Deadly Intent (15 page)

‘You must have met him for the first time soon after that?'

Nessa smiled. ‘Yes, the following autumn – but far away from Moscow, in the mountains of Mallorca. Later, though, Patrick got some work translating and organising for Irish companies that were keen to dip their toes in Russian waters, and he was invited back a few times, which accounts for his alleged familiarity with business figures. Mind you, we're not talking shady billionaires here, or even Oscar's kind of millionaire either.'

‘But Jack also claims that Patrick's in with some sinister security types over there?'

‘For which you should read that Patrick knows one individual who worked in Russian intelligence for about five years, in a desk job that involved no spying. I've been racking my brains about this, as you can imagine, and I think he also knows someone else who works as a security guard for a private company.'

‘But even so, how did Jack Talbot come up with that information? Has he been hacking Patrick's emails, or learning Russian in his spare time?'

Nessa sat on the cold rock beside Caitlín, hugging her hands in her sleeves. ‘I'd say it's simpler than that. Someone has been whispering in his ear about last year's trip to Moscow. A few of the group fell out with each other afterwards, so for all I know, one of them is sniping at the others by dragging the story into the news now.'

Caitlín fingered the paper, and Nessa noticed how she chose her words carefully. ‘So these supposed extremists are not Patrick's bosom pals, is that it? I mean, I have to say it doesn't sound like him, because I didn't even know he was a member of a political grouping?'

‘He isn't,' said Nessa firmly. ‘He's always shied away from joining any campaign, no matter how much he supports the cause. I think his family history made him nervous of political involvement, so it's pretty ironic to see him painted as a dangerous militant now.'

‘What was the trip to Moscow for, in that case? I don't suppose he was promoting a band of jolly musicians, or Ireland's cottage cheese industry?'

‘Not quite, no. He went because a friend of his in Bandon, James, asked him to do a favour to someone else – and while I said that Patrick doesn't join things, he's also quite a sucker for helping people on a personal basis. The trip was organised by a number of activists campaigning on ethical standards in international business, which is a pretty major issue, as you can imagine. They got hold of some money to investigate employment abuses in Russia but unfortunately, the trip turned into a bit of a fiasco.'

‘You mentioned earlier that people fell out with each other?'

‘Yes, they couldn't agree on priorities for a start. And in any case, two or three of the group were prima donna attention-seekers. They were the ones who got arrested, not for taking part in a legitimate protest, but just for rowdy behaviour at an event. Some of the others tried to disown them, which led to a split in the group. A familiar story for some fringe groups, I'm afraid.'

‘But whatever happened, it makes Patrick look untrustworthy, doesn't it?'

Nessa did not answer, as she watched great coils of cloud furling from the horizon. The view they had admired a short while earlier was changing by the moment. Curtains of mist swept over the steep slopes of Knockatee and Knockanoughanish, and dazzling rays of light fissured the sky. In another few minutes the ocean's vapours would smother the rocky mountain pass they stood on. She had a brief sensation of vertigo as she thought about the volatility of everything.

‘Patrick was really upset at the whole thing,' she said after a few minutes. ‘But at the same time, Jack could be on to something. I don't mean his insinuations about Patrick, but what if there's a link between Oscar and the abandoned Russian ship, say?'

‘You mean Oscar could be one of the owners of the ship, and caused it to be abandoned?'

‘Anything is possible, that's all I'm saying. His murder may have very little to do with Beara, except that a deep and dangerous current from across the seas made its way into our sheltered bays.'

They returned to the car and drove through a cragged mountain gap. The road plunged into a wide and striking valley, twisting around one hairpin bend after another. Nessa remembered the story Caitlín had told her about funerals in past times. It reminded her of something but she could not figure out what. An image of a corpse, perhaps, or an insight into the rituals of death.

Another idea struck her as she was grappling with it.

‘I wonder if you'd mind … I'd like to stop at the bridge, Caitlín, if you can spare a little more time?'

She paused as she realised that Caitlín had her eye on a car in the rear-view mirror, and another approaching from below. The road was too narrow for anyone to pass, but after a few minutes, the car behind her drew into a small layby.

‘It's just a little theory I'd like to try out,' Nessa continued then. ‘But if you'd prefer not to bother, we'll go directly to your cousin's house in Adrigole.'

R
edmond refocussed his camera lens but he was too late. The people he was trying to photograph had moved out of frame, and getting a close-up would be impossible now. He had taken one shot but he was fairly sure it was fuzzy. There was nothing for it but confrontation.

When he saw something being thrown from the bridge, his first wild thought was that he was hallucinating. Then he wondered whether a fly had buzzed past the camera. But when it happened a second time, he could have no doubt about it. He jumped into his car and drove around the hairpin bends as quickly as possible. He knew very well who was down at the bridge.

He'd seen them outside the shop in Derryowen early that morning. Caitlín O'Donovan hurrying out of her car, and someone else in the passenger seat, head bent low. He guessed it was Nessa McDermott, even before he identified her reddish hair through the long lens on his camera. Redmond had already seen the news online about her husband. Patrick Latif's actions since the day of Malden's murder certainly gave cause for suspicion, especially as McDermott seemed to be unwilling to help gardai to contact him.

Redmond decided to follow the two women as they drove out of Derryowen. He wanted to do something, anything, to play a fuller part in the investigation. The morning's briefing session in Bantry had been cancelled and he had driven to Derryowen on a whim, having two hours to spare before meeting a colleague in Castletownbere for a door-to-door assignment. Of course, the women could be off on a shopping trip to Killarney or Cork. But suppose Latif had returned to Ireland and was lying low to see how the wind shifted? McDermott could be on her way to meet him secretly, and if so, the super would be very grateful for that information.

Luckily, Redmond was driving his own Renault and not a marked police car, which Caitlín O'Donovan would have spotted instantly in her rear-view mirror. Even so, it was quite difficult to tail her unnoticed. When she pulled in just before the Healy Pass, he had to drive past her, sunglasses in place, to park on the far side of the gap. Then the two women delayed interminably as they chatted and gazed at the view, while he froze to the marrow behind a hillock fifty metres away.

When they finally set off again, he followed them at a cautious distance and pulled into a layby when they drove down to the bridge. He could watch them from his car window, using the long lens on the camera as binoculars. At first, he had no idea what they were up to, but he almost dropped the camera when he saw them fling a large black item from the parapet of the bridge.

As he drove down the hill at speed, his memory of finding Oscar Malden's body rose up like bile. According to the pathologist, one or two animals had been on the scene before the birds of prey arrived. The double plastic bag might have torn on stones when it was thrown, and as the morning grew warmer, the ripe smell of flesh had attracted a fox or a badger. Redmond knew he would never forget the image of a human hand protruding pitifully from the ragged heap by the stream.

The women's car was still parked by the bridge but there was no sign of them. He tried to keep his footing as he ran down the uneven slope. ‘Stay where you are!' he shouted. ‘I saw you throw a bag, and then something else.'

Drops of rain spat on his face. He hoped the women were not playing a game of hide-and-seek, hiding under the arched bridge and hoping to reach their car by dashing up the slope on the far side.

He glanced upstream. A lone tree was crouched against the wind and black clouds had obliterated the mountain tops. He turned back towards the bridge and called out again just as Nessa McDermott stepped out from under it, carrying a long navy-blue sports bag in one hand, and a torn black binliner in the other.

‘I can explain what we're doing. We just wanted to understand—'

‘You can keep your explanations until we're at the station. A murder investigation is underway, as you know full well, and as a member of the Garda Síochána, I have the authority to request …'

Nessa opened the bag's zip brusquely and removed an old towel. Several large stones lay underneath. ‘We wanted to find out how much strength it took to get Oscar's body over the parapet, and whether a woman could do it, for example.'

‘As I've just said, you may explain your little games to Inspector O'Kelleher at the station.' Redmond was getting angry. These women were making a fool of him.

‘We're really sorry about this, Garda Joyce, but we didn't realise we had an audience.' Caitlín O'Donovan's voice was friendlier than McDermott's. ‘I'm sure your technical people have carried out these tests already, but we've worked out a few useful points.'

‘Whatever your intentions, I will be obliged to inform the inspector that I encountered you here in suspicious circumstances.'

‘And will you inform him that you followed us for miles, as I presume you did? What was your garda authority for that particular decision?' McDermott's eyes were glinting like bullets. ‘Or alternatively, instead of wasting Inspector O'Kelleher's time, maybe we could try helping each other?'

‘It is a garda matter to decide what constitutes time-wasting, Mrs McDermott.'

The women regarded him silently. The rain was getting heavier, and Redmond was afraid they would walk past him in disdain. He was also burning with curiosity to know what they had found out.

He tried for a more conciliatory tone. ‘Of course, we welcome the cooperation of the public in our investigations, and I can accept that your intentions were good. I may have to mention this incident to the inspector, but nevertheless …'

He was rewarded with a hint of a smile from Caitlín O'Donovan.

‘We're all out of sorts, Garda Joyce, on account of this business,' she said. ‘But for what it's worth, we've confirmed that only a very strong person could have dumped poor Oscar's body where it was found.'

Redmond nodded at her encouragingly, relieved not to feel intimidated by at least one of the women.

‘If the bag was dropped from the centre of the bridge,' Caitlín continued, ‘it should have landed directly in the water and not up on the bank. So it's more likely that the person stood further along, by the lower part of the wall. The snag is that there's a level patch of ground just below that, and therefore only a really strong person could have thrown the body in such a way that it would have rolled down the slope.'

Nessa McDermott did not bother to smile as she added her own observation. ‘An alternative scenario is that the bag was carried down the slope to where it was found, but again, that would require strong muscles, and would be pretty difficult in the dark. However, it's always possible that two people were involved, either in the murder itself or in the act of disposing of the body.'

Redmond did not get an opportunity to speak to Inspector O'Kelleher until teatime. He spent the day calling to all the guesthouses and B&Bs in the Castletownbere area. Superintendent Devane was hoping to collect phone numbers for everyone who had visited Beara during the week of the murder, in order to check whether any of them had been in contact with Oscar. A garda team was still combing the lists of numbers provided by the phone companies, showing every single call made in the area that week: the young barman in Derryowen Hotel calling his girlfriend in Glengarriff on Thursday evening; Nessa McDermott on the phone on Friday to Derreen Gardens over in Lauragh; Sal texting friends about the party that night. A snapshot compilation of community life, along with tantalising evidence of Oscar Malden's final hours.

Redmond had a copy of the calls involving Oscar, and in particular those for which gardai did not have a satisfactory explanation:

12.02 p.m.: Call from Patrick Latif to Oscar, answered, duration three minutes.

01.05 p.m.: Call from unknown phone to Oscar, not answered, voice message left.

01.20 p.m.: Call from Maureen Scurlock to Oscar, not answered, voice message left.

01.35 p.m.: Oscar listened to his voice messages.

01.37 p.m.: Call from Oscar to the same unknown phone as above, answered, call duration four minutes.

01.43 p.m.: Text from Oscar to Fergus, telling him to cancel the taxi booking because of a change of plan. Ten minutes later, Fergus phoned Marcus O'Sullivan's hackney company.

Clearly, Oscar Malden had been busy around the time he disappeared from sight. But while phone records showed which calls had been made, they could not reveal what was said. And at a quarter past two on Thursday, the telecommunication signal from his mobile phone had ceased, suggesting that the SIM card had been removed or damaged. No further record of his phone or his movements had been identified. On the second day of the investigation, an English tourist had come forward to say he saw Malden around mid-afternoon on Thursday, in the hills east of Coomgarriff. But when he was questioned again, he apologised and withdrew his statement, saying he had mixed up the days, and had seen Malden on Tuesday. It was difficult to remember one day from another while on holidays, he said.