They drove out. Des went to pedantic lengths on how best to select a safe location for a speed trap, his own personal favourites and how often he used and rotated them. When they took up position on a raised parking bay off to the side of the R341, Des handed the speed gun to Peter, and picked up a newspaper.
‘Off you go,’ he said.
‘What’s the point of this?’ Peter asked, holding the gun loosely in one hand. ‘Even if I get someone, we’ve no one up the road to pull them in. They’ll just keep driving.’ Unlike static speed traps, speed guns didn’t have a camera. You needed two cars to use it. One garda stood out and took the readings, the other waited down the road for a radio call from the first, ready to pull a speeding driver in.
Des didn’t look up from his newspaper. ‘It’s a deterrent,’ he said. ‘If they’re really pushing it, wave at them to slow down and pull in. We can always drive after them.’
Peter gritted his teeth, switched the gun on and got out of the car. He leaned against the bonnet and waited. The road was quiet and their position was a poor one. Cars had to take a corner before they approached the straight and naturally slowed down to do so. By the time they took the corner and spotted the garda car on the ridge ahead, they were generally well under the speed limit. A few less-attentive drivers sped up a bit before spotting him and hitting the brakes, but they were all within the margin of error. It was an hour before he caught someone with a reading worth shouting about.
Peter waved at the car to slow and pull in. It braked but continued on down the road. Peter climbed back into the marked car, gave his dozing father a none-too-gentle shove on the arm.
‘Come on,’ he said.
Des snorted himself awake and got the car moving. It was too slow. Peter was sure the speeding driver would be long gone, but when they got around the corner the car, a navy Mazda3, had pulled in on the side of the road. Des pulled in behind him, took up his paper again. ‘Off you go,’ he said.
The driver was smoking, had his window rolled down to let the smoke out. He was wearing a high-vis jacket and had a heavy beard.
‘Do you know why I pulled you over?’ Peter asked.
The driver took a drag from his cigarette. ‘Peter,’ he said. ‘I heard you were back. How are things?’
It took Peter an uncomfortably long moment to place the man behind the wheel. ‘Conall,’ he said in the end. ‘Conall Harty.’
Conall smiled. ‘Don’t look so surprised, Pete. I might take offence. We’ve all changed a bit since the old days.’
‘I’m more surprised that you recognised me,’ Peter said. ‘It’s been a while.’ More than a while. It must be ten years at least, longer, since they’d exchanged anything more than a nod from a distance.
‘I probably wouldn’t have,’ Conall admitted. ‘But it’s all around town that you’re back.’
Peter glanced down the road. ‘Were you rushing somewhere?’ he asked.
Conall shrugged. ‘I’ve to pick up my young one from school. I don’t like to be late for her.’
‘Where are you coming from?’ Peter asked.
‘Work,’ Conall said shortly. ‘Over at Recess. I’m a fisheries officer.’
Shite. This was bloody awkward.
‘You know you were doing a hundred and twenty-three in a hundred zone,’ Peter said. He started to pull the ticket book from his back pocket.
Conall read the signals and tensed up. He looked away from Peter before he spoke.
‘I work the early shift, finish at two-thirty. I pick her up from school at three. Every day since January, when her mother died.’
Peter stilled. ‘Her mother?’
‘I married Maedbh Regan,’ he said. ‘You might remember her.’
Peter thought he did, maybe. An image came to him of a girl with a crooked smile, freckles on her nose.
‘Maedbh got breast cancer,’ Conall said. ‘We all thought it would be all right. It mostly is, with breast cancer. But she only had six months in the end.’
He said it straight, no hint of self-pity. Peter’s eyes wandered around the car. It was more than fifteen years old, had taken a fair amount of wear. Conall wouldn’t be earning much as a fisheries officer. Peter thought about his own waning bank balance, about how a fine of eighty euro would affect him, and how much harder it might be to carry if you were a single father of one. He pushed the ticket book back into his pocket.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Conall nodded. He took another drag of his cigarette. ‘I’ll put this out before I go again,’ he said. ‘I don’t smoke in the car, usually, and never around my young one.’
‘Right,’ Peter said. ‘Well, I’ll see you around, I’m sure.’ With a final nod, he walked away.
‘Have you the ticket?’ Des asked, as Peter got back into the car.
‘That was Conall Harty,’ Peter said. ‘His wife just died. He has a little girl.’
Des paused. ‘You let him off, did you?’
‘I gave him a warning,’ Peter said.
Des nodded soberly, turned the keys in the ignition. ‘I think that was the right call. He does his best, Harty.’ He looked left and right, getting ready to pull away.
Peter shook his head. ‘This was a set-up, wasn’t it?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Conall comes this way every day from his job, to pick up his daughter from school. Finished in Recess at two-thirty and has to be at the school by three. To get there on time he’d have to speed, every time, wouldn’t he? And you knew about it.’ Peter didn’t miss the hint of a smile at the corner of his father’s mouth. ‘What is this? Were you trying to make a point?’
‘Grey areas, Peter,’ Des said. ‘Grey areas.’
‘Jesus.’ Peter didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He shook his head again. ‘What am I doing here, Des? What’s all this about?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Why did you drag me back to Roundstone? Is this some sort of belated attempt to be a father to me? If so, you’re only about twenty years too late.’
Des turned to him, and the car suddenly felt like far too close a space for this conversation. ‘Maybe I wasn’t a great father,’ he said. ‘And maybe I wasn’t the world’s greatest husband. Although I hope that as an adult you realise that relationships are complicated, and there was a lot you probably didn’t understand when you were a boy.’
Peter opened his mouth to object, but Des raised a hand to forestall him.
‘Look, I’m not trying to justify myself. I have my . . . weaknesses. But I’ve always wanted the best for you, Peter.’
Peter looked away. He thought about all those weeks when his mother lay dying upstairs in Maggie’s cottage and Des was nowhere to be seen. He thought about the day he was sent away to school, only weeks after his mother’s death. How he’d wrapped his arms around Maggie and held on for dear life, and how Des had unpeeled his fingers, pulled him off and stuffed him, crying, into the back seat of the car. He didn’t have the words ready for this conversation.
‘I’m not asking you to forgive me,’ Des said. ‘Frankly, Peter, I don’t think I have much to ask for forgiveness for. I did my best. The best I knew how to do. And the past is the past. Neither one of us could change it, even if we wanted to.’
Peter felt a rush of anger. If they wanted to? Of course he would change it. Change every bit of it, if he could.
‘You need to make the best of the situation you’re in,’ Des went on. ‘In a year or two, if you want to move on, spread your wings, that’s fine with me. In the meantime, do what’s asked of you, keep your eyes and ears open, and see if you can learn a thing or two.’
‘I didn’t ask you to bring me here,’ Peter said. ‘I didn’t ask you to get involved in my life.’ He was conscious that he sounded like a whining ungrateful teenager and he hated it. It was a cold day, and Des had had the heater running in the car. It felt fuggy and uncomfortable. Pet
er cracked the window, looked through it and away. ‘How did you manage it, anyway?’ he asked. ‘It shouldn’t have been possible. You’re my father. Working together is against regulations.’
Des snorted. ‘I heard my son was in trouble. I heard he’d bitten off far more than he could chew, and he was in the firing line. So yes, I called in a favour or two. And you can turn your nose up at that if you like, Peter, but if it wasn’t for me you would be looking down the barrel at a criminal prosecution.’
Peter shook his head.
‘I’ll take my thank you now, if you please,’ Des said.
‘I didn’t ask for your help,’ Peter said. ‘I didn’t want your help. If you hadn’t stuck your oar in, I would have been okay.’
‘Don’t kid yourself. You think you have other friends, and maybe you do. But they’re in no position to help you out of the situation you got yourself into, all by yourself.’
Peter took a breath. ‘You got me here. You can let me go. Just let me go. Whatever point you wanted to make, you’ve made it.’
Des took his time responding. ‘You’re here to do a job. I suggest you get on with it.’
Silence fell between them.
‘I need to go to the scene,’ Peter said flatly.
‘What scene?’ Des asked.
‘The Lynch farm,’ Peter said. ‘There are discrepancies in the file. Contradictions. Specifically, the distance between the blood splatter near where the poker was found. The file has two different measurements, taken by two different officers.’
‘That’s forensics’ problem,’ Des said. ‘It’s Dublin’s case to run.’
‘If you want me here to do a job, that’s fine,’ Peter said. ‘Let me do it properly. Otherwise, I walk.’ In that moment, it wasn’t even a bluff. He was ready to do it, he realised, even if it meant throwing in the towel on his career. Des seemed to read it in him. He heaved a sigh.
‘It’s a waste of time, but fine. If that’s what you want.’ He signalled out.
‘What, now?’
‘No time like the present.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Des drove halfway to Errisbeg then turned off the main road, went on for another five minutes down a rapidly narrowing secondary road and finally pulled in at a farm gate. Through the gate was a steep, muddy lane.
‘We’re walking from here,’ he said.
‘Up there?’ Peter asked. There was no sign of the farmhouse. ‘How far?’
Des was already out of the car. ‘The exercise will do you good,’ he said. He went to the boot, pulled out a pair of wellies and changed into them. Peter looked down at his good leather shoes.
‘You don’t have another pair in there, do you?’ Peter asked.
Des shook his head. ‘Not today.’
Peter came around to the boot of the car, searched through the gear stored there until he found a tape measure. Then they set off. The gate was far from secure. Just a standard farm gate tied closed with a bit of yellow string. Peter pulled it shut behind him, tied it again.
‘You could have left it,’ Des said. ‘The stock’s all been removed. Taken down and sold off.’
Peter shrugged. They started the climb, Peter working to keep his shoes out of the muddier sections. The cold made it easier. The ground was almost frozen in places.
‘I’m guessing the raiders didn’t walk up,’ Peter said.
‘I told you they had a four-wheel drive.’ Des stopped walking, indicated tyre markings in the mud of the lane. ‘Tyre markings were consistent with a Land Cruiser. The same car was found burnt out outside Newbridge a couple of days later.’
Peter nodded. As far as he could tell, they’d pinned the entire case on those tyre markings.
They went on in silence. In other circumstances it might have been pleasant enough. A walk in the countryside. Nothing but the sound of birds. The temperature had dropped again, but there was no sign of rain and the air was crystal clear. They reached the top of the hill and the house was right there, but Peter was distracted by the view. Acres of farmland spread out in front of them, segmented into small fields by dry stone walls, and beyond that, the Atlantic Ocean with Inishlacken Island in the distance.
‘Miles owned all that,’ Des said.
‘Right down to the water?’
A nod.
Peter took in the small, rocky fields, the reedy grass. There was a loneliness about the place that made him want to shiver. It might be beautiful, but it was a harsh, unfriendly sort of beauty. The kind you could only appreciate when you had a warm fire, a hot meal and good company to return to. He turned to the house. It was a small 1970s bungalow, not a lot to say for itself. The paint was peeling. The house was so exposed to the elements here, it would probably need a fresh coat every year. There was a single farm shed, in reasonable condition. If there was any machinery it was tucked away inside, but Peter suspected there wouldn’t be much. It felt like a place that was barely hanging on. A place where you could eke out survival on EU subsidies and a few sheep.
‘That’s a new roof,’ Peter said. The tiles were black and darkly shining, unmarred by mildew or bird shit. They stood out.
Des nodded. ‘Miles had it done a few months back. The old one was in bad shape. Leaks everywhere. He had a new kitchen put in at the same time. But the rest of the place is a mess. Two bachelor farmers.’
Des unlocked the front door. The door was warped from the weather and he had to force it open with his hip. There was no police tape. Maybe it had been removed. Maybe it had just blown away. The murders were two months ago now and forensics were long finished with the crime scene.
Des led the way into the house. Peter rolled his shoulders against a sudden tightness between his shoulder blades. He’d seen the photographs, he knew what to expect, but there was something about entering a place where two people had violently lost their lives. It left something behind, apart from bodily fluids and the smell. A residue.
The front door opened on to a cluttered little hallway. To the left hung a mirror, and a few hooks holding up a plethora of coats and jackets. There were three pairs of muddy boots on the tiled floor, neatly lined up to the left of the door. So far the smell was more mud and fertiliser than anything sinister. Then Des opened the door to the living room, and there it was, the faint scent of death, of old blood and decay, cloying and unmistakable. Des stood back as if to display the room.
Peter’s eyes went from the fireplace to the armchair to the floor and back again. The stains were there, but they were dried out, rust coloured – meeker versions of the photographs in the file. There was no sign that anyone had made an attempt to clean up, but nature’s cleaners had done their work. Flies had been here. Been and gone.
Peter set about his work with the tape measure. He crouched down, measured the stains, the gaps between them, photographed them with his phone, noted the measurements. Des watched him in unimpressed silence.
Peter sat back on his hunkers. ‘The poker was used to kill both of them,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Des said. His tone said, what of it?
‘I’m just struggling to see it,’ Peter said. ‘So the theory is that raiders from Dublin did it. Part of an organised gang. Which means there should have been at least two of them – reports suggest they usually come in groups of four. But these murders were committed by one man, wielding a poker. Did the others just stand around?’
Des sniffed. ‘One or two of them might have held Miles down. Held him in his chair while the first one beat the shit out of Carl.’
Peter nodded. ‘Might have happened that way,’ he said. ‘But doesn’t it all seem wrong to you? First of all, how did they even know the house was here? It’s not exactly visible from the main road. And why this place? It’s clear there wasn’t much money. And why kill them, in that way?’ He thought about the photographs of Carl Lynch, the autopsy report. ‘It feels like it was done in a fury. Like it was . . . personal.’
Des was silent for a long moment. Peter looked at him, saw
from his face that something was brewing, and stood up.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Don’t borrow trouble,’ Des said.
‘I don’t know what you mean by that.’
‘You’re not here to investigate this case. You’re here to tidy up some paperwork, close the file and move on.’
‘It’s a murder case,’ Peter said. ‘We need to do the best we can with whatever we’ve got. The SDU has plenty of other cases. They might not be paying proper attention to this one.’
‘Jesus, Peter, have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying to you? This. Is. Not. Your. Case. And even if it was, that shite you were going on with… What are you, a psychologist? A fucking FBI profiler?’ Des laughed, but he was angry, and he didn’t try to hide it. ‘We’re finished here. I’ve got an interview.’ He stalked from the room and out of the front door, which he let slam behind him.
Peter looked around the room carefully, absorbing all the details he could, then took out his phone again and took a video, capturing everything he thought might be relevant. Then he followed his father out of the house. Des hadn’t waited for him. Peter followed down the muddy slope, hurrying now, half afraid that Des would drive off and leave him there. But the squad car was still there when Peter got to the bottom, engine running, heater blowing.
‘The front door isn’t locked,’ Peter said. ‘You’ve got the keys.’
Des ignored him, drove the rest of the way back to the station in a surly silence. He pulled into the gravel drive, stopped the car.
‘Don’t come in,’ he said. ‘Jim and I have the interview. There’s no room for a third. You can drive a patrol before you knock off for the evening. Make yourself useful.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Good Turn Page 16