Page 169 of Three Widows

He made his way slowly over the churned earth to the turf stacks. The sods on the outer edge of the stacks were wet, but underneath he discovered they were dry.

‘Thank you, Lord,’ he proclaimed, and got to work.

He hauled the first lot of bags onto the trolley and wheeled it to the trailer. He was on his way back to the plot when something caught his eye close to where he’d got his leg stuck earlier. A piece of cloth? No, it was more like leather. People were always burying rubbish in the bog since the price of refuse collection had gone through the roof.

Bending over, he tugged at it, trying to dislodge it from the earth. He dropped the roll of fertiliser bags. It was the sleeve of a jacket, and within it he saw a bony hand with brown leathery skin.

An ancient bog body? he wondered. No, it couldn’t be. They didn’t have leather jackets, did they?

He got down on his haunches, careful not to fall into the stagnant water, and stared with his rheumy eyes. A ring on one of the fingers. Silver. He dragged away more of the turf, realising that the recent rain had unearthed this poor soul from his boggy grave. As he jostled his memory, he thought he knew who it was.

A curlew sounded across the bog. A breeze chilled the air.

As he brushed away the soggy soil with his fingers, Jimmy uncovered more of the jacket. Then a shirt collar. A leathery neck. Skin turned tan from the bog.

He had found a bog body. But it wasn’t centuries old. It had only been buried for twelve months.

Jimmy Grennan knew he was slow on the uptake at times, especially after a few pints, but he was right about this. He recalled the appeals he’d seen a year ago. The man’s photo on lamp posts. The dry-eyed wife in front of clicking cameras, pleading for information about her missing husband.

He rummaged in his trouser pocket for his phone and dialled 999.

Then he slowly made the sign of the cross and waited.

Jimmy wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere, and he knew Tyler Keating wasn’t either.

* * *

The hospital smells too much like a hospital, Orla thinks. The air is too clean, following the stench of the place where she was held. Her eyes are bandaged to protect them from the light. Scar tissue on her retinas from the beating she’d sustained, the consultant said.

The news on the television is too loud. She wishes someone would turn it off. She could call out to the guard outside her door. He’s posted there to ensure she doesn’t escape. As if she could, with two broken legs. They want to interview her when she is able. She is aware of what they know. But they don’t know it all. They have no idea of her biggest and most daring crime. Complicit in stealing from a few widows? No, it’s something far worse. A crime that will never be discovered. She is totally confident of that.

The newsreader mentions something about a bog body.

Orla tries to straighten up. She’s unable to move. Confined. The sound of trolleys out on the corridor is too loud. The television not loud enough, now that she wants to listen.

‘Shush,’ she says.

The newsreader tells the world about the male body in a leather jacket found by a man cutting his turf.

‘Local gardaí are on the scene. Our reporter Sinead Healy is there. What can you tell us this evening, Sinead?’

‘I spoke with Superintendent Farrell from Ragmullin garda station earlier. She confirmed the deceased is not an ancient bog body. An incident room has been set up and they will be investigating it as a suspicious death. Local people are saying this could be the body of Tyler Keating, who went missing just over a year ago. His wife is currently in hospital recovering from serious injuries sustained in an alleged attack by the suspected serial killer Madelene Bowen. Back to you in the studio.’

Orla sighed heavily, thinking back over her mistakes. One of the more critical mistakes was moving his car. Panic set in once Jennifer had disappeared, and she thought she could lay the blame at her door by leaving it in her lock-up. Stupid GPS. She hadn’t thought of that. She should have left it where it was, in the old goods carriage close to where Kathleen Foley used to live. That would have thrown suspicion on Kathleen and Madelene, who she’d targeted with explicit photos. She’d stolen them from Jennifer after Tyler disappeared. Even the most recent one she’d left at Kathleen’s door hadn’t brought a result. Such a shame, really.

It’s all been for nothing, she thinks wearily. CAB are investigating Tyler. It had to be Jennifer or stupid Éilis who contacted them. Orla’s role in the schemes will soon be discovered. And, she is powerless to convince anyone that she had been coerced by Tyler.

She clenches her eyes behind their bandages.

Curls her hands into fists.

He couldn’t even stay buried.

She feels his hand reach out for her, dragging her with him down to the murky darkness.

* * *