gag.
‘Jesus, Ben, we’re not mad, you know. One of the botanists here made it up from modern ingredients. It’s as close as she can get it to the original. Try it.’
I took a small mouthful of the gruel. The initial taste was malty, though very quickly a bitter aftertaste developed. Suppressing the urge to spit, I grimaced and swallowed.
Bradley laughed loudly, tapping the remains of the gruel off the spoon back into the container. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Would you eat that voluntarily?’
‘Fair enough,’ I said.
‘So that’s that. Plus, of course, the fact that she’s a woman suggests something to do with fertility – which is why I think she was sacrificed to Aine. Which, in turn, would suggest that she was killed on her feast day, Midsummer’s Eve.’
‘What age was she?’
‘In her early twenties. She’s measuring in at 154 centimetres, though she’ll have shrunk in the bog. Plus it dyed her skin and her hair; she may not have been a redhead in real life.’
‘Linda told me it would have been a great honour for someone to have been sacrificed.’
‘She was right,’ Fearghal said. ‘Her family would have been very proud. Her death would have been one of great dignity.’
‘Any damage to her hands?’ I asked, angling my head slightly to examine them.
‘Nothing much,’ he said, interested now.
‘If she were strangled, you’d imagine her fingers would be damaged from fighting against the noose. You’d expect her fingernails to have broken at least. She didn’t fight it.’
‘She may well have been drugged beforehand.’
‘Maybe,’ I agreed. ‘Might be worth doing toxicology.’
He laughed. ‘This isn’t a murder case, Ben.’
‘You’d just like to know, though. Wouldn’t you?’
He nodded. ‘I guess you would, Ben,’ he said.
We stood by her body for a moment in silence, then I announced I’d better get back to Patterson.
‘What did you say had you down here?’ Fearghal asked as we mounted the stairs back up to the street.
‘Security conference,’ I said.
‘Must be big,’ he said.
‘Cathal Hagan, the US senator, is coming to Orcas next week to officially open the place.’
‘Hagan,’ Bradley said. ‘Isn’t he the one that—’
‘Yep,’ I said, glad to see the final flight of steps ahead. ‘He’s that one.’
‘Good luck to you,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it with that bastard,’ he laughed, standing on the top step, hand held aloft in a farewell salute.
Chapter Six
Friday, 6 October
Friday morning dawned to blue skies, with a thick bank of white cloud low to the east. The forecast promised rain by evening, but until then a fine day stretched ahead.
Natalia Almurzayev had told us that the rent collector, whom I had christened Pony Tail, would be calling to collect his payment after 8 p.m. on the first Friday of the month. I had mulled over the problem all week; to tell Hendry would almost certainly result in the immigrants being shipped back to Chechnya. To say nothing would leave them at the mercy of whoever was exploiting them. I figured if I could trace whoever the rent collector delivered to, I might be able to direct Hendry towards him without necessarily landing Mrs Almurzayev in trouble with the Police Service of Northern Ireland.
Not for the first time, I missed my old partner, Caroline Williams, who had left both An Garda and Donegal following our last case together. I needed help – in particular a woman’s help. My plan was to have Natalia Almurzayev removed from the house before the collector arrived. I would then watch the house and follow him when he left.
In the end, I contacted Helen Gorman. She had proved herself hard-working and sensible enough; plus she was involved to some extent in the case already, having mistakenly broken the news of ‘Mackey’s’ death to his wife. I didn’t know how discreet she would be, but I had little other choice.
I caught up with her in Letterkenny over coffee. She agreed
‘Jesus, Ben, we’re not mad, you know. One of the botanists here made it up from modern ingredients. It’s as close as she can get it to the original. Try it.’
I took a small mouthful of the gruel. The initial taste was malty, though very quickly a bitter aftertaste developed. Suppressing the urge to spit, I grimaced and swallowed.
Bradley laughed loudly, tapping the remains of the gruel off the spoon back into the container. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Would you eat that voluntarily?’
‘Fair enough,’ I said.
‘So that’s that. Plus, of course, the fact that she’s a woman suggests something to do with fertility – which is why I think she was sacrificed to Aine. Which, in turn, would suggest that she was killed on her feast day, Midsummer’s Eve.’
‘What age was she?’
‘In her early twenties. She’s measuring in at 154 centimetres, though she’ll have shrunk in the bog. Plus it dyed her skin and her hair; she may not have been a redhead in real life.’
‘Linda told me it would have been a great honour for someone to have been sacrificed.’
‘She was right,’ Fearghal said. ‘Her family would have been very proud. Her death would have been one of great dignity.’
‘Any damage to her hands?’ I asked, angling my head slightly to examine them.
‘Nothing much,’ he said, interested now.
‘If she were strangled, you’d imagine her fingers would be damaged from fighting against the noose. You’d expect her fingernails to have broken at least. She didn’t fight it.’
‘She may well have been drugged beforehand.’
‘Maybe,’ I agreed. ‘Might be worth doing toxicology.’
He laughed. ‘This isn’t a murder case, Ben.’
‘You’d just like to know, though. Wouldn’t you?’
He nodded. ‘I guess you would, Ben,’ he said.
We stood by her body for a moment in silence, then I announced I’d better get back to Patterson.
‘What did you say had you down here?’ Fearghal asked as we mounted the stairs back up to the street.
‘Security conference,’ I said.
‘Must be big,’ he said.
‘Cathal Hagan, the US senator, is coming to Orcas next week to officially open the place.’
‘Hagan,’ Bradley said. ‘Isn’t he the one that—’
‘Yep,’ I said, glad to see the final flight of steps ahead. ‘He’s that one.’
‘Good luck to you,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it with that bastard,’ he laughed, standing on the top step, hand held aloft in a farewell salute.
Chapter Six
Friday, 6 October
Friday morning dawned to blue skies, with a thick bank of white cloud low to the east. The forecast promised rain by evening, but until then a fine day stretched ahead.
Natalia Almurzayev had told us that the rent collector, whom I had christened Pony Tail, would be calling to collect his payment after 8 p.m. on the first Friday of the month. I had mulled over the problem all week; to tell Hendry would almost certainly result in the immigrants being shipped back to Chechnya. To say nothing would leave them at the mercy of whoever was exploiting them. I figured if I could trace whoever the rent collector delivered to, I might be able to direct Hendry towards him without necessarily landing Mrs Almurzayev in trouble with the Police Service of Northern Ireland.
Not for the first time, I missed my old partner, Caroline Williams, who had left both An Garda and Donegal following our last case together. I needed help – in particular a woman’s help. My plan was to have Natalia Almurzayev removed from the house before the collector arrived. I would then watch the house and follow him when he left.
In the end, I contacted Helen Gorman. She had proved herself hard-working and sensible enough; plus she was involved to some extent in the case already, having mistakenly broken the news of ‘Mackey’s’ death to his wife. I didn’t know how discreet she would be, but I had little other choice.
I caught up with her in Letterkenny over coffee. She agreed
Similar Books
