Murder in Ballyhasset

by Noreen Mayer

  'But you never got a chance.' Is this the truth? Libby wondered. So Pamela was dead by the time Conor found the note.

  'I never thought she'd go ahead and kill herself,' Conor said, with a groan.

  A note doesn't mean she did, Libby thought. 'Do you have this note with you?' she asked.

  'Yeah, I have a copy here. The police have the original.' He fetched the note from his pocket and handed it over. The crumpled piece of paper was typed and signed. The signature Libby could not decipher.

  She read the note aloud,

  'Dear Conor,

  When you find this, I'll be dead. I visited my GP with tiredness and pain in my muscles a month ago. He referred me to a neurologist, and to cut a long story short, I have Multiple Sclerosis.

  I'm a coward, I can't face life with this illness, and I can't bear the pain. This is a painless way out, with a few sedatives and a watery death. This is better for me and for all of you.

  You told me you didn't want this baby. I'm so disappointed with you, now. I thought we would always be together.

  I'm so sorry,

  Pamela.'

  'Are you sure this is her signature?' Libby asked, with a frown. 'Why didn't she handwrite the whole lot?'

  Conor examined the signature. 'I can just about make out the word Pamela,' he said. 'Pamela never had good handwriting. It seems like her scrawl, all right, from what I remember.'

  'Did she often type things?'

  'No, I didn't even know she could type.'

  'Did she ever miss work?' Libby asked.

  'No.' He stared at Libby in confusion. 'I even searched Pamela's house for books on this disease yesterday.'

  'Did you find any?'

  'Yes, I found a spare bedroom with five books about Multiple Sclerosis under the bed.'

  'Just because she had a few books about it doesn't mean she had the disease,' Libby said. 'I mean she's a doctor and they read medical books all the time, I'd imagine.'

  'True,' he said, 'I never saw Pamela suffering any of these symptoms. In fact, she was always perfectly healthy.'

  'What do these books say about the symptoms?' she asked.

  'Wait, I have them here.' Conor went over to his bookshelf, which stood in the corner of the room. He picked out a thick textbook and opened it. He flicked through it, finally resting on one page.

  'Cramps, numbness, fatigue, tremors, difficulty with balance and walking,' he read. 'Bladder and bowel incontinence, and muscle paralysis. There can be mood swings, anxiety, depression and memory loss. A patient can present with one or several of these symptoms.'

  'Pretty depressing stuff,' Dawn said.

  'Is there any other reason why Pamela might be so preoccupied with MS, apart from having it herself?' Libby asked, frowning.

  'Her uncle died a few months ago from MS, she told me,' said Conor. 'Pamela became very upset afterwards, she often went to stay with this man and his wife in the summer when she was a teenager, she told me. He was only fifty when he died, and he left four young children.'

  Libby went back to Pamela's apartment above the newsagent shop. She used Conor's spare key and entered the front door on the ground floor. She climbed a narrow staircase and switched on a light. She found she was in the sitting room. The air smelt musty. She glanced around the room. She walked into the bedroom, over to the window, and then opened the curtains.

  She glanced through a pile of Pamela's papers in her bedroom desk drawers, hoping to find correspondence with a doctor, but she found nothing but old bills and photos. She searched the wardrobes in all the rooms, underneath the stairs, and in all the kitchen cupboards, for the typewriter that the young doctor had used, but found none.

  ***

  On Friday Libby drove to Glengariff to meet Pamela's mother. The house was a new bungalow, painted in white with well-tended small shrubs and a huge lawn. A white poodle came out to greet her, followed by a tall elegant white-haired woman dressed in green trousers, a heavy blue jumper and Wellington boots.

  'You look like you could do with a good cup of tea,' the woman said. Her cheekbones were high and her skin tanned. Her hazel eyes had fine lines at the corners.

  'You've said it,' Libby agreed, with a smile.

  They walked into the kitchen. Libby sat while the sun shone into the huge bay window. Mrs Kelly took off her muddy green gloves and switched on the kettle.

  'Mrs Kelly, I'd like to talk to you about Pamela's death. I'm trying to understand why she died. I realise you're in mourning after this terrible loss.'

  'The Garda just told me today she died from drowning,' said the older woman, in a flat voice. 'I can only think the tide swept her away.’

  'So you think...?' asked Libby.

  'I've stopped thinking. What on earth's the good of churning things over and over again in your mind for the umpteenth time?'

  'Did Pamela ever go walking on the beach?'

  'Yes, sometimes. Her apartment is just across the road from there.'

  Libby nodded. 'I visited her at home once, to talk to her about Dr Lynch's death.'

  'She often took a short walk there with me at the weekend,' said Mrs Kelly. 'We walked up as far as the harbour and back. Pamela never took long walks since she began that job in the hospital. She just never had the energy after all the work she had to do.' Mrs Kelly turned her back, searched through her cupboards and brought out a packet of biscuits. She placed some on a plate on the table. 'Sometimes Pamela worked nights on top of her normal day's work.'

  'So she was too exhausted to go walking,' said Libby.

  'That's right.' Mrs Kelly took out a packet of cigarettes. 'Do you mind if I smoke?'

  'No, go ahead,' she said.

  'I gave them up for three years.' Mrs Kelly sighed heavily. 'But since Pamela died, I've been chain-smoking.'

  Libby asked, 'Did Pamela complain about her job much?'

  Mrs Kelly shook her head. 'She loved it. Just the hours she found long.'

  'Any other work problems?' asked Libby.

  'She did say Dr Lynch, her boss, gave her a hard time.'

  'I know,' said Libby. 'Dr Lynch was the registrar. She's dead now.’ 'Strange business, her murder was. Pamela told me about it.'

  'Did Pamela worry about Kathleen's death, do you know?'

  'She was very upset, which I found ironic since she couldn't stand Kathleen Lynch.' Mrs Kelly tightened her lips. She then inhaled on the last bit of her cigarette with ferocity.

  'Well, she found Kathleen dead,' said Libby. 'This probably shocked her to the core.'

  'Poor Pamela.' Mrs Kelly woman groaned, stubbing out her cigarette in the full ashtray. 'She was always a little worrier.'

  'Do you know Conor well?'

  'Yes, I've known him for years. They met when she was in her first year at Cork University.' Mrs Kelly sank into the chair.

  'Do you like him?' Libby asked sharply.

  The woman pursed her lips. 'Conor's a wimp. I told Pamela several times he was no good.'

  'She didn't listen to you, obviously,' said Libby, with a little smile.

  Mrs Kelly shook her head. 'No, she worshipped him.'

  Libby asked her about illnesses and Mrs Kelly shook her head.

  'Was Pamela depressed at all, lately?'

  'Not at all. Why are you asking me this?' Pamela's mother glared at Libby, folding her arms. 'You think she killed herself, is that it?'

  'No, I'm asking you if she behaved any differently, before she died.'

  'What kind of a question is that to ask a mother?' Mrs Kelly got up from her chair and walked over to the window, her back to them. 'I noticed no symptoms of depression. She was just the usual Pamela.'

  'Conor found a note.'

  The older woman whipped her head around. 'A note?'

  'The note is supposedly from your daughter,' Libby said, hesitating. 'It says she had Multiple Sclerosis.'

  Mrs Kelly's eyes opened wide. 'What? MS? I never heard such rubbish. I want to see this note.'

  'Conor has a c
opy,' said Libby. 'You'll have to ask him.'

  'How do you know Pamela wrote it?'

  'I don't. Someone typed the note, and Pamela signed it, apparently. But Conor isn't even certain it's her signature at the bottom.'

  'But this means someone killed her! If it's a fake. But...even if the note is genuine, it gives Pamela a reason for committing suicide.' Mrs Kelly's face brightened. 'Nothing's going to bring poor Pamela back. But, strangely enough I feel better now.' She paused. 'I mean, Pamela was either very ill or she was murdered. I don't have to feel that I've neglected her. Thank you, Libby, for telling me about this.'

  Libby looked embarrassed. 'I'm sorry I don't know more. The note is real enough, that's all I know for definite.'

  Libby asked quietly, 'Were you aware of her pregnancy?'

  'What? Pamela was pregnant? This can't be true.' The woman's shoulders sank as she stared at Libby in consternation.

  'The pathologist says she was, six weeks pregnant.'

  'We never knew, she didn't tell us. On top of everything, a grandchild - gone.' Pamela's mother started to weep silently; the tears dropping from her cheeks. She brushed them away angrily and stood up. 'I want you to go now. I want to be alone.'

  'Pamela didn't get a chance to tell you everything.' Libby said, her face flushed with sorrow and pity. She rose from her chair and went towards the doorway. 'I'm sure she would have, Mrs Kelly.'

  'My only child dead. This was not supposed to happen. I was meant to die before her.'

  Libby looked at her and silently agreed. Children weren't meant to die before their parents. She left the house and quietly shut the front door. If anything like this happened to my son I don't know what I'd do. I just couldn't bear it, she thought.

  ***

  Afterwards she and Dawn had a drink. Libby said she needed it badly after her encounter with Pamela's mother. The two women sat drinking pints of Guinness silently in the corner of the Green Lemon.

  Libby thought Dawn looked unusually pale and tired. 'Tell me what you're thinking.'

  'Something that scares me.'

  'What?'

  Dawn frowned. 'I think Pamela may have been murdered. If she was, there was cold brutal calculation in the planning of her death. The way the killer met her and drowned her to make it look like a suicide, and left a carefully thought out suicide note. Mentioning a chronic illness to give the poor girl a reason for suicide. We can find no motive for what he did. I mean what harm did Pamela do to anyone?'

  'Unless she saw something she wasn't meant to see,' said Libby.

  Chapter 1

  8

  On Monday afternoon, Libby arrived at the offices of Cork County Council, located on the Carrigohane Road, after she ate a hasty lunch. After asking a ground floor receptionist for directions, she took the lift to Mr Doody's office on the second floor.

  His private secretary looked up from her typewriter as Libby entered. Libby explained she had an appointment, and the young girl showed her into a waiting area.

  From the bay window, Libby could see cars humming by on the street below her. She scrutinised the many images hanging on the walls, noting several pictures of a woman wearing a cap and gown and holding a degree certificate. It was Mick's dead wife Kathleen, she saw. Kathleen's narrow pretty face held a triumphant expression. She seemed very pleased with her degree, brandishing it up close to her chest.

  Mick Doody came out to greet her. After showing her into his private office, he asked her to sit down opposite him.

  'Has the council sold part of Seapoint Promenade?' Libby asked, as she faced him across his enormous desk.

  'We haven't yet,' he replied, in a confident voice, 'but we will.'

  'You don't have to sell that site,' said Libby, with a scowl. 'Surely you can find somewhere else to build houses. Look at all the land around Ballyhasset.' She leaned forward and glared at Mr Doody. 'It's not like we're in the heart of Dublin. I can understand why they build apartments. Land is scarce up there and there's a huge population. We've only got three thousand people down here in Ballyhasset, for crying out loud.'

  He gazed at her in surprise. 'You have a point, I suppose. I hear some of the bar owners are angry about this.'

  'They don't want apartments spoiling the view,' said Libby, in a heated voice. 'Especially the bars on Seapoint Avenue, they're the ones who fear this development the most.'

  Mick scratched his chin. 'I suppose I can understand their point... maybe.'

  'Yeah, Nuala Sullivan's got a lot of signatures against it. She wants to get a few more.'

  'No doubt I'll be seeing that list shortly.' Mick Doody shrugged. 'Never thought people would get so heated about such a small promenade.' He looked at her thoughtfully, with a faint grin.

  'We depend on our town's beauty to attract visitors, you know,' added Libby.

  His face brightened. 'That's right. Ballyhasset is the most beautiful town in Ireland.'

  Libby smiled. 'You can understand why the hotel owners don't want to lose that fantastic view.'

  'We won the Tidy Towns competition two years on the trot,' he said with a grin. 'We beat Clonakilty twice.'

  She tapped the desk lightly with her finger for emphasis. 'That just proves my point.'

  The planning officer hesitated. 'You know we can change our mind yet. We may have to, I suppose.'

  'I think you should.'

  'Do you want to see the plans anyway?' he asked. 'The builder's architect sent them into us.'

  Libby said without enthusiasm, 'If you have them.'

  He rummaged through the cabinets and brought out a folded plan of the proposed development. He spread the drawings on the table in front of Libby. She noted there were new shops to go beside the new apartments.

  'This is what it will be like when it's finished,' Mr Doody said, pointing to the images.

  She grimaced, thinking the buildings looked horrendous. 'Very modern.'

  The planning officer eagerly agreed with her. 'I thought so. It's the way forward for our town - more shops.'

  'Don't you think we've got enough shops in Ballyhasset?' Libby asked.

  'These are designer shops,' he answered, glancing at her sceptical expression. 'Still not convinced?'

  'Not at all,' she said.

  He grinned. 'Don't worry, they're just ideas, nothing has been set in stone.'

  'I hope so,' she said.

  He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. 'Now to more urgent matters. How are you getting on with your investigation of Kathleen's murder?'

  Libby said awkwardly, 'I've reached a dead end. Anyone could have broken into the hospital. But why did they kill her? Nothing was stolen, and she wasn't raped.'

  Mick flinched at her bald statement, and she felt a flicker of remorse for her crassness. Racking her brain for ideas she asked, 'Did Kathleen mention any of the male doctors to you, the ones she worked with?'

  He hesitated. 'Yeah, she mentioned Shane Collins, he worked with her. She met him a few times in the pub on Friday nights.'

  'Without you?' she asked.

  'Yes, I didn't bother going. I knew what they were at.'

  Libby raised her eyebrows. 'What was that?'

  Mick's voice was quiet. 'She bought drugs off him. Cocaine.'

  Libby's eyes flashed in annoyance. 'You might have mentioned this before. I've been going around in circles.' She stopped for an instant. 'At least I can focus on Shane now.'

  Mick responded dully. 'Sorry, I was hoping I could keep that quiet, protect her reputation.'

  'I don't mean to be cruel, but she's dead, you can't harm her now. You want to find her killer, don't you?'

  'Of course I do,' he replied. 'That's why I hired you.'

  'Dr Shane Collins slept with Kathleen,' continued Libby. 'I asked you about this before. Shane admitted to us that they had a one-night stand.'

  Mick snorted. 'Well, so what? Obviously, she didn't consider the affair important. She never mentioned it to me.'

  'So you weren't jealou
s?'

  Mick glared at Libby. 'I didn't know about this affair, how could I be jealous? I only know she bought drugs from him.' He got off the chair, went to his office door and opened it.

  'I want you to go now, Ms Hargrove, I'm busy.'

  She stood up, but remained where she was. 'Are the police hounding you still?'

  'No, they've stopped following me. They did it for a week. Two policemen in plain clothes, driving a silver car, followed me everywhere I went, for a while.'

  'Did you ever manage to find the boarding pass for that flight on Tuesday May the 23rd?' Libby asked. 'The one you lost.'

  'I did. It's dated for the Tuesday, which means I was still on the plane at two in the morning when Kathleen died. And I found a taxi receipt for that Tuesday morning.' Mr Doody gazed at her in triumph. 'I handed them into the police.'

  'That's great news for you. I always knew you never killed her.' Libby smiled and then left his office, relieved to hear that the police had stopped hounding him.

  After all, he was still her client and he always appeared to have been genuinely fond of his wife. She felt responsible for his welfare, and hoped to clear his name. He had suffered enough in losing his wife without being blamed in the wrong for her death as well.

  Chapter 19

  Libby attended Pamela's funeral in St Jude's Church in Ballyhasset. The church stood on a short road just off High Street. Pamela's family originally had planned a small private service. However, in the days before the funeral, Mrs Kelly had received many phone calls and cards of condolence. Pamela had many friends and colleagues who insisted on saying their last goodbyes in a church.

  Libby waited with Dawn and Gina outside the front door of the church. The rain lashed down on them while they stood getting drenched, having foolishly forgotten their umbrellas.

  Arriving in the black funeral car were Pamela's parents. Conor got out of the car slowly after them, with an awkward gait, as if he was drunk or sedated. He was dressed in an ill-fitting black suit whose trouser legs were too short and showed his white socks. His eyes were bloodshot, Libby noticed, as he came over to thank her for coming.