‘Just water, would be great. Thanks.’ Anna felt her face flush. Tilly was standing very close, crowding her. Anna looked for her phone. ‘I’ll just send him a message.’
She looked up in time to see the look that passed between Des Fisher and Mike the barman. Des turned to her.
‘Anna. Is that what you said your name is? I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you planning on renting Dieter’s flat? Is that why you’re meeting him?’
‘I . . .’ Anna looked back and forth between Des and the barman. But there was no point in lying. It was a small village. The garda sergeant would figure out quickly enough that she hadn’t told the truth and he would wonder why. And there was no reason to lie anyway. She wasn’t doing anything wrong or illegal. It was taking her far too long to answer. They were both staring at her now. ‘Yes,’ she said, and felt the flush deepen in her cheeks.
‘Just for a night or two, is it? You’re here on holiday?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure yet, but I’m hoping a bit longer.’
Des dropped his eyes, tutted. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,’ he said.
‘Why?’ Anna asked.
‘It’s not in great shape, his flat. The heating doesn’t work and he won’t get it fixed. He keeps trying to rent it to tourists and it causes all sorts of trouble.’
Anna’s heart sank. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’ll talk to him about that.’ She could figure that out. Maybe she could get it fixed herself, get another discount.
But Des’s eyes flicked again to Tilly. ‘That’s not the only reason,’ he said. ‘Dieter has a bit of a history with . . . well, it might not be a suitable place for you. He lives in the downstairs flat you see. He likes a drink and when he has drink taken he goes looking for company.’ He was watching his words, obviously conscious of Tilly standing there, taking it all in. Still, his meaning was clear enough. ‘When he’s the worse for wear, he doesn’t like to take no for an answer.’
Oh Christ. The last of Anna’s energy and confidence fell away. Only the fact of Tilly’s presence beside her kept her from melting into tears. Des saw it.
‘Travelled a long way, have you?’ Des asked. And his voice was so sympathetic, so unexpectedly gentle, that the tears did come, no matter how hard she tried to blink them away.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Come on, now. Let’s get you a bit to eat, and we can have a chat.’
Anna let him lead them to a table, let him buy dinner, and before she knew it she had told him everything. Or almost everything.
‘Right then,’ he said. ‘You need work and a place to stay. A place that’s suitable for your little girl. I might just have a solution.’
PART THREE
Roundstone, Ireland
Saturday 7 November 2015
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
On Saturday morning, Peter woke to the sound of cartoons playing on the television. He opened his eyes and saw Tilly, well wrapped in pyjamas, a dressing gown and thick socks, curled up on the armchair opposite him. He blinked himself awake, sat up a little.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ she said. Her voice was very soft, and she didn’t look directly at him, but she didn’t seem all that surprised to find him sleeping fully clothed on the couch, and if she wasn’t bouncing around the place with welcome, at least she seemed to have lost some of her fear of him.
He watched the cartoon blindly for a minute, then sat up.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked. ‘Will I make you some breakfast?’
She looked surprised. ‘I can make it myself,’ she said. ‘Come on.’ She led the way to the kitchen, showed him where to find the Honey Nut Loops and milk and they had settled companionably enough into cereal chomping and more cartoons when Peter’s phone buzzed. A text message from Des.
Meet me at the station, ASAP.
Peter sighed.
It actually wasn’t too bad, walking into the village. There was no one else about, for a start. It was very still, there was little to no wind, and though the clouds were gathering again, it wasn’t snowing. Yes, it was cold, but the air was fresh and clean and the crunch of the snow underfoot felt good. He’d been worried that the snow might have kept coming overnight, that it would be piled in drifts and make the roads impassable, but it seemed like they’d had only another inch or two. The only problem was that under the few inches of fresher snow, the roads were frozen. He slipped more than once on icy patches. He passed a road gritter on his way down the hill. It had a snowplough fitted to the front, was doing a decent job pushing the snow to the sides of the road and spreading grit in its wake. After that the going was easier. Peter made his way into the village and found his car. He let the engine run for ten minutes or so, until the windscreen was fully defrosted, then drove on to the station. He got there just after nine and considered it good going. Des was there before him.
‘Have you seen the forecast?’ Des asked, as Peter hung his coat and hat on the hooks near the door.
‘Not today,’ Peter said.
‘They’re saying that we’ve another blast of snow coming our way this evening, and the temperature is due to drop again overnight. The county council has put out a warning. They’re running low on grit and salt, and they won’t get a delivery until Tuesday. So after today they’re not going to grit secondary roads.’
Peter groaned inwardly. ‘That’s going to make it harder to get around.’
‘We need to get out and about today. Do a round of the older residents and a couple of people with a disability who aren’t best placed to look after themselves in this weather. Check that they’ve got heating on, or fuel in and enough food for at least a few days. If we get snow on top of ice and then another freeze, people won’t go out. A lot of people won’t be prepared.’
‘What about the social workers?’ Peter asked.
‘What about them?’ Des said. ‘Do you think they’re going to drive out from Clifden in this weather? What’s the matter, Peter? Do you think you’re too good for the work?’
Peter held up two hands in a pacifying gesture. ‘Jesus. I wasn’t objecting. I’m happy to do it. I was just planning on spending some time with Maggie today.’
‘You can see Maggie any time,’ Des said.
‘Actually, I can’t.’
Des looked at him blankly for a moment.
‘I told you about her fall,’ Peter said.
‘Yes. Right.’
Peter felt a surge of anger. Des had the headspace to worry about other older residents of Roundstone, just not Maggie. Anger made him blunt.
‘She’s very sick. Doctor Barrett thinks that she’s not going to get better. She may only have weeks left.’
‘What?’ Des shook his head. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. You must have misunderstood, Peter.’
Jesus. ‘That’s not something you misunderstand. Barrett was clear. He was very sympathetic.’
‘But . . .’ Des shook his head again.
‘She’s eighty-two years old. She has hypotension. Kidney problems. She’s been losing weight.’
‘She’s not going to die because she lost a few pounds. For god’s sake, Peter, use your head.’
Peter gritted his teeth. ‘Obviously there’s more than that going on.’
‘What, then?’ Des said.
‘Barrett said she might have had a small stroke. But it’s not any one thing. I think it’s a combination of everything. Her body’s just breaking down.’
‘All right. Well, what are the options?’ Des spoke with a forced patience that was utterly infuriating.
‘There are no options. Barrett said she could have treatment to prolong her life, but it would be uncomfortable and difficult. He recommends that she stay at home.’
Des was silent for a moment. He looked at his hands. ‘That’s very bad news,’ he said, eventually.
Peter’s anger at his father drained away. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Des stood up. ‘I’ll make tea,’ he said.
Des made the tea, added sugar without asking, handed a cup to Peter along with an open packet of biscuits.
‘I thought she had years more before we’d get to this stage,’ Des said.
‘Barrett said it can happen quickly, sometimes.’
‘I suppose so,’ Des said. ‘You just never think it will be to one of yours.’
For the first time in years, Peter felt a surge of fellow feeling towards his father.
Des pushed the remains of a biscuit into his mouth, washed it down with a sip of tea. ‘I suppose we’ll need to talk about what happens later?’
‘Later?’
‘After she passes. It would be better if Anna and her daughter could stay on in the cottage. You might think you’d like it for yourself. But then you’re set up where you are, or you could still move into my place. There’s plenty of room. You needn’t think I’d be in on top of you.’ He said the last gruffly.
‘It’s way too soon to think about that,’ Peter said.
‘Well, I just think we should make sure that Anna and Tilly stay on.’
It was hard to know what to say to that. This was not the time to tackle his father’s assumption that Peter was in Roundstone for the long term. He was a long way from making that commitment. But it was good that Des cared about Anna and Tilly. And it wasn’t due to any kind of romantic interest. Anna was very definitely not the type. Maybe Des had changed over the years. A little part of Peter whispered that he may have misjudged his father. His view of Des had formed when he was a lonely and angry child. Maybe he’d seen only what he wanted to see.
‘What happened with the interview?’ Peter asked.
‘Hmm?’
‘The interview with Jane Cummins’s father. Did he want to meet you yesterday afternoon?’
Des’s expression darkened. ‘He did.’
‘It didn’t go well, I take it?’
‘He dragged his daughter in here. She was pale as a ghost. With her father standing over her, Jane told me that she might have misinterpreted things. Maybe her Uncle Séan was just being affectionate. They want to drop the charges.’
‘Shite,’ Peter said. ‘Where was the mother?’
Des shrugged. ‘She’s gone very quiet all of a sudden. The family is closing ranks.’
‘You’re not going to leave it there, are you?’
Des looked at him steadily. ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m going to make damn sure he doesn’t hurt her again.’
Peter looked away. It was clear from Des’s manner that whatever he was planning to do next, it wasn’t going to be strictly by the book. And maybe that was okay. Maybe it was necessary.
Des went to the coffee station, dumped his cup, then found a piece of paper and scribbled a short list. He handed it to Peter.
‘Here’s what you need,’ he said. ‘Names and addresses of the people you need to check on.’ He took a roll of fifties from his back pocket, handed it to Peter. ‘Go to Horan’s first and buy a few bags of coal, some basics like milk and bread. Stock up.’
Peter was looking at the money in his hand.
‘Keep the receipts,’ Des said. ‘I’ll want to claim it back on expenses.’
Sharon was just unlocking the doors at Horan’s when Peter arrived. She jumped a little when she saw him, put a hand to her chest.
‘Jesus. You put the heart across me.’
He half smiled. ‘You sound like an old woman.’
‘I am an old woman. In spirit if not in body.’ She gestured for him to come in, closed the door swiftly after him. She was still in her coat and hat. The shop was still chilly, but it was warmer than outside. ‘Old women are the best. They know everything about everyone, so you can’t get one up on them. They don’t care what you think about what they’re wearing or how they look. And they’ve outlived all the men they grew up with who gave them shit along the way.’ She gave him a look that said, There, what do you think of that? He just smiled again. It was the only sensible reaction.
‘What do you need?’ she asked.
He told her the story, and she led the way through the back of the shop and the storeroom and out to the locked fuel store at the back. Hessian sacks of coal, machine-sewn closed, were stacked along the fence at the back. Peter brought the car around, managed to get five bags of coal into the boot, a few bales of briquettes on the floor of the back seat, then with Sharon’s help made up seven bags of basic groceries: he bought tea, sugar, milk, bread, beans, biscuits, sausages and a couple of microwavable meals per bag.
It took three hours of driving, knocking, chatting and unloading to deal with the first three names on the list of seven. The first of them, seventy-eight-year-old Rachel Doran, opened the door in response to his knock. She had a book in one hand and was immaculately dressed in neatly pressed slacks, a soft grey cashmere sweater and an expensive-looking silk scarf.
‘Can I help you?’
Peter tried to explain the purpose of his visit, and she seemed surprised and a little confused by his presence. She invited him in, but it was very clear that she didn’t need his help. The house was warm and tidy, the smell of baking wafting from the kitchen. All in all, Rachel Doran was doing far better than he was. A little embarrassed, Peter extricated himself as gracefully as possible and drove on. He wondered briefly if Des had sent him on some sort of a fool’s errand for reasons known only to himself, but he found the next person on Des’s list – a man named Tom Mulligan – in a very different situation.
Tom was confused and belligerent, kept repeating again and again that he’d done nothing wrong and that no garda was going to walk into his house without so much as a by your leave. Peter spent ten minutes trying to talk him around, then gave up trying to plámás him, walked into the house and got on with things. Mulligan wasn’t managing anywhere near as well as Rachel Doran. His heating was turned off – which could have been due to confusion or a need to save the money – and his cupboards and fridge held only out-of-date condiments and half-empty jars that should have been binned weeks back. The draining board beside the kitchen sink was laden with dishes that had been half washed and left to dry.
Peter looked around, feeling a bit helpless, then set to work. Still talking, talking all the while, to an agitated Tom, Peter unloaded fuel and food from the car. He put on a big fire and filled the coal bucket at the right of the fireplace. The lighting of the fire settled Tom down. He folded himself into the armchair closest to the fireplace, found his remote control and turned the television on. He settled there happily enough while Peter packed the fridge and the cupboard, gave the few dishes a proper wash and dry with a clean tea towel he found neatly folded in a drawer. Then he made sausages and beans on toast for Tom and delivered the plate to him beside the fire with a glass of milk.
‘Will that do you, Tom?’ he asked.
Tom took a bite of toast. ‘It’s grand,’ he said, around the food in his mouth, his eyes still on the telly.
Peter smiled to himself and quietly let himself out.
CHAPTER THIRTY
With the weather, everything took ten times longer, and some of the people Peter visited weren’t in a rush for him to leave. As a result, it was getting dark and snow had started to drift down again as Peter pulled into the driveway of the house that was last on his list. He sat and watched it fall for a moment. This kind of heavy, sticking snow was dangerous, particularly when they were so woefully underprepared for it, but it was so beautiful to look at. His phone rang, shattering the peace of the moment. He looked at the screen, didn’t recognise the number.
‘Peter Fisher,’ he said, by way of answer.
‘Detective, it’s Stuart Connolly here. We met yesterday?’
‘Yes?’
‘I had a look at the deeds safe after you left yesterday,’ Connolly said. ‘I suppose I’d reassured you so thoroughly that we still had Miles Lynch’s title deeds, and then I suddenly panicked that I’d misled you. I had a look, and we do have all the original deeds still on file, but th
e records show that Miles Lynch came to the office a year ago and asked for a photocopy of his Land Registry folio.’
Peter frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Connolly, I don’t know what that is.’
‘Call me Stuart, please. A folio is just a written record – it’s the record held by the Land Registry of ownership of land. It lists the owner, any mortgages or other charges, and any rights of way. Then there’s a map showing the relevant land.’
‘Okay,’ said Peter. ‘So maybe Miles Lynch was selling after all?’
‘He might have been thinking of selling,’ Connolly said. ‘But he still couldn’t have completed the sale without coming to my office. A copy of a folio just won’t cut it. We have original deeds showing rights of way, all of that sort of thing.’
‘Right,’ said Peter. He watched the snow fall as he mulled it over. It didn’t seem like much.
‘I don’t know if that’s any help to you, but I wanted to let you know.’
Peter thanked him and ended the call. The mystery of whether or not Miles Lynch had been planning to sell the land and to whom was interesting, and it was worth trying to get to the bottom of, for completeness’ sake at least. But the sale of the land could not have been the motive for the murder. The only person who was angry about a possible sale had been murdered alongside him.
Peter got out of the car and lugged the last bag of coal to the front door, then went back for the bag of food supplies. He knocked on the door and waited. He tried again a minute later, but there was still nothing. He was on the point of going around the back when a voice called from next door.
‘Can I help you?’
The voice belonged to a young woman who was waving over from the porch of a new build next door. She pulled on a puffa jacket over what looked like grey cotton tracksuit bottoms and a pair of slippers and waved at him again.
Peter took a couple of steps in her direction ‘I’m Garda Peter Fisher,’ he called. ‘I have a delivery for James Madden, but there’s no answer.’
The Good Turn Page 24