by Chris Simms
The turn off for the bog road was almost apologetic: all the road markings encouraged drivers to continue to the N59 a few miles north. Set back was a modest sign, quietly announcing in small letters that Clifden was thirteen kilometres in the direction it pointed.
Checking there was still sufficient daylight left, Jon took the turn and found himself on a single lane of unmarked tarmac. He surveyed the landscape. Encroaching on each side of the road was a layer of snakelike grass, curled over and collapsed in on itself. Beyond, the brown tundra was punctuated by rushes, outcrops of rock and stumps of wind-blasted trees, sparse branches furred with moss. There was, he thought, something prehistoric about the terrain.
At the side of the track, sheep silently regarded his passing with slit-shaped pupils, jaws grinding slowly as if grimacing with disapproval. Then Jon began to spot the glint of water. Puddles at first, followed by dark fingers or ragged little ponds. There didn’t seem to be any bank or drop dividing land from liquid – the wiry turf simply vanished beneath the inky expanses.
The pools grew in size, opening out into lakes, surfaces rippling in the breeze. The road twisted its way through the watery maze and Jon marvelled at how a route had ever been plotted through. The craggy top of Errisbeg was now on his left. Aside from the thin strip of tarmac, he could see absolutely nothing to suggest the presence of man.
After a few more miles the road started to rise, passing between two outcrops of rock before levelling out on a rough plateau with a wider swathe of grass on each side. The nearest lake had an island in its middle. Trees were clustered on it, branches heavy with bunched, black forms. A pair of wings flapped. The cormorants, Jon thought, slowing to a crawl. He scanned the ground to his right for the halfway house, unable to see anything but lichen-covered rocks. Then he realised some of the stones weren’t randomly placed.
He pulled over and climbed out. Silence engulfed him. He stepped off the road and crossed the springy turf to the building’s remains. Now closer, he could see the last remnants of what had once been several rooms. The stones had lain there so long they appeared fused with the ground. Moss had crept over the upper ones, further blurring their outline.
He stepped through a vague gap that may have once been a doorway. A few crushed cans of cider to his left, along with some charred pieces of wood and an old tyre. He realised the rear walls of the ruined dwelling stood higher and he moved towards the most obvious room.
A section of metal fence, buckled and rusted, barred his way. Twine and barbed wire attached it to a couple of wooden stakes driven into each side of the doorway. Jon looked inside and saw clumps of sheep’s wool and piles of droppings. His eyes picked out a kink in the wall. A hearth, maybe?
He pictured the house as it once was; a lone traveller warming his hands at the flames, oblivious to the fact that, once asleep, he would be robbed, murdered and dumped in a nearby lake.
His eyes swept the water encircling Cormorant Island. The surface was brooding and still. This entire place, he thought, is silent as a grave. From far away, came the faint hee-hoo of an unseen bird.
Chapter 26
There was a muddy pick-up truck in the space he’d last used. After parking next to it, Jon entered the hotel lobby and approached the front desk. A young woman was now on duty. ‘Evening,’ Jon said. ‘Room 17, please.’ As she turned to retrieve his key, he added, ‘Don’t suppose I have any messages?’
She ran a finger across the cards in a small wooden box. ‘Nothing for 17.’
The door to his room clicked behind him. He removed the phones from his ski jacket and threw it on the bed. Slumping into the window chair, he checked both handsets. No message on either. He brought up Alice’s number and pressed green. After three rings, she picked up. ‘Hi there, how’s it going?’
‘Great. I took her for a swim. She loved the slides – not that I tried going down them.’
‘I should think not. The size of your tummy, you probably wouldn’t fit.’
‘Such a charmer.’
He laughed. ‘You know I love you. What’s Holly up to now?’
‘Watching a bit of telly.’
‘Tell her I say hello.’
‘It’s Daddy. He says hello, sweetie.’
‘Hi Dad!’ Her voice sounded so far away. Jon felt a wave of sadness go through him. ‘She sounds happy.’
‘She’s loving it. How’s it going with you?’
‘Yeah, interesting. I’ve already had a mysterious message.’
‘Someone saw the posters?’
‘No, someone saw me. I was in the toilets of this pub and a note was shoved through the window from the alley outside.’
‘What did it say?’
Jon slid the bit of paper from his jeans pocket. ‘Pony sale tomorrow morning, de Avila at the back.’
‘He wants to meet you?’
‘He could just ring me if he wanted to meet. I think it’s someone tipping me off. About something the bloke will be doing at the sale. The handwriting looks female. My money’s on it being Siobhain.’
‘But surely she could have just rung you.’
‘Not if she wants to keep her phone number hidden from me. To do that, she’d have to use the payphone near the post office. This place isn’t big: I could get there in about ten seconds, wherever I am in this place.’
‘I don’t like her sneakiness.’
‘We’ll meet eventually, I’m sure.’ He crossed his legs and looked at the street below. ‘I met Grandad earlier.’
‘You did?’ Alice gasped. ‘Go on.’
‘He’s certainly a character.’ Jon grinned as he recalled the old man playfully insisting he was the only sane one in the house. ‘I had to really pay attention, his accent’s so strong. They speak differently, too. All, will I be doing this, will you be doing that. It was great.’
‘Suppose it was too soon to raise the subject of your mum?’
‘Definitely. He seems pretty together. Although he got my name wrong a couple of times and I don’t think he has any memory of calling me a wee fuck.’
‘Was anything at all said about your mum?’
‘No. Well, not to me. His youngest daughter, Eileen, and her son, Kieron, were there. She appears to cook him his tea most days. They spoke a bit of Irish when Malachy first shuffled in and found me sitting in his kitchen. That was about Mum, I’m sure. Eileen said no to everything he asked.’
‘She lives nearby?’
‘Just round the corner. So does Mum’s brother, Nial. He runs the hotel, she said.’
‘Weren’t there two other sisters?’
‘Yes, Jeanne, who lives in Scotland, and Una. She died in the eighties. A road accident in Guatemala. She was out there working as a missionary.’
‘Oh.’
‘I don’t think they know our kid’s dead, either.’
‘That’s no surprise. But it sounds like you all got on.’
‘Alice? You’d have loved it. They were so keen to just chat. No telly on in the background, or music playing. Told me this old tale about two sisters who murdered passing travellers – ’
‘Oh, that’s Holly calling me.’ She spoke away from the phone. ‘Coming, sweetie. Are you going back?’
‘Yes – they asked me for tea tomorrow.’
‘Take some flowers for Eileen.’
‘Will do. Listen, I’d better go, as well. I’ve got some more posters to hand out.’
‘Be careful, OK?’
He glanced to the body armour laid out on the bed. ‘Don’t you worry.’
After stripping down to his underpants, Jon slid on the lycra shorts with the built-in groin protection. Like wearing a cricket box, he thought, reaching for the stab-proof vest. Next, he strapped on the arm and leg protectors. From his holdall he took out a large shirt and baggy pair of beige cargo trousers.
Once they were on, he looked at himself in the full-length wall mirror. If you weren’t searching for it, the protective gear was all but invisible. Holding up his injured
hand, he examined the puffy flesh around his knuckles. When he curled his fingers to make a fist, the pain in his wrist increased. He knew it would be useless in any fight. He examined the pepper spray and Asp. Do I take them? No, he decided. I can’t see me needing them tonight. He laced up his shoes, put the ski jacket back on and headed for the door, a sheaf of posters in his hand.
Voices were coming from Mannion’s Bar so he pushed the door open and stepped inside. All eyes went to him and he heard several conversations grind to a halt. As he crossed the room the noise levels began to recover.
‘Evening,’ he nodded at the barmaid.
‘Evening,’ she replied, attempting a smile. Her eyes slid towards the men lining the stools before her. Jon examined the row of profiles. Weatherbeaten faces and heavy features. The fingers grasping the glasses looked leathery and tough. Jon placed his own scarred hands on the wooden surface. ‘Pint of Guinness, please.’
She nodded and began to pour.
Jon regarded the nearest man. ‘Looks like there’ll be a heavy frost again.’
He continued staring straight ahead. ‘Aye.’
‘Still, this cold snap can’t last too much longer, surely.’
‘There’s a while of it yet.’ He glanced at Jon. ‘Is it you who’s been putting up the posters?’
Jon noticed several heads turn in his direction. ‘That’s right. Have you seen her?’
Slowly, he shook his head. ‘No.’ A finger moved in the direction of his drinking companions. ‘None of us have. Are you sure she was here?’
‘That’s what I’ve been told. Working in the nightclub, Darragh’s.’
The barmaid placed his pint down. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
Jon nodded. ‘He says she doesn’t work there.’
‘Well,’ a man three stools along said, looking at his drink. ‘There’s a misunderstanding taken place somewhere.’
Jon studied the row of men, trying to fathom if they were being straight with him. The whole bloody town can’t be in on this, can it? He lifted his pint and took a long pull. ‘Mind if I hand a few more out?’ he asked, removing the roll of posters from his pocket.
She shrugged. ‘Go ahead.’
He made his way round the bar, leaving a poster on any occupied table. People’s conversations paused and Jon caught the odd quiet comment being made behind him.
‘I wonder who she is.’
‘Have you ever seen her?’
‘Pretty-looking thing, isn’t she?’
Back at the bar, he drained the rest of his pint, thanked the barmaid and made for the door. He continued past the plane-wing monument and looked across at Darragh’s. The place was well and truly closed. He glanced at his watch. At least two hours to opening time, he thought.
The little pub called Lowry’s only had three people in it, and one was standing behind a bar that couldn’t have been much over ten feet long. Jon ordered another pint of Guinness then made his way over to the corner seat by the window. The assortment of empty bottles lining the sill was from another era. Cure-all concoctions sold by wandering pedlars, Jon thought. Maybe some met their fate on the lonely bog road.
Just after ten o’clock, a light came on behind the windows set into Darragh’s front doors. Someone must have entered from round the back. The right-hand door opened and the girl he’d seen in the rear office stepped out on to the pavement. What, Jon thought, was she called? Hazel, that was it. She emptied the contents of a dustpan into the gutter, turned round and spotted the poster pinned to the door that was still closed. She looked at it for a few seconds before going back inside.
Next, Darragh appeared. His head tilted to the side before a hand went out and the poster was ripped off.
Interesting, thought Jon.
The nightclub owner then bent forward and started trying to prise the drawing pins out with his fingernails.
Jon smiled to himself. Think you’ll need a knife, mate.
He gave up and said something to Hazel who was standing next to him jiggling about in the cold. They vanished back inside. You missed the one on the other door, Jon thought.
Hazel reappeared with a small implement and began levering one of the upper drawing pins out.
He set off across the road, and by the time he’d reached the other side, Hazel was prising the final drawing pin out. ‘Excuse me.’
Her neck stiffened and she became very still.
Jon kept his distance. ‘I’m not here to cause any trouble.’
Hurriedly, she started working the tip of the blunt knife under the last pin.
‘Listen, I’m only trying to find Zoë. You work in that place. Please, tell me what’s happened to her.’
She straightened up, now happy to leave the pin in the door. Jon stepped to the side so he could see her profile. Her lips were working back and forth as if she was trying to suck some kind of an answer from her teeth.
‘It’s Hazel, isn’t it? Come on, Hazel. No one can hear us. Tell me what the hell is going on.’
She turned to him and he saw that fear had made her face ugly. She rolled her eyes upwards and Jon realised there was a small CCTV camera mounted on the wall directly above her. She widened her eyes; a silent demand that he acknowledge its presence.
He gave the tiniest of nods.
The stubby knife was then jabbed in his direction. ‘Get out of my face, all right?’
He moved back and raised both hands. ‘OK, OK. No bother.’
Still pointing the blade at him, she retreated into the open doorway. Jon began to turn on his heel and quickly said, ‘Call the number on the poster. Please.’
The right-hand door banged shut, revealing the other poster still pinned to it. Wow, Jon thought as he crossed back over the road. She knows something, I’m certain. And she would have told me if she wasn’t so scared of her boss finding out. He slipped back into Lowry’s where his pint was still waiting.
After another twenty minutes went past, two people approached the front door from the left. Jon recognised the older, chubby barman and another man, hair cut in a Mohican style, tramline running through the stubble on the side of his head. You’re new, Jon thought. Maybe the DJ? They looked at the poster on the right-hand door before opening it and going in. Hazel emerged a minute later and was halfway through removing it when the woman who did the tickets arrived. They spoke briefly, then both went in.
Soon after that, the first customers showed up. Jon wondered how word had got round that the club was open. Another four filed inside. Still no bouncer, Jon thought. Shall I wait for him to show? A group of eight arrived, six girls and two blokes. That’s enough, Jon decided, slipping out of Lowry’s.
The ticket woman’s mouth opened as he stepped through the door. He dropped a five-euro note on her little table. ‘I’ll keep my coat on.’ Pushing through the inner doors, he glanced about. Everyone was sitting down except for a couple of girls at the bar. Jon marched straight across the dance floor, watching the barman’s eyes widen. One of the girls looked round. Jon recognised her as the flirtatious one from his first visit. Her eyes dropped slowly down him before an eyebrow went up.
‘Don’t mind if I hand a few of these out, do you?’ He slapped a poster on the bar.
The bloke behind it stared back, saying nothing.
Jon turned to the girls. ‘Ever seen her in here, ladies?’
They studied the photo before shaking their heads.
‘Do you come here much?’ Jon asked the one he recognised.
She looked back at him and blinked. ‘Would you be chatting me up, now?’
‘He’s in the fucking club.’ Darragh’s eyes were on the TV screens, mobile phone pressed to his ear. His head jerked to the side. ‘Hazel, lock that door. Now.’
She hurried across the office and bolted the door giving access to the bar.
‘Make sure the back one is secure, too,’ Darragh ordered before speaking into the phone once more. ‘He’s just put one of his posters on the bar. They were pinned to t
he front doors, too.’ He listened for a second. ‘Conor? No, he’s not here yet. Usually gets here around eleven. Dad, you’ve got to get them back.’
Hazel reappeared.
‘Has he rung you?’ Darragh asked her, irritably.
‘Who?’
‘My fucking brother, of course.’
She shook her head.
Darragh turned back to the screens and spoke into his phone. ‘What’s he doing now? I’ll tell you: he’s walking round the club putting posters on every table. He’s asking questions, pointing to her photo. Now he’s coming back to the bar. He’s looking straight at the camera. For fuck’s sake, Dad, the bloke’s waving at me, pointing at the phone number at the base of the poster.’
‘Where is the bastard staying?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Is he booked into a hotel?’
‘Yes – Joyce’s, next door.’
‘Have his room searched. And his car. Our priority is those tapes.’
‘OK. Should I ring him?’
‘No. I’ll be back from Dublin tomorrow. Make no contact with him before I get back.’
Jon dropped his hand and set off across the dance floor, back through the foyer and towards the doors to the street. As he neared them, a figure appeared. The bouncer. He looked up and saw Jon striding straight at him. Taken by surprise, he didn’t have time to quell his initial reaction: to step back.
The guy’s got no stomach for any more trouble, Jon realised. He brushed past him, taking in the strips of bandage plastered across the bridge of his nose. ‘Relax,’ Jon said, setting off back to the hotel. ‘I only want to speak with Darragh. Tell him to give me a ring, would you?’
Chapter 27
‘Ignore my calls again, you’ll find the shit getting kicked out of you. And it’ll be my boot that’s doing the swinging.’