LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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