"I'd like you to leave, please," Miriam said. "My husband will be in touch with you when he gets home." She looked away from me, but as I passed I heard her say, "I pity you Benedict, you're pathetic."
I looked at the side of her face, but she simply went over to her father-in-law and sat on the edge of his bed, holding the withered branch of his hand in hers, stroking the hair that clung to his scalp.
I left the home and went down to the river's edge and, as the snow thickened steadily, I looked over to the spot where Angela Cashell had died.
I had handled the case badly from the start. Now I was left with only this: somehow, either Powell or Costello was involved in the murder of Mary Knox. Costello had the motive of revenge or jealousy; he would certainly have known Donaghey and perhaps had some leverage over him as a policeman. Powell was Donaghey's boss in IID and the Three Rivers Hotel. In addition, Powell was Knox's lover, though it wasn't clear that he had any motive for killing her. In fact, I hadn't really considered the possibility until I stood looking at him. He had not looked after Knox's daughter, but that was not a crime.
Quietly, I apologized to Angela Cashell and Terry Boyle; perhaps the wind would carry my words to them. Yet neither the thought nor the words brought any respite from my feeling of failure. I seemed to be so close, and yet what would I achieve in arresting Yvonne Coyle, assuming she could be found? It would punish the murderer of Angela and Terry. But what of Mary Knox? Would she get justice?
I hardly heard the phone ringing in the car, and by the time I reached it, it had stopped. I recognized the missed-call number on the screen as the station and called back to Burgess, expecting something to be said about my visit to Powell. But I was wrong.
"Inspector! You're highly in demand this morning. You realize you're meant to be in the station for an interview today over the McKelvey death. It's just I left you a note which I don't see on your desk, so I'm assuming you knew. Also, Officer Armstrong has been on the phone twice for you. Said he has information you said was important. Call him back, will you? I'm not your personal secretary!"
"Sure," I said. "Tell me, Burgess, is Williams in yet?"
"Yep. She's down in your 'office'."
"What about Costello?"
"He's going to the Boyle funeral. Would you like the station's full attendance list, Inspector?" Burgess laughed and hung up before I could ask anything more.
I sat back in the car with the heating on and phoned through to Garda Command and Control and asked to be put through to Research. Armstrong answered almost immediately.
"Inspector Devlin here. I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon," I said, lighting another cigarette.
"Nor me, Inspector. But you gave me an easy one. There was a full case-file on IID so I didn't have much to do, and someone else must have requested it fairly recently. Do you want me to fax the notes to you?" he asked, clearly enthused by such an easy piece of investigative work.
"That would be great. I'm not actually in the station at the moment. Can you summarize it for me?"
"Well, basically, IID was under a fraud investigation, as you said-"
"Right," I interrupted. "In the 1980s. Joseph Cauley."
"Well, yes and no," came the reply. "There was a fraud investigation then, but that was the second. There was an earlier one started in 1978…" I lost all track of what Armstrong was saying. My hair felt as though it was standing on end, my skin goose- bumped in lumps so rigid I rubbed my arm to make them fall.
"Sorry, what was that?"
"Theft of government grants. Quite clever, apparently. Paper companies were formed to do consultation work for some big players who were looking to move to Donegal. They were directed to these consultancy groups by IID people; paid money up front. Then the consultation group would fold and the money would go with them. Over one million punts vanished."
"Any names?" I asked, although I already suspected the answer.
"The two you gave me: Donaghey and Cauley. And a third named Thomas Powell. Is that the Thomas Powell?"
I could hardly form the words to speak. "What… why did it not go anywhere?"
"Not enough evidence, it seems. There was a potential witness. A prostitute who offered to give evidence in return for soliciting charges being dropped. But she disappeared; her and her family. The case couldn't be made that time, so it was left on ice until the mid-'80s when it was brought up again."
I did not even wait to say thanks. I cut the connection and called straight through to Burgess.
"Where's Costello?" I asked.
"He isn't here, I told you."
He became even more annoyed when I told him I wanted a car to pick up Jason Holmes on suspicion of murder.
"I need to check that, Inspector," he replied, all smugness gone.
"Just do it, Sergeant," I said. "Costello's not about. That makes me ranking officer. I want Holmes lifted ASAP. Put me through to Williams."
There was a buzz of static, then Williams spoke. "What's this about?" she snapped. "Are you fucking mad?"
"Caroline. I can't tell you everything yet, but I think Holmes is involved in this – he was in Templemore with Yvonne Coyle; he may even be her brother. I think he knows more than he's let on. We have to bring in him."
"I'll phone him and ask him then, instead of sending someone out to arrest him. I mean for Christ's sake, Ben."
"No!" I said, louder than I'd intended. "Listen, Caroline, I'm sorry. I'll explain everything later. I need you to babysit Tommy Powell in Finnside."
"What?" I could understand her anger.
"Look, Powell is Yvonne Coyle's father. He was running a scam that Mary Knox knew about. She was going to testify against him; then she vanished. That puts him top of the suspect list. Which also makes him top of the target list. If Knox's children are going to go after anyone, it'll be him. I want you there in case they try anything," I explained. "Today is the anniversary of their mother's disappearance."
I cut the connection again and tried phoning Costello's house, but the line rang out. Frustrated, I gave up and slid and skidded my way back out onto the main road, stopping several times to wipe snow off the windscreen which the wipers failed to dislodge.
It took me almost thirty minutes to manoeuvre my way to Costello's house. Before I reached the front door I knew something was amiss – no smoke curled up from the chimney, and the curtains had not been drawn. I slipped on the front path, landing on my tailbone and reawakening the searing pain in my ribcage. With some difficulty, I balanced myself, wiping the snow from the back of my coat. I rang the doorbell several times and then tried the door. It was unlocked.
I went into the house, knocking the snow from my boots, and called out. "Sir? Mrs Costello?" My voice carried through the cold of the house, but did not get a reply. I moved down the hallway and pushed open the door into the living room.
Emily Costello lay in front of the fireplace. The purple-red of her headwound stood out against the soft white wisps of her hair. She lay curled on the floor in her nightgown. Her eyes were still open, though they had begun to turn cloudy. Her hands seemed locked together, raised slightly towards her face. Strangely, even in death, her expression was soft and kindly. Beside her lay a poker, the blackened end shiny with congealed blood.
Costello was lying on the kitchen floor, weeping uncontrollably. There was a telephone in his hand, but I noticed that the wire leading to the wall had been cut.
He looked up at me in bewilderment. "She's gone, Ben," he said. "My Kate's gone."
I checked each room, one by one, slowly making my way around the house. When I was satisfied that neither Emily's killer, nor Kate Costello, were in the house, I used my mobile to call Burgess, requesting support. While I was on the line I asked about Holmes.