lighting a smoke. ‘Make sure no undesirables slip through.’
It was while I was sitting in the car, enjoying my smoke, that Joe McCready phoned me to say that a body had been found on the beach at Rossnowlagh.
Chapter Ten
A bracing wind, heavy with the scent of salt water, had risen somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. It thudded across the heavy-bodied waves that had washed the corpse of Peter Williams onto the beach. A local doctor, acting in the role of medical examiner, was carrying out a superficial examination of the body before confirming death. I watched the breakers rush the shoreline and waited for Caroline and her estranged husband, Simon, who were making their way back from Dublin.
For once, there were no Scene of Crime Officers or journalists present. There appeared to be no crime involved in the death of Peter Williams, beyond the wasted life of a young man who, perhaps in a drunken stupor, had fallen into the darkness and plunged several hundred feet into the Atlantic Ocean below. The headland from which he had most likely fallen was already shrouded in a pall of rain.
An American couple, attracted to the Atlantic coast on the promise of good surfing, had found the body an hour earlier, as they came back to shore after a day on the boards. They were currently in the Sandcastle Hotel, in the company of the Garda Joe McCready, who had accompanied me to the site.
As the doctor, a locum from Sligo, stood up, I approached him. ‘Storm coming,’ he said, nodding out towards the darkening sky on the horizon.
‘Anything unusual, Doc?’ I asked, handing him a cigarette, then taking one for myself.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Apart from a fifteen-year-old fella falling off a cliff. Are you sure the parents want to see him?’
I glanced down at the body. Were it not for the clothes, positive identification would have proven difficult. I recalled my last view of him, nestled in the back seat of his grandparents’ car, beside Caroline’s father. His hair had been soft and blond, his features, like Caroline’s, small and neat, his eyes pale blue, his mouth slightly crooked when he smiled. It was one of the most disturbing things I had ever done to look at him now. He was, naturally, taller than I remembered, but his build was impossible to discern by the bloating the seawater had caused, and his skin had swollen and wrinkled, leaving his face distorted. One of his eyes had been removed from its socket, presumably by a sea animal, and chunks of flesh had been torn from his cheeks and neckline.
‘Crabs,’ the doctor commented, following the line of my gaze. ‘It could have been worse.’
‘Could it?’ I asked.
‘I worked in Derry for a while,’ he stated. ‘We had jumpers going off the bridges almost every other week. You get used to it.’
‘I hope not,’ I said.
The doctor nodded past me. ‘You might want to stop them,’ he suggested with a flick of his head.
I turned around to see Simon and Caroline Williams emerge from the Garda car that had collected them when news of the body’s discovery broke. They slowed as they approached us and could glimpse more clearly their son lying on the sand.
I strode up the beach towards them, my arms outstretched in a futile attempt to block their view. Caroline walked slightly ahead of her husband, her arms gathered around her. Her face was drawn and pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She looked at me without speaking, her expression one of pleading, both for news that her son had been found, and also partly the hope that he had not.
‘I’m so sorry, Caroline.’
She fell against me, her fists bunched against the side of her face, her thin shoulders hunched in tight knots. Simon continued walking towards the body, seemingly having not heard what I said.
Still holding Caroline, I reached out and put my hand on his arm. He turned towards me and away from his son’s body, his eyes glistening with both anger and sheer terror.
‘Might be best not to, Mr
It was while I was sitting in the car, enjoying my smoke, that Joe McCready phoned me to say that a body had been found on the beach at Rossnowlagh.
Chapter Ten
A bracing wind, heavy with the scent of salt water, had risen somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. It thudded across the heavy-bodied waves that had washed the corpse of Peter Williams onto the beach. A local doctor, acting in the role of medical examiner, was carrying out a superficial examination of the body before confirming death. I watched the breakers rush the shoreline and waited for Caroline and her estranged husband, Simon, who were making their way back from Dublin.
For once, there were no Scene of Crime Officers or journalists present. There appeared to be no crime involved in the death of Peter Williams, beyond the wasted life of a young man who, perhaps in a drunken stupor, had fallen into the darkness and plunged several hundred feet into the Atlantic Ocean below. The headland from which he had most likely fallen was already shrouded in a pall of rain.
An American couple, attracted to the Atlantic coast on the promise of good surfing, had found the body an hour earlier, as they came back to shore after a day on the boards. They were currently in the Sandcastle Hotel, in the company of the Garda Joe McCready, who had accompanied me to the site.
As the doctor, a locum from Sligo, stood up, I approached him. ‘Storm coming,’ he said, nodding out towards the darkening sky on the horizon.
‘Anything unusual, Doc?’ I asked, handing him a cigarette, then taking one for myself.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Apart from a fifteen-year-old fella falling off a cliff. Are you sure the parents want to see him?’
I glanced down at the body. Were it not for the clothes, positive identification would have proven difficult. I recalled my last view of him, nestled in the back seat of his grandparents’ car, beside Caroline’s father. His hair had been soft and blond, his features, like Caroline’s, small and neat, his eyes pale blue, his mouth slightly crooked when he smiled. It was one of the most disturbing things I had ever done to look at him now. He was, naturally, taller than I remembered, but his build was impossible to discern by the bloating the seawater had caused, and his skin had swollen and wrinkled, leaving his face distorted. One of his eyes had been removed from its socket, presumably by a sea animal, and chunks of flesh had been torn from his cheeks and neckline.
‘Crabs,’ the doctor commented, following the line of my gaze. ‘It could have been worse.’
‘Could it?’ I asked.
‘I worked in Derry for a while,’ he stated. ‘We had jumpers going off the bridges almost every other week. You get used to it.’
‘I hope not,’ I said.
The doctor nodded past me. ‘You might want to stop them,’ he suggested with a flick of his head.
I turned around to see Simon and Caroline Williams emerge from the Garda car that had collected them when news of the body’s discovery broke. They slowed as they approached us and could glimpse more clearly their son lying on the sand.
I strode up the beach towards them, my arms outstretched in a futile attempt to block their view. Caroline walked slightly ahead of her husband, her arms gathered around her. Her face was drawn and pale, her eyes red-rimmed. She looked at me without speaking, her expression one of pleading, both for news that her son had been found, and also partly the hope that he had not.
‘I’m so sorry, Caroline.’
She fell against me, her fists bunched against the side of her face, her thin shoulders hunched in tight knots. Simon continued walking towards the body, seemingly having not heard what I said.
Still holding Caroline, I reached out and put my hand on his arm. He turned towards me and away from his son’s body, his eyes glistening with both anger and sheer terror.
‘Might be best not to, Mr
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