A Carol for the Dead Read online

  PATRICK DUNNE

  A CAROL

  FOR THE DEAD

  In memory of my mother and father and of Mary and Liam; and for Rowan

  A sad tale’s best for winter. I have one of sprites and goblins. Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  December 16th

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  December 17th

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  December 18th

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  December 19th

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  December 20th

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  December 21st

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  December 22nd

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  December 23rd

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Christmas Eve

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  New Year’s Eve

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Author

  About Gill & Macmillan

  Exclusive look at The Lazarus Bell

  December 16th

  Chapter One

  Her body looked like metal that had been charred and twisted in a fire. But when I reached out and took her hand, the skin was like moist leather, the way my gloves became when I’d been throwing snowballs as a child. And just then snow as fine as flour began sifting down, speckling the black earth and the woman compressed within it.

  Seamus Crean, the digger operator who had found her, was sitting above me in the cab of his JCB, having angled the bucket so I could better observe the body lying lengthways inside it. An hour earlier, Crean had been widening a drain along the side of a marshy field when he scooped up what he thought at first was a gnarled bough of bog oak wedged in the peat. He climbed down to investigate and was horrified to see that he had unearthed the remains of a woman. That the corpse was female, he had had no doubt; and now I could see why. Although from feet to skull she was smeared thin as sandwich filling between two layers of damp peat, her right arm and shoulder emerged from the muck full and perfect in every detail – from the whorls of her outstretched fingertips to the fine hairs on her skin, from the cords of muscle and sinew in her forearm to the pressed-out pillow of her breast.

  The field in which the preserved remains had been unearthed lay across the Boyne river from Newgrange, one of several passage tombs in the five-thousand-year-old ceremonial necropolis of Brú na Bóinne, a World Heritage site. Small fragments of bone are all that has ever been found of the Neolithic people who built the Boyne tombs, so I was excited by the – admittedly slim – possibility that the bog body might be from that distant period. If so, it could shed some much-needed light not only on who the tomb-builders were, but on what exactly they were at.

  Yet, as soon as I began to examine the body trapped in its clammy sarcophagus, my inclination to regard it purely as an object was overwhelmed by sympathy for the woman and her unkind fate: not only immersed – possibly drowned – in a watery grave, but then, over time, transformed into a leather fossil that would soon be put on display for utter strangers to gape at. And so I wanted to approach her with some decorum, and I thought that touching her hand – even squeezing it gently – was a beginning. My fellow archaeologists would not have approved. Shaking hands with mummies isn’t strictly professional.

  My next concern was with something apparently buried with the woman. According to Crean, it had been under the exposed hand of the corpse, partially hidden in a chunk of peat that had been split from the main slab by the bucket’s teeth. He described it as being like a wooden carving or a doll, and said that it had fallen into the drain below when he tried to retrieve it.

  I signalled to Crean, who cut the engine of the JCB and climbed laboriously down from the cab. By the time he alighted, his already florid cheeks matched the red in his heavy plaid jacket.

  The wheeled digger was perched on a raised causeway that ran along the drain to the river’s edge and separated the marsh from a neighbouring pasture, in the centre of which some Friesian cattle, enveloped in a cloud of their own mingled breath, were huddled under a leafless tree. The snow was falling more heavily and the mid-afternoon light was quickly fading. It was time to get the body under cover. I could rely on the Garda Forensics team to do that, and they were due any minute.

  Crean had started his work that morning by clearing away an elder hedgerow so that he could reach across to the far bank of the drain. Where the bushes had been uprooted there was now an uneven ledge, a metre or so below ground level and about the same distance above the bottom of the drain. As Crean approached, I slid down onto the ledge, and from there into water that came halfway up my rubber boots. ‘Where exactly did it fall, Seamus – the thing you said she was holding?’ I was facing the far bank, out of which he had dredged the body, and from this vantage I noted how much material had been excavated – far more than required to widen a drain, I thought. But I was starting to fret about preserving the site.

  ‘I don’t know if she was holding it or not, Missus,’ he said as I turned around again. ‘It was more like she was reaching out for it.’ He was standing on the causeway above me, nervously lighting a cigarette with a cupped match. I realised that, while I had been using his first name freely from the time I arrived, he had no idea who I was.

  ‘Sorry, Seamus, I should have introduced myself. I’m Illaun Bowe.’

  He looked at me blankly.

  ‘I’m an archaeologist. After you contacted the Visitor Centre, I was called in to assess the find.’

  ‘How do you do, Missus Bowe?’

  Missus? Crean’s form of address implied that I was a good deal older than him, despite my estimation that he, like me, was in his mid-thirties. Overweight and slow-moving, he gave the impression of being a slow thinker as well; but I was impressed by the fact that, on discovering the body, he had stopped work, called the Newgrange Visitor Centre on his mobile phone and sent away the dump truck he had been loading since early morning.

  ‘I’m fine, Seamus. Now, where did it land?’

  ‘There,’ he said, hunkering down and gesturing with his cigarette. I couldn’t see anything apart from the side of the drain and the black ooze that was stealthily rising higher up my boots. Dammit, why doesn’t he just come down here and show me?

  Crean pushed away a coil of hair flopping onto his forehead from a mop of greasy curls that put me in mind of wet seaweed. ‘It’s just there, beside you … halfway down.’ He seemed determined not to come any closer. Only then did I realise he was scared.

  I bent to inspect a fractured lump of soil clinging to the ledge carved out by the digger. Inside it I could make out something that resembled a curved leather pouch. I thought of a swollen wineskin: it bulged at one end and was puckered along the top, where it w
ould have been sewn up. Like the corpse, it had absorbed the tannin in the peat, but it was less tarry in appearance. How could Crean have mistaken this for a doll?

  I glanced up – I wanted Crean to hand me down one of the red-and-white ranging rods I had brought with me, so I could mark the spot and take a photograph – but he had moved out of sight. The side of the bucket was jutting out overhead, and I noticed the woman’s hand extending over it, silhouetted against the ashen sky and pointing down to where I was standing. I blinked for a moment as snowflakes caught in my lashes. Then I turned my attention back to the bag-like object.

  I leaned in closer to examine it, and something – a faint odour of decay, I think – made me realise I was looking at the body of an animal. And yet not quite an animal, not fully formed – unless … I quickly stepped back, my eyes forcing me to reach an absurd conclusion: this was a curled-up cocoon, and the corrugations I had attributed to stitching were its multiple pupa-limbs.

  The notion that a huge grub in a leathery case had been incubating for years in the bog was ridiculous, and yet I was overcome with revulsion. So what must it have fed on?

  I didn’t get time to think the unthinkable: as I recoiled the bank must have quaked, enough to free the sac from the earth adhering to it and to send it rolling into the drain. Instinctively I raised my foot to prevent it hitting the water.

  I thought it would burst open on impact, but it thumped solidly against the inside of my boot as I wedged it against the bank. I could see a deep gash on the side that had been hidden from view before. It had obviously been inflicted by a steel tooth on the bucket, and it exposed a substance the colour and consistency of smoked cheese.

  Then, to my horror, I detected movement along my leg. I watched helplessly as the bulbous end of the creature sagged back and I found myself staring down at what might have been a shrivelled human face, except for the fleshy horn sprouting from the middle of its forehead and, below that, under a gelatinous plug of matter, two eyes gazing out from a single socket.

  I looked up to see where Crean had gone, but all I could see were the hydraulic arms of the yellow digger and, behind them, the snow-covered branches of trees spread out against a pewter cloud like bronchi in a chest X-ray.

  From the side pocket of my parka I pulled out a latex glove, which I had removed before touching the dead woman’s hand. ‘Seamus!’ I shouted, pulling on the glove with some difficulty; my fingers were stiffening with the cold. ‘I need you down here.’ I would have to lift the creature up onto the bank before it slid down my boot and into the water.

  A cough made me look up again, and there was Crean, standing above my head with a square-bladed shovel in his hands. ‘I had it lashed to the bike,’ he said, crouching down and pointing it towards me. ‘Never know when you’ll need a shovel.’

  Taking a deep breath, I seized the thing and laid it on the shovel. It felt firm between my hands, and I estimated it weighed about two kilos.

  Crean lifted the shovel with a grunt, holding it as far from himself as he could manage. ‘What will I do with it?’

  ‘Put it beside the body, near the ranging rod, so I can take a photograph.’ I began to haul myself up from the drain.

  ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘You said it fell out from under her?’

  ‘Yeah. But what the hell is it?’

  You have a wonderful imagination, Illaun. But keep it in check. That mantra had followed me from playschool to PhD.

  ‘I don’t know … a cat or a dog, maybe.’ I didn’t want to scare him even more. And, to prevent my wonderful imagination running riot, I had settled on the opinion that it had to be some kind of animal.

  Crean deftly shucked it onto the slab of peat, beside the striped metal pole that I had placed roughly parallel to the woman’s body. I took out my Fuji digital and flashed off a couple of shots; and then, as if I had set off a chain reaction, another light came slicing through the falling snow, its rapid revolutions strobing the flakes into swirling blue sparks.

  A Garda squad car pulled up at the gate behind my lavender Honda Jazz. Then came a black Range Rover, in tandem with a white van bearing the words ‘TECHNICAL BUREAU’. Two yellow-jacketed Gardaí started down the path, followed by a tall man in a green duffel coat and a tweed fisherman’s hat – Malcolm Sherry, State pathologist. Although only in his early forties, Sherry liked to affect the airs and appearance of a country doctor from a bygone era. The irony was that his boyish good looks – wicked smile, impish blue eyes and, beneath his grown-up hat, feathery blond hair like a baby’s – were sometimes a disadvantage when it came to convincing others that he could reliably interpret the dead. But as far as I was concerned Sherry was a welcome sight; from previous dealings with him following the discovery of ancient skeletal remains, I knew he appreciated their importance to archaeologists.

  I went up the path to greet him. At the back of the van I could see three other individuals, two men and a woman, pulling on white coveralls.

  ‘Ah, Illaun, is it yourself?’ Was there some condescension in Sherry’s voice? Probably not. His rustic manner of speech went with his image. ‘What do you think we have here – one of our venerable ancestors?’

  ‘Think so. Unfortunately, she’s not in situ, but I estimate she was under about two metres of bog. That indicates a fair old stretch of time. She’s not alone, either.’

  ‘Oh? I wasn’t told to expect two.’

  ‘I’m not sure what the other is. Some kind of animal, looks like.’

  Sherry arched an eyebrow. ‘Woman trying to rescue her pet pooch falls into boghole?’

  ‘A six-legged dog? I don’t think so.’

  Sherry raised the other eyebrow.

  As we approached the JCB, I described what had just happened in the drain. Then I introduced Crean as the man who had discovered the body.

  Sherry clapped him on the back. ‘You did the right thing, Seamus; well done. Now let’s take a look. In here, is it?’ He peered into the backhoe, over the split stump of an elder bush stuck in its teeth.

  ‘No. It’s in this one.’ Crean led him around to the wider bucket at the front of the machine.

  Sherry glanced up at the sky. ‘It’s very gloomy, Seamus. And it will take a while for Forensics to rig up their lighting. Could you turn those on for me, like a good man?’ He pointed to the lights on the roof of the cab.

  Crean climbed up wheezily into the driver’s seat, but before he could switch on the lights, a screech of tyres out on the road made us all turn in that direction. A silver S-class Mercedes had turned in through the gate and was bearing down on us.

  Crean shouted a warning. ‘It’s Mr Traynor; you’d better –’

  He was drowned out by the car skidding to a halt, spitting gravel. Out of it leaped a balding, dark-haired man in a heavy blue overcoat, purple shirt and silver tie. His plump, black-stubbled face was marbled with capillaries. ‘You people are trespassing on my property,’ he barked at me. ‘I want you out of here – now!’ The shape of the final word allowed him to bunch his mouth tight in fury.

  One of the Gardaí, wearing sergeant’s stripes, stepped forward. ‘Take it easy, Frank. We’re investigating the finding of a body.’

  ‘Only ancient remains, I believe. I want them removed for examination elsewhere. I’m sure you’ll oblige me, Sergeant?’

  ‘Of course, Frank. We just have to go through the motions, then we’ll be out of your way – isn’t that so, Dr Sherry?’ The sergeant was being far too conciliatory for my liking.

  Sherry, who had been taking a look in the bucket, joined the circle. ‘You were saying, Sergeant?’

  ‘I was just telling Frank here –’

  Traynor stepped up to Sherry. ‘That you’re all getting off my property, pronto.’

  The three men were in a tight circle around me. Not for the first time in my life, I was in the midst of people taller than me addressing one another over my head – literally. I became aware of the strong scent of Polo aftershav
e.

  ‘Hold it!’ I said, loud enough for them to pay attention. ‘Dr Sherry and I have been appointed by the State to carry out certain procedures here, free of interference – that’s the law.’ I wasn’t so sure that it was, but I thought it might do the trick for now. I nodded to the pathologist to pick up the baton. He had more authority in this situation.

  ‘Dr Bowe is quite correct, Mr … ah … ?’

  ‘Traynor. Frank Traynor.’ He looked Sherry up and down with obvious contempt. ‘The fishing season hasn’t started, has it?’

  I saw a smirk on the sergeant’s face.

  ‘I’m Malcolm Sherry, State pathologist. And you’re the owner of this field, I understand?’

  ‘You understand correctly.’ Traynor was on the verge of mimicking him. I noticed that his shirt, his face and my car out on the road were all a similar shade.

  ‘Well, understand this correctly. We know nothing yet about the body that’s been found here, nor about whether or not a crime has been committed.’ He looked gravely at Traynor, as if to hint that any objections might cast suspicion of some kind on him. ‘Until I say so, this field is out of bounds to everyone – including you.’ He looked up towards the Technical Bureau’s van and raised his voice. ‘Let’s get some crash barriers down here. I want this area secured.’

  Traynor was about to object but hesitated; then, as bullies often do when faced down, he switched to ingratiation. ‘Of course you have to do your work, Dr Sherry; I understand that perfectly. Any idea when you’ll be able to remove the body?’

  Sherry and I exchanged glances. He knew I would want the area cordoned off for a thorough examination even if he decided it wasn’t a crime scene. While he was deliberating, the white-clad Forensic team, ably assisted by Seamus Crean, arrived with a couple of tubular crash barriers and a roll of blue-and-white tape.

  ‘Irrespective of when we move the body, this area will be declared a crime scene and sealed off …’ Sherry looked at me again.

  I raised an index finger and mouthed a ‘W’.

  ‘… for some days, possibly a week.’ He was buying me time and saving me having to cross swords with Traynor.