Death on the Green

by Catie Murphy

  “And I was a Malone,” she said now, still mystified.

  Rabbie laughed now as he’d done then. “He knew my mother was a Malone before she married, is all.”

  “Yes, but there are four million people on the island! How could he know you?” Except everyone did, or close enough that from Megan’s perspective it didn’t make much difference. “Tell you what, I’ll call you at the weekend with the whys and wherefores of all this, but I’ve got to go right now, all right?”

  “Sure so, bye bye bye bye, bye bye bye.” Rabbie was still saying “bye” as Megan hung up and lifted Dip from her lap. He gave her a mournful, brown-eyed look, but sagged back into sleep when she put him on the dog bed with his mother and sister. She didn’t know if the unending stream of “bye” so common to Irish partings was something linked to the structure of the Irish language—most probably—or born from a bone-deep determination to get in the last word, but she still had a hard time hanging up on it. Fortunately, she’d gradually learned no one took offense if she did, and that in fact, she was supposed to.

  A minute later she was out the door again, feeling a little like a jack-in-the-box, unable to decide whether she wanted to be in or out. Or maybe she was a cat, although presumably the dogs would object to that. She jogged back down to the garage, zipping her windbreaker against the chill, and banged on the big metal door as she went in through the human-sized one beside it. “Hey, anybody here? Is there a car I can hire tonight?”

  In theory, borrowing a company car occasionally, when needed, was one of the perks of the job. In practice, Megan had discovered that she was the only one who ever dared to. Furthermore, Orla always charged her for the vehicle’s use, as if Megan was a client. She occasionally envied Cillian’s personal car and Tymon’s motorcycle, but not enough to own either herself, so she just had to accept that Orla Keegan had never met a day she couldn’t wring a few extra cents from.

  Achojah, a lanky Nigerian driver who had started recently and was tutoring Megan in Yoruba about once a week, came from the back parking lot with a set of keys he tossed to her in an underhand arc. She caught them in both hands as he said, “Tymon still has the Volvo to detail. You can take it.”

  “I’ll detail it myself when I get back,” Megan promised.

  “I know, and so does Tymon. E se, thank you.”

  Megan called, “Ko, um, ko to p?” in hopeful response as she ran into the office to fill out paperwork.

  Achojah shouted, “Not bad, not bad,” after her, and waited by the garage door until she came hurrying back out. His, “Do you have a date, Megan?” followed her as she got the car from its parking spot, and she rolled the window down on her way out to say, “I wish,” with a bit of heartfelt melodrama. “Tomorrow, though!”

  “Good woman.” Achojah waved as the garage door closed. Megan waved back, rolled the window up, and smiled at the streetlamp-lit street ahead of her. Orla could be a snake, and she’d take you for every penny she could, but Megan liked her coworkers and her job. Although, she thought as she pulled away from Rathmines toward Dublin city centre, she could maybe do with a little less excitement and considerably fewer murders.

  With that thought in mind, she plugged her burner phone into the car’s audio system and tried calling Paul Bourke again. He didn’t pick up, which didn’t particularly surprise her. “I just remembered Saoirse told me Martin’s in to his caddie, Anthony Doyle, for a lot of money. I thought I’d go see if Heather went to him instead of Martin.” As she said it, she realized that Bourke would consider it a phenomenally stupid and dangerous thing for her to do, so she added, “I’ll be careful, promise,” as if that would actually reassure him. As another afterthought, she said, “He told me he’d be at Fagan’s in Drumcondra after the wake. It’s his local, so that’s where I’m looking for him first.” Then she hung up, feeling she’d covered her own butt enough to satisfy a jury of her peers, if not Detective Paul Bourke.

  A “local” was the neighborhood pub, the place where everyone hung out, and the kind of place Megan didn’t drink enough to establish herself at. She always felt tremendously self-conscious going in to locals, as if somehow wearing a hat or a sign that said “I Don’t Belong Here.” Even one like Fagan’s, which was large and friendly enough to welcome tourists, made her feel out of place. She sidled up to the bar, though, and asked after Anthony Doyle, which got a laugh from the bartender, a thick-shouldered man in his thirties. “Jesus, what’s his cologne, with all the ladies asking after him tonight? He was in earlier for a drink, but he said he was taking himself out to the island. A mate of his died, you know?” At Megan’s nod, the bartender nodded, too. “He’s taking it hard. Went out to Bull Island to say goodbye, like. That’s what I told yer ather wan, too.”

  “American, like me?” Megan asked. “Honey blonde, about yay tall?” She gestured well above her own head, remembering Heather had been wearing heels when she left Megan’s apartment.

  “That’s the one,” the bartender said cheerfully. “You know her?”

  “We all knew Lou,” Megan said, stretching the truth far enough to break it. The bartender’s face grew more solemn, though, and he tried to push a drink across the counter to Megan.

  “On the house,” he said, disappointment clear when she shook her head.

  “I’m driving, sorry. I’ll come back and take you up on it another time, all right?”

  “All right, but you’d best tell me your name so I have something to pin my hopes on.”

  Megan laughed. “Oh my God, the nerve on you. It’s Megan.”

  The man looked delighted. “I’m Hugh. Don’t disappoint me, Megan.”

  “I probably will,” she told him, and a woman just down the bar gave a shout of laughter.

  “That’ll learn ya, ya chancer.”

  “No one ever swipes right,” he said to her. “I’ve got to be bold in real life.” The woman laughed again, and Megan was smiling as she left the pub. She checked her messages before getting in the car, but Bourke hadn’t called back. That was probably just as well, since he’d tell her not to do what she fully intended to do anyway. She called again—he still didn’t pick up—and said, “Pub says Anthony Doyle is down at Bull Island, and that Heather went after him. I’m heading that way. And don’t worry, I’m being careful.”

  The island wasn’t far from the pub as the crow flew, but there wasn’t a good way to get there from where she was. She went up to Griffith Avenue, whose denizens claimed it was the longest tree-lined street in Europe, and turned east toward the water before driving around a bunch of little switchbacks at its far end to get down to the water. A business park sparkled across the bay as she drove north until she reached the wooden bridge and pulled over, trying to decide if she would take the bridge or the causeway, if she were Anthony Doyle.

  After a minute she decided it didn’t matter: the wooden bridge was closer, if he’d come the same way through Clontarf that she had. She pulled onto the bridge and drove down its narrow length with a waning moon glimmering on the sea to her right.

  The island barely existed in the night, its low profile hardly more than a dark streak in the bay. Megan, feeling like a trespasser, killed the car lights and drove as far as she could before barriers forced her to park and leave the car behind. Cold wind swept hair into her face, and she regretted not having her chauffeur’s cap and a warmer coat, but she hadn’t been planning to go island-walking when she’d left the house. There were seals on the beach, looking like shining lumps of driftwood until they lifted their heads, curious about the late-night human. Without any dogs or any noisy birds to comment, with only the seals and the sound of surf, the island seemed remarkably isolated, for all that the mainland lay only a kilometre or so from where she stood. Humanity didn’t feel welcome. Megan wished there were shadows to keep herself hidden in without sliding all the way down to the wall’s leeward side, onto the sand dunes. The moon did its part, slipping behind clouds, but mostly she felt exposed to anyone who might be lookin
g for her. There were no hiding places along the wall road, except in the two or three concrete bathing areas for swimmers to enter and exit the sea from. Megan stopped in one of those, shivering, and rubbed her hands together before peeking out again.

  At the far end of the wall, beneath the Réalt Na Mara, Heather Walsh now stood on a precarious chunk of stone with Anthony Doyle creeping toward her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Megan darted to the side, hugging the concrete wall as best she could, so that she wouldn’t stand out against the changeable moonlight. There was another bathing area well ahead of her, and then absolutely nothing to hide beside unless she wanted to crawl down onto the chunks of seawall, which she really didn’t. Not only would it be precarious and cold from the bay water, but incredibly difficult to navigate. Teeth gritted, she stepped across the path so she was at least at an angle to Heather and Anthony Doyle instead of on their side of the wall. A staircase led into the water next to the high pile of stones Heather stood on, but Anto was farther back than that, standing near the edge of, but still inside, the circle beneath the Star of the Sea statue at the end of the wall. Megan looked once more for cover and, unable to find it, ran toward them, grateful that the surf drowned out the sounds of her footsteps.

  Anto had a slender object—a golf club—in one hand, and though he held it competently, his broad shoulders sagged. The wind snatched words from him, carrying them to Megan: idea, sorry, fault, money. Some of what he said snapped with anger, the tone carried clearly even when Megan couldn’t understand the words themselves. Then she was close enough, and Anto sounded anguished as he said, “You’re going to have to jump, Heather.”

  “Anthony, you don’t want to kill me!” Heather Walsh stood on a piece of grate affixed, somehow and for some reason, to the top of one of the enormous chunks of angled rock. Her feet were bare, which looked incredibly unsafe on the slippery, wet metal, although the high heels she’d worn earlier certainly wouldn’t have been any safer. They might have kept her feet ever so slightly warmer, though. Megan’s own toes curled at the imagined chill seeping through that grate into Heather’s soles.

  Heather was damp everywhere from sea spray, the black dress she’d bought earlier that day limp and windblown. Her hair had been pulled into a ruthless ponytail from which water-dark strands still escaped, thanks to the wind. She sounded baffled, and cold. “This afternoon—what you said on the course—you don’t want to kill me,” she repeated.

  Anto howled, “Of course I don’t, but now I’ve no choice, do I? If I don’t, you’ll tell everyone everything!”

  “Tell them what? I wanted to talk to you about this afternoon, Anthony! That’s why I came looking for you, that’s all!”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Anthony Doyle’s voice dropped into a deep roar of rage, and Heather Walsh’s abdomen visibly tightened with alarm. “Just jump,” Anto said a heartbeat later, weary now instead of enraged. “Go on and drown and leave me to my life.”

  Heather glanced over her shoulder. “People swim off here all the time, Anthony. You think I’m going to drown if you make me jump?”

  “I know you can’t swim.” Even in the moonlight, Megan saw astonishment and sudden alarm crease Heather’s face. “I know everything about you,” Anto continued forlornly. “You’ll drown. Everyone will hear about your affair with Lou and think you killed yourself. I told you, you shouldn’t have thrown me off the course this afternoon. I just wanted to protect you from all of this.”

  “All of what?” Despite the flash of fear Megan had seen, Heather kept all trace of it from her voice. “You didn’t kill Lou. Neither did Martin. You couldn’t have. You were both on the course. Collins killed him, didn’t he? For Martin. Did my bastard husband find out Lou and I were in love? I just don’t understand why he killed Collins, and I sure as hell don’t know where he got the money to pay him wi—”

  The wind snatched her voice and threw it around, as if it might find more listening ears than Megan’s, and it carried her sudden silence, too. “Shit, Anthony. Did you pay for it? Jesus, was this all your idea? Does Martin even know about me and Lou?”

  Megan kept creeping forward, grateful for her dark clothes and hair, although Anto had his back mostly turned to her and she doubted he’d see her anyway. The big caddie gave a high, tragic laugh. “Mr. Walsh doesn’t know about anything past the end of his own golf club. At least, I didn’t think he did. But I didn’t hire anybody to kill Lou. I hated him, I wanted what he had, but he made you happy, and I’d never have taken that away from you. Ah-ah-ah.” He pointed the golf club at Heather, who had tried to sit down on the seawall. “On your feet, Mrs. Walsh.”

  Heather froze, half-crouched on the grate, and spread her hands. “Listen, Anthony, I will. I’ll stand back up, if you want me to. But I’m trying to understand. This afternoon—Anthony, you surprised me out there, all right? I was trying to win a game. A game that would have let me leave Martin, if it all worked out. I wasn’t ready to hear what you were trying to say. What you were saying.” She crouched farther, even more slowly than she’d moved before. “Anthony, I didn’t even know you knew me, not really, much less had feelings for me, okay? You’ve worked with Martin for so long, I thought your relationship was all with him. I didn’t know it had anything to do with me.” A smile flickered across her face, and her gaze darted, with unerring accuracy, toward Megan, before returning to Anthony.

  Astonishment surged in Megan’s chest, shooting cold thrills through her. Part of her was afraid Anto would realize Heather was looking at someone else, and part of her was bone-chillingly relieved that Heather knew she was there. As long as Heather did and Anto didn’t, the two women had an advantage. Heather kept talking, passion filling her voice as she watched Anthony, ignoring Megan edging closer still. “I didn’t even know you thought I was a good golfer until our car driver mentioned you’d praised me to her. So I wasn’t ready, you know? Lou had just died, I was trying to win a game . . . I wasn’t ready to hear what you had to say.”

  Anto gave a bitter laugh. “And you are now? You think I’m daft, Mrs. Walsh?”

  “No.” Heather Walsh sounded completely sincere. “No, I don’t think you’re daft, and I don’t think I’m ready, either, honestly. But if—can I sit down, Anthony? My legs are going to sleep. It’s cold up here.”

  “No!” Anto took a threatening step forward, the golf club lifted. Heather stood again, her hands raised in acquiescence.

  “Okay, okay, all right. You’re not daft.” Heather’s voice dropped, like she was making a confession. “You’re obviously not. You’re a hell of a caddie, and what a caddie has to know to keep his golfer playing his best game. . . .” She shook her head. “So I’m not trying to play you. That would be stupid, and I’m not stupid either. But you’ve got to give me a little time, Anthony.” She looked over her shoulder at the white caps, then back at Anto, a little sadly. “If you make me jump we’re not going to have any time at all.”

  “You’re just trying to get off that wall.”

  “Maybe,” Heather admitted, “but you’ll never know if you make me jump, will you. Can I—can I sit? May I? I won’t move past that. But it’s easier to talk that way. I won’t feel so scared. And my feet are freezing, Anthony. I can hardly feel them. If I sit, I can put them in my dress.”

  If Heather was genuinely afraid, Megan thought she should have gone into acting, not golfing. Anto nodded grudgingly, and Heather, moving slowly and gracefully, sat, then wrapped her arms around herself in a shiver that Megan suspected wasn’t an act. “Thank you.” Her gaze roved again, passing Anthony and locking on Megan for the length of a blink, as if saying it was safe to move in now that she was more stable. Megan dropped her chin in a nod so small she doubted Heather could see it, even if the other woman hadn’t returned her attention to Anthony Doyle.

  “I’m afraid,” Heather said very quietly. “Not just of the water, but—two people have died and I hardly even know why. If Martin didn’t have Lou killed, th
en who did? And why? And why get Oliver Collins to do it, for heaven’s sake? And who did kill Oliver? This is all—what if someone comes after me?”

  Megan swore the other woman’s eyes filled with tears, shining in the moonlight. Anto jerked a couple of hard steps forward toward her, and although the rough stones of the seawall still separated them by several feet, Megan saw the tiny flinch of a woman trying to hide her fear of being attacked. Megan rushed forward a step or two, then stopped sharply as Anto cried, “Nobody will come after you! It wasn’t about you at all! They only wanted Lou dead!”

  “What?” Heather’s voice went to nothing, the word little more than a shape on her lips. “Who?”

  “That developer, the one who’s been in hearings with wee Saoirse!”

  Heather said, “What?” again, and this time rose, her toes visibly spreading and trying to get a grip on the freezing grate beneath her feet. Anto raised the golf club like a bat, and Heather edged backward, cords standing out in her neck as she reached the top angle of the grate and had nowhere left to go except the rocks piled beneath it. A genuinely frightened squeak escaped her and she crushed her eyes shut, looking as though she was struggling against tears before she forced herself to open them again. “What’s the developer got to do with Lou?”

  Anto howled, “I don’t know! All I know is I saw him paying off Collins, and next thing I knew, Lou was dead! And I knew it would break your own heart, so I went and took care of Collins my own self! And now everything’s gone wrong! You weren’t supposed to get mixed up in it at all! You shouldn’t be here!” He brandished the club, and Heather shrieked for the first time. Megan finally bolted forward, keeping low, and didn’t care if Anto heard her in the last few seconds.