Haunted Ground Part 8

Report on the endoscopy performed by Dr. J. S. Mitch.e.l.l, Department of Clinical Medicine, Trinity College, Dublin: The interior of the mouth was very well preserved. The tissues were moist and much less stained than external tissues. They were brownish in color, and the membranes were not particularly fragile. The object appearing in previous radiographs and scans was present here also, but from its position against soft tissue, it was difficult to discern what exactly this object might be, or any details about its composition.

There was nothing in these reports that Nora didn't already know. She closed the file and slowly circled the table, focusing on the awkwardly wrapped package and imagining the cold horror that waited there. Who are you? she asked silently. What happened to you? She reached out a hand and rested it on the twisted black polythene. Tell me. As soon as the thought flashed through her mind, Nora felt a sudden impulse to withdraw her hand, but couldn't. She felt a pang of heartsickness as strong as any she had ever experienced, and stood with eyes closed, fixed to the spot until the sensation slowly dissipated. She opened her eyes and took her hand away.

Though she had been there dozens of times, the lab's bright light and bare, polished surfaces seemed somehow foreign and strange. The others will be here any minute, she told herself. Get a grip. She took the X rays from a brown folder beneath the reports, put them up on the viewer, and switched on the light, studying the location of the "opacity" that they would try to extricate today.

Ray Flynn, the conservation technician, interrupted her thoughts, pushing through the door with his camera in hand. He was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g on the flash attachment and checking to see that it was in working order. "Anxious to have at it, eh, Dr. Gavin?"

"Guilty."

"You're as bad as my kids at Christmastime." Flynn pushed back through the door, nearly b.u.mping into Niall Dawson. As a.s.sistant keeper of antiquities at the National Museum, Dawson was actually the person in charge of the operation today.

"h.e.l.lo, Nora," Dawson said, smiling. "We'll be getting started any moment now, as soon as Fitzpatrick makes an entrance."

"What do you think of the execution idea?" Nora asked.

"It's a definite possibility. The electron microscopy shows damage to the vertebra consistent with use of a blade of some sort. Our problem is that we can't tell definitively whether decapitation took place preor postmortem. We may have to be satisfied with what we have."

"I know we can find out who she was," Nora said. As soon as she spoke the words she felt foolish, as though she'd blurted out some secret. "I know it's completely daft, but I do."

"You're wishing for something that may not happen. Promise you won't be downhearted when it turns out to be nothing."

"I'll promise no such thing."

Thirty minutes later, Barry Fitzpatrick, the plumpish, gray-haired dental lecturer from Trinity, was in the midst of his preliminary naked-eye a.s.sessment, speaking with the deliberate, measured tones of a teacher used to dictation: "The mandible appears to be only slightly dislocated due to postmortem events." Grasping the crown of the red-haired girl's head with one hand, he tried shifting the jawbone, first slightly from side to side, then up and down, with the other. "The jaw remains quite flexible. Because of the remarkable preservation of facial skin and muscle tissue, it will be necessary to open the mandible in order to gain access to the teeth. Mr. Flynn, if I could ask you to be ready with the camera as we open the mouth? Thank you."

Fitzpatrick pulled gingerly at the lower jaw, eventually loosening the red-haired girl's teeth from where they had bitten through her lower lip. He opened her mouth as wide as he could, peered inside, then reached in with a latex-gloved finger to check for missing teeth and molars.

"There appears to be full dent.i.tion present, the third molars being fully erupted. The teeth are brown in color, and there appears to be a complete absence of tooth enamel. a.s.sessment of the individual's age at death is difficult in this case, since enamel provides the most accurate indication of tooth wear. The first molars show slight to moderate wear of the dentine, while the third molars--if you could move the light just a little closer, please, Mr. Flynn--show little or no wear. Probable age at death was approximately twenty to twenty-five years. Now, Dr. Gavin," said Fitzpatrick, looking up from his work and wrinkling his nose in an effort to keep his gla.s.ses from sliding down any more, "if you could give me an indication of where we should begin searching for this famous foreign body..."

"It appears to be fairly far back in the throat," Nora said, pointing to the spot on the X-ray film, "and closer to the left side than the right." Fitzpatrick glanced at the negative image, then bent to his task again, using his dental mirror as a tongue depressor.

"I want to avoid damaging the surrounding tissue if I can," he said, "but it'll be difficult not to push whatever it is even farther back, unless--Mr. Flynn, do you have a very large tweezers of some sort? That will do nicely, thank you."

It was all Nora could do to keep from pressing next to Fitzpatrick so that she could see what he saw through the magnifying viewer.

"Come on," he said, coaxing the thing forward, "this way out. Here it is." Fitzpatrick lifted the object aloft, and four pairs of eyes beheld a band of finely worked gold, centered with a dark red stone. "I'd say it was a man's ring, wouldn't you, Dawson?" said Fitzpatrick, clearly delighted with his discovery. They all drew around to examine it more closely.

"Appears to be," Dawson said. "And look inside. There's some sort of inscription." He struggled to make out the letters through the magnifying lens: "COF, then the number sixteen, letters IHS, another number, fifty-two. Then more letters, AOF."

That's it, Nora thought, the message she'd known was there. Had this girl tried to swallow the ring, or simply to hide it? What other explanation could there be? What thoughts must have raced through her mind in the last few seconds before she died? Nora looked back to the top of the table where the girl's mouth was still propped open at an awkward angle under the glaring light. She felt suddenly ashamed. "Gentlemen," she said, "if we're finished, hadn't we better cover her up again?"

14.

The loom's rhythmic sound usually had a calming effect on Una McGann's mind, but tonight she felt slightly on edge. Brendan refused to have a television in the house, so each of them was engaged in some customary evening occupation: Fintan worked at the table, cutting new reeds for his pipes, making an occasional squawk as he blew through each thin piece of bamboo to test its sound. Aoife knelt on the floor beside him, enacting some story with an unlikely foursome that included a spotted salamander, a winged fairy, an elephant, and a giraffe. Brendan sat apart from them, on a stool near the fire, meticulously grinding a keen edge on one of his half-dozen sickles. Brendan kept a vast collection of old tools in the shed; some had belonged to their father and grandfather, while others came from neighbors who knew that he was interested and offered him their old implements when they ceased cutting turf or making hay by hand, as nearly everyone in the locality had done. His collection included spades and pitchforks, billhooks for cutting ditches, punch forks and hand rakes for thatching, foot sleans and breast sleans. Brendan kept each one shining, never letting the damp turn to rust on their blades.

Fintan waited for Una's eyes to meet his, and his eyebrows raised in a question. He'd asked her advice earlier this afternoon; he was dying to break the news to Brendan about his plans to leave Dunbeg. She'd tried to put him off, saying that now wasn't the time; as long as he wasn't planning to leave until the autumn, there was no point in telling Brendan so soon. He'd only stew about it all summer, she warned. Fintan had disagreed. He still wanted to tell Brendan tonight. She could feel the antic.i.p.ation in every gesture he made. He'd planned to go to America for years, he'd told her, but only recently had saved enough money to make it possible. He had enough to live on for a few months, anyway, even if he didn't find work right away. And a friend in New York had promised to set up some gigs for him. Fintan was only two years younger than she was, but tonight Una felt decades older than her brother, seeing him practically bursting with the news.

What would this house be like without Fintan? Una wasn't sure that she and Aoife could remain if he left, but leaving Brendan completely on his own was a thought she had tried to avoid.

She watched her elder brother as he held the sickle against his left knee, tracing the silvery half-moon shape of it over and over again with the pink round of a sharpening stone. Every few strokes, he'd pause to feel its edge against the thick skin of his thumb. It must soothe him somehow, to sit and smoke the pipe and work at these things. How sad that she couldn't really talk to Brendan, and tell him what was in her heart, as she could do so easily with Fintan. But Brendan had always been so serious, trying to act like a grown man by the time he was fourteen years of age. He'd never seemed to have time to play when she was a girl, but then he was six years older than she was, already busy with farmwork when she and Fintan were still small.

Had Brendan ever given any thought to marrying? He'd certainly shown no interest in anyone she knew about. And there weren't many opportunities for a social life in Dunbeg. Brendan was never one for dances or the other usual functions where people could meet. He went to Ma.s.s, of course, and he might go into the pub, but he'd always have his pint standing at the bar, nodding wordlessly to the half-dozen other regulars who drained their gla.s.ses beside him.

Brendan looked up from the sickle, not at her, but at Fintan, who held a reed up to the light to check its thickness. Brendan looked as if he were about to utter some expression of annoyance over his brother's foolish waste of time, but instead he paused, evidently thought better of it, and returned to his work.

How much had she given up to come back here? She missed the laughing faces of her Dublin neighbors, Celia and Jane. Despite Dublin's gray concrete walls, the graffiti-covered dustbins, the noise and grime of the city, Una had felt warmly accepted, enveloped, even, when she was with them. Celia worked in a bookshop; Jane was a writer. They were as poor as she was, but in a joyful, bohemian way that she always admired but could never quite achieve. Their flat was filled with books, with conversation and cigarette smoke. Perhaps what buoyed her friends was the love they shared, a tenderness forbidden where they came from, but tolerated, or at least ignored in the city, far from the prying eyes and clucking tongues of the villages where they'd grown up. Una had no such close friends in Dunbeg. What a relief it had been to be with Celia and Jane, to feel as if she could let go and say what she really thought. But another part of her spirit had never felt at home in the city. She had missed the smells, the sounds, even the very quietness of Dunbeg, the breathing s.p.a.ce one could experience even in a room with several other souls. That silence, that solitude in company existed for her nowhere but here.

Una looked at her daughter's bright head bent over her tiny tea set, as the child whispered an entire conversation in the various voices of her odd menagerie. Una understood Brendan's desire to keep things as they had been forever. Weren't there times--like this very moment, in fact--that she wished she could spare Aoife all the pain and disappointment of growing up? But she knew that sheltering her daughter from pain would also take away the profoundest joy, like the feeling she'd known when Aoife was born, seeing the damp crown of her daughter's head covered in pale down. The nurses didn't like it, but Una had sometimes unwrapped her completely, to drink in every detail of her compact and perfect naked body. You must keep the child covered up, they'd clucked, she'll catch her death. As if death itself were contagious. Una had made up her mind to raise Aoife without shame, if she could, and took the greatest satisfaction in seeing her little girl growing up as blissfully alive in her physical self as Una had felt painfully repressed. Her parents had not been entirely to blame for that, she knew. It was the place, the time, and the stifling Catholic morality in the atmosphere they all breathed.

She was glad Fintan knew what he wanted. He had started at the tin whistle, and saved enough money for a set of practice pipes by the time he was thirteen. Brendan considered him lazy, she knew, but Fintan's thoughts were always on the music, to the point of distraction at times. You can't live on music, Brendan had often told him, but Una could see in Fintan's eyes the fiercest desire to prove their brother wrong. For years, he'd worked all winter long weaving simple Brigid's crosses to sell to tourist shops in Scarriff and Mountshannon, and he'd saved every penny he ever earned playing music for hire. Hardly laziness. Una also understood Fintan's desire to explore the world beyond a place like Dunbeg, where the future was mapped out for you almost from birth, depending on who your father was, and how much tillable land you owned, and what the people in your family had done for generations upon generations. Tradition could be a prison sentence, as much as a point of pride.

The hidden things in Brendan's room pressed on her heart more each day. There must be some plausible explanation. Surely. So why was she afraid? He'd always been a moody man, but the darkness seemed to have grown worse recently, and she'd started remembering things he'd said or done that troubled her. This morning, rounding the corner of the house, she'd remembered something that had taken place on that very spot nearly twenty years earlier: Brendan, about twelve years old, with a hen whose head he was about to strike off. He held the bird's struggling body between his knees, stretching her neck with his left hand, and chopped the head off with one stroke of the bread knife. He looked up and saw Una but didn't move or utter a word as the hen's body quivered, and then went still. He studied her for a moment, then rose from his crouch, and held out the dripping carca.s.s to her by its scrawny legs. Here, he said, take this to Mam. She thought he was trying to frighten her, but when she looked up at Brendan's face, there was nothing in his eyes; his expression had been completely blank.

Disturbed by the memory, Una pulled the bar on the loom firmly back, then slid off her bench. "Come on, Aoife, love, time for slumber."

"But, Mammy, it's not even dark."

"No, and it's not going to be, either, until past your bedtime. Don't you want to see where our book takes us tonight?" They'd been reading since the winter, one chapter each evening. Aoife's face brightened, then clouded over again as she considered which prospect appealed to her most at the moment. Una loved to study the landscape of her daughter's face, which was tempered by moods as changeable as Irish weather.

"Come on, upstairs with you now," she said in a mock-threatening tone. "Give the lads a kiss." She stood and waited as Aoife planted her lips firmly on Brendan's whiskery cheek, then on Fintan's. He looked at Una again, and there was mischief in his eyes.

Not now, she mouthed in reply, but Una could see that he didn't plan to heed her advice.

Upstairs in their room, she tore through the bedtime story, prompting Aoife to say, "Mammy, you're going too fast."

"Sorry, love," Una said, slowing her pace, but, as she did, straining to hear what might be pa.s.sing between her brothers downstairs. The fact that she could hear nothing made her even more tense.

"That's all for tonight," she said, closing the book at the end of the chapter and giving Aoife a quick kiss. "Sleep well, a chroi."

Una knew the moment she opened the door that the silence below did not bode well. Brendan's voice was quiet, but there was fury in it.

"America, is it? I might have known. Can't wait to get away from us, can you? And not just down the road, you have to go halfway round the world, and it's still not far enough. And how are you going to get enough money to go live in America?"

"I've saved a good bit. And I thought I'd sell off my share of the farm." Brendan didn't respond, so Fintan continued: "I went to the solicitor. He told me that Una and I have equal shares in the farm, same as yourself. How long did you think you could keep that from us, Brendan? But don't worry, I'll give you a fair price."

Brendan stood, trembling, with the handle of the sickle gripped tightly in his right hand.

"You f.u.c.king whelp," he said, on the last word bringing the blade of the sickle down on the table, where it stuck fast. Fintan scrambled backward, upending his chair, his face openmouthed in shock at what his words had unleashed. Brendan's rage dissolved into bewilderment, then further into remorse. He sagged to his knees, and rested his head against the edge of the table.

"Fintan, you'd better leave," Una said. "Just for a while."

"I'm not leaving you here--"

"Fintan," she said again, sharply. "Will you get out? We'll be all right."

Fintan climbed to his feet, and left hurriedly by the front door. Una stood where she was for a moment, then walked deliberately to the table, where she wrested the sickle from its place. She felt its dead weight in her hand as she opened the back door, walked to the shed, and hung it up among the other tools neatly arranged on hooks above her head.

When she returned to the kitchen, Una saw the door to the front hall closing, and heard Brendan's footsteps treading the length of the hallway to his room. Perhaps it was the relief of not having to speak to him at this moment; she put her hands to her face and drew in a long, gasping sob.

"Mammy?" came a small voice from above. Aoife stood at the top of the staircase in her nightdress. "Mammy, what's happening? I'm afraid." Una sprinted up the short flight of steps and knelt to hold Aoife tight.

"It's all right, my love," she said, smoothing her daughter's hair. "The boys had a bit of a row, but it's over now. It's all over."

15.

Tiny beads of perspiration were beginning to form on Nora's forehead as she walked on the treadmill. She had sublet this flat from a Trinity colleague off in America on a visiting professorship. Although she loved its location on the Grand Ca.n.a.l, and the large windows that looked out over the southwest sector of the city, she had never warmed to its spare, modern s.p.a.ce. She did like the treadmill, though; walking put her in a meditative state. She had been at it nearly forty minutes now, relaxing into the steady rhythm, feeling the blood coursing through her muscles, focusing her vision on a place far outside the large plate-gla.s.s window. Dublin was still an astonishingly residential metropolis, and she could see far beyond the ca.n.a.l onto the roofs of Harold's Cross and Crumlin, watching the blinking lights appear in the gathering dusk over the city. It was this time of day, and particularly the memory of the setting sun over the Mississippi River bluffs around Saint Paul, that made her homesick for her own home and family. Her parents would both be working right now. She imagined her father checking some experiment in his research lab at the university medical school, her mother listening to the heartbeats of East African women and children, who made up the bulk of her clientele at the community clinic. She hadn't spoken to her parents in more than a week; she should try to remember to phone them before it got too late.

For some reason, she was also remembering a remark that Evelyn McCrossan, Gabriel's wife, had made one evening when they were discussing the progress on the catalog of bog remains. When I see those people in the museum, Evelyn had said, I always think it's a pity they have to be on display like that. I mean, they're human beings, aren't they? Or were. I always say a little prayer for them. Nora thought about the cailin rua's matted hair drying against the surface of the examination table. Those tangled strands would remain forever just as they'd been found, wild and uncombed. The circ.u.mstances of the red-haired girl's death, combined with the accident of her preservation, meant that she had somehow ceased to be a corpse like any other; she had become an artifact.

After the exam this afternoon, Nora had b.u.t.tonholed Niall Dawson from the museum to ask him about the inscription they'd found in the ring.

"Well, for one thing, it tells us that whoever owned the ring was most probably a Catholic," Dawson said.

"How do you figure?"

"The 'IHS' in the center of the date is a liturgical symbol pretty distinctly a.s.sociated with the Catholic Church."

"What does it stand for?" Dawson raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't really raised in the Church," Nora explained.

He smiled. "The Christian Brothers used to tell us it meant 'I Have Suffered.' But if you want the real story, it was actually a miscopying of ' IHOY,' the Greek word for 'Jesus,' translated into Latin and eventually adopted by the Church as a sort of acronym or monogram. They put various interpretations forward over the years, if I could only think..." Dawson scoured his memory. "The only one I can recall is Iesus Hominum Salvator--'Jesus, Savior of Men.'"

"I'm impressed."

"Yes, well, all that drilling on Christian doctrine obviously made more of an impression than I'm willing to admit."

"And what about the other initials?"

"I'm guessing it was a wedding ring," Dawson had said. "At that time it was the custom for a man to give his own ring as a pledge of marriage. And the two sets of initials with a date would seem to bear that out."

So if the ring did belong to the red-haired girl, and it was indeed a wedding ring, where had her husband and protector gone? Off to war somewhere? Perhaps he was in the bog beside her, and sooner or later some turf cutter would eventually uncover his remains as well. The inscription was a break; with a date and a set of initials, maybe Robbie McSweeney could find something more specific.

Nora checked her distance on the treadmill's display; she'd done nearly three miles already, but didn't feel like stopping now. Her thoughts strayed to the notion of marriage, and the custom of rings given as a pledge. What were the words? To love, honor, and cherish. As if it were as simple as a promise.

Devaney had used the phrase "perfect marriage" to describe Hugh and Mina Osborne--false and reductive words that had also been used to describe Peter and Triona. Of all the mysteries in the universe, how two people could find continuing joy and satisfaction in one another was one of the greatest puzzles. Even the sincerest attempt at pairing with another human being was bound to involve a delicate balance between conflicting egos and desires, a process that had to be at least as complicated as the two individuals, and perhaps even more so. Who might be able to tell her more about Hugh and Mina Osborne?

A droplet of sweat trickled down and stung Nora's eye, interrupting her train of thought. Why the h.e.l.l was it that every time she tried to concentrate on the red-haired girl, she always came around again to Triona--and to the missing woman in the photograph? And why was she so anxious to see Hugh Osborne guilty of murder? She knew next to nothing about the case, only what Devaney had told them, and she wasn't likely to learn any more. She couldn't let another piece of unfinished business chase after her the rest of her life. She pushed the b.u.t.tons to gradually slow her pace. The dusk was gone, replaced by darkness, and she could see herself reflected in the window. Leave this, said the voice in her head. She watched the outline of her shoulders rise and fall with each breath. Let it go. She stepped from the machine, feeling as she always did after a long workout: buoyant, as if she walked on air. An answer to the internal voice floated up inside her: I'll try. I can't promise, but I will try.

16.

Devaney sat in the car parked just outside the gate of Bracklyn House. This couldn't really be considered proper surveillance, but it was the best he could do. He'd managed to persuade Nuala to lend him her car, provided he got it back in time for her to meet some clients for a drink. She'd picked out this car on her own, paid for it herself as a point of pride.

He'd never used the car phone, and was fiddling idly with the b.u.t.tons when a dusty black Volvo wagon came out of the gate. It was...o...b..rne. Devaney waited a few seconds, then pulled out behind the Volvo. He could keep his distance around Dunbeg, aided by the fact that there were not many roads in this part of the countryside. Osborne seemed to be heading north, toward Loughrea. Devaney checked his watch. Seven o'clock. He'd break off when he had to in order to get home by half-nine.

At Loughrea, Osborne turned onto the N6 heading west. There'd be more traffic on this road, less chance of being spotted. He eased onto the highway after the black Volvo, leaving a couple of cars between them. Osborne continued into Galway, following the signposts for the city center. Devaney nearly lost him on the first roundabout, but caught sight of the car and made the turn at the last minute. He checked his watch again. Nearly a quarter past eight. He should try to call Nuala, let her know that at this rate he might be a few minutes late. She could always take his car, a point he'd brought up when they'd made the switch. To pick up clients? she'd said. He'd gathered it was out of the question.

He lifted the car phone from its cradle, but slammed it down again when he had to turn a corner to keep the Volvo in sight. No use trying until he was stopped somewhere, if that ever happened, unless he wanted to crash the car in addition to being late. He followed as...o...b..rne edged his way around Eyre Square, then pulled into a tiny side street near the docks.

Hugh Osborne parked his car, then entered an unmarked doorway on street level. Devaney would have to drive closer or approach on foot, but either way he'd run the risk of being spotted. He parked about thirty yards away, and waited. He peered up and down the street. No f.u.c.king chance of a phone box when you needed one, was there? He looked down at the mobile, and felt the sleek black case with its tiny red and green lights mocking him. How was it Nuala could just figure out all this technology, make it part of her life as she went sailing forth into the world, and leave him standing on the dock? He picked up the handset, held it to his ear. Silence. Maybe you had to press something to turn the b.l.o.o.d.y thing on. He pushed gingerly on a tiny b.u.t.ton marked "Speak," and a loud dial tone filled the car. He slammed the phone down, pushing b.u.t.tons furiously to cut off the noise, which must have been audible all up and down the quiet street.

Just then, Osborne emerged from the doorway, looking shaken. He went to his own car and opened the door, but before getting in he seemed to have some sort of a spell, grasping the car door for support, and lowering his head, as if he were going to be sick. And he doesn't even know anyone's watching him here, Devaney thought, unless I've completely blown it. As he retraced the journey, trying to remember if there were any points at which Osborne might have caught a glimpse of him, the Volvo's engine started, and it pulled abruptly away from the curb. Devaney put his car in gear and followed, hoping Osborne hadn't gotten too much of a head start. When he rounded the corner, there was a lorry dead ahead, maneuvering its way into position to drop off a load of empty Guinness kegs. Devaney slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing the man who was directing the lorry, and came to a stop about eighteen inches from its rear end.

"Watch where ye're going, ya dowsy b.o.l.l.o.c.ks," shouted the man, pounding the nose of the car with his fist. "You could have f.u.c.kin' killed me." Devaney reversed out of the side street, and went back the way he'd come. Osborne was lost. There was no way to find him again. It was nearly half past eight. If he left now, he could head home and not be more than a quarter of an hour late. But what had happened when Osborne went into that building? He pulled up near the doorway to have a closer look. A thirtyish, sandy-haired man in a leather jacket stood at the door, evidently having trouble with the lock. He tried a second key, and was just trying the third when Devaney came up behind him.

"Closed for the evening, are you?" Devaney asked. The man looked up, startled. His face was narrow, slightly ruddy, and there was a shaving cut just below his right ear. The plaque beside the door read "Eddie Dolphin, Private Investigations." Mustn't have had the place for long, Devaney thought, if he's still fishing for the key.

"Why don't you open up again, Eddie, so we can have a bit of a chat?" The man's startled look transformed to wariness, then took on an air of forced nonchalance, the mark of a bad actor. There was something else in the set of his jaw; he didn't want to lose a job, if that's what Devaney turned out to be.

"I was just headin' home. Why don't I give you me card, and you can ring me or come round in the morning--" His manner altered visibly once more, to nervous agitation, when Devaney produced his identification.

"Let's do it now, if you don't mind. While I'm in the neighborhood."

Eddie Dolphin opened the door again, and led the way up the wooden steps. He might as well have been climbing to the gallows. When they entered the office, he slumped into his office chair, staring glumly at the cluttered desktop.

Devaney studied Dolphin's demeanor, then looked about, gathering the facts of his surroundings. He took his time, partly to get a firm grasp of his bearings, and the better to prepare Mr. Dolphin for questioning. The building had the look of an old barracks: two stories, single windows at regular intervals. Dolphin's tiny office had two windows, one facing the street, one overlooking warehouse loading areas to the rear, its grimy surface barely admitting a slanting shaft of light from a street lamp. The place smelled of dust and faintly of mildew. The coat of paint on the walls and window sashes was fresh, but carelessly applied. The closet in one corner had evidently been set up as a makeshift darkroom: a large bottle of developer stood inside the door, along with several brand-new computers still in cartons. The trash bin was overflowing with empty pint bottles of Guinness and take-away containers. Late nights, Devaney thought as he turned once more to Dolphin, who had begun picking nervously at one of the several piles of papers that seemed to have randomly acc.u.mulated on his desktop.

"Has...o...b..rne been a client for long, Eddie?" Devaney asked, crossing his arms and leaning back casually against the door frame.

"Look, I don't have to answer any questions. There's such a thing as confidentiality, you know." He spoke as if he'd only just learned the word.

"If you're a priest, or maybe a solicitor," Devaney said. "You a solicitor, Eddie? I know you're not a priest." He kept perfectly still, looking mildly at Dolphin. The silence grew.

"About six months." Dolphin's look was apprehensive, as though he now expected an onslaught of questions. His jaw worked nervously. Devaney kept quiet and waited.

"He came here last winter. Said he wanted me to help him look for his wife and kid. Gone missing. I told him it didn't look good, but--" Dolphin looked up briefly. "He was a steady client, paid up regular, and I took the job. I did some checking, went around a few places with photos. I've got four kids already, and another one on the way," he said, a new note of pleading in his voice. "I needed the work. And there's no one better at finding people. I'd have come up with something."

"So what was he here for this evening?"

"Somebody sent him a package."

"What was in it?"