Deadly Intent (13 page)

Fitzmaurice pulled up at a large ornate gateway. A sign proclaimed it as the entrance to ‘Carraig Álainn – Luxury holiday homes available for rent, beautifully appointed throughout. Private and serene setting, mature landscaping.'

‘Maybe you're right,' said Redmond. But the sergeant's theory did not really convince him. Things might change, of course, when the forensic results came in: Dominic's car was being examined for any evidence that a body had been transported in it, and a full report was also awaited on the scene of the laneway itself. In the meantime, Redmond's own fervent hope was that the investigation would continue for several more days at least.

‘I don't think Inspector O'Kelleher believes that Dominic is the murderer,' he said then. ‘My impression is that he suspects Fergus Malden quite strongly, in spite of the alibi evidence.'

‘Well, if you can figure out what goes on in the
cig
's mind, you deserve to be promoted, boy. But what's the point of looking for a complicated solution to the murder, when a plain answer is staring us in the face?'

A large van was parked near the first of Carraig Álainn's houses. Its rear doors were slammed shut as Redmond and Fitzmaurice approached and a young man hurried into the front seat, turning on the ignition as they spoke to him.

‘Is Marcus O'Sullivan around, or you could tell us …?'

Redmond recognised the driver. His name was on the tip of his tongue. He had been up in court in a case Redmond had worked on the previous year. He was in his twenties, with long straggly hair and a goatee beard.

‘He's here somewhere alright,' the man replied. Then he smirked and Redmond remembered his case in an instant. He was accused of speeding at a 150 kilometres an hour on a wide stretch of road outside Bantry, but escaped conviction because of a stupid mistake made in the paperwork by another garda.

A slogan on the side of the van advertised a furniture removal business. ‘See ya, so,' the driver said cheerily as he drove off. Two fingers to authority, and the same sly grin on his face as when he walked out of the courthouse. Carl, that was his name, Carl O'Sullivan.

Heavy blinds shuttered the windows at the first house. Redmond went ahead to the second house, and as he rounded a copse of trees, he saw another young man holding a phone to his ear. Redmond called down the slope to him and the man gave a startled glance in his direction.

But then he turned and took off towards the cliffs, disappearing along a wooded path. He was carrying something under his arm, perhaps a large package or box. Redmond was sure the young man had seen him but then pretended otherwise.

A raised patio, furnished with table and chairs, adjoined the third house at Carraig Álainn. Redmond bounded up steps to a wooden rail at the far side of the patio. The rocky fringes of the coastline suddenly came into view, and down by the sea, he saw a boat at a concrete slipway.

After a few minutes, the same young man he had seen a minute earlier appeared on the slipway. Redmond called to him loudly and this time the man looked up and acknowledged him with a wave. But there was no sign of whatever package he had been carrying. He stepped onto the boat and into the cabin.

In the fading light, the sea was a deep navy blue. The holiday enclave of three houses was peaceful and secluded, but Redmond felt like hurling stones at the boat, to let its insolent owner know what he thought of him. Conor Fitzmaurice joined him at the rail just as the man reappeared from the boat.

‘That's young Marcus, right enough,' said Fitzmaurice. ‘And as you've probably guessed, the gentle soul who drove off in the van is his brother, Carl, who has his own collection of holiday properties over in Clonakilty.' The sergeant allowed a shade of sarcasm in his voice. ‘The family is a fount of enterprise, to be sure.'

Marcus O'Sullivan came up to the patio a few minutes later, apologising for any delay he had caused them. He had been cleaning out one of the houses, he explained.

‘Hard times, eh?' he said lightly. ‘Work is an incurable affliction, there's no doubt about it.'

‘You made a statement to Sergeant Fitzmaurice yesterday,' said Redmond, his own tone as curt and authoritative as he could make it. ‘A false statement, as it appears now, so we're here to get an accurate account of your movements last Thursday, and the identity of the person seen with you in your car at half-past two that afternoon.'

Marcus leaned against the rail and shut his eyes for a moment. Unlike Fergus Malden, he was not in the least nervous in the presence of gardai.

‘Look, I'm sorry if there was a misunderstanding,' he ventured then. ‘But I'm sure you can both remember the follies of youth?'

‘Listen to me carefully, son, because I'll say this much just the once.' Fitzmaurice had no problem asserting his authority. ‘You can forget your shameless blather because we're not here about a misunderstanding. It's an offence to give false information to a garda, and if we hear any more fables from you—'

‘OK, cool, no worries.' Marcus assumed a serious air and looked directly at the sergeant. ‘The point is, the person I was with last Thursday … Well, I was trying to avoid getting her into trouble, you see. She's not Irish, she's Slovakian, and the situation is a bit tricky.'

‘Keep talking. The plain facts, that's all we need.'

‘The plain facts are that her name is Katya and she lives in Clonakilty. She became friendly with my brother Carl a few months ago, but very recently, herself and myself, you see, let's say—'

‘Let's say you've been shagging her, is that it? She's your brother's girlfriend but she's happy to keep another stallion in the stable?'

‘Hold on, sergeant, I don't think you should insult a woman you've never met,
por favor
. What happened was that I drove straight back here last Thursday when I got word that the Tipperary gig was off.' Marcus picked a bit of brushwood off his shirt and then looked back at Fitzmaurice. He had long elegant hands, and in spite of the dirt he could see under his fingernails, Redmond figured he had no love of manual work.

‘But then I phoned Katya,' he continued, ‘because I happened to know that she was over in Castletown on business, and she told me she was free for the afternoon.'

‘And then,
por favor
yourself? Did you pick her up in town or what?'

‘No, we met at Scannive, which is why I was seen there with her at the time you said. After a while I suggested we take a little scenic tour, and lucky me, she was gameball so off we went.'

‘Off where, or do we have to extract your story like rotten teeth?'

Marcus winked man-to-man at his interviewers. ‘We went over to Ardgroom, and then up the valley to Glenbeg Lake, to a grand quiet spot where we could admire the view. Then one thing led to another, you see, the way these things sometimes do.' He flicked a lock of dark hair off his forehead and resumed a more serious look. ‘But maybe you understand now what my problem was when you quizzed me first. So if you could possibly not mention this episode to my brother, I'd appreciate it, and there's also a young lady living in this area—'

‘If you could possibly keep your trousers zipped, we'd all be better off.' Fitzmaurice glared at Marcus. ‘We don't give a tuppenny curse about your sleazy love life, but your play-acting is a waste of our precious time, and I promise you we'll check out everything you said, if we need to.' He spoke briskly. ‘Now, would you mind telling us whether you laid eyes on Oscar Malden at Scannive Strand, while you were warming up for your scenic tour,
mar dhea
?'

Redmond took note of the negative response. He found it hard to believe a word Marcus O'Sullivan had said. He thought he was a waster, just like his brother. They all got up, but then Redmond asked Marcus a final question as he made to saunter off.

‘You were carrying a box or a package when I arrived. You seemed to be in a hurry to get rid of it, so perhaps you'd like to tell us what was in it?'

‘A box, guard?' Marcus seemed surprised at the question. ‘Oh, you mean …? Sure that was just a few old shrubs I cleared from the front of the house above, and tipped over the cliffside to get rid of them.'

N
essa checked her travel bag, packed since the weekend. Her friend Caitlín had urged her to leave Beara for a few days if the pressure became too much. On Sunday afternoon, Ronan had been collected by family friends who lived on the far side of Bantry. The only option now was for her and Sal to join him.

Monday and Tuesday had been relatively quiet, but just before midnight on Tuesday, she received a text from a sub-editor on Jack Talbot's newspaper, a woman Nessa knew since their time in college decades earlier, who was doing her a favour by giving her advance warning of a hostile story.

‘Bware JT,'
the text said. ‘Going big on OM & ur husb, alleg secret mtg, Russ consp theory no less. Take care out there.'

An hour later, the paper's online edition was leading with Talbot's story. ‘Surprise new evidence,' it said, ‘confirms a phone call at midday on Thursday last between Oscar Malden and Patrick Latif, co-owner of Cnoc Meala guesthouse where murder victim Malden spent the last night of his life. It is also believed that the two men actually met after their call, and if so, Patrick Latif may have been the last witness to Malden's movements before the brutal killing that has stunned the nation.' Then he added: ‘But that same evening, Latif took a last-minute flight to faraway southern Africa, and has been uncontactable since that time.'

The words swirled in front of Nessa's eyes as she read on. Talbot was careful, of course, not to fling around murder accusations against Patrick. Instead, in a typical piece of wordplay, he stated that, ‘No evidence has emerged to implicate Latif in Malden's shocking murder. But gardai refuse to rule out the possibility that he could hold vital clues to the case. They admit that they wish to interview Latif urgently, not only about Thursday's events, but about new information revealed exclusively by your correspondent today.'

‘Oscar Malden's successful business empire included a number of companies in Russia. Following extensive research, we have established that Patrick Latif also had long-established connections in that part of the world, having spent his student days in Soviet Moscow. Latif maintained close links with both business and security figures in the Russian capital, and took part in a controversial trip there only last year, during which two extremist agitators in his group were arrested. We can also confirm that Oscar Malden visited Moscow in the same month as Latif.'

Nessa managed a faint smile at the last sentence. So what if the two men had visited Moscow, Madrid or Madagascar in the same month, when thousands of others had achieved the same feat too? But the story was damaging, she knew that only too well, whatever sources Talbot had for it. And trying to get to sleep was futile. Every time she closed her eyes, his insinuating phrases echoed in her head: ‘may have been the last witness'; ‘no evidence has emerged to implicate'; ‘could hold vital clues to the case'; ‘a last-minute flight to faraway Africa'. She got up to look at the internet several times, and saw the same lines spread to more papers, chatrooms and tweets. Before they had eaten their breakfast cereal, the whole western world would have heard enough to make Patrick a prime suspect. And the media would be camped out in Cnoc Meala's front garden.

It was still dark when she dressed herself. She had already agreed with Caitlín how to organise a hurried departure, and by twenty to seven, she forced herself to dial her friend's number.

‘I'm really sorry to wake you up so early.'

‘Never mind sorry, tell me what's happened overnight?'

‘Are you still OK to drive me?'

‘I'll be with you as soon as I can. You can explain things on our way.'

Nessa made a second call to her friends Mary and Tom in Dunmanus, on the other side of Bantry. Only the night before, Ronan had told her on the phone that it was fun to go to school with their two boys. He would probably be quite happy to see his mother and sister join his unplanned holiday – but as for Sal, Nessa was not surprised to hear a torrent of complaint as soon as she woke her daughter.

‘No way, I'm not going anywhere. You can't make me.'

‘I'm really sorry, Sal, but I've no choice.'

Sal held on to her duvet, pushing her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘
You've
no choice, you say? Well, why don't you think of me for a change? I've been stuck in this room studying every blasted evening, and now I won't be able to meet Marcus on Friday night. You're doing it deliberately …'

‘Sal, listen to me, please, because we have to hurry. Caitlín will leave you with her next-door neighbour, who'll drive you to school, while Caitlín and I go on to her cousin's house in Adrigole. You'll be brought there later, and at teatime, Mary will drive over from Dunmanus.'

‘So we're going to slink around in other people's cars in the dark, like criminals or something? And this is to stop Sky News spying on us from a helicopter? Jesus, get real!'

‘Give it up, Sal, in the name of goodness. Maybe it seems ridiculous to you, but we have to deal with a very nasty reality just now.' Nessa could hardly think straight after her sleepless night, but she did her best to soften her tone. ‘And Sal, make sure you don't say a word to your friends at school, love, because it's so horribly easy for innocent words to be twisted out of all recognition.'

Derryowen was almost deserted at seven in the morning. The enormous satellite trucks had retreated to Bantry the previous day, along with the main assault line of news troops. But there were a few cars in the village that Nessa did not recognise, and she kept her head down while Caitlín ran into the shop for a few minutes. She felt as if she had been stripped naked and had to hide from the world.