Following conversation with Dr Hillary Nugent of Mount Saint Carmel it was agreed that Kathleen Waldron would be presented for psychiatric evaluation at the first possible opportunity. Dr Nugent was of the opinion new research into the area of filicide – this is the killing of a child by one or more parents – would lend itself to what he said was an interesting case study.
It should be noted that Kathleen Waldron was covered in blood on the arrival of uniformed members. Inspector Flaherty observed same on his arrival.
Kathleen Waldron has been detained in Mill Street barracks in Galway. She is twenty-two years old and appears quiet and withdrawn and generally uncommunicative, apart from occasional utterances about ‘the monster’. This is what she has insisted throughout came into her home and took her baby, named Bernadette. All the inhabitants of the place, Kelly’s Forge, a mere twenty-five souls, are steeped in superstition and folklore. They talk of banshees and faeries and such general nonsense. In this case, I believe such beliefs have nurtured a madness in the girl culminating now in her killing her baby and disposing of its body, where we do not know, as the body has still to be found. I consider the girl to be wily and clever and so do not hold out much hope of finding the child’s remains. In this instance, extensive searches have been conducted in the area but without result.
There was a break in the handwriting, with one line left blank. When it continued, the hand was heavier, greater spaces between the words, some not resting on the line but rising from it, others dipping beneath. It was also harder to decipher.
In the last number of hours I believe I have advanced the case to a conclusion. It will avoid the requirement for a trial and the attendant publicity this would lend the State – including, I have no doubt, most unwelcome international press coverage. The husband of the girl, Seamus Waldron, has agreed to sign a document to the effect that his wife is wholly deranged and with the urgent necessity to be confined within a secure institution forthwith. My recommendation is St Bridget’s Hospital for the Mentally Deviant at Trabawn, County Clare. The girl has one other child, a boy, named Patrick. He will be passed into the care of his uncle, Paddy Crabby, and his wife, who, to all accounts, are respected citizens and good Catholics. The boy will adopt his uncle’s surname and will be known by his middle Christian name, Maurice. This, it is deemed, will be in his best interests.
As agreed with the Chief Superintendent of Galway District, and in his discussions with the relevant parties, including the Bishop of the diocese and the public representative, Mr Galligan, member of Galway County Council, it will be noted officially that the child died of pneumonia and was buried with her grandfather at Ballinasloe. This summary report will be destroyed and there the matter will rest.
Signed, Inspector Padráic Mary Flaherty, Mill Street Garda Barracks, Galway, October 26, 1954…
‘It was his father,’ Beck whispered, putting the report down. ‘He had his wife committed. Maurice Crabby’s mother.’
‘But,’ Claire said, ‘if they thought she’d killed her child, wouldn’t that be a wise move to make?’
‘He couldn’t have known that though,’ Beck said. ‘He just wanted her out of the way, and this was a very convenient way of doing it.’
The only sound in the room was that of the dull thuds of feet passing on the pavement outside.
‘But they couldn’t do that,’ Claire said, ‘even back then… could they?’
‘They could. And did. It was common. This little country of ours had one of the highest rates for committal to mental institutions in the entire world at the time. I know of a case where a man had his wife committed because he was having an affair. He needed her out of the way. That’s how he did it. She spent thirty years in the place. The poor woman was as sane as you or I.’
Claire pointed to the report. ‘Didn’t Maurice Crabby know about this?’
‘No. How could he? This was bureaucracy. A collusion between church and state. No one knew about this except the people directly involved. How times have changed. Thankfully.’
‘So, what do we do with it?’
Beck considered.
‘We defer to rank on this one. Superintendent Wilde. That’s my verdict. Let him deal with it.
‘Tell me,’ she said then. ‘How did you know we’d find those remains? Isn’t it all a bit strange?’
Beck shrugged. ‘Yes. Stranger than fiction. I dreamt it, in a round about way that is.’
He laid the old yellowed sheets of paper down carefully.
‘Bit of advice, Beck,’ Claire said. ‘Don’t tell too many people about dreaming up the answers to cases, okay? Because if you do, they’ll think you’re a complete and utter stoner. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ he said, but he’d got that already.
Went without saying, actually.
Eighty-Two
Sergeant Connor was seated at a desk in the Ops Room when Beck returned from the basement, typing furiously onto a computer keyboard. He didn’t notice Beck come in, or walk across the room, or stop and stand right next to him. His hands were fisted, except for two index fingers protruding like barrels of revolvers. The two fingers circled the air, over the keyboard, hunting for letters, before swooping and crashing onto the pad.
‘We were getting worried about you,’ Beck said. ‘And where’s Garda Ryan?’
Connor looked up with a start, smiled. ‘Like you said. Everything goes under the case number. Writing up my report right now… Jane, she had to go home, family emergency or something.’ Connor glanced back to his computer screen.
‘What kept you?’ Beck asked.
‘Got a damn puncture on the way back. A six-inch nail in the front right. Hegarty put it there. Can’t prove it, of course, but I just know he did. A slow puncture. We were halfway back before I noticed it.’
Connor leaned into his computer screen.
‘Covered it all there, I think. You like the way I finished it? Sums up the place, filthy.’
Beck didn’t answer that question. Pulse was not a platform for creative expression. It was for strategic information, bullet points preferably. If Connor wanted to tell a story he should join a writers’ group. Which made him think that after all this was over, maybe Cross Beg could benefit from a class on best practice in the use of the Garda Pulse computer system.
‘The fingerprints on the door of Samantha Power’s car,’ Beck said. ‘We just heard. Not a match to Hegarty, or anybody else.’ And nodding towards the computer. ‘I think we can wipe his name from the board now.’
Connor looked disappointed. His readership audience had just virtually disappeared.
Eighty-Three
She was standing at the counter in the hardware shop, waiting for the young sales assistant to finally finish with the man whom she’d been standing behind for over five minutes now. The man with a paint colour board spread out on the counter, ruminating and indicating with the end of a pen the particular colours he was interested in, oblivious to her presence. There was another cash register, unattended. As usual, Vicky could never remember a time, not once, when that register was ever used.
Eventually, the colour board was folded away, but the man continued talking, waving the end of his pen through the air. Chit chat. She heard something about a football match, the young sales assistant giving polite nods of his head. But she could see it in the assistant’s expression: go away now please. To which the man was oblivious, waving the end of the pen about, ‘He spent a fortune on a team of misfits. They didn’t win one game towards the end of the season. Not one…’ he said.
Finally, the young sales assistant stopped nodding his head, glancing back to her, then to the man again, unsmiling: It’s time to go now. Seriously.
The man looked over his shoulder. ‘Didn’t realise you were there, love.’ And back to the young assistant. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way then. Let me think about that, will you? I’ll get back to you, young man. Thank you and good day.’
Vicky picked up one of the two
cans of deck varnish she had placed on the floor.
‘Hello, Vicky,’ the sales assistant said, his eyes brightening. ‘Twenty minutes. And still he didn’t buy anything. All he’s ever bought in here is a pair of fifty cent ear plugs. Two cans of varnish is it?’
‘Yes, honey, two.’
‘So you’re finally starting?’ scanning the first can in.
‘I’m putting the cart before the horse with this. But so what. Can’t do the decking for ages yet. But it makes me feel like I’m getting something done.’
‘Uh huh,’ he said. ‘But it’ll be worth it when it’s finished. A TV production studio you said, last time when you were in. That right?’
Vicky smiled. She noticed the assistant was blushing. He seemed to do that a lot. She waited until he looked up again and she held his eyes, watching the deepening shade of red on his cheeks. How old was he anyway?
‘Yes,’ she said, a playful giggle. ‘Watch this space as they say. I plan to do contract work for U.S. media companies, plus my own productions too of course… I just can’t wait, I’m simply bursting with ideas.’
Oh go on, she thought, and ran her tongue over her lips. The lad looked away, took the money she handed him, placed it into the till, his head bowed, then mumbled something about another customer and walked away.
Eighty-Four
Beck opened his eyes, his body giving an involuntary jerk. He was so tired, he’d momentarily drifted off. He yawned, leaned forward, supporting his head with the palm of both hands on his desk. The Ops Room was quiet. He was sitting in a corner, behind the door. Claire was seated at her desk on the opposite side of the room, beneath the window. Sergeant Connor and a uniform were the only others present.
He had played it over twice. From the time Samantha Power had entered the car park of Crabby’s supermarket until she had left again. He had followed her along the road out of town, losing sight of her when she drove past the last camera.
What happened next?
Had she stopped somewhere and picked up somebody? Somebody who was known to her? Or had somebody, instead, stopped her?
Beck sat back, cupped his hands behind his head now. His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten anything all day except for two sausage rolls. There comes a point when you don’t feel hunger any more. When coffee dulls your appetite and makes you feel sick. It comes at the point of an investigation when nothing is clear, where you thought you were making progress, were getting close to something, only to find instead that you’d travelled in a complete circle, arriving back where you had started from in the first place. And Beck was back to where he had started, where it all had all started. He had watched Samantha Power walk out into the early evening sunshine, going to her death. Taking her six-month-old daughter with her. How did it happen?
How?
‘You need to eat,’ it was Claire.
He hadn’t noticed her standing there.
‘You going out?’
‘Uh huh,’
‘Get me something, will you?’
‘Of course.’
‘It doesn’t matter what, just so long as it’s not poisonous.’
Beck used his finger to reset the video progress bar, and for the third time, began to watch the CCTV footage all over again, slowing it right down this time.
It was a chicken roll, with ham and cheese, the bread hard, the cheese like wood-shavings, the ham the texture of wet paper. The chicken itself was chopped into thick slices, coated in breadcrumbs and barbecue sauce, a firewall, stopping any other flavours from getting through. But bite for bite, it fly-tipped more calories into his stomach than anything else could.
Claire had pulled her chair close. She was eating from a salad box, staring at the screen. The CCTV footage continued to play, a slow-motion action replay. Beck swallowed the last of his food. He needed water. And a cigarette. He was about to press stop to take a break, when…
He’d noticed it before, he realised that now. An optical illusion, a shadow, a spectre, with it a realisation that what is searched for is sometimes right in front of your eyes all along.
A piece of roll fell from his mouth onto the computer keyboard.
‘Gross,’ Claire said, oblivious.
‘Can’t you see it?’
‘See what?’
He stopped play, rolled it back, played it again.
‘There,’ indicating the rear of the car.
Claire leaned in, her head almost touching his.
‘Um…’
He waited for her reaction, but there was none. He stopped play once more, repeated the procedure, his finger hovering over the finger pad. At the exact moment it appeared. Pressed: Stop.
Silence.
‘Christ. Look. That,’ Beck said, pressing a finger to the screen.
Claire, looking towards it.
‘A shadow… is it?’
‘Yes. A shadow. It’s not divine intervention. Something had to cause it. Don’t you see? Someone is getting in on the other side of the car.’
She thought about that, her tired mind processing it. Someone is getting into the other side of the car. Someone is getting into the other side of the car.
‘Christ,’ she said. ‘You’re right.’
Eighty-Five
Claire got her breath back. Trying not to, but still feeling it all the same: foolish. She had seen what Beck had seen but yet had still completely missed it. No, not just missed it, it hadn’t even registered. She’d need a positive appraisal from Beck if she wanted to be considered for sergeant. This wouldn’t help. And it annoyed her that at a time like this she could even think like that. But she was. She realised she had, again, underestimated the man. She looked at him now with renewed admiration.
Beck played it over again one last time. Unmistakeable. Verifiable. Real. How could she have missed that? A shadow. And a shadow, no matter what way you look at it, can only be caused by one thing, an object that blocks out the light.
‘Let’s assume,’ Beck said, speaking slowly, thinking things over as he went. ‘He gets into the car here. At this point, this moment. Let’s just assume he gets in the car and she drives away with him in it. We won’t worry about the ins and outs of it just yet. Why she didn’t scream. Or maybe she did. But it doesn’t look that way. From what we can see. Maybe he’s – let’s assume it’s a he – is crouching, which is why we don’t see him. Let’s just assume that, okay?’
Claire nodded.
‘Then he will not only have gotten into the car, but into the car park, first. Had to. So we need to roll back our timeline, see if we can spot anything else. I think it would help if we had a bigger screen. You look after that?’
They pulled the blinds down at the end of the Ops Room. Claire set up a PowerPoint. There were other people here now, drifting in and taking an interest without anything having been announced. By the time everything was set up, and Claire was about to begin, about to project the image onto the end wall, there were a dozen detectives and uniforms sitting down, waiting. No one asked any questions. Not yet. They knew Beck was waiting. So they were waiting too. When it appeared, whatever that was, they’d get their answers. Or not.
Beck nodded to Claire, and using her finger on the pad, she drew back the video bar, the clock in the corner of the screen automatically clicking backwards. She stopped when she’d reduced the time frame by ten minutes.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
Beck answered, and was surprised when the whole room answered with him, a collective ‘Yes’.
She pressed play.
The sounds drifted across the room, the same sounds as before, but louder now, relayed through portable speakers; voices and engines, the sound of the breeze, a flapping noise, the occasional banging of a door. Again, that same sense of foreboding, a sadness from knowing what was about to happen, from knowing that a blue Citroen Picasso people carrier would soon, very soon, enter this car park and park in an empty space right there.
Beck knew all this.
An
d yet he knew so little.
But he had a feeling, a feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, growing now, getting stronger, that soon he would do. He would know. They all looked at the screen and were silent, at this picture of utter small-town ordinariness.
Beck wondered, how is it possible to see what is different when all appears the same?
Eighty-Six
‘See that vehicle? There, at the back?’
The room turned. In the doorway of the Ops Room was Garda Ryan. She’d wandered in from the public office.
‘There,’ she said again, pointing.
‘Where?’ someone asked.
‘Just off the middle right. One, two, three rows back. Actually, the last row.’
Beck spoke. ‘Why don’t you come up here and point it out, exactly?’
Garda Ryan walked through the room, stepped up beside the power-point.
‘Go on, Jane’ Claire said. ‘Show us.’
She extended an arm, her high-vis jacket making a squelching sound, pointing at the vehicle.
‘Nothing unusual in that,’ a voice. ‘So?’
‘Well,’ Garda Ryan said, doubt creeping in now. ‘I noticed this. That it had started reversing from its parking space. Then, when the victim’s car came along, it stopped. And when she moved into the parking space, that vehicle, there,’ she tapped the image with her finger, ‘drove back into the space it had just left.’
No one spoke.
Beck hadn’t noticed that. He’d been looking for a person, not a vehicle.
‘Let’s have a look,’ he said. ‘Replay it, Claire.’
It was a high vehicle, so it stretched above those around it, but not by much. There was an aerial in the centre of the blue roof, a row of four spotlights in front with an air horn behind, also a strip of sun visor vinyl across the top of the windscreen. Beck could see the roof and the top portion of the windscreen as the vehicle reversed from its space. In the middle forefront, the cobalt blue Picasso of Samantha Power appeared.
The Child Before Page 22