A Turn for the Bad (8 page)

She was startled when an older man approached and leaned on the bar, his skin roughened by exposure, his clothes well-worn. He looked like he was settling in for a long stay, but Maura didn't mind: she really didn't want to listen to her own bleak thoughts any longer. “What can I get you?”

“A pint'd be grand, thanks,” the man said. “Don't take it to heart.”

Maura started his pint, then asked, “Take what?”

“A body washin' up. Happens a lot. Been happenin' fer years. Tourists who go fishin' but get careless. In World War Two, there were forty came ashore after a torpedo hit their ship. County Mayo, that was. Then there's the
Lusitania
—yeh mighta heard of that one. Took a while fer some of the bodies to reach land. And if you want to go back beyond that, the Spanish Armada lost quite a few ships up and down the coast, and plenty of bodies washed ashore then. And then there's the mermaid . . .”

“What?”

“God's honest truth,” the man said. “There's a pack of boys took a video of it.”

Maura laughed in spite of herself as she pushed the pint toward him. “Well, true or not, at least you cheered me up. Are you from around here? I haven't seen you in Sullivan's before.”

“I live near the Tully farm—John's me brother. I'm Conor Tully.”

Conor Tully extended his hand to shake, and Maura took it without thinking. She glanced quickly around: no one else in the place seemed to have recognized the man, and she couldn't remember seeing him in Sullivan's before. But Leap wasn't exactly close to wherever it was the Tully farm was located, the other side of Skibbereen, and Conor no doubt had a favorite local somewhere closer to home. So why was he here, giving her a lighthearted history of bodies washing ashore, when his brother was missing at sea?

“You haven't heard anything new?” she asked in a low voice.

“That I haven't. Better the gardaí should be out lookin' fer John than reporting to the wife and me every other minute. As the saying goes, no news is good news.”

Maura started a pint for him. “How's his wife doing?”

“About what you'd expect. It's eating her up, but she's plenty of family about.”

“So what brings you this far from home?”

“Here's where the coast guard would be, right, down to Union Hall? I'm a volunteer, closer to home.”

“And you've heard . . . ?” Maura was reluctant to finish her question. She didn't know this man and she wasn't sure how he'd react.

“. . . about the body that's been found? I did that, and how the gardaí say it's not me brother. Which leaves us little better off than before.” Conor took a long pull from his pint.

“There's still hope, isn't there?” Maura said.

“There is that, but it's been days now, so the hope won't last much longer.”

Maura topped off the pint and slid it across the bar to him. “What do
you
think happened to John? If you don't mind talking about it, that is. You don't have to share it with the crowd if you don't want to.”

Conor shrugged. “I've thought of little else these past few days. John's a hard worker, but every now and again he takes a bit of a walk along the strand, to clear his head, like. Or to clear away the stink of manure, more likely. And he enjoys the company of the little lad. John would never have left Eoin on his own there.”

“You're the one who found Eoin on the beach, right?”

“I did. When John didn't return in time fer the milkin', Nuala told me where he'd gone and sent me to find him. I found the boy, but no sign of the man.”

“So, then what?” Maura had no idea what the standard procedure was for reporting someone missing.

“I brought Eoin home to his mother and phoned the gardaí. I'm certain you've heard the rest.”

“Most of it, I guess. News travels fast around here. I heard they didn't start looking toward the water until they'd talked to Eoin. What's he like? I mean, does he make things up?”

“No, he's a bright lad but not fanciful, if you get my meaning. He said there was a boat, and men took his da away with them in it. I'd believe him, and the gardaí seemed to, because they started looking in a different way and called in other searchers.” Conor took a long draft of his drink.

So if Eoin was to be believed, Maura thought, somebody else was involved. John hadn't slipped and hit his head or something like that. “Why?”

“Why would he have gone with the men, leaving Eoin behind? That I can't tell you.”

“Why hasn't he been found by now?”

Conor shrugged. “The gardaí have asked the same things, and I'll tell you what I told them. I don't know. I don't know where he might have gone, and I don't know why he hasn't been found.”

“Do you think he's . . . he'll come back?”

“That's my hope.”

This wasn't getting her anywhere, and Maura hated to badger a man who was clearly in pain. “Are you a fisherman?”

“I have been, but there's little future in it now, and it's hard work. Cold, wet, and it stinks to high heaven.”

“Worse than raising cattle?” Maura asked.

Conor produced a smile, but it wasn't convincing. “I call it a dead heat between the two. If I'd had the sense of a newborn calf, I'd've been a teacher or started in with the computers. But there was the farm, and the family to think of.”

“You're married?”

“No, but I was one of eight children, the youngest, and the parents were gettin' up there in age. John married and took over a part of the farm—his wife's family were neighbors, so they put together a couple of fields when they married—but the rest of us had to make our own way. John's always been a farmer. Nuala, now—she's never much liked the boats, so she's no use in searching. She's got the kids to worry about, and the cows won't wait to be milked, whatever else may happen.”

Would it be harder or easier to deal with the uncertainty, with so much to distract you?
Alone, Nuala could have sat and stewed about her missing husband; with kids and cattle demanding her attention, she'd have little time to worry.

“Anybody else missing from your area? Would John have met a friend on the beach?” She felt like she was flinging out random ideas.

Conor shook his head. “Like I said, John likes to be alone with his thoughts now and then, and the cove was his place to go fer that. And he's too busy with the cows and the family to have time fer friends. Nuala, now, she gets out a bit more, when the kids are in school, although Eoin's still young fer that. And there's no money fer a spot in a creche.”

Maura had to remind herself about what a creche was: the Irish day care for small children, as she had learned from Ellen Keohane when she'd stayed at her home when she'd first arrived. She had no idea how much it cost. Or how much money a dairy farmer made these days.

“Does John do well, raising milk cows?”

“He gets by, no more. And he has few other skills, should he decide to give it up.”

“What happens now?” Maura asked. She wanted to ask how long everyone would keep looking for John Tully, but that seemed rude. If his body was never found, how long would it take to have him declared dead, under Irish laws? She seemed to recall it took at least seven years in the States, but that could be wrong. She didn't think it was appropriate to ask Conor how long Nuala would have to wait—or whether John had life insurance. She had no idea how common that was in Ireland. How badly off was John, financially? Enough so that he'd kill himself to give Nuala and his children the insurance? But that didn't make sense, since he'd taken Eoin with him. He couldn't have killed himself in front of his son.

“Did Eoin say anything specific about the boat?” Maura asked suddenly.

“Eoin's always goin' on about the boats. Swims like a fish, that one. I've taken him out any number of times and he loves the sea. So he might have used a bit of imagination, telling the gardaí what happened. He might as well have said it was a sea monster or a whale.”

“So nobody's taking him seriously?”

“Mebbe. But good God, the boy's three years old! Would you?” Conor drained his pint and fished for some euro coins to pay for it. “I'd best go check in with my mates in Glandore, see what the news there is. Glad to meet you, Maura Donovan.”

“Good luck, Conor,” Maura said as he turned and left.

Rose came up to stand beside her. “Who was that?”

“John Tully's brother,” Maura told her. Funny that no one else in the pub had recognized him. Or maybe they had and they had left him alone out of respect.

“Poor man. Has he had any word about John?” Rose asked.

“No more than we have. How long will they keep searching, do you know?”

“That I can't say—I don't recall that anyone's
not
been found, living or . . . not. You'd do better to ask Sean Murphy.”

“I will when I see him again.” More people came in, wanting drinks or coffee, and the day dragged on. Nobody seemed to want to leave. Didn't these people have jobs? Or cows waiting? But how could she criticize them if they were here because they were worried about a friend or neighbor?

At five Maura told Jimmy and Rose that they could go home. “You go on, then, darling,” Jimmy told his daughter. “I'll see yeh later.” He turned to Maura. “Don't want to miss the news, should there be any.”

“I understand, Jimmy,” Maura told him. Rose left, but Jimmy and Mick hung around, although they had little to do. Finally Maura turned to Gillian. “You can go, you know. I don't know how long we'll be open, but with Jimmy and Mick here, we're covered. If we learn more, I'll tell you when I get home.”

Gillian stretched, as though her back hurt. “Thanks, Maura. I am tired. Good thing we brought the two cars. Shall I make us something to eat at the house?”

“If you want—take the fish with you. You go ahead and eat, and I'll have whatever's left if I'm hungry later. Go on, now.” Jesus, was she trying to mother Gillian now? So not her style. But her own work schedule didn't exactly accommodate anyone else in her life—like a pregnant friend. They'd barely had time to talk about what was going on with her.

Sean came in well past dark, and even in the dim light
he looked exhausted. Some of the earlier patrons had gone on their way; those who remained looked up briefly when he entered, then looked away again. Sean sat heavily on a stool at the bar. “What can I get you, Sean?” Maura asked.

He shook his head. “I don't even know, I'm that knackered.”

“You look it, if you don't mind my saying so. Will a good cup of tea help?”

“It might do.”

Maura fixed a pot, then said, “I'm guessing there's nothing new about John?”

Sean shook his head. “Nor about the other man we found.”

Maura had to remind herself how small Ireland was. “Is there a missing persons bureau or something like that here?”

“There is, in Dublin, though it's not large. The superintendent will be askin' that they put up a picture of our man on their website, though I don't think his own mother would recognize him. But a description at least.”

“Does that help?”

“Near eight thousand people are reported missing each year, but there's fewer than twenty who haven't been found. It's far better than it once was, thanks to all the computers and such.”

“That's good to know,” Maura said. She scanned the room quickly. No one seemed to have an empty glass in front of him, and Jimmy and Mick were talking to various groups, plus keeping an eye on things. She turned back to Sean. “What happens if John is never found? What does his wife do?”

Sean poured tea into his mug, then added sugar and milk. “Yer askin' if he can be declared dead if there's no body?”

“I guess. I mean, it's awful not knowing, but life has to go on, and he's got a wife and kids and a farm.”

“He does.” Sean took a sip of the strong tea. “A man lost at sea is not a rare thing here, but if there is no body, assets and property are frozen and cannot be used. If there's no death certificate issued, life insurance and social welfare cannot be paid out.”

It sounded to Maura as though Sean was reading from a manual, and she guessed he had checked the official version recently. “Then how does his wife manage?” Maura demanded, vaguely outraged.

“There are exceptions, which is to say, if the property is jointly owned or if someone has a power of attorney. In the first case, if there is strong evidence that the person is in fact dead, there are procedures fer requestin' an inquest to declare the person dead. Then the property and insurance can be distributed and there may be social welfare payments for the children. In other cases, there's a waitin' period of seven years, or if there's strong evidence the High Court will look at it and make a declaration.”

Maura smiled in spite of herself. “You sound like you've been doing your homework.”

“I did read up a bit, and it was covered in our mornin' meeting at the station. In case there's any motive there for doin' away with the man.”

“Did you find any?”

“No. Poor Tully couldn't afford the insurance—he was barely gettin' by as it was. He and his wife owned the land jointly, as part of it came to her when she married. So she'll have that at least.”

That matched what Conor Tully had said, Maura thought.
So there was no financial motive.
“Was he depressed, do you think?”

“Yer thinkin' suicide? But why would he have taken young Eoin with him?”

Just as she had thought. “That is a sticking point. So far everyone says he loved that boy. Maybe his wife got fed up with shoveling the cow, uh, excrement, and bashed him over the head with a rock? Sorry—I'm sounding very American, aren't I? We see so many cop shows on television there, we get kind of immune to that kind of violence. It's much more personal here, isn't it?”

Sean nodded. “John's a fine man and his wife is a good woman. Their children are healthy and they do well in school. They're not in debt, or at least, not to the bank, since they own the property. So there seems no reason fer John Tully to do himself in, or fer another to do it fer him.”