Erin Hart - Haunted Ground

“But he already has a sort of workshop in the house,” Cormac pointed out. “So why would he come all the way out here? And in the middle of the night? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, who else could it be? He put the padlock on and presumably has the key—although I suppose it’s easy enough to pick that sort of a lock.”

“Dead easy. What about Jeremy?”

“I don’t know,” Nora said. “Could be anyone who knows about the tower.”

“So have we any reason to phone Devaney?”

The Madonna and Child image flashed through Nora’s consciousness. She hadn’t really had a chance to examine it closely. Apart from some overpainting, there was something else strange and disturbing about the picture, but what was it? With effort, she might be able to conjure up the image that had only imprinted itself briefly on her brain in all the pandemonium. She closed her eyes and willed herself to remember. If she wasn’t mistaken, the eyes of both mother and child had been cut out rather crudely with a knife.

“You know,” she said, “I think we might.”

On the phone, the young Garda sergeant had reminded Devaney of himself nearly twenty years ago, and he could hear the distinctive cry of a newborn in the background as they spoke. They settled on meeting in a pub on the outskirts of Ballinasloe. Donal Barry had been the man assigned to Bracklyn House during the original search for Osborne’s wife and child more than two years ago. Devaney knew he was grasping at straws here, but he’d begun to feel as if he was getting somewhere. Sooner or later, something would tip. That’s the way it was with cases like this. Keep scraping away, like a file on metal, and eventually someone’s story would weaken and give way. The hard part was sussing out where the vulnerable spot might lie.

Devaney got a pint and stood at the far end of the bar. Soon a strapping young man of about twenty-five came in. He was over six feet tall, clean-shaven, with fairish curly hair and a rugby guard’s muscular build; he wore jeans and a heavy plain blue pullover.

“Devaney?” the young man said.

“Mr. Barry.” Devaney held out a hand. “Thanks for coming. What’ll you have?”

“Same as yourself.”

Devaney lifted his near-empty pint and held up two fingers to the barman. “You were posted at the Osborne house during the various searches and the original interviews,” he said. “And I wanted to get your impression of the situation there.”

“I thought the case had gone up to the task force in Dublin.”

Devaney frowned. “It has. But my superintendent evidently doesn’t see how this one sticks out.”

“Don’t tell me—Brian Boylan?” Barry’s tone was one of disgust. “What a fuckin’ toe-rag.”

Devaney found himself warming to the young man. “I can’t say I disagree. Now, I don’t quite know how to put this: Was there any angle that ought to have been pursued and wasn’t?”

“I knew from the start the whole kidnap scenario was a fuckin’ waste of time,” Barry replied. “I mean, the boys generally know when there’s something up, don’t they?” He meant the Provos, the Provisional IRA, and he was right. They were sometimes the first to volunteer any information they had on criminal cases—provided they weren’t involved. A bit of community-mindedness went a long way in the propaganda war. “There was nothing on the telegraph about this one. Boylan wasted a whole lot of precious time on it, though.”

Devaney was impressed both by the young man’s powers of observation and his common sense. Apparently Barry hadn’t actually participated in any of the interviews, which was a great pity; Devaney was sure the lad would have gotten more out of the witnesses than his superiors apparently had.

“What did you see or hear that didn’t get into the official reports?”

“The trouble with this case was always the lack of a really good motive,” Barry said. “The most obvious suspect, the husband, has a motive all right—the insurance money—but then why bother with the whole disappearing act? It would make more sense if the wife’s body was found right away. I was never sold on the husband.”

“There’s a neighbor who might have a motive as well. Brendan McGann. Thinks Osborne was messing about with his sister.”

“Ah, those rumors have been flying for years. I know Brendan—mad as a snake, but canny. I’m not saying he couldn’t have done it, of course. He’s got a wicked temper. But Brendan’s more likely to goad people into killing each other than topping anybody himself. I never knew why they didn’t spend more time on that cousin.”

Devaney’s ears pricked. “The boy?”

“Well, he was another right head case. But no, I meant the mother,” Barry said. “Something quare about that one. A bit too—precious, if you know what I mean. I can’t think why they didn’t shake that tree a little harder.”

“Tell me more about her.”

Barry thought a moment. “After a day or two sitting in that chair in the front hall, I got to be invisible. Part of the furniture, you might say. She’d make tea and sandwiches for the detectives when they were doing interviews, bring up these trays loaded with food, and straight into the library with them, as though”—he hesitated slightly—“well, almost as though she were part of the investigation herself. I don’t know, I’m not puttin’ it very well, but it was like she got some sort of thrill out of being there, so close to it all, and having to mind Osborne while he was in such a state.”

“Did you get the impression there was anything between herself and Osborne?” Devaney asked.

“I can’t say for certain. Nothing obvious. I do remember one day she thought they were being too hard on him, asking too many questions. Well, she reared up. Fairly chased ’em out of the place.”

“And she never made you tea and sandwiches?” Devaney inquired with a sideways glance.

“She did, of course. But I had mine below in the kitchen, not above with the great men. I’ll tell you what else bothered me: she was the one who kept pushing the notion that the wife had just scarpered. I mean, there were things missing, clothing and so forth, a couple of suitcases, right? But anyone in the house would have had access to those things, and could have nicked ’em before we even searched the place. Had three fuckin’ days to do it.”

Devaney felt foolish; he had never stopped to consider that fact. Put it together with the scarf Mrs. Hernan found under Jeremy’s bed—

“Listen, I have to be heading off,” Barry said, draining the last of his pint. “Sorry. I promised the wife I wouldn’t be late. New baby.”

“You’ve been a great help. Let me know if you think of anything else.” Devaney watched Barry’s broad shoulders push through the door as though it were made of cardboard, and imagined him stooped over, changing the nappy on a tiny infant. There was a father who hadn’t missed the delivery of his child, Devaney thought. He took another drink from his pint. Barry had helped uncover another side of Lucy Osborne, one he had never fully considered before. He’d been concentrating all this time on one motive, money, and never settled long enough on one of the other overwhelming human motivations—jealousy. He remembered Lucy’s vague disapproval, even disparagement of Mina Osborne as she stood before him, arranging those flowers. If she did have her eye on Osborne, was that enough to make her get rid of his wife? She’s there for years with her son, getting used to the idea that this little arrangement could go on forever, and what does Osborne do? He goes off on a summer course and brings home a pregnant wife. Must have been a shock, to say the least. Lucy and Jeremy get shunted aside, while he starts a new family. But what could have triggered a murderous impulse? In Devaney’s experience jealousy usually had a trigger point, sometimes brought on by drink, or seeing the person with someone else. Devaney cast his mind back again to the flowers, and focused on Lucy Osborne’s finger wrapped in a bandage. Was it just coincidence that she’d slipped and injured herself at the very moment he’d happened to mention her son?