Buried in a Bog (27 page)

Detective Hurley turned again to Denis McCarthy. “Do you know how he came to die?”

He nodded. “I do. My father killed him.”

Maura was startled when young Jerry jumped up from his chair. “Grandda! Don’t tell ’em nothin’.”

His grandfather regarded him gravely, and for a moment Maura saw a flash of his authority. “Jer, give over. It’s goin’ ta come out anywise. And it’s right that it should.” He squared his shoulders and faced Hurley.

Hurley nodded once. “Can you tell us about it, sir?”

“I will. But it may take a bit. Can I give you some tea, or something stronger?”

“Thank you, but there’s no need.”

“I think I need something. Jerry?”

An exchange of glances ensued: Denis looked at Hurley with a hint of challenge in his watery eyes, Jerry still glared at his grandfather, Sean appealed mutely to Hurley for guidance, and Hurley glanced at Maura and considered. Finally he said, “Murphy, why don’t you take Jerry to the kitchen to make the tea? He won’t be going anywhere. I’m sure it’s in his best interest to have us hear what his grandfather has to say.”

“Right, sir,” Murphy responded promptly, and he and Jerry clomped down the uncarpeted hall toward the kitchen.

Hurley and Denis eyed each other appraisingly, as if sharing some unspoken dialogue. Denis spoke first. “The girl here—you say she’s from America?”

Maura answered him. “Yes. I’m Maura Donovan, from Boston,” she said clearly.

“Mmh.” He lapsed into silence, and Hurley did not press him.
Maybe the rules of interrogation are different in Ireland
, Maura thought.
Or maybe everything is just slower here.
After a few minutes, she could hear the other men coming down the hall, the clink of china. Jerry emerged from the hallway carrying a battered metal tray laden with mismatched mugs, a teapot, glasses—and a half-full bottle of whiskey. At the sight of the bottle, Maura almost giggled: this was definitely not the way things were done back home. Jerry thumped the tray down on a wobbly table, china rattling.

“Here’s your tea, then.” He sat again and retreated to his
sulk, under the watchful eye of Sean Murphy. All other eyes turned to the old man.

Until another man appeared in the doorway, a twenty-something man who looked the worse for wear. Apparently he hadn’t expected to find a roomful of people: he was wearing only a grimy singlet and briefs, and he sported a clumsy bloodstained bandage taped to his forehead. Mid-twenties, small and weaselly—and given that he was in his underwear, couldn’t be hiding a weapon. “Wha…?”

Maura stood without thinking, staring at the newcomer. “Detective,
that’s
the man from the cemetery!”

If it had not been for the guy’s threatening glance and the startled reaction from the others in the room, Maura might have enjoyed the scene. Jerry had jumped out of his chair as well and backed away; he looked scared. Officer Murphy had come to attention and slid over to block the door to the front, so no one could leave that way. Patrick Hurley was out of his chair fast, turning to face the latecomer. Maura began to retreat, not that anyone noticed. The latecomer scanned the group in front of him and took their measure quickly—he was no stranger to the gardaí, Maura guessed. How would he play it? Bluff? Cut and run? Or attack?

For a long moment everyone stood frozen, but then, having figured out his odds weren’t good, the young man turned to flee the way he had come, and Hurley moved quickly to intercept him. Unfortunately the younger man knew how to fight, and he reacted equally quickly. If the detective had hoped for an easy grab, he was disappointed, and found himself wrestling the man around the room, at the expense of the knickknacks. Old Denis McCarthy had shrunk back into his chair. Maura pressed herself against a wall, trying
to keep out of the way; poor Sean Murphy was torn between keeping track of Jerry and joining the fray. But before Sean could make up his mind, Detective Hurley subdued the man, twisting his arm behind him.

“Murphy! You have handcuffs?” Hurley barked.

“Yes, sir!” Sean disentangled them from his belt and clapped them on the man, then stood eagerly awaiting his next instructions.

“Sit him down there, and keep an eye on him,” Hurley ordered. Sean complied, pushing the man down into the chair Maura had vacated and keeping one broad hand on his shoulder.

“Jerry, stay where you are.” Hurley remained standing. “All right, you. What’s your name?”

The newcomer glared at him and said nothing. Hurley turned to Denis McCarthy. “You know this man?”

Denis looked briefly at his cowering grandson. “He’s a mate of Jerry’s—he’s been stayin’ here. Name’s Danny Mullan, from Dublin.”

“Shut up, old man,” Danny spit out.

Denis seemed to swell. “This is my home you’ve dirtied, and I’ll say what I want!”

Danny’s bandage had slipped off, revealing a bruised lump around a scabbed gash. “Nasty bump on your head there,” Detective Hurley said. “Mind telling me where you got it?”

“You chargin’ me with something? I ain’t sayin’ nothing.”

The detective glanced at Maura. “Your work?”

Maura nodded from the safety of her corner. “Probably. I know I hit him on the head, on that side.”

He turned back to Danny. “All right, then. Let’s begin with assault with intent to do bodily harm. Mr. Mullan, you
are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”

Maura wondered irreverently who in the room would have a free hand to write down anything.

Danny’s only response was a dour glare. Hurley looked at Sean, who was almost panting with eagerness. “Murphy, think you can get him back to Skibbereen?”

“Yes, sir! What about the other one?” He nodded toward Jerry, cowering behind his grandfather’s chair.

“No, just that one—Mullan. I want to talk to Jerry here. You start the paperwork on Mullan, and I’ll be along directly, after I’ve sorted this.”

Sean hauled Danny out of the chair, with somewhat more force than necessary.

“He might need some trousers,” Detective Hurley noted with a hint of amusement. He turned back to Denis. “Mr. McCarthy, as it’s your house, will you give me permission to search the room this man’s been using?”

Denis McCarthy nodded. “Gladly. It’s up the stair, first on the right.”

“Murphy, wait here.” Hurley went back to the hall, and soon Maura could hear footsteps overhead. He returned a minute or two later with a pair of grimy jeans over his arm and a pair of shoes in one hand—and a battered leather wallet in the other.

Hurley tossed the jeans toward Danny. “Here.”

He waited until Danny had struggled into the jeans, hampered by the handcuffs, then asked neutrally, “Is this yours, Mr. Mullan?” He held up the wallet, protected by a handkerchief. Danny Mullan didn’t answer. “I’d guess not, since
the cards inside carry the name of Bartholomew Hayes, who was found dead in Skibbereen a few days ago, following a mugging. Have you anything to say about that?”

Sean Murphy’s hand tightened on Danny Mullan’s shoulder. Jerry was watching Danny with a mixture of fear and hostility. Jerry didn’t look like he could hurt a rabbit, but he had to know by now—if he hadn’t already known—what his mate Danny had done.

Maura saw the flicker of alarm in Danny’s eyes before the shutter dropped again. “Who?”

“You’re not that stupid. The dead man in Skibbereen.”

Danny avoided the detective’s eyes. “Found the wallet in the street.”

“Did you now? Where were you last Thursday night?”

“With my mate Jerry. We might have gone for a pint or two.”

Suddenly Maura realized why Jerry had looked familiar to her. “Wait!” Maura interrupted. “You were in Sullivan’s in Leap, when Bart Hayes came in. You and Jerry both, sitting in the corner. Sorry, Detective, but I didn’t think of it before—that was only my second night at the pub, and there were a lot of people coming and going. But now that I see him up close, I recognize both of them.”

Danny glared at her, and Jerry somehow managed to look even more scared, with a dash of guilty thrown in. Maura could envision Danny going after Bart Hayes, and she could even see him bullying Jerry into keeping quiet, but she had trouble seeing Jerry as anything but a follower. Danny had to have been behind whatever had happened, to Bart Hayes and to her.

Hurley nodded at Sean. “You take Mullan along now,
and we’ll sort it out at the station. I want to talk to the McCarthys here, but I won’t be long.”

“Right so. You, let’s go.” Sean Murphy all but dragged Danny Mullan out the door.

Detective Hurley sat down in the chair next to Denis’s. “Not a welcome guest, I take it?”

“Pah!” the old man spat out. “If I was twenty years younger, I would have pushed him out the door when he first showed his face.”

“And that was…?”

“Two week gone?” He turned to his cowering grandson. “Eh, Jerry, he’s
your
mate. Sit you down and tell the garda what you know.”

Reluctantly Jerry sidled into the circle and sat. “He’s no friend of mine, Grandda.”

Denis gave him a long look, then turned to Hurley. “The boy’s an eejit, but he’s not all bad. That Danny, he’s led him astray.”

“Let’s start with that young man,” Hurley said. “He’s not from Cork?”

“Nah,” the old man said contemptuously. “Jerry here—he’s me son John’s boy. John didn’t want to have nothin’ to do with the farm, took himself off to Dublin when he left school and stayed on, even after he married. But Jerry fell in with the wrong crowd there, so John sent him back here to help me out with the cows and all, now that I’m gettin’ on. He’s done a good job, considerin’ he couldn’t tell one end of the cow from the other when he first came—it’s been a year or more now. But then, oh, two, three weeks ago, this Danny fella shows up and makes himself at home.”

Hurley turned to Jerry. “You knew him in Dublin?”

Jerry nodded, staring at his knees. “Yah. We used to hang out together.”

“What was he doing here? Don’t tell me he wanted a nice vacation in the country.”

Jerry shook his head, his unwashed hair tumbling over his eyes. “Things got a bit warm for him in Dublin, so he thought it might be good to be somewhere else fer a while, and he remembered that I was out here with me grandda.”

“So let me help you out here. Danny arrived and made himself at home. And I’m willing to bet that after the first few days he found the place a bit dull and went looking for some excitement in your grandfather’s car. Am I right so far?”

Jerry nodded.

Hurley went on. “Did you always go along with him?”

Jerry shook his head. “Not always.”

“What about that night in Skibbereen, when Bart Hayes died? Were you there?”

Jerry shook his head vehemently. “No ways! He went off on his own that night.”

“The two of you were together at Sullivan’s,” Maura interrupted, “the same time Bart Hayes was there. I saw you. You had only the one car. Did you follow Bart Hayes to Skibbereen?”

The whites of young Jerry’s eyes flashed, although he kept his mouth shut.

“Hang on,” Maura said more slowly, as bits and pieces came back to her. “The next day—the day they found the body—I went to the garda station, because I wanted to give somebody the letter I found at the pub.” Detective Hurley was watching her curiously, and Maura turned to him. “I didn’t get to give it to you then because you were all so busy
with the murder, but when I was leaving I saw Jerry here lurking in the parking lot near my car. Did you follow me there, Jerry? Were you wondering what I was going to tell the gardaí? That I knew you’d seen Bart Hayes, and I knew you’d left not long after he did?”

Hurley gave her an approving nod, then turned back to Jerry. “So you and Danny ended up in Skibbereen, and you saw a chance to help yourselves to some quick cash?”

“No, it weren’t me—Danny did it!” Jerry now looked terrified.

The detective pushed on. “Did he know he’d killed the man?”

“Honest to God, no, sir! I didn’t know what he was planning, neither. We split up for a bit in Skibbereen—he said he had something to do, and I didn’t ask what. But then he shows up with a pocket full of money, and when we’re back here he brags that he’d seen this guy—Hayes, you said?—and he’s not too steady on his pins, flashing some bills. So Danny said he followed him and kind of hustled him into the alley and down he went. And that’s all I knew, until I heard people talkin’.”

Maura wondered just how much of Jerry’s story was true. She had no doubt that Danny had done the deed, but would Jerry really have gone off on his own? Would Danny have let him? There was probably no way to prove it.

“Did you see it happen?” Hurley asked.

“I did not,” Jerry protested quickly, “and that’s God’s truth.”

Hurley glanced at Maura. “Can you tell me why Danny was threatening this woman, then?”

“He figgered she was the only one could tie us to the dead
man. He thought she’d be easy to scare off, so he started giving her a hard time. He took the car.” Jerry appealed to Maura, “You saw him, in the car, right? I wasn’t there, was I?”

“No,” Maura said slowly. “I saw only one man in the car. And only one man at the cemetery.”

Jerry turned triumphantly back to Hurley. “There, you see? It was all Danny, like. Not me.”

For the first time Maura realized that Denis McCarthy was staring at her. “There’s more to the story,” he said, “though young Jerry here doesn’t know all of it.” He looked squarely at Detective Hurley. “But it’s a long tale.” With a gleam in his eye, he said, “Will you drink with me?” When he hesitated, Denis added, “It’s a rare story I have for you, but a dry one.”

Hurley cast a quick glance toward Maura, then spoke, “My pleasure, sir.” He picked up the whiskey bottle, which had miraculously remained upright through the scuffle, and filled two of the glasses with an inch of the whiskey each, then handed one glass to Denis. He didn’t offer any to Jerry or Maura, but she figured there was some obscure ritual going on in front of her.

When they were supplied with drink, Denis took a substantial swallow from his glass before launching into his story. “It’s an old story, not a new one. And I’m thinking you’d be a part of it.”