Deadly Intent (27 page)

As the road curved uphill again, Redmond saw movement in the corner of his eye – a gate being closed, a swish of blonde hair. He found a small space for his own car on a laneway nearby.

He took several deep breaths before he opened the car door. He remembered to check that his phone was on mute and that his torch was still in his pocket. A great surge of gladness welled inside him, adrenaline gushing through his veins as it had done that morning on the pier.

The old house was almost surrounded by fir trees. Redmond watched from behind one of them. Almost half an hour since he had arrived, and his feet were seizing up from the cold. The white car was parked by the side of the house, there was a soft glow from one window, and Marcus and Katya were inside.

Redmond had tried taking a few photographs on his mobile phone, but it was too dark to get much of an image. A window on either side of the front door, dirty paint on the walls and an air of decay about the place. Redmond shone his torch on a pile of moss-covered concrete blocks he noticed behind the parked car. Somebody had planned building work that had never taken place.

The house was a bungalow, but a wooden staircase at the side led up to a door that presumably gave access to a loft or attic. Perhaps the idea had been to make two separate holiday apartments, one above the other, but then the money had run out. Unlike the newer houses at Carraig Álainn, there were no upstairs windows here.

A thought struck Redmond as if it had hit him over the head. It was so obvious that he was amazed it had taken him so long. Darkened houses with heavy blinds on each window, a telltale sliver of light at one Velux edge, and spare electrical fittings in a cupboard on the boat.

He crept up the wooden staircase, straining to hear any sound from the front of the house. He tried the upper door but it was locked. He gave as hard a push as he could manage quietly, but when he could not shift it, he hurried back down to his hiding place in the trees.

Perhaps he should leave now and alert the inspector to his suspicions. A search warrant could be issued and a full investigation conducted. He could find his precise location by turning on his GPS. He tiptoed between the trees, making for the gate, aware of every slight swish of his waterproof jacket.

He stopped and broke into a sweat. Something had moved beside him. A quick darting sound, followed by a thud or two. Noises that were magnified in the darkness, his nerves on edge in unfamiliar surroundings.

It was nothing, just a small animal or bird frightened by the arrival of a human at close quarters. He was stupid to be startled by such things.

He heard another sound just then. Not a scuttling creature but a loud voice as the front door was opened. Marcus ran out of the house, swearing angrily. He ran up the wooden stairs and fumbled at the attic door. He disappeared into the upper area for a few moments. Katya came out the front door, heels clacking as she went towards the car.

Redmond tried to melt into the trees, while keeping Marcus in his sights. The young man seemed to be unsteady on his feet. He pulled open the driver's door of the car, but Katya was already sitting there. She held her ground as they argued over who should drive. Redmond waited in the shadows until Marcus opened and closed the gate, his laugh jangling in the dark night as he got into the passenger seat.

Redmond flew up the wooden stairs as soon as they had driven away. The door did not budge but when he shone his torch around him, he saw that the key had fallen on to the top step.

There was a narrow corridor inside, separated from the attic room by a heavy-duty curtain. Redmond tugged at the curtain, and was almost blinded by the lights in the room. His heart thumped against his ribs as he took in the scene.

He took seven or eight pictures on his phone, shifting position to try to avoid the glare of the lights. The phone signal was intermittent, but he tried emailing the photos to his home computer. He stooped down to take a few closer shots without stepping into the room.

Redmond did not hear the footsteps that came along the narrow corridor. He did not realise that another person was behind him until he heard a low voice in his right ear. The voice told him that a sharp knife was pointed at his spine and that he would be very sorry if he did not do as instructed.

Beara was as quiet as a graveyard. In the grey dawn of day, nobody stirred. A line of cloud hovered offshore, waiting to make landfall.

On a minor road beside a boggy pool, a small bird hopped down from a bush. She picked at the damp earth here and there on the verge. She twitched lightly as she kept a sharp eye on all sides for predators.

There were fresh tyre marks in the damp earth, made by a car skidding to a sudden halt. The car's bonnet had rammed into an old hazel tree. Its occupant lay slumped inside against the door, his left hand dangling off the steering wheel.

The bird hopped to and fro in search of food. The sun gained strength in the eastern sky. All over the peninsula, people awoke and set about their daily tasks.

Inside the car, Redmond shifted his hand. As he stirred into consciousness, he felt pains all over his body. An ache in his neck and a sharp stab in his ribs. His skull was like a steel helmet clamped on too tightly, and blades of pain pierced his eyes as he tried to open them.

An old house hidden behind black trees. Steps leading upwards, and lights dazzling in a room. Images flickering in his memory, like faraway stars in the night sky.

A while later, another car drew up beside his. But Redmond's eyes had closed again and he did not see the driver looking in at him anxiously. His deadened senses failed to register the elderly man's knocks on the car window, before he drove off to a neighbour's house to phone the gardai. The sun rose and fresh layers of Atlantic cloud piled up offshore.

When Redmond awoke a second time, shafts of sunlight bored into his eyes. His mouth was as dry as sand and tasted foul. He realised that it was the taste of stale alcohol. He felt sick all of a sudden and lifted his head, hoping to get a door or window open. But instead he found himself throwing up violently onto the clean floor of his car.

He had to get out. Find a clump of grass to cover the mess. Find water. He was thirsty as hell. But he was terribly stiff and sore, and bending over had brought on new spasms. He thought his shoulder was broken.

He looked around and saw an empty bottle jammed down beside the passenger seat. A half-bottle of whiskey. Panic hit him. Even if he was not injured, he would be unfit to drive.

He looked out the window at a bleak mountain view. Fissures of purple-grey rock breaking through the heathery grass at steep angles. A few cottage roofs in the distance. He could be anywhere.

He had to open the window to let in some air. He was drenched in sweat and about to be sick again. At least the key was in the ignition. It felt like a big achievement to operate the electric windows.

The night's events resurfaced in his memory. A knife to his back, forcing him to walk all the way to his car. Redmond tried to fight back at one stage, but a sharp nick on his cheek convinced him otherwise. There were two of them, that was what made it impossible to resist.

Two men wearing dark glasses, one with a baseball cap and the other in a hoodie. Identical voices. One of them got into Redmond's car, bursting into raucous laughter as he ordered him to drive. After a mile or two, he was told to stop and the second guy, who had followed in his own car, joined his brother in the back seat.

Marcus and Carl, no doubt about it. They spotted the beer cans Redmond had bought earlier and gulped them greedily.

His memories of the night throbbed uncontrollably. Redmond put his head to the open window and sucked in the mountain air. He closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to remember everything.

Marcus was the worst of the two, he was fairly sure of it. He was the one with the harsh laugh, who produced whiskey and took a slug or two himself before he pushed it up against Redmond's ear, telling him to drink. When Redmond tried to ignore him, he waved the knife in the rear-view mirror and shouted at him to swallow every drop. Carl laughed too, but he also made a few attempts to calm his brother's aggression.

They got out of the car at last. Redmond remembered sitting on his hands to stop them from shaking. He tried to steady himself to walk away from the car. Then he heard a shout at the rear door, followed by a string of filthy language. He was ordered to drive again or he was dead meat.

He had only a hazy idea of what happened after that. He drove as slowly as he could, churning with fear. Headlights appeared in his rear window but he did not know whose they were.

The night got darker, that was his impression. Trees swayed towards him. The thought swirling in his head was that he should kill himself before he rammed some other poor sod into a ditch.

A lone tree had rushed out of the gloom. He hit the brake, or maybe the accelerator.

The sun climbed over the mountains. Redmond dozed for a while. Insects and birds flitted about outside the car.

When he came to again, he remembered his phone. He dug into his pockets but they were empty. Marcus or Carl must have found it. But if he had managed to email the photos he took in the attic, it might all be worth it.

He had to get out of the car, away from the smell of vomit. He could walk to the nearest house and ask for help. Conor was in hospital, of course. It felt as if weeks had passed since they had both jumped into the icy water to rescue Maureen and Dominic.

He had to phone Trevor, that was the only option. The grotty bungalow had to be searched as soon as possible. Marcus would be nailed once the attic was opened and Redmond's discovery revealed to his colleagues. A large room full of cannabis plants, arranged in long rows under powerful heat lamps. Equipment set up to produce the maximum growth in the shortest time – timers to control heating and lighting, and spares kept in the boat if Marcus had to replace a few of them.

It was a valuable haul. No wonder Marcus and Carl had turned violent in order to protect it.

Redmond opened his eyes properly. Somebody was speaking to him. A jolt of terror shook him at the thought that the brothers had returned.

Then he recognised the inspector's voice. Trevor O'Kelleher was trying to open the passenger door.

Redmond saw disgust in his eyes. Disgust, surprise and, most damning of all, disappointment.

C
ancelled. A cold and unforgiving word, Nessa thought, as she marked it on her screen. Six bookings cancelled for the October bank holiday weekend, which should have been their final flourish of the season. Customers who had seen the name Cnoc Meala in the headlines once too often, and did not want to spend their hard-earned holiday cash in the shadow of death, wondering if a crazed murderer lurked behind the next rock.

‘We have to make a decision soon, you know that, don't you?'

Patrick did not reply immediately. He was frowning at his own computer screen, his desk at right angles to Nessa's in the small office between the kitchen and the family living room. He flicked through a sheaf of papers set neatly beside his computer. By contrast, Nessa's desk was covered in disorderly heaps which she swore at least once a week to sort out.

‘We'll have to call off the weekend very soon, Patrick, if we get one more cancellation. People who are still booked in will need enough time to make alternative plans.'

‘I'm sorry, love, I'm trying to contact the lawyer in Lilongwe, so I can't—'

‘Oh, never mind, we can talk about it in a day or two. Maybe everything will work out of its own accord.'

She knew that her voice betrayed her frustration. For the past week, she had tried hard to make allowances for Patrick, and all the pressures that had followed his aunt's death. But she also suspected that he kept his mind on matters in Africa in order to avoid the problems at home.

‘I don't think we should worry unduly about one weekend,' he said then. He turned to face her and Nessa noticed the tiredness in his eyes. ‘The public's memory of these events will fade sooner or later, and we'll be back on our feet by next spring, I promise you.'

‘I wish I could believe that, but even if Oscar's killer is caught, things could drag on until a trial takes place a year or two later. Meanwhile, we could find ourselves out of business.'

‘It's far too soon for that sort of talk, Nessa. You told me yourself last week that we got goodwill messages from some of our best customers.'

‘Yes, but goodwill won't pay the bills, will it? And our finances are pretty fragile.'

‘Would you prefer me not to send money to Esther's grandchildren? I know we haven't discussed it properly, but if you're worried about helping with their school and medical bills, you should say so.'

‘That's not what I meant at all, Patrick. Of course we should help them, because we live in the lap of luxury by comparison. But it's just, I don't know …' Nessa stopped as several papers toppled off her desk. She had a habit of gesticulating extravagantly when she got frustrated. She bent to pick them up. ‘I feel as if we've been in limbo for weeks now, with no word of progress from the gardai.'

‘I told you I saw Sergeant Fitzmaurice in Castletown the other day? Unfortunately he had no news about the garda checks on me. He looked uncomfortable when I asked him about it, which was not like him.'

Nessa glanced out the window. ‘It's like the weather we're having, drizzle and low cloud day after day, and not a puff of wind to bring hope of a change.'

Patrick attempted a lame smile. ‘I suppose Beara has had some extra visitors recently, though. Day-trippers, you know, who walk around the area expecting to see smears of blood on the roads.'

‘I'm sorry, love, I can't …' Nessa rubbed her eyes. She seemed to get less sleep each night that passed. Raging fury and grim determination had given way to weariness after three weeks of the murder investigation. Patrick got up and stood behind her, touching her neck gently.