The Man on the Cliff Read online

  Annie’s eyes narrowed.

  “She’s a student in the photography class I teach at the college,” he explained.

  “Ah.” Her expression cleared momentarily. “Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “We were going to take some pictures—” He stopped, unable to remember if he’d said that already. Uncomfortable suddenly, he turned to leave. “Anyway, I’ll not keep you. I thought I’d just drop by and see if you might know where she is.”

  Annie cupped her chin in one hand and gave him a long look as though she had something to ask him but didn’t quite know how to put it.

  “Do you do that often, then?” Her eyes didn’t leave his face. “Meet students after class?”

  He felt an unaccustomed surge of anger. Her tone was polite, but the inference was unavoidable. He took a deep breath, shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

  “No, I don’t, Mrs. Ryan. Hardly ever. Most students don’t show the promise and enthusiasm Elizabeth does. I don’t do it because it takes time out of my own schedule that I could use to do other things, but I try to encourage students when they obviously have the talent.”

  “Elizabeth’s a very young and impressionable girl,” Annie said as though she was justifying her question. “It wouldn’t take much to turn her head.” Her face had colored slightly, though, and her glance shifted beyond his shoulder. “It’s awful foggy out, isn’t it? Could you have seen much?”

  “Sure, it’s a bit patchy,” he said, wanting to end the conversation. “Drifts in and out, but it allows for some interesting effects. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll give you my card. Perhaps you’d have Elizabeth ring me when she gets home.”

  She took the card from him and dropped it into the pocket of her skirt. “Right then. If there’s nothing more you need then, Mr. Maguire, I’ve supper getting cold.”

  He was already on the road back up to Sligo when he remembered something Sharon, his business partner, had said that morning about a meeting at the bank. For a moment he hesitated, then, with a sigh of resignation, he turned around and headed back for Cragg’s Head to make peace with Sharon. The conversation with Annie Ryan played on in his head as he drove. It had been no more hostile than other encounters he’d had since Moruadh’s death, but he was usually able to ignore them all. Tonight he couldn’t, and he wasn’t sure why.

  THROUGH THE MISTED GLASS of the Gardai car, Kate could see a uniformed man slumped down in the driver’s seat, his head thrown back. Sound asleep from the look of it. It was the same car she’d seen half an hour earlier. Somehow she’d managed to drive in a circle. Maybe as a penalty for past transgressions she’d been sentenced to spend the rest of her life driving along the cliffs of western Ireland.

  She rapped on the window.

  The man stirred, opened his eyes and muttered something unintelligible. Then he fixed her with a bleary-eyed stare. Early twenties, she guessed, with a mop of dark hair and a ruddy complexion. His blue uniform shirt was open at the neck and pulled out of his trousers. She couldn’t make out the letters on the brass name badge.

  “Hi.” She smiled and caught a strong whiff of alcohol. “I’m trying to get to Dooley’s Bar in Cragg’s Head and somehow—”

  “Straight ahead,” he said. “Five minutes down the road.”

  “I think that’s what I did, but—”

  “It’s the only way,” he said. “Go in any other direction and you’ll fall into the water.”

  “Okaay.” Kate slowly nodded. “Well, thanks.” As she started to leave, a thought struck her and she turned back. “Listen, one other thing. I may have seen something out on the cliffs.” She glanced at her watch. “About an hour ago, I guess. It could have been a fight…the fog made it kind of difficult to tell, but you might want to check it out.”

  The man stared at her for a moment, then seemed suddenly aware of the state of his clothes. One hand moved to his midsection. His eyes became fractionally more alert.

  “Right then,” he sat up. “I’ll see that it gets written up. Good evening now.”

  Kate glanced over her shoulder as she walked back to her car. “Five minutes, you said?”

  “That’s right,” the Garda said. “Five minutes at the most.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, with apologies to Hugh Fitzpatrick for being late, Kate squeezed into one of the narrow wooden booths at the back of Dooley’s main lounge. “Obviously, I should have allowed more time for getting lost,” she said, peering at the reporter through a blue haze of cigarette smoke.

  “Ah, don’t worry about it,” Fitzpatrick said with a grin. “Sure, it’s no crime to waste a little time now and then.” He glanced over at the bar where half a dozen men in cloth caps and heavy jackets sat nursing pints, then lifted his empty tankard in the direction of the bartender. “And this is as good a place as any to do it.”

  Kate studied him for a moment. Mid-thirties. Hawkish nose, sallow complexion. His hair dark, lank and a shade too long. Old tweed jacket, jeans and a black turtleneck. Struggling-writer type, she’d dated a few of them. They were always bad news. Lost in the world that existed between their ears. She watched him light a new cigarette from the one he’d been smoking. Judging from the empty glasses on the table and the speed with which he’d consumed the last pint, she figured he’d had some firsthand experience wasting time in bars.

  In the window behind him, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection and moved her chair slightly to avoid the image. She didn’t need confirmation that the damp air had frizzed her long red hair, or that fatigue had created circles under her eyes and made her skin paler than usual, which caused her freckles to stand out.

  A headache had been gathering strength for the past hour. Kate wanted to ask Fitzpatrick to extinguish his cigarette, something she would have done without hesitation back in Santa Monica. Since they were on his home turf and she needed his assistance, she decided to tolerate the discomfort.

  She could hear the click of billiard cues, raucous laughter and American rock music coming from the next room. The smells of beer and fried fish hung heavily in the air, potent if not particularly appetizing reminders that she’d eaten nothing all day but cake and chocolate.

  “Are you still serving food?” she asked the rotund and balding bartender when he brought Fitzpatrick’s drink to the table.

  “We are.” He wiped a cloth over the table. “Fish and chips. Sausages and chips. Egg and chips.”

  “Anything that’s not fried?”

  “Not fried?” He scratched his ear. “Let’s see. Raw fish, raw sausage and raw potatoes.”

  She grinned. “I’ll just have some chips then.”

  “She means crisps,” Fitzpatrick told the bartender. “I speak a bit of American. What flavor?”

  Kate shrugged, stumped.

  “We’ve only prawn,” the bartender said.

  “Prawn then. And a Diet Coke, please.” Over at the bar, one of the cloth caps muttered something in the ear of the man next to him, and they both looked over their shoulders at her. She smiled sweetly, maintaining eye contact until they turned away.

  When she returned her glance to Fitzpatrick, he grinned at her.

  “You’re a novelty,” he said. “Cragg’s Head isn’t exactly a mecca for American tourists at this time of year.”

  The surreptitious glances had been going on ever since she’d arrived. If she’d walked in stark naked, she could hardly have provoked more interest. The sensation was strange and one she didn’t particularly enjoy. Back in Santa Monica, the tweed jacket and beige wool pants she’d picked up at Nordstrom’s annual sale had seemed to strike exactly the right note of country chic. Here in Dooley’s they apparently screamed American tourist.

  “Why is it you’re interested in Moruadh?” Fitzpatrick asked.

  He pronounced the name the way Moruadh had taught her to do. Mora. “It’s Gaelic,” she’d explained. “Some sort of sea creature.” And then she’d laughed. “Let’s ho
pe it’s a mermaid and not a whale.” No last name. “Moruadh is plenty,” she’d said.

  Kate considered Fitzpatrick’s question. “I knew her. Kind of.” The bartender bought over the chips and the Coke in a glass with no ice. She tore open the bag. “About three years ago, I interviewed her for a magazine article. She called me several times after that and we became…” She hesitated. Friends would be a stretch, they’d never actually met and their lifestyles couldn’t have been more different. Moruadh sang to packed crowds all over Europe. Kate wrote about sheep-herding contests in Bakersfield. Moruadh spent long weekends in ancient and picturesque stone cottages in Provence. Kate spent weekends shuttling her ancient Toyota Tercel between the Laundromat and the supermarket. Moruadh had enjoyed success and recognition Kate herself never dreamed of. Still there had been this connection. Which was why the news of the singer’s death had come as such a shock.

  “We shared dating horror stories,” she told Fitzpatrick. “Moruadh’s were a lot more glamorous than mine, but we’d both come to pretty much the same conclusion.”

  Fitzpatrick looked at her.

  “Men are jerks.” She bit into a chip. “Nothing personal, of course. Just the combined wisdom of our experiences.”

  He moved his head slightly to exhale a cloud of smoke, turned back to face her again.

  “And then I read about the accident—”

  “Moruadh’s death was no accident.” Fitzpatrick tapped ash off his cigarette. “She was murdered.”

  “You believe that, too?” Kate asked and felt her face color. She’d suspected that herself, but at least wanted to create a semblance of objectivity. She dug into her bag for a notebook, looked at Fitzpatrick. “So what’s your theory?”

  Fitzpatrick laughed. “My theory, huh? Well, let’s just say, my theory is that murder is cheaper than divorce, which incidentally wasn’t legal in Ireland at the time of Moruadh’s death. Maguire could have gone to England or France, of course, but he must have worried she’d go after his money.” He drank some beer. “That’s more than just a journalistic theory. I know Maguire.”

  “But her career was going fairly well. I mean she must have been making pretty good money herself?”

  “Nothing compared to Maguire’s money. The three of us grew up together. His family had plenty, Moruadh was the daughter of the gardener. We had that in common, she and I, peasant stock.” He lifted his glass again, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “My mother was a housekeeper on the Maguire estate. Moruadh enjoyed playing the two of us off against each other.”

  “You and Maguire?”

  He nodded. “For as long as I can remember. Of course, he had an unfair advantage. More pocket money than either of us had in a year. More of everything. And nothing has changed much over the years. He’s always had it all. Money, looks, women falling over themselves for him.”

  “Was she in love with him?”

  He shrugged. “Moruadh never knew her own mind. Maguire’s an aloof bastard. The more he kept his distance, the more she ran after him. He didn’t pay her a lot of attention until her career started taking off. When that began to wane—a year or so before she died—so did his interest in her. Pushing her off the cliff was an expedient way to end things.”

  Kate kept her expression neutral. She fished in the bag for a chip, bit into it. “The Garda ruled it an accident. I read the investigation report. The cliffs were unstable. She lost her footing—”

  “Ach.” He made a gesture of contempt. “Investigation. It was a farce. The old superintendent had been in the Maguire family’s pockets forever and he was a bit of an idiot anyway so he was easily taken in by Maguire.”

  “Yeah, but pushing her off the cliffs seems a bit…well, extreme, don’t you think?”

  He shrugged. “That’s Maguire. Have you met him yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’ll get along famously.” He gave a wry smile. “Niall Maguire always gets along famously with beautiful women.”

  “You’re not exactly Maguire’s biggest fan, huh?” she asked, deciding to ignore the compliment.

  “You could say that.” He inhaled, narrowed his eyes against the expelled smoke. “Sure, it’s hard to feel a lot of warmth for someone who gets away with cold-blooded murder.” He tapped ash off the cigarette. “To be honest, though, I’ve never liked him much. No doubt it goes back to the stale cakes and bags of his old clothes my mother used to bring home from the big house. I’ve had an aversion to castoffs ever since.”

  Kate watched him for a moment. Face twisted with emotion, he stared off across the room in the direction of the bartender who was drying pint glasses with a white cloth. She understood only too well how resentment and envy hardened into hate.

  At fourteen, gawky and freckled with a mouthful of braces, she’d overheard an aunt say how unfair it was that, while Ned had heartbreaker written all over him, his little sister, Katie had none of the looks in the family. Months later, her father had to grab Kate’s arms to stop her clawing Ned’s face after they’d had a minor spat. She felt a stab of sympathy for Fitzpatrick.

  “Sorry.” He shook his head, smiling slightly as though embarrassed. “You’re not here to listen to me vent my spleen about Maguire.”

  “Hey.” She shrugged. “We all have our hang-ups.”

  “I have these letters from Moruadh,” he said as though she hadn’t spoken. “Letters she wrote from Paris. I’ll show them to you. She complains bitterly about Maguire, saying how much happier her life would be if he would leave her alone. Sure, we’d both have been a lot happier.” He gave a harsh laugh. “But for Maguire, she’d still be alive and we’d be married.”

  Kate looked at him. He’d answered a question that had been floating around in her brain since they’d started talking. There was something about the way he said Moruadh’s name, the look on his face as he spoke about her. But Moruadh had once confessed that she was only attracted to good-looking men and, while there was a certain appealing quality about him, Hugh Fitzpatrick was far from handsome.

  “That surprises you, doesn’t it?” He was watching her face. “I can see that it does. Thinking that I couldn’t possibly be her type, weren’t you? A beautiful girl like Moruadh could have anyone. Why Hugh Fitzpatrick, who doesn’t have two pennies to rub together? That’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t like being told what I’m thinking,” Kate said. Especially when it happens to be right. “And you’re absolutely wrong.” She felt her face color. “If I looked surprised, it’s because I don’t remember her mentioning your name.”

  Fitzpatrick seemed unconvinced. His face had darkened. Kate felt a tension that hadn’t been there moments before.

  “I’ve always thought that there are two types of women,” he said after a moment. “Those who can’t see beyond pretty faces like Maguire’s and those who can.”

  “Listen, Hugh,” she said, feeling rebuked, “in my fantasies I’m a tall, well-endowed blonde named Ingrid. Men flock to me.” She paused to let that sink in. “My reality is a long, long way removed from that. So don’t think I’m unaware of what it’s like to be judged on appearance.”

  His broad smile, and the way his eyes lingered on her face told her that he’d read into her remark something she hadn’t intended. They were two drab birds in a gaudy flock, the look said, sensitive and under-valued. Let’s appreciate each other, it said. Kate yawned. The bar had almost emptied out. There were other things she wanted to ask him, but they could wait for another day.

  Fitzpatrick was only one source, so it was too early for gloating, but she felt encouraged by what she’d learned so far. Clearly her theory about how Moruadh died wasn’t as off base as her editor at Modern World believed. Establishing her credibility with Tom was important if she ever wanted to move from the financially precarious world of freelance assignments to the more stable and lucrative staff job he’d hinted might be coming up. Still, he’d teased her for her stubborn refusal to accept the accidental
death verdict. “Kate the Intrepid,” he’d laughed. “Relentless in her crusade to prove that beneath every male chest lurks a murderous and dowardly black heart. News flash, kid. Accidents happen.”

  Kate drained her glass. Yeah, and husbands get away with murder. In the end, she’d worn Tom down and he’d given her the assignment. The trip had maxed out her credit card, but if she left Ireland knowing the truth about Moruadh’s death, it was worth the expense. And if she wrote a good article, Tom might even offer her a full-time position.

  “You’re here for how long?” Hugh asked.

  “Ten days.”

  “There’s a lot to see. Galway is interesting. Would you like to go out one evening? We could have something to eat, talk a bit more. Hear some music.”

  “Thanks.” Not wanting to step on his feelings again, or to mislead him, she hesitated. “But I really need to focus on the article.” She feigned a yawn. “And if I don’t get to the place where I’m staying, I’m going to fall asleep. My body clock is still on California time.”

  Disappointment flickered in his eyes. “Are you interested in looking at the letters Moruadh sent to me?”

  “Sure. I’ve got interviews scheduled for the next few days, but I could come by your office.”

  “Right.” He appeared to be about to say something else, then he leaned across the table. “Maguire’s guilty, Kate.” His voice was low, impassioned. “He murdered Moruadh. He thinks he’s free and clear, that he got away with it, but he’s wrong. If it had happened today, under the watch of the new superintendent, he would be behind bars, but we can still make that happen. The two of us—”

  “Hold on a second.” Startled by his sudden intensity, Kate leaned back in her chair, widening the distance between them. His eyes, dark and deep set, seemed to bore into her as though by sheer concentration he could make her believe. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. I still have a lot of people to talk to before I reach any conclusions.”