Lake of Sorrows

“Yes. It’s very soggy work.” A whirlwind of images swirled in Nora’s brain: all the genderless figures out on the bog, Cormac’s waterproof jacket hanging on the hook above his wellingtons last night, and the empty peg she’d seen this morning, the arterial blood spray on the wall at Ursula’s house, and, though she tried to resist it, the image of an arm encased in a yellow rubber sleeve pulling a blade in a sharp motion across Ursula’s slender throat. She knew Detective Brennan was watching these visions pass in front of her eyes.

“Cormac kept his waterproofs outside the back door of the house. Anyone could have taken them.” She realized her misstep a second too late.

“Kept them outside the door? So you’re saying they’re not there now? When did you notice they were missing?”

“This morning as I left the house to go to the bog.”

“So just before you discovered Ursula Downes’s body?”

“Yes.”

“And when did you last notice Dr. Maguire’s waterproofs hanging in their usual place?”

“Yesterday evening, when we got home from a walk after dinner. He wore his wellingtons on the walk, and put them back under his waterproofs when we got home.”

“What time was that?”

“It was almost dark—about ten-thirty, I suppose.”

“So between approximately ten-thirty last night and half-seven this morning, Dr. Maguire’s waterproofs went missing.”

Nora had the sinking feeling that she was digging Cormac in even deeper, but she couldn’t lie without making things worse. She couldn’t hear the rest of Brennan’s words. The world had gone pear-shaped in front of her eyes. Was there anything Cormac had not told her about his visit to Ursula? Stay calm, urged the voice in her head. They’re doing this on purpose, to get at you. It’s all part of the interrogation technique, to get you to question Cormac’s word, tell them something you shouldn’t tell. But you’ve told the truth. Who had told them Cormac had been involved with Ursula? Had he told them himself, or was there some other evidence? Or maybe it was just speculation on their part. The police had to sort fact from fiction all the time, and they, like all humans, made mistakes, and jumped to conclusions, too eager to find connections where there were none.

“Put yourself in my position, Dr. Gavin,” Brennan was saying. “We have to follow all possible leads, and when we see a past relationship with a victim, physical evidence at the scene, and an eyewitness account, we have to look into it.”

Nora tried to focus, to slow her racing thoughts. “Of course you do,” she said. “I understand perfectly. But I hope you’re looking into all the other possible suspects as well.”

“Oh, we are. But did I happen to mention that Ursula put up quite a struggle, and that we found blood and skin under her fingernails? We ought to be able to match that with the person who strangled her and cut her throat. I’m encouraged by that news, but I’m afraid Ursula Downes is beyond encouragement.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Detective Brennan. I found her body, remember? I couldn’t be more aware of a victim’s plight. But Cormac Maguire is not the one you’re looking for. He’s not, and I’d stake my life on it.”

“Well, Dr. Gavin, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” She pushed the statement in front of Nora and offered a pen. “Just sign and date the statement, if you would. Then I can see you out.”

Emerging from the station, Nora felt as if the world had changed while she was inside. The faces of the people passing by looked harder, more sinister; the very light looked harsher and more unforgiving than it had less than an hour ago. She had two talismans, the car keys Cormac had handed her and her mobile phone. She checked the phone’s battery—still good, for another while at least. He’d said he would ring as soon as they were finished with him. Surely they wouldn’t—no, she couldn’t let herself imagine that they would keep him in custody. But if they tried, he might not kick up enough fuss about it, thinking that everything would come right somehow.

Gazing across the busy street, Nora saw another little whirlwind like the one she’d seen out on the bog, only smaller, more compact, and remembered Owen Cadogan’s words: The fairy wind. They say nothing good comes after. A strong gust suddenly pulled a spout of dust and leaves several feet up into the air, where it lost cohesion and fell apart, once more becoming just a harmless heap underfoot—the stuff we tread through day after day, she thought. And it’s the same with evil; it comes from nowhere, from the things and people around us every day, and recedes back into them. How else to explain lynch mobs, death squads, mankind’s cruel history of spontaneous, senseless slaughter? Ancient people everywhere had explanations for it: tricksters, evil spirits, ill winds; the eyes they saw everywhere, leering, grimacing, taking glee in the disruption of order. Nora found herself offering up a tiny, wordless prayer for Cormac’s safekeeping, and for her own.