Buried Angels Page 4

  Next he opened the small indoor recycling bin. It was empty. That was odd. Surely there should be cardboard, food cartons and plastic wrapping from vegetable trays? What was Marianne up to now?

  Back out in the morning sunshine, he opened the blue bin lid, smelling the bleach again. There on the bottom was the bag he had expected to find inside. As he brought it back in with him, he noticed something leaking, trailing brown liquid behind his footsteps. Upending the bag, he spilled the contents on the kitchen floor. Among the shredded papers and flattened boxes, he found the offending article. A Coke can, not properly drained, though in fairness it had been scrunched up.

  ‘Marianne!’ he bellowed.

  ‘In here.’ Her voice drifted from the living room, where she had set up a little office for herself.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ He held up the can.

  Sitting at her desk, she glanced over her shoulder. The sun streaming through the window highlighted her brown hair. It looked shinier than normal. He wondered if she’d had it dyed without asking him first.

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’ She gave him that half-smile, the one where he never knew whether she was mocking him or admiring him.

  Slamming the can on top of the paper she’d been working on, he swivelled her chair around so he stood behind her and laid his gloved hand on the nape of her neck. Just the barest of touches, but he felt her shy away, bending her head, moving out of his reach. He pinched her skin tighter, snagging the short hairs at the base of her neck.

  ‘I do the recycling, not you, and this is why.’ He nudged the dripping can.

  ‘Kevin, don’t be ridiculous. The bag was full, so I put it out.’

  He felt the heat flush up his neck and flare on his ears like sunburn. He balled his hands into fists, his skin sweating beneath the synthetic gloves. Her voice grated on his nerves. It sounded like an out-of-tune piano. High-pitched. Unnatural. Whiny.

  ‘Is there something in there you wanted to hide from me?’ he said. ‘Something you’re writing that you don’t want me to see? Is that why you shred everything?’

  ‘Of course not. You’re being irrational.’

  He knew the signs so well. She was trying to be bossy, but she was cowering. He smirked and gripped her neck tighter, sliding his fingers up under her hair and twisting her head so she had to look at him.

  ‘You know I am never irrational, sweetheart.’

  ‘Please, Kevin. You’re hurting me.’

  He smiled. He knew he wasn’t hurting her, but he could if he wanted to.

  He leaned over, pointed to the page she’d been working on. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘It’s a work in progress, you know that. That’s why I need to shred the pages. I don’t want anyone to read it in its unfinished state.’

  ‘Are you writing about me?’ He wouldn’t put it past her to invent obnoxious untruths.

  ‘I write fiction, as well you know.’

  ‘It wouldn’t stop you making me into some kind of monster, would it?’ He laughed nervously. She shouldn’t worry him like this with her rambling writing.

  ‘You know I couldn’t do that. Stop, Kevin. You’re hurting me now.’

  He withdrew his hand. Her head flopped and she reached to her neck. Long fingers with red polished nails.

  He took a step forward, grabbed her hand. ‘Who is this for?’

  ‘What in heaven’s name are you talking about— Ouch!’

  He’d slapped her without realising he’d done it. It was her own fault.

  ‘Take that off your nails.’ He moved away from her without apology. When he succeeded in breathing normally and reducing the screech in his voice, he said, ‘In future, drain the cans and cartons and wash them out before you crush them. I’m in charge of taking out the rubbish and recycling.’

  ‘I didn’t think—’

  ‘You never do, do you? Not unless it’s about making up some poxy plot for a book that will never be published. Give it up.’ He walked to the door, then turned back and stared until she looked up at him. ‘I’m serious, Marianne. It’s time you put that laptop on eBay and forgot your silly notions. You’ll never be a writer.’

  He returned to the utility room to complete his morning duty. He couldn’t help feeling pleased with himself. One leaky drink can and he’d put her firmly in her place. Hopefully it was a good omen for the rest of the day.

  Nine

  Once Jim McGlynn had finished his examination around the dismembered body, and Jane Dore, the state pathologist, had cast an eye over it on site, the torso was removed to Tullamore Hospital mortuary. The pathologist had said she’d have to wait for it to fully defrost under sterile conditions at the morgue. Kirby filled Lottie in on the early-morning activity and left her to read over the two boys’ statements.

  In the general office, he flipped the tab on an energy drink and said, ‘We’ll get a call when the pathologist is ready to start the post-mortem.’

  ‘Where are the two witnesses?’ Lynch said, plonking herself on her chair and kicking her shoes under the desk.

  ‘They gave their statements and their mothers brought them home. The drone footage is now in evidence.’

  ‘Poor kids.’

  ‘Not that poor. They owned a drone. Expensive toys.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Lynch folded her arms.

  ‘This might soften your bite.’ Kirby pounded the keyboard with stubby fingers. ‘I got the tech guys to put the SD card from the drone into a USB. It’s ready to watch.’

  ‘Could you not do that yourself?’

  ‘You know me and technology. Do you want to look at it or not?’

  ‘Sure.’ She wheeled her chair over and tucked her legs under his desk.

  Kirby was suddenly conscious of his body odour and wished he’d nipped to the locker room for a spray of deodorant. No point in fretting now, he thought, and opened up the link on his computer.

  ‘You have to hit play,’ Lynch said.

  ‘Give me a chance.’

  ‘You sound like McGlynn.’

  ‘Normal service is resumed, so,’ Kirby laughed.

  The images were surprisingly clear. Following the line of the tracks from up above, Kirby imagined the boys running behind the drone watching it on the phone screen, unaware of the horror they were about to uncover.

  ‘Pause it there.’ Lynch pointed at the screen and Kirby was sorry he hadn’t let her take over. He found the correct key and hit pause.

  ‘That’s about a hundred metres from where the body was found,’ he said.

  ‘I know, and I’m trying to get a feel for the terrain. How could someone get a body, a frozen body, down that far? There’s no road. It’s virtually a train track through fields.’

  ‘The canal is to the left as we look at it, with a towpath for walkers. Maybe the body was transported along the path, or by boat?’

  ‘A boat is a possibility all right,’ Lynch said. ‘No trace would be left behind that way. What about it being dumped from a moving train?’

  ‘Is that baby brain you’ve got?’

  ‘I take offence at that comment.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Shit, had he said something politically incorrect?

  Maria Lynch laughed and tied her hair back with a bobbin. ‘I’m joking. But you’re right, there’s no way someone could conceal a frozen body on a train before hefting it out a window.’

  ‘It’s small. Jesus, Lynch, I’m sure it’s a child.’

  ‘I’m curious as to how long it’s lain there,’ she said as a uniformed officer distributed files on detectives’ desks. ‘There were two trains this morning before the boys made their discovery. I’ve organised for the drivers to be interviewed to see if they noticed anything on the tracks. We’ll have to speak to the passengers too.’

  Kirby flicked through the file that had just been dropped on his desk. It looked like it had been quickly typed up by one of the new clerical assistants. Things were changing as fast as their
new superintendent could sign them off.

  ‘The two boys reported that today was the first day they’d flown the drone over the railway rather than the canal. Could the body have been there a while?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Lynch shook her head. ‘I’m sure a train driver would have noticed a torso in a great big block of ice.’

  ‘That’s the point, isn’t it? If it had been there much longer, more ice would’ve melted. The state pathologist should be able to give us a good idea of when it was dumped, based on the time taken to melt a frozen body in this weather. Let’s continue with the video and see if we notice anything.’

  Pressing a key, he watched the footage intently as the drone flew over the single-line track.

  ‘Pity it’s not flying closer to the ground,’ he said. ‘We might discover some clues.’

  Lynch said nothing. That unsettled him. He tried to concentrate on the screen, but his belly was rumbling and a headache began to thrum behind his eyes.

  ‘Don’t know how youngsters watch screens all day. I’m not five minutes here and already—’

  ‘Stop it,’ Lynch said.

  ‘I’m only—’

  ‘The film. Video or whatever. Pause it. Back it up. There. Do you see it?’

  Kirby leaned closer to the fuzzy image. ‘What?’

  ‘All the stones between the sleepers are uniform-looking, wouldn’t you say?’

  Kirby shrugged. He had no idea what the hell Lynch was talking about.

  ‘You must see it! Zoom in closer.’

  ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘Are you having me on?’ She stared at him.

  He clicked the mouse a couple of times. The image grew grainier and fuzzier, but at last he noticed what his colleague had seen.

  ‘That’s not a stone,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but it could be …’ Lynch sat back in the chair, frowning.

  ‘Lynch?’

  ‘We need to get back to the railway now.’

  ‘What is it?’ he repeated.

  She leaned in again, squinting. ‘Bloody hell, Kirby, it’s a fucking hand.’

  Ten

  The insurance business was not what Kevin O’Keeffe would have picked for himself, but life didn’t always turn out the way you planned. A2Z Insurance was located on a retail street, with a breaker’s yard to the rear. It was noisy both inside the building, with its open-plan desk formation, and outside with the crunch of machinery from the yard.

  ‘You’re late!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Kevin threw his laptop bag under his desk and picked up his headset. ‘I had a bit of a problem with Marianne again.’ He mimed raising his hand to his mouth as if he was drinking. His go-to excuse. Everyone in the office believed his wife was a roaring alcoholic, and this garnered sympathy for him from his colleagues, though he wondered if his boss, Shane Courtney, could see through the lies. Courtney was younger than him. Thirty-something, with an attitude tattooed into his prim mouth and steely eyes. Kevin felt irritation scratch his skin as his boss wended through the maze of desks towards him.

  ‘She needs to see someone. It’s impacting on your performance, Kevin. Do you think she might need to go into rehab?’

  Biting the inside of his cheek so as not to lash out, Kevin nodded. ‘You’re probably right, but have you seen the cost of those places? Even on your salary I wouldn’t be able to afford it.’

  ‘You have no idea what my salary is, and anyway, it’s not me that needs drying out. You’ve had five lates this month. Unacceptable. Get your family life sorted or you’ll have no salary at all.’

  ‘Okay, okay … sorry.’

  Moving back towards his office, Courtney said over his shoulder, ‘And you’re nowhere near reaching your targets this month. Crack on.’

  As he drew an intake of breath in relief, Kevin noticed the hush around him. He felt his cheeks burn. Fuck Courtney. Why did he have to reprimand him in full view of the rest of the staff? He shook his head and entered his computer password.

  ‘Are you okay, Kevin?’

  He looked up over the partition at Karen Tierney. She was in her twenties and pretty in a forgettable way, her fair hair bunched untidily on top of her head. The combination of blue jeans, red blouse and pale make-up made her look like the American flag. And sometimes, like today, she could be a nosy cow.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he muttered. ‘I need to get busy.’ He tapped the keyboard, hoping she got the message.

  ‘I saw Marianne in the supermarket at the weekend. She doesn’t look at all well. You really should do what Mr Courtney suggests.’

  ‘Karen?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You should mind your own business.’

  Her head disappeared behind the partition and Kevin got to work, wishing he was anywhere but stuck in this gossip-mongering hellhole. Once he had his computer up and running, he latched on the headset then checked the national news app. It usually gave him something for small talk when he had a difficult client on the end of the phone. The breaking news ticker tape drew his attention and he tapped it.

  ‘Holy shit,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Karen popped her head back over the partition, gripping the blue edge, nails studded with diamonds as fake as her eyelashes.

  Waving her away, he continued to read about the torso found on the railway. His headset beeped with an incoming call. He transferred it to Karen. Best to keep her busy while he read the news.

  The Bank, one of Ragmullin’s newer coffee shops, was quiet enough. Faye sat in a nook while Jeff ordered their drinks. He returned with two coffees and toasted croissants filled with cheese and ham. Her stomach lurched.

  ‘I couldn’t manage a thing.’

  ‘You need to eat something to get over the shock.’ Jeff tore open sugar sachets and emptied them into her steaming mug. ‘Drink up.’

  ‘Honestly, I can’t.’ Faye leaned back in the chair, which was too soft and too low. Her knees were higher than her belly button; she wanted to throw up. ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘With what?’

  She watched as he stuffed croissant into his mouth, melted cheese sticking to his bottom lip.

  ‘The skull,’ she whispered.

  He blew on his coffee before gulping down a mouthful.

  ‘It could belong to a body. Where’s the rest of it?’

  ‘Please, Faye, forget about it.’

  She leaned forward and lifted her own mug. Her stomach flipped again as the aroma of crushed coffee beans reached her nose. She stood. ‘I’m going to the loo.’

  Black spots traced her line of vision and she felt Jeff’s hand reach out to steady her. She swatted him away and went to the dimly lit ladies’ room.

  Leaning over the ceramic basin, she drew in deep breaths of air. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she recoiled in shock at her appearance. Beads of perspiration had burst out on her too-white skin. Her fair hair was matted and dusty; even her hands were still covered with a sheen of fine plaster particles. A ghost, she thought, I look like a bloody ghost.

  With water pouring from the tap, she hastily squeezed soap from a reluctant dispenser and washed her hands, then shook the dust out of her hair. Holding a paper towel under the gurgling stream, she dabbed the soaked tissue across her forehead and cheeks.

  After she’d peed and washed her hands again, she felt no better. The butterfly fluttering continued in her stomach and she wondered how she was going to cope with a little human being in her life when she couldn’t even deal with the fact that she’d probably found a dead one in the house she was trying to make into a home.

  A dead one.

  ‘Really?’ she asked her reflection. Forget about it, Jeff had said, but Faye was not one to forget about things just because someone told her to. No way. She turned off the dripping tap and straightened her shoulders. She would find out if the skull was real or not. First, she had to discover where Jeff had put it.

  As she opened the ladies’ ro
om door, a shadow fell over her. She looked up.

  ‘Jeff?’

  ‘You were ages. I was worried. Are you okay? The baby?’

  ‘Will you stop fretting over me like I’m a sick puppy. I’ve had a shock; I’m fine now. You need to get back to work. Drop me to the house first. That wallpaper isn’t going to scrape itself off.’

  Eleven

  Lottie reached the place Lynch had spotted on the drone video. Suited up, she crouched next to the railway sleepers.

  Kirby puffed and huffed beside her. ‘It’s about a hundred metres from where the body was found.’

  She viewed the activity in the distance. A small army of SOCOs like white ants were scouring the area from where the body had been removed. She glanced around her. A thick blackberry bush stood out from the nearby hedge. On the opposite side of the tracks there was a wooden stile leading up and over to the wide bank of the canal. Most likely a fishing location, she thought.

  ‘Maybe the body was transported via the canal,’ Kirby said, ‘and whoever was carrying it exited onto the railway from here. They might have dropped the hand on the way to the main dumping site.’

  Lottie scrutinised the location. Kirby was probably right. But where were the rest of the body parts?

  ‘It’s definitely a hand,’ she said inspecting the frozen flesh without touching it. ‘The entire railway line will have to be fingertip-searched.’

  ‘The entire line?’ Kirby said. ‘From Sligo to Dublin?’

  ‘No, I mean from town out to where the torso was found, and then a little way beyond.’

  ‘Still a lot of manpower.’ He scratched his head. ‘We could just fly a drone over the track.’

  Lottie smiled behind her mouth mask. ‘Kirby, that’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard from you in a long time.’

  ‘Is that a compliment, boss?’

  ‘You can take it as one. However, it might be better to call in the air support unit, and we still need feet on the ground. Organise it.’