murder. But we're looking into the theory that both murderers could belong to the same cult, or have similar mystical beliefs. In fact, we're looking into every theory that anybody can think of.'
'Does this mean that you're reopening the 1915 murder investigation?'
'We have to?insofar as it could shed valuable light on today's case. We'll be publishing a list of all eleven women in tomorrow's papers, and appealing for anybody who might be related to them to get in touch with us immediately, so that we can perform mitochondrial DNA tests.'
'I gather that you, personally, never wanted to close it?'
'Twelve women have been inexplicably killed. No matter when they were killed, no matter who they were, we owe it to all of them to find out who killed them. I want you to know that I am absolutely determined to give them peace.'
That evening she left Garda headquarters just after six o'clock and went into Tesco in Paul Street to do some shopping. She walked up and down the aisles with her shopping trolley, trying not to think about the dismembered body in the field. Unless some fresh evidence came up, there was nothing she could usefully do until tomorrow, and she needed time to calm herself down. She had seen the bodies of people who had been shot in the face with shotguns. She had seen the bodies of people who had been drowned, and burned, and crushed. She had even seen the bodies of people who had been systematically tortured with red-hot pokers and pliers. But she had never yet seen a body that had been so completely desecrated, so stripped of its humanity, so totally disassembled. It reminded her more of a burglary than a homicide. It was almost as if her murderer had been tearing her body apart, piece by piece, in a determined search for her soul.
She had been thinking of cooking beef in Guinness this evening, and she bought some carrots and rutabaga and onions. But as she wheeled her trolley toward the meat chiller she found herself breathing more and more deeply, until she was hyperventilating. She clutched the trolley handle tightly and closed her eyes. She could feel cold perspiration sliding down her back.
'Are you all right, love?' an elderly woman asked her.
She opened her eyes and right in front of her, brightly lit like a traffic accident, she saw glistening dark brown livers and scarlet joints of beef and soft creamy-yellow folds of tripe.
'I'm fine,' she said. 'I'm just a little faint.' She left her trolley where it was and walked quickly out of the store and into the street.
24
She was leaving the Paul Street multistory car park when her mobile phone warbled.
'Superintendent? It's Liam Fennessy. You'd better get up to the Blarney Road crossroads, quick as you can.'
'What's happened?'
'It's an old friend of ours. It looks like somebody's decided to teach him a lesson he'll never forget.'
'I'm down on Lavitt's Quay. I'll be with you in five minutes at the most.'
She drove across the river and headed west, running three red lights. She turned up by the dark flinty walls of Cork Gaol, and up onto the Blarney Road. It began to rain, one of those sharp, rattling showers that the Atlantic brings in without warning.
There were two patrol cars already parked at the crossroads, as well as Liam's green Vectra. As Katie pulled into the side of the road, an ambulance arrived, too, with its blue lights flashing. A uniformed garda came up to Katie's car and opened the door for her.
'We had a call from a motorist. It seems like dozens of cars drove by without even seeing him.'
Katie took her reflective yellow jacket from the back seat and shrugged it on as she followed the garda to the triangle of grass where the Shandon Road joined the Blarney Road. There was a life-size shrine here, a white marble sculpture of Christ on the cross, with the Virgin Mary kneeling on the grass in front of him, distraught, and Mary Magdalene turning her head away.
Liam Fennessy was standing by the cross, with his coat collar turned up and speckles of rain on his glasses. 'He's been here for a couple of hours at least. We're waiting for the fire and rescue.'
The figure of Jesus hung on one side of the cross. On the other side, illuminated by headlights, hung a heavily built man, naked except for his underpants. He was covered all over in white emulsion paint, so that he looked as if he, too, were carved out of stone. All that showed that he was a living human being were his dark, glittering eyes, the red gash of his mouth, and the blood that had dripped from the crown of razor wire that had been wrapped around his close-cropped head.
A burly garda was standing on a small stepladder with his arms around the man's waist, trying to bear some of his weight. The man's eyes were open, and raised heavenward, but he didn't make a sound.
'Jesus Christ,' said Katie.
'Quite a resemblance, yes. But in actual fact it's Dave MacSweeny.'
Katie felt a cold, crawling sensation down her back. Oh, my God, she thought. Don't say that this is Eamonn Collins's interpretation of being 'emphatic.' If it was, then Dave MacSweeny wouldn't be the only one who would end up crucified.
'Can't we get him down?'
'That's why we've called for the fire and rescue. They fixed him to the stone with one of those pneumatic nailers. We're going to need a pair of bolt cutters before we can witness Dave MacSweeny's descent from the cross.'
'Is he conscious?'
'I'm not sure. I asked him who had nailed him up there but he didn't respond.'
'His eyes are open.'
