The Case of Roisin Dowry

1

She was waiting for me the moment I arrived, standing by her door she dries her hands with her towel. With crossed arms she looks at me, already annoyed and already ready for an argument. Her dog stands beside her waiting for her order, a true guard dog if it wasn’t for his size he could almost pass as one. A Jack Russell terrier the most harm he could do would be to bite the bottom of my trousers maybe nibble at my ankles. But even still, he gives off the impression that he is willing to defend his owner no matter who he must fight. He growls at me.

“Enough!” She silences him.

Before addressing her I look to the sky. Bright blue a cloud won’t be seen overhead for a hundred miles or more. All in all, it is quite a nice day but something tells me things are going to get murky and grey quick.

“I sent a messenger to your station officer more than an hour ago?” Her green eyes pulsate inside her skull, you’d swear the women was trying to cast a spell over me with them and not a nice spell, I can tell you. “Why are you late?”

“I didn’t think I was expected to arrive at a certain time!” I smile.

“A crime has been committed!”

“What crime?” Closing her door, she walks off, I think she expects me to follow her.

“And I know who did it?”

“So why come to me, why not solve the problem yourselves?”

“Oh, how you would like that, not one of you are of any use, I’ll have you know!” She looks back at me with pulsing eyes again. “That Roisin did it!”

“Roisin, as in your niece?”

“The very girl!”

“Why?” She looks back at me again, but this time she holds the gate open for me.

An act of kindness from her, one I am not used to from her, not one bit.

“Because the girl has it out for me.” She leads, I follow and listen to her complaints which are endless. “Did I tell you about the time, she wanted to fight me,” I say nothing. “Or the time she was throwing stones at my home?” She looks at me again. “But again, you lot weren’t arsed about showing up were you!”

“I turned up when told about the incident!”

“And a fat lot of good you did, she was gone a very long time before you arrived, useless the lot of you, I’ll have you know!” Over the hill we go. “or did I tell you about the time she got her dog to chase after me?” She looks at her dog. “That’s why I have him.”

She owned a wolfhound!”

“Yes, big ugly beast!”

“But you own a Jack Russell?” I look at her oddly, but she doesn’t seem to care to look at me.

“So” She replies.

“Well it’s not really much of a fight for a wolfhound is it, all a Jack Russell is good for is killing rats. It is not much of a guard dog now is it?”

“I’ll sick him on you now,”

She looks at me with those pulsating green eyes, as the sun touches her skin, burning her, she glistens and for a second the tales I was told as a child, do not seem to be tales to scare kids anymore. Every story has some element of truth to them. I have come to believe, and right now, it is easy enough to find a connection between banshee of old tales and Ms Fitzpatrick.

She stands over me, at the very topmost part of the hill, with the sun shining down on her, the woman looks almost soulless and I an Irish man, am her bane.

“Do,” I tell her. “And he’ll meet the same faith as Roisin’s old wolfhound!” I assure her. “Now I want to hear no more of your nonsense, take me to the scene of this crime, now.”

She growls at me as her dog had done, but she, unlike her dog, knows when she is bet. She takes me to the crime scene. Nothing more than a cut fence, she points at it irate and then looks at me as if this were a murder scene or the worst crime known to An Garda Síochána.

“It’s a cut fence?”

“Good on you for figuring that one out,” She growls at me again. “She did it, that Roisin Fitzpatrick.”

“Did you see her doing it?”

“Well no!”

“Well then you have no proof she done this,” I tell her. “Look, Ms Fitzpatrick, Rosin is your niece by marriage, your somewhat family. Is this little thing not something you can work out between yourselves; you know allow An Garda Síochána to deal with policing issues, real issues?”

“I’ve lost sheep!” She shouts.

“Go find them then!” I tell her annoyed. “and fix this bleeding fence yourself.”

She is not done, not even close to being done, she follows me back down the hill and to the road and her home.

“What are you going to do about her?” She asks me leaning on the stone wall.

“Nothing!” I tell her.

“I want to press charges!” Irate she screams.

I laugh. “charges for what, a broken fence and a few missing sheep?”

“I want to press charges for a crime, a crime she has commented, and I have the proof, I showed you the proof.”

“You showed me a broken fence nothing more!”

Call it my Garda senses or just human intuition but I feel the urge to search the shed behind her home, it looks large enough to hide some sheep.

“How many sheep are missing?”

“Maybe three,” She follows me, suddenly, she is overcome with worry. “Where are you going?”

Standing in front of me, I move her to the side, her dog growls but nothing more. I look to her as I touch the handle of the door into the shed.

“Three,” I ask her hearing movement inside the shed.

“Yes three,” she looks away from me defeated.

Pulling one sheep out of the shed I look right at her; she kicks the grass under her feet. Pulling out the second, she looks away from me.

“Don’t walk off!” An order, she freezes on the spot. Pulling out the third sheep I hold onto it.

“Look I found them!” She seems to have lost the ability to maintain eye contact, those pulsating green angry eyes are nothing more than a tale now told to scare people. “I wonder how in the bleeding hell they got in there?” She says nothing as I move the sheep on. “Now why would, Rosin cut your fence and hide your sheep in your shed?” Moving the sheep out into the field, I close the gate behind me. “Ms Fitzpatrick,” She looks over at me but not right at me. “From now on in, best have a good look around your farm before making an accusation and getting the Garda involved.”

Her dog growls at me as I leave. “Shut it you!” he goes silent.

2

Patrols can be at times, routine and boring. Our duties asked of us by us I mean me and the only other officer in Dingle Garda O Brien are To walk from one side of the town and then back to the station. The people must see you out on patrol. Lesson one on day one in training of how to become a Garda.

It’s not a hard patrol by no means in weather like this, the sun is blistering hot; the sky is the lightest shade of blue and the clouds of which there are not many of are puffy and white. Patrolling the town takes all of twenty minutes even strolling along enjoying the sun. The town is nothing more than a single road with a couple of side roads and the odd hill here and there. A mile from end to end if I am not mistaken.

And today of all days it is empty, or near close to being, Mrs Jenny as she is known around the village is out walking her dog, the poor dog doesn’t like the heat, he’s walking a whole lot slower than his owner.

“Hello, Mrs Jenny.”

“Oh hello.” She waves back. “Beautiful day isn’t it!”

“Indeed.”

“How is he dealing with the heat?” Garda O Brien asks looking at the dog.

“Oh.”

She looks to her dog, tongue hanging out of his mouth, If I could ever read an animal’s mind it is now, he is pleading for this walk to end soon.

“He doesn’t like the heat, at all. Sure, not far left to go,” She looks to her home only a couple of doors away. “The Villages is empty what’s going on?” She asks me.

“It’s sunny,” I laugh. “everyone is either in the pub or out on the lake.”

“In the pub,” She rolls her eyes. “Typical.”

To my surprise, the harbour was nearly empty. A young courting couple walk side by side as awkward as two humans can be around one another. Neither of them say anything to the other. They both look at their feet more than they looked at one another. When they did make eye contact, the awkwardness grows they returned to looking at their feet.

“Hello officers,” Michael Shea, a local man calls out to me.

“Hello good sir and how are you today?” I reply in kind.

“I can’t complain, just out doing a bit of chaperoning so I am!” turning around he points his cane at the young couple behind him. “Have you been introduced before? Mr O Connell there, his father owns a farm just over the way there.” He points to where it is with his stick. “A couple of miles that way to be sure.”

“We’ve met, good man your father!”

“Thank you, sir.”

He turns red, I cannot tell if he turned red from speaking around his courting lady or from getting to speak for the first time in who knows how long. In anyways I nod at him and look to the courting girl next to him.

“And this fine young lady is Niamh O Moriarty.”

“Nice to meet you,” I tip my cap to her.

“Nice to meet you.” Garda O Brien follows behind him with his comment.

“A courting couple?” I look at Michael.

“Indeed.” He looks back at me. “I’ve been asked by both families to oversee the courting, make sure no one gets out of hand if you know what I mean.” His look at Mr O Connell makes him look at his feet. “No funny business you know.”

“Indeed,” I remark. “Can’t be starting a courting off on the wrong foot now can we!”

“Indeed, so sir.” He looks off out down the road. “I best be marching these two through the village,” He points his stick at the boy running towards me out of breath. “Looks like your heading that way too officer, and by the looks of his one, the news isn’t good.”

Lil Tom as the town calls him, on count his father is big Tom and more than four times his son size. But even still at thirteen Lil Tom will not be called little for much longer, the boy has thick bones and a fair bit of height to him.

“Officer O Donnell, me da sent me out here to find you.” Out of breath, he struggles to catch it. “On account, no one could find you in the village.”

“What’s the problem?”

“That James Doyle is causing trouble again,” I look to Garda O Brien worried. “He’s gone and started a fight in the pub.”

“Well shut up your talking boy and led on,” Michael demands chasing the boy off with his cane. “You two come along,” He says to the courting couple. “And don’t you go sneaking a kiss behind me back, so help me god, I’ll break me cane off your head,” He looks sternly at Mr O Connell, who again looks at his feet.

Half the pub was outside dealing with the argument, the oldest man in the village Johnny was outside thinking he was putting a stop to it all. Shouting at everyone who was nearby. His cane moved faster than his tongue does which is saying something.

Forcing the crowd to part, I need to move quickly, Big Tom is knocking six shades of shite out of Mr Steven Doyle right in the centre of the crowd. Breaking them apart, Mr Doyle runs from Big Tom the moment he is free.

“What’s going on here?” I ask Tom.

“Sorry Officer,” He backs away from me, normally a gentleman he fixes his waistcoat before speaking to me. “That so-called man there was hitting a woman.”

I need to hold him back from fighting again, a huge man, it’s not an easy thing to do.

“Ok,” I shout silencing the crowd around me. “None of you are helping, go back to the pub. Garda O Brien find Mr Doyle.” Looking around, I see him fleeing from the crime scene, Ms Fitzpatrick hot on his tail.

Johnny parts the crowd to the side, pointing his cane at me, soon enough I will know more about the fight than even the people who started the fight.

“Listen up you.” He orders. “The Big man Tom here was defending the young lady Roisin Fitzpatrick.”

“Why?” I ask.

“That coward Doyle was hitting a girl; he was bleeding thumping the head off her. And Big Tom was doing the right thing, by putting some manners on the Doyle guy. Don’t go arresting him now,”

Garda O Brien grabs hold of Mr Doyle behind me. “Ok go back inside, I’ll deal with this!”

“Thank you, officer.” Big Tom shakes my hand. “If you want me to knock him around a bit more, I’ll be inside waiting.”

“We’ll be fine,” I laugh. “I’ll deal with him.

“Miss Roisin is inside the pub,” Johnny tells me.

Only turned twenty Roisin is a beauty, but it’s hard to see now, her nose is bleeding and right eye is reddening, she’ll have a black eye come morning time.

“Hello, Roisin.”

“Officer O Donnell.” She looks to me fuming.

“What caused all this?” I ask looking around the pub seeing everyone is still fuming for a fight with Mr Doyle.

“Father Lynch and Michael Shea brought some boys into town,” Listening in to the conversation, Michael nods his head, agreeing to what she said. “Doing a bit of matchmaking as they do!” She touches her eye with a wet cloth, regretting it right away.

“Is that why he did it?” Michael bangs his cane off the floor annoyed, he looks at me. “Father Lynch give me his blessing a couple of weeks ago to do a bit of matchmaking, he had one too many girls to match up and not a lot of boys, so I brought some boys into town.”

“Good man yourself,” I tell him.

“Mr Doyle outside didn’t sign up for a bit of matchmaking.” Annoyed he bangs his cane again. “I don’t know why he is a young single man, why did he turn up here and cause trouble?”

“Did he know you’d be matchmaking?” I ask him.

“He did.”

“Did he know you’d be here?” I ask Roisin she shrugs unsure. Garda O Brien comes into the pub his hand covering his right eye. “What’s wrong with you?” I look at him.

“Doyle got the jump on me.” Big Tom hearing this turns Garda O Brien around and looks at the mark under his eye.

“It’s a bit of a scrap,” He looks at me. “Give us ten minutes alone with him while you deal with her.” He pleads. “I swear, I’ll go easy on him.”

“You’ve got twenty minutes.” Big Tom cheers along with half of the pub. “Michael, you play fair.”

“I can do indeed.” He looks at Johnny. “Can you do us a bit of a favour?”

“Sure!” Johnny replies finishing his pint.

“I have got a young courting couple outside; would you mind walking them home?”

“Done.” He looks too big Tom. “Give him a thump or two for me.”

Big Tom looks to his son. “You help Johnny out. I’ll deal with that Doyle shite.” The pub cheers.

I helped her clean herself as much as possible. I offered her some tea but she wanted some whiskey. We’re not supposed to have whiskey in the station but I do. She downed the first glass as if she were breastfed on the stuff. The second glass it took her two large swings to down it.

“Take it easy,” I tell her as I fill up the third glass. “I shouldn’t be giving you more drink.” She just looks at me. “In your condition, probably best to ease off the stuff, get a good night’s sleep.”

“I wasn’t drinking!” She tells me before drinking.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” She looks at me and then the glass. “Well, not really drinking, I had one or two.”

I take a drink myself. “So, what caused it?”

“The fighting in the pub or the other things?” she drinks. She looks at me close to tears.

“I know it’s not your first run in with Ms Fitzpatrick,”

She laughs at my comment. “The woman is around my house at least once a day, with the same bleeding offer as before.”

“Offer,” I lower my glass. “What is she trying to buy?”

“My Dowry!” She drinks. “I mean my Da wasn’t in the ground a wet weekend before she made, what she thinks is a really generous offer, I’ll have you know.” She rolls her eyes mimicking Ms Fitzpatrick.

“Why would she want your dowry?” She just shrugs. “A dowry is for…”

“I know what a Dowry is.” She cuts me off. “And she’s not getting it, and he…” her lip curls with anger. “He can shout and batter me all he likes, I won’t be selling it to him either!”

“Has he attacked you before?”

“Once,” She tells me before drinking. “I ran him off but you know all about that don’t you.” The same hatred she has for Ms Fitzpatrick she has for me now. “My poor Dad’s dog was only protecting me and you went and shot him because of that foul woman.”

“The dog ran Mr Doyle off.”

“Yes,” She shouts. “He come around to mine demanding I take his offer when he got mad, so did…”

“The dog.” I cut her off ashamed I killed the dog.

Standing up she finished her drink. “I’m done here.”

“Wait?” I plead.

“No, I am not pressing charges and I have done nothing wrong,” She leaves the room. “And you can’t make me stay!”

3

I could hear her footsteps before I could see her. She charged through the station door like a bull.

I smile at her. “Hello, Ms Fitzpatrick.”

She growls. “They nearly beat him to death.” I laugh which only angers her more.

“He shouldn’t have hit a woman!”

“That Tom is a brute.” She roars. “James is bloodied. He beat him for an hour straight. I couldn’t stop him the brute.”

“Not many men can stop big Tom when he is in a fighting mood, to be honest with you!”

“Press charges!”

She demands hitting the reception table. She even takes Garda O Brien by surprise. She stands her ground, even now with two uniformed Garda before her.

“I cannot,” I tell her.

“Do it.” She demands striking the table with the palm of her hand again. “I demand it done,”

“You can’t make demands around here,” Garda O Brien insulted by her tone chimes in. “and don’t bang the desk again.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “I’ll deal with Ms Fitzpatrick, why don’t you go out on patrol.”

Forgetting most of his Garda training or the parts which cover dealing with the public anyways, Garda O Brien matches Ms Fitzpatrick’s smoulder with his own.

“Now,” I say when he leaves the station. “I cannot press charges as I said before.”

“Why not?” She screams at me.

“Because no one has committed a crime,”

“He beat James half to death!” Thrice as loud as before screams.

“Two men had a dispute, one man lost said dispute.” She huffs angered. “Until the defeated party comes forth with a complaint there’s nothing much I can do!”

“You allowed the fight to happen,” Her volume as high as before. “Didn’t you?” I just smile at her. “I’m a very powerful woman, I’ll have you know!”

Taken back, I look to the desk and then back at her not utterly understanding what she means by that.

“Sorry?” I Say.

“Just be warned!” She points right into my face with her long-pointed witch-like fingers.

“Ms Fitzpatrick,” Now my tone is changing towards her. “Be careful, choose your next words wisely. I can arrest you on those words alone.”

“Oh,” She shouts. “you’d arrest me but not that brute Big Tom.” Looking away she bangs the table again. “Typical, what use are you lot, honestly?”

I wait for her to say something, forced to stare at the back of her head. Even from this viewpoint, I can tell she is thinking of something to say. Plotting something, a crime committed against her by someone mainly Roisin Fitzpatrick, or another case of her broken fence and missing sheep. Finally, she looks at me.

“I want to report something!”

“What is it?” I ask not needing to even find paper to write it down.

“A crime.” sure of her words she looks right at me. “Committed against me by that woman.”

“Let me guess Roisin?”

“The same girl,” She points at me again. “She hit me.”

“When?” She says nothing. “A week past.”

“You’re only reporting this now?”

She looks away from me. “I had more pressing things to do!”

“So, the assault wasn’t that important or all that harmful by the sounds of it. and of course, your actions.” I remark. “You’ve no signs of marks from this said assault.”

“No they’re gone,” Her tone raises now. “It was done over a week ago!”

“If you had of reported it straight away, I could have done something about it. but seeing as the case is a week old and you have no signs of damage there’s nothing I can do.”

“Typical!” She shouts.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” I ask needing to use all my will power not to break what would be seen as acceptable ways to speak to the public.

“She assaulted me yesterday during the fight at the pub.”

“Where she was assaulted?”

“She wasn’t assaulted,” She remarks annoyed. “She attacked me.”

“Look,” I say to her done with this conversation. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to strike you if she did indeed strike you.” She goes to speak, but I cut her off. “there we’re a lot of people, many of them lost their tempers, arms were swinging and I’m sure people got hit indiscriminately. I will write this down somewhere and look into it and get back to you after my investigation is done!” I smile at her.

She screams at me, then leaves the station, slamming the door shut behind her. Lately, it feels like she is the only woman I am talking too. She comes into the station morning and evening with something, a problem of hers, everyone else must deal with.

Roisin Fitzpatrick, her niece through marriage and her dowry is of the utmost importance to Ms Fitzpatrick lately. But that’s nothing new, everything is important to her, she one of those types: she’s always been interested in what other people are doing, it’s like a hobby of hers.

“Sargent!”

Garda O Brien charges into the station calling out for me.

“What is it?”

“We have a problem!”

“The woman just left the station.”

I point to the door behind him, speaking about Ms Fitzpatrick. Tired, I go to walk off hoping he will deal with her. But stop when I see the look on his face. Not new to the force, but he looks every part of a green Garda before me.

“What is that?”

Holding a bloodied piece of parchment, he shows it to me. “Miss Roisin Fitzpatrick’s Dowry.

“Oh really!”

“Yes sir, the blood is hers too. I’ve just found out.” He hands me the piece of parchment. “She’s dead.”

4

Roisin’s home wasn’t much to look at, an old cottage with a little bit of land around it. The straw roof needed repair, the windows needed cleaning and the front door had seen better days, many better days in the past by the looks of it.

The stone wall which surrounds the property had collapsed less than half of it is still standing. Not much to look at, suppose Roisin wasn’t one for gardening, she wasn’t one for decorating either. The inside looks worse than the outside.

Walking around the property a couple of times, I see nothing out of the ordinary. No sign of a break-in, no sign of forced entry. Whoever killed her was allowed inside. She knew her killer, and she wasn’t afraid of him.

From a distance, she looked almost peaceful. But she was not, she died fighting, her nose is broken her blood stains her face neck and nightgown. Whoever killed her, struck her with such force he loosened one of her front teeth and chipped the other.

Her head and arms hang loosely over the side of her bed. She struggled but not enough, whoever killed her left his finger marks in her neck.

Related to Roisin, James Doyle stares at her dead body from the corner of the room. Shaken up, I cannot tell if it is from the fight with big Tom, or the death of his stepsister, but he is shaken up.

“About time, you lot turned up!”

“We came here as quickly as our legs would allow us!” I assure him.

“Come by horse next time, its quicker,”

His tone sharp and venomous, clearly the liquid courage he drank in the pub the other night hasn’t left his system.

A couple of years Roisin’s senior, they haven’t seen eye to eye for years. Things have only worsened since, Steven Fitzpatrick, Roisin biological father and James stepfather passed away. More than enough times since then I have been forced to intervene in their disputes. The last one in the pub, being only one of many which have turned violent.

The young man James is a real man towards women with some whiskey inside him. It’s when it’s not inside him that he seems to lose his manhood. The marks big Tom has left him with, tell their tail of that.

“We can’t be everywhere at once,” Garda O Brien tells him.

“If you were bleeding somewhere at all, it might stop some of the crimes around here.”

He looks right at me as if I caused her death. “The only trouble caused around the village comes from you, that is when you have one or two glasses of liquid courage inside you,” I meet his anger with my own. “Best keep out of it, or we might think you were the cause of this!”

I say it to him to scare him, but it quickly becomes obvious to me, he could have caused her death, he might have done this.

“Mr Doyle,” I grab hold of him as Ms Fitzpatrick enters the home out of breath, the woman must have sprinted from the village. “I am detaining you for questioning!”

“No,” She roars. “Leave him alone, he is hurting.” She pleads grabbing my arm. Garda O Brien sees to her as I arrest Mr Doyle with some struggle involved.

5

He was not even locked up for questioning an hour before, Ms Fitzpatrick comes charging into my station again. Fuming and out of breath, again she must have run here.

“Hello Mrs Fitzpatrick,” I struggle to smile as she enters the Garda station again. “what brings you here again?” I don’t even get the chance to put my pencil down before she hits the reception table, irate.

“Why have you locked him up?” She roars.

Taken back by her scream, Garda O Brien approaches the desk.

“You know why he was arrested!” I reply as she bangs the table again.

“Release him, now,” She demands spitting as she speaks.

“I won’t be doing that?” I assure her professionally and relaxed.

“Nor will you be making such demands around here!” Less than professional, Garda O Brien chimes in insulted by her demand and tone.

“He did nothing,” She screams at him mirroring the anger she had inside her on the night, Mr Doyle was fighting outside the pub on my arrival.

“How do you know?” Garda O Brien asks jumping the mark. But as I look at him, he looks away from me, knowing he has done wrong.

“He is being locked up for questioning nothing more!”

“He did not do it!” She shouts sure of her words.

“Tell me what you know, Ms Fitzpatrick, am I the bad guy locking the wrong person up?”

“Yes,” She shouts.

“Do tell?” I ask her throwing a question out there just to see what comes of it, does she know more or is she hiding something.

“He has done nothing wrong; he is a good man.” she nods her head agreeing to her own comment. “he is a hard-working man, an honest man, a family man!”

“He isn’t married from what I know of him. And he does not much care for his family from what I remember, and I remember quite a lot. I remember him attacking Roisin more than enough times to know what he thinks of his family members.”

“That was nothing!” She implores.

“Nothing, he assaulted her!” I look at her closer, she doesn’t seem to care about that. “he struck a woman for what?” I ask knowing she already knows the answer. “Wait here!”

“That was nothing!”

She calls out to me as I go to my desk and retrieve the piece of parchment Garda O Brien handed over to me.

“What can you tell me about this?”

“Why nothing!” She tells me turning red and backing away. “I’ve never seen that parchment before!”

“I’d say you know more about the contents of this letter than I do, or officer O Brien here does, and we’ve had it in our possession for hours now!”

“I know nothing!” She remarks now showing none of the fight she had inside her on her arrival.

“You handed it over to me, on the night, Miss Roisin Fitzpatrick was murdered!” Garda O Brien says.

“You came to me a week ago to the day if I am not mistaken wanting to know about the Dowry!”

I look at her as she touches the handle of the door, with a look on her face saying she wants nothing more than to be as far away from here as possible.

“I also remember you asking me about it before then, a couple of nights before I last broke up a fight between Miss Fitzpatrick your niece and Mr Doyle.” Garda O Brien approaches her. “Ms Fitzpatrick, do you want to tell us something?” I ask her.

“No,” She implores coming to tears.

“How did you come across Miss Roisin letter?”

“No,” She cries.

“You were at the scene of the crime!” Sure, of my words I approach her.

“No,” She cries louder now.

“Ms Fitzpatrick I am placing you on remand!”

“No…” she screams. “I did not kill her!”

“Who did?” I ask her.

She cries as Garda O Brien arrests her.

6

Garda O Brien had only just entered the questioning room with the suspect Mr Doyle. Before he began his tirade, which honestly sounded more like a spoiled child trying to argue his way out of a punishment coming to him than anything else.

“Can you honestly say to me, that you honestly think I killed her?” He stands up after being forced to sit down. “Say it to my face, right now!” He demands.

“Sit down,” I demand.

Not used to another man standing up to him, Mr Doyle doesn’t know what to do. He looks at his feet and then to the table before making eye contact with me again.

“Say it to my face and be honest,” he demands again but in a softer tone.

“You are being placed on remand,”

“I did not kill her.” He roars.

“Watch your tone of voice with me,” I tell him holding back my anger.

“I will not!” He replies softly, not truly brave enough to say something to me clear and out loud. “You are talking away my freedoms!”

“That’s usually what happens when your placed-on remand.” I smile before pointing at the seat behind him, my last time asking him to be seated. “Now to the case at hand.” I open the file on the desk slowly just to annoy him more. “you were the first person to find Miss Fitzpatrick dead, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” He shouts.

“And what did that look like?” I ask throwing out a random question.

“What?” He replies annoyed and confused.

“The crime scene, was she still alive when you arrived?”

“No.” he covers his face. “she was dead, on her bed, you saw her yourself.”

“Nothing else?” Again, I throw out another question just to see what happens.

“No nothing.” he bangs the table. “I didn’t see anyone inside the home, leaving the home, going to it, I didn’t see anyone suspicious, nor have I seen anyone around lately who was suspicious-looking.”

“So, who killed her then?” I ask.

“I don’t know, that’s your job, go find out. I was just done entertaining for the evening.”

“Entertaining who?”

“That’s none of your business.” he shouts defensively. “my business is my own!”

“Normally yes, but you’re the chief suspect in a murder investigation, you have no personal business anymore.”

Mr Doyle’s teeth touch in anger, as the rage inside him begins to bubble over to the point of exploding, he looks me right in the eyes, challenging me. One would swear he has a drop of the liquid courage inside him now.

“Who were you entertaining?” I ask him, but it’s a question he must answer.

“Ms Fitzpatrick!” He replies annoyed then looks at the floor.

“Your stepsister?” I ask him knowing who he is talking about but just want him to say who he was eating with.

“No!” He replies still not looking at me.

“Your aunt?”

“Yes,” He makes a fist.

“Why Ms Emma Fitzpatrick is a widow, why would you be entertaining a widow?”

“She is family!”

“No, she’s not. She married into the Fitzpatrick family as your mother did, You’re a Doyle.”

I don’t even need to use my Garda training to figure something odd is going on here. As Garda O Donnell looks closer at Mr Doyle, he looks to the door, as if he was thinking of running for it; to escape the next words which are about to leave my mouth.

“You’re romantically linked. Aren’t you!” I ask him he says nothing.

Ms Fitzpatrick is brought into the questioning room, just as another officer (someone brought in from another village to help) brings Mr Doyle back to his cell. Breaking down crying on seeing Mr Doyle, Ms Fitzpatrick can’t control herself.

“I am so sorry!” Ms Fitzpatrick cries out.

“Be quite!” Mr Doyle tells her through a clenched jaw.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this far; it wasn’t supposed to end like this.” She tries to touch Mr Doyle but is stopped.

“Shut it fool.” James Doyle tells her.

“Please do continue Ms Fitzpatrick.” I tell her, she looks at me teary eyed.

“I killed her!” she tells me. Big fat teardrops roll from her eyes the moment she sits down.

“You killed Roisin Fitzpatrick?” I ask.

“I did it!” She shouts out her secrets she can no longer hold onto.

“She is lying, she’s just emotional!” He tells me.

“Are you confessing to the murder of Roisin?” I ask her again.

“She is not.” Mr Doyle fights to free himself, I can see it in his eyes, he wants to hurt me. “Shut your mouth, say no more.” He screams at Ms Fitzpatrick.

“I killed her.” She wipes away tears confessing her sins. “She would not listen to me, she never did.”

“Why did you do it?” Garda O Brien asks her.

“For the ownership of Roisin Dowry!” I tell him.

“You stupid whore.” Mr Doyle screams trying his upmost to attack Ms Fitzpatrick, not the most impressive looking man, he is easily held back by the new officer to the station.

“The plot of land she owns is between your farms. Mr Doyle inherited the farm from his stepfather Michael, Roisin’s father and you having inherited yours through your late husband Tom Fitzpatrick.”

Mr Doyle is finally controlled.

“Roisin’s dowry would have gone to the man she marries. That is if she ever got the chance to meet a man.”

Giving up the fight, Mr Doyle is forced to be seated now.

“I’ve reason to believe that those fights you and Miss Roisin got into at the local pub were because she was talking to a potential suitor of hers and you weren’t one bit happy about that were you Mr Doyle?”

He looks at his feet knowing the game is up.

“No,” Ms Fitzpatrick chimes in. “we weren’t. She was going to destroy our plans. We were going to marry, maybe even, god willing have kids one day.”

“So, you killed her?” I look to her.

“We went over to her home to talk to her, I swear it to you on my mother’s life. We were going to tell her about us, about our future together then maybe she would see the error in her ways and maybe sell the home to us.”

“But she didn’t see it that way, did she?” Garda O Brien looks at her.

“No,” She tells him, angered but still in tears. “she got violent with us, with James.” Mr Doyle looks up from the floor at her. “we were defending ourselves.”

“We, meaning the two of you, defending yourselves against one person, a girl of twenty. I do not think so, I think she didn’t see the error in her ways as you say and you Mr Doyle.” I look right at him. “did what you normally do, you got aggressive with her. She was the one defending herself, not you two!”

“She was overpowering him,” Ms Fitzpatrick tone rattles with panics as if reliving the event.

“She was defending herself and winning the fight, so what did you do?”

“I helped him!” She tells me.

“How?” I ask.

“She was so strong, I couldn’t stop her, I couldn’t break up the fight.” She cries at me.

“What did you do?”

“I struck her, I hit her hard, I had too, she was so strong.”

“What did you hit her with?” Garda O Brien asks.

“The fire poker.” She tells him, before looking at Mr Doyle across the table from her.

Garda O Brien looks at me. “That would explain the missing teeth and broken nose.”

“But she was still alive.” She continues.

“Shut it.” Mr Doyle roars at her but is quickly restrained.

“You finished her off,” I tell him. “you left the marks on her throat, she was still alive after Ms Fitzpatrick hit her, you strangled her.”

“Please,” Ms Fitzpatrick pleads with me. “it wasn’t supposed to happen like that, please see our side of things.” She asks me standing up but is quickly forced to be seated.

“Ms Fitzpatrick, you are now under arrest for the murder of Roisin Fitzpatrick.” she cries out to me, Mr Doyle looks to her. “Don’t worry, Mr Doyle, you’re under arrest too.”

THE END