“You probably know that Frank Rudden is missing too.”
“Of course, I do. Frank was a sound fella, he came in here three or four nights a week. He loved playing cards, have a bit of craic, drank a few pints, done no harm to anybody. It was strange himself and Hazel disappearing that morning, no sign of the car either, just vanished. It’s weird. Have you found Hazel’s body? I heard that you did, but what about Frank’s?”
“We have found nothing yet.”
“But you did find a body over in Shanahan.”
“We did, but we can’t confirm yet who it is.”
“It’s Hazel Devereaux, isn’t it?”
“As I said, we can’t confirm that yet.”
“Hopefully you find Frank Rudden soon, he left a wife and child behind. Poor Anne, she is praying every day that Frank’s body will be found.”
“Right, well thanks for the orange juice and the information. I’ll be in touch,” Mulcahy said as he got up from his stool and walked out of the bar.
***
Closing his car door with a bang the detective clicked on the ignition three times before the car started. With the indicator ticking he turned right at the end of town, following the directions the barman gave him, dropping down into second gear as the car felt the strain climbing the steep hill at the back of the village. Mulcahy counted the houses as he passed them, one, two, three and four. His neck strained as he looked out the passenger window to his left at the fancy gates of the Nealon homestead. Through the painted cast iron Mulcahy could see a man’s backside protruding upward from underneath a bonnet of a car.
The handbrake cranked on the detective’s vehicle as he pulled it sharply. Then the heavy boot of the law hit the gravel path leading inwards towards the bungalow entrance. The iron gates screeched as they opened and Derek Nealon lifted his head out from under the bonnet of his car, wiping his oily hands on a rag as he watched Mulcahy walk towards him.
“Nice car, you look after it well, are you handy at fixing them up?” Mulcahy asked.
“Yea… I’m not too bad.”
“It’s an Opel Kadett GT but you clearly modified it, does it drive as well as it looks?” Mulcahy said as he walked around the vehicle, Cars were Mulcahy’s passion. Before he became a detective his greatest joy at weekends was rallying and he wasn’t half bad at it. The trophy cabinet his uncle made for him told the tale. “The Kadett GT is a fine machine, but for me it still wouldn’t out run a good Ford Escort MkII. The handling in the Kadett is poor.”
“Depends who’s driving it. You know your cars, so why are you driving that piece of shit parked at the gate?” Nealon asked in a cocky fashion.
After hearing Nealon’s response, Mulcahy decided to dispense with the pleasantries and took out his Garda ID from his coat pocket.
“I’m Detective Jim Mulcahy, I’m here to ask you some questions about Hazel Devereaux. I have heard from several people that you a had a relationship with her.”
“Look, I’ve been through all of this before, I have no idea where she is,” Nealon said as he leaned against the side of his car and crossed his arms.
“But you had a relationship with her.”
“A relationship… I wouldn’t call it that,” Nealon said with a laugh.
“Look, call it whatever you want to call it, a relationship, a fling, a one-night stand, or whatever the hell you young people call it nowadays.”
“Yea… I was with Hazel once or twice, but it wasn’t serious, there were always parties back at the house she was renting. I was with Hazel, I was also with her friend Carol, that’s no crime is it?”
“No.”
“There were always guys at the house, it was the party house after the pubs closed. We would bring back a few bottles, play some records, have a bit of craic. Hazel was a good-looking girl, a bit posh, different from the other girls around here. I was with her but so were some other lads. Look, it was nothing serious, she didn’t want a long-term relationship. I think she was going out with some fella up in Dublin anyway.”
“Was her Dublin boyfriend called Paul?”
“I don’t know, she never told me his name.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“When is the last time you saw her?”
“The Saturday night before she went missing, she was in Grogans.”
“Were you with her that night?”
“No, I left the pub early, I was pissed. I think I heard that Donal Keane stayed with her that night.”
“He is the nephew of John Power, the owner of the factory Hazel was working in, right?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“Was he going out with her?”
“Look, as I said, there were plenty of fellas with Hazel. Donal Keane could have been, there was talk that he was, but I don’t really know.”
“He wasn’t from around here, was he?”
“No, he was from Galway, he was studying there in UCG, just working in the factory for the summer with his uncle.”
“What was he like?”
“He was okay, a bit quiet, a bit stand-offish. He got on well with Hazel because she was a student too. They were always talking about books and poetry and boring shite like that.”
“Was there anybody else she was with that you can think of?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes friends of Hazel’s came down from Dublin. They were all a bit strange, college types as well I think.”
“When was the last time they came down?”
“I think they were here the weekend before she disappeared.”
“Were they in Grogan’s pub with Hazel on the Saturday night you last saw her?”
“They could have been. I was so pissed I can’t remember. I just won a rally that day, I had been celebrating.”
“Right…. well if you do remember anything let me know,” Mulcahy said, closing his notebook and putting it back in the inside pocket of his coat. “By the way, you will need a decent set of tyres for that car if you are serious about rallying it. The set you have on are as cheap as shit,” he added as he turned and walked out the gate.
Chapter 4: The Stolen Child
Tuesday 18th December, 1979
Terenure, Dublin
Mulcahy drove through the line of grey leafless trees as he navigated the foggy avenue of Bishops Wood in Terenure Dublin 6. His mouth was dry with nervous tension, knowing he was getting closer to the home of Dr. Colin Devereaux, Hazel’s father. This would be the first time he ever had to speak to the parents of a murder victim and he hated the prospect of it. He cursed Inspector Harding for assigning him the task, but he knew that if he wanted to succeed as a detective he would have to carry out such duties. He drove slowly, checking the numbers on the doors of the large detached houses, looking for number 81. At number 84 he found a parking spot and pulled in tight to the footpath.
He sat for a moment trying to organise his thoughts before he got out of the car. Opening the glove compartment, he pulled out the case file and began to flick through it. He needed to have his facts straight, he didn’t want to sound like a fool. The autopsy report outlined that Hazel had been killed due to a wide and deep cut to the throat. The conclusion was that she would have died quickly as the carotid artery was severed, losing consciousness within seconds and dead within minutes, so at least she hadn’t endured a slow agonizing death. There were no other signs of trauma to her body apart from the rope marks on her wrists. The body was badly decomposed, but the pathologist was ninety-nine percent certain that a sexual assault did not take place. So far, they had no clear suspect. Mulcahy’s interviews in Blairstown with Derek Nealon and Padraig Kenny had led to nothing. Donal Keane had still to be located in the U.S.; so far, his whereabouts there were unknown. The other lead was the name Paul on the item of jewelry found on the victim’s body. Was he Hazel’s boyfriend here in Dublin? Hopefully, Mr. and Mrs. Devereaux could shed light on that matter.
Mulcahy took a deep breath
before clearing his throat with a nervous cough as he opened the gate and walked up the gravel path towards number 81. He pushed the bell and waited, shuffling the folder uneasily in his hands. Moments later, the large teak door opened and a teenage girl appeared. Mulcahy guessed that she was around fourteen, and she looked very similar to the photo of Hazel Devereaux supplied to him by Trinity College the previous week. The girl was pretty but had a pale complexion and large dark shadows under her eyes. Obviously, the pain of losing her older sister had led to months of sleepless nights and daytime trauma.
“Hi, I think I am at the correct house, my name is Detective Jim Mulcahy and you must be…”
“Sharon,” she said quietly.
“Sharon Devereaux, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, Sharon, I wonder, could I come in and speak with your parents? I think they are expecting me.”
Sharon didn’t respond, she just nodded and opened the door wider to allow the detective in. After he entered she closed the door behind him and ran upstairs.
The hallway was bright and expansive, and it steered into a drawing room in which Colin and Vanessa Devereaux were sitting. The doctor was skimming through a copy of the Irish Times as his wife stared blankly at a TV and sipped what appeared to be a double Cognac.
“Hello, I’m Detective Jim Mulcahy, I spoke to you on the phone yesterday, Doctor.”
“Oh… yes, that’s correct,” Colin said and stood up, folding the copy of his newspaper neatly and placing it on a coffee table in front of him.
“Here, let me take your coat and scarf,” he said as he walked towards Mulcahy.
“Thank you,” the detective responded, handing over the items.
“Please take a seat,” Colin said and hung Mulcahy’s coat on the back of a chair at a dining table at the front of the room next to a bay window.
Vanessa continued to stare at the TV and didn’t appear to have even acknowledged Mulcahy was there.
“Vanessa, Vanessa,” Colin said trying to get her attention.
“Yes, what?” she replied obstinately.
“Would you mind getting us a pot of coffee from the kitchen?”
“Okay, okay,” she said, standing and stumbling out the door, once again refusing to even recognise Mulcahy’s presence.
“I must apologise about Vanessa, Mr. Mulcahy, I’m afraid she isn’t dealing with this terrible situation at all well,” Colin said.
“Nothing to apologise about, Doctor, it’s all very understandable, it’s an awful tragedy to have to come to terms with.”
“Call me Colin, there are no need for formalities.”
“Yes, okay and likewise …. Well, Colin, I just want to ask you a few questions. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time and I appreciate that you are probably fed up with talking to members of the Gardaí over the last six months, but you hopefully will be able to help me. Any little piece of information that you might consider totally irrelevant could make all the difference in finding out the identity of your daughter’s killer.”
“That’s fine, Jim, go ahead.”
“I recently spoke to some of the residents of Blairstown in Galway, where Hazel worked from early May until June third. They told me that Hazel was a friendly and outgoing young woman who liked to socialise and party with the local young people, which of course is perfectly normal behavior. I also discovered that she possibly had some relationships with one or two of the local lads. Were you aware of that?”
“Not really, but I knew Hazel may have gone out with a few young men. Look, she was a happy girl, herself and Carol were always going to clubs here in Dublin. They were typical students. They both liked a good time and as a result her grades unfortunately suffered. But I hoped that she would sort it out, she was only twenty-two years old, she had her whole life… I’m sorry, Jim,” Colin said as he temporarily lost his composure. “I’ll just go and check how my wife is getting on with the coffee.”
“Sure, take your time,” Mulcahy said, aware that Colin wanted a brief respite to wipe away his tears.
Mulcahy studied the photos on the mantlepiece while he waited for Colin to return. They looked like the perfect family. The handsome and successful doctor, the beautiful wife and two pretty daughters. It struck the detective as he stared at the photo how such harmony can be ripped apart by a brutal and callous act. It stirred up painful thoughts deep down within his being, as he recalled how his own young life had been shattered by the abduction and murder of his twin brother at the age of eleven, an experience he had never really dealt with, but suppressed. Yet it continued to gnaw away at him up until the present day. The detective’s reflections were interrupted by the rattle of a tray being placed on the coffee table.
“Here you are, you can help yourself to milk and sugar. I’m afraid Vanessa is not feeling too good and has gone for a walk,” Colin said.
“Thanks.” Mulcahy poured himself a cup of coffee. “It’s a hard time of year, coming up to Christmas.”
“Yes, yes it certainly is, but we have to remember we have another daughter too.”
“Of course. Getting back to what I asked you earlier, you were aware that Hazel had a boyfriend, or boyfriends if you don’t mind me using that term. Had she ever mentioned any of the lads from Blairstown that she went out with? Do the names Derek Nealon or Donal Keane sound familiar to you?”
“No, I’m afraid not, should they?”
“Supposedly, Hazel went out with them.”
“Never heard her mention those names, you see she moved to Blairstown to work in that factory in early May as soon as she finished her exams and she never … came home again. I mean, she never came home for a weekend during that month. We had planned to take a short break and go over to the West in mid-June. We had hoped to meet up with Hazel then. She rang us most weekends, but she never told us too much about boyfriends or the like and I never asked her, perhaps I should have done.”
“You are obviously aware that your daughter was last seen leaving in a car with Frank Rudden. You are also aware that Frank Rudden is missing since the morning of June third, the morning that Hazel was last seen alive. Just to ask you once more, was there any mention of Hazel having a relationship with Frank? Did his name ever come up in a conversation?”
“No, do you think Frank Rudden may have murdered my Hazel? It all seems strange that he vanished at the same time. Have you tried to trace him?”
“Yes, we are still trying to locate him, if he is still alive. We have had no sightings of him or his car since that morning. My colleague, Inspector Harding, is involved in that line of inquiry. He has assigned me to the brief of investigating other possible avenues.”
“Oh, I see.”
“We discovered on Hazel’s wrist a bracelet with the words To Hazel from Paul inscribed on it. Was she having a relationship with anybody called Paul from here in Dublin? One of the locals in Blairstown told me that she was going out with a young man she knew from Trinity and that he used to come down to see her some weekends.”
“Paul? No, sorry, again I have no idea. God, you must think I was a very irresponsible father because I have no notion of who my daughter was seeing.”
“Not at all, as you said she was a typical student, she liked to socialise and meet people.
“Did Hazel keep a diary by any chance, or maybe a little notebook that she stored her friend’s phone numbers or addresses in?”
“Yes, she did, I have it upstairs, you’re welcome to look through it, just hold on a moment,” Colin said as he got up from his chair and left the room.
Mulcahy could hear the heavy steps of the doctor climbing the stairs and walking on a creaking wooden floor above the drawing room. The footsteps stopped for a minute and then he heard them coming down the stairs again.
“Here you are, Jim, this was on her bedside locker,” Colin said, passing the detective a small hardback notebook with a cover embellished with a red and yellow floral design.
“Thanks, Colin,
do you mind if I hold onto it for a week or so just to check it thoroughly?”
“Sure, that’s fine…There was something else… look, maybe it’s nothing,” Colin said, holding out a small piece of notepaper he had taken out of his pocket.
“What is it? As I said, the least little item or information could make all the difference.”
“When Vanessa and I went to Blairstown to collect Hazel’s belongings, after the Guards said it was okay to do so, of course, I discovered this peculiar note. It was in a small envelope that was ripped open. I found the envelope in a drawer in the kitchen. The envelope was addressed to Hazel. It just said, Hazel Devereaux, on it. It didn’t have the house address. So maybe it was just pushed through the letterbox.”
“What did the note say?” Mulcahy said impatiently.
“Here, you read it,” Colin said.
“The solemn song be sung,” Mulcahy read, holding out the note in front of him.
“The solemn song be sung,” Colin repeated, having obviously memorised the line because he had read it and pondered over it so often.
“Does that mean anything to you?” Mulcahy asked.
“No, I have no idea what the significance of it is, I was hoping that you might know.”
“It could be a line from a popular song maybe, but I’m not sure, to be honest with you. I’ll have to check it out.”
“Do you think it could be linked to the murderer?”
I won’t rule anything it out just yet. Do you mind if I take it with me, maybe the handwriting might be useful to cross check.”
“Yes, take it, hopefully it will be of some help to you. I would be interested to find out if it means anything, then again it might mean nothing, it is probably totally irrelevant and meaningless.”
“Well, as I said, I’ll look into it. It’s hard to say for certain at this point how important it is, but thank you anyway, Colin, for bringing it to my attention. I want to thank you for answering my questions at such a difficult period and I hope we can find the person who took your daughter’s life. I will keep you informed of developments, and if you or your wife think of any other details, please don’t hesitate to contact me at this number,” Mulcahy said and wrote down his contact details on a piece of paper, handing them to Colin.
Nine Lives Page 3