Disappeared by Anthony Quinn

cobweb. Her eyes were hollow, and her features more harrowed than those of the icons he remembered, as if the Virgin had been having too many sleepless nights. Perhaps it was his imagination. Or maybe it was the effect of all those lost souls keeping vigil and mindlessly chanting their devotions a hundred times a day and night.
    Devine had been no better than most at bachelor housekeeping. In the kitchen, empty bottles of stout spilled out of a box under a dirty table. While in the spare room, the sagging cushions of a battered sofa were covered in an old blanket, and another chair was upholstered in cracked black leather. The floor surface throughout the cottage was linoleum patterned with green tiles but the effect was marred by too many years of hard wear.
    The only element that did not give the impression of a life in transit was the collection of ducks filling a Welsh dresser and the deep windowsill in the kitchen. Daly did not breathe, believing, at first, they might be real. They were carved from wood and looked to be handpainted. As he moved closer, the room shone with the sporadic glitter of their glass-beaded eyes.
    “Duck decoys,” remarked Daly. “People who live alone can allow themselves eccentric interests.”
    “They look like antiques. I bet they’re worth a few quid,” said Irwin, casually handling one. He almost dropped it in surprise when the head nodded up and down in imitation of a feeding bird.
    “At least they help explain why a duck whistle was lodged in his throat.”
    “How come?”
    “A moment of inspiration from his murderers. Warped, but at least it fits in with Devine’s personality. They must have known about his interest in duck hunting.”
    Daly recalled that the missing man, Hughes, also had a passion for duck hunting. He saw a theme developing.
    “Perverse,” said Irwin with distaste. “And there was me thinking Republican paramilitaries had all taken up flower arranging and human-rights campaigning.”
    A doorbell rang and they both turned in unison.
    Irwin walked off and returned a little later, scowling.
    “No one there. One of the men must have nothing better to do than play pranks.”
    The house had been dusted for fingerprints, every door handle, glass, drawer, and windowpane. Unusually, only one set of fingerprints had been found. Daly had already surmised that Devine had been the reclusive type.
    “According to his nearest neighbor, Devine moved to this hovel at the start of last year,” said Irwin.
    “Why do you think he did that?”
    For an answer, Irwin opened the back door. A gust of wind blew a swirling nest of old leaves and dried sycamore keys across the threshold. Daly stepped out to a secluded view of Lough Neagh and its labyrinth of tree-lined coves. He could see but not identify a number of headlands stretching away into wind-tossed oblivion. It was the ultimate poacher’s perch, hidden from sight, untouched by the life of roads, fields, or villages. The short walk to the shore, bounded by deep thorn bushes, was like a stroll to the edge of humanity. A line of geese honked overhead, their long necks urgently outstretched. Daly followed their flight and let his gaze wander to the horizon, as this was where nature’s signposts were pointing. He allowed himself a moment of introspection before turning back into the cottage.
    The sound of the doorbell buzzing broke the solemn air again.
    Irwin’s face was flat and hard as he made his way back down the corridor. This time he was gone for longer.
    “I don’t know what type of jokers the force is employing these days,” he said on his return. “They’re all denying it was them.”
    “It’s not the doorbell,” said Daly, pacing through the rooms, listening carefully. He looked into the dark hallway and into the silent living room. There was no movement from the holy statue or the picture of the pope, or among the glittering decoy ducks in the kitchen. He watched the dust fall through a ray of sunlight.