Malign intent, p.1
Malign Intent, page 1
Malign
Intent
Robert Craven
Novels
Get Lenin
Zinnman
A Finger of Night
Hollow Point
Eagles Hunt Wolves
The Mandarin Cipher
The Road of a Thousand Tigers
A Kind of Drowning
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Copyright ©Robert Craven 2024.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.
The right of Robert Craven to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The novel is a work of fiction. The names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Objections to the content of this book should be directed towards the author and owner of the intellectual property rights as registered with their local government.
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Robert Craven: c/o https:/irishwritersunion.org
Cover design Robert Craven (using image / VoidTech & Amazon cover generator)
for
Fiona
My sincere thanks as always to Sue Procter and the team
at ThinkForensic for their insights and corrections.
https://thinkforensic.co.uk
My thanks too, to David Morrell, author of ‘First Blood’ for his sage advice and encouragement.
“So, from that splintered trunk
a mixture poured of words and blood…”
Dante – Inferno; Canto XIII.45.
1
Garda Inspector P J Crowe negotiated his Ford along the rutted moonscape of a road. The car bumped along in first gear as it meandered along a neglected estuary towards a dense clump of trees. The road, such as it was, was pitted and uneven. In the rear view mirror Crowe could see he was leaving a thick trail of reddish-brown dust. As he turned the bend, he spied the temporary reflective tape fluttering in the breeze, an olive-coloured Land Rover, and a huge chestnut hunter over eighteen hands high. It was held and calmed by a woman, miniscule beneath it. Crowe spotted a level patch of grass and parked.
An outdoor crime scene; every policeman’s nightmare. Impossible to secure or keep under control. Pot luck with trace evidence, he thought.
The horse spied Crowe and its ears flicked about the forelock. Its nostrils flared and the muzzle chomped on the reins.
“I think she likes you,” shouted the girl.
She looked about twelve, but her voice was mature and assured.
“I’d hate to be around if she didn’t,” said Crowe.
From the boot of the car, he opened a heavy-duty sports bag. Tearing open the plastic packaging, he donned the disposable white overalls. He tugged up the hood and with superhuman effort stamped on a pair of sturdy Wellington boots. Out of the glove compartment, he took his vape. He stowed his handcuffs and pepper spray.
Despite the cool coastal breeze, he was sweating. Patches of grass looked seared from the blazing sun. The car cast an onyx shadow.
He stopped for a moment. It was a peaceful and tranquil view. The estuary was wide at this point, several hundred metres across. There were no boats, or options to moor one on either side. Following the banks out to sea, Crowe watched a tendril of coastal fog shroud the island of Inishcarrig, smearing the island’s vibrant green, purple and yellows in a dull misshapen grey. The cloying, lazy dead air where he was standing could change suddenly in minutes, dropping the temperature to low celsius if it altered direction. Drawing his gaze back, to where he was standing, Crowe could see the banks on either side of the estuary were steep. On the far bank a forlorn sceach stood twisted and warped from years of exposure to the elements.
“Crataegus Monogyna,” he said to himself.
Dragging on the vape, Crowe turned and trudged toward the perimeter. A young Garda, ashen-faced, had appeared on the other side of the blue and white tape. His bicycle was propped against a tree, peppered in road dust. Crowe flashed his ID,
“First one, Garda…?” asked Crowe.
The young guard nodded,
“Redmond, Garda Inspector,” he held the tape up and allowed Crowe to duck under.
Crowe looked at Redmond. The Garda’s crisp epaulets had sky blue bands. A trainee.
“It gets easier, son,” lied Crowe.
It never did.
“The ISM, Dr. McDaid is with the body, sir,” Redmond replied.
The young guard was tall and lanky, the uniform seemed to hang off him, the boy was all bone and sinew.
“Statement taken?”
“Yes, sir. Rebecca Moriarty discovered the body,”
Crowe looked over. Up close Moriarty had the fresh outdoor features of a woman anywhere between eighteen and forty years of age. No makeup and wiry enough to cope with her gargantuan, edgy mount. Her tweed jacket, jodhpurs and boots looked well-tailored and expensive. Like everything else in the vicinity, they were coated in fine dust.
“What time did she find the body?” asked Crowe.
“Around seven thirty am. She raised the alarm. She says she and Bella – that’s the horse, sir, lost their bearings and they wound up here,” replied Redmond.
One hell of a wrong turn, thought Crowe. He looked around,
“Horses rarely lose their bearings, Redmond. Extend the perimeter across the boreen, block off any traffic access until technical arrive. Attach it to the rear bumper of my car. Unlikely as it sounds, no one else is allowed past. Understand?”
Redmond nodded.
Crowe made his way towards the edge of the wood. What am I seeing here? He thought. An uneven clearing full of wild grass and flowers that led to the trees. He stopped.
Details were everything. He took out his notebook and a bright red betting shop pen. The side panels were full of them. He tugged back the elasticated hood of his overall, it felt clammy from sweat. All he could hear were the voices of Moriarty and Redmond punctuated by the impatient explosive snorts of Bella. Everything around seemed peaceful and undisturbed.
“What is that you are smoking? It smells like a tart’s handkerchief. Dr. Jeffrey McDaid Interim State Pathologist. Just assigned.” said the dapper professor type heading in his direction.
He was walking toward Crowe in a straight line.
An optimist thought Crowe. McDaid’s cautious steps were following procedure to the letter, minimising disturbance of the scene.
“Garda Inspector Crowe, I presume?” said McDaid.
His voice had a gravelly Belfast burr to it.
“Yes, Dr. McDaid. It’s a cherry vape, supposedly better for me,” said Crowe.
“Fuck that. Here, smoke these,” replied McDaid.
He tossed over a pack. Crowe caught it deftly.
“Proper smoke.” sparked up McDaid. He handed the lighter to Crowe. The hands were strong and heavily calloused.
“I’d shake your hand, but we live in socially awkward times,” said McDaid.
“That’s an understatement,” replied Crowe.
McDaid’s build was medium, but stocky around the midriff and his face seemed to have been hewn from the same bark as the weather-beaten hawthorn across the estuary. He had what his father would have called ‘a miserable Northern Protestant face’. The kind of face that would look perfectly at home in the Old Testament, with burning eyes, furious eyebrows, and brimstone judgement.
All he needed was the Methuselah beard to cover the craggy cleft in the chin that sat above a buttoned-up shirt and neat burgundy dicky-bow.
The DLSR camera was slung around his hip, the long telephoto lens glinted like the pommel of a sabre.
“I thought you’d have the local GP with you?” said McDaid.
“The only one in the town retired recently, and we are waiting for the arrival of the locum,” replied Crowe.
‘Retirement’ was being generous; the septuagenarian doctor, O'Reilly, was facing a fitness to practice hearing. Crowe knew which early house he could be found in at any time of day.
Crowe took a deep drag. He savoured the heat and kick of nicotine after weeks of the vape. A sudden change of wind brought the rank smell of decomposition. The waft of tobacco almost killed the stench, even in the fresh salt-tinged air.
Almost.
“Have you had a chance to look at the body?” asked Crowe, handing the cigarettes and lighter back.
“Just a cursory, Detective Inspector,” replied McDaid,
“No need for rank, just Crowe,”
They walked single file back to where the body was.
“He used a washing line, Crowe. A bog standard supermarket type. No signs of any kind of disturbance, or struggle, a few hoof marks over there, where the wee gal found him,” said McDaid.
Hanging from a tree was a man. Middle-aged certainly, possibly elderly.
“I called the technical bureau, but they are thin on the ground this weather. Next call was to the Coroner's office. Not that this poor fella is going anywhere in a hurry,” said McDaid, aiming his camera. The body on the tree looked waxy in the intense momentary pulse of light. Crowe stood still, scanning the grasses and knolls. Not even a random piece of litter. The ground felt spongy and uneven beneath his Wellin
The body swayed slightly from the branch of a tree at the edge of the forest. It was dressed in outdoor gear. The type a weekend hill walker would wear.
“It looks like a suicide,” said Crowe.
“It was the reflective bands on the jacket that caught the wee girl’s eye. If she hadn’t taken a wrong turn, this fella might never have been found,” said McDaid.
“She called the guards?”
“Yep, that’s Redmond from Farandore Station. Chucked up his breakfast when he saw our friend here, might want to watch where you step, Crowe.”
“So, it’s their case?” said Crowe.
“Phoenix Park decided you’re the nearest SIO. O’Suilleabháin called me,”
“Then he called me even though technically, I’m still on sick leave,” replied Crowe.
He hadn’t been asked to hand in his ID badge, access card or equipment yet. But Crowe suspected it was only a matter of time; it was administrative leave in everything but name.
“It's probably a formality, so. Just need it signed off,” said McDaid.
“We’ll have to improvise, then,” said Crowe,
“Knock yourself out,” replied McDaid.
Crowe took another deep drag on the cigarette. A dead body was always a jarring sight. Concentrate on the facts, he reminded himself. Sift the evidence, build the picture.
What am I looking at? He repeated to himself.
Focus on the objective facts.
He fished a pair of surgical gloves out of his jacket and snapped them on. Crowe’s hands were big with long fingers, no Nitrex glove ever fitted right on them. Satisfied they passed muster, he approached the body.
The skin around the corpse’s face was darkened in places. A wisp of hair caught the breeze.
“The lips are blue, indicating lack of oxygen,” said Crowe taking one last drag before dousing his smoke and pocketing the butt.
Holding his breath, Crowe gingerly touched the pockets of the dead man’s pants; they were empty. He had to hold onto a low branch and reach up on tiptoes to see if anything was in the jacket.
“No ID, no phone, no money, no car keys. Nothing. Every pocket empty,” said Crowe.
He traced his fingers along the arms to the wrists; no watch or fitbit. No rings on either finger.
Stepping back, Crowe turned and inhaled a fresh draught of sea breeze. He looked at the surrounding wood made up mostly of hazel trees. The tree the man was hanging from was a yew, sturdy, dark and ancient. Maybe this man hadn’t wanted to be found, had been careful in preparing his ending by his selection of the tree.
“Hard to believe he didn’t come out with a mobile phone, someone must be missing him,” said Crowe.
“You would think,” said McDaid.
“One road in, same road out?” said Crowe.
“Correct – the wood goes out to the water’s edge,” replied McDaid.
A two hour walk from the nearest town. Crowe took everything in again, looking all around and out towards the sea.
“There’s an efficiency to this death. It wasn’t a messy end…,” decided Crowe.
McDaid took a long pull on his smoke. The long arc of ash was snatched by the breeze.
“It looks like a suicide, but like you, I have my doubts.”
A sudden blast of walkie-talkie made them both look over. Redmond was speaking into it and waving his arm toward the main road. At the sound of approaching vehicles, the horse became agitated, stomping and snorting.
Crowe walked over to the woman and her horse,
“You can go now Ms. Moriarty, if we have any further questions, we’ll be in touch,” he said.
The last thing he needed was a spooked horse stamping about all over the scene.
Moriarty sprang lithely onto the animal and with jabbed boot heels to the flank, the horse treaded carefully along the rutted path.
The body of a deceased individual had been found, along a lonely, desolate estuary, it was now day one of an investigation.
He wasn’t ready, he knew it. Not ready to assume his duties. His hands were shaking as he removed his bunny suit, gloves and wellingtons. He thumbed the fire button on his vape, took a deep drag and tried to flush the image of the dead man from his thoughts.
He regretted picking up the phone that morning, answering O’Suilleabháin’s call.
The slow grind of vehicles approaching with flashing lights piercing the plume of dust, made his mind up for him - he’d let McDaid deal with this.
Crowe negotiated around the vehicles avoiding the potholes that peppered the broken, uneven road back to his small garret in Roscarrig town. He turned the radio on, the stations were reporting on the kilometres of gridlock and tailbacks; the Thursday pre-bank holiday exodus that extended from Dublin city to the satellite towns in a vast radius that would touch on Crowe’s commute home.
He turned the radio off allowing time for his thoughts to settle. It was only at the end of the rutted stretch and as he turned onto the smooth tarmacadam of the main road that he remembered he had been here almost a year ago. Searching for a missing girl.
A girl named Thea.
2
The following morning, the wasp came in to die. Its stuttered descent made Crowe look up from the table in his pokey garrett. The insect dipped and droned before it landed on the windowsill where a potted cactus stood. Rolling up the sports section of the newspaper unfolded on the table, he eased himself around past the sofa bed that hadn’t been tidied; the pillows strewn like drowning sailors. Inching forward he was prepared for the wasp’s sudden revival and a battle of the fittest to commence. But it lay silent on its side beside the cactus. The plant was a gift from Clodagh Robertson; she was the one bright light in his life right now.
Crowe had christened the plant ‘Bob’.
“It’s like you, Crowe, squat, ugly and indestructible,” she’d said.
“You forgot prickly,” he replied.
“Drop the l-y; nail on the head,” she’d muttered.
Crowe nudged the insect with the newspaper. Nothing. Opening out the window, Crowe looked at the deserted courtyard below. A keening, ha-ha-ing, gull circled briefly over the bulging bin bags lining the wall of the Chinese takeaway in the alley below. August bank holiday weekend in Roscarrig, the last place on earth Crowe wanted to be. It was a seaside town that gave the impression of perpetually waiting for something and had long since forgotten what it was waiting for. Looking out further through the alley, past the rooftops, long fields peppered with tractors and hay bales stretched out. Taking a sharp right from the alley led to the fishing boats moored to the harbour. A town full of hard working people dependent on the vagaries of the summer season and hoping the weather would hold for some city staycationers.
“Life in the sticks, Bob,” said Crowe.
Crowe scooped the wasp onto the paper and tilted it out the window. He watched the insect’s husk carried off by the hot wind. It reminded him of the corpse on the branch. The kettle on the kitchen unit clicked off and Crowe tossed the newspaper into the wastepaper basket and made himself a coffee. Clodagh’s attempts to move him off full fat milk had been as successful as the new Fitbit she had bought for him. It languished in its packaging in the cutlery drawer. He stirred in a generous measure of milk, three sugars and slurped it loudly as he eyed the flatpack box leaning against the wall that would at some stage become a bookshelf.
The all-purpose living space that included a living area and sofa bed, a kitchenette with a round table and two chairs now had a large leather easy chair. The chair had been a recent purchase as well as the two wall-mounted speakers and the record player. The skylight and window offered little light, making the living space feel cramped. Below him lived a Polish family and below them, the Tiger Inn takeaway. Sometimes the pungent tangs of cooking created a cloying aroma that seemed to seep into the walls. The recently laid laminate flooring near the far wall had a dent in its finish where a fully loaded and unlicensed firearm had been dropped. The mark was covered partially by a new turquoise rug. The hearth was purely decorative. The mantelpiece had a few framed pictures of his son Cathal. There was none of Cathal’s mother and Crowe’s estranged wife, Alison. By the fireplace, gathering dust, Crowe had a neat stack of cherished well-worn books retrieved from the marital home. On the opposite side, leaned a whiteboard he had cleaned down, ready for the recycling depot. The erased word ‘THEA’ was still legible. He kept finding reasons in his head not to dispose of it.
