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Deadly Intent

Page 16

by Anna Sweeney


  No bishop had offered to speak at his parents’ funeral. In the eyes of the wide world, their deaths were sad and regrettable, but nevertheless just one of the humdrum tragedies piled on the roadsides each year. His mother and father were ordinary people, who had never looked for attention beyond their own small circles, and two priests had been considered quite sufficient for them. His relatives and neighbours had done everything possible to help Redmond through those nightmare days, and the local priest had been considerate too; but Redmond could never forget how the second priest got his mother’s name wrong when he shook his hand after the funeral.

  People meant well, he understood that alright, but he could make no sense of their attempts to console him. It’s the will of God, many had said, as if he was supposed to think that was a good thing, and that having his parents chanting prayers for him in some faraway invisible ether was somehow better than having their company at home at the kitchen table. Others said sagely that when your number was up, that was that – which meant, to Redmond’s mind, that the speeding driver who had ended two people’s lives had no responsibility for his actions.

  Because that’s what a belief in either blind fate or God’s will implied, as far as he could make out. If everything was predetermined, and his parents had to die that day, then the offending driver had no choice but to hurtle along a small country road at eighty miles an hour. In which case rapists, abusers and murderers also had no choice but to carry out their vicious crimes in order to bring about predetermined outcomes. Fate and free will could not co exist, nor could people pick and choose which particular tragedies were part of God’s greater plan.

  Redmond had eventually decided that it was futile to seek explanations. All he could do was endure the fact that it had happened, just as millions of other humans suffered for no good reason from random earthquakes, wars, fatal diseases and myriad injustices. The car crash should not have happened, but it had. And if he could prevent even a few other people from committing crimes, or at the very least, help to bring them to justice, perhaps life would become worth the effort.

  ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Let us take this opportunity to give each other the sign of peace.’

  Redmond realised that people around him were shuffling and turning to each other. A woman offered him her hand in symbolic peace and friendship, just as hundreds of others did the same to those around them. Redmond’s lower lip was quivering and he was unable to look her in the eye. She probably thought he was upset about Oscar Malden’s death. He forced himself to smile, trying to concentrate once more on the ceremony. Otherwise he might cry out and bawl from the pit of his stomach.

  When he examined the crowd, he noticed Nessa McDermott quite close to him. A lock of reddish-brown hair falling on her forehead, and her mouth set defiantly. He blushed as he remembered the dream he had had early that morning. He had seen his mother in the dream, walking away from him as happened so often in the desolate years following her death. Sometimes, she would stop and look back at him, and then speak soundlessly so that he could not hear what she said to him.

  In his dream that morning, she had turned to look back as before, but instead of his mother, he found himself staring at Nessa McDermott. Her eyes wide open and her expression closed. He felt angry at her for invading his private world, and then he felt angry at himself too. Nessa McDermott was no mother figure reaching out to him, he was absolutely certain of that, and if she had wormed her way into his sleeping mind, it was because he had allowed himself to become obsessed with her.

  Since the incident at the bridge, he had trawled the internet for references to her. He read through many of her newspaper articles – stories on planning scandals, dubious business deals and much else. He wondered why she had cut short such a media career to settle in a quiet place like Beara and he pored over Cnoc Meala’s own website as well as reviews of it on tourist forums. He found it described as a model of ecotourism, boasting solar panels and all the latest insulation and heating systems, plus – the usual story – making use of the freshest local ingredients in its highly praised cuisine. Redmond had little interest in such issues, but he read every scrap anyway, no matter that it told him damn all about Oscar Malden.

  It was the same old pattern every time a work task got a grip on him. First of all, he became excited at the challenge in hand, but soon enough, his work craving took over. During his years in the computer industry, he used to find himself staring at screens late into the night, unable to let go. And then his father’s face would appear, flushed with alcohol, a reminder to Redmond of how readily he too might slip into its tempting embrace.

  He tried to focus on the funeral ceremony once again. Nessa McDermott’s daughter was seated beside her, fussing with her bag, probably texting Marcus O’Sullivan. Redmond had heard his colleagues discuss their rumoured relationship during the week. They had all agreed that they would happily interview her into the small hours. A good hard interview, one of them said, to make her sweat to my heart’s content. She might be idle one of these nights, another garda added, while loverboy Marcus is off making music elsewhere.

  Redmond had taken a close look at Marcus two nights earlier. He had decided to drive over to Carraig Álainn after his day’s work, without telling Trevor O’Kelleher or anyone else. He could not say exactly why, but something had bothered him the day he saw Marcus walk out of his house, carrying the box he claimed to have thrown over the cliffside.

  Redmond had found space to park outside Carraig Álainn’s gates, and sat in darkness for a while, trying to invent a likely excuse to knock on Marcus’s door. Eventually, he had walked in the gates and stood in a shadowy corner, watching the house and reproaching himself for indecision. The blinds were down in all three houses, but he could see a faint yellow glow from Marcus’s living room, in the house closest to the sea.

  He had not been there long when the front door was opened. Marcus came out, followed by a blonde woman. Redmond wondered whether she was Katya, the Slovakian mentioned by Marcus during his interview. He shrank into the trees as the pair spoke in low voices and then got into Marcus’s car – not the large Toyota he drove for his taxi work, but a Mitsubishi Evo, a typical choice for a well-funded young man intent on fast driving.

  Redmond tried to peer in the windows when they were gone, but could see nothing. His conscience was at him, in any case, as he had no authority to trespass on private land. He wished he could be like Conor Fitzmaurice, who would have no problem inviting himself in for a chat with Marcus.

  On his way back to his car, he had stopped to look at the middle house. There were thick blinds on the windows, as in all the houses. But when he looked upwards at a Velux window in the roof, he noticed a glimmer along its edge. Marcus had left the lights on upstairs, for whatever reason.

  Many of the congregation had formed a queue to receive communion. A woman was singing from the choir balcony – a contemporary song, as Redmond realised with surprise. He remembered the refusal of the senior priest at his parents’ funeral to countenance a secular music, and his pronouncement that eulogies by relatives were no longer permitted inside the church. Perhaps it was one law for the rich and another for the rabble; or perhaps each bishop decided on the rules in his own diocese. It was a mystery to him, like so many aspects of other people’s lives.

  It filled him with amazement, for example, to see grown women and men take a sliver of papery bread in their hands, and put it in their mouths in the sincere belief that it was a piece of divine flesh. He wondered whether Oscar Malden had shared such a belief, or would have chosen a conventional religious funeral for himself. If half of the rumours of his casual sexual relationships were true, he had hardly been a faithful Roman Catholic. Then again, he might have repented everything the instant he felt the tug of a noose on his throat.

  Redmond made his way to the back of the church, and saw Conor Fitzmaurice leaning by the door. He looked awkward in his Sunday suit, like a farmer who had ju
st scrubbed grit from under his fingernails. The sergeant was studying his phone when Redmond reached him.

  ‘Well now, here’s a surprising development.’ Conor wrinkled his brow as he scrolled through a text. ‘What do you make of this now?’

  Redmond was about to take the phone from him when they saw the crowd craning their necks to look towards the altar. Fergus Malden stood at the lectern, getting ready to speak about his father, and both gardai moved quickly to get a better view.

  ‘A lot has been said since his death … Every newspaper I open …’ Fergus mumbled some of his words, eyes cast downwards. He referred to his father’s great reputation, and how he had such determination to achieve his aims. As Fergus stuttered uncertainly, Redmond wondered whether the young man was genuinely praising his father or simply reciting a formula. Strength and ambition were not always praiseworthy traits and Fergus, who was so shy himself, may have disliked rather than admired them.

  ‘I would like to say … I have to speak now about … the terrible thing that happened.’ Fergus lifted his head and looked out at the crowd. ‘But I understand I have to be careful about this.’

  Total silence enveloped the church. Redmond felt his own breath seize in his throat. It was remarkable, really, that Fergus had taken on the task of speaking in public at such an occasion.

  ‘If the person who carried it out … If that person is listening, here in Ireland or wherever else …’

  For a few seconds, Redmond was afraid that the young man’s voice had deserted him. But then Fergus found a new wellspring of courage within himself and released a torrent of words all at once. ‘What I want to say is that death solves nothing. No matter why this murder took place, or what it was supposed to achieve, it has harmed us all terribly, and not just my father. It has left a stain on us that I think will go deeper over time. The right thing … The right thing must be done, but even so, we will never recover. That’s all.’

  Fergus stopped short, his hands gripping the lectern. He looked paler and more drained than ever. Silence filled the church for several seconds, and then people began to clap. The sound of applause echoed up to the roof, as Fergus raised his eyes quickly to acknowledge it.

  When he made his way outside, Redmond spotted Conor among the crowd, his arm on someone’s shoulder, chatting and smiling. The sergeant had that natural ease and informality that was so common in Ireland, leaning in close with his head inclined to listen, giving a gentle nudge of his elbow to share a joke. He would work his way around the crowd, picking up succulent rumours and solid facts without ever asking a direct question.

  Redmond envied his easy manners, but he no longer resented his colleague as he had done at first. Instead, he felt surprised and pleased that Conor was so friendly to himself. It crossed his mind that Trevor O’Kelleher had put a word in Conor’s ear to do so, but he pushed the thought away quite quickly. Conor Fitzmaurice needed no guidance on how to get on with others.

  Close to the hearse, people awaited their turn to express condolences to Oscar’s family. Redmond watched them for a while. Fergus and his mother Louise stood stiffly side by side, a few words passing between them when Fergus introduced someone to her. As they greeted each person in line, their hands moved mechanically and their heads nodded like puppets unable to relate to an audience. Caitlín O’Donovan was making conversation with Louise, who seemed to stare right through her. Similarly, Darina O’Sullivan held Fergus’s hand tightly and bent towards him to say something, but his eyes darted away in every direction. He was probably feeling utterly bewildered, doing his public duty with an empty, abandoned heart.

  Redmond looked back at Louise and was startled to recognise the look in her eyes. She was a slim woman, with deeply tanned skin and a polished appearance, but there was something withered about her too. Her white teeth showed brightly when she affected a smile but her eyes did not quite focus properly, as if a veil shrouded her view of the world. Too often, Redmond had seen that same alcoholic veil droop over his father’s eyes, and now he pictured Louise passing her days in Dubai, high up on the balcony of an expensive apartment, desperately clutching her glass under the white glare of the sun.

  He gazed back at Fergus, who had been a young teenager when his parents had separated. Redmond felt a surge of sympathy for him, and wondered whether Fergus had ever been able to talk to anyone about his parents’ separation, and his own loneliness, and the random cruelties of life.

  He walked around the churchyard to find Conor. The television crews were packing up their gear, after completing their work for the evening news programmes. Near the side gate, he noticed Nessa McDermott in discussion with that young woman, Zoe. He felt sure they got on very well, outdoing each other in stubborn defiance of the world. Zoe reminded him of a girl who had been in his class at school – her mouth set in a cheeky pout that infuriated every teacher they had.

  Jack Talbot approached the two women from behind, and put his arm around Nessa before greeting them. Redmond noticed with interest how she backed away from him and vociferously refused his offer of a microphone. She must have learned a hard lesson when his articles about her husband had appeared.

  When Redmond caught up with Conor, the sergeant took out his phone and handed it to him without a word. The text message on the screen was full of venom:

  Oscar Malden will be praised to the heavens today. Damn him to hell instead. Rotting in his coffin is too good for him. His own heart rotted long ago. He hurt women till they screamed. Torture was a game

  Redmond read it a few times before he met his colleague’s eyes. He felt a chill on his back, as if an icy gust of wind had hit him.

  ‘What do you make of it, in the name of God?’ said Conor quietly. ‘It looks as if whoever wrote it had to stop suddenly.’

  ‘Who sent it to you? I know people post all sorts of poison on the internet, but this seems more personal than that.’

  ‘A friend of mine sent it on to me. She works at a local radio station, and it was texted to one of their numbers. The cig and the rest of our bosses know about it, of course, and I’ve a source in Bandon station who’ll keep me updated on whatever they decide.’

  Redmond looked around the churchyard. The hearse had just driven away and the crowd was dwindling. ‘What about people here at the funeral? Have they heard about it?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt the word is spreading like a contagion, and the cig will tell the family about it as soon as the burial is over. But the first job is to establish whether it’s a vile and malicious prank, or a genuine message from the perpetrator.’

  ‘But if it is genuine, what’s the purpose of it? To send us off in the wrong direction, or to help us to understand why Oscar was murdered?’

  On their way back to west Cork, Conor talked about his day-to-day life, constantly juggling work and family responsibilities – rushing here and there, he said, to collect one or other of his four children from dance classes, football training, dental appointments and an endless round of their friends’ birthday parties. But he admitted that getting to know so many local parents was an advantage to the job, even if they did not necessarily see it that way.

  ‘I always spot the moment,’ he laughed, ‘when their mouths stiffen in the middle of a friendly chat, because they’re seized with anxiety about sharing secrets with a member of the constabulary!’

  Redmond eventually took his turn to speak, and by the time they were halfway across County Cork, he had told Conor how his parents had died together. His companion responded gently, without betraying any of the condescending pity that Redmond always feared; and soon enough, to his surprise, he found himself describing feelings of anger and heartbreak that he had rarely voiced aloud. As a flood of words spilled out from him, he was enormously glad that he could gaze at the darkening road ahead and not meet the sergeant’s eyes.

  His story was finally interrupted by the jingle of Conor’s phone. Redmond picked it up and read out a text from Bandon, reporting that the venomous message a
bout Oscar had been sent from a mobile phone, whose signals located it in the same area of County Tipperary in which the funeral had taken place. Gardai would not publicise that information, of course, nor the fact that they had immediately recognised the number.

  The phone was a pay-as-you-go mobile, purchased in France about eight months earlier. A message had been left on Oscar’s phone from the same number on the day of his murder, and half an hour later, soon after 1.30 p.m., Oscar had called back and left his own message. Unfortunately, gardai had so far failed to find the owner of the phone or the device itself, and they had no idea what those fateful messages had been.

  SIXTEEN

  Wednesday 30 September, 1.00 p.m.

  Nessa was on the move once again, after three days at home in Beara. She and Sal had returned to Cnoc Meala after Oscar’s funeral the previous Saturday, and while life there could not be described as normal, Nessa felt able to draw her breath for the first time in a fortnight. She dealt with a backlog of business emails and contacted friends who had sent her messages of concern and sympathy. She drove Sal to school and encouraged her to work out a study timetable for the following month. She was in close contact with Patrick too, helping him to change his plane tickets as cheaply as possible. Then she set about tidying their bedroom with uncharacteristic thoroughness, and she put the finishing touches to it by filling a vase with late-flowering orange and red montbretia from the garden.

  The best welcome home for him, however, would be a decisive breakthrough in the garda investigation. There was a constant feeling of tension in the area, a sense that dangerous animals had been let loose and could pounce again at any time. According to Caitlín, most people in Derryowen believed that Dominic’s arrest was imminent, but while Jack Talbot and others tried to stoke the headlines, each day passed without a newsflash to announce any such development. Meanwhile, Nessa pursued her own contacts, including a business journalist friend who promised to look for possible links between the abandoned Russian ship and Oscar’s companies. She did not quite agree with Zoe’s scepticism about the garda investigation: they had probably gone through Oscar’s office files in forensic detail already, and sent queries to police forces in several countries. Her own efforts were a long shot by comparison; but doing something felt better than doing nothing.

 

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