Chapter 49
The stench coming from the chicken farm caught in the back of Lottie’s throat. She’d known it was located in the townland of Brookgrey, but she’d never had reason to drive out this way before now.
Dermot Macken wasn’t answering his phone and his workshop in town was closed, which meant she and Boyd had to come to the arsehole of nowhere to find him. He’d been at Healy’s on Sunday and at this stage she wanted to double-check everything for herself.
The rain was easing, but puddles remained dotted around the yard. When she stepped out of the car, the noise assaulted her like a salvo of rifles at an army exercise.
‘What’s that racket?’ she asked.
‘The chickens?’ Boyd offered.
‘Good God, imagine living beside that. I’d be in St Declan’s asylum.’
‘Bit difficult seeing as it’s closed down.’
‘You know what I mean. Christ almighty, Boyd, don’t start again. Not today.’
‘Why not today above any other day?’ he grinned.
‘We still have no sighting of Sadie or Lily. Everyone is vanishing on me. Can you check in with Kirby and see if he’s located Liam Scanlan?
I don’t like that he isn’t to be found. Especially after we only talked to him this morning about Cameron’s finances.
Is there something there that he doesn’t want us knowing about? ’
‘Lottie, he isn’t missing. The man was probably on his lunch break.’
She checked her phone. ‘Nothing from Kirby, and that tells me it must have been a very extended lunch break.’ But Boyd was right. She was overreacting.
Taking in her surroundings, she felt she’d never get over the olfactory assault. It was worse than the morgue when a body was cut open, releasing its gases.
The sheds, to her left, were long galvanised structures, which probably enhanced the din.
Tall chimney-type funnels must be emitting the smell, she concluded.
To her right was a single-storey pebble-dashed cottage with a yellow door, paint peeling.
It was an old dwelling, the windows streaked with grime. She joined Boyd at the door.
‘You take the lead,’ he said, ‘seeing as I don’t know why you had to come out here.’
‘Following up loose ends. Kirby and Martina interviewed him initially, and I need a sense of the man for myself.’ She waved her hand to her left. ‘Especially a man who runs a chicken farm while providing balloons for parties. How does that even work?’
‘It must do. Somehow.’
She turned on her heel at the voice booming behind her. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Mr Macken?’ she enquired.
‘Dermot. What can I do for you?’
Boyd produced his ID. Lottie did likewise. The man didn’t flinch.
‘A couple of follow-up questions,’ she said. ‘About the Healy family murders. If you can spare us a few minutes.’ She looked to the door, hoping he’d open it and rescue her from the noise and stench. No such luck.
He leaned against the wall, an elbow on the shovel he was holding, a hand scratching at his pockmarked cheek. ‘I can spare a few minutes.’
‘Can we go inside?’
‘I’d have to wash my wellingtons, and the tap is around the back. And I’ve holes in my socks.’
‘I’ve seen worse.’ Which was true, but the smell was curdling her stomach. She peered skywards at the bruised clouds, all black, no blue.
He tracked her gaze, then sighed long and hard, leaned the shovel against the wall, pushed past her and shoved in the door, which had been unlocked.
He marched ahead without removing the offending mud-caked wellingtons. At least Lottie hoped it was mud and not chicken shit. The strong whiff from outside followed him into the house. She suspected she would have that smell clinging to her hair, skin and clothing when she left.
He led them into the kitchen. Dated furniture, rusted appliances, including a free-standing once-white cooker. An oilcloth covered a cluttered round table. The sink was piled high and a conglomeration of tinned food lined the draining board. Some open, others still sealed.
‘You live alone?’ she asked, diverting her eyes from the mess and concentrating on the man. His button-down navy overalls were filthy, and she noticed the frayed collar of a white shirt peeking out at his neck.
‘Living alone suits me. No one telling me what to do or asking me stupid questions.’ He smiled, and his teeth were white and straight. He’d had work done. ‘I’d offer tea or coffee, but I’m out of supplies.’
He didn’t offer a seat either, and Lottie was beginning to think they should have stayed outside and suffered the noise and smell.
‘I’m interested in how you combine balloons with chicken farming.’
‘A man has to make a living whatever way he can.’
‘Which came first, the chickens or the balloons?’
He laughed. ‘Funny.’
‘It was a genuine question. I’m interested in your balloon business.’
Leaning against the back door, he said, ‘Don’t know how it started.’
‘Try to remember.’
‘Is it important?’
‘Could be.’ She was just curious, but you never knew when something inconsequential might transform into a vital piece of information.
He folded his arms, his emerald eyes so sharp she felt they could pierce her right through. He chewed hard, cheeks moving as if there was something in his mouth.
‘I had to cull the flock some years ago. Bird flu. Cost a fortune to sterilise the place and start from scratch. Someone must have said to me that blowing up balloons was a good way to make a few bob on the side. And at that stage I’d have sold my granny, if I had one, to make money.’
‘When was this?’
‘Told you. Could be five years ago. Yeah, it was.’
‘Tell me about the Healys.’
‘Not much to tell. I told the other detective everything. Fat bloke with curly hair. A woman guard was with him. Nice young thing.’
‘I want to hear it for myself,’ Lottie said, with grit in her tone.
‘I know what you’re at. Checking I don’t tell any lies.’
‘I haven’t the time for this.’
‘Neither do I.’ He unfolded his arms, found a teacloth and began wiping the greasy table.
‘Mrs Healy phoned me Friday. I told her it was way too late to have an arch ready for Sunday. But she paid extra, so I obliged. Delivered it Sunday, chatted for a few minutes. Nice woman. Friendly. The husband seemed like a piece of work, but that’s just my opinion. I didn’t know them. Not my circus.’
‘You told my colleague something about the child crying at a window. What was that about?’ Lottie knew from their timeline that this had occurred well before the row over Freya’s make-up.
‘Search me.’ He balled up the cloth and flung it in the sink, toppling over cutlery and plates.
The noise grated on her nerves, making her teeth tingle. Jesus, she was edgy. There was something about him that gave her that feeling, not just the smells and clamour.
‘You said the little girl, Freya, was excited about getting the arch.’ Lottie recalled Kirby’s interview notes. ‘Why was she suddenly upset?’
‘I did nothing to her, if that’s what you’re hinting at.’
‘I’m only asking a question.’ She paused. ‘Is there anything you neglected to tell us?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t mention you were at Healy’s later on Sunday.’
He shrugged. ‘Totally slipped my mind. She phoned worried about the arch. I checked it and left.’
She’d have to verify this, and Christy’s story, with the other guests.
‘Who minds the chickens when you’re at your workshop in town?’
‘They’re not kids, they can mind themselves. Like I said, I live alone.’
‘Lived here all your life?’ Boyd asked.
‘That’s irrelevant to what you’re here to ask me about.’
Lottie wondered at his reluctance. Was he just pissed off at them or was there something he did not want to divulge? ‘Don’t worry, we can check it out when we get back to the station.’
‘If you’d care to come with us?’ Boyd made to step forward and Macken moved away, marching up and down the small space in front of the cupboards. Lottie thought something else might topple over or run out from an open drawer. She had an irrational urge to flee the mess, but Macken began to speak.
‘I lived in Dublin for a while when I was younger, if you want to know. Moved around a bit, then I inherited the farm from an aunt and settled down. Must have been over ten years ago. Satisfied?’
‘Not really,’ Boyd said.
‘Did you know Caroline when you were in Dublin?’ Lottie asked. ‘Or Sadie Clarke, née Tormey?’
Macken answered without hesitation. ‘Dublin’s a city of one and a half million people, Inspector.’
‘So it is.’
She edged back out the door and glanced into the room beside the kitchen. It was empty. Not a stick of furniture. Worn floorboards, scuffed and marked. Wallpaper peeling at the corners. A grate with newspapers and turf, as if someone meant to light a fire but forgot.
‘Nothing to see in there.’ Macken was suddenly beside her, having elbowed past Boyd.
‘Easy,’ Boyd said.
Macken glared, baring his teeth like a wild animal. ‘This is my house and I say where you can and can’t snoop. You don’t have a warrant.’
‘Should we get one?’
His shoulders slumped and he looked like a small, sad middle-aged man. ‘I lead a quiet life. I raise my chickens, my balloons make kids happy and that’s my life in a nutshell.’
‘Did something happen in your life that made you want to make amends to children?’ Lottie asked.
‘No, it’s just a business to me. I’ve always worked hard and I’m contented in what I do. I didn’t kill anyone. You can search somewhere else for your fall guy. It’s not me.’
‘If it is, I will find out,’ Lottie said, and left before he could reply.