Erin Hart - The Book of Killowen

“I’m sorry, it’s been a rather busy day, busier than usual, even. I’ll have a go at them as soon as I get back to the cottage.”

Cormac said, “You might be interested in our other discovery this morning. Niall compared the marks on that wax tablet with the stylus found here last April, and he’s convinced that it was the writing instrument used on that tablet. He thinks he’ll be able to prove it without much doubt.”

“Takes your breath away, doesn’t it, what science is able to do these days? I meant to ask about Dawson—we did hear about his trouble. I think we’d all like to help, but no one is sure what to do. I was quite certain that Vincent Claffey had something to do with Benedict Kavanagh’s death. Now I suppose we’ll never know, will we?”

Tessa came up behind her husband, and for the first time, Cormac could see the way the blade of her jaw stretched her skin, sharp and insistent. Her eyes seemed to look out from a deep well.

“It’s time to go, my love,” Tessa said to her husband. He took her arm and tucked it in the crook of his own, and led her out across the gravel. Cormac recalled a gesture he’d seen that afternoon—Tessa Gwynne’s hand reaching out to touch her daughter’s hair.

It was after nine on Sunday evening when Stella arrived home. She changed into pajamas but kept her phone close by, just in case there was word on Anca and Deirdre and the child. Where could they have got to? She remembered the delight on the baby’s face when she’d dangled the plastic keys in front of him. Cal. Short for Calum? Where had Deirdre had come up with the name? She hadn’t thought to ask. Such a wonderful age, nine months. Not quite walking, but you could see all the wheels turning inside a baby’s head. She’d never forgotten what Lia was like at that age. It made her heart ache now, remembering how she had watched the words form on her daughter’s lips, the first time the spark of knowledge appeared in Lia’s eyes as she said mama .

She punched in Barry’s mobile number but hesitated before pressing the green button. What would she say? She wasn’t finished with this case, not by a long shot. She’d likely be working strange hours for days to come, so perhaps it was best if Lia stayed with her dad for the time being. When the school term started, they’d have to work out a more regular schedule, but until then…

She felt a punch to the gut, realizing just how many times she had left Barry and Lia to fend for themselves over the past seventeen years. How many times Barry had had to feed their daughter and put her to bed when she was off on some training course, or when she’d served on the Drugs Task Force. Spending more time with criminals than with her own family. She stared at the number on the tiny screen, then let her hand drop. There was nothing she could say right now that would bring her daughter home. Time to crack this case, then she could work on making things right with Lia.

Stella retrieved the Cregganroe bombing file from her bag, poured herself a glass of wine, and slid the file out onto the table. It was thick, gray with fingerprints, and stuffed with all the photographs and intelligence reports that led to the arrest of the bomb makers. CLOSED was stamped across it in large black letters. Another successful resolution.

She flipped through lists of all the physical evidence collected at the bomb makers’ worksite. There was a list of suspected and known associates. Not all the associates had names; sometimes physical descriptions or code names were all investigators had to go by. The file was filled with photos of shaggy young men, cigarettes dangling on their lips, on street corners and in pubs. Stella studied the faces in the photographs, taken by a hidden camera inside a pub. She remembered those days, the heady talk from the young intellectuals about freedom from tyranny, the corruptibility of governments looking out for one another against the will of the people, the whiff of socialism that had laced the struggles in the North. So much had changed, and so much had stayed exactly the same.

There were photos of the bomb makers’ hideout after it was uncovered, stuffed with detonators, plastic explosives, and Semtex. It was a wonder they hadn’t blown themselves up, as so many others had done before them. The investigators had managed to track down all but one of the group—the instigator, the head of the serpent, as it were. They’d given him a fitting code name, the Snake.

A rap at the door broke her concentration. Molloy was holding a striped carrier bag full of fish and chips. The smell made her mouth water and reminded her that she’d skipped dinner once again. She only wished she’d put on a robe before answering the door.

Molloy grinned. “Seeing as you’re working late again, I thought you might be hungry.”

“How do you know I’m working?”

He glanced at the contents of the file spread all over the table. “If you’re not, I’ll go straight home and reckon myself a very bad detective indeed. What are you at there?”

She led him to the table. “I don’t know.” She showed him the bag with the newspaper cutting. “I found this in Vincent Claffey’s shed. It’s about the Cregganroe bombing. Not sure what it has to do with the rest of the case, if anything, but thought I should check it out, at least. I’m just going through the file.” She held up the bottle. “Wine?”

It took them all of about ten minutes to demolish the fish and chips. Stella had vowed a thousand times to eat healthier but always knew she’d never be able to give up battered cod and salty vinegar-soaked chips. She’d had almost a full glass of wine before Molloy arrived, and he filled her glass again. He said, “The Cregganroe bombing—that’s awhile back now, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, a bit before your time,” Stella said. “My first assignment out of Templemore—”

“Christ, Stella, not your first day on the job?”

“It was.” She didn’t have to say any more. A silence lapsed between them.

“Found the bastards, though, didn’t they?” Molloy finally asked.

“Oh, they did,” Stella said. “Four of them went down for it. But not the brains of the operation, or the girl who was supposed to have phoned in the warning, which nobody admitted receiving.” Stella held the cutting at arm’s length. “It does strike me as just a bit curious that this particular cutting should turn up in Vincent Claffey’s shed. He was making threats at Killowen the night he was killed, intimating that he knew all their secrets. What if this is one?”

“You think somebody at Killowen could have been mixed up in that bombing? It’s more than twenty years ago, Stella.”

“So anyone over the age of forty would be in the running.”

Molloy considered. “The Gwynnes, Claire Finnerty, Diarmuid Lynch, Anthony Beglan—everyone else would have been too young.”

“Yes, unless it’s an indirect connection, through a family member maybe? And just because Shawn Kearney is American doesn’t mean she’s off the hook. She said her gran was from Sligo.” Stella spied a speck of grease at the corner of Molloy’s mouth. “You’ve got something there,” she said, reaching over to wipe it off.

He caught her wrist and pulled her close. She felt his other hand against her back, through the thin pajama fabric. Her immediate reaction was to push back, but he leaned into her.

“Don’t fight, Stella. You’ve been pushing me away for days. You don’t even see it, do you?”

“What are you talking about?” She struggled harder, but he still had her wrist, and the other arm around her waist, so that she couldn’t move. He smelled good, a mixture of soap and chips and healthy sweat. This could not be happening. They worked together, for God’s sake. And not only that, he was far too young. “Fergal,” she said, a note of warning in her voice.