Page 1 of Three Widows

PROLOGUE

Mud is caked on my hands, clogged beneath my nails and crusted around the cuticles. My fingers have turned a mucky-brown colour. The further I dig, the wetter I get, the darker my hands turn.

Bogs are waterlogged, nutrient-rich patches of land used as a source of fuel, an ecosystem for wildlife and plant life. An ideal site to bury a body on this cold, silent night.

Down my hands dig, the trowel discarded. This is the perfect burial place. I hope the body I plant will take hundreds of years to be discovered. I toyed with the idea of cutting it up to make it easier to transport, but I didn’t relish the thought of cleaning up all that blood. Instead, I tied it to a briquette trolley, leaned a plank of timber against the back of the jeep, wheeled the trolley up with its cargo and tipped it in.

I couldn’t get the jeep any closer to where I wanted to dig the earth for the burial, so it will be another trek back to the narrow lane to where it’s parked. Then I’ll have to drag it over the soft peat. All this is something I have to do myself. My work. My crime. My responsibility.

Disposal is a means to an end. To be rid of the body. To forget all about the misery. To move on while it dissolves in its watery grave.

I am doing what needs to be done.

Ridding the world of an evil person.

I know all about evil. I’ve lived with it. It took root in my soul. I fought it. Oh, did I fight it, until I could no longer stand to be in the same room. I had to rid the world of this evil person who hurt good people, making me complicit in the crimes.

I get on with my work, conscious that daylight is only a few hours away. I hurry, removing the remaining watery earth. I am possessed with a need. A need to do right after all this time. A need to do it the only way I can, by killing another human being. And let’s not forget, I argue about using the word human in relation to this person I have murdered.

I concentrate. I dig. I bury the body in the bog.

At that moment, I feel free.

I have no idea that it will be almost a year before someone else is murdered.

1

Orla Keating stalled inside the door of Fallon’s lounge bar as her senses were hit by the odour of beer and fried food. A television droned from one corner. A few tables were occupied and a bored-looking bartender chatted with a guy at the end of the bar.

The first time she’d met the others, she’d expected them to be dressed in black. Widows of old wore black to mourn their husbands, but she didn’t think she’d ever met one. At thirty-three, what would she know? A missing husband wasn’t a dead husband, even though he’d been gone almost a year. She’d thought it would be beneficial for her to join this group. The guards hadn’t found any trace of him. He hadn’t boarded that flight to Liverpool. His car wasn’t located in any of the airport car parks. To date, neither he nor the car had turned up. She’d convinced herself he was dead. The other widows in the group, Jennifer, Éilis and Helena, agreed with her.

Two of them were seated in the snug when she arrived. These were now her friends.

She ordered a gin and slimline tonic, and waited while the girl dallied over which gin to pour.

‘Hendrick’s,’ Orla said.

‘Right so.’

Would she ever hurry up?

‘There you are.’

Orla eyed the generous measure of gin before she poured in the tiny bottle of tonic water and paid with her card. Turning, she studied the two women in the snug, heads close together, chatting without anyone to overhear. It was just gone seven in the evening. The afternoon patrons had already departed for home, and the night crowd were still undecided on whether to go out or not. Bottom line, Fallon’s was quiet.

Glass in hand, she approached the table.

‘Hi, ladies,’ she said. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

Helena laughed, shaking her copper curls loose. ‘You’re here, and that’s all that matters.’

Éilis said, ‘Gosh, you’re looking great. Love the skirt. Fab colour. Suits you.’

Orla was sure Éilis knew it was charity-shop fare and was looking down her nose at her, but she let it pass, like she always did. She shoved her bag under the table and sat on the cushioned stool. Clutching the stem of her balloon glass, she willed a smile to her lips to hide her nervousness. She couldn’t help it. The coming weekend would see the anniversary of Tyler’s disappearance.

‘What have I missed?’

‘Not a thing,’ Éilis said.