The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery

by Patrick Dunne

  It only dawned on me then: that meant they had calculated I was going to return not long after they had frightened me out of the house. How? Because they knew the roadblock was being put in place and that I would be turned back. But to put a plan like that into action, they must have had advance knowledge of the imposition of the quarantine. The decision to blockade the town would have been communicated on a need-to-know basis to a limited range of people. And the Bolton family was hardly among them.

  Despite the heat, a shiver shot through me.

  On the way back from Longwood House I decided, out of curiosity, to drive past my house and out to Oldbridge again. About half a kilometre from the junction where I’d been stopped the night before, I began to pass a line of vans and trucks parked at the side of the road. Their drivers must have been overnighting in the town and were now trapped. I saw a tailback ahead and decided to turn back, but another car had done the same and was heading back towards me. I spotted a gap between two container trucks on my left and pulled in to let the car past.

  I was directly opposite Oldbridge graveyard and the ruins of the cathedral across the river. The gravestones looked like a field of crops that had been left untended: some broken, others flat on the ground, most sticking up at odd angles like misshapen teeth. The driver of the car I’d allowed to pass beeped his horn twice in thanks, and I started to manoeuvre my way out. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement among the gravestones. A man in black standing up after examining one of the horizontal slabs. Mortimer.

  I watched as he bent down again and turned his head this way and that, like a rook pecking at a piece of carrion. He was trying to decipher an inscription. But it didn’t seem to be what he was looking for, because he went on, picking his way through the graves, in search of something.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Oisín McKeever answered the door and held it open while I walked into the hall. He had a football under his arm. ‘I’m just going out,’ he said. ‘No school – oral exams.’

  ‘Any sign of that man up the street?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him. And we’ve been kicking ball near his house the past few days.’

  ‘Has anyone else gone in or out of there?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  ‘Do me a favour, will you? No need to go snooping around, but if the ball gets kicked into their front garden will you take a peek in the window as you’re collecting it? If you see a woman’s jacket with sunflowers on it, let me know.’

  Fran called from the kitchen. ‘How did you know I was making coffee?’

  ‘Like – are they Van Gogh sunflowers?’ asked Oisín.

  I smiled. ‘Yes, those ones.’

  The smile was still on my face when I went into the kitchen. Fran was sitting at the table, pouring me a cup from a cafetière. ‘You look pleased with yourself,’ she remarked.

  ‘It’s nice to see Oisín’s soft side showing, even though he’s unaware of it.’ Then I noticed Fran was looking less drawn than she had of late. ‘You’re looking happy enough yourself.’ I sat down across from her.

  ‘I think Daisy’s over that Byrne guy. She says she’s ending it today.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  ‘She said you’d told her about seeing him on the bridge. But there’s more to it than his lies – something to do with the physical side of the relationship, I think. Not that I really want to know, because I’d probably kill him.’ She pushed the cup across to me. ‘There’s even a part of me that suspects he hit on her because he knew there was no man about the place to put the fear of God into him.’

  ‘Men, eh?’ I mused. ‘We still need ’em, don’t we?’

  ‘What’s on your mind, Illaun?’ Fran could read me like a book. ‘Finian still trying to figure out when he can squeeze in the wedding?’

  ‘It’s not that. I met a guy yesterday…’ I described Groot and our two encounters.

  ‘As the song says,’ said Fran, lifting her voice: ‘“Comes love, nothing can be done.”’

  I shook my head. ‘It had more to do with the way I felt like he and I were equals. Or put it another way: Finian’s inclined to treat me like I’m less – I don’t know what – mature or grown-up than he is. I know that sounds ridiculous, because of course in one way it’s true. But I’m noticing it more, and I don’t like it.’

  ‘Funny. Our chat the other day made me think back to when I was a teenager, to see if I was any way like Daisy – and I was. I went through a phase when I was utterly horrible to my parents, and I know I worried the life out of my father. But it struck me that you were always a hippie chick, like Daisy was up to a few months ago. In fact, you were any dad’s dream – girly dresses, no makeup, studying hard… In that sense, you were never really rebellious.’

  ‘Falling for the history teacher twelve years older than me? Was that what a father would want?’

  ‘Ah. See, that’s the thing. At the time, the rest of us thought it was so risqué – not just fancying the teacher, but deciding that you were going to have him, come hell or high water. But you know, that was exactly the time when your father was away from home six days a week, or sometimes for months on end when he was touring with some play.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So Finian gave you a kind of paternal continuity. You two went for long walks, you talked about history, you sang at parties together the way you had with your dad. He encouraged you to do archaeology, he kept up your education in Latin – and, most of all, he never went to bed with you. Do you see what I’m saying?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘OK. When your father got the part in that TV serial, you began to see a lot more of him – and a lot less of Finian. You went out and knocked around with some blokes your own age – you even shagged a few of them. In the past couple of years, as your father slipped out of your life again, guess what? Finian came back into it. Because you know something? You’ve never really broken with home in the way that allows people to find themselves and then re-establish grown-up relations with their folks. You live with your mother, you work in the town you grew up in, you even have me as your best friend, for God’s sake! And while I’m at it, do you know what your chameleon thing with clothes is all about? It’s about you subconsciously fitting in. Using what you wear to disguise the fact that, deep down, there’s a volcano waiting to erupt – or there was. Who knows how far down all that – what do you call it – magma is now? But I’m telling you, marry Finian and you’ll never find out.’

  ‘So you think that, at thirty-eight, I need to start rebelling?’

  ‘I’m just saying that meeting this guy Groot has opened a window into yourself. The question now is, do you really want to see what’s down there?’

  ‘Jesus, Fran. I’m glad you didn’t hold back.’ I was trembling.

  ‘I can’t be less than frank with you, Illaun. Not about this.’

  ‘All this time, this is what…’ My voice caught. ‘This is what you thought of me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t pretend you’re hearing all of this for the first time,’ she said sharply. ‘Some of it I’ve only seen clearly this last little while, but I’ve always said straight out what I thought of you and Finian. You just decided to put it down to my disliking him. But it’s not dislike of him at all – it’s…’ She stood up and looked at me.

  There were tears splashing onto my cheeks.

  ‘For God’s sake, you silly billy, it’s because I love you and I don’t want to see you hurt.’ She held out her arms and waited for my response.

  I shook my head and stood, smarting. ‘No, Fran. You’ve really upset me.’

  ‘Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself.’ To do something with her hands, she pushed her chair in against the table. Then, still holding the back of the chair, she began to shake, and I saw from her profile that she was laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I sniffed.

  She turned to me. There were tears in her eyes too. ‘You know what? Here you are, the same age as me
– and it’s like I’m talking to Daisy.’

  ‘Except she’s at the right age for rebellion,’ I said, managing a smile.

  ‘It’s never too late,’ Fran said softly.

  A sob rose up within me like the magma she had mentioned. I held my arms out, and we hugged each other and wept.

  We heard the hall door opening and Oisín coming in.

  ‘Thanks, as always,’ I said. The experience had been on a par with a visit to the dental hygienist, but that’s what friends are sometimes for.

  Oisín came bouncing his ball into the kitchen. When he saw me, he winked, stuck up his thumb and said, ‘Van Gogh still rocks.’

  I sat in the car and observed Ben Adelola’s house for a few minutes. Where was he – and where was the other occupant of the house? Had his conversation with Darren Byrne anything to do with their disappearance? Byrne was using every opportunity to point the finger at immigrants – it was unlikely that his encounter with Adelola had been a friendly one. Maybe Byrne had some kind of hold over him that he had been using to extract information. It crossed my mind that it might have to do with the body found in the stream. And was that why they had fled?

  I turned on my mobile. I was unprepared for the number of missed calls. At least I could listen to them and decide who to phone back. Most of the voicemails were from journalists looking for a comment or a return call, but in between there were two personal calls – one from Finian, the other from Peter Groot.

  Which one would I answer first?

  I braced myself.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Finian. It’s me.’

  I let a few seconds of silence tick by.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here, Finian.’ I wasn’t pretending hurt, I just wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have got so angry. I’m a bit on edge these days, but that doesn’t excuse it.’ Finian could never be accused of bad manners.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘It was selfish of me to accept Groot’s invitation.’

  We both sighed with relief, neither of us wanting to indulge in a frosty stand-off. I told him briefly what had happened the previous night.

  Finian was outraged, not just at the way I’d been threatened, but at the lack of response from the Gardaí.

  ‘They were stretched to the limit putting up roadblocks,’ I explained.

  ‘I think that’s a disgrace. And I think the quarantine idea is unnecessary. The only good thing about it is that all coach tours to Castleboyne today have been cancelled. I feel like a schoolboy who’s been given the day off.’

  ‘It could be for more than a day.’

  ‘Well, I intend to make the most of it. And the first thing I’m going to do is have a barbeque.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes. Why not? Let’s look death in the face and hold a chicken wing under his nose.’

  I smiled. ‘The Health Service have asked people not to congregate for social functions.’

  ‘Have they indeed? Well, if the Gardaí poke their noses in, I’ll say that I had to round up my friends to provide protection for you.’

  ‘Who are you inviting?’

  ‘No out-of-towners, for obvious reasons. So the usual local suspects. I’ll get on the phone now. Maybe you’d ask Fran and Peggy along. And that other girl who works for you.’

  ‘Gayle’s in Tenerife.’ I glanced at the dashboard clock. ‘In fact, I’m meant to be talking to her shortly.’ I started the engine. ‘See you later.’

  ‘See you,’ he said.

  It had all been very civil. There was no chill in the air between us. But a keen observer would have detected a lowering of the temperature.

  On the way out of the estate, I noticed a black car in my rear-view mirror. I turned onto the Castleboyne bypass and saw the glint of alloy wheels as it followed into my lane. As I picked up speed, the car stayed with me. My heart picked up speed too.

  Approaching the new bridge across the Boyne, I deliberately slowed to a crawl, as did the driver of the other car. There was a lay-by, just before the bridge, that allowed visitors to take in the view of the great Anglo-Norman castle that dominated the skyline of the town. I pulled in and applied the handbrake. My pursuer drew into the lay-by too and parked a few metres behind me.

  I saw now it was a Honda Civic. But I couldn’t see the driver behind its tinted windows.

  I was scared, but even more, I was angry. I’d had enough of this nonsense, I decided. Leaving the engine running, I climbed out and approached the other car.

  The driver revved the Civic to a roar and launched it at me. I threw myself sideways, slamming the side of my head full-force against the door-mounted spare tyre of the Freelander as the car swerved past, showering me with gravel.

  I slumped to the ground, seeing stars. I reached up and felt my neck and face. There was no blood. Fortunately, I’d collided with the tyre, not with metal. But my jaw and the side of my neck were sore to touch. I was going to have one hell of a bruise.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sergeant Doyle was not going to escape so lightly this time. While Peggy went into the house to pack some ice in a cloth for me, I phoned him on his mobile.

  ‘I’ve almost been run down,’ I shouted at him. ‘Someone is out to kill me, and you’re doing damn-all about it.’

  ‘OK, OK. I’ll have an officer there with you shortly, I promise. Now what happened?’

  ‘I was followed by the same car I saw coming out of my driveway last night. I got out to tell whoever it was to lay off. He tried to knock me down.’

  ‘He? Did you see him?’

  ‘No. It has tinted windows.’

  ‘Did you get the number?’

  ‘Just a part of it. A Meath reg…’ I could recall two of its numbers but not the year.

  ‘Hmm…’ Doyle was checking something. ‘A vehicle matching that description was reported stolen last night. Before the incident at your home, I should add.’

  ‘Well, as you said yourself, it can’t leave town. All you need to do is send one squad car along the streets and another up and down a few country roads. That should do it.’

  I saw Peggy coming with the cold compress and finished the call with Doyle. Arriving at the office in the state I was in, I’d had to come clean with Peggy and fill her in, as succinctly as I could, on the events leading up to the attempt to hit me with the car. It was her opinion that, while some members of the Bolton family had a reputation for petty crime and frequent drunken behaviour, they were unlikely to carry out such a calculated vendetta.

  ‘You got quite a bang,’ she said, as I applied the compress to my neck. ‘Shouldn’t you go to a doctor?’

  ‘Maybe later. I have to talk to Gayle first.’ I glanced up at the clock with some difficulty. 12.30. Peggy had tracked down a number for the hotel where Gayle was staying, got her before she went down to the pool and made the arrangement for one o’clock.

  Peggy sat down at her desk. ‘Lots of journalists wanted to talk to you. There’ve been some clients on as well, mainly to cancel appointments because of the quarantine. Muriel Blunden rang to say she realises that the statue will have to stay put for now but not to let it out of your hands. I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that, until Father Burke called and said he was hoping you’d see your way to releasing the statue for Corpus Christi – that the quarantine was a sure sign it wasn’t meant to leave the town. I told him you were under strict orders from the Museum to keep it under lock and key.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’

  A tortoiseshell butterfly fluttered in through one of the open windows and landed on a net curtain we had pulled aside. Peggy left her desk, collected the butterfly in her cupped hands and released it back through the window. I had a sudden intimation of being set free myself. But free of what, exactly? Of a preordained future? Of being intimidated? A bit of both, I concluded. But, unlike the butterfly, I would have to do it on my own. And I reso
lved to make a start by refusing to be cowed.

  ‘I’m just thinking, Peggy. I’m not going to be up to much, work-wise, and there’s not much more that you can do. Why not go home and lie out in the sun? And later on you and Fred are invited to a barbeque at Brookfield.’

  ‘That sounds good to me.’ She began to close down her computer. ‘I’m not hanging about, as you can see – just in case you change your mind. But I’ll get you more ice for that before I leave.’

  When Peggy had gone, I put the fresh compress up to my jaw and tried to contact Groot at his hotel. He wasn’t there, so I rang St Loman’s, but the receptionist didn’t know if he was in the hospital or not. Doctors Gavin and Abdulmalik were on their rounds and not contactable.

  At one o’clock I rang the number Peggy had left for me and asked to be put through to Gayle. Peggy had brought her up to speed on some events, including Terry Johnston’s death.

  ‘I guess I should ask you straight away,’ I said. ‘Are you feeling OK?’

  ‘Sure. Why?’

  ‘You and I were both in close proximity to that coffin liquor, and to Terry. But they tell me there’s no need to be alarmed. Just keep an eye on your temperature, and if you feel feverish at all, get to a hospital and tell them to contact Dr Cora Gavin at St Loman’s.’

  ‘Uh, OK. Is that why you rang?’

  ‘That…and I wanted to ask you a few questions about Terry.’

  ‘I didn’t know him that well, but ask me anyway.’

  ‘Did he ever mention any particular reason why he wanted to work on this dig?’

  ‘Not that I recall. Just that it suited him because it wasn’t a winter job. He said his knees gave him grief in cold weather.’ That wasn’t unusual. Itinerant diggers often suffer from arthritis and other ailments due to long periods of constant stooping and kneeling.

  ‘Did he ever mention the stained-glass window in the Catholic church?’

  ‘No…I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. How about friends? Did he knock about with any of the site team?’