Buried in a Bog (23 page)

The man behind the desk stood up courteously when she entered. “I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Patrick Hurley. Please, have a seat.”

He was the man she’d seen before—the one who was in charge.
Now
he wanted to talk to her? He waited until Maura had settled in a chair before sitting again. Sean remained standing, behind Maura’s chair.

“My officer here says you have information regarding the dead man from the bog?” Detective Hurley began. Deep voice, cultured accent, Maura noted. She squared her chin and quickly assessed the man’s appearance: his dark hair was tinged with silver, and his eyes were a color that she would have said was impossibly blue. He was solidly built—and he exuded authority. She could see why he was the man in charge here.

Maura found her voice. “I’m Maura Donovan, from Boston. I’m just visiting, staying in Leap. And I wouldn’t say I have information—only a guess, but I thought someone here should know, just in case, you know.” She stopped: to her ears she sounded like she was babbling.

The detective nodded, once. “I’m in charge of investigations of all murders in this district. How did you come to know about that body?” He gave the impression that he was paying close attention, without any sense of hurry.

Maura took a breath to calm herself. Why should she be nervous? “I happened to be driving by when your people were pulling the body out of the bog a few days ago. And of course everybody was talking about it at the pub in Leap after that. Sullivan’s.”

“Ah. Mick Sullivan’s place. He was a good man, and he’ll be missed.” Detective Hurley paused for a moment. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Well, it kind of relates to Mick Sullivan. I’ve been helping out at the pub, and I was cleaning up behind the bar and
found this letter with a bunch of other mail. It’s addressed to Mick, and it was already open so I figured he’d read it. I read it too, to figure out whether it was important and who should get it. I suppose I just could have taken it to the post office and told them to send it back, but it was from a guy in Australia, and I guess I thought it was kind of a cold way to find out that Mick Sullivan was dead.” She pushed it across the desk. Detective Hurley looked briefly at it but didn’t touch it. “I didn’t know what to do with it, so I asked Mick Nolan’s grandmother if Old Mick had any family living around there, or who was handling his estate or whatever you want to call it. She couldn’t help much, and no one else seemed to know. I tried to bring it to you the other day, but everyone was busy with Bart Hayes’s death, so I put the letter in my bag, and then I kind of forgot about it. The last few days have been, uh, distracting.” Maura stopped to take a deep breath. The detective must think she was an idiot, the way she was rambling.

When Detective Hurley raised an eyebrow, Officer Murphy spoke for the first time. “Miss Donovan was run off the road, this side of Knockskagh—no damage, and she couldn’t identify the car or the driver at the time. Today she came in to report that she saw the same man today, and he threatened her. Then she recalled that she still had the letter.”

The detective turned his attention to Maura. “Is that correct?”

Maura nodded. “More or less. Look, before you ask, I’ve been here less than a week. I don’t know anybody or anything, and I have no idea why somebody would be pissed off at me.”

“I understand. Murphy, you’re dealing with this harassment issue?” When he nodded, the detective turned back to Maura.
“Let’s go back to the letter and how it relates to our man in the bog. What’s in this letter?”

“Well, it came from a guy named Denis Flaherty in Australia. His family emigrated from Ireland when he was young, and now he’s getting old and wants to fill in his family tree while he still can. All he knew was that they were from Cork somewhere, possibly from around Leap. He thinks he and Old Mick might have been related, and he mentions a family story about an uncle of his who kind of disappeared back in the 1930s, and no one ever heard from him again. I know it would be a huge coincidence, but I couldn’t help wondering if that missing uncle might be the dead guy you’ve got.” Maura stopped, appalled at how confused her story sounded.

Detective Hurley was looking at her with curiosity. Which at least was better than contempt. “So you’ve brought the letter to me.”

“Well, I figured somebody should have it. I know, it sounds crazy. You must be busy, and I’ll just get out of your hair now.”

The detective smiled. “Please, don’t rush off, Miss Donovan. Your information is no stranger than some we’ve had. Everyone has an opinion, as no doubt you’ve already seen at Sullivan’s.”

At least he hadn’t dismissed her as an idiot. “Can you tell me anything more about the body?”

After a few seconds of consideration, he said, “We have the postmortem from the county pathologist, of course. The body appears to be male, no more than fifty.”

So far, so good
, Maura thought. “Do you know how long he’s been in the bog?”

“That’s more difficult. Do you know much about bogs?”

“Nope.”

“Well, they’re peat, a plant that used to be used as heating fuel—after it’s dried. It’s still used for power generation these days—there are quite a few bogs around. As bogs are usually very wet and acidic, they can preserve things for a very long time. Sometimes things—and bodies—have been preserved for centuries. This body was found a foot or two below the surface, so we’re guessing it had been there a good long time, but not more than a century. We could make a rough estimate based on the rate of growth of the peat, but we also had what’s left of the clothes as well—buttons and such.”

“No buttons in the Middle Ages?” Maura asked.

“Not like these.”

“So it’s possible that it could be Denis McCarthy?”

He cocked his head at her. “It is. Did your Denis Flaherty know the townland?”

“He didn’t seem to.” Maura said. “Me, I’m barely clear on what a townland is. I asked a couple of people at the pub if they knew of any local McCarthys, and they practically laughed at me. Seems there were lots of McCarthy families around.”

“There still are. Murphy, you can check the records, see if any McCarthys reported the man missing.”

“Already done, sir,” Sean Murphy responded quickly. “We’ve been through what few records we have for people who have gone missing, and found no one who fits the description. Of course, the early records are a bit scant, and not everyone would have made a report, nor are those earlier records in the best of condition.”

Hurley turned back to Maura. “We’ll hold on to the letter for now, if you’ve no objection.”

“Please! It’s not exactly mine—I kept it only because I couldn’t figure out what to do with it. And it didn’t seem right just to throw it away.”

“I’m glad you brought it in.” He glanced at it again, and his focused sharpened. “Your letter writer says here that the only thing that went missing with this uncle of his was his favorite pipe, carved by his brother, with a knot pattern on it. Murphy, do you have that list of items found on the body?”

“I do, sir. Give me a moment.” Sean Murphy went quickly to his desk in the open area and returned a few moments later with a folder, from which he extricated a sheet of paper and handed it to the detective.

Detective Hurley looked at the page, then looked again at Maura. “It appears we have a match.”

Maura went cold. This was ridiculous—she just happened to be around when the body was found, and she just happened to find a letter that could just as easily have been thrown away, or lain in the pub for years, and the two just happened to be connected? What were the odds of that? “So the Bog Man is Denis Flaherty’s missing uncle? And he was murdered?”

“It appears likely. Too bad we can’t ask Old Mick what the connection was, if Denis had the right family. I understand there’s some issue as to who inherits, so I assume someone is looking into the family history. Check on that, will you, Murphy?”

“Right, sir.”

Maura wondered briefly why the head police officer of
the entire district would know about Old Mick’s lack of heirs; obviously she still had a lot to learn about how things worked around here. “What do you do now?” she asked.

“We are still treating it as a murder investigation. You’ve done us a great favor by providing a possible identity for the body. Can I count on you not to share the information about the murder?”

“Sure, of course,” Maura said, “but I’m pretty sure most people know about it already. You know, people talk in pubs.”

He nodded. “If they talk, listen carefully, then let me or Murphy know if you hear anything that might be of value.” He stood up, signaling the end of the interview. “Thank you for stopping by. Most people might not have done. Officer Murphy has your information, if we should need anything further?”

Maura nodded. “Yup. If you need to find me, try the pub, or maybe Ellen Keohane’s place by the harbor—that’s where I’m staying. And Officer Murphy has my mobile number.”

“He’ll see you out, then. Thank you again.”

Sean Murphy opened the door and waited while Maura went through. At the front door she found herself standing on the station steps, feeling confused.

“What just happened?” Maura said.

Sean Murphy smiled at her. “You identified a man who died long before you were born.”

“But things like this just don’t happen!” Maura protested. “I don’t understand. Why me?”

“I can’t say. Why did you bring the letter in at all? Others wouldn’t have.”

“It seemed like the right thing to do. I felt bad for the
poor old guy in Australia, hoping to find an answer after all this time.”

“It was good of you to bring the letter in—you never know what might be important. Will you be all right, getting back?”

“You mean, driving back to Leap? I think I can handle it.” Maura smiled at him. “I’ll let you know if I see that damn brown car again. Thanks, Officer Murphy. Sean.” Maura extended her hand.

“Take care, now.” He shook her hand, then let her go.

Maura made the loop around the town and found herself on the main road once again. The drive back was uneventful, although she kept glancing in her rearview mirror, looking for the brown car. There was little traffic, and none of it looked ominous.

Her mind kept jumping around. What could that jerk want? Was he actually following her? Why? As far as she knew, she didn’t have any enemies, here or in any country. She had to admit that he hadn’t looked very bright; maybe he had her mixed up with someone else? Not that there were too many people of her description around at the moment.

And then that thing with the letter. How weird was that?

She arrived back in Leap and left the car behind the Keohanes’ house, walking up the drive to the road above. She looked both ways for cars but could see only one, at least half a mile away, and it was red.
Getting paranoid, are you?
She crossed over to the pub and found Rose behind the bar. Her father, Jimmy, was seated in front of the fire, giving Old Billy Sheahan all the details of his hospital stay. To hear him talk, he’d survived intricate major surgery, not a simple cast for a broken bone in his forearm. Maura
dumped her bag and jacket behind the bar and went over to the two men.

“So, Jimmy, are you back to work?”

“There you are, Maura my dear. My doctor says I should take it easy for a few more days—no heavy lifting and all. But I didn’t want to leave you two ladies here on your own, not with a killer running around the streets.”

Maura tensed, then realized he was talking about the mugging death. She wondered how long he could spin out the “no heavy lifting” excuse. Apparently a full pint of Guinness didn’t fall in that category. “Can I get you anything, Billy?”

“I’m grand, thank you very much. If you’ve the time, why don’t you come sit with me awhile? I’ve heard all this fella’s stories more than once.” He nodded at Jimmy.

Jimmy struggled to look offended. “You cut me to the quick, sir. But I could use a quick bite, before the evening rush. I’ll leave you to your tales.” He extricated himself from the sprung seat of the chair, waved at his daughter, and headed out the door, whistling.

Billy was still watching her expectantly. There were a few other customers in the place, but Rose was handling them, so Maura sat in the chair Jimmy had vacated. “You’ve had a spot of trouble, I hear,” Billy began.

As far as Maura knew, the man never moved more than fifty feet from where they sat. Which trouble was he talking about, and who would have told him what? “You mean when I nearly ended up in the lough?”

“It’s always been a bad road, but I can remember when there were children aplenty running up and down it, and carts goin’ to the creamery at the bottom, by the water.
You’ll have been by it, although it’s been closed for a while now. The old school’s just there to the left, where the lane meets the road.”

Maura wondered what the definition of “a while” was for Old Billy and whether it was measured in years or decades. Then she realized that the school he spoke of might have been the one her grandfather had attended, maybe even her father. “Tell me more about the school. How many students were there?”

“They kept the boys and the girls apart, back in those days…” And Billy was off and running, stopping only now and then to take a swallow of his stout. In truth he needed no push, now that he’d found a new and willing listener for his tales. Probably everyone who passed through Sullivan’s had heard them all before. Realizing it could be some time before she got back to work, Maura looked briefly at Rose, who winked at her. Maura winked back and settled into the sagging chair for the long haul.

P
eople began to drift in, in ones and twos, later in the afternoon, and Maura had to tear herself away from Billy’s storytelling session, with some regret—she had enjoyed listening to him more than she had expected. His recollection of local events was deep, though their breadth extended no more than ten miles from Leap. Still, Maura was sure he could tell her more about her own family, if she could get a word in and nudge him in the right direction. But she would have time for that, wouldn’t she? She wasn’t going anywhere soon. She was still getting used to that idea.