Buried in a Bog (26 page)

“Why would these McCarthys be bothering me?” Maura asked. “They’re not even from around here, are they?”

“It’s no more than twenty miles, and that’s a question we’d be better able to answer there. If you don’t mind the ride?”

“Of course I don’t, if you think it’ll help. But will this be risky? I mean, would they know that you’re interested in them? Considering them suspects?”

“It seems unlikely.”

“Huh,” Maura said, reflecting. “So we’re supposed to just walk in and have a chat with whoever’s home, right? No flashing lights, no police, er, gardaí wearing bulletproof vests with guns drawn?”

“It hasn’t come to that yet in Ireland.” Detective Hurley smiled. Maura could have sworn that he was trying hard not to laugh. He nodded at Sean Murphy, who said crisply, “Uniformed officers in the Garda Síochána do not carry firearms, although plain clothed detectives may. Furthermore, we may search an individual whom we have arrested without a warrant and seize goods so obtained as necessary or to support the charge. Although in most cases a warrant should be obtained for any search of a person, a vehicle, or a premises. Right, sir?” He glanced eagerly at Detective Hurley.

“Just fine, Murphy. But in any case, Maura, this is not an official search. We only want to ask some questions with regard to the harassment you’ve been subjected to. If it’s any comfort to you, we may make an arrest without a warrant if we suspect that an arrestable offense has been committed and have reason to believe the person is guilty of that offense. And we may search without an arrest warrant any residence where we believe a suspect to be. Of course, the easiest course is if the owner gives permission.”

Maura reached for another scone. “Okay, I get it. We’re just going to talk to one of the many, many McCarthys around here, who may or may not have anything to do with what’s been happening to me this week, or even with the dead guy in the bog. And you’re hoping that whoever answers the door will be happy to let you in and chat?”

“Precisely. Are you willing?”

“Why not? Let me tell Ellen we’re going.” She grabbed up her cup and plate and went to the kitchen in search of Ellen. She left the kitchen and found the two men standing in the front hall waiting for her. “Do I need to drive?”

“No. We brought the two cars, in the event of an arrest,” Detective Hurley answered. “You can ride with me.”

That statement sobered Maura quickly. It seemed to her that they had hardly enough information to even think about an arrest, but she guessed she would find out soon enough. She followed the men up the driveway, where the detective guided her to his unmarked car, then held the door for her.

Once they were on the main road, Maura asked, “How far is the place?”

“Clogagh? As I said, twenty miles, more or less, mostly by the main road. It should take less than an hour. Have you seen much of the country around here?”

Maura laughed shortly. “Only what I could see from the bus between Dublin and Leap, and the local roads around here to Skibbereen, Cork, and Drinagh, and a couple of townlands. That’s about it.”

“Pity. There’s much that’s lovely. Though this must seem dull to you—we’re mainly farms and open land.”

“We do have scenery back home too, you know, and it’s pretty. But I grew up in the city.”

“Of course.” Several miles passed in silence. She checked to see the other car, driven by Sean Murphy, trailing behind them.

Then she said, “I don’t know much about Irish law. If this grandson Whatever-His-Name-Is turns out to be the guy who’s been following me around, what’s he looking at? I mean, what can you charge him with, and what would be the penalties?”

“Do you want the long speech or the short one?”

“Whatever there’s time for.”

“Our crime rate here is very low, certainly compared to
your country, and that’s something we’re proud of. So when something like this string of incidents happens, particularly to a visitor, we’re not going to send the fellow on his way with a slap on the hand. Assuming this is the same man, he’s committed quite the list of crimes. There’s assault with intent to do harm—that’s the event with your car. Endangerment. Dangerous driving. Harassment. Forcible entry, although we don’t know that he had any intention of stealing anything. Those are what we call headline offenses here.”

“And would that mean he’d go to jail?”

“Most likely. I don’t know much about your justice system in America, but if this is our lad, he’s committed more than one crime, and he has to face the consequences.”

“Amen,” Maura said. But still, she felt torn. On the one hand, Jerry McCarthy, if he was the right guy, had threatened her more than once, and she wanted him to pay for that. On the other hand, she was the outsider here, and she didn’t want to seem vindictive. What she wanted most was to understand why he was trying so hard to drive her away. If there was so little crime around here, then he must have had an important reason to come after her.

They said little more for the rest of the trip. Maura read road signs, trying to figure out what was where. Past Clonakilty the main road veered north, inland. After another five miles or so, Detective Hurley turned onto a smaller road that led east, running straight for two miles or so. Maura watched the scenery unroll, wondering what they were going to find ahead.

They turned, crossed a small bridge, then turned again, the lanes growing ever narrower. Then Hurley pulled into a muddy, rutted drive and stopped. He turned to her. “This is it.”

Maura looked around her. They had parked in the open area that lay between a house and a cattle barn—or what she assumed was a cattle barn, based on the wisps of hay and clumps of manure she could see. This was not a picturesque slice of scenic Ireland: it was a relatively modern dairy farm. The house, like so many she’d seen, could be fifty or a hundred years old, and the barn was corrugated aluminum. Sean Murphy’s car pulled in behind theirs.

Maura had to ask, “How the heck do you guys ever find any place around here? There are no road signs, no house numbers. Does GPS even work, in a place where the roads don’t have names?”

“This is the right place,” Detective Hurley said.

“What happens now?” she said.

“I’ll need a word with Murphy.”

Maura waited while he conferred with Sean and then sent him around to the other side of the property. Hurley and Maura waited together until Sean returned.

“Brown car behind the barn, sir. Plate matches.”

“Come on, both of you.” Hurley gestured toward the barn. Maura followed reluctantly, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell of manure. When they reached the corner, she peered around and saw a dirty brown car.

“Is that the car?”

“Yeah, that’s it. There’s the cracked headlight, and a fresh-looking dent on the front fender.”

“Then we’ll go have a word with Denis and Jerry McCarthy. You come along and tell me if you recognize young Jerry. If he’s not here, we’ll talk to his grandfather, see what he can tell us. I’ll go first—there’s always the chance he might be unwilling to let us in.”

“Fine.” Maura realized her heart was pounding. She hung back behind Detective Hurley as he rapped on the door, then rapped again. He listened for a moment and then relaxed. It took another half a minute for Maura to hear the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching. Finally the door opened.

The man who faced them was old, very old. He had probably been tall once but had shrunken into himself and was now thin and wiry, like his skin had shrunken to his bones. His face was beyond wrinkled: it was folded into lines worn deep by decades of use. His white hair wisped around his half-bald head. But, Maura noted, his eyes were sharp and knowing. He looked up at the detective and nodded to himself, then looked beyond him, taking in the uniformed garda behind. And then his gaze shifted to Maura, and she would have sworn she saw a flicker of surprise.

Finally his eyes swung back to Hurley. “Gardaí, eh? I’ve been expecting you.”

Hurley spoke. “Denis McCarthy?” The old man nodded again. “We’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind.” His tone was polite, even respectful. Denis McCarthy said nothing more but stepped back into his hallway to let Hurley pass, followed by Maura and then Sean. They found themselves in a long, narrow hall, with doors on either side.

“Straight on to the back,” Denis said. Like dutiful children they filed down the hall, Denis making his slow way after them. Despite the tension, or maybe because of it, Maura found herself noting odd details. They passed a kitchen on the right, littered with dirty dishes, pots, and cans; it stank of long neglect. On the left, a dining room with a large table, strewn with papers, clothes, and odd pieces of greasy machinery. At the end of the hall they came
to the formal sitting room. Maura wondered idly where the bedrooms were—behind, above? The room was filled with unmatched overstuffed furniture, faded and worn, and several generations of gewgaws—all in serious need of dusting. Clearly the McCarthys had not enjoyed the benefit of a woman’s presence for a long time.

“Sit, will yeh?” McCarthy Senior had finally entered the room, and gestured vaguely around. One of the chairs clearly belonged to Denis, and he crossed the room and sank into it with a small sigh of relief, settling into the contours worn by years of use. Hurley waited for Maura to perch gingerly on a dusty straight-backed chair, then took the mate of the upholstered chair close to Denis. Sean remained standing at the door to the hallway.

When they were settled, Hurley began, “Mr. McCarthy, I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Hurley, of the Skibbereen Gardaí. This is my colleague, Officer Murphy. We’d like to have a word with your grandson, Jerry. Is he here?”

Maura could have sworn that the question surprised Denis McCarthy. Was he expecting something else?

“He’s out seein’ to the cows. In the barn.”

Hurley looked at Sean. “Murphy, would you go round him up?” Sean disappeared back down the hall.

“You and your grandson live here alone?” Hurley continued.

“Yes.”

“And you have a car?”

“I do—it’s out back, behind the barn.”

“Does Jerry use the car?”

“He does. What’re you after?”

“Mr. McCarthy, I have reason to believe that your
grandson has been harassing this woman.” He gestured toward Maura. “Her name is Maura Donovan, and she’s an American visitor. Do you have any idea why your grandson might threaten her?”

“And why would he be doin’ that?”

“That’s what we’d like to ask him.”

Maura heard the front door open again, followed by the sound of heavy boots approaching. She looked at the doorway to see a young man, none too clean, his arm in the firm grip of Officer Murphy. Around Jerry’s neck dangled an incongruously modern iPod, which explained why he hadn’t heard them arrive. The odor of manure wafted into the stuffy room.

Hurley stood. “Jerry McCarthy?”

The young man gave him a sullen glare, then nodded. “Yeah.”

Hurley looked to Maura. “Maura?” he prompted.

Maura wrestled between confusion and disappointment: the young man looked vaguely familiar, but he was not the one she’d come face-to-face with in Drinagh, and she was pretty sure that if he’d been on the receiving end of her lamp the night before, it would show. “Detective, this is not the man I saw in the cemetery.”

“You’re sure?” Hurley held her glance a moment, his eyes questioning, then turned back to Murphy and his charge. “Jerry, sit down. We have some questions for you, about the car.”

Jerry’s eyes darted to his grandfather, then he pulled a chair from against the wall, dragged it next to his grandfather’s chair, and sat. The two exchanged a wary glance, and Maura wondered what they were worried about. “So?”

Hurley resumed his former seat. “Where were you last night?”

“Out. Round at the pub.”

“Which one?”

“Stopped in at a couple of places.”

“And would one of those have been in Leap?”

“No.”

“What time did you return home, Jerry?”

Again, the furtive exchange of glances with the old man. “Late, after the pubs closed.”

Hurley turned to the older man. “Mr. McCarthy, do you know when your grandson returned?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Me hearin’s not what it once was, and I sleep sound.”

Detective Hurley lapsed into silence, and Maura wondered just what else he could ask. She had recognized the car but not Jerry McCarthy. Who else might have used the car? It couldn’t have been Denis McCarthy—no way the person she had seen was this old man.

The elder McCarthy finally said slowly, “I hear there’s been a bit of a ruckus over to Leap—they’ve found a body? One that had been there fer a while?”

The detective said, “Yes, sir, in a bog near Knockskagh. Why do you ask?”

The old man sighed and seemed to deflate, settling deeper into his chair like a turtle into its shell. “I might know something about that. I’ve been expectin’ you at my door before, as I always knew it would come out. The body—I’m thinkin’ that would be me uncle Denis, my mother’s brother.”

A
thick silence fell.
I was right
, Maura cheered silently. The Bog Man
was
a McCarthy, and the odds were looking good that he was the missing uncle. She looked triumphantly at Patrick Hurley, who responded with a smile and a small nod.