‘I vaguely recalled seeing or hearing the name somewhere before, and when Groot left I checked through my clinical appointments diary and found it. It was an entry that didn’t make much sense at the time. Hadi Abdulmalik had scribbled in an appointment for two o’clock on Tuesday 21 May. The note said, “Latifah Hassan – talk to me when she arrives.” But she never arrived and I suppose we both just forgot about it – until today, that is.’
‘So that adds more weight to the evidence that she was killed on Monday night.’
‘That’s what I figured initially, too. But then I remembered – I only saw that note from Hadi when I came back from lunch on the Tuesday. It hadn’t been in my diary that morning. So Latifah must have seen him, or at least talked to him, on Tuesday morning. It was enough to convince me to ring him in Cairo just now to check it out. What he told me may not entirely clear Terry Johnston of the suspicion of murder, but it will force Gallagher and his team to rethink what happened. It also casts her brother in a very bad light, I’m sad to say.’
‘Oh?’
‘It seems Latifah Hassan went to see Hadi because he was a Muslim as well as being a doctor. She had a medical problem, but it also had a religious dimension, and she needed advice as well as treatment. She told Hadi that her brother had persuaded her to have unprotected sex with a non-Muslim who was convinced that it would cure him of Aids. And she mentioned the man’s name: Terry.’
‘My God. Terry Johnston. Cure Aids? And Ben persuaded her?’
‘There was a good deal of money involved – enough to buy herself out of sex slavery, or so she believed. That was the moral dilemma she had faced before committing herself to the scheme. But, after she’d had sex with the guy, she discovered that he didn’t have the amount they’d agreed on, or anything like it. And, because she was infibulated, she was torn and bleeding. So now she knew she was also at great risk of acquiring HIV.
‘From what she told him, Hadi was able to assess that she hadn’t lost enough blood to require immediate intervention. And, since the injury was to her genital area, strictly speaking she had to be seen by a woman – even a non-Muslim woman – in preference to a male doctor, Hadi himself included. He knew I was coming on duty in a couple of hours, so he said he would make the appointment and help to explain the situation to me when Latifah came back in. In the meantime he gave her a painkiller and started her on a course of antibiotics. Then she said it suited her to leave the hospital for an hour or so, as she had to contact some journalist she’d met in the lap-dancing club on the Sunday night. She was apparently determined to tell her story, and the journalist had promised to publish it.’
‘Her story?’
‘She said she was going to denounce the trafficking of women into the sex industry, to warn others about the exploitation they could expect, to explain that lap-dancers were practically indentured slaves and prostitution was often the only way they could make a living. But she also wanted to speak out about the practice of circumcision in her own country and to describe the degrading, painful experience she’d had as a result. It was going to be a criticism of the treatment of women in two different cultures, I suppose. And that was the last that either Hadi or I heard of her, until today. I thought it was important that you knew. As I said, it doesn’t entirely exonerate Terry Johnston, but no way did he kill her on the Monday night.’
‘Have you told this to Gallagher?’
‘I haven’t been able to contact him, so I thought perhaps I’d leave it to you.’
‘Sure. I’ll let him know.’
And I would – but not just yet. I had no intention of spoiling his and Fran’s long weekend. And it wasn’t as if there was an innocent man behind bars.
But what I had just heard was grotesque beyond belief. To have believed that he could be cured of Aids in that way, and to have behaved as he did, Terry Johnston must have been suffering from a mental disturbance, as Groot had already surmised. But for Ben Adelola to have persuaded Latifah to have unprotected sex was not only a horrific thing to do to his own sister – it also suggested he had taken advantage of Terry’s confused state of mind. Could anything justify such nauseating behaviour?
As I drove back out onto the road, I noticed the envelope from Ross Johnston sticking out of my bag. Perhaps by the end of the day I would find out what had driven Ben Adelola to do such wretched things.
That night, after the choir had rehearsed the hymns for Corpus Christi, I drove around to Adelola’s house to give him the money from Ross Johnston – and to verify what Cora Gavin had told me.
There was no reply and the house was in darkness. I posted the envelope in through his letterbox. Repugnant though it was to me, I still had to carry out Ross Johnston’s wishes. Then, on a whim, I called to Fran’s house. I thought I might have a talk with Daisy.
She opened the door when I rang the bell.
‘Hi, Daisy. I thought I’d drop in for a chat. Are you on your own?’
‘No. Oisín’s here with some of his pals.’
‘Mind if I come in for a few minutes anyway?’ She opened the door wide and I stepped into the hall. ‘I was just leaving something into one of your neighbours’ houses. I think he’s gone to work, so I dropped it in the letterbox.’
‘Whose letterbox?’
‘Ben Adelola’s.’
‘Yeah, he’s gone to work, all right. With Darren bloody Byrne, of all people.’
I froze. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I saw Darren parking his car outside our house about two hours ago. I thought he was trying to freak me out, so I decided to go and, like, face him. But he wasn’t sitting in the car when I went out to it. I looked inside and there were all these tools in the back.’
‘What kind of tools?’
‘Gardening…no, digging tools. Like, you know – a pickaxe, a couple of shovels, that kind of thing. I went back inside the house to keep an eye on what was going on, and the next thing was he came out of the Adelolas’ house with Big Ben and they drove off together.’
‘You’ll have to excuse me, Daisy,’ I said. ‘We’ll have that chat another time.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I drove out along the road towards Oldbridge, saw Byrne’s black Civic parked by the wall of the cemetery and pulled in behind it. I took a flashlight from the glove compartment, turned it on and walked up the lane to the gates. I climbed over the stile and went along the path.
Ahead and to my right, I could hear the occasional clang of metal on stone. I switched off the flashlight and started to cross diagonally in that direction, ducking behind gravestones until I reached the gable end of the ruined cathedral. I could hear the thump and scrape of digging as I crept along the outer wall of the nave, which diminished in height as I moved forwards. I raised my head and looked into the interior of the nave.
The first thing that caught my attention was the bright moon behind the three pointed-arch windows of the east gable. It was casting long shadows and strips of pale light onto the gravelled floor. On top of the raised tomb in the centre of the crossing was a point of light, yellow by comparison with the silver moonlight. And then I heard voices – one deep and gruff, but the other, higher-pitched, was the one in charge.
I took out my mobile phone and sent a text message to Sergeant Doyle, telling him Darren Byrne was at Oldbridge cemetery and that I was there too. Then I slipped through the opening I’d used earlier in the day and kept in by the wall, out of the moonlight, as I moved along.
When I was directly opposite the two men, I could see they had hung a car mechanic’s inspection light over the raised tomb, against which they had also leaned the slab from Katherine Duignan’s grave. One of them was pointing a flashlight down at the ground. The beam picked out the flick of a shovel-blade and a scatter of earth.
I walked straight over, playing my own flashlight on them. When I saw Byrne turn towards me, I aimed the beam at his face and kept heading towards him.
‘Stop this now,’ I shouted. ‘The
re’s nothing of value buried here.’
‘Get that out of my fucking face,’ said Byrne, shielding his eyes.
I lowered the flashlight. It picked out Ben Adelola’s broad, shirtless back. ‘Ben, it’s me, Illaun Bowe. What are you doing?’
He turned around, his face running with perspiration, and shook his head. ‘I don’t want to do this…’
‘Then get up out of there.’
‘Hey, fuck off,’ said Byrne, picking up a crow-bar that was resting against the tomb and coming towards me.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ I said, holding up my mobile phone for him to see. ‘There’s a text message on this, primed and ready to go off – just like a bomb. Try anything and this place will be alive with Gardaí within five minutes.’ While talking I had positioned myself opposite Byrne, putting the trench and the pile of earth between us.
‘So why not send it anyway?’ he said, lowering the crowbar but holding on to it.
If he knew I had already sent it, he would try to escape. ‘Because I want to know why Ben is involved in this desecration. I don’t think he even knows himself.’
‘Not know? He knows all right,’ Byrne sneered. ‘Ol’ Ben here’s doing the donkey-work for his pal Darren. Because Darren knows that Ben sold his sister for sex, and that’s something Ben doesn’t want the boys in blue to know, eh, Ben?’
‘The row you had with Latifah, Ben,’ I said. ‘That was late on Monday night, after she’d been with Terry Johnston, wasn’t it? And she was still alive on Tuesday morning.’
‘Yes. But I still believe he killed her.’ He bent and renewed his digging.
‘Now, will you get the fuck out of here?’ said Byrne. ‘Can’t you see Ben has work to do? Ben and I are going to be rich, eh, Ben?’ He was on a coke-fuelled high.
‘How did you know about Ben’s sister and Terry Johnston?’
‘Does it matter? OK, I confess: I’ve been known to turn up in a lap-dancing club occasionally. Sometimes I talk to them.’
‘So when did she tell you? Hardly before she had sex with Johnston. And she didn’t work at the club on Monday nights, right, Ben?’
Adelola stopped digging.
I continued, ‘But apparently she had arranged to meet a journalist on the Tuesday, to tell him her story.’
Byrne tapped his fingers on the crowbar. ‘Hey, that’s right. It was me she came to see. That’s when she must have told me about Johnston’s little arrangement with Ben here – that’s right: she said she was terrified of Johnston. He told her that, if anyone ever found out what had happened, he’d kill her. I guess he saw her calling to my house and assumed she was spilling the beans. He must have picked her up when she left and murdered her.’
Adelola started digging again.
I pressed Byrne. ‘But if you knew he had threatened her, why didn’t you go to the Gardaí when an African woman’s body turned up in the stream a few days later?’
‘And have myself publicly associated with a black lap-dancer? What planet are you on?’
At that there was a thump as Adelola’s shovel hit damp wood.
Byrne looked down. ‘Hey, that sounds like music to my ears, Ben. Whatcha got?’
‘The lid of a coffin, I think. I need the crowbar.’
Byrne raked the grave with his flashlight. ‘You’re damn right, Ben. We’re nearly there.’ He handed him down the crowbar.
‘You have no right to disturb this woman’s body,’ I said. ‘She should be left to lie in peace.’
‘That’s rich, coming from the likes of you,’ said Byrne, lighting a cigarette. ‘I thought you did this for a living. Or maybe I just don’t understand archaeology. Let’s meet sometime and talk about it.’
‘I’d be more interested in finding out what else you and Ben’s sister talked about when she came to see you.’
I could hear the lid groaning as Adelola prised it open.
‘What do you think we talked about?’ Byrne tried to see what Adelola was doing. His attention was divided. ‘She was just trying to get money out of me. Basically, she told me what she thought Ireland Today readers wanted to hear: the men watching with their tongues – and more – hanging out, the well-known politicians and captains of industry who frequented the place, where they went to screw the girls afterwards and how much they paid.’ He looked into the grave. ‘How’re we doing, Ben?’
‘Shine your torch,’ said Adelola.
I glanced down and caught a glimpse of leg-bones, Adelola’s bare back and part of the coffin lid still intact.
‘Shit, Ben. Get this over with.’ Byrne flicked away his cigarette and began pacing up and down.
‘Hold it steady,’ said Adelola.
Byrne stood still, as best as he could manage. He was clearly getting agitated.
I pressed him further. The cocaine was making him garrulous. ‘But I thought she told you about having sex with Johnston? Did she not also mention the fact that she was circumcised? Did she not tell you that she was bleeding as she sat there talking to you? Did she not try and tell you her story, which you said you’d publish?’
‘Yeah, you’re right. That was all she fuckin’ talked about. You open a bottle of good champagne, you put the mood music on for your own private lap-dance and a bit of black ass, and what happens? She starts going on about all that shit. What a turn-off. I told her I wasn’t interested and to fuck off, so guess what? She starts crying. I told her to shut up, but she wouldn’t. I said if she didn’t, the only story I was going to publish was about her brother selling her for sex. She got really mad, started to hit me – hit me, for God’s sake! She said if I did that I’d get them both deported. I said, “Good riddance, I wish I could get you all fucked out of Ireland.”’
The remainder of the coffin lid came off with a ripping noise.
Byrne was getting excited. ‘Then she really began shouting. I put my hand on her mouth, then I grabbed her by the throat, and suddenly she goes limp and falls to the floor. I’d heard about that kind of thing before – pressure on some nerve or other that causes a heart attack. I hadn’t meant to choke her, but she was dead and there was fuck-all I could do about it. And I thought, You stupid bitch, look what you’ve done. You’re going to fuck up my life. My life. I was going to give you a profile, get you top-notch clients… Instead you’re here fucking dying on me. Then I thought, Hang on, Darren. You can get through this. I dragged her into the bathroom and thought about it for a while. I knew I could cut her up, and sell the story as a ritual murder. And it worked, up to a point. Would have fooled that thick mick from Donegal if the Afrikaner hadn’t come along.’
Adelola threw the wood from the coffin lid out onto the ground beside Byrne’s feet.
Byrne looked into the grave. ‘Jesus, Ben, I had no intention of killing your sister. But it’s out in the open now. Except it can’t go beyond these walls.’ He looked to either side. ‘What am I saying, walls?’
He grabbed the pickaxe again and glared at me. ‘No. First you got in the way of me and that little prick-teaser Daisy, and now you’re trying to blame me for what was an accident.’
This guy’s insane, I thought. Where were the Gardaí? I still had the phone in my hand. Maybe I should call Doyle—
Before I could do anything, Byrne swung the pickaxe and smashed it into my hand. The phone flew up into the air behind me. The pain in my fingers was so intense that I dropped groaning to the ground with my hand under my armpit.
Byrne came around the grave with the pickaxe poised above his shoulder, ready to strike. ‘Someone’s about to join the old lady down below,’ he shouted back to Adelola.
I tried to get up, tripped and started to shuffle away from him on my backside, keeping him in view.
‘There’s something here,’ boomed Adelola. ‘It’s in her hand…’
Byrne stopped in his tracks and returned to the side of the grave. ‘Give it up here,’ he barked. He squatted down to take the relic from Adelola. ‘Wow, what is this? Is this all of it? What the
hell is—’
Adelola surged up like a breaching whale, taking his sister’s killer with him. For a moment Byrne seemed to be floating above the open grave, his arms flapping like wings, his legs doing an agitated puppet-dance, a gurgling sound coming from his throat. He was impaled on the point of the crowbar.
‘No, Ben, stop – don’t!’ It came out as a croak. I stumbled towards Adelola in a desperate effort to prevent him from killing Byrne.
Using enormous strength, like a fisherman with a heavy catch on the other end of his gaff, Adelola leaned back against the end of the trench, keeping Byrne hoisted on the crowbar he had rammed into his throat.
I reached out and grabbed Adelola’s right arm – it was tensed hard as a steel girder. ‘Please…please don’t do this…’
Byrne began to whimper. His eyes were pleading for mercy.
Adelola took a deep breath and jerked the crowbar upwards once more. The moon caught the side of Byrne’s face and I could see the black spike emerging from his neck. He was beyond help. His limbs spasmed a few times more; then he was still. Adelola let go of the crowbar and Byrne’s body pitched into the grave.
I slumped into a sitting position with my back against the raised tomb.
Adelola heaved himself out of the trench. ‘I had to kill him, you see,’ he said, standing beside me. ‘His life for my sister’s.’
Something about him told me he wanted to talk. It was surreal, I knew, chatting by the side of an open grave with the killer of a man whose still-warm body was close by, but I had to go along with it – I had no idea what Ben Adelola’s state of mind was. I only knew my own was not at its best.
I shook my head. ‘How did it come to this? You… Terry…what were you thinking?’
‘Terry was always telling me about his efforts to cure himself, and how he would try anything. I asked him once if he had ever tried sex with a virgin, that where I came from men with Aids believed in it. He joked and said it would be foolish to take a woman’s word that she was one in the first place. I told him I could guarantee that my sister was a virgin, but it would cost him a lot of money to have intercourse with her. It was all part of the joke, for me, but Terry – he began to believe it, was giving me money, you see. And I was using that to pay off some of my own debt to Mr McAleavey.
The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery Page 29