The Witch Elm

by Tana French

  He pushed his hair off his forehead. It was brushed smooth; that and the good clothes gave its length a sudden ravaged elegance, famous conductor fallen on hard times. “I rang Detective Rafferty,” he said gently, “and explained to him that I was responsible for Dominic Ganly’s death.”

  After a second of utter silence: “What the fuck,” I said.

  “I should have done it weeks ago—well, obviously I should have done it years ago. But it would take a certain kind of person to do that, wouldn’t it, and apparently I’m not that kind; or wasn’t, anyway, until now.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Hugo. What the fuck are you doing?”

  He regarded me through his glasses, somberly, as if from an immense distance. “At this stage,” he explained, “it doesn’t feel like something I can keep to myself any longer. That seizure the other day, that was a bit of a wake-up call.”

  Kerr was shifting his weight, wanting to get moving. “Remember,” Rafferty said, from where he had melted away to the sidelines, “you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence. You remember that, yeah?”

  “I know,” Hugo said. He found his coat on the stand and started shouldering it on, awkwardly, shifting his cane from hand to hand.

  “And you’re sure about the solicitor. Because I’m telling you now, you should have one for this.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’ll call Dad,” I said, too loudly. “He’ll come right down. Don’t say anything till—”

  “No you won’t,” Hugo said—distracted, shoving at a sleeve that wouldn’t go right. “Do you hear me? You won’t go bothering your father, or your uncles, or your cousins. Just let me get this done in peace.”

  “He needs a lawyer,” I said, to Rafferty. “You can’t talk to him without one.”

  He turned up his palms. “It’s his call.”

  “He can’t make that call. He’s not, his mind isn’t— He’s been getting confused. Forgetting things.”

  “Toby,” Hugo said, with a flash of irritation. “Please stop this.”

  “I’m serious. He’s, he’s not”—the word came back to me—“he’s not competent to make that kind of decision.”

  “We don’t determine competence,” Kerr said, rolling one shoulder and wincing at the crack. “That’s for the court to deal with.”

  “If things go that far,” Rafferty put in.

  “Yeah, if. All we know right now is, Mr. Hennessy wants to tell us something, so we need to take his statement.”

  “But he’s imagined the whole thing. He didn’t kill anyone. It’s a, some kind of hallucination, it’s—” Hugo was fumbling at coat buttons—“Hugo, please.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Hugo told me, with something between amusement and annoyance, “but honestly, Toby, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  “If it’s a hallucination,” Rafferty told me, “then there’s nothing to worry about. We’ll sort it out, no problem, bring him straight home.”

  “He’s dying,” I said, too desperate for tact. “The doctor said he should be in hospice. You can’t just throw him in a cell and—”

  Kerr laughed at me, a big bark. “Jesus, man, who said anything about a cell? Relax on the jacks. At this stage we’re only going for a chat.”

  “Your uncle’s free to go at any time,” Rafferty said. “Worst-case scenario, worst case, he’ll be home sometime tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “It’s not like anyone would oppose a bail application,” Kerr explained, cheeringly. “He’s hardly a flight risk.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Toby,” Hugo said. “Everything’s fine. Don’t fuss at us.”

  “You just chill out here,” Kerr told me, moving towards the door. “Maybe pour yourself a nice little drink, take your mind off things. No point in you getting all het up over nothing.”

  Hugo swung his scarf off a hook and wrapped it around his neck. “Now,” he said. “Shall we?”

  Rafferty opened the door and the wind came flowing in, cold and lush with autumn. Hugo smiled at me. “Come here,” he said, and when I came, cupped the back of my neck in his hand and gave me a little shake. “Don’t worry. Get to work on that diary, have something interesting for me when I get home. And for God’s sake sort things out with Melissa, won’t you?”

  “Hugo,” I said, but he had already let go of me and was stepping out into the sunlight and the tremble of yellow leaves, with Rafferty and Kerr at his shoulders.

  * * *

  I sat down heavily on the stairs and stayed there for a long time. I understood what Hugo was doing, obviously. He had thought it over, calmly done the unbearable math: he was prepared to bet he had little enough time left that, what with bail and the slow legal system, he wouldn’t be going to prison. He had decided it was worth spending a couple of his remaining days in interview rooms, worth going down in history as the Elm Tree Killer or whatever the tabloids came up with, to save me.

  On this I didn’t really agree with him, but I couldn’t imagine what to do about it. I did think about jumping in a taxi and chasing them down to the police station to throw my own confession into the mix, but even apart from the visceral terror of that idea, I couldn’t figure out the logistics: I didn’t know what station they were at, and I wasn’t sure how to confess to something I didn’t remember. It felt like the vast majority of my thought processes had shut down.

  I didn’t for a second consider the possibility that Hugo was telling the truth. Of course no one knows anyone inside out, no matter how much we’d love to believe it, but I did know Hugo well enough to be sure of a few things, one of which was that he wouldn’t garrote anyone. I was a lot more sure of that when it came to him than when it came to myself—which in itself seemed to say everything that needed to be said.

  Finally, on obedient autopilot, I went up to the study. The volume of Haskins’s diary that Hugo had been working on was open on his desk, a handful of the yellowed pages helpfully tagged with Post-its. Hugo’s transcript was laid out beside it. The transcript was patchy, big blank spaces everywhere; he had been skipping around, looking for the exciting bits. I sat down at his desk and got to work filling in the gaps.

  It was slow frustrating work any day, but my eyes were blurry and skidding from the hangover and my concentration was shot to hell; every sentence seemed to take about half an hour, all the pages were covered with tiny inkblots jumping merrily. Heard Georgie read from his schoolbook. His reading is most satisfactory but still wants something of liveliness. I demonstrated by reading him a story by—???—to both of our great merriment . . . A fine day and came home from mass with an appetite, hoped to dine well but . . . and more bitching about the cook. Outbreak of measles in the town and we hear that the—something, Sullivans’?—youngest child is near death, but—something something something—hope . . .

  The afternoon went on and on and on and Hugo didn’t come back. At some point, eyes and mind whirling, I rang Melissa—I told myself she deserved to know what had happened, but of course I was actually hoping she would come flying back to be by my side through this fresh crisis. No answer. I didn’t leave a message; this didn’t feel like the kind of thing that belonged on voicemail.

  To-day I expected to travel to Limerick but the rain having flooded the road I could not. I was greatly disappointed and out of—humor?—with my wife . . . It was almost six o’clock, surely they should be done taking his statement by now, how much of an epic could it be? I tried Hugo’s mobile, but it rang out. I dug through pockets and drawers till I found Rafferty’s card and—heart slamming—rang his number: straight to voicemail.

  I had got to the Elaine McNamara crisis, and Haskins was working himself into a moral tizzy. On the one hand we may as Caroline says teach her to become chaste virtuous and—industri
ous? Yet this seems a small penance for her sin . . . I flipped ahead: this went on for pages.

  Dimming sky outside the window, evening chill striking through the glass. Hugo had been very firm about not telling anyone, but I was losing my mind. Susanna was probably still in a snit with me, but she was the only person who might have some sensible ideas about what to do.

  It took a few rings before she decided to pick up. “Toby.” Cool, wary. “How’s the head?”

  “Listen,” I said. “Something’s happened.”

  When I had finished there was a silence. In the background Sallie was singing, peacefully and slightly off-key: Itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout . . .

  “OK,” Susanna said eventually. “Right. Have you talked to Leon?”

  “Not yet. Just you.”

  “Good. Don’t tell anyone else. Leave it.”

  “Why?”

  Splashing water: Sallie was in the bath. “Well. I don’t know about your dad, but mine’s pretty stressed out already. No point in upsetting him more when this could all blow over by morning.”

  “You don’t think they’re going to notice Hugo’s been arrested?”

  “He hasn’t been, yet. You’re jumping the gun. Here, Sal, put some soap on it—”

  “He confessed. Of course he’s going to be—”

  “People make false confessions all the time. The detectives aren’t going to just take Hugo’s word for it. They check—whether his story matches their evidence, whether he knows things only the killer could know. All that stuff.”

  Down came the rainbow washed out all the rain . . . This whole conversation felt wrong, not going the way I had expected— “So why don’t you want Leon knowing? If it’s no big deal?”

  “Leon’s not dealing too well with all this. In case you hadn’t noticed. I don’t want him freaking out.”

  “What? He’s not some fragile little flower who we have to protect from, from, we’re not kids any more”—and what if I had tried to protect him, like Rafferty thought, back when we actually were kids? look where that had landed me—“He’s a grown man. If we can handle this, he can too.”

  Susanna sighed. “Look,” she said, lower. “I don’t know if you’ve realized this, but Leon thinks you killed Dominic.” A small pause to see how I took that. When I said nothing: “He has from the start, actually. And he has some complicated thing going on where he’s pretty pissed off about the idea of you getting away with it.”

  “Well he can go fuck himself,” I said, on a surge of anger, my voice rising. “Did he say that to the cops? Is that why they were giving me shit?”

  “No. And he’s not going to—don’t worry, I’ve talked to him, he’s under control. He doesn’t actually want you to go to jail, not really. He just feels like you’ve always got away with everything and it’s not fair.”

  “Jesus Christ! What are we, six?”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s stupid leftover kid stuff. But if he hears about this, I don’t know what he’ll do. And I’d rather not find out unless we have to.”

  “OK,” I said, after a moment. I didn’t like the sound of this. I had known Leon was stressed, obviously, but Susanna was talking like he was on the verge of an epic meltdown, and I was clearly first in line to be collateral damage. “What am I supposed to do if he shows up here and wants to know where Hugo’s gone?”

  “He won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He was pretty upset, last night. I don’t think he wants to talk to you for a while.”

  “Oh, great,” I said. I didn’t particularly want to talk to Leon either, but having him out there in a massive strop with me didn’t feel like a good idea. “That’s really fucking reassuring.”

  “Don’t you start freaking out on me too. Like I said, Leon’s under control. Just don’t go winding him up and he’ll be fine.”

  What did that mean? Was I “under control” too? “I’m not fucking freaking out. I’m trying to figure out what the hell we do about Hugo.”

  “We don’t do anything. We just sit tight.”

  “He’s been there for fucking hours, Su. Without a solicitor.”

  “So? Even if they believe him, that doesn’t mean they’ve got enough to charge him. And even if they do, it takes what? six months, a year? for a case to get to trial. This isn’t a disaster, Toby. I know it’s no fun, but in the long run it’s not going to make any difference to anything.”

  I had finally figured out what felt off about this conversation: Susanna hadn’t even bothered registering the fact that Hugo had, according to him anyway, killed Dominic. I said, “You don’t think he did it.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Well then.”

  Itsy bitsy spider back up the spout again . . . “It’s not just Leon, is it?” I said. “You think I did it too.”

  After a moment: “Look,” Susanna said. Her voice was clearer, measured and firm, and Sallie’s high sweet drone had faded: she had moved away to make sure she could get this into my head. “The only thing I want here is to make sure all of us stay out of jail. That’s it. I don’t actually care about anything else. And I think whatever Hugo’s doing, it gives us the best shot at that happening. Just leave him to it.” When I didn’t answer: “OK? Can you do that?”

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  “What about Melissa? Is she going to be OK with that?”

  “She’s fine.”

  In the background, a sudden wail: “It went in my eyes!” “Got to go,” Susanna said. “Just hang in there for tonight; we’ll see what happens tomorrow, take it from there—it’s OK, sweetie, here’s your towel—” and she was gone.

  First stars in the window, Hugo’s reading glasses at the edge of the desk-pool of lamplight like he had just that moment put them down. I tried to go back to the diary, but my eyes and my brain had both shorted out: it was gibberish. I knew I should probably eat something, but I couldn’t be arsed. I told myself I would eat with Hugo when he got home—he would be starving, we could order takeaway. Meanwhile I sat at the kitchen table, smoking cigarette after cigarette and listening to young owls yelping in the darkness outside.

  I wanted Melissa, so much I could have howled. I thought of her in her cramped apartment unpacking dresses that still smelled of the Ivy House, tea and wood-smoke and jasmine, while awful Megan hovered and probed and made satisfied little bitchy comments about how she had actually always known I was worthless. I wanted, so intensely that it practically lifted me out of my chair, to get a taxi over there, hammer at the door till she let me in and wrap her tight in my arms; tell her she had been utterly right, I would never argue with her again, we could get on a plane tomorrow and take off for somewhere as far away from this godawful mess as she wanted.

  Only I couldn’t do it. It had taken this long for it to work its way into my mind: I couldn’t go to her, couldn’t even ring her, not ever again. I had, almost certainly, killed someone. Even if somehow I got away with it, even if Hugo’s plan worked and Rafferty closed the case and went away, I was a murderer.

  Melissa—the thought nearly undid me—Melissa hadn’t even cared. All she had cared about was protecting me from finding out. If only I had been willing to walk away from this, she would joyfully have walked away with me, hand in hand.

  But I cared, a lot. Melissa, sunshiny and bruised and brave, throwing herself indefatigably into making things better: I was something that had no place in her life. She deserved the guy we had both thought I was—actually she deserved better than that guy, too, but I could have been that; I had been on my way to that, had already been making plans. Even after that night, there must have been some tiny fragment of me that believed I might recover. This was different. I couldn’t see any way that this could get better, any way I could work my way past it. I was too exhausted and hungover and wretched even to cry.<
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  My phone dinged and I grabbed for it, fumbling and catching like someone out of a sitcom. Voice message.

  “Toby, hiya. Rafferty here.” The reception in the Ivy House was patchy, but I was willing to bet he had deliberately rung my voicemail. “Sorry I missed you earlier. Listen, we’re still sorting out a few things, so Hugo’s going to stay here overnight. Don’t be worrying: we got in pizza, he’s taken his medication, he’s grand. Just thought you should know so you’re not waiting up for him. See you tomorrow.” Click.

  I rang Hugo’s mobile: voicemail. “Hugo, it’s me. I’m just checking that you’re OK. Listen, if you change your mind, if you want me to come pick you up or if you want a lawyer, just ring me or text me, any time”—could he do that, would they let him? did he even have his phone or had they taken it away?—“and I’ll sort it out. OK? Otherwise, just . . . look after yourself. Please. I’ll try you again in the morning. Bye.”

  I sat there with the phone in front of me on the table for a long time, in case Hugo rang back, which he didn’t. I tried Rafferty, with some vague idea of demanding to talk to Hugo, but of course he didn’t pick up.

  It was getting late. It occurred to me that this was the first time I had spent a night on my own since my apartment. I was so tired I could barely move, but I didn’t like the thought of going to bed: asleep, undressed, far enough from all the likely entry points that I wouldn’t hear an intruder till it was too late. Instead I got the duvet from my room and stretched out on the sofa, with the standing lamp on. I wasn’t expecting to get any sleep—I was jumping at every floorboard crack and radiator burble—but at some point deep in the night I must have dozed off.

  * * *

  There was a phone ringing somewhere, but I couldn’t drag myself out of sleep properly. It was one of those old black wall-mounted phones with a heavy ornate receiver, in a fuzzy glow of gold light but I couldn’t remember where it was, landing maybe? Hugo’s bedroom? and my body wasn’t working right, I couldn’t get to it. It kept ringing and I realized that was probably all wrong, it had to be my mobile— My eyes still wouldn’t work, all I could see was a thick fog of gray speckles, but I groped for my phone and swiped blindly. “Hello?”