A Terrible Beauty

'His family all say that he went to see this Cootie fellow on Thursday and drove to Mallow on Friday. But then they would, wouldn't they? His mother looks as if she eats blocks of prestressed concrete for breakfast. And you should see his sister. The words 'red' and 'brick' and 'shitter' came to mind, I can tell you.'

'What about their vehicles? Anything?'

'We searched the whole lot of them, seven in all. Two brand-new Jeep Cherokees, a top-of-the-range BMW, one Winnebago Chieftain, and three caravans. We took the door trim out of the cars and we even pulled up the caravan floors. Nothing at all, except twenty-eight bottles of Paddy's and some women's designer clothing that looks as if it was lifted from Brown Thomas.'

'All right, thanks, Liam.'

She went back into the interview room. Tomas O Conaill didn't even raise his eyes to look at her. She sat down and laid the forensic report on the table between them.

'I want you to tell me where you got the car from,' she said.

'I've already told you, witch. I found it in the yard in front of the house. I might have touched it but touching isn't a crime, the last I heard.'

'Your fingerprints were plastered all over it. Your fingerprints and nobody else's, except for the girl you murdered.'

'How many times do I have to tell you that I didn't murder any girl.'

'You stole the car, though, didn't you?'

Tomas O Conaill was silent for a very long time. Then he took out another cigarette and lit it, and blew smoke out of his nostrils like two long tusks. 'I drove it,' he admitted. 'But I didn't steal it. I found it, and all I did was to lend a borrow of it.'

'Youfoundit?'

'Yes, found it.'

'Do you think that I was born yesterday?'

He stared her dead in the eyes. 'No, witch, I don't think you were. You may look young and you may look pretty but you have the hag's face on you.'

'So where did youfindthis car, Tomas?'

'It was halfway in a ditch by the side of the road about a mile north of Curraghnalaght crossroads. Not locked, with the keys still in it.'

'Parked, in other words?'

'Not parked, dumped. Obviously dumped. There was nobody for miles.'

'When exactly was this?'

'Yesterday evening around nine I'd say.'

'Why didn't you report it to the Garda?'

Tomas said nothing, but gave her an amused shake of his serpentine hair.

'So you found this car abandoned and you decided to steal it?'

'Not steal, I told you, borrow. My own car had gearbox trouble and I needed to get over to Cork for some spares.'

'You were simply going to use this dumped car to drive to Coachford and then take it back?'

'That was my first intention, yes.'

'All right,' said Katie. 'Supposing I believe this fantastical story, which I don't for a minute. What were you doing in the cottage up at Sheehan's Nursery? It's not exactly on the way from Curraghnalaght to Cork, is it? In fact, that track doesn't go anywhere at all.'

'I found a piece of paper in the glove box and it had the name of Sheehan's Nursery on it, and a bit of a map.'

'Oh, really? Do you still have this piece of paper in your possession?'

'I don't know.' He poked in his pockets, but all he could find was a packet of Rizla cigarette papers. 'No. I probably dropped it somewhere.'

'Very convenient.'

'I thought that if I went up to Sheehan's Nursery, I might be able to find out who the car belonged to, and maybe there might be a reward in it for taking it back.'

'Oh, I believe you, Tomas, I really do.'

'You don't have any cause not to. I swear to God it's the truth.'

'I don't think so. I think the truth is that you used a false name and address to rent that Mercedes, and then you used it to pick up the first innocent girl you could find. You took her up to Sheehan's Nursery, where you tied her up to the bed and you coldbloodedly mutilated, tortured, and killed her. Then you drove her poor butchered remains to Meagher's Farm and arranged them in the field, as a sacrifice to Mor-Rioghain.'

Tomas O Conaill shook his head and kept on shaking it. 'You're a witch, Detective Superintendent Witch. You're nothing better than abean-nighe;you're death's own washerwoman, washing the blood out of dying people's clothing. I'm innocent of any murder and that's my final word.'