by Catie Murphy
Bourke wet his lips and thinned them until they disappeared before nodding. “Sorry. This isn’t . . .”
“Normal?” Megan said. “Yeah. Pretty sure I told you that myself.” She shrugged his coat off, handed it back, and stalked several feet away, watching the forensics team while, in the background, uniformed garda fended off onlookers drawn by their presence. Bourke didn’t approach her again, which suited her just fine. She wanted to stomp down the beach and release some of her irritation in exercise, but she knew if she left the police perimeter she’d never get back in. In fact, she counted herself lucky she hadn’t been thrown out, and figured that under the circumstances, if she left now, she wouldn’t hear anything unofficial about the body until the sanitized version of the story hit the news. So she stayed, arms folded, jaw bunched, and anger keeping her warm.
The forensics team finished taking pictures and began, with great delicacy, to move sand away from the body’s upper half. The man was slim and well-dressed, even with beach stains on his clothes, and it took some time to dig him out, with the team taking pictures and making notes while they worked. Eventually he was uncovered, and, as they rolled him over, Megan saw them exchange glances and shrugs. Her own view was blocked, but Bourke gestured to her, inviting her down to have a look. “Do you know him?”
She slid a few feet down the dune and made her way to Bourke’s side, convincing herself as she went that she wouldn’t know the dead man, and would only feel a clinical sense of loss at seeing his face. He was balding, with thin, light-brown hair, and cadaverous cheekbones above a disapproving mouth, and Megan, shocked, blurted, “Oh, thank God!”
* * *
“Excuse me?” Bourke gaped at her, and heads everywhere turned, from the forensics team to the uniformed guards to the dog-walking and kite-flying people who were trying to see what was going on.
Megan, horrified, clapped her hands to her cheeks. “That’s Oliver Collins. He’s the general manager at the Royal Dublin Golf Club. Or he was.”
“‘Oh, thank God’?” Bourke asked disbelievingly.
“I’m sorry. That was really inappropriate. I was afraid it would be someone I knew and liked.” Dismay crashed through Megan. “That sounded even worse. He was awful. A real snob. I only met him yesterday morning for a minute.”
Bourke, under his breath, said, “I’m beginning to think you shouldn’t make casual acquaintances,” before saying, “Are you sure?” aloud.
“Yeah, pretty sure. Positive. He left an impression. Not a good one, but an impression.” Megan stared toward the Royal Dublin, on the far end of the island from where they stood. “I can see why somebody would want to murder him, but what’s it got to do with Lou MacDonald?”
“That’s my job to find out. Thank you for your help, Ms. Malone.” Bourke nodded toward one of the uniformed guards, who stepped up to escort Megan off the scene. She went along politely, restraining the urge to kick Bourke’s shin as she went by, and headed down the beach for her much-delayed walk. A number of the onlookers rushed after her, and for a few minutes she led a little crowd away from the investigation, although they dropped off as it became clear she had nothing interesting to tell them. Most of them, she noticed, didn’t bother to go back, for which she felt Paul should, and wouldn’t be, grateful.
Once she’d lost her troop of spectators, she took her phone out again and texted Saoirse with a make it home okay? that she didn’t really expect an answer to. Still, if the young woman did answer, she might be able to figure out how to ask about Lou’s relationship with Collins without raising suspicion and, more importantly, without annoying Paul Bourke.
Her phone rang a few seconds later, Jelena’s picture coming up. Megan, smiling, answered, “Hey there,” and Jelena’s pretty accent replied, “Hey. I missed you at the gym this morning.”
“Well, I missed you yesterday. How are you?”
“Good. My shift doesn’t start until two. Can you have coffee?”
Megan groaned. “I would like nothing better, but I’m out on Bull Island with a client and won’t be done until at least half one, probably later.”
Jelena tsked. “Our schedules are not in sync. Tomorrow evening, then?”
“It’s a date,” Megan promised. “How about Lebanese? Can I take you out to the Cedar Tree?”
“Ah! Yes. I just won’t eat anything between now and then.”
“Yeah, me either. We have to get that walnut stuff no matter what mezze we order, okay?”
“Muhummara,” Jelena said with confidence.
Megan groaned happily. “Yeah, that. Oh, man, I’m hungry already.”
“Good thing they feed you all the food, then. All right, pa, Megan, do jutra.”
“Do jutra,” Megan echoed, and although technically they’d said goodbye, Jelena stayed on the phone a moment to say, “Very good, your accent is improving,” and laughed when Megan said, “Sure, as long as I only say two words.”
“A little at a time is how babies learn, too. Do jutra.” Jelena hung up, and Megan wiggled her shoulders happily as she started to put her phone back in her pocket.
Then she said, “Ooh!” out loud and texted Jelena with oh, dress up tomorrow night? I got a crazy new outfit to show off to you, before putting the phone away and striking out along the beach, finally feeling pretty good about the world.
The city council was talking about banning dogs from the island, and, watching one lope down the beach chasing geese, Megan thought maybe they should. On the other hand, unless somebody enforced the law, making it wouldn’t do any good, and she did want to be able to bring Dip there someday. If they instead enforced the leash laws that were already in place, probably they wouldn’t need to ban animals—or people—from the beach. Megan made a face at the free-running dog. It always came down to funding: the law could be enforced if they had more feet on the ground, and they could have more feet on the ground if they had money to pay them. It was easy to get outraged about that in Ireland, where the population was small enough that everybody knew everyone’s business, up to and including the glad-handing going on between politicians and corporations, but the problem was hardly limited to Ireland.
Her phone buzzed repeatedly in her pocket and she took it out, seeing an okay! from Jelena and home safe from Saoirse, which didn’t invite much in the way of further conversation. But it rang almost immediately with Saoirse’s number, and Megan very proudly remembered to say, “What’s the story?” as she answered.
“I need help,” Saoirse said in a shaking voice. “I’ve got all of this funeral arrangement stuff to deal with, and I’m just after hearing from the lads in Raheny that the St. Anne’s Park development deal is underway again. I don’t know what to do, Megan. I can’t do all of this. I can’t do any of it!”
“Okay, wait, what?” Megan stopped on the beach, looking across the narrow stretch of water at Raheny itself. St. Anne’s Park dominated an enormous stretch of land in city terms: a couple hundred metres of waterfront greenery, stretching back into over two hundred acres of land. She’d walked through it a couple of times, which hardly constituted exploring the space, but knew it had sports fields, gardens, and cafes within its borders. And, as if the square mile containing it, Bull Island, and the Howth Head peninsula needed somewhere else to golf, a pitch-and-putt course. “Start again, Saoirse. Remind me about the development. How can I help?”
“They want to develop the old playing fields by the park.” Saoirse’s voice still shook, but knowing what she was talking about helped steady her. “I told you I was involved in the environmental assessment that stopped them moving forward? That they failed because they went through fast-track planning?”
“You told me some of that, at least, yeah. Okay. What’s happened now?”
“We knew they would probably submit a new application like, but they’ve paid someone off or something and they’ve a hearing set for tomorrow to argue their case. I’ve got to be there. I’m the residential side’s expert. But I can’t, not tom
orrow.” Her voice rose, fluttering with panic again.
“Okay. Okay. Listen. Listen, they have to put up notice of development at least twelve weeks before they can break ground or anything, right? That’s how it works here? They didn’t sidestep that, did they?”
“There’s a new scheme in place that does sidestep that,” Saoirse said urgently. “If they get this permission a second time, if they’ve got an assessment that says they won’t have the environmental impact the local community claims it will—which it will, they’ll have only found someone to reinterpret the data, or choose the numbers they want so they say what they want them to—they may be able to start breaking ground this month. But Da’s funeral is tomorrow, Megan. I can’t change that.”
“That soon? God. Okay.” Megan bit her upper lip, staring across the water at the threatened park. “First, I know it might not do any good, but do you have the—who’s doing the hearing? A judge? A lawyer?”
“An Bord Pleanála, the planning board.”
“Okay. Look, call them first, or better yet, if you can, go over to them today, right now, in whatever state you’re in. Explain your situation. They might be sympathetic.” At Saoirse’s sound of disbelief, she sighed. “Yeah, I know, it’s not likely. Bureaucracies aren’t usually. But it’s worth a shot. I’d go for you, but it’ll be harder for them to say no to the bereaved. Tell me what I can do for you right now, so you can do that.”
“The wake is tonight,” Saoirse replied in a small voice. “I haven’t the drink for it yet. I’m meant to be at the off-licence now.”
“Tell me what you need and where to bring it, and I’ll sort it out for you,” Megan promised.
“Da’s house is out in Dalkey. I’ll text you the address.” Saoirse took a shaking breath. “Thanks a million, Megan. You don’t have to be doing this.”
“Sometimes people just need a little help. Text me that address, and the list of the booze you want.” Megan hung up and rang her friend Fionnuala, making a face as the phone went straight to voice mail. “Hey, Fionn, this is Meg. Look, a girl I know, her dad’s just died and her job has just gone into crisis mode, and she’s trying to do it all, including the wake tonight. Can I fling myself on your mercy on her behalf and pick up some food platters from the restaurant around . . .” Megan moved the phone to check the time and made a face. “Around five? I think I’ll be free from driving by then. I’ll text you, too.” She hung up, put the phone on voice recognition, and dictated the same message, except full of errors, to Fionnuala, then climbed up the ridge of long-grassed sand to see if she could cut back across the island to the car without getting brained by a stray golf ball.
A small horde of people spread across the low, flat greens, all trailing along behind the golfers. Some had moved off to the northwest, looking toward the roofs of police vehicles that Megan could just barely see over the tops of the dunes. Most, though, hadn’t been distracted from the game, which appeared to be approaching the final holes. Megan judged the ground quality in front of her and decided it was worth risking a jog across, since the parking lot was only six hundred metres away as the crow flew. To her relief, Anto’s estimation of the hard earth proved right, and she didn’t sink in any sandpits. The prospect did make her smile, though, remembering the innumerable quicksand traps of her childhood media. She, like many people her age, had grown up imagining that they would be much more of a problem in their adult lives than they actually were.
A few long strides took her down a dip and up its other side. Cresting it, she saw Martin Walsh in the parking lot, arguing vociferously with Anthony Doyle, whose round face was florid with rage. Walsh, with his back to her, stepped forward threateningly, as though he’d throw a punch at Anto, but the caddie caught sight of Megan and snapped a warning that had Walsh turning, all smiles and charm, as she came down the hill toward them.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Megan!”
“Mr. Walsh.” Megan smiled, deciding it behooved her to pretend she had neither seen nor heard their altercation. “I didn’t expect to see you here this”—she made a show of checking the time—”afternoon. Or you, Anto. Aren’t you supposed to be out on the green with Mrs. Walsh?”
“She switched caddies for the back nine.” Color crept up Anto’s jaw again, outlining stubble that Megan hadn’t noticed that morning. “Happens sometimes.”
“I didn’t even know that was allowed. Is she all right out there? I know it must be hard to play so soon after a friend’s death.” Megan turned her oblivious smile on Walsh. “By the way, Saoirse told me Mr. MacDonald’s wake is tonight. Will I be driving you?”
A flicker of disguised emotion danced through Martin Walsh’s eyes as he nodded. “That would be grand.”
“Great. Oh! I hope you don’t mind. I’ve asked a friend for some snack platters, and I might have them in the car with me. Probably in the boot, along with some alcohol.”
“Not at all. We can stop for any errands you need to run. I won’t tell Orla.” Walsh dropped a wink, then clapped his hand against Anto’s shoulder. “You’ll find me in the clubhouse when Heather’s off the green.” He walked away as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Megan, eyebrows elevated, watched him a moment before looking at Anto.
“Everything okay?”
“Mr. Walsh really wanted me by Mrs. Walsh’s side today.” Anto looked uncomfortable. “He doesn’t like disappointment.”
Megan, dryly, said, “It must be very hard on him indeed when he loses, then.”
Anto’s eyebrows twitched agreement, though his larger body language was a noncommittal shrug. Megan went to get her coat from the car and replace her tie, saying, “Can I ask what happened that Mrs. Walsh sent you off the green today?” over her shoulder.
The big man sighed. “I’d say Mr. MacDonald let her call her own shots when he caddied for her, and she didn’t like me having an opinion.”
“That surprises me. She said it was nice to hear you thought she played well.”
“Ah, sure, but it’s one thing for me to think she plays well and another altogether for me to tell her what shot I thought she should take.”
“Isn’t that a caddie’s job?” Megan sat on the car bonnet, heels on the fender, and considered that Orla would have her hide if she saw her doing that.
“It is, but that’s why we work with an athlete for a long time. You get into a way of doing things, a way of talking to each other, that builds trust. I’ve got Mr. Walsh’s trust, not her own self’s. She thought I was steering her wrong.”
Megan bit back the obvious were you? and nodded instead. Anto, given an audience to air his grievances at, carried on with increasing heat. “But Mr. Walsh didn’t want her out there alone today, never mind that he could have caddied for her himself and she’d never have sent him away. Not that he knows this green as well as I do, either, but he’s got no cause to lash out at me when it’s his own life that’s falling apart through no fault of mine!”
“Is it?”
“Isn’t it?” Anto demanded. “His best mate dead, his wife in bits over it, and him only caring if he got the right numbers to go into the tournament this weekend? I’ll tell you something, Ms. Malone, that one never knew about Lou’s wake tonight, so he didn’t. It was news to him, and I don’t think Saoirse MacDonald will thank you for telling him, either.”
“Oh, no.” Megan slumped. “Oh, no, I didn’t even think of that. Oh, no! You’re right, she’s going to kill me. Crap.”
“Well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk,” Anto said, suddenly phlegmatic. “You’d better warn her, though. It’s bad enough having your da’s wake without unexpected guests showing up.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” Megan took her phone out to text Saoirse and found a message from her detailing how much alcohol to buy and where to bring it. The phone buzzed again, reporting I’ve got in to see the board, and Megan, deciding this was not the time to bring further turmoil into the young woman’s life, only responded good and put the phone
away again. “Are you going?”
“To the wake? I suppose I am. Mr. Walsh might not think it’s right, but Lou was my friend, too. It’ll make for a long day tomorrow, though. Mr. Walsh has a game in the morning and the funeral at three, and—have you ever been to a wake, Ms. Malone?”
“I haven’t, why?”
“They’re grand old parties,” Anto said with a brief smile. “Everyone drinks and sings and sees who can make the others laugh the most with remembrances of the dead, and they run late. Very late. You may be driving himself from the wake to the green, and then on to the funeral, with no sleep in between.”
Megan, weakly, said, “But I have a date tomorrow night that I need to be awake for.”
Anto cracked a wider smile, advising, “Coffee and not a drop of the old devil liquor in it.”
“Not that I could have the drink when I’m on the job anyway.” Megan sighed. “I’d better see how my boss wants to handle this. I don’t usually stay on call past early evening. Maybe one of the others can collect them if they’re out carousing until all hours of the night.”
“Maybe,” Anto said, “but Mr. Walsh doesn’t like to be disappointed.”
A cheer came from the course as he spoke. Heather Walsh appeared at the head of a crowd, flushed with pleasure and shaking hands as they were thrust at her. A young woman walked in her wake, carrying her golf clubs and fixed with an adoring gaze. Behind them came the rest of the field of golfers, most looking pleased, though a few wore the surly expressions of athletes who hadn’t lived up to their own expectations. “I’d say Mrs. Walsh has done well,” Megan said, smiling. “Good for her. Will Martin come out to celebrate with her?”
Aibhilín Ní Gallachóir swooped in, her cameraman trailing behind her, to meet the golfers just before they left the green. Megan, remembering what Heather had said about interviewers asking about her husband, thought maybe it was best if Martin Walsh didn’t come out. But, as if she’d summoned him with her question, he exited the clubhouse, arms spread wide and a proud smile stretching his face. “Congratulations, my dear!”