Читать книгу The Man On The Cliff - Janice Macdonald - Страница 9

ON HER WAY back to the Pot o’ Gold, Kate passed the redbrick building that housed the tourist bureau where Annie worked part-time. Through the window, she could see Annie working at her desk. She rapped on the window and Annie motioned for her to come in.

“You couldn’t have stopped by at a better moment,” Annie said. “First off, if you wouldn’t mind making sure Rory gets the sandwiches I made for him, I’d be grateful. He’s mad for cold chicken and I had some left from last Sunday’s lunch.”

“Sure, no problem,” Kate said. “Do you want me to take them down to the station?”

“If he doesn’t drop by first.” Annie held up a poster for her to see. “And now I’d like your opinion on this. Tell me what you think.”

“The Cragg’s Head Fleadh,” Kate read aloud, mentally shoving aside thoughts of her encounter with the man on the cliff. “A festival of fiddles, flutes and concertinas. It looks great.”

“Flah,” Annie corrected. “Rhymes with hah,” she said with a smile. “That’s all right, though, you’re not the first to say it wrong. I’ve so much to do I can hardly see straight and now, with this worry over Elizabeth, it’s all I can do to keep my mind on anything.”

“You still haven’t heard from her?” Kate asked.

“I haven’t directly, but that was a friend of hers on the phone just now. Swears she saw Elizabeth at a coffee bar this morning. Would have spoken to her, she says, but she ran off. Still, it’s good to have even a wee bit of news.”

“I’m sure it must be.” Kate glanced again at the poster. “So you’re in charge of putting this whole thing together?”

“I am. Well, we’ve a committee, of course, but in the time it takes for them to decide on anything, I can already have it done.” She retrieved a slim blue book from under a pile of papers on her desk and handed it to Kate. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother, though. Last year, Cragg’s Head wasn’t even in here. This year they put a little note that said it wasn’t worth a detour.”

Kate riffled through the pages and smiled up at her.

“Well, we’re never going to have the crowds flocking here,” Annie said, returning the smile. “But it’s home. I’d never leave. My sister left for America, a few years back. Boston. Pat and I went over there for a holiday and they took us to an Irish bar of all places.” She shook her head. “All of them singing ‘Danny Boy’ and shedding tears for dear old Ireland as though they’d go back in a minute, if they could. And few of them ever would.”

“You’ve lived in Cragg’s Head for a long time?”

“My whole life.” Annie gestured to the stack of wooden desks in the corner. “Until this year, this room used to be a classroom. Caitlin sat at one of those desks in this room and so did I…” She smiled. “Too many years back to remember. My father and grandfather tilled those fields out there. We’ve been here for as long as anyone can remember. Pat’s family too.”

“It must be nice to have that sense of continuity,” Kate said, recalling her own childhood. “My dad was always getting transferred. By the time I was nine, I’d been enrolled in a dozen different schools.”

“Ah God.” Annie gave Kate a horrified look. “What kind of a start in life is that? Your mother didn’t mind it then?”

“Well, they finally got divorced, so she probably did. But she tended to go along with whatever my father wanted and he was always looking for something he never seemed to find.” With her finger, she pushed scattered paper clips into a pile, lost for a moment in her thoughts. “We did okay, I guess. My brother and I. We both got decent grades. We made friends.” She grinned at Annie. “Of course they never lasted long, but then we made new friends.”

Annie clicked her tongue. “Sure, it would be like pulling up the daffodil bulbs every morning to see if they’re growing,” she said. “If you dug me up and put me somewhere else, I’d not be the same person.”

“In California, where I live,” Kate said, “almost everyone is from somewhere else. People talk about putting down roots and that sort of thing, but it’s more like we’re seeds blown on the wind. You could land anywhere and, just as easily, pull up and go somewhere else.”

Annie shook her head as though the thought were too outlandish to comprehend.

“That’s why you’re not married,” she finally said. “You’ve no idea who you are or where you belong. Come to think of it, that’s probably Hughie Fitzpatrick’s problem. Him growing up on the Maguire estate as he did. Like planting a potato in among the roses and expecting it to grow petals. Sure, who wouldn’t be confused?”

SHE WASN’T JUST CONFUSED, Kate thought later that morning as she sat at a small desk in Annie’s front parlor, she was besotted. For the last hour she’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to focus on the notes from an interview she’d just completed with an old school friend of Moruadh’s, but her brain was refusing to cooperate. All it wanted to do was think about the gray-eyed man. The man on the cliff.

Why had she turned down his offer of a ride home? Maybe he would have asked her out. Dinner perhaps. A little pub with mullioned windows and a fireplace. The stories of their lives exchanged over a couple of Guinnesses.

She shook her head to clear the images. You’re in Ireland to work. Not for a fling. She drank some coffee from a cup patterned with pink cabbage roses, picked a raisin out of a piece of soda bread, wrote three headings on her yellow pad: Accidental death. Suicide. Murder.

The school friend had said that Moruadh had occasionally suffered with bouts of depression. Spells, she’d called them. Kate recalled her mother’s incapacitating depression after the divorce. Days when she never left the bed.

But there were degrees of depression. From the friend’s description, Moruadh’s appeared to have been of the mild blues variety. Kate got up and wandered over to the window. Beyond Annie’s neatly planted front garden, she saw the dark turrets of Buncarroch Castle looming in the gray air. Something almost sinister about it. If Moruadh spent much time there, no wonder she’d had fits of depression.

Kate made more notes, drank some more coffee. Found her thoughts drifting back to the gray-eyed man. An Irish accent, but overlaid with something else. An expensive education maybe, or years abroad. She tried to re-create it. What had he said? ‘Just remember, the right side is on the left.’ Even now, she could feel this little tug in her stomach as she pictured him.

Restless, she got up from the table and wandered upstairs to her room. Maybe a little fling might have been fun. Since they didn’t exactly live within commuting distance, she wouldn’t be screening him as a husband candidate. Obviously nothing could come of it. Why not enjoy herself while she was here?

At the dresser, she stared at her reflection. Long red hair she’d worn the same way since she was about fourteen. Hanging loose down her back or tied up in a ponytail. Freckles she didn’t try to cover because she hated the feel of makeup on her skin. She picked up a brush and ran it through her hair. Not that there was much point in thinking about flings, she’d probably never see him again. Although, as Annie said, Cragg’s Head was a small place. She’d seen him twice already. Maybe she should take another walk.

Outside, a car door slammed, and she ran to the window. With a pang of disappointment, she saw that the car at the curb was a light green Gardai car, not a dark green Land Rover.

Get over it, she told herself as she watched Rory McBride get out. The guy doesn’t even know where you’re staying. She heard the front door open and close, then Rory’s voice calling her name.

Thinking of the strange exchange with him the night before, she hesitated. She was alone in the house. Annie and Patrick wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours, and Caitlin was at school. Paranoia, she decided. It was broad daylight and his car was parked outside in clear view. And this was Ireland, not Santa Monica.

She closed the bedroom door behind her. He stood at the foot of the stairs, backlit by the amber light streaming from the fan-shaped window above the front door. He wore a navy overcoat over his blue uniform.

“Hi.” She smiled at him from the top of the stairs. “You caught me here between interviews. I was just going over my notes. What’s up?”

“I saw your car outside.” He pulled off his cap, shook raindrops onto the rug. “It’s a lovely country, Ireland, they just need to put a roof over it.”

“Well, at least the rain’s let up a bit,” she provided. No Irish exchange, she was learning, could start without a comment on the weather. “Maybe it will clear up tomorrow.”

“Let’s hope so.” Holding his hat in both hands, Rory smiled hesitantly, like a suitor come to call. “I wondered…could I have a word with you? If you’ve a minute, that is.”

“Sure.” She ran down the stairs and led him into the sitting room where her notes were still spread out over the desk. “Want some coffee?” She gestured at the pot. “I can make some fresh.”

“I don’t. Thank you, though.” He unbuttoned his coat and sat down at the table. “You might have wondered a bit about last night. My telling you I wasn’t up there on the cliffs, I mean.”

Kate, glad that at least one of the mysteries was cleared up, decided that no response was necessary.

“The thing is, I love Caitlin.” He stuck his finger into the neck of his blue uniform shirt. “Sure, we’re getting married in June, and Annie, well, she’s like my own mother. But, see, yesterday I went into Galway to meet Elizabeth, the girl who’s staying with Annie.” Eyes downcast, he appeared to be composing his thoughts. “We’d just come back when you saw me in my car up on the cliffs but, uh, we had a few words and she left.”

“And you didn’t want Caitlin and Annie to know?” Kate watched his face. “That’s why you said it wasn’t you I saw up there?”

“Right.” Faint relief flickered across his face. “Honestly, there’s nothing at all between me and Elizabeth, but Caitlin…well, she’s a bit green-eyed, if you know what I mean.”

“Does she have reason to be?”

“She doesn’t, no. I sowed my wild oats some time ago.” He smiled at her, his eyes exactly the same blue as his shirt. Easy to understand why Caitlin would find him attractive, although she suspected that Caitlin’s jealousy wasn’t unfounded.

“So you’ve no idea where Elizabeth is?”

“I have not.” His look suggested the question was stupid. “Would I be letting Annie worry if I knew where Elizabeth was?”

“Well, I’d hope not,” she retorted and then something occurred to her. “By the way, did you check out whatever it was I told you I saw on the cliffs?”

“I did. Up and down the footpath. There were a few people about. Teenagers. Probably a couple of them larking about was what you saw.”

“Probably.” She folded her arms across her chest. He clearly wanted her assurance that she wouldn’t blow his cover, but something about the whole thing made her uncomfortable. “I don’t know your relationship with Elizabeth, but…” She put her hand up to stop his protest. “I’m not going to lie to Annie or Caitlin.”

“I’m not asking you to lie. You don’t have to say anything. They think I was seeing into a car crash, and that’s what I want them to think. Besides, Elizabeth’ll show up tonight and the whole thing will blow over.”

She met his eyes for a moment. He reminded her a bit of her younger brother. Before Ned had married and settled down, he’d come to her to bail him out of various scrapes he’d gotten into. He’d go into some torturous explanation of what had happened and then look at her, anxiety all over his face, as he waited for her reaction. Just the way Rory McBride was looking at her now.

“Listen, Rory. I’m going to tell you something about myself. I can’t stand liars. And I can’t stand cheating men. And, trust me, I’ve had plenty of experience with both.” Kate saw the flicker of interest in his eyes as though what she’d said had cast her in a slightly different light. “Here’s the deal. I won’t bring it up, but if anyone should ask me whether I saw you on the cliffs last night, I won’t lie, either. Okay?”

“Right.” He gave her a little smile. “Thanks, Kate.”

“And I better not find out that you were cheating on Caitlin.”

“I told you, I love her.”

“Yeah, well…” She shrugged. “I’m not much of a believer in that sort of thing.”

He grinned, relief now clear on his face. “Your work’s going well, is it?”

“Not bad. I did a phone interview this morning and I’ve got another one later today. Niall Maguire wasn’t in when I stopped at the castle. You wouldn’t happen to know if he’s in town?”

“He is. I saw him myself not an hour ago. You’ll have the best chance of meeting him if you go directly up there.” He frowned down at the table, started to speak, then stopped. A moment passed. “You’ll want to be careful, Kate,” he finally said. “With Maguire, that is.”

“What d’you mean?”

“It’s like I was saying last night, he’s a bit—” He stopped as though a thought had occurred to him and shrugged. “Sure, you probably think I’m a fine one to talk, after what I’ve told you, but Maguire…well, he has an eye for the women. He’s a fancy photographer of some sort. Does those big glossy picture books. There’s always one woman or another up there visiting him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She bit back a grin. Despite her suspicions about Rory McBride, he looked so young and earnest in his blue uniform. Advising her, a woman at least ten years his senior, to be careful. “If he tries to put any moves on me, I’ll sock him one.”

“I’m serious, Kate.” He frowned. “As a Garda, I shouldn’t be saying this, but I’ve never doubted that Maguire had a part in his wife’s death.”

This was the second time Rory had mentioned his suspicions. Kate reached for the coffeepot. “This stuff is cold. Come and talk to me while I make some more.”

Rory followed her into the kitchen and stood with his back to the wall, watching her as she ran water. “Maguire’s got money,” he said after a moment. “The rules are different for him. People will turn a blind eye and that includes those high up in the Gardai, although you never heard me say that.”

Kate turned from the sink to look at him.

“Under the same circumstances, anyone but Maguire would have been locked up long ago,” he said.

She measured coffee into the pot and put it on the stove. The view from the kitchen window offered a panorama of green fields and gray ocean and, off in the distance, another, but equally gloomy, perspective of Buncarroch Castle. It seemed to dominate the small white cottages dotted all around. If she lived in one of those cottages, she’d probably dislike Niall Maguire. She looked back at Rory.

“So what do you think his motive would have been?”

“Well—” he scratched the back of his head “—myself, I think Moruadh just got to be a bit too much for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anyone you speak to will tell you how everyone liked Moruadh. Small wonder, she was a great girl. I liked her myself.” He stared for a moment at the kitchen wall. “The thing is, she had a…well, a reckless way about her that sometimes made you wonder whether she was right in the head.”

“In what way?” She sat down at the table again. “Can you give me an example?”

“I can.” He looked down at the floor as if in search of a dog to pet, and glanced quickly up at her. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Kate met his eyes for a moment.

“I’m serious. If it got out that I told you this, it’d be my job. I’m only telling you because we’ve a bit of an understanding. You help me, I do the same for you.” He watched her face. “Do you want to know?”

“Go ahead.”

“A few months before she died, we got a call late one night about a bit of a disturbance at Reilly’s flower shop. I was sent down to look into it and when I got there I couldn’t believe my eyes. A window had been smashed, and Moruadh was inside, blood all over the place.” He glanced over at the door as though scared someone might come in. “Stretched out on the floor, covered in flowers.” His voice had dropped to a whisper. “Not a stitch of clothing on her.”

Kate felt her breath catch.

“Still as a statue, she was.” Rory reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Eyes closed. I thought at first she was dead. Christ, my heart was going like a drum. Then all of a sudden, she just opens her eyes and smiles at me as though it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be there. ‘Oh, hello,’ she says. ‘I’m just choosing some flowers for my coffin.’”

“My God…” Kate shook her head. “That’s incredible.”

“It’s written up in a report,” Rory said, “but you’ll never get anyone to show it to you. It was all hushed up quicker than a wink. That very night I was called into the superintendent’s office, told that I hadn’t seen a thing and if so much as a word got out, I’d find myself back in Donegal and off the force. If anyone should ask about the window, it had been broken by tinkers.”

“And it was never mentioned?”

“It never happened.” He held her gaze. “The next time I saw Moruadh she was giving a recital at the library. Right as rain, she seemed. Smiling and friendly when she saw me. The funny thing is, after a bit I began to wonder myself whether I’d just dreamed the whole thing.”

“But Maguire must have known about the incident, right?”

“He knew, all right. Sure, it was him she was asking for the night it happened. He was brought to the shop in the superintendent’s car. No doubt he paid for the damage himself.”

“And you think, what? That this sort of thing happened enough that he got tired of covering for her so he killed her?” She frowned. “It seems kind of farfetched. I mean why wouldn’t he just get psychological help for her?”

“I’m not the one you should be asking that question.” Rory looked down at the pack of cigarettes in his hands. “To my mind, Maguire’s odd himself. In fact, before I saw this with my own eyes, I’d have said she was the normal one and it was him who was off in the head.”

Kate nodded. Cold and aloof according to almost everyone she’d spoken to. Easy enough to see how such traits wouldn’t make him popular, but it didn’t exactly convince her that he was capable of murder.

“No slight on the article you’re writing,” he said, “but I’d be surprised if you turn up anything that hasn’t already been gone over. To my way of thinking, her death is a closed book. Sure, if they all want to believe it was an accident, better to just let them.” He stood and buttoned his coat. “And about the other matter…”

“I’ve already forgotten it.”

“Thanks, Kate.” He smiled at her. “And be careful when you go up to Maguire’s, all right? If you’re not back at Annie’s by supper, I’ll have a car sent up to the castle.” He’d already taken off down the road when Kate remembered the sandwiches Annie had made for him. It took her only a minute to decide to take them down to the station. Maybe she’d run into the gray-eyed man again. A third chance encounter would be an unlikely coincidence in Santa Monica, here in Cragg’s Head anything was possible.

“RUFUS. Come on, boy.” Niall whistled for the dog. After a moment it came bounding back, stick in its mouth. It panted, eyes expectant, waiting for him to throw.

“You think I’ve nothing more to do, don’t you?” As he ran his hands through the long hair on the dog’s neck, Niall eyed the bank of purple clouds banked over the low hills, mentally composing a shot. A silver shaft of light pierced the clouds, shimmered on a ruined tower. The light was just right, but if he went back for his equipment, by the time he’d got everything set up, it would have faded.

The dog barked at him.

“Sorry. I forgot. You’ve got your priorities, too, haven’t you?” He flung the stick and grinned as the dog chased after it. An Irish wolfhound, rescued from a German couple who had rented one of his cottages a couple of years back, intending to make Ireland their home. After a taste of one Irish winter, they’d packed their bags and left. Rufus had become his by default.

Chin cupped in his hand, Niall studied the bruised-looking clouds again, then decided against going back for the camera. The second time that day, he thought as he started across the fields, that he’d had to forgo a bit of inspiration. The first time had been the American girl. He had a vivid mental picture of her on the grass by her fallen bike. Glaring up at him. Strands of red hair had escaped her black wool cap, and he’d fought an impulse to pull the bloody thing off her head and watch her hair tumble free.

She had green eyes. Not flecked with hazel, as he often saw, just pure green. And freckles on her forehead and throat. Seven of them over the bridge of her nose. He’d counted them. They probably multiplied in the summer. He thought of the summer he’d spent in America a few years back. California. It had been very hot, he remembered. But so beautiful you forgot about the heat until you got burned.

He walked out to the edge of the cliff, peered through the clumps of purple-red valerian. About halfway down, a rocky outcrop formed a shelf that ran for several miles and eventually down to the beach below. As a boy, he would ride his bike along the narrow ledge, thrilled at the danger of riding high above the ocean. He walked on for a mile or so, the wind tugging at his coat, his thoughts drifting.

When the talk started after Moruadh’s death, he had wanted only anonymity. An escape from the hostile stares and murmurs that seemed to follow him everywhere he went. He’d considered America. New York, perhaps. Los Angeles. Any big city.

And then one day as he walked out across the fields, he had seen, as though for the first time, the vast wideness of the sky, the heather-colored landscape. He had felt the wind on his face, tasted on it the faint tang of salt from the Atlantic. And, in that moment, he had known he could never leave Ireland. He might be estranged from those around him, estranged from himself if it came to that, but here was where he belonged. Nothing would drive him away.

The dog bounded back across the grass and Niall threw the stick again. He’d stood at the car door and watched the American girl ride off, red hair streaming behind her. Stood there until she disappeared from view. Unable to remember what it was he’d been about to do before he met her. For some reason, he’d wandered back to the grassy patch where she’d fallen. Sometimes you did things without really knowing why and this was one of those times, he supposed.

As he’d bent to take a closer look at the tracks her bicycle tires had left, his hand brushed across something hard and flat beneath the grass. When he pulled the blades aside, he’d found a lichen-covered stone. Next to that stone, there’d been another, and another. A half-dozen of them in all, formed in a circle.

A cromlech. They were all over Ireland, circles of stones, half buried in the earth. Left there by farmers too superstitious to move them. They were also known by another name, the thought of which made him smile. Fairy rings they were called. She had fallen into a fairy ring.

Moruadh, who had claimed that rooks nesting in the turrets of the castle spoke to her, would have called it a sign.

Five minutes later, he pushed open the door to the tourist office. Annie Ryan and Brigid Riley were eating sandwiches as they stuffed envelopes. Both of them gave him looks that suggested he was about as welcome as rain at a picnic.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Maguire?” Annie asked.

“I have those pictures you’d asked me to develop for the festival.” Annie was one of the organizers of Cragg’s Head’s yearly music festival, and he’d offered to photograph some of the musicians for advertisements she was running in the local paper. He glanced down at the envelope in his hand. “So I thought I’d drop them off.”

“Ah, good.” Annie put her sandwich down and reached for the envelope. Brigid had started eating again, but she didn’t take her eyes off him.

“I was also wondering about Elizabeth.” He looked at Annie. “When I spoke to you last night, she hadn’t come home.”

“She still hasn’t.”

“And you’ve no idea where she might be?”

“None at all.” Annie’s gaze was steady on his face. “The Gardai are keeping an eye out for her.”

He nodded. “Last weekend when she came up to my place,” he said after a moment, “she said something about seeing some friends up in Donegal. Maybe—”

“I didn’t know she was up at your place, Mr. Maguire,” Annie interrupted. A chair creaked as Brigid shifted her weight. “Elizabeth said nothing to me about being there.”

As he had the night before, Niall heard the accusatory tone in Annie’s voice. “What I was suggesting, Mrs. Ryan,” he said, “was that perhaps she was staying with friends up there. It might be something you’d want to look into.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Well, I hope you hear something soon.” He ran his hand across the back of his neck, glanced down at the posters on her desk. Finally, he looked up at her. “And are you keeping busy these days, Mrs. Ryan? At the bed-and-breakfast, I mean?”

“It’s a bit early in the year for the tourists. I thought there might be a few for the festival, but there’s no one so far.” Annie folded up the waxed paper from the sandwiches, then brushed some bread crumbs into her hand. “I’ve just one guest right now,” she said with a glance at him. “After she leaves, there’s no one until late June.”