Murder in Ballyhasset

Libby Hargrove had recently rented one of the terraced houses on the main street in Ballyhasset, a small town in West Cork. On this Tuesday morning at the end of May 1972, she awoke and drew across the bedroom curtain to let in the light. She looked out the window noticing the cloudy grey day and the sea in the distance, grey and still. The bleak, deserted beach in front of it was a thin beige strip.

She went downstairs into the kitchen and groaned on catching sight of the sodden newspapers covering half of the floor. Under the table, Buddy chewed up an old shoe. At the sight of her, he dashed out, and landed his paws on her lower leg. 'Slow down boy,' she said, leaning down to pat him.

Andrew padded slowly barefoot into the room, still sleepy in his navy school uniform, dawdling as only a sixteen-year-old could. He blinked at Libby, looking puzzled, long, fair hair sticking out in all directions. 'What time is it?'

'Half-eight. I'm late, and you are too.' She put some bread in the toaster, filled and turned on the kettle. 'Your dog has peed all over this floor.'

'I'm not late, it's only a fifteen-minute walk.' Andrew turned on the radio. The New Seekers burst out with, "I'd like to teach the world to sing".

'I'm warning you, if you don't clean up after Buddy, he goes.' Libby bent down and picked up most of the newspapers, wondering how a small dog could produce so much fluid. She disposed of the sodden papers in the bin outside, washing her hands afterwards.

Libby sat at the table beside her son and drank a glass of tangy orange juice. She buttered her toast as she gazed at a patch of damp on the green Woodchip wallpaper. Two people were arguing in the house next door, their voices carried through the paper-thin partition wall, competing with the radio. She turned up the volume.

The sooner I get out of this place the better, she thought. The house had a pretty exterior, but the inside was badly in need of repair.

While she ate her cereal, the doorbell gave a high-pitched squeal. Libby started. 'I wonder who that is? They'd better not keep me too long - I'm already late for the office.' She moved quickly to open the door. In front of her stood a tall, wide-shouldered man in his early thirties.

Libby stared into a long, narrow face that held twinkling, smiling eyes.

'I'm your new landlord, Brendan Sullivan,' he said in a deep voice. 'Good to meet you at last.' He was dressed in flared blue denims, and he wore a tight-fitting short blue jacket. His hair was red and wavy, reaching his neck, and his skin was lightly tanned.

'Oh,' she replied, slightly flustered. 'I'm Libby Hargrove. Come inside.'

'Thanks,' he said, stepping into the hall.

'Let me get your deposit. I was just about to post it.' She ran into the kitchen, retrieving the envelope containing the money, came back and gave it to him.

'I need the rent for this month in advance also.'

'Well, I haven't got it today.' She frowned. 'Can't you wait a few days?'

'No problem. Hand it in to my sister when you're ready. She lives at Number 7, only two doors down on the right.'

'Thanks a lot. Moving has made me so disorganised’, she smiled up at him.

'What do you think of Ballyhasset?' he asked.

Her eyes lit up. 'It's a beautiful town, the scenery is fantastic.'

'I can vouch for that'. There was that smile in his eyes again. ‘I've lived here most of my life. It hasn't changed much in the last twenty years. We've still only one set of traffic lights on our main street. Will you be renting this house for long?'

'Just till I buy my own,' she replied. 'I'm looking at a few near here.'

He stared at her blankly. 'I thought you said you were only here for a holiday.'

'No, I'm sorry you got the wrong impression, I've started a job near here. And my son has joined the local school.'

'What work do you do?' he asked.

'I'm a private investigator.'

'Strange job for a woman.' His brow creased.

Libby looked at him sharply, but remained silent. The nerve of him, she thought.

'Are you from Cork?' he asked.

'Dublin originally. But I've lived in Cork City for years.'

'You're going to settle here in Ballyhasset?'

'That's right.' Libby felt restless, anxious to get moving.

'Detective agency you say?' He shrugged. 'I never knew Cork had one.'

'I've got to run now, I'm late.'

'See you soon, no doubt,' the landlord said, leaving the house.

'Bye,' Libby called after him. She went back in the hall to pick up her bag and left, slamming the front door behind her.

***

Libby drove out of the town on the eighteen-mile journey to her office. Mooney's Detective Agency stood on a small street off Patrick Street called Paul Street, in Cork City. Libby had wanted to relocate the office nearer her home, but she agreed with her detective partner, Finbar Meenan, that they would get more business by being in the city.

The agency was in the upstairs part of a shop, painted white on the outside. The busy little shop below sold hardware and every type of small gadget a house would need. It was a treasure trove for any enthusiastic home improver. A group of Galway brothers owned the whole building and rented the upstairs office premises to Libby and Finbar Meenan, at a reasonable rate.

She parked outside the hardware shop, thinking briefly about her father, as she sometimes did when she first came into the office. Libby had only become a partner at the detective agency since his death, six months ago. He was only seventy-six when he died of a heart attack. His half-share of the business he left to Libby in his will. Shortly before her father died, he asked Libby to continue his work at Mooney's when he was gone.

Finbar and Libby's father had founded the agency. It was the only detective agency in Cork, after all, he had told her, and it would be such a shame to let it die out. Finbar had shown her the ropes when she started because up till then she knew nothing about detective work.

And she did enjoy the intermittent thrill of life on the edge working as a PI. She was hooked on the adrenaline rush that she got every time a new client walked through the door. Every case brought a new adventure. She couldn't go back to her former, safer mundane life of secondary school teaching. The years she had spent teaching a bunch of spoilt kids French and English in a private girls' school she missed occasionally, but not often.

'Good morning,' Dawn said, as Libby entered the office. Dawn sat at the reception desk. She had dark curly hair, and a fresh pink complexion. She wore a tight, navy flared trouser suit and platform shoes.

Dawn was in her early twenties, Libby knew, but sometimes found it hard to believe that she had even left school. Dawn acted youthfully too. She had several boyfriends whom she treated with scorn if they got anyway serious about her. She told Libby she had no intention of getting married until she was at least thirty.

Dawn was Finbar Meenan's niece and she had recently finished nursing college. Her present duties at the agency were typing, answering the phone, and assisting Libby. Finbar had asked Libby to let Dawn travel around with her sometimes to new clients, to learn about the business. Libby agreed, glad of the company. Dawn also lived in Ballyhasset, but a mile away from Libby.

'How's the pup?' Dawn asked.

'Oh, Buddy's great,' Libby said. 'I hate leaving him on his own for long periods, though. Do you know anyone who'd mind him during the day?'

'It's hard on him being alone when you're out,

Let me think.' She wrinkled her brow. 'I'm sure I know someone.'

'I'd pay them, of course,' said Libby, 'but they'd have to live near me in Ballyhasset.'

Dawn's face brightened. 'There's a woman near me who minds dogs, she's retired. I'll ring her for you.'

'Great,' thank you!. 'Isn't it very peaceful in the office now Finbar's on holiday?'

'Yeah, he's always giving me grief about something.' Dawn grimaced. 'And he talks about me to my mother.'

'Well, he is your uncle, what do you expect?' Libby made herself a mug of coffee.

Shortly after, at around nine-fifteen, the phone rang. Dawn transferred the call to Libby, who was sitting at her desk writing up bills.

'Mick Doody's my name.' His voice sounded posh. 'I want you to find out something for me.'

'Yes, what's that?' she asked.

'I'll tell you when I see you.' Very mysterious, she thought.

'When do you want to come in?' Libby asked.

'Straight away. It's urgent.' He sounded desperate. 'In fact, I'd really appreciate if you could call to me. I've sprained my ankle. I can't drive for a few days, my GP says.'

Libby thought quickly, and reckoned she had nothing else planned for that morning. 'Okay I'll come out to you in half an hour. Give me your address.' She scribbled down his name and address. He lived in Kinsale, a thirty-minute drive from her office.

***

Libby drove out to Kinsale. She passed the harbour where many bright white yachts were moored. Mr Doody's house was a few miles inland from the sea, in an isolated area off a narrow road. A huge white Georgian mansion, it had an extensive front lawn bordered by oak trees. Electric gates opened as she approached. A large nine-foot limestone wall surrounded the property. As she drove her old navy Triumph slowly up the driveway, she noted four tennis courts to her left. In front of the porch, she spotted a shiny black Jaguar. She parked behind it.

She walked up the porch's granite steps to the front door and rang the bell, positioned along with the stone lions at the side of a big red door.

A young woman with a blonde ponytail and dressed in a black maid's uniform with a starched white apron answered. She eyed Libby with suspicion as Libby introduced herself, and explained she had an appointment with Mr Doody.

The maid reluctantly showed her into a room and asked her to take a seat. Half the room was dark, the part where a desk was located. There was a bookcase full of books along the wall behind the desk. The other half of the room was bright; it had French doors overlooking a conservatory, which was filled with exotic plants.

Mick Doody came into his study and approached Libby with a dazed expression. A tall, slim man in his early forties, he had black neatly cut hair, worn long at the back. His eyes were deep-set and brown. He wore a well-fitting black suit and a white shirt, with a bright diamond-patterned tie. She noticed his eyes had deep black circles underneath.

'I'm Libby Hargrove,' she said, shaking his large hand. His grip was firm. 'Apologies for the short notice, Miss Hargrove,' he said, showing her a seat. He spoke with an educated Dublin accent and exuded an air of confidence.

'You said on the phone you've something urgent to discuss,' she said, making herself comfortable.

He sat down opposite her, gazing at her across his desk. 'That's right. My wife died suddenly last week.' He pressed his lips tightly together in a straight line. 'Some maniac killed her.'

'Killed, as in murdered?' Libby jerked in surprise. She had not expected this. 'I'm terribly sorry for your loss. The whole experience.' She struggled to find the words. 'Must be a total nightmare for you.'

'Yes.' His face was grim. She wondered how she would feel if her son died suddenly. She knew that Mr Doody must be suffering tremendously beneath his calm exterior.

'What's your wife's name?' she asked.

'Kathleen, her patients knew her as Doctor Lynch.'

'Where did she die?'

'At the hospital here in Ballyhasset, St Gabriel's. She was a gynaecologist. She was suffocated, the police tell me.'

Libby's eyes widened. 'Suffocated, how?'

'I'm not sure.'

'I see.' Libby felt confused. Her shoulders stiffened. She wished she had found out more before meeting this distraught husband. 'Could your wife have died of natural causes?'

'You mean asthma or something?' he asked, with a look of scepticism.

'Exactly. Perhaps it only appears like she was smothered.'

'No, the police told me she was smothered.' He sighed. 'Anyway, Kathleen was never sick a day in her life. She was the healthiest person I know.'

Libby nodded. 'Right.'

'I want you to find out what happened.' He frowned. 'It's been a week, and the police are doing nothing. On top of that, they think I killed her. Everyone knows the husband is the number-one suspect in a murder case.'

'But don't you trust that the police are doing their job slowly but thoroughly?'

'I do not.' He sat up straighter. 'I've had several run-ins with them recently for speeding tickets. They're an ignorant lot.'

'I'm delighted you chose our agency to help you,' she said hesitating, 'but frankly, I'm a bit puzzled as to why.'

'I know your boss, Meenan. I was an army man also, before I joined Cork County Council.'

'Have you any idea who might have killed her?' asked Libby.

He gazed at her in bewilderment. 'I haven't a clue. I realise she rubbed people up the wrong way, but killing her.' He stopped. 'It's absolutely bizarre, unbelievable.'

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