Murder beyond the pale, p.3
Murder Beyond the Pale, page 3
“Please call me Jesse, Rose.”
Sam asked, “Rose, does Cait have any special places she likes to go? Clubs? Or groups here she spends time with?”
Rose looked down at her lap, saying quietly, “She’s not a nighttime girl, if that’s what yer askin’. She likes the outdoors. She’s hiked most of the trails around Sligo many times…” Her voice trailed off, and she closed her eyes again. She was anguished and unlikely to tell me much more at the moment.
I looked at my watch. It was close to four, and I wasn’t sure how late the garda station would be open. “Rose, I need to head over to the station. Before I go, do you mind if I take a look in Cait’s room?”
“Yes, of course. Her room is at the top of the stairs, first door on your right. Don’t mind Fergus.”
I got up off the couch and headed toward the stairs, leaving Sam behind. I knew she would use the time to see what else Rose would tell her. I went up the stairs and found Cait’s room. The room was small, with a bed in the corner underneath a window, a vanity and desk alongside one wall, and a closet next to a large bookshelf on the other. The bed was made and looked like it hadn’t been slept in other than for the large and very old golden retriever laying on it now.
“Fergus?”
He opened his eyes and his tail wagged weakly once on the bedcover. I guessed he was Cait’s dog, doing what all dogs did when their main person went away to college. Actively missing her in a way that only dogs could.
The desk was covered with neat stacks of papers and books. There were a few small, framed pictures of the family. I opened the closet. It was filled with clothes that were functional and nice. A couple of button-down blouses, a light jacket, and some turtlenecks. Nothing that screamed party girl.
The large wooden bookcase was overflowing with books stacked on top of each other, along with a few resting on the floor in piles that hadn’t yet found their way to a shelf. I scanned the titles: James Joyce, Shakespeare’s complete works, various volumes on Irish history and mythology. And, of course, Yeats, one of Sligo’s famous sons. All of the books looked well worn.
I moved to the dresser, on which was a mirror and a jewelry box that held a necklace with a cross, a few rings, and a rosary. Interesting that she hadn’t taken the rosary with her.
What I wasn’t seeing was as notable as what I was—no entertainment or teen magazines, no posters of famous singers or movie stars, no ceramic figurines, no knickknacks of any kind. Nothing frivolous.
Kids often went nuts when they got away from home the first time and were faced with a new world of options. But it was hard to reconcile that image with what I was seeing in Cait’s room. Everything in this room spoke to an intelligent, serious young woman, not the kind to go clubbing, get wasted, and go home with someone for an extended period of time. In other words, not like me at that age.
I gave Fergus a scratch on the head and left the room, wanting to leave plenty of time for the visit to the garda station.
Rose was staring blankly out the window, as if waiting for her daughter to walk up at any moment. She turned when I came into the room. “Where are your bags?”
“They’re in the car. We booked a room at the Glasshouse.”
“Nonsense. You’re looking for our girl, the least we can do is put you up in our house. You’ll stay with us for the duration. Please treat it as your own.”
Sam nodded to me behind Rose’s back. Done deal, I guess. We’d be staying with the Gallaghers.
Rose reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a key. “So ye can come and go as ye please. Dinner is at six.” She handed me the key, then frowned. “Brian! Bring the girls’ bags in from the car and put them in the rooms.”
“Can I help you with dinner, Rose?” Sam said.
“That would be lovely of you.” But she didn’t move, continuing to stare out the window.
We were interrupted by a loud bang and then the clattering of a door. A brown blur dashed into the living room, raced among the chairs, did small circles around each of us, leaped on top of the couch, jumped from there to the Nice Chair, and then bounced off to run back out to the kitchen. We heard another bang and clattering.
“What the hell was that?” I said, looking toward the kitchen.
“Don’t mind him. That’s Wee Petey. He’s our small dog.” Wee Petey’s entrance seemed to break Rose out of her trance, and she turned from the window and headed into the kitchen.
Sam gave me a little wave and joined her.
Brian followed me out the door and we walked together to the car. “So, you’ve done this before, yeah? Find people?” he asked.
“I’m, uh…” I didn’t want to tell him that I’d actually never done this before. “I’ve done a lot of investigations.”
He seemed satisfied with that and took our bags out of the car. He waved goodbye as I pulled out of the driveway. I waved back, smiling way more confidently than I felt.
I’d been operating under the assumption that Cait was doing the Christmas holiday her way, a getaway with some friends or catching some serious alone time with a boyfriend. But while what is in your bedroom in your parents’ house isn’t necessarily reflective of a complete personality, I was good at reading clues, and this kid wasn’t a flake. The notion that something bad had happened to her was looking more plausible.
I was starting to get a bad feeling about this. My bucket list might have to wait.
Four
It took me all of two minutes to drive to the garda station. It was on Pearse Road, near the confluence of three streets that looked like some of Sligo’s major thoroughfares: Pearse, Chapel, and Old Market. I parked a few blocks away and walked over.
I liked the look of the town. The buildings in the area were a mix of new and really old, the kind of old you don’t see in the US. My short walk took me by Sligo Abbey, a thirteenth-century monastery and one of Sligo’s most famous landmarks. A single tower anchored the roofless structure, surrounded by very thick stone walls with parapets. It was hard to believe something that old was still standing. I was looking forward to exploring it and the rest of the town once we tracked down Cait. The garda station was just down and across from the Sligo Courthouse, a stone castle-looking thing with round archways. Further up the street was a pub on the corner, and not far from that a number of shops and restaurants. Modern apartments were comfortably situated among the businesses and old buildings. The sidewalks and shops were bustling with lots of people out and about.
The garda station was small and old, limestone bricks framing three floors of windows. I walked through the entryway that jutted out into the sidewalk and then into a small lobby. There were a couple of chairs and a bench, and a presumably locked door leading into the inner workings of Sligo’s finest. Behind a window at a counter sat a thirty-something uniformed officer, slender and prematurely balding, sporting a frail brown mustache.
I leaned over the counter and explained who I was and who I wanted to see. Officer O’Fenton, according to his nametag, looked up briefly and then back down, telling me in a deep but oddly effete voice to take a seat, someone would be with me shortly.
Fifteen minutes later, I was still waiting. A number of uniformed officers had gone in and out of the locked door since I’d gotten there, but no one for me. I got up to check in again, but as I was just standing up, Officer O’Fenton said politely, without looking up, “Someone will be with you shortly.”
I sat back down.
Thirty minutes later, I decided I’d had enough. It was after five, and I was worried they’d leave me there until they closed. I stood up again just as a small group of officers came from the back, into the reception area. I used the group to shield me from O’Fenton and slid through the closing door after the last one came through.
The sanctum sanctorum of Sligo’s law enforcement consisted primarily of a large open room crowded with desks, ringed by a few offices and conference rooms. Two hallways led off the main area, presumably to whatever jail or holding cells they had and likely bathrooms and a kitchen. And while the whole place looked like it had undergone recent renovations, it was by no means modern. New computers sat on old wooden desks, and a recent paintjob hadn’t entirely covered up the cracks in the walls and ceiling. There were twenty-five people, all but three of them men, in the main area. Half were in uniforms, the other half in suits. I scanned the room and found what I was looking for. A nameplate on a desk covered in folders and empty food wrappers displayed Inspector Calbach Mullarkey.
I approached his desk and said in my most respectful voice, “Inspector Mullarkey?” It was hard to keep a straight face, and I resisted the urge to ask if his colleagues Officer Tomfoolery and Sergeant Shenanigans were around.
Mullarkey was middle aged, with graying hair, a large red nose, and watery, pale blue eyes. He started to look up with an exaggerated sigh as if I was distracting him from some incredibly important work, but as his gaze fell on me, he did a double take. I noticed a faint smell of whiskey.
“Uh…yes?”
“You’re the one working on the Cait Gallagher case?” I asked.
“Yes. Who are you?” He looked over at the door. “How did you get in here?”
“Jesse O’Hara. I walked in.”
“Well, Miss O’Hara—”
“It’s Doctor O’Hara. I’m here on behalf of the Gallaghers.” I didn’t usually pull out the doctor bit, but I was taking an instant dislike to this guy and wanted to establish some credibility right away.
“Of course, Dr. O’Hara. I’m sorry you had to come over. I could have told you over the phone that we have no new information, as I’ve shared with Mrs. Gallagher. But the case is active, and we’ll let her know if we find anything out about Cara—”
“It’s Cait. Her name is Cait.”
“In any case, you can tell the Gallaghers we’ll let them know if anything turns up.” He looked back down at his desk, signaling that our discussion was over.
I took a quick look at his desk and around the room, putting my near photographic memory to use.
“You’re not working on this case at all. There’s no mention on the open cases board.” I nodded to the white board on the wall next to the door, which included thirty-two rows of information related to various investigations, and none of them Cait’s. “And it’s not among the files on your desk.” There were stacks of folders on his desk, all labeled with numbers and names, also none of them Cait’s. “So, Chief Wiggum, let’s start over. What information do you have on Cait Gallagher’s disappearance?”
He looked up, eyes wide, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Or in this case, not doing something. “Um…as I’ve told Mrs. Gallagher, I can assure you, we’re doing what we can. The disappearance happened in Galway, which is outside our jurisdiction. But—”
“If by what you can you mean fuck all, then yes, you are definitely doing what you can.”
He scoffed. “Please watch your language. And you know nothing of police wor—”
“I know you’re lying. The case isn’t active, you’ve done nothing, and you’ve been lying to this poor woman and her family by telling them you’re actually doing anything. And you’re lying to me right now.” I really, really hated it when people lied to me. I grew up with an inveterate liar and, at this point in my life, had zero tolerance for it. I could feel my miniscule pool of patience circling the drain. “It’s one thing to pass off work because of jurisdiction. It’s another to openly lie to a woman who may very well have lost her only daughter and make her believe you’re looking for her.”
“Miss O’Hara, I—”
“It’s Doctor O’Hara, you lazy, lying fuck.” It normally took me at least a little while to start dropping F-bombs, but I’d been deeply and immediately affected by Rose Gallagher’s pain, and this case was already personal to me. So much so that my deep well of anger that sat dependably just below the surface rose to the top.
He stared at me, his face reddening. He wasn’t used to being talked to this way by people and probably especially by women.
“Why mislead the parents into thinking you’re doing something?” I raised my voice. “And are you drunk? Give me what you have, right now, or I’m going to your boss.” I reached down to his desk and started moving papers around and grabbing folders.
“Stop that!” He quickly opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a slim file with Gallagher on the tab, then opened it and pretended to look over it. “You see, Dr. O’Hara—”
I grabbed the folder out of his hands and opened it.
He stood up quickly, crumbs flying off his lap, his substantial belly now resting on his desk. “You can’t take that! It’s official gardaí property!”
I ignored him and looked at the single page that made up the totality of the file. They’d interviewed the boyfriend, a few local girlfriends, and made one fucking phone call to the NUI Galway security office.
Closing the file, I looked down at Mullarkey. “Great work, Sherlock. I’m sure you’ll have this case cracked in no time. Do you at least know if either of the bodies they pulled out of the bog today could be Cait?”
“No. They are both male.” He reached for the folder, which I pulled just out of his reach.
“See, you can be useful. You know, if this gig doesn’t work out for you, I’ll bet there’s a mall somewhere that could use a cop.”
He lunged and grabbed the folder from my hand, but I’d seen enough. Which was fortunate, because three uniformed officers had come through the door and were purposefully moving toward us.
I was escorted out of the room and out of the station with an admonition not to come back. Not the first time I’d been thrown out of a police station. But it was no problem since there was nothing there anyway.
My next stop was to see Cait’s dad Mik and the boyfriend at the pub, which was good timing as I was ready for a drink.
Their pub, Murphy’s, was not far from the station, so I left my car where it was and walked over. Murphy’s was old, a plaque on the brick wall indicating it had been established in 1898. The entranceway sat between two large windows in the front. Placards in the windows advertised Trad Music Every Night.
An adjacent door down the block marked the entrance to an associated package store—“off licence”—that was packed to the gills with bottles. Both the pub and the connected package store sat below one floor of apartments. Above the door was a small blue sign notifying passersby of CCTV camera operation.
I’d watched a lot of crime dramas and was familiar with the prevalence of CCTV in the UK and Ireland. Virtually everything out in public was caught on camera, and when TV police started their investigations into crimes, the first thing the boss would tell everyone to do would be to “pull the CCTV footage.” I couldn’t imagine Americans allowing their every move to be filmed, but, man, did it make catching criminals easier. I guess that made up for the fact that British and Irish cops didn’t usually carry guns, even though the criminals often did. If they needed firepower, they had to get special permission or call in an armed response unit. So maybe it was a wash, cameras instead of guns, although I always cringed when watching unarmed cops chasing after armed bad guys.
I opened the heavy wooden door to the pub and walked in.
The place was almost full but fairly quiet. Most of the seats at the bar were taken, as were most of the tables and a long wooden bench under the front window. A big TV above the bar was showing a local game. Something involving wooden sticks and a ball, and lots of guys smacking into each other. Looked fun.
A small blackboard had handwritten prices for various ages of Redbreast whiskey, a brand I’d never heard of. I always ordered Jameson when I went out, but now that I was here, I thought it might be time to expand my horizons. And the fact that they had seven different labels of Redbreast was a good sign. Behind the counter were four beer taps, two of them Guinness. My mouth watered.
I’d never met Mik, but he was easy to pick out from the pictures I’d seen on Rose’s mantel. I spotted him at the end of the bar, head down and both of his hands wrapped around a pint next to a small shot of something caramel-colored. There was an empty stool next to him with a half-finished pint on the bar in front of it.
I walked across the bar and stopped next to him. “Mr. Gallagher?”
Without looking up, he mumbled, “Aye?”
“I’m Jesse O’Hara from Chicago.”
He didn’t respond, still staring into his drink.
“Uh, Seamus’s sister-in-law? The one who’s looking for Cait?”
He looked up at me with unfocused eyes, then put his beer down and stood up unsteadily. “Dr. O’Hara? Oh, you’ve come.” He put his arms around me, hugging tightly.
The bartender walked over and raised his eyebrows at me. Over Mik’s embrace I ordered a
Guinness, my first in Ireland. I wondered if it would be different than what I got in the US.
Almost certainly. I could hardly stand the suspense.
“Mr. Gallagher—”
He stepped back and said, “Please, call me Mik,” then motioned to the empty stool next to him.
I sat down. “Mik, what can you tell me about the investigation into Cait’s disappearance?”
He covered a small belch with his hand and sat back down slowly. “I can tell you they’re not doing a god damn thing. They think she just ran off.” He took the shot from the bar and put it away in one gulp, following it with a long sip of his beer.
“Where do you think she is?”
“I don’t know. I just know she wouldn’t go away without telling us.”
