“Yes.”
Almost imperceptibly, Daly shook his head. He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. “There has to be something more to his life. I have to know everything about him, the people he was in touch with, what was on his mind, who he would be likely to visit, before I can come up with any theories.”
He paused and handed her a mug of tea. “Meanwhile I also have to devote my attention to an important murder investigation. Any information you might have about Joseph Devine would be very helpful. And I need it as soon as possible.”
She nodded. “I’ll supply you with anything I can think of. In the meantime, you should talk to Ginger Gormley. His father organized duck hunts on some land they owned. He kept a logbook with all the details of the duck-hunting club.”
According to Eliza, Gormley lived in a farmhouse in a wooded cove along the lough. Daly dialed his number from Eliza’s hall, letting it ring without getting an answer. The house was hard to find, so Daly had her draw a map. She was certain Gormley would be at home.
He was struck by the impression that Eliza’s emotions began to buoy up as he left. She stood at the door watching his car pull away with a look of relief on her face. He tapped the steering wheel with his fingers, wondering what items of interest still lay inside the cottage waiting to be discovered.
He had little difficulty following the map, and after twenty minutes or so found himself driving up a lane toward a large square farmhouse that had been divided into a number of different homes. He guessed that Gormley’s parents and siblings lived in separate quarters within the building. The house resembled a latter-day fort, guarding the extended family’s privacy even though their only neighbor was the lough. Daly looked up at the large windows, which were like reflective shields filled with the light of the sky. An upstairs window closed and a shadow disappeared from view.
The landscape of the lough shore with its coves and hidden bays lent itself to withdrawal and refuge, thought Daly. And this was the home of the archetypal lough-shore family.
A battleground of shovels and hoes, rakes and scythes lay in the overgrown grass that ran right up to the front door. Somewhere a dog started barking.
Daly rang the doorbell. Fortunately, he did not have to wait long. A man carrying a spade appeared from behind the house and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw his visitor.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” said Daly. “My name is Inspector Celcius Daly. I rang, but I got no answer. I’m looking for Ginger Gormley.”
“That’s me,” said the man. He had a shock of wild ginger hair, fleshy lips, and bright, suspicious eyes. Daly could see he was on his guard.
“I want to ask you a few questions about David Hughes. He’s missing and his sister is very worried.”
Gormley appeared to relax. He shouted at the dog to stop barking, and led Daly through a front door into the farmhouse.
“Celcius. That’s a strange name. For a policeman.”
“My mother named me after Brother Celcius, a monk at the Christian Brothers in Dungannon,” explained Daly. He paused. It was his experience that an early enquiry about his name usually indicated a difficult interviewee. “I’m glad my mother was into religion and not art. Otherwise she might have christened me Salvador.”
Gormley responded to the joke with a brief grunt and no eye contact. He had perfected the art of abruptness. Daly feared the interview was going to be long and fruitless.
“Hughes owes me money. I doubt if I’ll see any of it now,” he grumbled.
They walked into a large room, a combination kitchen–living room and, judging from the blankets covering the worn-out sofa, a bedroom, too.
“I’ve been suffering from the flu. Today’s the first day I’ve stepped outside,” said Gormley.
He cleared a pile of underwear from a seat for Daly, who thought to himself that at least it was an attempt at hospitality. Unfortunately, the underwear had been hiding some scraps of leftover food, the provenance of which was obscured by a thatch of blue mold.
A bland vacancy fell over Gormley’s face as he dropped into an armchair. Daly had seen that look before. The expression said he’d seen nothing interesting and there was nothing interesting to be said. Of course, there was a way of penetrating such defenses, but it usually entailed a trip to the police station and a spell in an interrogation suite.
“I heard this morning there was a search for him. How’s it going?”
“Not so good, at the moment.”
“Good. I hope it stays that way. David was a prisoner in that house. It was a rescue party he needed, not a search party.”
“The man is suffering from Alzheimer’s,” said Daly sharply. “According to his sister, he requires round-the-clock supervision.”
“If he was that ill, he was bloody good at hiding it.”
A look of tension furrowed Gormley’s freckled brow with the realization that he had probably said too much. Daly sensed he was not a natural talker, a lough-shore boy unused to small chat or evasion. Whatever was on his mind bolted straight out of his mouth and rolled on the ground like a playful puppy.
“You’ve seen Mr. Hughes recently?”
Gormley said nothing, hoping Daly would come to his rescue and ask another question. He flashed Daly a contorted smile, and Daly smiled back. He waited, and slowly Gormley relaxed his guard. Sometimes you had to give people time to open up. He was prepared to give people like Gormley all the time in the world.
“He woke me up well after midnight on Saturday,” Gormley said with a sigh. “I heard a rapping at the door and found him standing on my porch. I didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to be out. When he saw me, he danced a little jig, as he always did when going on a duck-shooting trip. He was wearing an old hunting jacket and it was dripping with the rain.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Only to hurry up because we were going on a hunting expedition.”
Daly watched as Gormley’s face took on a look of boyish amusement.
“It was news to me,” he continued. “None of the duck flocks were in. Just a trickle of birds on the southern shore. I’d been watching every night from the marsh at Derryinver. All I’d caught up to that night was the flu.” He grinned at Daly. “But I took him in and made him a cup of tea. I just played along and made up a bed with some old blankets right on that sofa there. He seemed in a funny mood, and I thought he could do with a good night’s sleep.”
Daly wondered how any guest could enjoy a restful night on that sofa.
Gormley leaned forward, his eyes shining. “David was a real article. He was the oldest member of the club, and the most respected. He called here most nights before his sister started locking him up. We’d sit discussing the usual topics—religion, politics, and, of course, duck hunting. He was no blood relation, but I called him Grandda, although I never said it to his face. I’m not sure how he would have taken it. I could listen to his stories for hours, but that night I could see his memory was beginning to let him down.”
“Did he tell you what was on his mind?”
“He seemed worried about something. Before I went to bed, he wanted to check my collection of duck decoys. To see if any were missing. We counted all six of them. He seemed upset and said everyone knows you ought to have an odd number. Thirteen was luckier than having an even number like six, he warned me.”
Daly looked puzzled.
“I think he believed ducks would be more attracted by an odd number of decoys. One without a mate, you see.” He flashed another grin. “That’s duck hunting for you.”
“What happened in the morning?”
“He told me he was going to see a friend. I gave him some money for a taxi because he was short. But he said he was going to walk it. The last I saw of him, he was brushing down his thick white hair with his palm. He had an old hunting gun tied across his back and he was chuckling. He told me, ‘I’m away to hunt down an old friend, Ginger.’”
“Who was the friend?”
“He didn’t tell. And I had no reason to ask.”
“Have you a list of the members of the duck club? I’m going to need their addresses.”
“I don’t keep records like that. Dad used to organize shoots on the marsh out the back. It’s about ten acres of reed beds and forest. For lack of a better term, Dad was organizationally challenged. He had a logbook, which sounds good, but the only information it held was the number of men gunning and how much was owed. That was all the information he ever needed.”
“What about addresses?”
“Dad didn’t need any addresses. If someone wanted to hunt, all they had to do was tell him.”
Daly showed him the photograph of the duck-hunter’s club.
“Recognize the man on the bottom left?”
“Sure, that’s Joseph Devine, the man who they found on Coney Island. He worked in a solicitor’s firm. Hughes used to always joke that he’d come in useful if they shot anyone by accident.”
Gormley gave him the names of the other men in the photo, which Daly noted.
“I’m investigating the murder of Joseph Devine. Is there anything you can tell me that might be of use to the investigation?”
“I read the newspapers,” said Gormley, trying to avoid the question. “I guessed you were here to talk about more than a missing man.”
“How well did you know Mr. Devine?”
“Not much at all. He was a very quiet man, very discreet about everything he did.”
“When did you last see him?”
“I’m not sure. Might have been a few days ago. Or could have been months back.”
“What do you mean?”
“Devine was very protective about his privacy. He used to come and go on the lough and visit the hides here as he pleased. I think he was here a few days ago. At least, someone was. I saw his boat at the pier and assumed it was him. He didn’t like to be bothered.”
Daly considered what Gormley had said for a moment. “In other words, you’re not sure whether he was here or not. Interesting, but not much help to this murder investigation.”
“You’re right. But that was Devine. He was never a showy hunter. Didn’t have any nervous tics or any need for company. Nor did he leave much trace of himself behind. He was very careful. That’s all I remember about him. He could sit and wait in a hide for as long as it took.”
Daly thanked Gormley for his time and handed him a card with his details. “If you remember anything, please call me,” he urged.
He drove off down the lane. The trees closed around the house, shutting off a view of Gormley standing in his garden, a cloud of midges revolving above him in a patch of evening sunlight.
Daly felt a measure of satisfaction with the interview. It struck him that the starting point in his search for Hughes had been found. The old man was not completely confused. Instead, he had left his cottage with a purpose, a search for someone or something. Whatever it was, Daly suspected he had not found it at the Gormley homestead.
T
he lough-shore fields and hedgerows were slipping back to fog and water. The mist crept ashore while the old man watched, wandering on the road behind him. Listening carefully, he could hear the muffled flight of each water droplet, the soft implosion that marked the disappearance of another tree, another house, another landmark as the fog sneaked up and enclosed him in walls of whiteness.
It was early morning and David Hughes was walking alone past sleeping farmhouses and shrouded thickets of birch and elder. His feet were wet and the muddy bottoms of his pajamas trailed from under his waterproof trousers. The cold had gotten under his thick overcoat, making his body tremble. He had eaten his last cooked meal the previous day, and even his belly felt cold. However, his eyes were bright with exhilaration. It was a victory to be on the road at all. Away from the ghosts and shadows that had scared the wits out of him during the long winter.
Even though he was in a hurry, he could manage only the small, mouselike steps of an ill man not fully anchored in reality. His body felt like a massive bulk to be coaxed awkwardly through the gaps in the fog. The harder he tried, the slower his progress became. Little by little, he advanced along the road.
He worried that his illness was going to betray him. All the shadows needed to know was which direction he had taken. They would follow his tracks and wait until he tired himself out. He had to keep moving, keep making decisions. He knew with certainty he had taken the correct course of action. When he discovered that Joseph Devine was dead, his first instinct had been to hide in the gloomy cottage and barricade himself behind a locked door. But that was what they wanted, he realized. To have him imprisoned by fear. If he turned back to the cottage, they would be there, gathering at that sinister gap in the thorn hedge, ready to trap him with their terrible stories of the past.
His shuffling steps stopped. He stood impatiently, wanting to reach down and grab hold of each resistant limb. The fog thickened, spreading white wings of atomized water over him, and he tottered as if brought to a dangerous brink.
Where was this unfathomable hesitation coming from? It was his illness. Alzheimer’s seemed to have a direction and will all of its own, a destructive force he had no control over. He concentrated on lifting his feet from the mud that seemed to suck at them, but they refused to move.
As he stood there his thoughts and memories vanished one by one, swallowed up by the mist inside him. He was reduced to an inner silence, a trance, breathing in the damp morning air.
For a while, he forgot about his flight from the cottage, the stumbling in the dark, the flashes of light, the sharp pain whenever he tripped and fell, and the frantic throbbing of birds escaping into the night sky.
It was early morning and he was on a road he had known all his life. But he had reached the end of himself. The point where the rest of the earth tips over into oblivion.
He smiled, feeling the skin on his face tighten and then go numb. The moments ticked by as the mist seeped deeper into his clothes.
A dog barked at a nearby farmhouse. His legs began moving again, and his sense of urgency returned. By now his clothes were wet through, their heaviness tugging at him as he continued his shuffling progress. The fog had soaked him as thoroughly as a heavy downpour, droplet by droplet, without him realizing. There was no need to hurry, to make haste, after all, he thought. Small steps like small drops had a cumulative effect; they achieved their goal in the end.