Alf who had once stolen ?25 from the church offertory. Peter was on a business trip when he heard that Alf was moving house. He sent him a threatening letter, just to make sure he didn’t say a word to anyone.
There was much speculation regarding the exact events of the day that Beth Cullen went missing. The night I handed in the bag I had a dream. In that dream I saw exactly what had happened.
On the evening of 21 December 1986 Beth Cullen was cycling home from Carrick-on-Shannon. That day she had bought Christmas presents for her parents and younger brother and sister and a packet of violin strings. She was about twenty minutes from her house in Avarna when Peter Mulvey pulled up beside her and asked her if she wanted a lift. Beth knew Peter well, from the ceili band and from the church choir, and it had just started to rain, so she accepted his offer. He put down the back seats and lifted her black bicycle into the boot. Beth sat in the passenger seat with her shopping bags and her brown leather handbag. A few minutes later Peter took a left turn off the main road that led them on to a much narrower one.
‘I just have to drop something off to a man up here. Is that OK?’ he said. Beth nodded.
‘All set for Christmas?’ asked Peter, his eyes glancing over at Beth as he spoke. She was wearing a blue dress that rested just above her knees.
‘Almost,’ she said with a smile.
The left front tyre hit a pothole hard.
‘I better check that,’ said Peter. He swerved into the right, to an opening in the forest and stopped abruptly. He got out of the car to examine the damaged tyre. Beth recognized where she was – they were parked near the mines, only ten minutes from her house. She opened the car door.
‘It’s stopped raining now,’ she said. ‘Mam will have the dinner ready. I could just cycle from here.’
Peter Mulvey stood up straight. And that’s when she noticed his eyes. There was something strange about them. Something not right. He grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him. She screamed and kicked and desperately tried to pull away, but was helpless against Peter’s brutal strength. He dragged her into the trees, pushed her to the ground and climbed on top of her.
‘
All the time he looked straight at her, looked right into her eyes with his own manic stare. She stopped screaming. He didn’t like that. He wrapped his hands round her neck, and didn’t let go until she couldn’t breathe any more. He carried her body further into the forest and set it down on a carpet of twigs. Then he went back to his car, drove up near the church and dumped the black bicycle and the paper bags in the ditch. He ought to have gone home then. But he didn’t. He drove back to the forest. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to see her face, feel her skin, kiss her lips. So he did.
As he drove back down the road, he noticed something under the passenger seat. A brown leather handbag. He had to get rid of it. He couldn’t throw it out the window. He was too near the village. What if somebody saw him? He couldn’t go back up to the mines. What if somebody was there? People might already be out searching for her. He knew who would take care of it. He swerved into Alf Meehan’s driveway and ordered him to burn the bag.
I never dreamed about Beth Cullen again.
The search for Beth Cullen began on 21 December when her parents started to worry. They rang Des, who told them he hadn’t heard from her since that afternoon. The bike and the shopping bags were found the next day but the body wasn’t discovered until the 28th, one week after she was murdered. The body had been well preserved due to the very cold conditions. It had so many bruises. That’s what Lily Cullen would always remember. So many bruises.
For twenty-five years Sergeant Michael Reynolds made Des Butler’s life a living hell. Convinced that he had killed Beth, he dragged his name through the dirt, so that Des often found it difficult to get work close to home. He had no alibi for the night of 21 December so many people believed him to be guilty.
Following the discovery of Beth Cullen’s body, blood samples were taken from approximately one hundred men living in Avarna and its surrounding areas. The blood samples, as well as the semen found on Beth’s body, were preserved. Having been given new evidence in the form of the bag and its contents, after hearing my story and interviewing Alf Meehan, the Gardai decided to reopen the case. That day Sergeant Michael Reynolds requested a transfer from Avarna. He couldn’t face the embarrassment that the man he had accused so publicly was actually innocent. He told Mary, Nick and Rosie that they were moving house. Mary refused to go. She stayed with her children in Avarna.
Why did Beth Cullen wait twenty-five years to get in touch? Because she wanted to wait until her father had passed on. She knew that if Jim found out that Peter Mulvey had killed her, he would have tried to kill Peter himself. So she waited until he had died, then she chose somebody to contact. She chose me.
I never received any official recognition from the Gardai. I didn’t want it. I’d told them about my special ability, but I didn’t want to publicize it. And I guess they didn’t want it known publicly that crimes were being solved by fifteen-year-old girls who could communicate with spirits. I didn’t hear from them again. Not until last night.
Epilogue
Still clutching the brown envelope, I dodged the puddles on the path that led through the grounds of Kilkenny Castle. I closed the top button on my trench coat and wandered along, taking in all the beauty of those noble surroundings. I’d gone for a walk to clear my head, to gather my thoughts and decide what to do. I had a choice. I could help with Operation Trail, or forget it existed.
I wasn’t sure what to do, but I was almost certain that if I was to help Sergeant Lawlor I might have to go through the headaches and the nightmares all over again. But I couldn’t exactly abandon those women in the photographs. They needed help, and I was one of the few people who could give it to them.
My head throbbed as I recalled what had happened in Avarna the previous summer. I wasn’t sure if I could go through all that again. But maybe it would be easier this time around, now that I knew what to expect. I just wished somebody would decide for me.
The castle grounds were particularly beautiful that spring morning. The grass was damp with dew and the trees were pretty with their new leaves and small buds. I walked along, following the path, trying to reach a conclusion.
I sat down on one of the benches, opened the envelope and looked through the pictures again.
The first photograph was of a girl probably around my age. She had long red hair and was wearing a polka-dot cocktail dress.
The next girl had blonde hair like mine. She was sitting in the passenger seat of a car, with her bare feet up on the dashboard, looking into the back seat and smiling at whoever had taken the picture.
The third photo was of an older girl, maybe about 21, with short brown hair and a dimple on her left cheek. She was lying on a bed of grass with her hands above her head. She had beautiful blue eyes and thin red lips, and looked like she was in mid conversation.
The last picture was of a younger girl, with black hair and funky glasses. She wore an emerald green evening dress and was looking away from the camera, off to her right. Her hair fell in loose waves on her shoulders.
All young. All beautiful. All missing.
I put the pictures back in the envelope and kept walking along the path. I knew I had to decide soon. The more I thought about it, the more tempted I was to ring Sergeant Lawlor and tell him I didn’t want to get involved. I didn’t want to have those horrible headaches again. I didn’t want to have nightmares every time I went to sleep. And I didn’t want to put my life in danger. But maybe that was selfish. Maybe I had to put my own fears aside. Maybe I had to do this? I really didn’t know what to do.
I noticed a striking sculpture to my left. It was tall and cylindrical, composed of lots of green metal hands, their fingertips reaching up to the sky. They were eerily lifelike, with realistic knuckles and fingernails. They looked as if they had been moulded from real people. I walked over to it, placing my hand on one of the metal ones. The sculpture was so unusual. I liked it, but wondered what it was supposed to represent. The hands were all touching, all joined together, yet they looked like they were reaching for something.
‘Dad,’ I whispered, ‘I know I can’t talk to you. But you might be able to hear me anyway. I need you to help me. I need you to give me a sign.’
