The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery

by Patrick Dunne

  ‘And what’s done with the various parts?’

  ‘In some cases they’re put into potions. Other times, the supplicant has to actually wear the body part, or even eat it, or smear himself with the brains or blood. Blood is drained and used as well, maybe even drunk. For years, South African kids have been disappearing from townships, some into prostitution and others into muti potions. The biggest demand is from ambitious businessmen, but criminals and politicians are in there too, mainly because they can afford it. Usually several people have to be paid, so it costs.’

  ‘And is it just a South African phenomenon?’

  ‘No. It’s practised all through sub-Saharan Africa. And when African immigrants come over here…I guess some of them find the culture so different that they revert to old beliefs and customs that they might have abandoned in their native countries.’

  That was certainly true of the Irish at one time. I recalled my father telling me about visiting New York and being horrified when his meek, cannabis-growing brother Ollie took him to a rabble-rousing performance by the Republican ballad group, the Wolfe Tones.

  ‘As well as that, they may be under severe pressure to find work and make a living. But that doesn’t mean they have to go and murder someone. The sangoma, or some go-between, will know how to tap into the market in body parts. And if this case turns out to be the genuine article, I’d say we’re talking about a trader who needed to stock up. It’s possible that some parts have already been used in a ceremony, though it’s unlikely to have been around here – that would raise suspicions among Africans in the community who aren’t too keen on this type of thing.’

  ‘So you’re saying the parts could have been sold to customers in different parts of the country?’ It sounded surreal, somehow.

  ‘That’s what I’d imagine, yes. But there’s still a big “if” here. If she was killed for muti, why wasn’t her blood drained and why were none of the internal organs removed from her thorax and abdomen? Even her feet were untouched. The parts taken are the ones that would have helped to identify the victim. Her breasts were cut off too, I know, but that may just have been to make it look more authentic.’

  ‘But you said her genitals—’

  ‘Malcolm is more confident of that than I am,’ Groot interjected. ‘The state of decomposition made some of her external injuries difficult to assess. I have to discuss it further with him, so I really can’t say anything more, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Sure.’ He was being brusque but professional.

  ‘Hey, have some more wine,’ he said, lightening up again.

  I declined.

  ‘Mind if I help myself?’ He poured another glass, took a swig, then picked up the A4 document he’d been reading. It was a four-page handout I’d written to accompany my talk at the Heritage Centre. ‘I gather from this that there’s been little or no excavation of plague graveyards in Ireland. That surprises me, for some reason.’

  ‘Politics comes into it to some degree. For the first fifty years after independence, we were focusing on our glorious past before the nasty English came. Towns and castles and abbeys from the Gothic period were seen as the legacy of the colonists, so they weren’t a priority for archaeologists.’

  ‘Hmm. Makes me wonder how they’ll approach the current period in South Africa in five or six hundred years’ time.’

  ‘Impossible to know. They could be sifting through the impact of Aids, just as we’re trying to assess the effect of the Black Death on Europe in the Middle Ages.’

  ‘Microbes and mankind, eh?’ Groot picked up the handout once more. ‘And what documentary evidence did you have before you started? Of Castleboyne actually getting hit by the plague, I mean.’

  ‘More than for most small Irish towns – but that’s not saying very much. Check the appendix on the last page – excerpts from the annals of the time.’

  Groot started to read. ‘1348, August: The Great Pestilence arrived at Castleboyne. September: Prior Thomas wrote to Bishop Geoffrey: “Some among the townspeople blame pilgrims lately travelled upriver from Drogheda for bringing the Pestilence amongst us, noting the strangeness of their attire and accusing them that they would not come into the shrine at Our Lady’s Priory, nor attend the Mass.” 1349, July: Bishop Geoffrey died of the plague and was buried beneath the high altar of the Cathedral. October: It was recorded throughout the land that many a castle was left without a guard, many a flock without a shepherd and many a corpse without burial…’ Groot looked at me. ‘That sounds like total wipe-out.’

  ‘That last bit’s probably a later interpolation – a standard description that came into use in subsequent years whenever the plague returned. But it’s no exaggeration: sixty per cent mortality is the accepted figure.’

  ‘And you’re worried that you might have resurrected the original strain, am I right?’

  ‘It has occurred to me, yes.’

  Groot shook his head and smiled. ‘Well, even if your employee died of VHF, I can’t see how the Black Death could have been an infection of that kind. The filoviruses that cause them haven’t figured out yet how to keep enough of us alive so the contagion can spread indefinitely – something the Black Death bug had mastered. Still, I have no doubt that nature is cooking up something else in its cauldron – or wok, more likely – to send against us. Maybe Aids was only an experiment – to get the slow-burning bit worked out, allowing plenty of time for the illness to be passed on. But can you imagine if Aids mutated to become as contagious as the Black Death?’

  ‘Terry Johnston had Aids,’ I said.

  Just then I heard Finian’s voice. ‘How are you two getting on?’ he asked, arriving from the garden.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, and blushed for some reason.

  ‘This lady of yours is very good at extracting information,’ said Groot. ‘But then, digging below the surface is what she does for a living.’

  ‘You could say all three of us have grubby jobs,’ said Finian, wiping his hands with a cloth left on one of the chairs. ‘Although some are grubbier than others,’ he added, catching my eye. He was referring to Groot’s profession. It was untypical of Finian to make a swipe like that, but the pathologist didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Some wine?’ Groot held up the bottle.

  ‘No, thanks. I just overheard something in the garden,’ said Finian, sitting down. ‘There’s talk of putting Castleboyne under quarantine.’

  ‘That’s because of what Darren Byrne said on radio this morning,’ I said. I was blushing again, with guilt this time. That I was responsible for the accident. That I hadn’t been able to prevent Byrne spreading panic. That he was right.

  ‘To do with the chap who died this morning?’ asked Groot, draining the bottle into his glass.

  ‘Yes,’ said Finian. ‘But apparently someone else has been admitted to St Loman’s with similar symptoms.’

  I jumped up and nearly knocked the bottle off the table. ‘Christ, Finian. Was it someone from the team? Who is it? Why wasn’t I told?’

  Finian came and held me. ‘Take it easy, my love. Take it easy. I know nothing apart from what I overheard. It may be just a rumour. We can ring the hospital.’

  Ten minutes later we were still getting an engaged signal.

  ‘The switchboard’s jammed,’ I said. ‘There’s something going on, all right. I’m driving to the hospital.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ said Groot, standing up. ‘And I’m not being gallant. I have to meet the detective in charge of the case, so I’d appreciate the lift.’

  I smiled at his honesty. His spoofer rating was comfortably back within safe limits.

  Groot disappeared into the house to collect his things.

  ‘Anything I can do?’ Finian asked.

  ‘Nothing, sweetheart,’ I said, putting my arms around him and giving him a kiss. ‘You’ve enough to be doing here anyway.’

  ‘Like getting dinner?’ he said, pretending hurt.

  ‘Let’s go out tonight,’ I said. �
��On me.’

  Finian brightened. ‘And just us, OK? I haven’t had you to myself for ages.’

  ‘It’s a date,’ I said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The hospital was in wooded grounds at the top of a hill. From about a kilometre away we could see there were cars parked nose-to-tail along the side of the road all the way down from the entrance, their roofs glinting in the sun like the segments of a multi-coloured millipede.

  On the way I’d phoned Peggy to ask if she’d heard any other member of the team complaining of symptoms, before they dispersed or since. She hadn’t. She also told me I had made a wise decision not to go back to the office – after the Gerry Ryan Show a number of photographers had turned up, clicking at anyone entering or leaving the premises, including my mother, who had given them a piece of her mind.

  I parked my car behind an RTÉ outside broadcast van and we started up the path towards the hospital. About a hundred metres from the entrance an overweight man in a suit and open-necked shirt, one tail of which was hanging loose in front, came bearing down on us. This was Eddie Sugrue, a veteran reporter with The Daily Record, a rival of Ireland Today. I liked Sugrue, a man who had never allowed his tabloid instincts to extinguish his essential decency. His gruff exterior concealed an affable temperament, but he could be in a bad mood after a night of drinking and smoking, usually signalled by high colour. Right now he was red-faced, sweating and holding a cigarette.

  ‘What’s the story up there?’ I asked him, deciding to get in first and to avoid introducing Groot; Sugrue would immediately start prising information out of him.

  ‘I think you know the story better than we do.’

  Was he suggesting it was one of the excavation team?

  ‘I swear I know nothing, Eddie. I haven’t even been able to contact the hospital.’

  ‘No one has. Reception is engaged. The staff have turned off their mobiles. But it’ll do more harm than good if they don’t make some kind of statement soon.’

  ‘So what have you heard?’

  ‘That someone with symptoms similar to Terry Johnston’s was brought in around noon today. That officials from the Health Service are awaiting confirmation before they decide what to do next. No one’s allowed to enter or leave the hospital. Emergency cases are being diverted to Navan.’ He flicked away the cigarette. ‘If you ask me, panic’s beginning to build up. And that could have been avoided if they – and you, Illaun – had owned up this morning when Terry Johnston died. Instead of having Darren fucking Byrne shooting his mouth off on the radio.’

  I knew Sugrue was irked because his young rival had not only got the story first, but achieved maximum publicity for the newspaper by announcing the return of the Black Death – whether it was true or not – on the Gerry Ryan Show. But I felt his comment about me was unfair.

  ‘No need to use that kind of language,’ said Groot, stepping between me and Sugrue. ‘And Miss Bowe had, and still has, no idea what the illness is. None of us do, yet.’

  Sugrue looked at me in astonishment. ‘Who’s this guy?’ he said, practically jerking his thumb in Groot’s face.

  This was it. Groot had been over-confident. Sugrue was going to unmask him and get the lowdown on the other story that had put Castleboyne in the headlines.

  ‘I’m a lab scientist at St Loman’s,’ said Groot.

  Sugrue squinted at him. Why would an archaeologist have a medical scientist in tow? When or how had he got out through the hospital’s cordon sanitaire? And what kind of an accent was that?

  Groot beckoned Sugrue closer and, dropping his voice, said, ‘I’m bringing Miss Bowe to the hospital for some blood tests.’ He put a finger up to his lips to signal discretion. ‘You do understand what I’m saying?’

  Sugrue looked at me in surprise. ‘I’m sorry, Illaun. I was out of order. I hope everything will be OK.’

  I made a suitably worried face. ‘I’m sure it will, Eddie. Thanks.’

  ‘A word of warning, Illaun. There’s a difference between breaking the news and making the news. I don’t think that bothers Darren Byrne.’

  Groot took me by the elbow and we moved on. When we were far enough away I began to shake with laughter. ‘Well, you’re a cool customer, Peter Groot.’

  ‘If you were a student activist against apartheid, you had to learn to lie to the authorities on occasion. It all came back to me just then.’

  ‘Well, I think you may have to exercise your skills one more time when we get to the gate.’

  ‘No need. I rang Sherry from Brookfield. He’s been called to a multiple drowning at a place called… Slane?’ I nodded. The Boyne had begun to harvest its annual summer crop. ‘The coroner had asked him to do the post on Terry Johnston, in case there’s a chance there was criminal negligence involved in his death.’

  ‘That would really make my day.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s just standard procedure, he said. Anyway, we discussed it, I expressed an interest in the case, so Sherry’s authorised me to do it. He’ll have informed the hospital team.’ Groot halted, put his arms around me and gave me a hug. ‘Hey, lighten up. You got your wish.’

  It felt good. For a moment I relaxed into him; then I caught myself and stood away. ‘That’s great. I think.’

  Groot headed on, expecting me to follow.

  ‘Hey, that’s you admitted. How will I get through?’

  ‘Simple. I’ll insist that I need you to verify Johnston’s identity.’

  ‘That’s plausible. You must have had a lot of practice. I’m sure it helped you spot the chancers when you became the law yourself.’

  He grinned broadly.

  ‘Talking about the law, who’s the detective you’re meant to be meeting – the one in charge of the case?’

  ‘His name’s Gallagher.’

  ‘Matt Gallagher?’

  ‘That’s right. I met him this morning.’

  ‘Does he have…’ I patted my hair, thinking of the right word to use.

  ‘Hair the colour of a Cape orange? Yeah, that’s the guy.’

  It was my turn to smile.

  St Loman’s was under siege from a phalanx of reporters, photographers and TV cameras. The entrance gates were closed, and a young Garda – wearing a short-sleeved shirt, but still sweltering under his cap in the late-afternoon heat – was standing out in front, trying to ignore requests from photographers who wanted to climb the gates to get a better shot of the main hospital building. A hospital security man stationed inside checked Groot’s story on a walkie-talkie, then opened the electronic gates just wide enough to let us in as the cameras clicked and whirred.

  Once inside, Groot and I separated and I headed for the ICU. I began to think about Terry Johnston again, now that my emotions weren’t so raw. Groot had immediately said his illness sounded like a haemorrhagic fever. So was it really too far-fetched to think it had been acquired from the liquid in the coffin? And, if so, wasn’t it reasonable to think that the sealing of the statue in one of the lead coffins had something to do with what was contained in the other?

  I knew I had to leave it at that and not speculate any further. My imagination sometimes runs ahead of me, often leading me into trouble but more often, I like to think, allowing me to anticipate the worst – or possibly the best – outcome of a situation long before anyone else. It’s both a gift and a curse, like an apple in some fairy story – bite into one side of it and you can foretell the future, chomp on the other and you’re dead.

  Terry Johnston was really dead, though – not in some metaphorical way. And even though I’d been there when he passed away, it was only now, for some reason, while thinking of poisonous apples in fairy stories, that I knew it. It was as if I hadn’t the competence to judge something so fundamental, and so had been half-expecting the patient to be up and about when I came back to the hospital.

  At the doorway leading into the ICU there was a security guard sitting on a chair, reading a newspaper. He barely looked up on my approach. ‘Only
authorised staff allowed,’ he said, running his eye over a woman revealing her underwear as she got into a car. It never occurred to him that I might have breached the outer ring of the cordon.

  ‘Dr Abdulmalik asked me to come over from surgery for a consultation.’

  The guard eyed me up and sighed wearily. ‘Why don’t they tell me what they’re doing? How am I expected to know who’s who? Go on.’ He rattled the paper to emphasise his dissatisfaction and resumed his crotch-gazing.

  I pushed through the swing doors into the corridor and found the waiting room where I’d talked with the two doctors that morning. I looked inside and saw two people, a man and a woman in their twenties, both in striped tracksuits, their faces drawn and pale. They were the children or possibly the brother and sister of the victim, I surmised. But I didn’t know them.

  I continued down the corridor to the nurses’ station and was relieved to see Cora Gavin behind the counter. She had her back to me and was talking to a middle-aged nurse who was sitting at the desk taking notes. They both looked up in surprise when I approached the counter.

  ‘Illaun, what in God’s name are you doing here?’

  ‘I heard you admitted someone with the same symptoms earlier today, but I couldn’t get through on the phone. I thought it might be another of the workers from the site.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ said the nurse, lifting the phone on the desk to ring security.

  ‘It’s OK, Francesca.’ Cora gripped her shoulder reassuringly. ‘Francesca’s in charge of our infection-control team,’ she explained. She came out from behind the counter and we walked slowly along the corridor together. ‘Well, he’s not one of your people, that I can guarantee.’

  It was a relief, of sorts. ‘Was it someone who’d been in contact with Terry?’

  ‘We don’t think so. His name is Stephen Bolton and he’s nine years old.’