A River of Bodies Read online

  Kevin Doyle was born and brought up in Cork. He holds a Master’s in Chemistry from NUI (Cork), and worked for a number of years in the chemical industrial sector in Ireland and the United States. He has been published in many literary journals and shortlisted for a number of awards, including the Ian St. James Award, the Hennessy Literary Awards and the Seán Ó Faoláin Prize. He won the Michael McLaverty Short Story Award in 2016. He has written extensively about Irish and radical politics and, with Spark Deeley, he wrote the award-winning children’s picture book, The Worms that Saved the World. His first novel, To Keep a Bird Singing was published in 2018. A River of Bodies is his second novel.

  First published in 2019 by Blackstaff Press

  an imprint of Colourpoint Creative Ltd, Colourpoint House,

  Jubilee Business Park, 21 Jubilee Road,

  Newtownards, BT23 4YH

  With the assistance of The Arts Council of Northern Ireland

  © Kevin Doyle, 2019

  Cover image: ‘Industrial School, Letterfrack, Co. Galway’ by Robert French. This image reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Ireland – L_ROY_05373, www.catalogue.nli.ie

  All Rights Reserved

  Kevin Doyle has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Produced by Blackstaff Press

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-78073-250-3

  Kindle ISBN 978-1-78073-249-7

  www.blackstaffpress.com

  To the memory of Alan MacSimóin

  Prologue

  The photos were poor quality. Taken in low light, in a hurry, and not even properly framed. That annoyed Albert Donnelly. He would like to complain, but that wouldn’t achieve anything. The main picture showed some type of display board, leaned against a wall. It was large, made from sheets of industrial plywood braced together with clips. Pinned to the display were several photographs and sheets of paper.

  He had been provided with enlargements of those photos, and these were of better quality. One showed Albert’s closest friend, the late Father Brian Boran, when he was a young man. What interested Albert, though, was not the image – he had better ones elsewhere – but the pretty Napoleon hat clock visible on the mantelpiece to Father Brian’s left. Albert recognised the clock – it was from the drawing room in his old family home beyond Ballyvolane in Cork. He understood then that the photos on the display were actually still frames, taken from the missing film, one of Albert’s old home movies. From 1962 or ’63 or thereabouts.

  The next still was of Leslie Walsh, but Albert hardly looked at that. Instead he moved immediately to the third, which showed another young man’s face. Albert was struck by the individual’s expression – sure and confident. Under this photo the words ‘third man’ had been written. Albert found a marker and, on the printout he had before him, wrote, Is that you?

  The final close-up he’d been given was a shot of three white pages. These had been arranged in a semi-circle on the display board and Albert was unsure at first what they represented. He fetched his magnifying glass and was soon able to make out some of the detail. Large faces had been drawn on two of the pages, with ‘fourth man’ and ‘fifth man’ written under each, respectively. The final page was marked too. It contained a collection of smaller stick faces – four in all – and the word ‘More?’.

  He sat back in his chair. His beard itched. He had been advised to grow one, but he hated it. It was irritating and the heat didn’t help. Bucharest was way too hot for a beard and too dry as well. Was he the only one to notice this? Why was it that nobody else minded the horrible heat? Or that the air-conditioning never worked. Or that most of the window panes were cracked. No, it didn’t suit him at all.

  Albert had once imagined moving here permanently and had gone about getting a place of his own – one that was near the school and comfortable – but he realised now that he missed Llanes a lot. He missed Cork too. It is one thing to leave your home by choice, another entirely to be forced to stay away.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of playing children. From outside, from the far yard. Was it that time already? He needed to get to the Italian Church by mid-afternoon.

  Returning his attention to the remaining photo, he took up the magnifying glass again. It was a close-up of a different part of the makeshift display. Substandard too; underexposed as well. The magnifying glass had a light on it, and he switched it on. It didn’t help. He cleaned the glass thoroughly and tried again. There were two faces in the picture. Single, capitalised letters had been placed at the side of each – an ‘A’ and a ‘B’. He lingered on ‘B’ – a boy’s face, a closely shaved head. There was little else distinguishing about ‘B’ and yet Albert recognised him. Paul Corrigan, from nearly fifty years ago, the one who started it all.

  Albert leaned away for a moment, holding the magnifying glass to one side, thinking about that time. Corrigan had run away from the farm. He was missing a few days and Albert had feared the worst; that the boy had escaped. Eventually he had found him hiding in a thicket of brambles. The boy had fought back and Albert had had huge difficulty extracting him. He’d succeeded, finally, and couldn’t forget what had happened then.

  Sweating, he took out a handkerchief and slowly wiped his forehead, ears and neck. Using the magnifying glass again, he tried to make out what had been written on the slip of paper pinned beside ‘A’ and ‘B’. Y-A-U-O-H-A-I? Or Y-O-U-O-H-A-I maybe? He changed the final letter to L and that gave him Y-O-U-O-H-A-L. He had it then. Of course. It was Y-O-U-G-H-A-L. So they knew that too.

  A Name Is Everything

  1

  Noelie Sullivan arrived at Court 4 as the coroner was being seated. There was a large crowd present and the main aisle, leading to the front of the courtroom, was congested. He made his way slowly and with difficulty to the front. His sister Ellen was already there, in the seating area reserved for witnesses, her arm slightly raised to draw his attention. Noelie made it over but there was no room beside her. He sat in the row behind, alongside a woman he didn’t recognise. After a moment he looked again, as discreetly as he was able, and wondered did he know her.

  The coroner called the court to order. He was a soft spoken man, about sixty, with fair lank hair. He announced that there were two cases to be heard that day and that the case of Shane Twomey was scheduled to run first. He advised anyone not directly connected to that case to leave – and quite a few did. In the interlude, as seats were vacated and re-occupied by those standing, a jury of five was sworn in; four women and one man.

  Noelie looked around. A few years earlier the city’s courthouse had been extensively renovated. Court 4, in particular, had changed. The dark wood furnishings and the old-fashioned judge’s throne had been dispensed with in favour of bright modern furniture; there was a surfeit of audio-visual terminals and even the windows looked clean. It was quite the makeover.

  He recognised a few faces. His sister’s neighbours were present – people who had helped search for Shane in the days after he went missing. Bunched together in seats near the door were some of Shane’s mates. A few cousins and two of Shane’s uncles on his father’s side were also in the public gallery.

  Noelie was glad to see the support. He was glad for his sister. It mattered that people had taken the time and that there would be familiar supportive faces in the public gallery when the evidence was being heard. It was expected to be a formality: the court would hear from a handful of witnesses who had seen Shane on the day he disappeared. Noelie would give evidence; the investigating detective, Byrne, would testify. Perhaps, most important of all, the pathologist’s report into the cause of death would be read
into the record. It was not going to be easy – Noelie was certain of that – and he steeled himself for what was ahead.

  The coroner explained to the courtroom that the terms of reference of the inquest were strictly confined to the examination of the when, where and how of Mr Twomey’s death.

  ‘I will not be indulging any questions pertaining to any other matters,’ he added emphatically. ‘I further remind all concerned that it is their duty to respect proceedings here and to maintain decorum and civility at all stages, to the court, to the jurors, to the family of the bereaved and to the witnesses.’ After a short pause he added, ‘Unless there are objections, we will follow, in the initial stage, the timeline of events leading up to Mr Twomey being reported missing. May I enquire, are there any objections?’

  Bernard Taylor, the solicitor engaged to represent the Twomey family, stood briefly. ‘None, coroner.’

  ‘In that case I call the first witness, Ms Ellen Sullivan-Twomey.’

  2

  Leaving the courthouse area, Noelie walked down Washington Street towards the city centre. On Grand Parade, a series of abandoned shop fronts were decorated with posters decrying the IMF and their austerity measures. In Amsterdam, where Noelie had been for the previous month, there had been little evidence of the momentous financial meltdown that Ireland and most of the world was going through. Noelie had even been able to pick up some part-time work there – with a moving company linked to the furniture restoring business Meabh Sugrue worked for. In Cork now, it all looked quite different. Noelie could feel the pinch of financial ruin just walking along the street. Parts of the city appeared to be closed for business and there weren’t even that many people around.

  South Mall was in better shape – of course. Cork’s financial thoroughfare was a broad, long, tree-lined street. Even now it looked calmly prosperous, and who was to say it wasn’t benefiting from the slew of vulture funds that, it was rumoured, had already moved in on the city’s prime property offerings. Wasn’t there a saying that one man’s recession was another’s opportunity? Noelie paused opposite Butler House, the building where Albert Donnelly had his brief foray into law practice. It was an elegant four-storey Georgian town house, now home to an auctioneering firm.

  Noelie often thought about Albert Donnelly. Since the night of the fire at Church Bay six weeks ago, there hadn’t been any further sightings. The latest rumour conveniently claimed that Albert had drowned that night trying to escape, and that his body was subsequently carried out to sea. Noelie gave the version short shrift even though it was, apparently, supported by a witness who had observed Albert hurrying along the cliff face at Church Bay on the night he vanished. Whatever the truth, he was nowhere to be found for now.

  Crossing over to Parliament Street, Noelie approached the bridge and stopped on the apex of the hump. The south channel of the Lee rushed underneath. The sound of the river was pleasant. Upstream he could see South Gate Bridge, and beyond that Elizabeth Fort and St Fin Barre’s Cathedral. Looking downriver, he carefully scanned the rooftops along the quays on the south bank and then on the north bank. Finally he saw a mast, on a building near the corner of Father Mathew Quay. He wondered for a moment why it was so tall and then realised that it was the mast for RTÉ Cork, the local studio of the national TV and radio station.

  That mast, he decided, had to be the one. It was certainly prominent enough and, from what he could see, there were three mobile phone receivers attached to it. They were actually easy to spot, even from where Noelie stood. Two were square and one was round; all three were white in colour.

  An hour earlier, the inquest had unexpectedly and suddenly adjourned – a development that took everyone, including Noelie, by surprise. His sister, Ellen, gave her testimony in a hesitant, careful voice. She explained about owning a business, a clothes shop. Normally she opened at 10 a.m. on weekdays. Usually this meant that she left home around 9.30 a.m. and that had been the case on the day her son went missing.

  As Shane was on holidays from school, he had taken to sleeping late. More often than not she didn’t call into his room before she left for work – ‘Coroner, there was no point as I wouldn’t even get a grunt of acknowledgement out of him.’ – but on this particular morning she had. She looked into his room and told him that his Uncle Noelie was downstairs – in case he heard noises and was wondering. She checked that he had heard what she had said and she received a muffled reply: ‘I did, Ma.’ Those were the last words she heard him speak.

  His sister’s evidence concluded, it was Noelie’s turn. He took the stand and swore an oath. He began with his visit to his sister’s house on the day Shane went missing. Ellen had been surprised to see Noelie so early in the morning. They spent a short time chatting – he didn’t mention that they had had an argument – and then Ellen left for work. A while after that Noelie called up to Shane’s room to tell him his news. He had an ulterior motive, he informed the inquest. He wanted to use the Internet at his sister’s but had forgotten to ask her to log him in before she’d left. So he’d knocked on Shane’s bedroom door and regaled him with the story of how, a couple of days earlier, he had found his entire missing collection of punk records in a charity shop on Castle Street in Cork.

  Noticing the perplexed expression on the coroner’s face, Noelie clarified why this was significant. The record collection had gone missing twenty-six years earlier, in 1984, in a robbery at Noelie’s flat. Noelie had abandoned all hope of ever seeing the collection or any part of it again. Then suddenly, in a stroke of unbelievable luck, he’d found the entire collection on sale at a giveaway price in the charity shop.

  Noelie had given Shane the names of some of the LPs that he had recovered, and had invited him to come over to his flat at some stage to listen to them. He’d also asked his nephew to log him on to the house computer, which Shane duly did.

  As Noelie remembered it, Shane didn’t return to bed. Instead he went to the kitchen to make himself breakfast. Uncle and nephew had bantered back and forth about this and that. Some fifteen or twenty minutes passed. When Noelie was finally done on the computer, he decided to leave. He couldn’t remember if he had repeated his invitation to Shane to call over to his flat to listen to the records, but he guessed that he may well have. He left his sister’s house at around 10.30 a.m. He never saw his nephew alive again.

  Giving evidence hadn’t been easy. Those days in June and that whole awful time came back to Noelie in full force – in particular the fear he’d felt when he’d heard that Shane was missing. He’d vanished just as Noelie made the discovery that Special Branch had probably been involved in the murder of missing Corkman, Jim Dalton. Noelie thought that there could be some connection between the two events. Nothing was ever proven, nor had anything ever come to light to suggest that there was any link – all the same, Noelie remained convinced that there was one.

  Cian Nason, one of Shane’s friends and classmates, gave evidence next – he was the last known person to speak to Shane. The two boys met briefly around noon. Shane called to Cian’s house to ask him about going into town to hang out. Cian couldn’t go as his uncle’s family were home from Australia and a barbeque was planned. He chatted to Shane for a short while then Shane left, saying that he would probably head into town anyway.

  The solicitor, Taylor, asked Cian about Shane’s mood that day and Cian had replied, ‘He was in good form. I didn’t notice anything different about him. I’ve been asked a lot of times about this and I can’t remember anything unusual. He was normal, he was fine.’

  The inquest then moved on to Shane’s subsequent movements, in as much as they could be discerned from his mobile phone records. It was at the end of this interrogation of the record that the upset had occurred.

  On the afternoon he vanished, Shane had sent and received a series of text messages. These enabled the gardaí to track his journey from his home on the inner north-side of the city into Cork’s city centre shopping area. After spending some time near Paul Street, a s
hort distance from the main street, Patrick Street, Shane had moved southwards and crossed the River Lee’s south channel. His final text message had been triangulated to an area around Summerhill South, about a kilometre south of the Lee. Thirty minutes after that, his phone disconnected from the mobile phone network; the time was 3.04 p.m. and Shane’s location was triangulated to an area farther south again, close to Cork City FC’s soccer grounds at Turner’s Cross. When Shane’s body was found three days later it was in an entirely different area of the city, at low tide in the Lee’s upper north channel; his mobile phone was never recovered.

  During cross-examination of the investigating police officer, Detective Byrne, Taylor had requested further details on the missing boy’s trail of text messages. He’d asked Byrne to read into the record all of the phone messages and the detective had complied. However, Taylor had then asked her to provide all the corresponding beacon identifiers for all the phone masts connected to the teenager’s final communications trail.

  Up until that moment Detective Byrne had been reading from her own notes. She asked for a moment to find a different document and, after shuffling through a selection of files, had read this information to the silent courtroom – a series of alphanumeric descriptors. Each message and location that was identified was defined by a triangulation that was set from the three closest phone masts to the phone at the time the message was sent into the network.

  There hadn’t been any problem until the detective called out the final, and possibly the most significant, set of identifiers relating to the position of the phone when it permanently signed off the mobile network. The triangulated area reported for this final signal indicated an area around Turner’s Cross in Cork. However, Taylor disputed this. He told the inquest that he had been provided with a record of Shane’s mobile phone trail and that this suggested he had been in an area much closer to the city centre when his phone left the network. Instead of Turner’s Cross, Taylor’s record denoted the beacon at Father Mathew Quay – the one Noelie was now looking at from Parliament Bridge. Although Taylor was only disputing one cardinal point in the triangulation of the boy’s location, that one position made a considerable difference to where Shane may have been located when his phone left the grid: Father Mathew Quay and Turner’s Cross were almost two kilometres apart. Establishing the correct record was quite significant.