Disappeared Page 5

  However, watching the younger detective saunter up the drive, his hand rolling through his thick hair as he half-garbled, half-sang the words of some pop song, Daly wondered what indignities he would have to suffer along the way.

  A young police officer with a nervous expression on his face lifted the tape aside to allow them into the cottage. Daly felt the same way about entering the house of a murder victim as some people feel about breaking into a church. Something to do with disrupting the sense of solitude and peace contained within four walls designed to hold the violent world at bay.

  “Devine must have stepped on someone’s corns, someone well connected with a paramilitary outfit,” said Irwin, his enthusiasm returning. “Who do you think it was? The real IRA, the continuity IRA, the INLA, or the truly, madly, deeply IRA?”

  “Republican paramilitaries aren’t the only pack of dogs about,” replied Daly. “But I guess that’s where the smart money lies.”

  There were no signs of forced entry or a struggle at the front door, or in the cottage’s cramped rooms. Devine had left so suddenly he hadn’t bothered closing the back door behind him. Perhaps he had wanted to give himself a running start. The phone was off the hook, and in the scullery kitchen a pot of congealed porridge sat on the hob.

  “Every house tells its own story,” said Daly.

  Irwin stuck his finger into the porridge and tasted it. “This one must be ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears.’”

  The two detectives walked into a living room with an interior design that could have been delivered complete from the 1950s: On a long shelf, an ancient radio propped up a religious calendar and a dirty bottle of Knock holy water, nostalgic souvenirs of Catholic Ireland. On a table, a portrait of the former pope was winning the equal-rights war with a dusty statue of the Virgin Mary. Even the swathe of sunshine cutting across the room from the tiny window seemed to be frozen in time. Daly noted the picture of the pope was free of dust.

  He picked up the statue of Mary and blew off a cobweb. Her eyes were hollow, and her features more harrowed than those of the icons he remembered, as if the Virgin had been having too many sleepless nights. Perhaps it was his imagination. Or maybe it was the effect of all those lost souls keeping vigil and mindlessly chanting their devotions a hundred times a day and night.

  Devine had been no better than most at bachelor housekeeping. In the kitchen, empty bottles of stout spilled out of a box under a dirty table. While in the spare room, the sagging cushions of a battered sofa were covered in an old blanket, and another chair was upholstered in cracked black leather. The floor surface throughout the cottage was linoleum patterned with green tiles but the effect was marred by too many years of hard wear.

  The only element that did not give the impression of a life in transit was the collection of ducks filling a Welsh dresser and the deep windowsill in the kitchen. Daly did not breathe, believing, at first, they might be real. They were carved from wood and looked to be handpainted. As he moved closer, the room shone with the sporadic glitter of their glass-beaded eyes.

  “Duck decoys,” remarked Daly. “People who live alone can allow themselves eccentric interests.”

  “They look like antiques. I bet they’re worth a few quid,” said Irwin, casually handling one. He almost dropped it in surprise when the head nodded up and down in imitation of a feeding bird.

  “At least they help explain why a duck whistle was lodged in his throat.”

  “How come?”

  “A moment of inspiration from his murderers. Warped, but at least it fits in with Devine’s personality. They must have known about his interest in duck hunting.”

  Daly recalled that the missing man, Hughes, also had a passion for duck hunting. He saw a theme developing.

  “Perverse,” said Irwin with distaste. “And there was me thinking Republican paramilitaries had all taken up flower arranging and human-rights campaigning.”

  A doorbell rang and they both turned in unison.

  Irwin walked off and returned a little later, scowling.

  “No one there. One of the men must have nothing better to do than play pranks.”

  The house had been dusted for fingerprints, every door handle, glass, drawer, and windowpane. Unusually, only one set of fingerprints had been found. Daly had already surmised that Devine had been the reclusive type.

  “According to his nearest neighbor, Devine moved to this hovel at the start of last year,” said Irwin.

  “Why do you think he did that?”

  For an answer, Irwin opened the back door. A gust of wind blew a swirling nest of old leaves and dried sycamore keys across the threshold. Daly stepped out to a secluded view of Lough Neagh and its labyrinth of tree-lined coves. He could see but not identify a number of headlands stretching away into wind-tossed oblivion. It was the ultimate poacher’s perch, hidden from sight, untouched by the life of roads, fields, or villages. The short walk to the shore, bounded by deep thorn bushes, was like a stroll to the edge of humanity. A line of geese honked overhead, their long necks urgently outstretched. Daly followed their flight and let his gaze wander to the horizon, as this was where nature’s signposts were pointing. He allowed himself a moment of introspection before turning back into the cottage.

  The sound of the doorbell buzzing broke the solemn air again.

  Irwin’s face was flat and hard as he made his way back down the corridor. This time he was gone for longer.

  “I don’t know what type of jokers the force is employing these days,” he said on his return. “They’re all denying it was them.”

  “It’s not the doorbell,” said Daly, pacing through the rooms, listening carefully. He looked into the dark hallway and into the silent living room. There was no movement from the holy statue or the picture of the pope, or among the glittering decoy ducks in the kitchen. He watched the dust fall through a ray of sunlight. A thin, fine layer of ancient dust suspended in the air.

  The cottage buzzed again, discreet but insistent, calling their attention. “I know you’re there. Why don’t you answer me?” it seemed to be saying. The hairs on Daly’s neck stood on end.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” asked Irwin from behind.

  “There are nights when I don’t even believe in myself,” replied Daly. “However, there must be a rational explanation for this. Perhaps Devine has some sort of alarm that keeps being tripped.”

  He checked the phone and put it back on the receiver. The line was dead.

  They walked up a narrow set of stairs to an attic bedroom. There was a sheaf of papers on a chest of drawers. It consisted of bills and brochures on duck decoys and other hunting paraphernalia. The two of them went through the drawers, searching in the pockets of trousers and shirts. At the bottom of one of the drawers was an envelope, already opened. Daly took out a photograph and a handwritten invitation card. It was for a duck-hunting club reunion that had taken place a year previously. After lunch and music there will be a lecture given by our president, David Hughes, it said. The photograph showed a group of old men posing in front of a duck hide with a collection of dead ducks. Daly, who had already examined Devine’s passport and driving license, spotted the deceased in the front row of the photo, his unsmiling face, wary and sad, like that of a man kneeling at his own grave.

  Daly had just time enough to register that the postmark on the envelope was local when the buzzing sounded from downstairs again, as though something deep inside the walls of the cottage was vibrating.

  “It’s coming every ten minutes,” he said.

  Daly opened the hot press and tapped the water pipes. In the kitchen, he checked the small refrigerator and the immersion heater, both switched off. He positioned himself in the living room and waited. Irwin paced restlessly about the house, twitching at imaginary sounds. The house seemed to fret too, creaking and shifting on its foundations.

  On the stroke of ten minutes, the picture of the pope began to vibrate, and another ripple of dust formed on the shelf. The buzzing wa
s louder this time—remonstrating, urgent. Daly lifted the picture frame. Wedged behind it was a round black device, vibrating as it moved along the shelf. Daly scooped it up before it scuttled back into darkness. It was a pager, the ring tone switched off. Daly pressed Receive and a message flashed up: eyes on target a to c3 hedge from bld 1. talking to poss ukm. metal object in hand. It had been sent two days previously, but never answered.

  Irwin looked at the message and gave Daly a searching glance. “Whose eyes are they talking about?”

  “A duck hunter’s? I don’t know.”

  Irwin squinted his eyes in concentration, making his face look like a schoolboy’s. “Perhaps the target was Devine. If that’s the case, the eyes got their man.”

  Daly searched through the pager’s memory. There was a series of further messages, equally cryptic. Two had arrived in the past week and were written in a kind of code—one that had been carefully devised. They ostensibly referred to the movements of one man around a building, probably his home. eyes on target a from c4 static at gable end, and then a carrying papers to c3 hedge. unsighted. reappears static at c2. then back to bld 1.

  Daly wondered why they had been sent. To caress Devine’s sense of paranoia, or warn him he was being watched? He stared through the small window at the fringe of trees bounding the garden, their leafless branches swaying together in the wind. He thought of Eliza Hughes and her wandering brother, shadowy movements in the night and of a pair of eyes that never seemed to rest in this mysterious landscape.

  Before they left the cottage, an expensive-looking Mercedes swung into the drive and an elderly man, small and silver-haired, slipped out of the driver’s seat. He had the air of comfort and complacency that accompanies the rich like the smell of cigar smoke and the swish of golf clubs.

  “Inspector Daly,” he announced, “once again we are victims of circumstance. It’s rarely a good morning when our paths cross.”

  The driver was the solicitor Malachy O’Hare, a big shot in the local legal field.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Daly.

  “Curiosity. I wanted to see where Joseph had holed himself up.” The solicitor’s voice, musical and rich, was more accustomed these days to buying rounds of drinks than saving the hides of criminals. He also appeared to be out of touch with police procedure.

  “This is a crime scene, Mr. O’Hare.” Daly pointed to the yellow tape. “That’s as far as you can go.”

  “One of your officers called me this morning. Joseph was an ex-employee, a legal clerk who worked forty years for the firm.” O’Hare’s eyes were playful and engaging. “We suspect he may have had some belongings of ours.” His tone was light but insistent.

  “Well, that’s exactly the kind of information I’m interested in,” said Daly with a sudden professional smile. “What kind of belongings?”

  “Oh, just a few folders belonging to some old cases. Nothing legally active, but we have the confidentiality of our clients to worry about.”

  “Follow me,” said Daly. “While we’re walking you can tell me what you remember about Mr. Devine.”

  “What can I say apart from the fact that he was a good legal clerk? He never revealed much about his private life.”

  “But you believe he removed some important files.”

  O’Hare wiped his expensive-looking shoes on the threadbare doormat before entering the cottage. “Let’s say some concerns had been raised.”

  Even in the gloom of the cottage, Daly could see a distracted look cloud the solicitor’s eyes. He waited patiently, hoping the rhythm of their exchange would reveal why the solicitor had taken the unusual step of rushing to a crime scene.

  O’Hare frowned and surveyed the collection of duck decoys. He raised an eyebrow at them as though they were a jury hovering on a verdict.

  “It’s extraordinary what a colleague can conceal over the years. I never knew he had an interest in ducks. Perhaps he did have an obsessive streak. It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead, but I always thought he was a dull, venal man.”

  “We’re not here to judge his personality,” replied Daly.

  O’Hare glanced up at the detective, scanning his face, looking for what might be hidden between his words.

  “Devine was employed as a paralegal almost as long as I’ve been a solicitor,” he continued, with the unhurried meticulousness of a prosecutor laying out the case against the accused. “And believe me, he was a dull man. Those decoys haven’t budged a muscle since we came in, but there was more life in any one of them than in that man, God rest his soul. I’d have rather shaved my head than get caught in a conversation with him. He was like a true bogeyman about the office. But then a tedious nature is probably a strength in the legal profession. No one with an aversion to boredom ever survived working in law.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted him killed? A disgruntled client, perhaps.”

  “Our firm is almost exclusively concerned with the ordinary affairs of humanity: contracts, conveyance, leaving a will…. I can’t see a client getting sufficiently enraged to kill Joseph. Though there was an occasion when he served a writ at a funeral. The coffin containing the man’s father was being lowered when Joseph handed him the papers. I don’t think he was aware of the emotional ramifications. But that was a long time ago, back in the ’70s. Apart from that, I can’t think of any reason that would drive someone to kill him.”

  O’Hare gave in to his curiosity and lifted one of the decoys.

  “We should get an expert in to value these,” he said, but he was no longer looking at the ducks. Instead, his eyes roved hungrily around the room.

  “Perhaps I should send a man ’round for a few hours to go through Joseph’s belongings. Some of these decoys are antiques and collector’s items. His estate needs drawn up. You can lock our man in; even search him when he comes out. Just an hour or two is all he’ll need to document anything of value.”

  “And have him rummage through possible evidence? You should know better than to suggest that.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, you’re right.”

  O’Hare glanced again at Daly and took measure of the solid air of suspicion that was forming between them. He tried to change tack.

  “Have you formally identified the body as Joseph’s?” He leaned toward Daly, groping for a more cordial footing to their conversation.

  “If not, then you’re trespassing in the home of a missing man, and we have two crimes to solve instead of one. You think it was impossible that he was killed in such a way?”

  “It does strike me as strange.”

  “What I find strange is that when a police officer calls you this morning you drop everything and hightail it out here. That’s strange. Devine was a minor staff member who left your office a good while ago.”

  “Oh dear,” sighed O’Hare. “Everything about this setup—the surroundings, the decrepit state of the place—strikes me as highly unusual. I can’t imagine why he came here in the first place.”

  “Anyone who moves to a place like this is trying to escape something. Traffic jams, the rat race, boredom, the past,” suggested Daly. “It wasn’t just for the long rainy afternoons and the occasional sunset.”

  O’Hare’s face turned grave. “I fear we are in for a few unpleasant surprises. You must tell me if any sensitive documents turn up. This could be very bad for the firm’s reputation.” A crude grimace distorted his mouth, and he whispered, almost to himself, “the past is an overflowing shit-pot of trouble and Devine has stirred it all up with a big stick.”

  “This man’s murder is the only unpleasant surprise I care about. We’ll be working hard to catch his killers. If anything comes up, we’ll let you know.”

  O’Hare took a final anxious glance about the living room. Devine’s death had tightened a coil of fear around him. His nervousness reminded Daly that, as a solicitor working during the Troubles, O’Hare had probably carried a gun in self-defense. They were violent times, and solicitors we
re the least likely group of people to attract new friends.

  “You don’t look well,” said Daly.

  O’Hare kneaded his arm. “High blood pressure. The doctor says I should spend more time on the golf course. If it wasn’t for Devine ringing me on Thursday I’d be there now.”

  “That would explain your anxiety,” said Daly. “What did he ring you for?”

  “It was a strange conversation.” O’Hare’s face was pale and grim as he spoke. “He said he wanted to talk, but not on the phone. When I asked where, all he said was ‘You’ll see.’ He said he wanted some information about an old case. He also admitted to removing some important files. But he wouldn’t be drawn any further. I tried to chat to him about general things, the weather, his health, where he was living. He told me he had found a wonderful location on the lough. ‘A good place to die,’ were his words. I began to suspect his mind was losing its footing.”

  Just then, a shout from Irwin drew their attention outside. Some of the officers had found the remains of a fire at the bottom of the garden. The solicitor followed Daly out.

  Amid the fine gray ashes was a box of partially burnt papers. O’Hare recognized the box and began beaming like the sun. His self-confidence returned and he reached for the charred files with a sense of triumph.

  “Hang on. Nothing can be removed from the fire,” warned Daly. “Not even by our officers. We have to follow our procedures.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s building waste among the ashes. We can’t rule out that it’s asbestos. The burnt fibers are harmful if released in the air. No one can touch the ashes until a team with protective gear arrives. And at this moment I have no idea how long that will take.”

  “These files might be a ticking time bomb, who knows what confidential information they might contain,” said O’Hare, his voice rising.