Apple Seeds and Murderous Deeds Page 9

  “I didn’t know,” Fiona sighed, head pounding with the beginning of a headache. What on earth was happening? “I’d never seen him before in my life. But that’s the guy, Mam; that’s the guy who was in the pub with Dec that night.”

  “What would Declan be doing talking to a journalist?”

  Fiona shook her head and soon thought better of it. She massaged her temples. “I have no idea. None of this makes sense. It was him—the guards even said it.”

  “The guards,” her mother snorted. “You know well how effective the guards are around here. I’m surprised they didn’t blame it on El Niño or the Celtic Tiger.”

  “So what does that mean?” Fiona said looking around faintly. “If it’s not him—and it certainly looks like it wasn’t—then who was it?”

  “Fiona.” Her father’s voice came on the line sounding even sterner than usual. “It’s your father. I think in light of what’s after happening you should stay here for the night. Let’s see if we can figure out what’s going on.”

  15

  FIONA only went home to humour them. That and the fact that she didn’t really feel like being alone in the flat at that time.

  “So if it’s not him, it’s got nothing to do with the pub then,” she said, expecting to hear a chorus of agreement.

  There wasn’t a sound in the room.

  “Unless the murder had something to do with the fact that he was talking to that journalist?” she suggested.

  “Maybe,” her father said. “Lookit, it’s nothing to do with us. I know he was a friend of yours but your involvement ends now.”

  “I wasn’t involved!” she protested.

  “You were showing the guards the CCTV and you found that note from him.”

  “That’s not being involved, Dad,” she said, shaking her head. “He was last seen in the pub. Of course the guards had questions. Do you think I wanted to be stuck in close confines with Sergeant Brennan?”

  “All he’s saying, sweetheart,” her mother said carefully. “Is don’t be sticking your oar in now.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes you are. You’re sitting there trying to solve the thing. Why don’t you relax and have a cup of tea? I’ve the bed ready for you upstairs and you can borrow pyjamas off Kate. Lord knows she has enough of them to clothe an army.”

  “Fine,” Fiona said weakly. “I was just curious, that’s all. But you’re right.”

  THE DECISION TO open the pub the next day was taken out of her hands, it turned out. Before anyone had risen in the McCabe household, there was a loud knock on the door. Fiona, asleep in the front box room, heard it first. She hurried out of bed and rushed down the stairs just as their early-morning caller began to knock again.

  “I’m coming,” she muttered, tying the waist of the fluorescent pink bathrobe that still hung on the back of her bedroom door.

  She threw open the door, expecting to see the FedEx man who was a frequent visitor to the McCabe house thanks to Kate’s obsession with buying makeup over the internet. Instead, she was met by the eager faces of the entire Ballycashel police force—all three of them.

  “You’re out early. Was there overtime going or something?” she asked, grinning as she anticipated the annoyed response from Sergeant Brennan.

  “We tried the door of the flat. There was no answer. As a courtesy, we’ve come here.”

  “What’s this about?” Fiona asked, stifling a yawn with the ragged flannel sleeve.

  “We have a warrant to search the premises at 2 Mill Street, Ballycashel.”

  “That’s my pub,” she frowned.

  “And the residential unit above it, yes,” Sergeant Brennan said, clearly relishing the moment.

  By now, her parents and two of her brothers had crowded behind her at the door and some of their early bird neighbours had stopped at the gate to rubber-neck.

  “What’s this about, Sergeant Brennan?”

  “Here,” he said, thrusting a sheet of paper at her. “You can read it for yourself. Now, I’ll ask you to open the doors for us as a courtesy. Otherwise I’ll be forced to break the door down.”

  Behind her, Marty snorted. “You? Break the door down? Are you going to do it with the force of your sense of entitlement or something?”

  Sergeant Brennan ignored him. “You might want to get changed out of… that thing, whatever it is.”

  “It’s a dressing gown,” she smiled. “I suppose you haven’t had much occasion to see women early in the morning so you wouldn’t have known.”

  Garda Fitzpatrick snorted behind him, causing Sergeant Brennan to whip around and stare at him as if he was a naughty school child.

  “I’ll have you know that I have…” Sergeant Brennan stopped and flushed, realising that he’d let her wind him up and that everyone there knew it. “You have two minutes.”

  FIONA SAT on the couch with her father and watched as the three Gardaí opened every drawer and cabinet in the place. They had already searched her bedroom and bathroom.

  “Go easy with that cabinet, the drawers are delicate,” her father growled.

  She felt glad of the company. There was something extremely intimidating about having near-strangers poke around your home and having no way to stop them.

  The search warrant was lawful—she had had no choice but to escort them back to the flat. By then, a large crowd of onlookers had assembled at the gate and some had even had the cheek to follow them to the pub. She glanced out the window. She had never seen Mill Street look so busy. She hoped it would provide a boost for some of her fellow business owners at least.

  “Look, what’s this about?” she asked for the fifth time. “I was nowhere near that murder scene. I showed you the CCTV footage. I was here long after he left the pub. This is a joke.”

  “We’ve had a tip-off that you—” Garda Fitzpatrick started.

  “Shhhh,” the sergeant cried. “You’re not supposed to give that information to her.”

  “But sure it’s probably nothing,” Garda Fitzpatrick said, shaking his head. “I’ve known her since primary school and she’s right—we saw that video.”

  “That means nothing,” Sergeant Brennan snarled. “We haven’t had our forensic people examine it.”

  “I see what this is,” Fiona said slowly and deliberately. “You’re embarrassed because you ordered the arrest of the journalist fella. Now you’re taking it out on me. Is that lawful, Sergeant Brennan?”

  “It seems it is if your father’s a head honcho up in Garda headquarters,” Francis McCabe said bitterly. “You’ll be hearing from my solicitor, Brennan.”

  “No doubt I will if I end up arresting your daughter,” Sergeant Brennan said snidely.

  Fiona clasped her father’s arm. He was used to his children messing and joking, but he wasn’t used to this. Fiona feared that Sergeant Brennan’s arrogant tone and insulting comments would cause her father to lose his temper and lash out at him. She wouldn’t blame him, of course, but that was all they needed right now.

  “Leave it, Dad,” she murmured. “He’s not worth it.”

  “I KNOW my cooking’s pretty poor,” Fiona quipped as the Gardaí carefully bagged up the blender, mixer and slow cooker from the pub kitchen, as well as her oven trays and utensils. “But a murder weapon? That’s a little far-fetched is it now?”

  “This is appalling,” her father added. “You’ve got a murderer out there and you three stooges want to play baker? Is this so you can make doughnuts down at the station, is it?”

  “That’s a very harmful stereotype, Mr McCann. Now, if you can’t stay quiet, I’ll have to ask you to wait outside.”

  “Why on earth are you searching my kitchen?” Fiona asked, shaking her head. They had done the same upstairs too. “I deserve an explanation at least. Declan didn’t even eat here that night.”

  “We’re just doing our jobs, Miss McCabe.”

  “Stop calling me Miss,” she snapped, the tension getting the better of her. “It’s Ms. I’m not ei
ght and this isn’t the eighteen hundreds.”

  “You’ll have to keep your temper in check if you want to remain here for the duration of the search.”

  “How long more is it going to take?” she asked, glancing at the clock on her phone. “I need to get this place opened up for the morning.”

  “When you have the full power of the law behind you,” Sergeant Brennan said, sounding sage. “Time is of no consequence.”

  Fiona rolled her eyes. “I assume there’s an exception for those times when there’s a crime in progress and time is of the essence?”

  He shot her a look of utter disgust.

  “Just tell me what you’re looking for! What harm would it do?”

  “Cyanide,” Garda Fitzpatrick said, shooting her an apologetic look.

  “Cyanide,” Fiona repeated in disbelief, just as the sergeant yelled at Garda Fitzpatrick to shut up. “What on earth would I be doing with cyanide? You’ve been watching too much telly.”

  “My God, is there some sort of rule in this town where no one can keep a single fact to themselves? Garda Fitzpatrick, what did I tell you about keeping quiet?”

  Fitzpatrick shook his head, looking defiant for the first time. “I didn’t see the harm in telling her. We’re searching her place after all. Sure it’ll be public knowledge soon enough anyway.”

  “That’s not the point. I’m your superior.”

  In name, anyway, Fiona thought. One glance at her father was enough for her to gather that he was thinking along the same lines.

  “And you haven’t even got the facts straight. It’s not cyanide we’re looking for, it’s a substance that was administered to the victim which caused a reaction in his body that formed cyanide...”

  “Wait a second,” Fiona interrupted. “You’re telling me now that you’re not looking for cyanide. What is it you’re looking for so? You think I baked it up?”

  “Apple seeds,” Sergeant Brennan said simply.

  “Oh, fabulous. A wild goose chase,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And you didn’t think of having a look in the Prendergasts’ fruit and veg shop first? Maybe you’ll head there and look for beers and ciders, will you?”

  Her father elbowed her. “Cool it, Fi,” he whispered. “Though I agree with you completely.”

  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and exhaled. Then she started to remember something. Her mother had always been fanatical about removing apple seeds when she made apple tarts. “They’re poisonous, aren’t they?” she muttered.

  “That’s right,” Sergeant Brennan said as he got way too close to her beloved spice rack for her liking. She wished she was one of those paranoid people you see in the movies who go to great lengths to booby trap their own property. It might have at least given her some satisfaction from this farce.

  “And you think I did it.”

  “As my staff member said against my orders, we received an anonymous tip-off from a concerned member of the public. That was enough to enable us to seek a warrant to search your premises.”

  “And you’re looking for apple seeds,” her father said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Should you not be investigating a murder?”

  “Apple seeds in large quantities,” Sergeant Brennan said silkily. “Can cause a reaction in the body that generates cyanide especially if they’ve been ground or smashed. Now judging from your menu, you have a lot of apple products. Plus—”

  “Cider?” Fiona said incredulously. “I’m running a bar.”

  The sergeant cleared his throat. “Indeed. Well I also see that you offer apple Danishes some mornings.”

  “And that’s a crime? So does every café the length of Ireland. Are you going to go harass them too?”

  He ignored her. “You were known to the victim. It’s feasible that you could have ground up enough seeds to poison him and put them in his drink undetected.”

  “You saw the video Sergeant Brennan!” she cried. “You saw me opening his bottles. There was no time for me to slip anything inside. You would have seen it.”

  “Of course,” he said. “And you would have known that and tampered with the bottles earlier.”

  Fiona threw her hands up in despair. He had an answer to everything, it seemed, even if his answer made no sense. Though his words reminded her of something. She would have seen in the video if anyone had tampered with Dec’s drink. No one had. That meant that whoever poisoned him had done it after he left the pub. Or before?

  She pulled out her phone and tapped in cyanide poisoning. She expected her father to tell her to stop sticking her nose in, but when she looked up at him he simply nodded for her to continue. It was beyond nosiness at this stage, she realised. Her freedom might rely on them finding the real killer.

  16

  THERE WAS a full complement around the McCabe’s kitchen table, except for Mike who was in the States and Colm and Enda who were helping out with a pilgrimage to Lourdes (albeit reluctantly). They had decided not to bother telling the others—it was the middle of the night in Philadelphia and the other two were no doubt occupied with Granny Coyle and the rest of her friends on the trip.

  “Right,” Marty said, looking around. “Ye all know about the search at the pub.”

  There was a chorus of responses, varying from the enthusiastic/desperate (Fiona and her mother) to almost indifferent (Kate and Ben, who was forgoing a Playstation marathon with his friend Billy in order to attend).

  “And ye also know that Sergeant Brennan has it in for me for reasons not so unknown,” Fiona added. “So I thought we could sit down and look over everything we know. I’ve got my laptop hooked up to the telly, so if some of you could watch it at normal speed and really look out for anything strange that’d be brilliant. And that’s basically it,” she said, trying not to sound resigned. “Apart from the matchbook, there are no other clues. Not that we know of anyway. He was poisoned,” she added in a quiet voice. “Apple seeds crushed up to form a powder that reacts in your body to form cyanide. Now, I don’t know how accurate this is, but from looking on the internet it seems like the poison takes anywhere from two hours to six hours to work.”

  “Do we know his time of death?” Ben asked.

  Fiona shook her head. “We don’t. I asked the sergeant if I could see the files and he just laughed in my face.”

  “I’ll go have a chat to Garda Conway,” Marty announced.

  “Nah,” Fiona said. “Sergeant Brennan won’t let you within ten feet of him. I’ve been trying to get information out of him since they started the search.”

  Marty’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, but the sergeant won’t be in Phelan’s, will he?” he stood and pushed in his chair. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, but I might be a while. I’ll have to get old Garda Conway at least a few pints of the black stuff to loosen his tongue.”

  “Good man, Martin,” their mother said, patting his arm as if he was off to pay tribute to the saints and not get a police officer drunk and shake him down for information.

  “Yeah, that’ll be a great help,” Fiona agreed. “So yeah. That’s it. All we know is it seems like he was poisoned after he left the bar; this useless message on the matchbook.” She stopped and rubbed her eyes. The buzz of fear was beginning to wear off, leaving her more exhausted than she had ever felt. But something was niggling at her and refusing to be forgotten. “Ah, yeah. I was chatting to the barman in Treynor’s in Newtownbeg. I didn’t think much of it at the time because we thought it was the journalist fella, but now it makes sense. He said that he was surprised it wasn’t a local because most outsiders wouldn’t even know the lock existed. It’s where it’s located—you have to go round the back of the garda station to get down that lane and it’s not marked on the map. No master criminal in his or her right mind would risk bringing their victim down there.”

  “What if it was Dec’s idea to meet down there?” her mother asked.

  Fiona leant back in her chair. “It’s so complicated. We need that information from Garda Conway. O
therwise we have no idea of the time he died at and no hope of being able to work backwards. Right. Everyone have a look at this just in case and then we’ll move on to watching the video. I’ve a pile of notebooks for us all and I want you to write down everything you see, no matter how trivial it might seem.” She paused, expecting them all to give out to her for ruining their evening. No one did. Fiona found herself on the verge of tears. She fought with these people frequently, but they had her back and she had theirs. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate this. I owe ye one. I love you all, but don’t tell anyone.”

  There was a chorus of groans, but they didn’t descend into their usual chaotic messing and slagging. No, it was clear to everyone that there was a lot of work to be done and this wasn’t a time for mucking around.

  Fi passed the printed sheet to her mother, who was sitting next to her.

  “Okay, now I was thinking. We still don’t know why that journalist was here chatting to Dec. I’m kicking myself now for not trying to listen in on their conversation, but I didn’t realise the importance of it. I’m guessing it was something to do with his time in jail, though. What else would it be? Now, it was either a coincidence that your man was here the same night as Dec was killed, or else he was killed because of it.”

  No one objected to her reasoning.

  “Right,” she said after pausing to see if anyone had anything to add. “So I’m thinking it might be an idea to give him a call and try to find out what he knows.”

  Mrs McCabe snorted. “What, you’re just going to call up Simon Moriarty and say ‘hi, how’s it going. It’s Fiona. Why were you in Ballycashel?’”

  Fiona nodded. She’d been expecting a strange comment, but was surprised that her mother had simply summarised everything she wanted to say to the guy. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. A longshot I know, but—”

  “And you think he’s going to talk to you?”

  “I’m not sure, Mam, but I’ve got to try.”

  Her mother was shaking her head for some reason, not buying it at all.