Andrew Gallagher was indeed still living in Shanamore after all this time. And working here too, managing the holiday homes they’d built on his family’s land.
‘Strange boy,’ the priest had said of the man who was only a couple of years older than Seanie. ‘But he’s a lot on his plate, God love him. The mother’s in a home near Cloyne now, doesn’t know if she’s coming or going.’
As Seanie headed up to the road to the complex now, he saw a small silver car pulling out of it. He was getting ready to hail the driver, thinking it was Andrew himself, when he saw the D-reg on the licence plate and then, as the car drew closer, the long head of hair behind the wheel.
A woman.
Seanie didn’t recognise her. He assumed she was a guest.
The complex itself was deserted. Seanie parked the car outside Andrew’s own cottage and went to ring its bell, but pushing the button didn’t make any sound that he could hear.
He knocked, waited.
Knocked again.
The door opened then and there he was: Andrew Gallagher. Dressed in old flannel pyjamas pants and a creased white T-shirt gone pale yellow at the neck, hair hanging in front of his eyes. He barely looked a day older than he had at eighteen. Just paler. More tired.
He was squinting at Seanie. ‘Y – yes?’
Seanie flashed his ID, as if the uniform and car weren’t enough of a clue.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Andrew, isn’t it?’
Andrew’s eyes flicked to the Garda car. Seanie had intentionally parked it across the end of his drive, blocking his car in.
‘Yes …’ he said hesitantly. ‘Is, ah, everything all right?’
‘It will be soon. Mind if I come in?’
Panic crossed Andrew’s face. ‘Well, actually, you s—’
‘Won’t take long,’ Seanie said, moving to step inside, forcing Andrew to open the door fully and step back to let him in.
The ground floor of the house was one big open space. It was dark; Andrew had nearly all the curtains closed. The only daylight was weak and coming from a window at the very rear of the house. And the place was a state. Things were discarded on every available surface – clothes, magazines, shopping bags – and the air smelled of stale food and, faintly, body odour.
‘Please excuse the mess,’ Andrew said. ‘I haven’t been well.’
‘I’m living in a house full of cardboard boxes at the moment, mate. You’re grand.’
That was a lie. He and Imelda had used half of their summer holiday time to make the move, working steadily for a week to unpack every last thing and find a home for it. The exterior of their new home may say, Body of elderly woman lay undiscovered for weeks, but inside, it was neat and tidy.
‘You’re, ah, our new one, right?’ Andrew said. He was leaning his back now against the closed front door. ‘I keep meaning to call into the station and introduce myself but, ah, you know how it is. Time just gets away from you.’
Seanie thought of the silent desolation outside and wondered what could possibly be taking up Andrew’s time.
‘Actually,’ Seanie said, ‘we’ve met before.’
Andrew frowned. ‘Have we?’
‘I used to come here. In the summers. Years ago.’
‘I can’t say …’ He was studying Seanie’s face. ‘I don’t think I remember you. Did we know each other?’
Seanie let a beat pass.
‘No, not really,’ he said then. ‘I just saw you around.’
‘Oh.’
Andrew suddenly seemed to realise how dark it was and flicked the switch for the ceiling light. It only served to illuminate more mess and add a few years to his own face; now, Seanie could see that creases and shadows had indeed aged Andrew Gallagher since he’d seen him last.
‘You have any guests?’ Seanie asked. ‘I saw someone drive out just now.’
‘Just her.’
‘She’s on her own?’
‘She is,’ Andrew said, nodding. ‘So … What’s this about?’
Seanie lowered himself on to the nearest arm of the sofa and took his notebook from his pocket.
‘Do you, by any chance, remember a guest of yours named Michael Kerr? Dublin address. He’d have stayed here a couple of weeks ago.’
Andrew scrunched up his face, as if searching his brain for the answer.
‘I got a call,’ Seanie continued, ‘about a credit card charge. For’ – he read from his notes – ‘€632.41 on the twenty-fourth of October. Would’ve been a Wednesday, but that’s just the day of the charge, of course. He could’ve arrived before that. Do you remember that guest?’
Andrew blinked rapidly.
‘I didn’t have anyone here that week,’ he said. ‘And I don’t recognise the name. And that’s a lot of money for here, you’d have to stay ages to rack up that. Maybe as long as nine or ten days, this time of the year. It’s not like I’d forget that. People rarely stay more than a week, even in the summer. So I’d remember.’
‘So, no?’ Seanie said.
‘Yes. I mean, no. No, I don’t remember.’
‘How about a Natalie Kerr?’
Again, Andrew made a show of thinking about it.
‘No. No, I don’t think so.’
‘She might have used the name Natalie O’Connor?’
‘Like I said, I didn’t have anyone here the week before last, so …’ Andrew held up his hands. ‘No. Sorry.’
‘Can you think of any reason why there’d be a charge on someone’s card if they didn’t stay here? Could it be a pre-authorisation? Something like that? Do you enter the numbers manually? Could you have made an error?’
‘We don’t pre-authorise,’ Andrew said. ‘And I’m very careful.’
‘“We”? Does someone else work here with you?’
‘Oh.’ Andrew smiled. ‘No, no. It’s just a figure of speech.’
‘We all make mistakes from time to time. You could’ve done it without realising.’
‘I’d have noticed it by now. And, like I said’ – Andrew was getting louder, his tone becoming defensive – ‘I didn’t put through any charge for that amount.’
Seanie looked around. ‘Where’s the terminal?’
Andrew pointed to a small console table tucked against the wall behind the door. Seanie could see a handheld credit card machine sitting there amid a mess of paper.
‘Does anyone have access to that other than you?’ Seanie asked. ‘Family? Friends? Other guests, maybe?’
‘No.’
‘But it’s right there. Out in the open.’
‘I’m the only one here.’
‘You’re saying you never have visitors?’
A shadow crossed Andrew’s face. ‘There’s been no one here in the last two weeks,’ he said tightly. ‘Not inside the house.’
‘No one at all?’
‘No one at all. Not without me being here too.’
‘Well, wait a second now.’ Seanie stood up, took a step closer to Andrew. They were the same height but Seanie knew from experience that for some people, the Garda uniform added a couple of inches at least. He hoped Andrew was one of those. ‘There was no one here except you, or there was no one here without you? Which is it?’
Andrew looked Seanie right in the eye. It was for the first time: he’d been having a conversation with Seanie’s chest, shoulder and boots up until now.
Then he said, ‘What’s the merchant ID number on this transaction? Have you confirmed it’s mine?’
‘It says Shanamore Cottages on the statement.’ Seanie wasn’t sure it did; he was just assuming that, based on what DS O’Reilly had told him.
‘So?’ Andrew’s tone was turning petulant. ‘That could be another Shanamore Cottages. Anywhere in the world.’
‘The charge was in euro.’
‘All charges are in the currency of the bank account they go out of,’ Andrew snapped back. ‘Have you seen the statement yourself? Did you check to see if this transaction was accompanied by a foreign curre
ncy exchange? Have you actually confirmed that it originated in euro?’
Seanie suddenly had the feeling he’d been pushed on to the back foot in this conversation and what was weird was that he couldn’t quite identify when it had happened.
He pointed at the machine. ‘You can print reports, can’t you?’
‘Not for you.’
‘Excuse me?’
Andrew seemed to realise then that being excessively antagonistic with a Garda sergeant might not be the best course of action and his face softened into an apologetic smile.
‘I mean,’ he said, ‘not without a warrant. Data protection and all that. You understand.’
‘Of course.’ Seanie smiled too. ‘Just one more thing.’ He pulled one of the printouts from between the pages of his notebook – the wedding photo – and unfolded it. ‘Maybe you’d recognise him if you saw him.’ He handed the sheet to Andrew. ‘That’s him there. Michael Kerr.’
Andrew took it and started studying the picture. ‘Is that his wife?’
‘Yes. Natalie.’ Seanie unfolded the press release and handed him that too. ‘She’s missing.’
A long beat of silence followed while Andrew studied the pages, holding both of them up, close to his face, his eyes darting from one to the other.
Then he said, ‘No,’ and handed both of them back.
‘No, you don’t recognise him?’
‘No.’
‘Or her?’
Andrew shook his head.
‘Well,’ Seanie said, ‘thanks for your help. I suppose we’ll have to check the merchant ID. I’ll be back if it’s yours.’
Andrew didn’t respond.
Seanie let himself out and walked to his car without looking back.
He was dialling DS O’Reilly’s number before he even had the key in the ignition, even though he knew he’d be halfway back to the village before he got reception on his phone.
Because Seanie had seen Andrew’s hands shaking. When he’d taken hold of the printouts, they’d fluttered as if in a breeze.
Andrew was lying.
Again.
Last time, Seanie let him get away with it. Back then, he’d had no choice. But now Seanie was Shanamore’s Garda sergeant, and he sure as shit wasn’t going to let it happen twice.
_________
He didn’t get reception until he was all the way back in the village, and then he got O’Reilly’s voicemail. Seanie left a message asking the DS to call him back, anticipating that he would within minutes. But an hour passed. Seanie tried the number again, from the station, and again got a voicemail. He called the Control Room and got transferred to Blackrock, but a member there said O’Reilly was out and suggested he try his mobile. Seanie did, again, but there was no answer. He left a second, more detailed voicemail this time, explaining his suspicion that Andrew Gallagher knew something, potentially about Natalie O’Connor’s disappearance, but, at the very least, about that credit card charge, and requesting that O’Reilly touch base with him as soon as possible so they could discuss next steps. By lunchtime, Seanie’s phone still hadn’t rung and his stomach was growling, the hunger pangs the only thing distracting him more than the lack of a call back.
His options were to go next door and make himself something, cross the road to the petrol station and buy a soggy sandwich or go into the pub and get something hot. It was cold and it was grey, so Seanie opted for Door Number Three. He locked up the station and walked down into the village, his phone clutched in his hand with the volume turned all the way up.
Walking into Murphy’s was like moving through a portal to another world, another Ireland, an older Ireland. Or channel-surfing on to an episode of Reeling in the Years where a few weather-beaten ould fellas were clutching pints of the black stuff and rolling their eyes about the changeover to the decimal system or the introduction of drink-driving laws. It was tiny inside, claustrophobic when it was busy, with only four or five tables outside of the snug and the stools at the bar. There was a TV but it was a small, crappy one with a built-in VHS machine, only turned on for GAA fixtures and, should any blow-in or tourist make the mistake of saying Sky Sports or soccer to Peggy Murphy, the pub’s third-generation proprietor, they’d be lucky not to get a pint glass of left-behind beer and saliva-swill in the face. If you asked for coffee, you got a still-dissolving cup of Nescafé Gold Blend. If you asked for a cocktail, you’d be pointed in the direction of the nearest farm. There were only ever three things on the food menu – stew, soup and sandwiches – and Peggy only served them between noon and three o’clock with absolutely no exceptions. She made one allowance for the modern world, and only because she had no choice but to: the smoking ban had been reluctantly and somewhat loosely implemented. On more than one occasion, Seanie had come through the doors only to be met with the stale, sour stench of cigarette smoke, and caught Peggy furiously spraying air freshener around behind the counter, muttering that the flue must be clogged up again or something.
‘Or something,’ Seanie would say with a smirk. ‘Yeah ...’
A glass of Club Orange would then materialise on the counter and Peggy would tell him, ‘On me today, Seanie,’ and neither of them would say another word.
He knew to pick his battles.
Murphy’s was unusually quiet this lunchtime. There was only Jimmy Sutton, who had the farm just beyond the petrol station, sitting in the far corner with a newspaper and two-thirds of a pint. He looked up as Seanie came in and they exchanged a silent nod. And there was Father McCarthy, sitting in the snug, tucking into a bowl of steaming stew. When he saw Seanie he put down his spoon and moved to get up, but Seanie raised a hand and told him to stay where he was, to enjoy his lunch, and wasn’t it fierce cold out there today, because no conversation could conclude until someone made a comment on the weather.
There were a couple of hefty logs in amongst the flames of the fire and just the sound of them cracking and spitting made Seanie feel better. He’d light a fire at home tonight, he decided. Fires felt like company.
He took a stool at the bar and put his phone down face-up on the counter, checking the screen for any missed call notifications. There were none. When Peggy emerged from the back, he ordered a bowl of stew while she poured him his Club Orange without asking if he wanted it. It was safe to assume he did. He never ordered anything else in here, not even when he was off-duty.
‘Heard you were up at the cottages this morning,’ Peggy said. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Jesus.’ Seanie shook his head. ‘That’s some going, even for you.’
Peggy cackled. ‘You were seen, Seanie boy. That car of yours isn’t exactly camouflage.’
‘By who?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t be saying.’
‘Well, I can’t be saying either.’
She looked at him, waiting.
‘I’m starving here, Peggy.’
‘Are you now?’
She didn’t move.
‘Fine,’ Seanie said, relenting. ‘Everything’s fine.’
‘Did you see young Andrew?’
‘You do know he’s older than me, right?’
‘Sure you’re only a young fella yourself.’
‘I wish I was.’
But Peggy wouldn’t be deterred. She folded her arms across her ample chest and looked at him expectantly.
‘It was just a routine visit, okay, Peg? Nothing to worry about.’
‘But I do worry about him. You know about his mother, don’t you? Mrs Gallagher. God love her, she’s in a home over in Cloyne. Doesn’t even know her own son from Adam.’
Seanie let a respectful moment of silence pass before he said, ‘I’d really love some stew.’
‘You’re telling me to mind my own business, is it?’
‘I’m telling you everything’s fine up at the cottages and that the hunger is making me faint.’
Peggy tut-tutted. ‘God almighty. I can’t let you starve, I suppose. Not when you’re already such a skinny little thing. And when th
ere’s no one to look after you but me.’ She gave his arm a friendly pinch before she disappeared into the back.
Seanie checked his email, just in case O’Reilly had responded to him that way. Nothing. He opened the internet browser and searched for Natalie O’Connor Kerr. Three news stories popped up. There was the one he’d already seen, the one from last night, and two new ones that had been published in the last hour. Both of their headlines shouted that Mike Kerr, the husband, had posted a video online begging his wife to come home. There was a link to the video but Seanie didn’t want to click on it while sitting at the bar in Murphy’s. He may as well project his phone’s screen on to the side wall of the church, set up a few rows of chairs and sell tickets.
He put the phone back on the counter, then picked it up again to check the volume was on. It was.
What was O’Reilly doing?
A gust of cold air on the back of Seanie’s legs told him someone else had entered the pub. When he half-turned on his stool, he saw Orla Sheridan, the girl who worked in the café across the way and daughter of Peter who owned the petrol station, coming towards him.
‘You got a minute, Sean – Sergeant?’ The girl was holding her hands in front of her, fingers twitching, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Nervous.
‘Yeah,’ Seanie said, indicating the stool next to his. ‘Have a seat.’
‘Oh, I’m not staying. I’m just on a break. I wanted to tell you something. It’s about the woman—’
‘Here you go, love.’ Peggy had finally reappeared, carrying a bowl of stew. She frowned at Orla before setting the bowl down in front of Seanie, along with cutlery wrapped in a scratchy paper napkin. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine,’ Seanie told her. ‘It’s fine.’
Orla said hi to Peggy, asked her how she was.
‘Fine. You?’
‘Fine.’
‘Well’ – Peggy snapped the towel she’d held Seanie’s bowl with over her shoulder – ‘isn’t it great we’re all so fine.’ To Seanie: ‘Enjoy your stew, love.’
She turned on her heel and disappeared into the back again.
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