is?” asked McAllister.
“Apparently they found traces of paint from Frank’s car on the low wall at Poll Salach and, much worse, blood smears matching Hyland’s on the boot surrounds. They are on their way now to impound the car.”
As he lay in bed that night McAllister tried to come to terms with the fact that his good friend Frank Holland might be a murderer. Not exactly an impulsive murderer, but one who was quick to grasp the opportunity afforded to him on Tuesday and use it to track down Hyland and dispose of him.
The more he dwelt on the situation the more confused he became. How, for instance, did bloodstains get on the boot of Holland’s car? Had Frank killed Hyland in one place and then transported the body to Poll Salach? And if so why?
More fundamentally, why did he kill him at all? No convincing motive had come McAllister’s way. But then he didn’t necessarily know the whole story.
He could console himself, however, with the knowledge that Frank Holland, as he knew him, was simply not the type of person to kill.
But how well did he really know Frank?
How often had he heard of instances where people had suddenly acted out of character? Why should Frank be an exception?
Nonetheless his gut feeling told him there was something drastically wrong with the way events were unfolding.
The frustrating thing was there was absolutely nothing he could do.
C HAPTER 9
N EXT MORNING, despite a fitful night’s sleep, McAllister vowed he would have to concentrate on assembling the material for his opening lecture at Gregans Castle Hotel on the following night.
It was necessary to integrate his observations at Poll Salach into this lecture so that the field trip there, next Monday morning, would be of maximum interest and benefit to his class.
He had had a quick breakfast and noted that the restaurant was working as efficiently as usual. Susan had left early to keep an appointment with Frank’s solicitor, and to see Frank himself. Patsy McBride was enjoying her new role and making a particular success of her imposing front of house presence chatting with diners and generally creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere.
McAllister laboured long into the morning. He was a fastidious worker and was not satisfied until he had organised his material into a well rounded lecture.
This done he rose stiffly from his chair and resolved to go for a walk along the coast road to clear his head and stretch his tired limbs.
It proved to be a good decision. A soothing breeze fluttered in from the ocean and enveloped him in a moist warm cushion of air. He enjoyed the gentle movement of the wind across his face and stopped from time to time to close his eyes and experience it to the full. He breathed deeply, feeling the balmy air fill his lungs, and soon felt the tiredness draining from his limbs.
In this mood McAllister tried to take an objective view of the events of the past few days. He sat for a while looking out over the huge expanse of water with it’s gently flickering surface and was reassured by the normality of it all. Somehow he felt that matters must come right in the end. Perhaps he was being a naïve optimist, but what was wrong with that?
Eventually, realising that his conjectures were unlikely to reach a more profound level, he rose and made his way back to the guest house.
He arrived to find a couple checking in. They were in deep conversation with Patsy who beckoned to McAllister when she saw him. He joined the group and Patsy introduced him to the visitors, who had just arrived from Dublin.
“John,” she went on, “Mr. Tynan here has just given me some disturbing news about a drowning this morning up the coast at Fanore strand. He thinks the woman involved was named O’Leary.”
McAllister frowned. “You don’t mean Eileen,” he said in disbelief.
“Don’t know,” Patsy went on, “ but you might like to make enquiries. You met her recently, didn’t you?”
“Yes, over in Balfe’s
“Apparently they found traces of paint from Frank’s car on the low wall at Poll Salach and, much worse, blood smears matching Hyland’s on the boot surrounds. They are on their way now to impound the car.”
As he lay in bed that night McAllister tried to come to terms with the fact that his good friend Frank Holland might be a murderer. Not exactly an impulsive murderer, but one who was quick to grasp the opportunity afforded to him on Tuesday and use it to track down Hyland and dispose of him.
The more he dwelt on the situation the more confused he became. How, for instance, did bloodstains get on the boot of Holland’s car? Had Frank killed Hyland in one place and then transported the body to Poll Salach? And if so why?
More fundamentally, why did he kill him at all? No convincing motive had come McAllister’s way. But then he didn’t necessarily know the whole story.
He could console himself, however, with the knowledge that Frank Holland, as he knew him, was simply not the type of person to kill.
But how well did he really know Frank?
How often had he heard of instances where people had suddenly acted out of character? Why should Frank be an exception?
Nonetheless his gut feeling told him there was something drastically wrong with the way events were unfolding.
The frustrating thing was there was absolutely nothing he could do.
C HAPTER 9
N EXT MORNING, despite a fitful night’s sleep, McAllister vowed he would have to concentrate on assembling the material for his opening lecture at Gregans Castle Hotel on the following night.
It was necessary to integrate his observations at Poll Salach into this lecture so that the field trip there, next Monday morning, would be of maximum interest and benefit to his class.
He had had a quick breakfast and noted that the restaurant was working as efficiently as usual. Susan had left early to keep an appointment with Frank’s solicitor, and to see Frank himself. Patsy McBride was enjoying her new role and making a particular success of her imposing front of house presence chatting with diners and generally creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere.
McAllister laboured long into the morning. He was a fastidious worker and was not satisfied until he had organised his material into a well rounded lecture.
This done he rose stiffly from his chair and resolved to go for a walk along the coast road to clear his head and stretch his tired limbs.
It proved to be a good decision. A soothing breeze fluttered in from the ocean and enveloped him in a moist warm cushion of air. He enjoyed the gentle movement of the wind across his face and stopped from time to time to close his eyes and experience it to the full. He breathed deeply, feeling the balmy air fill his lungs, and soon felt the tiredness draining from his limbs.
In this mood McAllister tried to take an objective view of the events of the past few days. He sat for a while looking out over the huge expanse of water with it’s gently flickering surface and was reassured by the normality of it all. Somehow he felt that matters must come right in the end. Perhaps he was being a naïve optimist, but what was wrong with that?
Eventually, realising that his conjectures were unlikely to reach a more profound level, he rose and made his way back to the guest house.
He arrived to find a couple checking in. They were in deep conversation with Patsy who beckoned to McAllister when she saw him. He joined the group and Patsy introduced him to the visitors, who had just arrived from Dublin.
“John,” she went on, “Mr. Tynan here has just given me some disturbing news about a drowning this morning up the coast at Fanore strand. He thinks the woman involved was named O’Leary.”
McAllister frowned. “You don’t mean Eileen,” he said in disbelief.
“Don’t know,” Patsy went on, “ but you might like to make enquiries. You met her recently, didn’t you?”
“Yes, over in Balfe’s
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