The box grave was roughly three feet high, three feet wide and about five feet long and was covered with the bulk of the dead man. Looking at the position of the body, West surmised the man had been sitting on the end of the grave and was either pushed or had fallen back. His right arm extended out at an acute angle from the body, the hand drooping downward, purple with congested blood. A dark red puddle had congealed on the cold stone surface of the grave around the body and stalactites of red hung from the edges.
The man’s face was turned towards him, eyes open, turning milky in death. West looked closely at the face, trying to ignore the flies that were crawling over it, but it didn’t appear to be one of the many that were known to Foxrock station. Turning to look at Andrews, he watched him shake his head at the unasked question, he didn’t know him either.
With a final look at the man and the surrounding area, they headed back to join Morgan at the gate. ‘You didn’t recognise him, did you?’ He wasn’t surprised at the quick no. Life was never that easy.
West looked at the house just visible through the trees. ‘I’ll go and have a word with the woman who phoned in. See if she has anything to add. What’s her name?’
‘Edel Johnson,’ Morgan said.
‘Johnson, Edel Johnson,’ West repeated, puzzlement creasing his brow. He knew that name from somewhere. He turned to Andrews, who he knew remembered every detail, every name, making him a godsend as a partner. ‘That name rings a bell but I can’t remember why?’ He could almost see the wheels of the other man’s mind spin.
‘Married to Simon Johnson, the man who went missing three months ago,’ Andrews replied, almost without hesitation. ‘Sergeant Clark was handling the case. If I remember correctly, the bloke got on a train in Belfast with his missus, went to get a coffee and never came back. As far as I know, there have been no sightings of him since but no suspicion of foul play either.’
West looked at the house and then back towards the body. ‘Her husband vanished three months ago and now she just happens to find a dead body, she’s not having much luck, is she? What’s your impression of her, Joe?’
‘A very thin, unhealthy-looking woman. Greasy, uncombed hair, dark shadows under dull, lifeless eyes. Dirty clothes, smells like she hasn’t washed in a while,’ Garda Morgan quickly offered, then added, ‘I suppose it could be grief and stress, if what you say is true. Can’t be easy, her husband disappearing like that.’
‘Since you’ve already met her, it’s best if you come along with me, Joe. Pete, I’ll leave you to fill in the Garda Technical Bureau when they arrive. Duffy should have sent some uniformed gardaí too, if they don’t turn up…’
‘I’ll give Blunt a shout,’ Andrews said, referring to the Foxrock station’s very efficient desk sergeant, ‘he’ll organise things faster.’
West took a final look back at the crime scene. Something told him this wasn’t going to be a simple case. He stripped off his paper suit and dumped it and his gloves in a bag in the boot of the car for disposal, and with a nod at Morgan they headed to the house.
The woman who opened the door was certainly unkempt, greasy hair hiding her face as she dabbed ineffectually at fresh stains on an already grubby sweatshirt. West knew enough about women’s fashion to know she was wearing pyjama bottoms and not a new trend in trousers, the pattern of ducks and rabbits a definite giveaway. She was muttering under her breath as she opened the door and West’s first thought was that Garda Morgan had missed telling them that she was mentally unstable.
He addressed her gently by name and she lifted her face. There were tears in her eyes but just as he was about to apologise for interrupting her, she snapped, ‘Did you have to ring the bell so hard? Once would have been enough. Look what you made me do.’ She continued rubbing her sweatshirt with what looked like a more than disreputable towel, and made no effort to invite them in.
He quickly regained his stride and, showing his identification said, less gently, ‘My name is Sergeant West. May we come in, Mrs Johnson?’
She neither looked at the identification nor acknowledged his introduction but turned abruptly and headed back into the house. The two men, after a glance at each other and a shrug from Morgan, followed her into the kitchen.
West looked around. Despite the dirt and general untidiness, it was a nice room and would be a cosy place to sit. A large oak table of many years sat in the centre of the room surrounded by four unmatched chairs. Opposite the doorway, a large sash window allowed light to stream in, catching the dust motes in the air and on every surface in the room. A number of cups, mugs and other containers sat on every surface, holding liquid in various stages of fungal growth.
He watched the woman as she picked up the kettle and filled it.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked, switching the kettle on. A flush of colour flooded her cheeks as she looked for mugs. She removed two from the table, emptying the contents into the sink with an audible glug. A sour smell briefly wafted toward the two men, their noses crinkling automatically in response. She seemed oblivious but both men were glad to see she washed the mugs thoroughly before shaking them dry and spooning in some instant coffee. ‘Please’ – she turned her head and looked at the men properly for the first time – ‘sit down. I’ll just be a sec.’
Neither man sat, all the chairs, apart from the one she had been using, were piled high with papers and clothes, some clean and some, West noticed with a critical eye, not.
She turned with the mugs in her hand, blushing slightly to see them standing. She put the mugs down, quickly scooped the clothes up and pushed them, willy-nilly, into a cupboard. The papers she shoved onto the floor without ceremony. ‘There you go,’ she said, sitting and pushing the coffees toward them, and nodding to the milk. ‘It’s fresh. I got it this morning. I brought the bag back with me when I went out with you.’ She looked at Morgan who stared blankly back at her before glancing at West in some embarrassment.
Edel, aware at the same time that perhaps it wasn’t the thing to have done, addressed the sergeant herself. ‘That was okay, wasn’t it? Perhaps I should have left it there, I’m afraid I didn’t think…’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Johnson. It’s not a problem,’ West assured her. He added his milk and watched her for a moment while he slowly stirred his coffee. She was a mess, but why? Grief, he knew, could quickly transform people into ghosts of the person they had been. He had seen it all too often, that inability to overcome the sadness and despair of loss, the way it consumed relentlessly.
He had believed that the not knowing involved in missing persons must be the most difficult part, but the mother of a missing child he had sat with earlier in his career had argued otherwise. She had said, that however bad the not knowing was, the certainty of death was far worse. The not knowing, she had explained as he had waited with her while gardaí had combed the area for her blond, curly-haired, four-year-old son, meant there was always an element of hope. The discovery of her dead child in a neighbour’s ornamental fishpond had wiped out all hope, all belief in a happy ending, plunging her into the cold, hopeless certainty of death.
But her ordeal had lasted only two days. West examined Edel’s worn, pale face. Simon Johnson was missing for three months – that’s a lot of stressful days and nights. He felt a flash of sympathy for her.
Sipping his coffee, he waited, watching as she added sugar to her own and stirred slowly. She put her mug down with steady hands and sat back looking directly at him and, for the first time, he could see elements of the beautiful woman she must have been, before grief had done its worst, painting grey shadows, etching lines, removing light and vitality. He put his mug on the table. ‘I know you told Garda Morgan earlier,’ he started quietly, his voice low and gentle, ‘but can you tell me again, from the beginning, what happened this morning.’ He watched her closely as she hesitated, started, stopped, hesitated again and then told her tale. She took her time with the telling, he noted, closing her eyes now and then, as if to confirm
that what she was telling them, was what had happened.
She finished on a sigh and then, after an audible intake of breath, she added, ‘There was so much blood. And the noise. I think I’ll hear the noise for a long time.’ She lifted her mug and, this time her hands shook, and the mug clinked against her teeth as she took a long drink of the cooling coffee.
‘It’s not something you ever get used to, I’m afraid,’ West admitted. ‘People think they know what it’s like from television but the reality, as you have discovered, is much different. Perhaps you should talk to someone,’ he suggested, ‘there are a number of very good counsellors who do work for us when needed.’ He ignored the emphatic shake of her head and reached for his wallet, quickly removing a card and placing it on the table in front of her. ‘In case you do need to talk to someone, give them a call.’
Edel ignored the card and stared at him coldly, arms now crossed tightly, defensive.
West could never understand why people refused to avail themselves of professional help when necessary. Why was there such a resistance to seeing a counsellor? His mother insisted it was still regarded as self-indulgent nonsense that only Americans resorted to. He never argued with his mother. He didn’t have enough time to win. Nevertheless, he had made use of a counsellor when he had needed to, and knew the benefit.
He regarded the tight, cold face before him. He didn’t think this woman would take the opportunity. ‘I just have a couple of questions and then we’ll be on our way,’ he said, getting back on track. He hesitated a moment, thinking about the morning’s chain of events, trying to get them arranged neatly in his head, looking for a sense of order in the chaos. ‘You went through the church gate on your way to the supermarket. Are you certain the gate was locked?’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ she said clearly without hesitation, her voice firm again.
‘And you locked it again after you had gone through?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I always do.’
West paused, thinking about the gate and the position of the body. ‘And you didn’t notice anything unusual on your way to the shop?’
She echoed his pause, and then stumbled over her reply as she wondered how she’d not seen the body on the way through, when it lay not fifteen yards from the path. ‘N… no, I’d… didn’t notice anything. I wasn’t really awake, I suppose. I’ve had a lot on my mind and was in a bit of a daze, just looking straight ahead.’
‘And on your way back, you happened to look over that direction?’ he queried, watching her face intently, seeing myriad expressions flitting across, confusion turning on a spin to indignation.
‘No, that’s not what happened,’ she answered, annoyance flashing in her eyes. She stood abruptly, looking down on him in obvious frustration. ‘I didn’t happen to look over. I dropped the padlock and the chain. It’s an awkward system and I was being particularly clumsy this morning. I don’t normally drop them. When I bent to pick them up, I turned that way. I didn’t know what I was seeing, really.’ She turned and walked to the window and stood looking out. When she spoke again, her voice was thick with unshed tears. ‘Sometimes people leave rubbish in the graveyard, plastic bags and things. I remember being cross that people would dump such a big bag of rubbish. I don’t think I wanted to believe what I was seeing, really.’
She looked over her shoulder at the two men, her eyes shimmering with tears. ‘I don’t know why I walked over. I don’t even remember doing so; it was all a bit of a daze really. Then when I got a little closer…’ She shut her eyes as she struggled with the memory. ‘I knew it wasn’t rubbish. A body… I knew he was dead; there was so much blood and that awful…’ she gulped, ‘that awful smell. I still couldn’t believe what I was seeing, you know, it seemed so bizarre. Then I saw a fly crawl into his open mouth.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s not the kind of thing that’s supposed to happen in real life, is it?’
‘Did you recognise him?’ West continued, ignoring her obvious distress at the memory.
Her eyes opening wide, she gasped. ‘Recognise him? No, of course I didn’t,’ she began, and then stopped and frowned. ‘Actually,’ she admitted, ‘I don’t know; I was so stunned by the whole scene. Once I saw he was dead, I backed away, and then, when I returned with Garda Morgan, I didn’t go near him at all.’
But his face was turned toward her, and she got close enough to see a fly crawl into his mouth. Even without seeing a full face most people would recognise someone they knew. He let it go for the moment.
He changed tack. ‘You have a key to the gate. How does that work?’
‘Oh, there are lots of them, I’m afraid. Everyone on this road has one; it comes with the house, something to do with the right of way. Then…’ she counted on her fingers, ‘… the council have one so they can get their machinery in to cut the grass and hedges; the church has one or two; the volunteers who clean the church have one that they share, and the bell ringers have one. And, of course,’ she shrugged, ‘there may be others that I don’t know about. We’ve only lived here about eight months.’
West nodded and glanced at Morgan. ‘I think that’s about it, Mrs Johnson. You have been very helpful.’ He stood, and taking a business card from his inside pocket, gave it to her.
‘Sometimes people think of things later that they wished they had told us. Please ring me if you think of anything.’
She looked at it for a moment then, looking at him, said sharply, ‘I have told you everything, Sergeant West.’
‘Keep it anyway. Just in case.’
He made his departure, feeling her eyes following him. Back outside, he was pleased to see a hive of industry. In the fifteen minutes he’d been in the quiet of the house, the Garda Technical Bureau had arrived and were already at work; he also recognised the state pathologist’s car. Things could move along.
He pulled on a fresh crime scene outfit, ignored the breathless reporter who had rushed up from the office of the small local newspaper when he had been tipped off about strange goings-on in the graveyard, and left Morgan with the two gardaí who were posted at the church gate.
There was now a taped pathway to the crime scene and on either side of it, he noted with satisfaction, technical bureau officers were already searching.
He joined Andrews, who was dispatching the last of the reinforcements. ‘All sorted?’ he asked, knowing the answer would be a yes, Andrews being the type of methodical organised person who made lists in his head and ticked things off as they were done.
‘That’s the whole area covered, Mike,’ Andrews announced with satisfaction. ‘I borrowed some staff from Stillorgan and Blackrock for the morning. The lads were only too happy to avoid what had been planned for the day.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Inspector O’Neill had wanted a garda checkpoint in both places to check tax and insurance. You know how boring that gets. He wasn’t too happy at having his plans scuppered but when I played the murder card, he couldn’t really argue.’
West looked around at the white-suited officers who were moving slowly and methodically around the graveyard, heads bowed, eyes focused. If there were anything to find, they’d find it. ‘Let’s go and see what Dr Kennedy can tell us,’ he said, jerking his head toward the group of people around the dead body.
They stepped carefully down the narrow, well-worn pathway, stopping a couple of feet from the victim when a short, handsome man stepped forward to greet them. ‘Mike, Pete, long time no crime.’
West smiled in response. ‘Niall, it has been a while, hasn’t it?’
‘Thirty-five days, to be exact. Not that I’m counting, you understand.’
‘What can you tell us?’ West asked the pathologist, swatting flies away with his hand as he spoke.
Dr Niall Kennedy took a step backwards, shaking off a particularly aggressive bluebottle. ‘Rigor is almost complete, I’d estimate he’s been dead at least ten hours, give or take an hour. There’s a heavy blood pool on the upper abdomen and what looks like a single incision; I was just about to have a cl
oser look if you care to watch.’
West and Andrews followed and stood silently, observing as the pathologist moved in and, with latex-covered hands, carefully peeled back the blood-sodden shirt to reveal a gash in the upper abdomen. ‘Just as I expected, a single stab wound to the stomach.’ A flash of light made them all blink, the photographer moving in to get a closer shot.
Kennedy used a disposable ruler to measure the wound. ‘A three-inch entry wound, Mike. Looks like a smooth blade and…’ he examined the wound intently, ‘…a sharp one. No hesitation either.’ He stood back from the body and frowned. ‘I’ll be able to give you more details after the autopsy, obviously, but from the amount of blood around the body I’d say our perp hit the aorta sooo…’ He weighed up the bulk of the body, years of experience allowing a quick, and the detectives knew from previous cases, uncannily accurate estimate. ‘I’d say you are looking for a knife four to six inches long and three inches wide at its widest point. Probably a smooth blade but, again, I’ll have more details after autopsy.’ Anticipating the next question, he continued in a rush. ‘This afternoon, okay?’
West nodded and the pathologist, with a careless wave of blood-stained latex to the rest of the team, turned and headed back to his car.
The Garda Technical Bureau, eager to move the body now that the pathologist was finished, were waved back by Andrews. ‘We’ll need a few minutes.’
Both men circled the body again. ‘Well-dressed bloke,’ commented Andrews, eyeing the well-cut, charcoal-grey suit. West agreed. Donning a pair of latex gloves, he opened the jacket, ignoring the sucking noise as the congealed blood tried to hold on. Both men’s eyebrows raised in surprise as they saw the label. Armani.
West carefully searched the jacket pockets and then, with difficulty, the trouser pockets. He was about to give up when his finger found a screwed-up scrap of paper. Carefully, he undid the folds, smoothing out the creases to read what was written.
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