and I’ll say what I want!”

  Danny’s bandage had slipped off, revealing a bruised lump around a scabbed gash. “Nasty bump on your head there,” Detective Hurley said. “Mind telling me where you got it?”

  “You chargin’ me with something? I ain’t sayin’ nothing.”

  The detective glanced at Maura. “Your work?”

  Maura nodded from the safety of her corner. “Probably. I know I hit him on the head, on that side.”

  He turned back to Danny. “All right, then. Let’s begin with assault with intent to do bodily harm. Mr. Mullan, you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”

  Maura wondered irreverently who in the room would have a free hand to write down anything.

  Danny’s only response was a dour glare. Hurley looked at Sean, who was almost panting with eagerness. “Murphy, think you can get him back to Skibbereen?”

  “Yes, sir! What about the other one?” He nodded toward Jerry, cowering behind his grandfather’s chair.

  “No, just that one—Mullan. I want to talk to Jerry here. You start the paperwork on Mullan, and I’ll be along directly, after I’ve sorted this.”

  Sean hauled Danny out of the chair, with somewhat more force than necessary.

  “He might need some trousers,” Detective Hurley noted with a hint of amusement. He turned back to Denis. “Mr. McCarthy, as it’s your house, will you give me permission to search the room this man’s been using?”

  Denis McCarthy nodded. “Gladly. It’s up the stair, first on the right.”

  “Murphy, wait here.” Hurley went back to the hall, and soon Maura could hear footsteps overhead. He returned a minute or two later with a pair of grimy jeans over his arm and a pair of shoes in one hand—and a battered leather wallet in the other.

  Hurley tossed the jeans toward Danny. “Here.”

  He waited until Danny had struggled into the jeans, hampered by the handcuffs, then asked neutrally, “Is this yours, Mr. Mullan?” He held up the wallet, protected by a handkerchief. Danny Mullan didn’t answer. “I’d guess not, since the cards inside carry the name of Bartholomew Hayes, who was found dead in Skibbereen a few days ago, following a mugging. Have you anything to say about that?”

  Sean Murphy’s hand tightened on Danny Mullan’s shoulder. Jerry was watching Danny with a mixture of fear and hostility. Jerry didn’t look like he could hurt a rabbit, but he had to know by now—if he hadn’t already known—what his mate Danny had done.

  Maura saw the flicker of alarm in Danny’s eyes before the shutter dropped again. “Who?”

  “You’re not that stupid. The dead man in Skibbereen.”

  Danny avoided the detective’s eyes. “Found the wallet in the street.”

  “Did you now? Where were you last Thursday night?”

  “With my mate Jerry. We might have gone for a pint or two.”

  Suddenly Maura realized why Jerry had looked familiar to her. “Wait!” Maura interrupted. “You were in Sullivan’s in Leap, when Bart Hayes came in. You and Jerry both, sitting in the corner. Sorry, Detective, but I didn’t think of it before—that was only my second night at the pub, and there were a lot of people coming and going. But now that I see him up close, I recognize both of them.”

  Danny glared at her, and Jerry somehow managed to look even more scared, with a dash of guilty thrown in. Maura could envision Danny going after Bart Hayes, and she could even see him bullying Jerry into keeping quiet, but she had trouble seeing Jerry as anything but a follower. Danny had to have been behind whatever had happened, to Bart Hayes and to her.

  Hurley nodded at Sean. “You take Mullan along now, and we’ll sort it out at the station. I want to talk to the McCarthys here, but I won’t be long.”

  “Right so. You, let’s go.” Sean Murphy all but dragged Danny Mullan out the door.

  Detective Hurley sat down in the chair next to Denis’s. “Not a welcome guest, I take it?”

  “Pah!” the old man spat out. “If I was twenty years younger, I would have pushed him out the door when he first showed his face.”

  “And that was…?”
r />   “Two week gone?” He turned to his cowering grandson. “Eh, Jerry, he’s your mate. Sit you down and tell the garda what you know.”

  Reluctantly Jerry sidled into the circle and sat. “He’s no friend of mine, Grandda.”

  Denis gave him a long look, then turned to Hurley. “The boy’s an eejit, but he’s not all bad. That Danny, he’s led him astray.”

  “Let’s start with that young man,” Hurley said. “He’s not from Cork?”

  “Nah,” the old man said contemptuously. “Jerry here—he’s me son John’s boy. John didn’t want to have nothin’ to do with the farm, took himself off to Dublin when he left school and stayed on, even after he married. But Jerry fell in with the wrong crowd there, so John sent him back here to help me out with the cows and all, now that I’m gettin’ on. He’s done a good job, considerin’ he couldn’t tell one end of the cow from the other when he first came—it’s been a year or more now. But then, oh, two, three weeks ago, this Danny fella shows up and makes himself at home.”

  Hurley turned to Jerry. “You knew him in Dublin?”

  Jerry nodded, staring at his knees. “Yah. We used to hang out together.”

  “What was he doing here? Don’t tell me he wanted a nice vacation in the country.”

  Jerry shook his head, his unwashed hair tumbling over his eyes. “Things got a bit warm for him in Dublin, so he thought it might be good to be somewhere else fer a while, and he remembered that I was out here with me grandda.”

  “So let me help you out here. Danny arrived and made himself at home. And I’m willing to bet that after the first few days he found the place a bit dull and went looking for some excitement in your grandfather’s car. Am I right so far?”

  Jerry nodded.

  Hurley went on. “Did you always go along with him?”

  Jerry shook his head. “Not always.”

  “What about that night in Skibbereen, when Bart Hayes died? Were you there?”

  Jerry shook his head vehemently. “No ways! He went off on his own that night.”

  “The two of you were together at Sullivan’s,” Maura interrupted, “the same time Bart Hayes was there. I saw you. You had only the one car. Did you follow Bart Hayes to Skibbereen?”