The Man On The Cliff

“It is,” Annie said. “For now at least. She’s visiting from England. The daughter of a friend of mine.”

Niall heard the sound of the television from inside the house. Behind Annie, he could see the polished wooden floors in the hallway and off to one side the floral chintz of a chair cover. He had never eaten a meal at the Pot o’ Gold, but Annie’s cooking was legendary and as he stood there, he caught a whiff of a roast or stew that made him suddenly ravenous and more than a little lonely. “Elizabeth was to meet me tonight at Cragg’s Head Leap,” he said.

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 hope 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.