Deadly Intent (8 page)

At last he was going to state the bald facts of the murder. Redmond noticed that many of his colleagues sat with heads bent as if in church, listening dutifully to the teachings of their pastor.

‘As you've all heard, the body was found in a plastic bag. A double layer of bags, to be precise, of the type used for garden waste. The bag seems to have been thrown from the bridge some hours before it was found earlier today.'

Redmond kept his eyes on the top table. He would love to hear his own name mentioned publicly but that might be expecting too much.

‘We've indications, however, that the murder took place up to a day or two before the bag was disposed of. There were clear marks of strangulation on the victim's neck, but so far, there's no evidence that he tried to fight off his attacker. Blood tests will be required, of course, to establish whether alcohol or another substance might have hindered him.'

Devane sipped slowly from a glass of water, allowing silence to hover over the gathering. Redmond felt a tense prickling on his skin. He could hardly hope, really, that Devane would single him out for public praise.

‘The name of the victim is known to you all by now, and will be released officially on this evening's television news. Oscar Malden was a middle-aged man habitually resident in County Tipperary. He had been divorced from his wife for some years. They had one son, Fergus, aged twenty-three, who had come on holiday to Beara with his father. We brought Fergus to the scene a short time ago, to do the necessary identification.'

Devane wiped his temples with a handkerchief. A rumour had circulated that Fergus Malden collapsed when he saw the body. No surprise, in Redmond's view, when he remembered the awful sight by the rocky stream.

‘Oscar Malden.' Devane repeated the name with slow deliberation, and Redmond imagined it carved on a headstone in large letters. ‘He was a man who had achieved a significant measure of fame amongst the public, and therefore we can expect that his tragic death will attract great attention. The public will demand answers, as well they ought in all cases of murder. And media people will arrive in our midst who will probe for answers in a civil and reasonable manner.'

Devane looked around the room, his face hard and unsmiling, his voice building momentum like a train. ‘But let's be in no doubt about something else that's about to happen. A pack of wolves are on their way to west Cork at this moment, dressed up in the ordinary garb of humanity and calling themselves journalists. They'll be in the grip of a ferocious hunger for stories, and will stop at nothing in their quest for satisfaction.'

Devane paused and a man seated near the front put up his hand, in which he held a newspaper. He was a detective sergeant from Bandon.

‘With your permission, sir,' he said. ‘I'm sure you've seen Jack Talbot's story today in which he describes problems at the guesthouse where Malden was on holiday. Do you think Talbot could have had a tip-off that Malden was in danger, or that there's any connection between his early departure from the guesthouse and injuries sustained by a female guest he had become friendly with?'

‘I'm afraid you're jumping ahead of me with your speculations, sergeant,' said Devane drily. Redmond heard mutterings around him about lick-arses who were always first to ask questions. ‘Mind the colour of your tongue,' someone whispered loudly.

Devane gazed around sternly. ‘I'd like to remind you all of an important point. Two officers from the Garda Press Office are on their way to Bantry tonight, to deal with each and every
communication with the media, whether it's reaction to gossip such as that raised by my good friend the sergeant, or the progress of our inquiries, or the precise hour at which we expect a shower of rain to fall on our heads.' His words were like bursts of machine-gun fire. ‘So don't let me hear of a gang of gardai making merry in the same hotel bar as the media mob, or some innocent eejit among you falling for an attractive television presenter's
plámás
.'

Heads were bent on all sides again. ‘If as much as a hint reaches my office that one of you has mishandled a piece of information, or been careless in any other way in the course of this job, believe you me that you will be banished out to the wilds of the Fastnet Rock and left there to wail and cry with the seabirds.'

Trevor O'Kelleher gave the meeting a summary of Maureen Scurlock's incident on the hillside and all that had followed. He checked a sheaf of notes in his hand from time to time.

‘I'd like to draw your attention to a few specific points,' he said. ‘Oscar Malden came on a week's holiday to Beara, but as you've already heard, he decided to leave last Thursday, two days early. However, in spite of telling Nessa McDermott that a business problem had cropped up, he showed no great urgency about travelling home. We know, for example, that he spent Thursday morning strolling along the coast and drinking coffee in Derryowen Hotel, and then set off on another walk around midday.'

O'Kelleher spoke in his usual measured way. His voice was quiet but could be heard clearly all over the room. Redmond envied his confidence.

‘So we've to ask ourselves whether there was a particular reason for Malden's delayed departure on Thursday. We also have to find out more about his travel arrangements from Beara to Tipperary. Fergus Malden received a text from his father at lunchtime, telling him to cancel the taxi he had booked for him. Oscar mentioned a change of plan in the text, and said he would get a lift instead. So we have to find out what brought about his change of plan, and who else was involved.'

O'Kelleher glanced at his notes. ‘Malden's mobile phone hasn't yet been found, but of course we'll be trawling for evidence of its signals, and searching every ditch in Beara for it if necessary, as it will provide us with crucial information on calls he received and internet connections he may have made. But even without his phone, the texts he sent to his son's phone should give us valuable pointers. We'll also examine all of the phone companies' records to establish who was in contact with whom, and at what precise times. We can confirm however, that we've identified and ruled out the tourist whose call led us to Oscar's body.'

Sergeant Fitzmaurice put his hand up, and O'Kelleher and Devane signalled that they would take his question.

‘I understand fully,' said Fitzmaurice, ‘that we're obliged to delve into each and every circumstance of this terrible crime. But would it be fair to say,
cig
, that all the evidence so far points to one particular individual who has already come to our attention this week?'

Redmond eyed the sergeant resentfully.
Cig
indeed. It was a familiar form of address, abbreviated from the Irish word for inspector,
cigire,
which always sounded to him a bit like someone who was a good kicker. By using it so publicly, Fitzmaurice was putting himself on a par with a senior officer, while also conveniently reminding everyone of his own part in the earlier investigation.

Fitzmaurice continued. ‘The individual I'm referring to is Dominic Scurlock, of course. He had a motive for murder, and as he demonstrated to us up at Cnoc Meala last night, he's more than capable of being violent.'

Superintendent Devane got to his feet slowly. ‘I'm very grateful to you, sergeant,' he said, ‘because you've just reminded me of another vital point I'd like everyone to take on board. We're at the very beginning of our work here, and we're certainly not yet in a position to identify the most likely suspects. The pathologist is still at the scene, and rather than finding answers, we're adding new questions to the list.'

Redmond glanced again at Fitzmaurice, who was sitting back with his arms folded complacently on his chest. Clearly, he was unconcerned about his colleagues' opinions of him. He was broad-shouldered and well built, with the kind of corrugated head of hair that was typical, to Redmond's mind, of seasoned Gaelic footballers, local councillors and other such pillars of the rural community.

He tuned in again to Devane's ponderous voice. ‘I'd like to leave you now with some of the difficult questions we face. Why was Oscar Malden murdered in Beara, rather than anywhere else? Can we establish a link between his death and any other incident or development that took place while he was on holiday – for example, the alleged antagonism between himself and another guest at Cnoc Meala? Or alternatively, can we establish that the perpetrator followed Malden to Beara with the express intention of killing him, on account of a business dispute, or bitter rivalry over a woman, or a simple lust for money?'

Devane was milking his centre-stage role to the full. He was an old hand at detaining an audience in their seats.

‘We're checking the obvious possibilities already. Did anyone with a record of violence arrive in Beara in recent days, for example, someone just released from prison, or a person known to suffer from a particularly dangerous psychosis? What about Malden himself – what kind of a personal life did he lead, and was he making or losing money these past few months? There's also that old reliable question – who will benefit most from his death?'

A queue formed at the top of the room when the briefing finally drew to a close. Task sheets were handed out from the jobs book in which details of the evidence would be compiled. Gardai chatted about which would be more tedious, to sit at a desk poring over long lists of phone records, or to be sent on door-to-door expeditions up and down the peninsula. The challenge was not just to endure the boredom – it was to notice the sort of minor deviation from everyday routines that could turn an investigation on its head.

Redmond was handed his own task sheet. He was to assist with witness interviews for the next two days. He tried not to smile too broadly as he turned back to a group of colleagues.

‘Well, look at the trouble you've gone and landed us in!' A young woman from Bantry station laughed as she lobbed the remark at him. ‘Sure we'd all be better off if you'd only stuck to the script and found a dead sheep on the mountainside.'

A male garda snatched Redmond's sheet to see his assignment. ‘Fair feckin' play to you, all the same,' he said. ‘The super hasn't dumped a lowly job on you, for sure, now that you've served him up such a juicy stiff!'

Redmond's smile died. He wished fervently that he had the gift of repartee, to answer mockery in kind.

‘Oh, you're a right buckshee, Garda Redmond Joyce, there's no doubt about it at all!' The second garda sported a grin, as if he spoke in casual jest. ‘You're always ready to please the bosses, but take it from me that you can worm your way up the super's backside and it'll do you no fuckin' good at all. Because at the end of the day, no matter how much sweat and blood we all pour for him and his like, if there are shiny medals to be handed out for solving this crime, they won't be coming to us lowly joe soaps. By Jaysus they won't, for the simple reason that the credit will be appropriated for themselves by the aforesaid Superintendent Tim Devane and our fine lordships seated with him at the top table.'

A
fter two nights of little sleep, Nessa felt a hammer beating insistently inside her skull. She read back over the email she had received. She understood each word, but they seemed as unreal as a fairytale.

‘It's good to think of you taking it easy, my love, now that our guests have said their goodbyes to Cnoc Meala. I can picture you out at Rosnacallee headland, watching the waves rise and break on the rocks.'

Her husband's affectionate words from afar, sent from Malawi the previous evening. Patrick made no mention of her repeated messages to him; instead, he explained that his mobile phone had been stolen or mislaid en route. And bad news had awaited him on arrival in Blantyre city.

‘Esther's illness is much worse than I'd expected. She's on her deathbed, that's the reality, and I'm so glad I made it to Mwaiwathu hospital before she's carried out in her coffin. It's really hard to take it in, and it's not made any easier by constant comings and goings at her bedside. There's no such thing as visiting time here, of course, and relatives and friends of all the patients camp out in the ward overnight, chatting and keeping themselves busy. It's the same as ever in Malawi – the western world's idea of “private space” is unknown to most people.'

Nessa scrolled up and down. Patrick's new phone number was staring back at her from the screen, but the words she would have to use made her pause. Murder. Strangulation. Postmortem results. Forensic evidence. Cold, cruel words, whether she spoke them aloud or put them in an email. Patrick would want to return home immediately, but how could she ask him to abandon his beloved aunt in her final days?

‘I keep thinking of the conversations I never had with Esther, and whether it's too late to ask the questions I've carried with me all these years. I'd love to get some time with her alone, but even if I do, I'm worried that she's too weak for a proper conversation. I should have come months ago, but what's the point in saying that now?'

Patrick had grown up in Malawi in an era of iron dictatorship that his father tried to oppose. Police threats had forced Patrick's parents to leave the country with him when he was a teenager, but then his father had returned home for a secret political meeting and was never seen again. Rumours reached the family that he was tortured and his body thrown to the crocodiles in Lake Malawi. That was how it was in those days, but of course, nobody could prove anything. And like thousands of others, Patrick's mother remained silent for the rest of her days, resisting her son's questions and making it clear that he should not pick at Esther's wounds either.

Arguments pounded back and forth in Nessa's head. Of course she would tell Patrick about Oscar's death. She wanted so badly to talk to him, and in any case, he might chance on the news on the internet. One look at the Sunday newspapers online would confront him with his own name amid the grim details. The murder was the lead story in the Irish media, and photographs of Cnoc Meala accompanied those of Oscar on several front pages, along with predictably alliterative headlines: ‘Holiday Murder Horror';
‘Brutal End To Beara Idyll';
‘Businessman's Body Lay by Lonely Bridge'
.