Nine Lives Read online

  A Ray Logue Mystery

  NINE LIVES

  Kevin McManus

  Copyright © Kevin McManus 2018

  The right of Kevin McManus to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in 2018 by Sharpe Books.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to:

  My wife, Mary McManus and my sister Miriam Lynch. Claire McGovern and the staff at the Leitrim Observer, the staff and management of the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, Richard Foreman and the team at Sharpe Books, Michael Cunningham, Kerry Watts, Sheryl Lee and Suzie Cairney

  To my parents: Kevin and Noreen McManus

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: The Raven

  Chapter 2: In the Flesh

  Chapter 3: Walk the Line

  Chapter 4: The Stolen Child

  Chapter 5: Fade to Black

  Chapter 6: Journey through the Past

  Chapter 7: No Line on the Horizon

  Chapter 8: Black Rose

  Chapter 9: Nine Crimes

  Chapter 10: O’Malley’s Bar

  Chapter 11: Emotional Weather Report

  Chapter 12: Warning Sign

  Chapter 13: The Policy of Truth

  Chapter 14: Code of Silence

  Chapter 15: Painkiller

  Chapter 16: The Body of an American

  Chapter 17: The Evil that Men do

  Chapter 18: Dark Energy

  Chapter 19: Snowblind

  Chapter 20: Wake the Dead

  Chapter 21: Distant Early Warning

  Chapter 22: Feet on the Ground

  Chapter 23: Love and Anger

  About the Author

  A Paean

  By Edgar Allan Poe

  * * *

  I

  How shall the burial rite be read?

  The solemn song be sung?

  The requiem for the loveliest dead,

  That ever died so young?

  II

  Her friends are gazing on her,

  And on her gaudy bier,

  And weep! oh! to dishonor

  Dead beauty with a tear!

  III

  They loved her for her wealth

  And they hated her for her pride

  But she grew in feeble health,

  And they love her that she died.

  IV

  They tell me (while they speak

  Of her "costly broider'd pall")

  That my voice is growing weak

  That I should not sing at all

  V

  Or that my tone should be

  Tun'd to such solemn song

  So mournfully so mournfully,

  That the dead may feel no wrong.

  VI

  But she is gone above,

  With young Hope at her side,

  And I am drunk with love

  Of the dead, who is my bride.

  VII

  Of the dead dead who lies

  All perfum'd there,

  With the death upon her eyes.

  And the life upon her hair.

  VIII

  Thus on the coffin loud and long

  I strike the murmur sent

  Through the gray chambers to my song,

  Shall be the accompaniment.

  IX

  Thou diedst in thy life's June

  But thou didst not die too fair:

  Thou didst not die too soon,

  Nor with too calm an air.

  X

  From more than friends on earth,

  Thy life and love are riven,

  To join the untainted mirth

  Of more than thrones in heaven.

  XI

  Therefore, to thee this night

  I will no requiem raise,

  But waft thee on thy flight,

  With a Paean of old days.

  Prologue

  “It is because nine is the killer’s number, it is very important to him. The number nine represents patience and meditation. Psychologically, the number nine is known as the Grand Total and is referred to as eternity. According to ancient scriptures it takes nine days and nights to reach heaven or hell. There were nine levels of Hell according to Dante. This number was considered sacred in ancient Egypt, Greece and Aztec civilisations. It represents totality and immortality. It is the number of Brahma the creator in Hinduism. The ninth Tarot card is the Hermit, the loner. The killer is careful, he plans out what he is going to do to the last detail. However, this man has already figured out his path. He runs it through in his thoughts. He is a perfectionist, and he finds the killings rewarding. This is one of the reasons why all the killings follow a pattern. Everything has to work in harmony, to a rhythm if you like.” Lea Winerman, Criminal Profiler and Jungian Psychologist.

  Chapter 1: The Raven

  Sunday 3rd June, 1979

  Four miles outside Blairstown,

  County Galway, Ireland

  7:45 AM

  Her wrists were red, blood red. Raw and agonisingly sore from squeezing them through the rope knot that had bound her to the rafter of the low ceiling of the outhouse. The back of her head was still pounding from the blow she endured that had left her unconscious for what must have been hours. It was morning now and she was running, terrified, across cold, rain-soaked grass, looking for a road, for a way out, but all around were high overgrown ditches of blackthorns. Her lungs fought to pull in air, adrenaline fueling her now, but reserves were running low. She had no idea how many miles she had run but she knew she had to keep going. The next field might bring her closer to salvation. As she pulled her feet through the cattle tramped mud of a wide gap she observed the light of a house below her. This steep gradient of the hill made her descent towards the beckoning light of the farm settlement easier as she dashed towards it. Each stumbling stride brought her closer to refuge, she hoped.

  The rusted gate opened clumsily as it scraped along the concrete farm yard, her tired weak arms struggling to lift it. A border collie barked nervously as she approached. Her throbbing wrists powered her fists to pound upon the white painted door. Her cries echoed around the damp grey walls. A bolt shunted back and then a latch lifted. Behind the narrow and cautiously opened door, greying middle aged female hair first appeared leading down towards tired eyes and a wide open mouth.

  “What’s wrong, what’s wrong, who are you?” the middle-aged woman said.

  “Please, please for the love of God help me, you have to let me in, he’s after me, he’ll find me,” the young woman pleaded.

  “Okay, calm down, come in,” the middle-aged woman said as she opened the door wide. “Come into the kitchen, you’re freezing you poor thing, come into the warmth.”

  “My name is Josie, what’s your name?” Josie asked as she directed the frightened young woman along a dark corridor into a small kitchen and placed her on a chair next to a smoke-stained cream range.

  “I’m Hazel, my name is Hazel, do you have a phone? I need to ring the Guards.”

  “We have no phone, what’s wrong, why do you need the Guards, what’s wrong, Hazel?” Josie asked.

  “I was attacked by someone last night. All I remember is that I was walking out of Blairstown, heading home. I was in a pub, Grogan’s, and I left about midnight. I was walking to the house I was staying at… look, can you just give me a lift please to the Garda station? He is going to find me, and he is going to hurt me. I’m pleading with you, please!” Hazel screamed.

  “Who attacked you, who is after you, calm down,” Josie said as she put her hand on Hazel’s wet blouse to try to comfort her.

  “I don’t know who he was, it was dark, a car pulled up, a man got out, I couldn’t
see his face, it was covered. He hit me across the back of my head with something hard, that’s all I know. I woke up tied to a ceiling of a shed. My wrists were tied with a rope. I got free and got out and just kept running until I got here. Can you please bloody help me?” Hazel pleaded.

  “I will, I will, oh my good God, you poor thing…. my husband is gone with the car, he will be back soon, he will bring you into the village to the Garda station. I will get you some dry clothes first, you must get out of those wet things,” Josie said as she went to an airing cupboard at the corner of the kitchen and took out a pair of tan trousers, a cream blouse, a green jumper and a brown towel and handed them to Hazel.

  “Here, Hazel, these belong to my daughter, she is about your size, she won’t ever need them again. Go into the bedroom, first door on the right down the hall and put them on, you can dry yourself with the towel.”

  A few minutes later Hazel returned to the kitchen. The clothes were too big for her but at least she felt warmer.

  Josie handed her a mug of tea. “There is plenty of sugar in that, it’s good for a shock, get it into you… you’re not from around here, are you? You’re not a local.”

  Hazel’s face twisted into a grimace as she tasted the sugar dosed tea. “No, I’m from Dublin, I was just working here for the summer. I’m a student… I was working at the fish processing factory outside the village along with my friend Carol… Josie, I really need to get to a Garda station.”

  “Tommy should be here very soon now, he just went to look at cattle. He normally isn’t too long… In fact, I think I see his car coming up the lane,” Josie said as she lifted the net curtain and looked out the kitchen window.

  A yellow Volkswagen Beetle car drove into the yard outside and the driver’s door opened.

  “Oh damn, it’s not Tommy… but it’s our neighbour, Frank Rudden, he’ll drop you in. I’ll go out and tell him, just stay warm beside the range otherwise you’ll catch your death,” Josie ordered as she walked briskly down the hallway and out the door.

  Hazel looked out the window and observed Josie talking to Frank. He looked familiar, she had seen him before and was sure he was a regular in Grogan’s pub. Hazel watched as Josie spoke to him and he nodded as he looked towards the house.

  “Frank will bring you to the Garda station in Blairstown, Hazel,” Josie said as she returned to the kitchen.

  “Thanks very much Josie, for the tea and the clothes, I’ll drop them back to you later,” Hazel said as she went to hug her host, but Josie felt awkward and retreated.

  “It’s fine, Hazel, you can keep the clothes. They belong to my daughter in America. I haven’t seen her in years. She never comes home. I hope the Guards can help to catch the evil man who attacked you. Will you call back and see me when you can?” Josie asked.

  “I will, bye, and thanks,” Hazel said as she walked out through the front door onto the grey concrete outside.

  Frank held the passenger door of his car open as he smiled and gestured to Hazel to get in. Hazel waved back at Josie who stood in the house doorway as she pulled the car door shut. The vehicle travelled slowly up the pot holed, pock marked laneway that led to the roadway above on the hill. Josie watched as Frank’s car turned left at the crossroads and it then disappeared. That was the last time Josie would ever see Hazel or Frank again.

  Chapter 2: In the Flesh

  Thursday 6th December, 1979

  Shanahan, County Galway

  In the former demesne of Lord Zachary Abelson, in the townland of Shanahan on a hill named in Irish, An Marbh Cruac, rested the decaying remains of a structure. Known as Bethel Lodge, it was built in the late 18th century by a Major Elijah Bethel, a retired officer who acted as a Bailiff for Lord Abelson. All that survived were its bedraggled time eaten gables and eroded chimney stacks that pierced the ashen morning sky. The crumbling lodge stood as a dark and foreboding monument in the stark and barren setting of the surrounding rush infested marsh land that swept out towards the grey Atlantic Ocean. The bitter and unforgiving location endured the full lash of the harsh rain dowsed maritime winds.

  Against the collapsing walls a young detective leaned with his left foot placed against the building to prop himself up and his right hand pulling the collar of his overcoat closed to keep out the chill morning air. His name was Jim Mulcahy, and this was only his second case. He was wise for his thirty-two years. With his left hand he pulled on a cigarette as he observed the body of a woman being exhumed from a shallow grave. The body was clothed in a green jumper and tan coloured trousers. The smell of the cigarette smoke helped in a small way to cover up the stench of putrefaction that was wafting from the corpse. Alas, despite his attempts to fight it, the natural desire to retch when faced with such an aberrant odour won over him and he turned quickly to face a whin bush growing next to the lodge and began to vomit violently. This aroused the attention of Detective Inspector Pascal Harding, who turned away from his observation of the exhumation and sniggered knowingly to himself. He remembered his first time faced with such an appalling reek and so he had sympathy for Mulcahy’s plight. He walked slowly towards the young detective as he inhaled deeply from his Peterson pipe and enjoyed the strong and sweet aroma of tobacco.

  “Are you okay there, lad?” Harding said softly as he stood behind Mulcahy who was still bent over spitting, trying to clear his mouth. The young detective was embarrassed and couldn’t turn around to face his superior.

  “Yes… Yes, I’m fine,” Mulcahy replied, still coughing.

  “Here, take this, don’t worry it’s clean, I never used it,” Harding said as he took a large cream cloth handkerchief from his pocket and tapped Mulcahy on the back. The young man turned his right hand behind him and grasped the handkerchief and then proceeded to wipe around his mouth with it. When he felt that he had cleaned himself adequately he turned slowly to face the inspector.

  “Thank you, Inspector Harding, I am suffering with a sick stomach for the last few days. Must be something I ate,” Mulcahy said, trying to find an excuse for his vomiting. Trying not to show weakness. Mulcahy was eager to impress but now he felt he had let himself down. How could he ever be taken seriously as a detective when he had thrown up at his first exposure to a decaying corpse. He knew this would get around the Garda stations in the country and he would be a laughing stock.

  “Oh, right, a sick stomach, I see, that explains it,” Harding said through clenched teeth as he ground down hard on the bit of his pipe. “Cigarette smoke is no good, James.”

  “Excuse me sir… what do you mean?” Mulcahy asked timidly.

  “It’s not strong enough, cigarette smoke to cover up the smell of rotting flesh,” Harding replied.

  “Oh, I see, right,” Mulcahy said, still wiping his mouth and uncertain if he could hold down the remaining contents of his stomach.

  “I always find that the strong smell of pipe tobacco is the best way to deal with such a foul odour, but anyway, James, you will get used to it. This one is particularly bad. The poor unfortunate must have been in the ground for a good number of months. It looks like some vermin or creature was gnawing at her as well, possibly foxes. But if it wasn’t for them digging down and pulling at the corpse it probably would never have been discovered,” Harding said.

  “Who discovered the remains?” Mulcahy asked.

  “A local farmer called Egan, he is coming into the station later to give a statement… damn, this is all we need. James, there are some people making their way up the lane on foot. Can you go down and turn them away? There were meant to be two Garda Officers down there doing that. I don’t know where the hell they got to. Can you just block any people from coming up here until I can locate those officers?”

  “Sure, Inspector,” Mulcahy responded as he made his way down the lane. In front of him he could see roughly five adults walking towards him. He realised that Harding was doing him a favour by giving him an excuse to move away from the exhumation scene, a way to save face in front of the Garda officers
who were removing the body.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, you can’t come up this way, there is an important Garda investigation taking place and you are prohibited from disturbing it,” Mulcahy said as he stood in the centre of the narrow lane with his arms outstretched.

  “What have they found, is it guns, IRA guns?” an elderly man asked.

  “I heard that it was a body, somebody was murdered up there, oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” a middle-aged woman said as she blessed herself.

  A small man in a long dark overcoat and dirty black wellingtons approached Mulcahy confidently and said, “That bloody place up there is cursed, you know, it’s cursed. Always has been and always will. That old lodge.”

  “Is that right, well you can all just turn around now and go home, this is no place for you. This is Garda business and none of yours,” Mulcahy said earnestly.

  However, the small man held his ground and refused to move and instead spoke directly into Mulcahy’s face, so close that he could smell his brown, rotting teeth. The detective fought hard again not to retch.

  “That Lodge is built on a mound, a hill of bones, An Marbh Cruac, the hill of the dead. The old Pagan Druids sacrificed thousands up there two thousand years ago. The spirits of those poor souls haunt that place. Nobody ever had any luck that built on that mound. The grandson of the man who built that Lodge back in the last century disappeared. They never found his body. He was fond of hunting and shooting. He shot and killed an eagle, a huge one, it had a seven-foot wingspan. It was a female, the last of its kind. People say it was the spirit of the Druid that he killed. The man disappeared a week later and was never seen again. They never found his body. Is that what you have discovered now, his body, after all these years? It is, isn’t it?”

  “Look, if you don’t move back this minute I will be forced to physically remove you.” As Mulcahy spoke he pushed the small man firmly on the shoulder.