Murder in Ballyhasset (8 page)

On Monday Libby's husband Derek came to drop Andrew back to her. The boy had spent a long weekend with his father since he was now on his summer holidays from school. Derek arrived at the front door with Andrew and Derek's new woman. Libby invited them inside. They all sat down in her cramped living room while Andrew made tea for everyone.

Libby studied Derek's new woman, whose name was Emma. This was the first time Libby had been able to get a good gawk at her. She was about twenty-five, a good ten years younger than Derek or Libby, she was blond and tall. She's even a bit like me, when I was younger, Libby noticed, with amusement.

The new girlfriend gave a high-pitched whiny laugh when anyone said anything faintly amusing. Libby was glad to see Andrew completely ignoring Emma's repeated attempts to engage him in conversation. He behaved as if he was deaf when she asked him what time he was going out later to meet his friends. Libby caught her throwing irritated glances in Andrew's direction when she thought no one was looking. Good old Andrew, she thought, he knows nobody can replace his mother.

Libby remembered the time years ago, when she had first caught Derek in bed with another woman. It was after only five years of marriage. She had thought everything between them was fine, they talked a lot, had good times, and had a wonderful son. The bubble burst for her one day however, when she came home early and saw a woman coming out of their upstairs bathroom, wearing only a towel.

'Who are you?' the overweight young blonde had asked her.

Libby had been momentarily speechless. Then she had exploded. 'His wife. Who did you think I was? Get out of my house now.'

The girl gasped and ran into the main bedroom, Libby's bedroom, to retrieve her clothes. She left the house without a word.

After that Libby had fallen into a deep depression and she stayed in bed for a few weeks.

Eventually she sought out a therapist, who gave her counselling. She recovered and went back to work. Derek had promised her faithfully after that he would never stray again. So they had stayed together. He kept his promise for ages while Andrew was growing up. Alas, he strayed again however when Andrew was a teenager and finally Libby asked him for a separation.

Andrew resented her in the beginning for divorcing his father. But he had wanted to live with his mother and eventually accepted that he could only see his father periodically, usually on a weekend. He always resented his father's new women when they came and went.

Libby glanced at Derek. He had put on about a stone in weight. She thought he looked younger than he had done previously, apart from having a few extra lines and having lost some of his dark wavy hair. He looked rested and healthy. He still had his suntan from the year in the harsh African sun, she saw. He was dressed in tight pale-blue jeans and a tight red Levi check shirt, very similar to Andrew, she noted with distaste.

Whereas the clothes were attractive-looking on Andrew's slim figure, on Derek, they just seemed silly. He was like an ageing rock-star. His stomach hung over the tight jeans. He's trying too hard to be young, she thought.

Andrew said he needed to talk to his friend who lived a few doors away. He left the house.

'I hope Andrew changes his mind about becoming a fisherman,' said Libby, seizing her son's absence to bring up the subject.

Derek replied, 'He can do whatever job he likes, as far as I'm concerned.'

Libby's face grew red with anger. 'Can you afford to live with the guilt if he drowns?'

'Of course he won't drown. The job will be good for him, all that physical exercise. It'll toughen him up.' He gave Libby a superior smile. Libby silently fumed.

She felt nothing but contempt for him at that instant… she wished she could smash his smug face. She glanced at the younger woman. Emma was staring down at her long red-painted fingernails, a bored expression on her face. Libby wondered, without emotion, how serious the relationship was between this woman and her husband.

 Legally she was still married to Derek. I wish I could get a divorce and get this shitball out of my hair for good, she thought, regretting bitterly that in the seventies there was no divorce in Ireland.

On the morning of Wednesday, a retired man decided to walk his dog at Seapoint Beach. He parked his old car near the sandy inlet of the beach, the area used for bathing. His golden retriever Lucky sat in the backseat, pawing the door to get out.

The man got out and opened the back door of the Audi. Lucky scrambled down from the seat with his tail wagging. Madly enthusiastic, he ran ahead towards the beach.

The man locked the car and checked he had the dog lead. He was ready for his stroll down the strand, towards the west pier of Ballyhasset Harbour. The wind was light. He wondered if Lucky would take a swim in the sea as he usually did, when the tide was in.

The dog raced down to the water's edge. Then he stopped to sniff at a five-foot red and white object, barking and circling the object at the same time. 'Here Lucky, come back boy,' shouted the man, running after him. Lucky refused to budge. The dog pulled at the lump, trying to drag it.

'What's wrong with you?' he asked, approaching with the lead. He clipped the lead on Lucky. The man smelt a sudden pungent odour like rotten meat. His eyes bulged as he recognised the object – it was definitely a dead person.

He turned away as his stomach began retching. When he glanced at the corpse again, he noticed it lay face down. It was a woman's body, he saw, noticing the woman's red summer dress. He decided not to touch her and turned away.

Then the elderly man wondered if he knew her, since he knew most people in the small town. Curiosity got the better of him. He lifted the shoulder to see the face. He saw that she was young, but he did not recognise her.

After a few seconds, he dragged the dog away and drove home quickly to dial 999. He reported his findings to the operator who contacted the Ballyhasset police station.

***

Dawn drove up a short avenue off Seapoint Beach. She parked near the bathing area inlet, on the narrow road, which presently held two stationary police cars.

Libby and Dawn stepped out of the Mini car. Libby immediately spotted the Garda as he stood near a dark object down at the water's edge. In the far distance, Libby observed the bare outline of the Ballyhasset West Pier, one of the two piers that surrounded the harbour. Behind her, she could hear the noise of traffic on High Street.

The forensic team, consisting of a photographer and a fingerprint expert, arrived and made their way down the stone steps, across the sand and over to the body. The photographer deftly took pictures of the body from all angles.

Brendan Sullivan came over to the two private investigators. He smiled grimly at them, his face pale. 'I was walking along the promenade and saw the commotion. I came down here out of curiosity.' Brendan stopped. Libby noticed he was trembling. 'I saw the body and I recognised the dress. I met the officer standing over there beside the body. I told him that I was fairly certain who it was. The officer turned the body over for a moment while I took a peek at the face. I recognised her at once. It's Pamela, she's lying over there, dead. Her face is all swollen.'

Libby stared at him in total shock. Then the news dawned on her and her shoulders fell. Libby had liked the dark–haired earnest little doctor.

'Pamela, the young doctor is dead,' Dawn said, her jaw dropping. 'That's terrible. We met her only a few days ago.'

Libby and Dawn walked to the cordoned-off section of the beach where the body was located.

They gazed at the lifeless body of the young doctor who lay face down, at the edge of the water. Pamela's long wet hair was tied in a ponytail, which clung to the back of her neck. Along the hairline, at the base of her skull there was a small narrow horizontal laceration, dark-red in colour, surrounded by blackish purple bruising. She wore a short red dress, and her feet were bare.

Libby shivered and pulled her jacket in tighter. A sudden gust blew sand into her eyes. She stood well back, her light jacket wrapped tight against the breeze, her shoulders hunched. It was such a sad thing, seeing a young person dead, their dreams ended, their potential never fulfilled. Pamela had been full of life, and had so much still to do. Only a few days previously Pamela had been working hard, running up and down the hospital stairs, worrying about her patients.

Libby recalled her recent conversation with her, at the party, in which Pamela had said how hard her job was. She hadn't seemed depressed though, just a bit weary, which was understandable given how gruelling her job had been.

Dr Ian Gallagher, the pathologist, arrived carrying his Gladstone bag. The Garda Officer quickly approached him. 'What's our victim's name?' Dr Gallagher asked the officer.

'Pamela Kelly.'

'How long has she been missing?' the pathologist asked.

'I don't know,' replied the Garda. 'Nobody reported her disappearance to us. She's an intern in the local hospital up the road. You may even know her.'

Dr Gallagher gazed at the dead woman. 'A doctor eh? No, I haven't met this unfortunate young girl before.'

He took surgical gloves out of the bag and put them on. Then he lifted up the victim's hair gently. He scrutinised the wound on the back of the neck. Next, he turned over the body to examine her face. Pamela's lips and eyes appeared swollen, and the skin on her neck and arms had a green hue. Her face was dark-red. The pathologist pressed on the dead woman's chest, and a white liquid oozed out. 'She has drowned. You can all see this froth coming out of her mouth.'

The pathologist examined the arms for signs of injury. Libby noted bruising on them. 'How long is she dead, Doctor?' she asked.

'Hard to say. About three days perhaps. I'll need to examine her in the mortuary to be sure.' He gazed at the waves. 'The strong tide last night must have carried the corpse ashore and left her here. The Garda Officer stood beside him.

The pathologist pointed to the wound on the back of the dead woman's neck. 'This is what you think is suspicious,' he said to the officer. The officer nodded. 'And I agree with you. Somebody may have hit her before she died.'

The private detectives then moved quickly away from the taped area of the crime scene. Libby heard the distant chime of church bells for morning mass.

The wind came in gusts and blew light rain into their faces. The sea appeared grey and cold. Waves battered the rocks along the edges of the shore. A cruel sea, Libby thought, to take the life of such a healthy young woman.

Libby spotted Brendan staring at the forensic officers as they examined the sand for evidence. 'What are they here for?' he asked her. 'Isn't it obvious she drowned?'

'It seems that way,' Libby said. 'Still, the police have to take evidence in case there has been foul play.'

Brendan remained still and kept his gaze on the sea. 'Finding Pamela dead is so weird.' He stopped for a minute. 'I still can't believe it.'

'Seeing someone young die is a shock,' Libby said, 'especially someone you know well. She was a lovely girl.'

'I'm going to miss her,' said Brendan hoarsely. 'Pamela was so kind. Such a hard worker too, she burst herself trying to do that hospital job. She was so good to Conor, always. He's going to be so devastated.' Brendan sighed deeply. 'I dread having to tell him.'

***

Libby remembered that Pamela's apartment was located on High Street, overlooking a newsagent's shop. It was straight across from Seapoint Beach, she saw. Pamela had just to cross Seapoint Avenue to arrive at the beach.

The private detectives delayed entering the apartment until the forensic officers had finished their job searching the flat for evidence. After a short while the forensic officers left. Dawn and Libby entered the front door, which opened straight onto the street pavement, and climbed the narrow stairs. It was a small dark flat.

Libby peered around the kitchen. She searched for signs of a struggle, broken glass, shifted furniture, bloodstains or spilt drinks, but found none. The white counters and appliances gleamed and the white lino floor was perfectly clean. She flipped open the movable white lid of the waste bin. It held only old food cartons, which smelled musty. She opened the fridge and glanced around inside. All she saw was an old carton of milk in the door compartment. Otherwise, the fridge was clean and devoid of food, as were the cupboards. Pamela didn't cook much, Libby guessed. She wouldn't have needed to, she reflected, remembering that the hospital canteen was nearby and the fact that she spent long hours there.

Gina, the nurse, walked into the kitchen. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. 'When Pamela didn't turn up for work for the last three days, I just assumed she was sick. She told me last Sunday she had stomach pains. That's what I told the rest of the staff she had.'

Gina sat down on a kitchen chair. 'So they never checked yesterday or the day before to see where she was.' The nurse took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. 'I rang this flat again at eleven this morning, but I got no answer. So then, I walked over here from the hospital. I got a fierce shock when I found all these police officers wandering around Pamela's home. Then they told me her body was down on the beach.'

Tears welled up in Gina's eyes. She searched in her handbag and took out a packet of cigarettes. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

'Did the Gardaí say how they got in here?' Libby asked. 'Was the front door left open, I mean?'

'The front door was closed. They got a spare key from the newsagent's shop downstairs, they told me.' Gina found herself an ashtray. 'Pamela had left one with the owner of the shop in case of emergency.'

'It's like a nightmare,' Gina said. 'First Kathleen Lynch is killed, and now Pamela is dead. It seems like someone is out to punish lady doctors.' She grimaced. 'It makes me glad I'm a nurse.'

'When did you last see Pamela?' Libby asked.

'Last Sunday around seven. We had drinks and sandwiches in the Green Lemon.'

Gina directed her and Dawn to Pamela's bedroom. The room's furniture consisted of only a double bed, a wardrobe, a locker and a chair. The bed was neatly made. Libby spotted that a clean work suit was still lying on the chair. A laundry basket containing a dirty shirt and a few pairs of socks stood in one corner.

The only room that had any personality was the study. A comfortable chaos prevailed there. Books and papers sat on a desk beside a computer. Libby flicked through them; they were all medical texts and magazines. A few photographs of herself and Conor were pinned to the wall.

Libby went into the bathroom. She opened the bathroom cabinet, finding it empty except for some pills in a small bottle labelled Aspirin. Pamela kept her house spotlessly clean, Libby noted. She seemed the sort who felt grieved at finding a stray trace of toothpaste in the washbasin.

It seemed as if Pamela had cleared up the whole place before she left that Sunday night, the night she disappeared. On the other hand, had someone cleared up for her? If you were going to kill yourself, why would you bother to tidy up so well? Libby wondered. Maybe someone cleaned the place to cover his or her own tracks?

She went back into the bedroom. A novel sat on the floor beside the bed. Libby picked it up, gazing at the front cover. 'Gone with the Wind' was the title. Gina came into the room, came over to Libby and gazed at the book. 'Pamela loved this book. I lent it to her. She admired Scarlett O'Hara so much.'

'Pamela looked like Vivian Leigh,' Dawn said. 'She was very pretty.'

'She liked dressing up,' said Gina, a wistful expression on her face. 'She wanted to be an actress once. I didn't know Pamela very long. Just this year I met her in the hospital, but I liked her a lot.'

***

'Why did Pamela go for a swim on her own at that hour?' Dawn asked, as she drove them both back to their office.

'Perhaps someone threw her in,' Libby said, 'after they killed her. I saw a wound on the back of her head, on her scalp.'

'There's nothing else to show she struggled with an attacker,' added Dawn.

Libby said, 'True. I saw no bruising except on the back of her head.'

Dawn flinched. 'He would have to be strong, the killer.'

Libby sighed. 'A fit young woman like her would be hard to overpower. We can only guess what happened, at this stage. The pathologist will tell us more.'

'The whole murder thing does seem a bit unreal,' Dawn said. 'I mean not only far–fetched, but very hard to do.'

'The killer must've waited for Pamela, followed her without being seen and then held her under the water.' Libby's brow furrowed.

Dawn nodded. 'Or else, he killed her first and threw the body into the sea afterwards.'

'It could be a suicide,' Libby said, 'but there's no note. We'll just have to see what Dr Gallagher says.'

In the afternoon, the two investigators took a stroll along Seapoint Beach. The place was deserted, all the officers were gone, and Pamela's body had been taken to the mortuary. The rain had stopped, but the wind had picked up, and the seas were choppy. After taking a ten-minute walk, the two women arrived at the west pier.

Ballyhasset Harbour was shaped like a circle, its two piers stretched out in the bay like the pincers of a giant crab. They continued their stroll along the stony promenade of the west pier. A few yachts were anchored away out in the deeper waters of the middle of the harbour, their white sails tinkling in the breeze.