Darkhouse (25 page)

‘I’ll order the cake in town. And get balloons delivered to the house when your father’s out. But
the big surprise, he’ll know about on the night.’ Shaun looked at her to find out more. She put a finger to her lips when she saw Joe walk into the room. He turned to her when Shaun left.

‘I’m missing something,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘You know, it’s been exactly a month since Katie went. I’m going out to walk that road again and see if I don’t think of something I didn’t the last time.’

‘Before you do that – against my wishes,’ said Anna, ‘I just want to tell you one thing, because it’s relevant to the investigation. I spoke to John Miller…’

Frank walked along the harbour with his head bowed and his hands in his pockets, obsessing about his earlier embarrassment. He felt a sudden flash of resentment at the Lucchesis that he could only explain by drawing a line between before they moved to Mountcannon and after. Because he couldn’t blame them for Katie’s death. But before they arrived, the village was what it was – something he could take for granted because life was good. Now he wanted to rewind and appreciate every day he investigated a stolen car because it was the worst thing that could happen.

More rifts had appeared in the village in one month than in its entire history. People fought with neighbours over who suspected whom; they cursed the guards, they defended the guards, they
got frustrated trying to fit theories to facts. Families were arguing over who left the back door unlocked when it had been that way for sixty years. The only thing that united them all was their desperate need for a killer to be found and locked away. It was a heavy collective power they wielded. Frank wasn’t surprised that O’Connor’s composure was starting to waver. He knew nothing about the man’s home life, but part of him hoped he had a Nora waiting for him every night to ease the burden.

He didn’t want to think about his own position. It broke his heart that his last year would be marked by tragedy. He only hoped it would have a resolution.

He sat on a battered bench by the edge of the water, closed his eyes and started to pray.

Joe followed the same route he knew Katie had taken. He wondered if he was also walking in the footsteps of her killer. She had been alone on an exposed stretch of road. It was quiet. He could hear his breath, the vinyl of his jacket, the gentle waves of the sea, even the rubber soles of his shoes. Katie would have heard footsteps. But it could all have happened too quickly; a door opening, one man driving, the other pushing her in, a van door sliding back, a group of men grabbing her. Or it could have been someone she knew, someone she trusted,
someone who had walked her home or pulled up beside her and offered her a lift. But none of this felt right.

He took a left into the cemetery and stopped again at Matt Lawson’s grave. He traced a path slowly back out and stood at the bend where the Lower Road met Manor Road. If he took a left at the end, he would be at Katie’s house. He looked around and stopped when he saw a car up ahead, pulled in to the right-hand side of road. He walked towards it and saw Richie Bates inside, his stereo cranked up. Joe knocked on the passenger window. Richie jumped.

‘What do you want?’ he barked, rolling down the window.

‘Nothing,’ said Joe. ‘Taking a walk. What about you? Stereo busted at home?’

Richie shouted over it.

‘You’ve some nerve,’ he said. ‘I’ve an investigation to run, here.’

Joe snorted. ‘I heard a D.I. from Waterford is doing that.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Richie. His right leg was out of control, jerking up and down.

‘Doing this on your own time?’ asked Joe, looking at Richie’s jeans and sweater.

‘Would you ever just get lost?’ shouted Richie. ‘I’ve a pain in my fucking arse with you.’

‘Jesus, relax,’ said Joe. Richie revved the engine and reversed to within inches of Joe, turning the
car towards the village. Joe walked back and took the road for Katie’s house.

D.I. O’Connor’s eyes were on the untouched mug of hot tea in front of him and the Danish beside it. He rolled backwards in his chair, leaned down and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. There was a white lighter with the slanted green and yellow logo of a soup company across it. He remembered finding it in his pocket the morning after a charity ball. He was about to reach for it when his phone beeped. He hit speaker.

‘Call for you on line one.’

He closed the drawer and picked up.

‘Is that Detective Inspector O’Connor? Hi, it’s Alan Brophy from the Technical Bureau. The fragments from Katie Lawson’s skull? It turns out they’re from a snail.’

‘What?’

‘I know. Here it is: the fragments come from a thick-walled shell, dark with yellowish white spirally things. It’s been identified as the Sandhill Snail or White Snail. You don’t need the Latin, right? If you do, it’s
Theba pisana
, sounds like a Spanish painter to me. Annnyway, it’s found on sand dunes, cliff faces, that kind of thing. It clings to plants and stuff. So there you have it. The most likely scenario is that she was struck with a rock, snail attached, shell embedded in skull. Next thing we know, she’s in the forest. Maggots eat away
the snail – escargot, thank you very much – and leave the shell behind.’

‘But there was no sand on the body—’

‘No, but these little beauties are also found on waste ground near the sea, so that could explain the no sand. It could have happened on a grassy bit or near a stone wall or something.’

Mariner’s Strand flashed into O’Connor’s mind. ‘OK, Alan. Thanks.’

‘My pleasure.’

Joe walked back through the village and slipped into Danaher’s for a last drink. Ray and Hugh were sitting at the bar.

‘Welcome, sir,’ said Hugh, dragging a stool out for him.

‘Thanks,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve had a shit day, evening, night…’

‘I’ve a shit life, if that makes you feel any better,’ said Hugh, shrugging. Joe admired the two messers. They came to Katie’s funeral in black suits, white shirts and black ties, both so respectable. Even Hugh’s ponytail looked groomed. The men had tears in their eyes that day, but they never brought the subject up unless he wanted to talk about it. They knew their job was to keep things light.

‘I had a run-in with Richie Bates tonight,’ said Joe, knowing this would stir them.

‘He used to be called Rich Tea Biscuits at school,’ said Hugh pretend-fondly. Rich Tea Biscuits were
an Irish tradition, plain, flat and round – made to dissolve in hot tea.

‘Didn’t anyone tell you you’re supposed to shorten people’s names?’ said Joe.

‘My name is Hugh. You can’t shorten Hugh.’

‘Wasn’t there a guy called H in that pop band? That had to have been short for an H name,’ said Ray.

‘Gentlemen, my Richie Bates story? He was in his car tonight by the strand, the stereo blasting like a—’

‘Goon,’ said Ray. ‘Gimp?’

‘Asshole?’ said Hugh.

‘I was gonna say loser,’ said Joe.

‘We can apply all four,’ said Hugh.

‘…and I scare the shit out of him,’ said Joe, ‘and he loses it, shooting his mouth off like a psycho.’

‘I’ve got a better one,’ said Ray. ‘He went loop the fucking loop the other day on the road outside the house. Because my garbage bag split. And I’m saying garbage for your benefit, Joe. I would normally be calling it rubbish.’

Joe laughed.

‘I’m telling you. He lost it. Total—’

Joe vaguely heard Ray say something about Richie and road rage as he was distracted by a bony hand on his arm. He turned to see one of the local hard drinkers, his pinched face looming close. He pointed a finger at Joe.

‘It’s well you may knock back a pint and laugh, Mr Lucchesi, with everything that’s gone on.’ And as he was walking away, he muttered loud, ‘Ya fuckin’ blow-in.’

Joe finished his drink, grabbed his jacket and left Danaher’s, irritated by the bitter old man. He was shocked at how the family had been welcomed to Mountcannon, then pitied after Katie’s death and now suddenly rejected. He realised that frustration was never the right word when an innocent person found themselves a suspect. Frustration was harmless. This was overwhelming, suffocating, exhausting. It wasn’t just Shaun they were doubting. It was Joe because of his experience with crime, it was Anna for possibly covering up for her son or her husband. They had been plunged into a situation they had no control over. Then he realised – this is exactly what someone might want.

Danny Markey walked in at the end of the lunch time rush when the crowd at Buttinsky Burger had thinned out. Wrappers and boxes littered the tables and floors. He waited until the last customer left the counter.

‘Cheeseburger, regular fries, regular Coke,’ he said. The large black man behind the counter pulled two cartons from a lukewarm shelf behind him and slid them onto a tray. ‘And anything you’d like to tell me about Duke Rawlins.’

Abelard Kane looked up slowly, his huge brown eyes staring into Danny’s.

Danny shrugged, ‘I’m afraid I’m a buttinsky.’

‘Couldn’t you find someone else’s life to butt into?’

‘Yo’ the man,’ said Danny.

‘Duke Rawlins.’ Kane’s broad face lit up. ‘What’s my fly guy done now?’

‘Fly guy?’ said Danny.

Kane picked up the cheeseburger carton and guided it through the air.

‘The guy was obsessed.’

‘With flying.’

‘With birds.’

‘What kind of birds?’ said Danny.

‘Whoa now,’ said Kane. ‘No introduction, nothin’. Who the hell are you and what’s your business?’

‘Detective Danny Markey, NYPD.’

‘That’s how you found me. But why you lookin’?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ said Danny, ‘but I just need to know a bit more about Rawlins, anything that might help us understand him better.’

Kane whistled. ‘Good luck to you, detective.’

‘Just tell me what he was like. You lived with him for five years.’

‘N.U.T.S.’

‘Anything more specific?’

‘Yup. All capital letters.’

Danny looked at him.

‘Like what specific?’ said Kane.

‘His temperament, what he was into, likes, dislikes – whatever, you know?’

‘Dating Game stuff,’ cried Kane. He put a hand on his hip, raised his pitch an octave and lisped. ‘Hello, my name is Duke and I like shooting tin cans and sleeping with my cousins. My pastimes include—’

‘All right, big guy. Cut to the chase. Help me out here.’

‘Is this where I say no, but you slip me a few benjis across the counter?’

‘And then I tell you I’m not a good cop, I’m a real bad cop and I’ll break every bone in your body if you don’t tell me what I need to know.’

Kane grinned.

‘Tell me about the birds,’ said Danny.

‘Hawks. Harris’ Hawks. Pictures all over the cell, books, bullshit about them, you name it. I coulda got a job in a bird place by the end of my time.’

‘That’s it? What about the kidnapping his friend had planned?’

‘Loser got killed. Wouldn’t want to be puttin’ no faith in that man’s plans. I’d be lookin’ for someone else to get plans from, I was you. Man, you should have seen Pukey that day. That was his nickname, Pukey Dukey. The guy lost it. He started off upset, then angry, then real fucking angry, saying Donnie should have known better,
that he shouldn’t have trapped himself in a corner. Then he blew chunks.’

‘Anything else?’

‘He said the only thing Donnie got right was killing those two people when that woman called the cops. “You make good on your promises,” he’d say.’

‘Honourable guy,’ said Danny.

‘Yeah,’ said Kane.

‘Did he say he had any plans himself, for when he got out?’

‘Sure. He showed me blueprints of bank vaults and gave me times, dates and locations. Oh, and Oswald was a patsy.’

‘All right,’ said Danny. ‘All right. But nothing else you can think of?’

Kane shook his head. ‘Mystery to me,’ he said. ‘You know, you give them the best years of your life…’ He chuckled and turned back to the till, putting his hand out. ‘Burger, fries, coke. That’ll be six dollars ninety-nine.’

Danny tossed some one-dollar bills on the counter. ‘George Washington’s the best I can do.’ He walked away.

‘Hey, detective. One more thing,’ said Kane.

Danny spun around.

‘Your drink,’ said Kane, shaking a Coke. ‘What? You think I was gonna solve your case?’ His laugh echoed off the stainless steel. Danny had to smile.

‘You know? There
was
something,’ said Kane.

‘Do you know what was funny? Ha-ha, not peculiar?’

‘What?’

‘Duke was beating himself up about the whole kidnapping/shooting mess, because Donnie was getting this money for him, but rumour has it, there was a whole other person about to hit the jackpot, someone who needed money so’s
not
to be around when Duke Rawlins got out.’ He laughed. ‘No doubt about it, Dukey’d be seriously pukey if he knew who that was. Techni-fuckin’-colour pukey.’

Joe stopped the Jeep to let a group of children cross the street to the harbour. He looked down at the mug shot on the passenger seat. Duke Rawlins stared back at him from a bad fax. Joe thought of the Italian doctor in the eighteen hundreds who studied criminals’ faces and came to the conclusion that most of them had a long face, prominent jaw and thick dark hair. Not Duke Rawlins. Joe drove on, pulling up outside the station.

‘Magnum’s back,’ Richie muttered to Frank when he walked in.

‘Look, there’s something you should know about Mae Miller,’ said Joe.

They looked at him blankly.

‘She’s got Alzheimer’s.’

‘There is nothing wrong with Mae Miller’s mind,’ said Frank, standing up. ‘The woman is as
bright as a button.’ He tapped his temple with two fingers. ‘Why would you go around saying a thing like that?’

‘I’m not saying it for the hell of it,’ snapped Joe. ‘John Miller told Anna. Uh, confidentially.’

‘Well, it’s absolute nonsense,’ said Frank. ‘She seems perfectly fine to me. It’s John Miller’s sanity I’d be worried about.’

‘There was nothing you thought unusual about her when you two spoke that time?’ said Joe.

‘No,’ said Frank. But his mind went back to the strange sexual embrace he had been pulled into by the respectable schoolteacher.