Lake of Sorrows ng-2

by Erin Hart

  “But depending on what you found, it could be serious money.”

  “Oh, aye, surely—if it was found legally, and reported as required. Why this burning curiosity all of a sudden? Tell me you haven’t been tainted by one touch of saint-seducing gold?”

  “Not to worry, I’ve no plans to turn treasure hunter. Thanks, Niall.”

  Someone else farther back in the group called for Dawson’s attention, and Ursula Downes maneuvered into his place beside Nora.

  “How’s your accommodation working out, then?” she asked.

  Something in the innocent way she’d posed the question made Nora suddenly wary. “Just fine,” she answered cautiously, curious about where Ursula might be heading.

  “What do you think of the Crosses?”

  “It’s a wonderful place.”

  “You don’t find it a bit…I don’t know—cramped? When I used to stay there, I always found it a bit confining. Old houses are like that, I suppose. Some people like quaint. I always preferred something a bit more up-to-date, myself.” They’d reached the shed, and Ursula cast a frankly lubricious glance over at Charlie Brazil, who was building a new staircase for the supply shed out of broad planks, his shirt loose and unbuttoned in the afternoon heat. He was about ten yards away and couldn’t have heard Ursula’s remark, yet Nora felt her face unaccountably burning for his sake, or perhaps her own. Was it true, what Margaret Scanlan had said about him last night? She hadn’t even tried to imagine what “terrible things” had been done to those animals. What she really wondered was whether Charlie Brazil was a true misfit, or just one of those unfortunate people whose odd behavior naturally draws suspicion—a scapegoat.

  The afternoon’s work was slow and hot. Like footing turf, Nora thought; you’re better off not looking up. At a quarter past three, she climbed to her feet and set out for the nearest lavatory, a portable toilet with no running water. It was swarming with bluebottles and the floor was caked with peat. She had just closed the door of the Port-a-loo when she heard noises outside under the vent to her left. The compartment suddenly rocked as a body was shoved up against it, and she heard a struggle, like two people wrestling. Male and female, from the silhouettes on the fiberglass walls. Was she a witness to violence or lovemaking? Even at this proximity, it was almost impossible to tell. Finally the tussling stopped, and Nora recognized the voice: Ursula Downes, out of breath. “Don’t worry, you won’t hurt me. That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it, Charlie? To tell the truth, I like it a bit rough. What about you?”

  Charlie Brazil didn’t respond, but Nora could hear his ragged breathing. Through the louvered vent, she could see them outside on the ground, Ursula astride Charlie with her knees pinning his arms. He couldn’t move without shifting her off him by force.

  Ursula leaned forward and extracted something from the front of Charlie’s shirt. “What’s this—some sort of good luck charm? It’s very like the one your uncle Danny was wearing when we found him. Only it didn’t turn out very lucky for him, did it now?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charlie said. “What do you want from me?”

  “Why do you think I want something, Charlie? Maybe I have something to give you. Did you ever think of it that way?”

  “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

  “Is that any way to talk? You haven’t even heard my offer. I’ve been up at your place, Charlie—the place where you have the bees. People have told me Danny used to keep bees there as well.”

  “What about it?”

  “Randy little devils, aren’t they, bees? I heard once that the drones put it to the queen while she’s flying, ride her in the air. Is that really true?”

  “I don’t know. Let me go.” He struggled again, but she held him fast.

  “I think you do know, Charlie. I think you know all about that and much more. I’ve been watching you, Charlie. I know what you’re hiding.”

  He writhed beneath her, but she leaned forward into his face and whispered, “It’s not as if you’d get nothing in return. I wouldn’t tell anyone, for a start. And I’m very inventive, Charlie. You’ve no idea. I can be very sweet when I want to be, and I know you appreciate sweetness, Charlie. I can feel it. There’s just one thing I have to mention, and it’s that little girlfriend of yours, Helen Keller—”

  Out of Charlie’s throat came a deep groan full of anguish, swelling into a roar as he heaved Ursula from his midsection and scrambled to his feet to make an escape. She couldn’t resist one parting shot: “When you do come and see me, Charlie, wait until after dark. You know how people talk.”

  When he was gone, Ursula sat on the ground and began to laugh to herself, a dusky sound in which Nora thought she recognized a bright note of triumph. Eventually Ursula climbed to her feet, brushed off her clothing, and went back around the side of the shed. Nora kept still for a moment, trying to think. She felt somehow stained by having witnessed the scene. She couldn’t shake the sound of Ursula’s laughter from her head, and she felt it setting loose the darkness that sometimes welled up inside, washing through her. She felt as though it had the power to turn her blood a deeper shade of red, and it was something she could not just wish away.

  A few minutes later, when she headed back to the parking area, Nora found a jar of dark golden heather honey sitting on the hood of her car. A solitary bee had found it as well, and was tracing a circle around the edge of the lid, trying to find a way in.

  6

  Owen Cadogan hated the train station—the cold tile floors, the huge ticking clock, all the lifeless gray cinders that lay beneath the tracks. Perhaps the aversion was left over from his childhood, when the whole family would go down to see his father off on his way back to work in England. All that false hope, the forced emotion, the tears…it was dreadful. The father had made it home every few months at first, then he’d come back only at Christmas, and eventually he’d stopped coming back altogether. He had to find work, he’d said, and England was where the work was, but they all wondered what else he had found over there. Owen knew he wasn’t in any position to judge, considering what he’d done with his own life, but that didn’t make his father any less guilty.

  He stood in the ticket queue, looking back occasionally to where Pauline sat with the children on a wooden bench against the wall. They were going up to visit her mother in Mayo for a fortnight, something they did every summer without him. A holiday at the seaside did the children good, Pauline said. And she was probably right, because Pauline was always right. The worst thing wasn’t the fact that she was always right, but that she knew it. The woman’s awareness of her own superiority hung around her like a stifling cloud. He’d never understand women. First they laid traps for you with their soft voices, the way they smelled and felt under your hands, and once you were reeled in and caught it was too late; you were marched before the judge and informed of the way things were going to be. When she finally had the two children she’d always wanted, Pauline’s interest in him had abruptly terminated. Then she was off-limits, the door closed in his face whenever he came near her. She didn’t want to have to move to a separate bedroom, she’d said, for the sake of the children, but she would if he persisted.

  So he played his role as provider—the wallet, the moneybox, the bank—he’d always played that part all right. It was just in every other area that he couldn’t seem to measure up. No one really understood his position, at home or at the job. He thought of all the workers who’d be losing their jobs at the end of this season. They couldn’t see into the future for themselves, didn’t even fucking try; they just put their heads down and went to work every day, hoping desperately that no one would force them to think too hard about the choices they had made. In many ways they were like overgrown children, and they expected to be taken care of like children for the rest of their lives. He was the one who had to tell them that things didn’t work that way anymore.

  He glanced back again at his family. They were his family;
why should he feel like such an outsider? He studied the dark hair falling down Deirdre’s back and wondered what his daughter thought of him. Children were very sensitive about these things. Did she see him for the failure of a man that he was? Stephen raised his eyes at the same moment, and Cadogan felt himself shrink under their gaze. The roundness of Stephen’s head and the set of his shoulders, that confidence of youth, suddenly made him feel like weeping. They knew all about him, it was clear. And they had always been their mother’s children, never his. He looked at his daughter’s hands clutching the small suitcase, her knuckles still dimpled with a babyish plumpness—touching, but already lost to him. If they never came back from Mayo they wouldn’t miss him a bit. He wished the train would come and take him away, once and for all, so that he would never have to look at them or think about them ever again. But just then the woman in front of him stepped away from the ticket window, and the clerk addressed him: “Where to, sir?”

  “Three return tickets to Westport, one adult and two children.”

  “The missus taking the little ones on holiday, is she?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re a fine-looking family.”

  “Yes.” Cadogan’s hackles rose as he watched the man’s eyes flit over toward his family once more; the gray eyes glittered, the pink tongue darted out to moisten cracked lips. But when the clerk handed over the three return tickets with nicotine-stained fingers, Cadogan saw the man for what he really was: a harmless old bastard stuck behind a ticket counter for forty years. What was wrong with him? He must be losing his mind, seeing the iniquities within himself manifest themselves in everyone around him. He felt queasy, and turned away without a word of thanks.

  The children led the way out to the platform. The train wasn’t due for another couple of minutes, and his son went immediately to the tracks and peered into the distance for it.

  “Will you get away from there, Stephen?” Pauline scolded. It was the very same tone of voice, Cadogan realized, that she often used with him as well.

  “Stop fussing me, will you?” Cadogan recognized his own voice in the boy’s response. When Stephen was out of harm’s way, his wife turned to him, but kept her distance. “You know when we’ll be home. You’ll have to fend for yourself until then.” What did she think he was, a schoolboy? Why had it taken him so long to realize that this was the way she’d always treated him, like a stubborn child?

  Finally, the train pulled into the station. No false hope, no forced emotion, no tears. Cadogan felt relief as he watched his family climb the steps into the carriage.

  “I won’t wait, if you don’t mind. I’ll just be off.”

  “Whatever you like,” Pauline said. “I’ll ring you from Mam’s. Behave yourself.” With that final admonishment, she turned to catch up with the children, who were already arguing over who would get to sit facing the front of the train.

  Cadogan turned and threaded his way through the loose clumps of travelers disembarking and waiting to get on. Freedom stretched before him, fourteen days in which he would not follow his wife’s advice. He felt enormous relief at getting out from under his family for a few days, and wondered briefly what it might feel like to be shut of them altogether. He dared not think about that—at least not until he’d seen his plan through, until he’d found out what his worst side was capable of at the bottom of it all.

  Once out of the station, he passed a self-imposed threshold and allowed himself to think about Ursula Downes. When he’d arrived at the excavation site today, she’d accused him of trying to frighten her the night before. He hadn’t responded, just listened to her fume and sputter on. He wasn’t going to dignify her accusations with any reply. Who did she think she was, coming out here with airs and graces, rejecting him, after what they’d got up to almost every day last summer? Why should he tell her anything? Let her fucking wonder, the bitch.

  7

  Two days after the new body had turned up at Loughnabrone, Liam Ward sat at his desk finishing the paperwork on a couple of recent cases. They’d just closed the inquiry on a local farmer who was making and selling his own quack cures for cattle, and were now waiting for a determination on the charges to be filed by the Director of Public Prosecutions. And just last week they’d cracked a stolen car case purely by accident; on their way out to interview the suspect, they’d found him trying to bury the car in the bog with a backhoe. Far from being sporadic, the detective work—even in a rural district like this—was usually small-scale, but relentless. This was the first homicide he and Maureen had faced in several years, and it was possible that the unusual circumstances of the case would mean they’d have some interference from above.

  Maureen came through the door with a brown envelope. “Preliminary autopsy on the Loughnabrone case. It’s addressed to you.”

  Ward studied the envelope. The address was in Catherine Friel’s regular, slightly feminine hand. Still no word on Danny Brazil’s dental records; it might take a few more days. He opened the envelope and slid the autopsy report onto his desk. There was a note attached:

  Liam—

  I hope this preliminary report will be of some use. It could be a couple of weeks before the toxicology and serology results come through, but please ring me if you have any questions. The findings are fairly conclusive, but let me know if you need clarification on any point. I’d like to help the investigation in whatever way I can.

  —Catherine

  Ward felt an unfamiliar catch just beneath his solar plexus as he set the card aside. He scanned the first few paragraphs, looking for the one phrase, the key that would help him unlock this puzzle.

  Evidence of injuries:

  1. Sharp force injury to the left side of the neck. This is a complex injury, a combination stabbing and cutting wound. The initial wound is present on the left side of the neck, over the sternocleidomastoid muscle, 6 cm below the left auditory canal. It is diagonally oriented, and after approximation of the edges, measures 2 cm in length. Subsequent autopsy shows that the wound path travels through the skin and subcutaneous tissue, without penetration or injury of a major artery or vein. This is a nonfatal sharp force injury.

  2. Lateral contusion measuring 3 mm in width around the neck superior of the hyoid and traversing C4 at a 10-degree angle ascending anterior to posterior. There is a ligature crossover pattern 3 cm from posterior midline at C4, suggestive of a slightly off-center rearward ligature strangulation. This is a nonfatal injury.

  3. Oblique and slightly curved laceration of the left posterior head, located 12 cm from the top of the head and 6 cm from the posterior midline. The laceration extends through the scalp and is associated with subgaleal hemorrhage. No skull fracture is present. This is a nonfatal injury.

  4. Multiple incised wounds to scalp, face, neck, chest, and left hand (defense wounds).

  5. Multiple abrasions on the upper extremities and hands (defense wounds).

  6. Peat particles present in trachea and in both lungs.

  7. Multiple small contusions on the calves, ankles, and heels.

  From there, Dr. Friel embarked on a more detailed description of each wound. Ward read quickly through the details, then skipped over the internal examination to the final page, for the summary of the findings:

  From the anatomic findings and pertinent history, primary cause of death is ascribed to drowning. However, from the character and number of lacerations, contusions, and defensive wounds, inflicted trauma is clearly the result of a homicidal assault.

  Drowning. Strange that despite all the other injuries, he had ended up asphyxiating at the bottom of a bog hole. The defensive wounds said the man hadn’t gone willingly to his death. Cuts on his hands and forearms were evidence that he’d been conscious while being attacked with a knife. There had been a fierce fight.

  Ward tried to put himself in the dead man’s place, to reconstruct the events in logical sequence. He opened the evidence box and removed the leather cord. Someone surprises the victim. He naturally tri
es to escape, so the attacker takes hold of this cord, twists and pulls him backward, to hold him, probably with the left hand. That’s one reason the ligature mark on the neck would be slightly off center. The attacker tries to reach around and slash the victim’s throat with the knife, but he’s still struggling, and the attacker doesn’t get a good strike; the wound is only superficial.

  In the struggle, the victim twists around and falls. His head strikes something hard, giving him that curved laceration, and he’s knocked unconscious. He might even appear to be dead. At this point the attacker drags him across the bog and throws him down the bog hole. But the victim isn’t dead; he’s only unconscious. He regains consciousness in the hole, and struggles even then, sinking in the sloughy darkness, trying to dig his way out, until finally he sinks and the attacker fills in the bog hole with spoil.

  Ward felt exhausted, just thinking about the scenario. But what were the weaknesses? There were always weaknesses. It was all a bit too much to believe—the garrote, the knife, the drowning. Unnecessary overkill. But had it been planned that way, or had it just happened? Unwilling victims had a way of upsetting people’s carefully drawn plans.

  And there was still the puzzle of the missing clothing. If the victim had been fully dressed when he was attacked, why would the killer bother to strip the body? If you were simply trying to make identification difficult, why not take all the effects—the watch, the leather necklace? Dr. Gavin said that the bodies thought to be sacrificial victims were usually found naked.