‘Mornings, I know that. Round about now. She’s not in any trouble, is she?’

  Kinsella shook her head, told her that no, she wasn’t, not at all. The checkout girl had far too much make-up on for Nuala’s liking, and she wondered how the girl managed to work the till with the longest gel nail extensions she’d ever seen in her life.

  ‘It gets her out of the house, you know.’ The checkout girl’s voice dropped, like she was sharing a secret, which she probably was. Kinsella asked her if Annalise had kids, and the voice dropped even further. ‘That’s why she likes to get out of the house. Because it’s an empty house. No kids. A couple of miscarriages, the poor woman, but no, no kids. God love her, she didn’t have it easy, the crátur.’

  A queue had started to form behind Kinsella, and someone asked, ‘You going to be all day, love?’

  She picked up her breakfast bowls and left the supermarket.

  The charity shop was called Planet Alliance Against Global Warming and wasn’t really a shop at all, but a converted steel container in a corner of the carpark of a shop called Discount Electrical. A woman was coming through the doorway as Kinsella and Considine approached, carrying a wicker basket full of cuddly toys. She placed it on the ground by the door, bent down and began rearranging the top of the basket, oblivious, or so it seemed, to the two people standing behind her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Considine said, ‘you know if Annalise Roberts is working today?’

  The woman straightened and turned to face them.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Annalise Roberts,’ Considine repeated.

  ‘Yes, I thought that’s what you said.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘That’s me. So?’ The woman had heavy, black pouches beneath her eyes, and a forehead etched with deep furrows. The one word that would best sum her up, Considine thought, was tired.

  ‘May we have a word?’ Considine asked gently.

  Annalise looked them up and down, her expression like a dog about to be called out from underneath a table where it had sought refuge from an abusive master.

  ‘Why? What have I done?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Considine reassured her. ‘Annalise, you’ve done nothing. We’d just like a word, that’s all. It’s not to do with you. It’s to do with your ex-husband. This won’t take long.’

  That furrowed brow of Annalise furrowed even deeper, and she suddenly looked petrified. Considine felt compelled to ask, ‘What is it, Annalise? You OK? I want you to know you’re safe. Whatever it is, you can tell me. You’re safe, please understand that, OK?’

  Annalise looked at them, her eyes moving from Considine to Kinsella before finally looking away.

  ‘I’ve nothing to say. And I’ve nothing to do with him. Not now. Ancient history. Please. I want to be left alone. That’s all I want. To be left alone. In peace. Please.’ She bent down again and began rearranging the cuddly toys.

  When it became obvious to Considine that she was rearranging the same ones for the third time, her voice hardened. ‘Come on, Annalise, to our car. We want a word. Now. Come with us, please. Don’t make this difficult.’

  Annalise dropped the toy she was holding. She stood, half opened her mouth, clamped it closed again, and simply nodded her head.

  She was leaning into a corner at the back of the unmarked now, pressing herself against the door, her arms folded, legs tightly crossed, like she wanted to disappear into it.

  ‘Alphonsus,’ Kinsella said. ‘We’d like to know what he was like. What type of person he is.’

  Annalise dropped her head. Considine, in the driver’s seat, watched her in the rear-view mirror.

  Nuala rested a hand gently onto her shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Annalise. In your own time.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Just as my colleague said. What was he like?’

  ‘What he was like?’ In a whisper, as if it were something she’d never had to consider before. ‘What he was like?’

  The two officers exchanged glances with each other in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Yes,’ Considine said. ‘What was he like? It’s important, Annalise.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was like nothing, well, nothing. You know, I don’t even know that man at all. God’s honest truth, I don’t. Except that he’s pure evil. And I didn’t think he’d…when I left, that is, I didn’t…’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘You didn’t think what?’ It was Kinsella. ‘Did he do something, Annalise? What?’

  Annalise shook her head. ‘That’s just it. He didn’t. He didn’t do anything. I thought he would. I thought…he’d kill me. I really did. And I didn’t care. Still don’t. Really.’ She looked up suddenly, her eyes catching Considine’s before she looked at Kinsella. ‘You know what that’s like? To always be waiting? For your door to be kicked in? Always expecting? Dreading it. Just waiting. For something to happen. But then…it never does.’ She tapped a finger against her head. ‘It plays with you, in here. You can’t think of anything else. You can’t sleep – I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t do nothing. And he knows it. Oh, yes, he knows it. He’s enjoying this, I know he is. It’s worse than anything he could ever do, worse than death itself. Which is another reason why I come here. To this place. Because I feel safe. It’s the only place I feel safe. Because he wouldn’t dare do anything in here. Street angel and house devil, isn’t that what they say? I know he’s going to do something, though…eventually, that is. I just know.’

  ‘You need to report this,’ Considine said.

  ‘What? To them? We all know what they’re like here, in Meadowstown, that is. No, thank you.’

  ‘Would you report it to me?’ Kinsella asked. ‘I’d take it seriously, make sure proper protections were put in place. There are procedures. Really.’

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why do you want to know about him? I mean now? Why?’

  ‘Because,’ Considine said, her voice taking on just the hint of an edge, ‘we’d like to know, that’s why. By the way, did he have a habit of using the word “yup”?’ Then: ‘You look surprised.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Did he use that word?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Sometimes. Especially when he was angry.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Oh, yes, then he did, alright. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Considine said. ‘The Devil’s House case has been reopened. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I know that. It’s all over the news.’

  ‘Well, that’s your answer. That’s why.’

  Annalise uncrossed her legs and arms, placed her hands onto her knees, and looked out the window. She said nothing.

  ‘Now you don’t seem so surprised,’ Considine said.

  ‘That’s because I’m not.’

  36

  The couple had turned into the Town Park for their usual morning stroll when they’d first spotted it lying on the grass on the other side, by the railings running alongside the river. A little later, as they took a path that afforded them a better view, they could see it was still there, in the exact same place, in the exact same position. Doug Reilly suggested to this wife that they have a closer look. Anna, his wife, didn’t say anything either way. He knew by her silence she was giving him her tacit approval – even if she was still of the opinion the person was merely a drunk.

  However, as he walked ahead of her, getting closer with every step, she changed her mind. ‘Leave him,’ she called. ‘Come on, Reilly’ – she always called him Reilly – ‘let’s get home.’

  But Doug hadn’t changed his mind and kept going. Then he stopped a short distance from it, staring ahead.

  ‘I think he’s dead,’ he called, and with two tentative steps, was almost beside it.

  ‘For God’s sake, Reilly,’ his wife called, ‘don’t go near it.’

  But Reilly took another tentative half step until he was right beside it, could see the body was stiff like a sculpture, as if placed there as part of some obscure exhibition. Reilly noticed the clothes: the thick plaid shirt, the trousers with mud splattered at the cuffs, and the odd shoes – the right one with a thicker sole and considerably smaller than the left. The body was turned away from him, but as he stepped around it to look at the face, noticing the wide, staring eyes, the breeze ruffling the thin hair, he already knew who it was.

  ‘Anna,’ he shouted. ‘Anna!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You got your phone, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ring the guards, Anna. It’s Harry Macken. Ring the bloody guards. Now!’

  Voyle reversed the unmarked into the parking space perfectly, no back-and-forward nonsense for him, and cut the engine.

  They were parked just down from Alphonsus Hurley’s house, his address obtained from the National Taxi Register database. Although Hurley was on Pulse – surprisingly, for nothing more than a number of minor traffic violations – the address listed was for a taxi company, Gabby’s Cabs. They, in turn, had provided Voyle with his home address. He pointed to the car parked a short distance in front of them, a green Mercedes E Class with a roof sign in canary yellow, reading TAXI, with a telephone number on one side of it, and the carriage office taxi plate number on the other. That same green Mercedes as had been parked outside the Garda station.

  ‘Looks like he’s home.’

  Brody nodded.

  The Mercedes was in front of the door to a small, single-storey house with pebble-dash walls and a ceramic blue plate in the centre that had 19 on it. Beneath it was a wooden sign showing a hand pointing a gun and the words Forget the Dog, Beware the Owner.

  ‘Funny,’ Voyle said.

  Brody said nothing.

  They got out of the car. As they approached, the door of the house opened, and a man stepped onto the street. But unlike when Brody had encountered him at the station, he didn’t seem in too much of a hurry. He was about to close the door behind him when he caught sight of the two detectives. ‘You looking for me?’ The voice was wary. He didn’t let on to recognise Brody.

  ‘Should we?’ Voyle said as they drew in front of him. He was dressed in a shiny blue tracksuit, with white sneakers and an orange baseball cap. He was unshaven – a trendy unshaven – with small, close-set beady eyes focusing on the ID that Voyle was sticking in front of his nose.

  ‘So?’ the man said.

  ‘Alphonsus, is that yourself?’ Brody asked. ‘Alphonsus Hurley?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Is it?’ Voyle snapped.

  ‘Yeah…that’s me.’ He jangled a set of keys and pointed to the green Mercedes. ‘I’ve got a pickup in fifteen minutes, what d’ya want?’

  ‘A little chat.’

  ‘A little chat? Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Brody said. ‘Everyone wants to know that today, why.’

  ‘As part of our investigation…’ Voyle began.

  ‘I know. Yup, I do.’ He caught the glances exchanged between both detectives. ‘What’d I say? I know, that’s all. I heard about it. Everyone has. It’s all over the news. It is. The investigation into the Devil’s House murders, that’s ye, isn’t it? It’s a small town, after all.’ He looked at Brody. ‘And that’s you, isn’t it, whatsyourname? Brody? Yup. Is that why you’re here? You seriously think I had something to do with it, is that it? Seriously, is that what you’re saying?’

  Brody thought the man was asking too many questions. ‘Mr Hurley, I didn’t –’

  ‘Mr, is it?’ Hurley cut him off. ‘Very formal.’

  ‘Look, can we go inside?’ Brody nodded towards the open door.

  ‘I told you,’ Hurley said, ‘I’ve got a pickup in fifteen minutes.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Ten minutes now, yup. It won’t look good if I’m late. And I’m driving for myself now; I can’t afford to let anybody down. Couldn’t I do my run first and drop into the station soon as I get back? Wouldn’t that suit? Come on now, fair’s fair. You’re busy, dealing with the Town Park thing and all.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ Voyle said, ‘dealing with the Town Park thing?’

  ‘Well, poor Harry’s body’s been found, yup, hasn’t it? I know. So you’re busy. I understand. So am I.’

  Brody could see in Alphonsus Hurley’s eyes the realisation of what he’d just said.

  ‘No one knows about that, Mr Hurley,’ Brody said. ‘Not yet. We’ve only just found out ourselves, from the person who discovered the body, that is. How the hell do you know?’

  Voyle stepped closer to Hurley.

  Hurley smiled.

  ‘Because my friend there just told me,’ he said, pointing behind both detectives. ‘Go on, Tony, tell them.’

  Brody and Voyle turned. But there was no one there. Of course not. They’d just fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. In the couple of seconds it took them to realise this and swing back round again, the door was already slamming shut in their faces.

  Voyle took off, tearing off down the street. Brody knew he was looking for a way round back. But he doubted he’d find one; the terrace was very long. Brody ran to the car instead and got on the radio, called it in, started the engine and sped off to pick up Voyle further along.

  Mandy Joyce decided to leave the press pack behind and sniff around on her own. She left her cameraman outside the station – what was his name again? she couldn’t even remember – and walked nonchalantly across the carpark, rooting in her handbag as she went, like she was looking for car keys or something, before giving up and hanging the long strap from her shoulder. She walked slowly, feeling the eyes of the hungry pack burning holes into her back as she went. But you didn’t get to become the nation’s most popular – and yes, well-paid, too, ha ha – TV news reporter without being devious, the most devious of them all.

  She stepped onto the street outside, tugging on the hem of her micro skirt, and tottered ahead: Even if the viewers couldn’t see her stilettos, it was important to always present the full package. Heaven forbid that viewers would ever see her in flats – or, worse still, sneakers, like some of the other female reporters. She closed the single button of her pink crop blazer and hooked her thumb around the handbag strap, shifting the weight of it. Because inside was a miniature camcorder, but damn, it was heavy. Mandy was thirty-two years old, but she looked like a teenager with practically no fat on her shoulder to cushion the weight of the thing.

  She cursed as she looked across to the other side of the street. He wasn’t where he’d said he’d be, feck him anyway. She crossed the road, stood outside the empty building she’d arranged for the pickup, the old sign over the door proclaiming ‘Duffy’s Hardware – stockists of premier tools and accessories.’ It was ten more minutes before the green Mercedes saloon approached at speed and pulled into the kerb. The rear passenger door was pushed open. Mandy tottered across to it and climbed in, the car already pulling away before she’d had a chance to close the door.

  ‘You’re late,’ she snapped. ‘I told you not to keep me waiting. I’m not happy. You wouldn’t get away with this in the City, no way.’

  ‘I’m really sorry’ – looking at her in the rear-view mirror – ‘I had a drop-off to make, and then these two characters wanted…’

  But Mandy had moved on, rummaging in her handbag again, paying him no attention.

  ‘…couldn’t come for you until I’d dropped them off, now could I? Sorry. But you know how it is…’

  She looked up at him, like he was an irritating fly buzzing around her head.

  ‘Look, do you mind? I’m not interested in whatever it is you’re waffling on about. Just drive and cut the shite talk. Thank you.’

  ‘Of course. Yup, cut the shite talk. Whatever you say, ma’am, you’re the boss.’

  A moment later he yanked the steering wheel. The car skidded to a halt into a lay-by.

  ‘What’re you doing? Why you pulling in here?’

  He opened the door and jumped out, came round the back and yanked her door open. ‘Because, bitch, that’s why.’

  Mandy Joyce was too surprised to be scared. But for the first time in her life, she was lost for words.

  37

  Nuala Kinsella was excited. Her words gushed down the phone and into Brody’s ear. ‘We’ve just finished speaking with Annalise Hurley…’ She fell silent, made a wheezing noise, drew in a breath, and went on. ‘She told us, get ready for this, that Alphonsus was driving a taxi the night of the Devil’s House murders.’

  Before Brody could answer, she continued, ‘She woke up in the middle of the night and found him in the kitchen in his underwear, stuffing his clothes into the washing machine. She asked him what he was up to, and he said someone had gotten sick all over him. But she didn’t believe him…oh, and something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He wet the bed as a child.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘When did you find out all this?’

  ‘We just left the charity shop where she volunteers, as in this very minute, just now. And…’

  ‘Jesus, Kinsella, just say it. And…’

  ‘She’s meeting him. He rang her. I don’t know what he said, but he convinced her to meet him. I begged her not to, but she wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Where’re they meeting?’

  ‘He’s to ring and tell her. I asked her to contact me as soon as she knew. She said she would.’

  ‘Good work,’ Brody said. ‘I just hope, for her sake, we get to him first.’

  Annalise shuffled from one foot to the other, rubbing her hands briskly together, like it was the middle of winter and she was freezing. But it was the middle of October, and she wasn’t. In fact, it was unseasonably balmy. But rubbing her hands was merely a habit of hers whenever she got nervous. And she was nervous – very nervous.

  She didn’t want to be here, but felt she had no choice. Annalise knew what her husband was capable of, what he’d always been capable of. And there was no point in telling that to that guard Kinsella. She wouldn’t understand. It was easy for her to tell Annalise to make a complaint. A complaint was one thing, but what happened afterwards? At three in the morning, when she was lying in her bed and he was kicking in her front door…what happened then? That’s what she’d like to know. And by the time anyone did actually get to her, she’d be dead.

 

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