Shaun was sitting in an armchair with his feet up beside the television.
‘I know you’re probably not in the mood for anything,’ said Anna, ‘but I thought this might cheer you up.’
‘What?’ said Shaun.
‘Well, you know it’s your father’s fortieth on Friday. I thought maybe we could have something small to celebrate. I’m not talking about a big party or anything, obviously. Just the three of us.’
Shaun shrugged.
‘Come on, I think we need something to lift things a little. It will just be a cake, candles, that sort of thing…’
‘It’s not like I’m in the mood for celebrating.’
‘None of us are in the mood,’ said Anna. ‘But I think it would be nice. I think your father would appreciate it.’
‘Do you need me to do anything?’ said Shaun. Anna laughed.
‘Say it like you mean it,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘I
‘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
‘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.
