Whispers in the Mist (34 page)

He cracked his head once more against the wall, harder this time.

“Go on,” Danny said. “You’re doing great.”

“We told Toby that Malcolm knew all about McIlvoy. The lad was practically pissing himself he was so eager. He went around to the shop the next day. And, of course, I had a wee chat with Malcolm myself.”

Danny remembered Malcolm’s description of the visit—the would-be thief with grubby fingernails. “Your plan in all this was to discover something to hold over Malcolm’s head the way he was holding Siobhan McNamara over McIlvoy’s.”

Seamus continued bouncing his head against the wall too hard for Danny’s liking. He laughed but not quite a laugh, more like a demented cackle. “Ah, Danny, you’ve got it wrong at the same time you’ve got it right. But the outcome was inevitable anyhow. Toby had to die.”

“Why?”

“Because Malcolm deemed it so if I wanted assurance of Brendan’s future. Simple as that. But I didn’t think through the ramifications. Had no clue how Malcolm’s mind worked. He’s good, that one. Bent me over like a bare-arsed poof, and I had to take it. Even when it came to that wee Gemma who witnessed her mom’s murder. I knew he had me. If I didn’t off her, McIlvoy would eventually go down, and if he went, Malcolm said that he’d make sure I did too.”

A smear of blood stained the wall behind Seamus’s head, but he continued pounding.

“Seamus, stop,” Danny said.

“I can’t. Why should I? What difference does it all make now? Yes, I knew that Toby was dossing down in Blackie’s Pasture. I couldn’t let him stay with us. Yes, I went there to kill him—”

Seamus’s head came to a stop.

“—but Malcolm had gotten there ahead of me. Toby was already dead, see, but now I’ve got the blame. Like I said, Malcolm’s good.”

He shifted sideways so he was facing Danny. His bleary gaze wandered over the ground and up Danny’s body. “I’ve decided prison isn’t any better, after all.”

“Better than what?”

“Than a Devil’s Pact. Malcolm was right about that, anyhow.”

Seamus’s hand shot out and in the moment Danny blinked in surprise, he grabbed a pen out of Danny’s shirt pocket and jabbed it into his own neck.

FIFTY
-
NINE

“
D
ON’T PULL THE PEN
out of his neck!” Danny yelled as he ran out of the interview room. While someone called the EMTs, Danny found a scarf in the lost-and-found cubby under the reception desk and ran back to Seamus, cursing himself for not seeing it coming. Seamus had been hitting his head against the wall hard enough to draw blood.

He landed on his knees beside Seamus and wrapped the scarf around his neck to hold the pen in place. Beckoning an officer to hold the scarf, he ran back out of the room. The on-duty officers stood in clusters, talking louder than usual. Clarkson, O’Neil, and several others were still at Blackie’s Pasture.

“Where is Malcolm Lynch parked?” Danny called across the noise.

Someone pointed down a short corridor to a small conference room reserved for suspects and their solicitors. Danny strode across the room.

“Danny.”

Merrit stood near one of the desks, the one composed person in the room. She still wore the flannel pajamas and raincoat he’d seen her in at Blackie’s Pasture. Her stillness could be unnerving, but Danny saw it for what it was—a barrier. A barrier that sometimes allowed her to see things with scary astuteness.

“You’ve been waiting for me this entire time?” he said.

She nodded. “Two things, and then I’ll go. Alan texted me. Gemma is awake. She can talk, and she remembers her mom’s death. Alan’s bringing her in.”

Danny’s fingers tingled with a spurt of adrenaline. This changed everything. “Brilliant.”

Merrit held his arm as he turned away. “She only wants to talk to you. For now. She’s still … you know.”

Danny nodded, his brain in high gear, and continued to the conference room.

“Wait, Danny, that wasn’t the second thing,” she called.

But he was already entering without knocking first. Malcolm sat with legs crossed and tie loosened oh so artfully. The man at ease, with no worries. As reptilian as ever.

“Back for more conversation?” He nodded toward the man sitting beside him. “This is Ian Finn, my solicitor. I’ll be in need of coffee soon if this waiting is going to go on much longer—”

“Shut your bloody mouth,” Danny said.

“You need to leave, Detective Sergeant,” Finn said. “You interrupted a private conversation with my client.”

Finn stood, but Malcolm waved him down. “Danny and I, we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

Danny closed the door and grabbed a chair. He angled it right up next to Malcolm and sat so that their knees brushed.

Malcolm grinned, looking down at their legs, and didn’t shift away. “Come now. Really?”

“Seamus rammed a pen into his own neck,” Danny said.

“I’m not surprised. He wouldn’t last five minutes in prison, a man like him. He knows that.”

“You did something to him.” Danny leaned closer, elbows on knees. The solicitor might as well have not been there. “Put a nasty little bug in his ear.”

“Don’t say anything,” Finn said.

Malcolm mimed turning a key to lock up his mouth. “Apologies, good Danny. I must heed his advice.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right. I relish the chance to get a word in without your endless self-serving blather. I’ve come to various conclusions, you see. You believe that Firebird Designs means something, that anyone would care one way or another about a line of necklaces and earrings. It’s all yours and only yours, to your mind at least, and along comes Seamus and Nathan Tate, ready to out you for killing Nathan’s father.”

For once, Malcolm kept his mouth shut.

“What else could you do but accept Brendan as an employee, let Seamus think he was going to get his way, and then bide your time.” Danny needed to speak fast before Clarkson returned. He lowered his voice. “Because that’s what you’re good at, isn’t it, Malcolm? Biding your time. You’ve been doing that all these years with Firebird and with finding a good candidate for McIlvoy’s supposed death. So what’s a few more months when it comes to getting Seamus and Brendan out of your life, eh? Because you don’t share, and besides, the Nagels are beneath you.”

“Of course they are,” Malcolm said.

“Mouth shut,” Finn said. “Is this an interview, Detective Sergeant? Because if it is, you must record it.”

Malcolm was bursting to speak. His skin was starting to mottle with the effort to keep his mouth shut.

“Then a boy named Toby arrived, a boy who also wanted to pry into your tidy little life with Firebird Designs. Worse yet, he wanted to out McIlvoy as a murderer, and Seamus knew who he was too—McIlvoy’s son—which meant you were even more entwined with the Nagels than before.”

“You’re only about half wrong there.”

“Malcolm,” his solicitor warned.

“I suppose you used your persuasive tactics—quite the skill you have there—” Danny said.

“Thank you. I come by it naturally—”

“—to have Seamus believing it was in his best interest for Brendan’s future to get Toby out of the way. Poor Seamus. You used him to keep you immaculate hands clean. But then, if Seamus wanted in so badly with you, then he had to deal with McIlvoy’s baggage too, right?”

“There’s a cost to doing business, I always say,” Malcolm said.

Finn looked about ready to pop a vessel. Malcolm waved down his protests before he spoke them.

“Yes, hapless Seamus,” Danny continued, “who found himself doing your bidding to kill Toby.”

“Ah, so you do understand that I didn’t kill the poor boy. Perhaps you are smarter than you look, good Danny.”

“Not so fast.” Danny paused. “No one, least of all me, denies your alibi. Yet, Seamus insists that Toby was already dead when he arrived, and that you did the killing. I lean toward believing him rather than you. How did you manage it, Malcolm?”

“Note this, Finn. He’s bending the facts to suit his needs.”

By now Finn was stooped over a pad of paper, taking copious notes.

“There’s no question,” Danny said, “that the cross that struck Toby’s head came from your shop. I’ve seen them there myself. Solid Connemara marble, am I right?”

“Bah. Point against Seamus again. Brendan gave him one as a gift not long ago. How it landed at the crime scene, I don’t know. I can’t imagine why a godless child like Toby Grealy would want such a thing.” He sniffed. “And Brendan. Worse than useless.”

“Yes, Brendan. He had to die too. Without Brendan around, Seamus would no longer have reason to pry into your shop affairs, and he wouldn’t accuse you to the guards because as he put it, you’d find a way to take him down too.”

“Malcolm,” Finn warned. “Don’t say a word.”

“A son for a son,” Danny said. “Is that what Seamus meant by a Devil’s Pact? And somehow, you still persuaded him that it was in his best interests to kill Gemma for what she might remember about McIlvoy the murderer. Too bad for you he didn’t have the heart for it.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Or perhaps it didn’t matter whether he succeeded or not. Now he’s arrested and will be on suicide watch. You’d like him to kill himself, wouldn’t you?”

“Danny, Danny, Danny.”

“And we can’t forget Ellen,” Danny said.

Finn stood. “Time to leave. I will be reporting this harassment to your superiors.”

“I agree,” Malcolm said. “You are quite obsessed with me, aren’t you?” He smiled, looking pleased with the idea.

“Fine.” Danny stood. “By the way, Gemma is awake and talking and remembering and arriving at the station any time now.”

Malcolm blinked slow as a lizard with stone cold gaze.

SIXTY

G
EMMA PAUSED IN FRONT
of the Garda station to gather up her will. She had all kinds of coping mechanisms that her counselor had taught her. Unfortunately, they’d fled except for a breathing exercise. So she breathed. She could do this. She could walk into the station and she could talk. She had something to say. Many things to say.

Up ahead Alan said, “Ay, she’s here. Gemma, you still back there? Come see Merrit.”

Merrit appeared out of the fog and grabbed her in a hug. She smelled like stoked peat fires and facial cream. Gemma leaned into her, liking her more than ever.

Merrit pulled away but with her arms still around Gemma’s shoulders. Her gaze penetrated Gemma, and Gemma’s body responded with the breakable feeling like it always did. “You’re fine, I can see that, but—are you ready to, you know, engage?”

No.
But I have to now. It’s time.
She caught herself and dropped her hand. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I get it.” Merrit thought a second. “Your signing is like my inhaler. A crutch. I still fall back on it sometimes for my anxiety. Do you need me to go in with you?”

“No, thank you. I have Alan.”

Merrit’s cheeks balled up when she grinned. A squirmy sensation, uncomfortable and thrilling at the same time, filled Gemma. Merrit let her go, glancing back in the direction of the station’s front doors. A troubled frown dampened her smile. “I should go. Danny’s expecting you.”

With one fortifying breath, Gemma waved bye to Merrit and stepped through the door that Alan held open for her. After the insulation of the fog, the bright, noisy interior of the station almost sent Gemma fleeing after Merrit again. Her skin prickled with the beginnings of the sweats. But her bones weren’t glass and her skin wasn’t parchment. She wasn’t going to fall apart. She never had before. Even so, the trembles were so bad she thought she was going to throw up.

She waved a hand in front of her face, trying to catch her breath. “I can’t do this.”

Care wrinkles deepened the lines around Alan’s eyes. “I’ll be beside you. If you want that.”

An inner door opened and Danny greeted them. His hair stood in all directions and blood spattered his shirtsleeves. Tension radiated from him, and Gemma, ever sensitive to male energy, shied back behind Alan.

“You remember now?” Danny said.

“Go easy,” Alan said. “Give her a chance.”

Gemma handed over the wedding photo of McIlvoy with her mam. A niggling something caught at her and eased away before she could capture the thought. Her nerves were so tight she didn’t think she could hold on to anything right now, anyhow. Thank goodness she hadn’t eaten in a while.

Danny stared at the photo. A crease ran down the center of it where it had been folded. “Where did this come from?”

“Dermot brought it,” Alan said. “Gemma found it in his knapsack. He’s off fetching their Aunt Tara from Dublin. That’s why he’s not here.”

“I hope he returns soon,” Gemma said.

Danny started at the sound of her voice. No doubt because of its unused scratchiness, its humiliating girlishness. But he surprised her.

“You are the best thing I’ve heard all day,” he said.

He held out his hand for her. Her body quaked so hard she felt like it was going to crack open wide as a seismic fissure. She waved her hand in front of her face, trying to catch her breath as she placed her other hand on top of Danny’s and let him escort her into a loud room full of men. She froze with hand still in front of her face.