Deadly Intent

by Anna Sweeney

  She was thumping the floor with the brush as she swept. She was annoyed at that young garda from Bantry station; that was another thing. Redmond Joyce must be some fool if he really thought she would try to cover up Maureen’s accident with a fluffed-up feature article. The more she thought about him, the more self-righteous the young garda seemed. Boyishly handsome, for sure, but only if you were taken in by that clean-scrubbed, shiny look – the very picture of a policeman with a mission to purge the community of its sins.

  Just some coffee pots to clean and table napkins to iron. Nessa’s plan was to get to O’Donovan’s pub by nine o’clock at the latest. Most of the remaining guests were already ensconsed, eating their evening meal and looking forward to Friday’s music session, but Fergus Malden had opted to stay in bed for the evening.

  ‘OK, tell me what you think!’ Sal bounced into the kitchen in party mode. She was wearing shorts over black tights, topped by a shimmery dark green tunic on which red apples appeared to peep amid lustrous foliage. Her jet-black hair was her crowning glory, and was draped in twirly tresses interweaved with crimson ribbons.

  Before Nessa got to say anything, Sal cut in again. ‘Hold the negative vibes, if you don’t mind.’ She grinned cheekily. ‘Your lovely Salomé is so going out on the town tonight, but the outfit only works with the right kind of energy, know what I mean?’

  ‘The colours really suit you, I must say.’ Nessa had to smile at her warm, bubbly daughter, who was indeed lovely, even if the look had taken hours to achieve. She had changed in the previous year from a diligent, almost prim schoolgirl to an exuberant teenager intent on making up for lost time. She usually disdained her full name, Salomé, which had been chosen for her by her African grandmother, but perhaps it suited her newfound craving for pleasure.

  ‘So will your hairdo stay in place, or does that take more—?’

  ‘Careful! You’re about to say it, aren’t you? That I’ve already spent way too much time upstairs? But you see, if I rushed the GHD appliance on my hair, the results would be seriously tragic!’

  ‘And what about getting a lift home from the party?’

  ‘Everything is under control, like I told you already. Darina will be driving us there in her bockety old van, which means she’ll get me home too, so what could be simpler? It’s not exactly the coolest carriage for a hot thing like me, mind you, but the point is that Darina won’t be drinking, so you can delete that particular worry from your list.’ Sal spoke to her reflection, examining her hair in a handheld mirror. ‘And by the way, it’s just possible that we’ll be a teensy bit later than midnight, so don’t stress yourself out by sitting up late, OK?’

  Sal’s flurry of chatter told Nessa what she already suspected, that her daughter’s hopes for the party involved an attractive young man. She could only hope that Sal would fail in her pursuit, as she had heard rumours of who the likely target was.

  His name was Marcus and she had seen him hanging out in the village. Tall, with long dark hair combed onto his face, he had lived in Spain for a few years, where his parents’ property investments had reportedly gone bad. Since his return, he had taken over the family’s hackney service, and was also managing some holiday cottages they owned near Derryowen. Nessa had booked his taxi for guests a few times but had not been impressed by his casual air. Caitlín O’Donovan had also told her he liked to flash his money in the pub, so encouraging Sal to stew over her books would hardly be his style.

  But Nessa decided it was too soon to say anything about him. She wiped the last coffee pot and put aside the ironing till early morning. She was famished at the thought of the dish of spicy lamb awaiting her in the pub. And if Caitlín got a break from serving at O’Donovan’s bar, she would listen sympathetically to her worries.

  Sal called her out to the hall when Darina arrived. Their neighbour’s style of dress contrasted sharply with Sal’s – vintage clothing in flowing layers, complete with a long scarf and gypsy earrings. She handed a card to Nessa as well as a box of eggs for the guests’ breakfast, freshly laid by the hens she kept. Darina had grown up in Cork city, but she fitted in well with the hippy image still to be found in parts of west Cork. She also worked extremely hard, however, and if she and Sal got on so well, maybe she would infect Sal with her dedication and cancel out whatever malign influence Marcus might exert.

  As Nessa waved them off she heard the house phone. She winced as she recognised Jack Talbot’s smooth tones on the answering machine.

  ‘I was disappointed in you today, Nessa. I offered you the sort of publicity that money can’t buy, or certainly not your sort of money. But now I hear your VIP guest has fled home to Tipperary, and that a poor woman is lying injured in hospital. Needless to say, I have a duty to keep my readers informed on these matters. Au revoir, ma chérie!’

  It was a sly threat, probably aimed at extracting more information from her. Nessa suppressed her anger and decided not to grace his message with a response. Jack probably had Oscar’s mobile number – no doubt they crossed each other’s paths at the celebrity events they both frequented in Dublin. It was quite likely that Oscar had already refused to do the interview, and that Jack’s purpose at Cnoc Meala had been to waylay him in person.

  Nessa picked up the card Darina had given her for Fergus. Getting Oscar’s patronage would be a great coup for her, even if she and Fergus matched each other in their apologetic conversation about it. Darina had done a drawing in fluid ink on both sides of the card, to advertise her style of work to Oscar – on one side, a close-up profile of him, probably designed to flatter his vanity, and on the other, an impression of Beara’s dramatic mountain scenery, with a standing stone in the foreground, one of the innumerable monuments to life and death long ago that were dotted all over the area. Nessa studied it for a moment, and felt a surge of pride in the wonderful peninsula she had made her home. She would stand firm against insinuations and the fear of criticism. Cnoc Meala was a good business, offering its visitors a genuine cultural experience, including hill walks, archeology, garden visits, food and contemporary art. Whatever mischievous garbage Jack might write would be forgotten in a week or two.

  Twenty to nine, time to join the outside world. The house was so quiet that Nessa could hear each hollow tick of the old wooden clock in the hall. Ronan was staying overnight with one of his school pals, so the usual hum of television and computer games was missing. She was unused to being on her own indoors.

  She heard a creaking noise – most likely a window somewhere in the house. In Dublin, she had always locked each window before going out, but in the country it was different.

  She had just left the eggs in the kitchen when she heard it a second time. A sharp creak that continued three or four seconds, coming from the guests’ sitting room. One of the double doors to the garden must have been left open. She went in, reaching for the light switch on the wall. And then she froze.

  Somebody else was in the room, she was absolutely certain of it. The room was dark but she felt a presence close by.

  Time stopped as she stood immobile, her hand glued to the wall. She got a whiff of something unpleasant but her mind was unable to make sense of it.

  Then she heard again the sound that had drawn her in, a whine from one of the double doors shifting in the breeze. The night’s damp air was on her skin. She awoke from a trance of fear and slammed her fist on the switch, lighting up the room in a white glare.

  Her heart almost stopped for a second time. She could see nobody.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ She shouted out loud, fear quenched by the light. ‘I’ll call the gardai!’

  A man bore down on her from behind the door, heavy and roundbellied. It was Dominic.

  ‘Don’t you threaten me with the guards,’ he said, ‘or you’ll be sorry you ever opened your mouth.’ He grabbed her elbow and a sickly smell filled her nostrils, a mixture of alcohol and sweaty armpits.

  ‘Guards this and fuckin’ guards that!’ His face twisted into a smile.
‘Tell me something now, before you run along to your bullyboy friends.’ His eyes bulged as he spat out the words. ‘Why bother being nice and helpful when smarmy superintendents and their lackeys don’t believe a single word you tell them?’

  Dominic was pushing against her. She had dealt with drunken guests a few times before, but nothing like this. Drops of his spittle hit her face.

  ‘Oh yes, I can spot their little game a mile away. Blame the husband, that’s the fuckin’ answer every time, isn’t it? They think I landed my own wife in hospital, but they won’t say it out straight. So maybe you’ll answer me this if you can – why would I hurt Maureen, when I’m the one who has to protect her from other men?’

  Dominic’s words slowed to a halt. Breathing loudly, he stared at Nessa. His eyes were clamped on her breasts, their shape hardly concealed by her light shirt.

  ‘Oscar loverboy Malden, he’s the man of the moment, isn’t he?’ Dominic leered. ‘I’m sure you fancy him yourself, just like all the women? You’d like a rub of his paws on your lovely paps, fuckin’ sure you would.’

  Nessa couldn’t breathe. His eyes sucked and devoured her. She felt suffocated, helpless, empty.

  He laughed out loud all of a sudden. Then he stepped back unsteadily, still keeping his grip on her arm.

  ‘You think I’m going to seize my chance, lady, now that the two of us are nice and cosy here together?’ He scanned her body up and down. ‘Just like your garda buddies, you believe the very worst about me, isn’t that it?’

  He licked his lips, his tongue moving slowly. His hand reached towards her neck.

  ‘Get out of here, right now!’ The words exploded from Nessa at last. She pushed Dominic’s bulky weight away from her.

  ‘Don’t you touch me again! Don’t you dare!’ She tried to focus her shattered thoughts but random images floated into her mind. His face was pale and soft, like a plate of mushy rice. His lips were strips of fatty meat.

  ‘I’m not alone,’ she heard herself say. ‘One of the visitors is here in the house.’ She was afraid to name Fergus in case it set off another rant. ‘I’m going to call out to him now …’

  Dominic backed away from her, and sat down on the sofa with a bump. His expression turned sulky. ‘All I wanted was my bag. Just to collect my bag from my room.’ He darted a glance at her. ‘You took me by surprise, coming into the room in the dark.’

  ‘You could have knocked on the front door, that’s what everyone else does. It’s no excuse – no excuse at all for what you did just now.’

  Nessa held her arms across her chest to hide her shaking from him. If she bolted, he could follow her. Why had she let him know there was only one visitor in the house? She did not really believe Fergus would hear her call out. His room was on the ground floor, but a long way from the hall.

  Dominic was muttering from the sofa. ‘You wouldn’t understand … I’d say you’ve always had a grand easy life …’

  Nessa kept her eyes on him. If only she had her mobile in her pocket, she could phone Caitlín, or her nearest neighbour down the road. Five or ten minutes at the most, for someone to arrive.

  ‘I can tell the type you are, you and your fine African fella, living it up in this big house.’ Dominic’s voice rose as he pursued a new train of thought. ‘There’s one word the likes of you wouldn’t understand – it’s a dirty, mean little word that gets you no respect in this world.’ His lower lip jutted out in self-pity. ‘Failure, that’s the word I’m talking about. You see, I’d hoped to achieve something in my life, did I mention that during the week, when we were all so nice and pally together?’

  Nessa shook her head, pretending to listen to him. As long as he stayed put on the sofa, she could figure out what to do and take back the control she had lost in her own house.

  ‘Oh, yes, I had high hopes at one time, stupid fool that I was. I set up my own enterprises – dancehalls and bingo and what have you, music and bloody dancing to keep everyone happy. I tried to make it in business but where did it get me, that’s the question. And the answer is, nowhere at all, because you see, I didn’t have the right contacts, not the sort your friend Oscar has. I never learned the plámás talk that gets you places in this rotten crummy country …’

  Nessa remembered she had two keys in her pocket. If Dominic attacked her again, she could jab him under the chin with her keys. She took a step towards the door.

  ‘That’s how it went,’ he continued, ‘and now I’m a laughing stock wherever I go! No proper job and no pitter-patter of children either, which was most likely my fault too. Nothing at all to show for my stupid sorry life.’ Dominic was talking to himself now. ‘But what’s your problem, Dominic? Didn’t Maureen swoop the pot of gold in the Lotto, and wasn’t that the answer to everything? She was able to buy us a fine old public house, where the pair of us can drink our days away. Our own best bloody customers, and the whole town sneering at us!’

  He looked up at Nessa, his eyes focussing on her again. She gripped the doorhandle. She could lock herself in the kitchen until help arrived.

  ‘So then we come here for a bit of a break, but it’s the usual story, everybody tittering behind their hands at us.’ Dominic swayed onto his feet, his lips wet with spittle. He dug into one of his trouser pockets. ‘A smug little group of people, they are, and your oh-so-polite husband, not to forget Oscar the ladies’ darling …’

  ‘Sit down …’ Nessa swallowed the words as she said them. Dominic held a pocket knife in his hand and opened it with a quick flick.

  ‘Now, here’s a thing you weren’t expecting, eh? Dominic’s had enough of being a nice boy to everyone, d’you get me? He’s sick of people making fun of him, that’s his little problem.’ Nessa stood petrified, her eyes fixed on the shiny blade turning to and fro. ‘You pay attention to me, Lady Muck, for a change.’ Dominic’s voice sharpened. ‘You still don’t believe that Oscar got his hands on Maureen, do you?’

  Nessa heard a footstep in the hall. She forced herself to look at Dominic’s face instead of the knife. Willpower was her only defence. Even if Fergus was outside the door, she could not rely on him to save her.

  ‘I’m the amadán that said we should come on holidays here, same place we came when I was a child. My mother was from Beara, did I tell you that?’ Dominic shifted his weight and fell back on the arm of the sofa, his lower lip quivering again. ‘But even here I couldn’t get away from my old enemies. Failure and despair – they’re the boys that lie in wait for me wherever I go, so now it’s time for me to face up to them for once and all.’

  He opened out his palm and placed the tip of the blade on his skin. Nessa watched as a bright red drop of blood spread from its centre. When Dominic turned his eyes to her again, they were filled with loathing.

  FIVE

  Saturday 19 September, 11.30 a.m.

  Redmond had a day off work but the last thing he wanted was to hang around at home. He could not stand solitary idleness, as he had long ago realised. So he had just spent an hour in the hotel gym close to the garda station, and was wondering whether to continue his workout in the station’s own fine facility, or to pass an hour in the hotel pool. But either way, he would have nothing to do by lunchtime.

  He was tempted to sidle in to his desk in the station, as he often did in his spare time. The snag was that his colleagues had begun to joke about it. On Thursday evening, he had been lingering late at his desk when the call about Maureen Scurlock came in – and next morning, he overheard sniggering voices while he was closeted in one of the station toilets. ‘The country would be rid of the scourge of crime,’ said one, ‘if we were all as diligent as Garda Redmond Joyce!’ ‘No doubt about it,’ said the other, ‘and the buckos in government would be over the moon, with all the fuckin’ overtime money they’d save!’

  Redmond drained the last of his takeaway coffee, bought in the shop next door to the station. The cashier had asked him whether he was on his way to Castletownbere port, where a big crowd was expected at a prote
st that afternoon. News bulletins had reported that the owners of the Russian ship were bankrupt and would not pay their employees. The controversy was hotting up, with calls for action and negotiation, while the men on board relied on food donated by local people.

  Redmond told himself he had a great excuse to go into work, as Inspector O’Kelleher might well need extra gardai for the protest. It would make a change from the usual duties: complaints about pub licences, late-night fights between local youths, and the repeated full-colour, close-up horror of road accidents. All of them reminders, to Redmond’s mind, of the country’s collective addiction to alcohol.

  He kept his back to the station while he made up his mind. It was a sunny morning and he had a fine view of the Beara peninsula’s vigorous spine of mountains on the far side of Bantry Bay, but a day’s rambling on his own was definitely not on his agenda. He reminded himself that he had genuine work to do, making phone calls about the Derryowen incident two days earlier. Fergus Malden had booked a taxi for two o’clock on Thursday, to drive his father home to Tipperary; but Fergus also said that Oscar had contacted him at the last minute to cancel the booking. Redmond was trying to track down the taxi driver, having failed so far to make contact with Oscar Malden himself.

  He had googled the businessman on the internet and found plenty of photographs, showing a man with clear, even features and a wide smile. His light-coloured hair was turning grey, but it was that attractive silvery grey that wealthy people always achieved. According to one Sunday newspaper, he was ranked at number sixty-eight on Ireland’s rich list, and was lauded by politicians and pundits alike for his entrepreneurial spirit. He had made his money on security installations such as electronic gates for apartment blocks, and then countered recessionary losses by expanding his business interests in Russia and the Middle East. He was also highly regarded as a patron of contemporary art and music, and known for persuasive public commentary on cultural issues. Hardly the type to do a runner after assaulting a helpless woman on a remote laneway, as most gardai in the station agreed.