something
which was little more than skeleton and pulp.
"Jesus,
Ben, it's Christmas Eve," he said, stopping beside us and stubbing out his
cigarette, which he had held clamped in his mouth as he'd slipped plastic
galoshes over his shoes. I noticed that he was still wearing his pyjamas under
his corduroy trousers, the paisley material creeping out over his shoes.
"What have we got?" he asked, gesturing towards the car.
"Spontaneous
combustion?" I suggested.
Mulrooney
steeled himself and went over to the car, holding his breath against the smell.
I watched him take a biro from his pocket and use it to poke at the skull,
angling it slightly for a clearer view.
He
stepped back and spat, much as I had done earlier. It's on just such occasions
that you regret knowing that all smells are particulate.
"Looks
like a simple shooting," he said, and it took me a moment to realize he
wasn't being flippant.
"What?"
"Look,"
he said, indicating with his pen. "Entry wound here; exit wound presumably
out the other side. Two murders in a week. You know that might make Lifford the
killing capital of Ireland."
"Very
funny," I said.
"Any
ideas about when it might have happened?" Costello asked, shifting closer
to the car.
"None.
But to cross the 't's and that - for what it's worth - he's dead."
Terry
Boyle's mother, Kathleen, clutched a used Kleenex in her hand, her face raw, her
eyes red and puffy. Jane Long's eyes were not much better. She shifted in the
seat and put her arms around the older woman's shoulders. I crouched in front
of Mrs Boyle, though she seemed to look through me.
"I'm
very sorry, Mrs Boyle," I said, realizing not for the first time the
inadequacy of the expression. I took her hand in mine and sat with her as she
cried some more.
"Mr
Boyle?" I said.
The
woman shook her head. "Lives in Glasgow."
"Best
get someone to check on him," I said to Long, the implication being that
she should both break the news and ascertain his whereabouts.
"Shall
I make some tea?" Long suggested, reaching for her radio as she headed out
of the room, grateful, probably, to escape the stultifying grief for a few
minutes.
"Jesus,"
Kathleen Boyle repeated over and over, her body shuddering.
And,
with that, I found myself both questioning His existence and praying all the
harder that He would transcend time and space and bring comfort both to this
woman and to her son, who surely did not deserve to die in such a manner.
"Any
ideas who might have a slight against your son, Mrs Boyle? Someone maybe he had
a falling out with?"
She
shook her head, her tissue clamped to her face. "He's only just
home," she snuffled. "Back from university. Went out to some
disco."
"What
about a girlfriend, Mrs Boyle?"
She
nodded, but did not, or could not, speak.
"Was
he with her last night?"
A
shake of the head this time. "She lives in Dublin. He said he was just
going out for a drink. Not meeting anybody. Are you sure it's him?" The
words tumbled out together.
"We're
fairly certain, Mrs Boyle."
"Do
I need to identify him or something? Can I see him?" she asked, her
expression lightening a little, as if by grace of her seeing the body she might
somehow will her son back to life again and forget this terrible night as no
more substantial than a nightmare.
"No,
Mrs Boyle. We'll identify him," I said, not wishing to explain that her
son was now beyond even her recognition. Before we left the house I would have to
find something from which a DNA sample could be taken for comparison should
dental or doctor's records prove inconclusive.
While
Kathleen Boyle wept, Long and I sat in that room, drank tea and did not speak.
We could not leave her - not as police officers, not as fellow human beings.
Her
sister arrived at around eight o'clock and convinced her to try to get some
sleep. Long and I finally made our way back to the station after requesting
that should Mrs Boyle think of anything useful - anything at all - she should
contact us, day or night. I
which was little more than skeleton and pulp.
"Jesus,
Ben, it's Christmas Eve," he said, stopping beside us and stubbing out his
cigarette, which he had held clamped in his mouth as he'd slipped plastic
galoshes over his shoes. I noticed that he was still wearing his pyjamas under
his corduroy trousers, the paisley material creeping out over his shoes.
"What have we got?" he asked, gesturing towards the car.
"Spontaneous
combustion?" I suggested.
Mulrooney
steeled himself and went over to the car, holding his breath against the smell.
I watched him take a biro from his pocket and use it to poke at the skull,
angling it slightly for a clearer view.
He
stepped back and spat, much as I had done earlier. It's on just such occasions
that you regret knowing that all smells are particulate.
"Looks
like a simple shooting," he said, and it took me a moment to realize he
wasn't being flippant.
"What?"
"Look,"
he said, indicating with his pen. "Entry wound here; exit wound presumably
out the other side. Two murders in a week. You know that might make Lifford the
killing capital of Ireland."
"Very
funny," I said.
"Any
ideas about when it might have happened?" Costello asked, shifting closer
to the car.
"None.
But to cross the 't's and that - for what it's worth - he's dead."
Terry
Boyle's mother, Kathleen, clutched a used Kleenex in her hand, her face raw, her
eyes red and puffy. Jane Long's eyes were not much better. She shifted in the
seat and put her arms around the older woman's shoulders. I crouched in front
of Mrs Boyle, though she seemed to look through me.
"I'm
very sorry, Mrs Boyle," I said, realizing not for the first time the
inadequacy of the expression. I took her hand in mine and sat with her as she
cried some more.
"Mr
Boyle?" I said.
The
woman shook her head. "Lives in Glasgow."
"Best
get someone to check on him," I said to Long, the implication being that
she should both break the news and ascertain his whereabouts.
"Shall
I make some tea?" Long suggested, reaching for her radio as she headed out
of the room, grateful, probably, to escape the stultifying grief for a few
minutes.
"Jesus,"
Kathleen Boyle repeated over and over, her body shuddering.
And,
with that, I found myself both questioning His existence and praying all the
harder that He would transcend time and space and bring comfort both to this
woman and to her son, who surely did not deserve to die in such a manner.
"Any
ideas who might have a slight against your son, Mrs Boyle? Someone maybe he had
a falling out with?"
She
shook her head, her tissue clamped to her face. "He's only just
home," she snuffled. "Back from university. Went out to some
disco."
"What
about a girlfriend, Mrs Boyle?"
She
nodded, but did not, or could not, speak.
"Was
he with her last night?"
A
shake of the head this time. "She lives in Dublin. He said he was just
going out for a drink. Not meeting anybody. Are you sure it's him?" The
words tumbled out together.
"We're
fairly certain, Mrs Boyle."
"Do
I need to identify him or something? Can I see him?" she asked, her
expression lightening a little, as if by grace of her seeing the body she might
somehow will her son back to life again and forget this terrible night as no
more substantial than a nightmare.
"No,
Mrs Boyle. We'll identify him," I said, not wishing to explain that her
son was now beyond even her recognition. Before we left the house I would have to
find something from which a DNA sample could be taken for comparison should
dental or doctor's records prove inconclusive.
While
Kathleen Boyle wept, Long and I sat in that room, drank tea and did not speak.
We could not leave her - not as police officers, not as fellow human beings.
Her
sister arrived at around eight o'clock and convinced her to try to get some
sleep. Long and I finally made our way back to the station after requesting
that should Mrs Boyle think of anything useful - anything at all - she should
contact us, day or night. I
Similar Books
