Her brown hair was cut short and slightly spiked. She held a small handbag under her arm and held out a perfectly manicured hand to me. Unsure whether to kiss it or shake it, I opted for the latter and invited her to sit. She did so and crossed her legs in a languid manner, straightening the right leg of her trousers to ensure the crease fell properly. She wore sandals even though it was freezing outside. I noticed she had a tiny gold ring on her little toe.
'Benedict. Lovely to see you. How's… your wife?' Miriam had attended college with Debbie and they had lived together for a year, around the time when Debbie and I started dating. Although she still invited us for drinks every so often and sincerely promised to meet soon for dinner when we bumped into each other coming out of Mass on an occasional Sunday morning, we all knew that the polite invitations were just that, formalities which both sides hoped the other would not insist upon honouring. 'Deborah, that's right.'
'Debbie's great, Miriam. It's good to see you, too. How can I help you?' I tried to avoid eye contact, but I believe that Miriam sensed my discomfort.
'Thomas told me that he saw you at Mass yesterday. I believe he behaved deplorably towards you, Benedict, and I wish to apologise. He's very upset about his father, you see. Sometimes Thomas has difficulty in telling his friends from…' She faltered mid-sentence, flicking open her handbag as though it might contain the words she wanted.
'His enemies?'
She laughed gaily, dismissing the word with the slightest wave of her hand. 'We're all terribly worried about Tommy Senior, Benedict. Especially after this scare, when he saw someone in his room.'
'What do you want from me, Miriam?'
'Thomas is afraid that, after his behaviour yesterday, there might be some… animosity between you that would hamper your willingness to investigate what happened with his father. That's all.' She paused, but when it became clear that I was not going to speak, she continued. 'Tommy Senior did a lot for this county. He was a great TD in his time. A great advocate for this area. Thomas wants to ensure that his father is afforded the best treatment he can get. In all things.'
Tommy Powell Sr had indeed been a TD, a member of the Dail, the Irish government, right through the worst of the Troubles. He had remained resolutely independent, switching allegiances between Fianna Fail and Fine Gael, depending on which promised him most for Donegal. He had secured a number of large textile lactones for the area, bringing with them several hundred jobs and a boost to the economy. On the negative side, most of them set up along rivers and pumped effluent into the water, leading to some high-profile environmental protests. In every case Tommy Powell Sr appeared in the local media and decried the types of liberals who would put fish before people and seaweed before food on the table. His earthy, common-man rhetoric made him immensely popular, and even those who personally disliked the man – and there were many – had to admire the charisma he brought to the job. He had retired two years earlier, after suffering a minor stroke, and rumours were circulating that, in the next election, Thomas Powell Jr would follow in his father's footsteps and enter the world of politics. Certainly he had the wealth and media savvy to undertake such a venture as a vanity project, regardless of his sincerity or likely success.
'I'll see what I can do, Miriam,' I said, and smiled, I hoped sincerely. She toyed with the top button of her linen jacket, perhaps inadvertently drawing my vision to the lace decorating the top of the white satin camisole she wore underneath. Perhaps. She looked down at it, then looked quickly at me, following my gaze away from it, a smile dancing on her lips.
'We'd appreciate anything you can do, Benedict, what with this terrible business about the young girl. Say, why don't you and
Debbie call for drinks over Christmas? We could catch up on old times; recall our wild youth.' As she spoke, she widened her eyes in mock promise for a second and smiled lightly.
I returned the smile. 'Perhaps we will, Miriam, but with the baby and so on, it's difficult to get out.'
She stood. 'Merry Christmas then,' she said and leaned toward me, placing her hand lightly on my shoulder and offering her cheek, which I kissed awkwardly, feeling all the more clumsy as she kissed the air beside my own cheek. I caught the scent of coconut and it would linger in my memory almost as long as the sensation of her cheek on mine, her breath fluttering against my skin.
I watched her as she walked back through the main room of the station and out past Burgess, noticing that a number of the other male staff in the room were doing likewise.
Caroline Williams's face appeared in my line of vision. 'Your wife is on the phone, sir. Shall I tell her you're busy?' she asked, and walked away before I could answer.
Chapter Four
Monday, 23rd December
Strabane and Lifford straddle the banks of two rivers, the Finn and the Mourne, which join the Foyle midway between the town in the North and our village in the South, which are separated by a distance of half a mile. The Foyle then flows for miles through Derry and on to Lough Foyle, where it joins the Atlantic. A bridge spans the point where the three rivers meet and, traditionally, lies in unclaimed territory, several hundred yards from where the British Army checkpoint used to be during the Troubles and several hundred yards before the Irish customs post. It was in this area of the borderlands that Angela Cashell was found. Just at the customs hut, a sharp left turn brings you to Lifford Community Hospital and, tucked behind but separate from it, Finnside Nursing Home.
I sat in my car, smoking. Overlooking the river, I could see, on the curve of the embankment further down, the crime-scene tape, still fluttering in the breeze. I wondered about the Cashell girl's death. And I wondered why, when that investigation was in need of much work, I was about to waste time on the ramblings of a senile old man. I told myself it was out of respect for all Powell had done for Donegal; I told myself it was to stop his son making public complaints about Garda disinterest; I told myself it wasn't because, in a strange way, it brought me back into the circle of Miriam Powell.
The home was fairly nice – or as nice as these places can be. The walls were painted neutral colours, white and magnolia predominating. The carpet was dark red. The scented candles and oil burners burning at various points in the reception area failed to cover the unmistakable smell of disinfectant and the faint hint of urine. The owner of the home, Mrs McGowan, waved at me from her office and gestured towards the mobile phone into which she was speaking. I went over and waited for her to finish her phone call.
'Ben, come in,' she said when she was done. 'Sorry about that – my daughter is cooking for her in-laws and wants to know how to cook beef. I tell you, I don't know where I failed!' She laughed, a soft tinkling laugh that she probably reserved for children of her patients, as if their parent's incapacity were but a trifle.
'I'm here to see Tommy Powell, Mrs McGowan. I believe he had an intruder.'
'So he says,' she replied and I could tell from her expression that Powell was probably not her favourite patient. 'Of course he had someone in his room. The staff here check on him every two or three hours. It's part of our service. You're welcome to see him, but it's a waste of time, Ben. Next week someone will be trying to poison his dinner. Wait and see.'
The door to his room was ajar and I could see Tommy Powell, sitting up in his bed, being spoon-fed creamed rice by a young nurse in a pink uniform. I watched in wonder as she fed him, scraping the dribbled food off his chin and chatting to him about her night out, her future plans, anything to fill the silence and prevent her listening to his laboured, rasping breath or the soft grunting noise he made as he ate. Her hair was bunched up under her hat, though I could see the roots were dark. Her neck was slender, the skin soft and white as lily petals.
I knocked softly on the door and, when she became aware of my presence, she blushed slightly. Something about her seemed very familiar, though I didn't recognize her. I assumed she thought the same, because she stood before me as if to speak. 'I'm here to see Mr Powell,' I explained, pointing towards the bed.
'Oh, okay,' she said, smiling a little, then disappeared out through the doorway before I could say any more.
Tommy Powell watched me, moving only his eyes. His head rested against a pillow, his mouth slightly open. One side of his face was frozen, as though he had just come from the dentist and I noticed a dribble of food just to the left of his mouth. As I considered his loss of dignity, I saw again the unbidden image of Angela Cashell, lying
