The Lake

SHEENA LAMBERT

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Killer Reads

An imprint of HarperColl‌insPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GH

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Sheena Lambert 2015

Sheena Lambert asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Extract in Chapter 10 from ‘Stand By Your Man’ by Tammy Wynette

The author and publisher have made all reasonable efforts to contact copyright holders for permission, and any omissions or errors in the form of credit given will be corrected in future editions

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Based on a design by Jem Butcher

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

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2015 ISBN: 9780008134747

Version 2015-03-04

For John, forever

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Sheena Lambert

About the Publisher

Epigraph

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

– W. B. Yeats

ONE

Friday, 26th September 1975

‘Frank. Phone call.’

Somewhere between asleep and awake, Frank heard the words barked from behind his bedroom door. It took a second or two before he could open his eyes. Sunlight streamed through the unlined curtains as if they were hardly there at all. The digital clock by the bed flashed 00:00. Frank groped for the wristwatch lying next to it and squinted at it instead. Twenty-five past nine. Who the hell could be calling him? He tried his best not to disturb Rose as he got up from the bed and went out into the hall.

The receiver was cold in his hand. ‘Hello?’

‘Frank? Is that you?’ The lilt in the voice did little to soften its booming depth.

Frank stood a little straighter. ‘Yes. Inspector Carter?’

‘Yes. Look Frank, I know you have the weekend off, but, well, something’s come up.’

Ah Jesus.

‘It’s a body. And Jason’s away. And Eddie … well, I’d just rather you went down there, Frank.’

He pressed his fingers into his eyes. ‘Down where, sir?’

‘Crumm. The local guard is on his own there. The doc will be down later today. Hopefully.’

‘Hopefully?’

‘Well, there’s been another incident in Cork. And this thing in Crumm; it looks like it might only be a bog body. He might have to prioritize Cork. He might not get to Crumm until the morning.’

‘Tomorrow morning?’

‘Yeah. You’d better pack for the weekend.’

Frank rubbed his castigated eyes again. Rose was going to kill him.

The phone was silent for a moment. ‘So when can you get here? I’ll have the file ready for you.’

‘Right. Okay.’ It was freezing in the hall, even though the weather had been warm for weeks. Frank wished he had put on a T-shirt. ‘I’ll be in by eleven.’

‘Okay. Thanks Frank.’

‘Sure, sir. No problem.’

Frank was so intent on shutting the door soundlessly that he forgot about the warped floorboard just inside the threshold. Rose’s eyes opened, although her head didn’t stir from the pillow.

‘What was that about?’

‘I thought you were asleep.’ Frank pulled down the covers and vaulted back into bed, shivering. ‘That bloody hall feels like ten below.’

‘The phone.’ Rose’s tone was barely tempered by the pillow half covering her mouth.

Frank turned his head to face her. ‘It was work.’ He waited a second. He knew he wouldn’t have to elaborate.

‘Ah Jesus, Frank.’ Rose suddenly seemed very awake; her head propped up on one elbow, her apparent disbelief glowering down on him and his pillow. ‘Tell me you’re not going in?’

‘Worse, I’m afraid.’ Frank was conscious that the disappointment of this conversation was going to be predominantly one-sided. He turned his head on the pillow and wondered briefly what that meant. Yellowed paint was peeling from a patch of ceiling above their heads. ‘I have to go to Crumm. Overnight.’ He looked at her again. ‘I should be back tomorrow.’

‘Should be?’ She spoke quickly, but then seemed to check herself. A moment passed before she sat up and swung her legs out of the bed. A stripe across the middle of her back was paler than the rest of her skin. Frank thought it strange that he had never noticed it before. She reached down to the end of the bed and lifted a black T-shirt from where it been discarded, not long after they had come in the previous night.

‘You know you promised.’ She pulled the T-shirt over her head. ‘This weekend. You promised that you would really look.’

She turned and glanced at him, briefly, over her shoulder, before standing up and pulling at her jeans that were lolling over a chair. Frank exhaled and rolled his eyes to the ceiling; throwing his arm up and over his head to touch the buttoned, velour headboard. This seemed to have the effect of speeding her up.

‘What can I do, Rose?’ He sat up in the bed. ‘It’s work. You know how it is. If I want to get on, I have to do these things.’

‘They own you.’

‘Yes, they do.’ Frank nodded manically. ‘For the moment, they do.’

Rose stopped dressing, and stood at the foot of the bed, staring at him. Frank stared back. She would own him too if she had her way. She pulled a band from the pocket of her jeans and twisted it into her hair. But then her face clouded with a sadness he couldn’t bear to see. He patted the bed beside him, and she sat.

‘Look,’ he lifted his hand to her neck. ‘I will get a place. Of my own. And you may paint it whatever colour you desire. And I will designate a drawer in my bedroom for your sole use. And we will have some privacy.’

She looked up from twisting a loosened blanket thread through her fingers. ‘And then what?’

Frank paused. Then he would almost be thirty, and then it would be ridiculous not to ask her to marry him, and then he would be tied down forever to a life and a person he wasn’t convinced he really loved. ‘And then we’ll see,’ he said.

TWO

Peggy stood still for a moment, eyes straight ahead, waiting for the dizziness to abate. Then, with the spent light bulb held, tentatively, in a vice-like grip between her teeth, she lowered her hands, slowly, onto the leather seat of the high stool, bending her knees as she went, mindful of the unevenness of the century old flagstone floor. Crouched in this position, like a sprinter waiting for a gunshot, she paused again, before dismounting. She waited until she was sure she was stable, and then lifted the stool and plonked it back down at the bar with a clatter.

‘You should have joined the circus when you had the chance,’ a voice from the front door said. Peggy turned and grinned at Maura with the bulb still tight between her teeth.

‘You shouldn’t be climbing barstools, or changing light bulbs, anyway. Where is that brother of yours when things of that nature need doing?’ Maura flicked her duster in the direction of the errant light fitting before closing the door, and taking her apparent displeasure out on the plaques and framed photos of men with fish that adorned the walls of the little porch; her disapproving head rocking all the while in perfect time with her behind.

Peggy flicked an ancient-looking switch on the wall next to her and the new bulb turned white, although it made no obvious contribution to the small square room that was already bright with midday sunlight. She didn’t need her brother around to change light bulbs. Or bring in the coal. Or change a keg. Or pull a pint. Or all the other things Maura thought she needed a man for. She cast her eyes around the room, before going behind the bar and stooping to lift Coke bottles from a crate on the floor. She regarded every bottle an amazing feat of engineering and design; positioning each one with reverence on the old wooden shelves. Some were more worn than others, their glass opaque and almost sandy to touch. The odd time you might come across a brand new one. A new little bottle on its first journey. Crumm today; who knew where next? Peggy would hold each new bottle and imagine its next trip to be to a Jurys Hotel, or maybe even the Shelbourne, in Dublin. Peggy liked stocking the mineral shelves. She liked the order to it, the neatness. Although she would never admit it to her siblings. They would laugh at her. Or worse.

‘So the village is full of talk of the find.’ Maura’s voice floated over the bar to where Peggy knelt on the cold floor by the Coke crate. She could tell from Maura’s breathlessness that she had started on the windows. ‘Do you hear me? Peg?’

‘I do.’ Peggy clinked two bottles in a sort of wordless signal.

‘Mrs. McGowan says that they’re sending someone up from Dublin.’

‘Yes?’

‘A detective, I suppose.’ Maura spoke with some reverence. ‘Sure they’d have to send someone.’

‘They would?’

‘Well they could hardly let young Michael deal with it by himself.’

Peggy shook her head at the shelf of bottles. Poor Garda O’Dowd. They’d never give him a chance. He had been a guard for four years now, and they still saw him in short pants. ‘I’m sure Garda O’Dowd would be well able to manage,’ she offered.

‘Huh.’ Maura looked over the bar; her grey, lacquered curls defying gravity as she did so. ‘He’s all right for directing traffic at a funeral, or ordering the stragglers out of this place,’ she said, flicking her duster at nothing in particular, ‘but a body?’ She leant on the bar with the self-assured enlightenment of any of the old men that might take her place in a couple of hours’ time. ‘I don’t think he’s cut out for that sort of thing.’

She took herself back to the windows and Peggy resumed emptying the crates and filling the shelves. She could see the wooden uprights beginning to rot where they met the floor close to her knees. The corner of one wobbled in her hand like a child’s tooth. She cast her eyes to the ceiling. The plaster had dried out well over the summer, but it was bound to start raining again soon. They should really get the roof tarred while they had the chance. A rare flush of irritation deepened the colour of her naturally rosy cheeks. That was something Jerome could have taken care of. If he were ever here. But no sooner had the thought barged into her head, than she showed it the way out. She would rather climb stools, and pay one of the local lads to tar the roof, than have Jerome here with her seven days a week.

The shrill ring of the phone interrupted her thoughts, and she stood to answer it, her knees aching as she lifted them one by one from the hard floor.

‘Hello?’ She tried to massage the life back into them with her free hand.

‘You all right? You sound like you’re in pain.’

‘I’m fine.’ Peggy flexed one leg, then the other in an effort to get the blood back to her feet. ‘I was kneeling on the floor.’

‘Saying your prayers again?’ Jerome’s voice was mocking. ‘I thought we talked about that.’

‘No, smart-arse, I was stacking shelves. You know … working. You might have come across the concept.’

‘Ah now, baby sister. Only kidding. And amn’t I working here too? I am this very moment on my way out to meet a fellah about the television.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes. And a friend of mine happens to know one of the guys this man works with, so we might get a good price on a colour one.’

‘Really?’ Peggy found she couldn’t contain her enthusiasm for this bit of information. She’d been arguing for the installation of a television in the bar for months, but she’d only hoped to get a black and white one, second-hand. This was news.

‘Really.’

‘Right, so.’ They were silent for a moment. ‘So why are you phoning?’

‘Just checking in.’

The phone went quiet again, but Peggy could hear Jerome’s thoughts working up to some sort of request. Her brother wouldn’t phone her for nothing.

‘Actually, I was wondering if maybe you’d manage okay there tonight? If I were back, say, lunchtime tomorrow? Would that be okay?’

Peggy didn’t really mind if Jerome was there to help her that evening. It was unlikely that they’d be busy enough to need a second behind the bar. And anyway, Carla would be back later, so she could help out. But Peggy wanted to make Jerome sweat. Just a little. She saw Maura glance over at her from her perch on one of the benches, her hands hidden under the skirt of a lampshade protruding from the wall. Peggy turned her back on her.

‘Peg?’

‘You know Friday nights can be busy, Jerome,’ she hissed down the phone. ‘Last Friday was busy enough. What if a group of fishermen comes in? Or I have to change a keg?’

‘Now, when have we last had a big group of anglers?’ he asked. ‘Sure the water’s too low; there are hardly any of them around. Wasn’t the competition cancelled? And won’t Carla be back? Couldn’t she help you?’

Peggy could feel Maura’s indignation burning into her back. She didn’t want to drag this out any longer than was necessary.

‘Go on. You’re a useless big brother.’

‘And you are a darling little sister. I’ll make it up to you.’

‘You will,’ Peggy said. ‘I might decide I fancy a night up in Dublin myself one of these weekends.’

Jerome was quiet for a second. ‘Sure thing,’ he said at last. ‘Look, I’d better go. I’m on a friend’s phone.’

‘Right so.’ Peggy didn’t ask any more. She didn’t want to know.

‘See you tomorrow, Peg.’

Peggy put the receiver down, keeping her back to Maura who had started polishing the tables.

‘Weren’t you going to mention the news?’ Maura asked Peggy, incredulous. ‘The body?’

Peggy laughed. ‘I never even thought of it,’ she said, surprised at herself. ‘Ah sure he’ll hear about it soon enough. He’ll be up in the morning.’

‘Huh.’ Maura scoured one of the little wooden tables, searching for a shine that had been long since lost. ‘You’d think they found bodies every day of the week around here.’

THREE

Almost three hours after leaving Dublin, Frank saw the first sign for Crumm. Not a signpost for the village, but a large, wooden, homemade-looking sign for ‘The Angler’s Rest, Crumm’. Frank pulled in just ahead of it. Resting his arm on the passenger seat, he looked over his shoulder, let a Morris Minor pass, and reversed back to take a better look. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble over the sign. ‘The Angler’s Rest, Crumm’ it said in stencilled black paint across the top. Beneath, the words ‘Casey’s Bar’ were scripted. A sprightly looking fish leapt up from the bottom left-hand corner, and the words ‘Food Served All Day’ were diagonally across the right. Frank knew nothing about angling. He had no idea what type of fish was pictured, but he knew he was hungry, and that the chances of two places serving food all day in Crumm were slim. The final pieces of information on the overcrowded sign were an arrow and the words ‘turn left after two miles’.

Frank indicated and pulled back out onto the road. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Ten to three. He should probably go straight to the station. Garda O’Dowd would be waiting for him. His stomach growled and he regretted not stopping along the way to eat something. With his arm resting on the open window, he concentrated on not missing the turn for Crumm. Although it was the last weekend in September, it might have been mid-August. The sun was lower in the sky, but felt just as strong. The breeze on his bare arm was warm, full of the smell of cut grass and hay. The air smelt different away from the sea. Heavier, sweeter. Frank filled his lungs with it. There were certainly worse places to be on a Friday afternoon, he thought, although the image of Rose thumping him with indignation at the sentiment immediately popped into his head.

He might easily have missed the small sign for the village, were it not for a second billboard beneath it reminding road users of the food served ‘All Day’ at The Angler’s Rest. Frank slowed to make the left turn, and was met by a flood of brown, as a herd of cattle made its way across the road in front of him. The animals spilled from a gate to his left, pushing against each other like drunken ladies in stilettos. They ignored Frank; although he noticed one or two of them skip away at the sight of a nervous-looking dog just ahead of his car. A scarecrow of a man followed the last animal out of the field, stick held aloft in one hand, the other pulling the gate closed behind him. He nodded in Frank’s direction. The cattle jostled their way along the road a little before turning right into another field. The farmer followed the last one in, and his dog paced the open gateway like a sentry, as Frank drove slowly past.

The main road from Dublin had been no racetrack, and the Crumm road was worse. Frank winced as his tyres bounced over craters and ruts. Wherever it was given the opportunity, grass did its utmost to reclaim the land stolen by the tarmac. After about a mile, the sound of high-pitched voices broke through the background noises of the countryside. Frank slowed again, and in a clearing to his right, a grey, single-storey building appeared; an alien structure in the blanket of green. Outside, small groups of uniformed teenagers congregated; bags at their feet, jumpers tied around their waists. More walked in pairs and threes through the gate towards the road, chattering, laughing. The sweet freedom of a sunny Friday afternoon in September. Many heads turned or looked up as Frank approached, watching him as he cruised past. One face caught his eye, a tall girl with bushy blonde hair. Her eyes met his, and he gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. Frank knew how it was. There probably weren’t many Ford Capris in Crumm, fewer being driven by a twenty-something-year-old bloke with no one in the passenger seat. He could almost hear the hush descend on the yard as he picked up speed and drove away. They’d probably assume he was an angler up from Dublin. Or maybe they had heard about the body and were expecting the Garda. Frank checked his rear-view mirror, but the road was empty. There were certainly worse places to be on a Friday.

Then he sat a little straighter in his seat. This was not some weekend break on the lake. Some poor git was dead, and whether or not the body was ancient, as they suspected, Frank needed to remember why he was there. The third sign for The Angler’s Rest was so enormous that he first glimpsed it almost half a mile before he arrived at it. He kept the engine idling at the fork in the road where the sign urged him to turn left down towards the lakeshore and the food, before pulling out and heading right towards the village of Crumm. He had better go straight to the station and put the poor guard out of his misery. The Angler’s Rest would have to wait.

FOUR

About the time that Detective Ryan was pulling into the Garda Station in Crumm, Peggy was leaning over the bar at The Angler’s Rest, flicking through a magazine; her head propped up on one hand; her long dark locks pooling on the counter over her shoulder. Her other hand, she alternately lifted to her mouth and swept with venom across the colourful pages of tall, thin, tanned girls in short dresses and bell bottoms. Peggy knew that her weekly magazine purchase was a form of subliminal self-torture, but she was afraid to lose her primary contact with the world outside of Crumm. So each Friday lunchtime, she made the pilgrimage to McGowan’s General Supplies. She was fairly sure that the magazines had been delivered on Thursdays for weeks now, but that Mrs. McGowan had neglected to inform her in order that she herself might keep up-to-date with the latest styles and make-up trends at Peggy’s expense.

Peggy snorted aloud at the sight of a model in a pair of denim dungarees and a cowboy hat. Maybe she should wear a cowboy hat behind the bar. That would give her customers a laugh. They would all think she was losing her mind, when in actuality she would be the only fashionable person in Crumm. She stood up straighter, challenging the model looking back at her. Well at least she herself had good hair. Although it would be better if it were blonde. But the Caseys were all dark. Two girls with hair like thoroughbreds traversed the next double-page spread, clad in turquoise jumpsuits. She swivelled to see her reflection in the mirror running along the back of the bar, bringing the flat of her hand against her face, and flicking back the front of her hair like the girls in the picture. But as soon as she glanced down again at the pages, her hair fell into its usual place. She needed layers. If she had layers, she would be able to flick it out properly. A round brush and a squirt of hairspray would do it. She held back the end of her hair to try and recreate the effect, but dropped it again in resignation. She’d die before asking Mrs. Byrne to cut layers into her hair. As if Mrs. Byrne would even know what that meant. And she shuddered at the idea of bringing the picture with her to the salon. They’d have a great laugh. That Peggy with her big ideas. Food in the bar. Layers in her hair. Whatever next?