‘I rented him the car,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Seamus Gaffney. He’s a regular, every six weeks, and he never misses one of the children’s birthdays or a school open day.’
‘How do you know all this? Larry asked.
‘As I said, he was a regular. Sometimes you get to talking with the customers, and after so many years, we got to know each other well.’
‘Strictly business?’
‘Oh yes. Seamus was a family man, devoted to his wife. Not that I ever met her, but a good woman from what he said.’
Larry was anxious to be on the road as time was of the essence, but the clerk behind the counter had possible information. He could spare her a few minutes, and then he’d be off, returning to conduct a formal interview with her at a later time.
‘He picked up the car from me the day he died. He was in a good mood, but then he always was when he came back to Ireland. I can understand that. I spent two years in England, not that I liked it that much. Apologies if I insult your country.’
‘No apology needed. What can you tell me? What is there that would be of interest? Something has come up, I’ve got to go,’ Larry said. His wife was on the phone, and she wanted to know why he would not be home that night.
‘It was strange, not that I thought much about it at the time.’
‘What was?’ Larry said, eyeing the clock, running the car keys through his hand.
‘I could swear he was being followed.’
‘Any idea who? Can you describe the person?’
‘That’s it. I can’t, not really. You tend to get an eye for people in this job, those who are going to feed you a stolen credit card, forged driving licence, those who should pay extra for additional insurance. Too many of them, I’m afraid. They rent a cheap runabout and then think it’s a supercar or a four-wheel drive. And then they’re back here with the vehicle claiming it was in that condition when they rented it, not that they get anywhere as they had a chance to complain at pickup, and we have photos before they leave. The insurance saves us a few arguments, that’s all.’
‘If you’re so perceptive, how come you didn’t figure this person?’
‘Average height, average look, average clothes. It’s as if he was experienced at blending in.’
‘Professional, you might say.’
‘Anyway, Seamus is off, and this person is agitating for his vehicle quickly. But if he’s not booked ahead, or he’s not on the database, it takes time.’
‘Did he get the car?’
‘He had to take one of the more expensive vehicles. Literally ran out of here, took off with his foot to the floor. The car’s back here now, and there was no damage, so I assume he was a competent driver.’
‘What luggage was he carrying?’
‘Nothing special. A small suitcase, the type you can take on the plane with you.’
‘His name?’
‘It’s on file.’
‘English?’
‘It’s hard to tell these days, but yes, I’d say he was. Good-looking, if he wasn’t so shifty.’
‘Was he? How would you know?’
‘It was him, wasn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He must have killed Seamus, such a nice man.’
‘A nice man who saw and said too much,’ Larry said, not elaborating on what he meant. ‘I’ll need you at the police station. I’ll phone for a vehicle to pick you up. Is that okay?’
‘Not really, but if it’s important.’
‘It is.’
Larry made a phone call, a patrol car arrived within five minutes. Larry left the office and jumped into the rental car. Twenty-five minutes later, he arrived at his destination. The crime scene was crowded with police officers, an ambulance, the crime scene examiners, the obligatory onlookers, the media. He flashed his warrant card at a police constable and was waved through. He parked back from the crime scene at a distance of twenty yards.
‘I need to get up there,’ he said to another constable who wasn’t letting him through. ‘It’s important.’
‘Not unless you’re kitted up, it isn’t,’ the constable replied. Larry knew he was right, but it was urgent. Over to one side he saw one of the officers who had met him at the airport the day before.
‘Can you get onto the crime scene team, get me some overshoes, gloves?’ Larry said.
The officer walked over and gave him what he needed. ‘We always keep some in the vehicle. It’s tense here.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Larry said as he ducked under the crime scene barrier. To the left of the road, a couple of floodlights. To the right, Ryan Buckley’s car.
‘In his driveway as he was coming home. You could be the last person to have spoken to him,’ Fergus Turnley, the crime scene examiner, said after Larry had introduced himself and explained that he had only left the man a couple of hours previously.
Larry looked in the vehicle. Ryan Buckley was leaning back, his face covered in blood. His mouth was open, his eyelids still slightly open. Not far away, at the front door of the semi-detached house, a woman in her dressing gown could be seen. She was being held firmly by someone Larry assumed to be a neighbour or a friend. Larry remembered that Buckley had said that it wasn’t a happy home, but the woman, thought to be the wife, looked sad, or maybe it was shock, or perhaps she had killed him.
Larry put the last option to one side; he knew that speculation served no purpose. The only known certainty was that Inspector Ryan Buckley, a man he
