The Last Witch, A Seacross Mystery

By Sabina Gabrielli Carrara

Back in 1974 the dormant Irish village of Seacross is shocked by the gruesome circumstances of young Margaret Morehouse’s death. Forty-five years later history seems to repeat itself and the quiet life of the coastal Irish village is suddenly shaken by a series of ritualistic murders.
Someone had broken the pact of secrecy to obtain justice, but if the truth comes out nobody will be spared, from the future Taoiseach to the local men of power. Inspector Billy McCabe is called to investigate but what hides behind those deaths is more obscure than he thinks. Not only will the inspector have to face his demons and test his beliefs but he will also have to watch over his shoulder because nobody can be trusted, not even the ones closest to him. In the end, McCabe will find his way out of the net of lies and old secrets, but at what price?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sabina Gabrielli Carrara
• Release date: Oct 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005683719

Sabina Gabrielli Carrara

Author of murder mysteries with a psychological twist, after a degree in History and Philosophy and some experience in Human resources, Sabina moved to Ireland in 2003. She worked a few years in the financial services before she decided to go back to her old passion: writing.She is a published author in Danemark and currently living in the little village of Balrothery in North Co. Dublin with her husband, their two daughters, two dogs and some foster who comes and goes.

Book preview

Prologue

Seacross 1975, Lughnasadh Day

They only wanted that night to last as long as possible. It was the three musketeers’ last night together worries free, before University would send their lives upon different paths. They found a secluded spot on the beach from which to watch the fireworks and smoke and drink undisturbed. They were high and happy and everything was perfect until the girls came.

They didn’t mean to hurt anyone; how could they have known those herbs were dangerous. They had smoked them too, but now it didn’t matter. Now it was too late. They thought about calling the police, after all, it has been an accident, but nobody would have believed them, and their lives would have been ruined forever. They had dreams and a golden future ahead of them and nothing they would do would give that girl her life back.

They got the idea about how to dispose of the body from a school assignment.  It was about the case of ‘the boy in the attic’. A gruesome murder that had shocked the country the previous year. Everybody had talked about it but, at the same time, everybody wanted to forget about it. If they were lucky, it would never happen again.

 They drove back to Rollerballery and got what they needed from the tool shed. They knew the workers kept it unlocked. They drove down to the fields close to The Witch Cottage, the perfect spot.

 Only one of them had to do it, the other two would drive back. If there would be an inquiry and questions were asked, they were home together. They picked up some sticks from the ground, holding their breath as they chose one each. The shortest one would lose. Two pairs of relieved eyes looked at the short stick still in the hand of their friend. His eyes frozen on the stick too. Nothing would ever be the same between them after that night.

He looked at the car driving away. He planted the wooden planks and went back to the body. Her eyes still open and looking at him. He wondered if he would ever forget those eyes. Probably not, but now it didn’t matter. His clarity surprised him. There was no sign of all the alcohol or the drugs he had done. Suddenly there was just his survival instinct. He knelt down to lift her up, but a noise made him turn.

 He was not alone.

1

David still didn’t know what to expect from the meeting with Mr McGarry, a solicitor from the nearby town of Swords. Miss Ellen, his secretary, rang him the day after his father died and made him an appointment with Mr McGarry. She didn’t provide David with any information about the reason, but only mentioned that his father had left something for him. The notion that his dad could have some offshore secret bank account or property never crossed David’s mind, and not even the thought that his father’s bank account would be empty after all those years of hard work and frugal lifestyle had entered his mind. When David went to the bank earlier, he couldn’t believe his eyes when he looked at the figures of his father’s current account. Mr Bailey, the bank manager, explained to him that his father had given most of his income every month to different charities. - Was it even legal to do so? - Apparently yes, if Aran O’Sullivan was in total control of his faculties, he could do what he wanted with his money.

The drive from Seacross to Swords took longer than usual as David’s jeep was stuck behind a tractor all the way. Not an uncommon thing along the R132. There were a lot of farms and garden nurseries in the area, and trucks and tractors used the major road to move around and transport their goods.

 The solicitor’s office was on the second floor of an inconspicuous building, squeezed between a convenience store and a hairdresser. David rang the bell, and a few seconds later, he was buzzed in.

Miss Ellen, a youthful girl with auburn hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, welcomed David and with a gracious gesture of her hand invited him to take a seat in the waiting room. A few minutes later, she showed up carrying a cup of coffee for him. David sprawled on the leather armchair closest to the window and enjoyed the posh treatment. Fifteen minutes later, Mr McGarry came out.

First, Mr O’Sullivan, let me say how sad I am for your loss, the solicitor was as pompous as the interior of his office, David thought. As my secretary mentioned to you on the phone, your father left something for you, here with us, the man continued.

A letter apparently, but she didn’t say what it’s about, David interrupted him. 

Because we don’t know. Your father sealed the letter before depositing it with us over a year ago and gave us strict instructions to give it to you only after his death.

 One year ago was when they diagnosed David’s father with terminal liver cancer. Aran O’Sullivan knew he was dying and had something to tell his son, but what was it that he couldn’t do it face to face? Now David’s curiosity was combined with worries.

Mr McGarry, went to a documents cabinet and took out a brown envelope, Good luck, Mr O’Sullivan. The solicitor gave David the letter and shook his hands. His job ended there, and so did their meeting.

David walked back to his car as fast as he could. Curiosity was impossible to keep at bay, but he didn’t want to open the letter in the street. David sat behind the wheel, ripped the seal off the envelop and read. And then he reread the letter, and again. One, two, three times he had to read the letter to make sense of what his father was confessing.

The drive back to Seacross had felt to David like the longest journey of his life. He would give everything he had (that was not much nowadays) for a drink, but he knew better than to show up at his old man’s funeral drunk. Even if the last thing he felt right now was to pay his respects to a man who had lied all his life.

David waited for the coffin to be taken away, and after refusing the invite to go with Aran’s old friends to the pub across the road, he went instead to The Snake. He wanted to be alone and most of all, he didn’t want to hear people reminding him how principled a man his father was. He was not. He was a damn bastard. David clasped his fists until the nails left visible marks on his palms and started walking down a parallel of the Main Street. He opened the pub’s door. The familiarity of the place with its leather armchairs and old sofas around low tables relaxed him immediately. He sat on one of the stools along the bar. Sometimes in the evening, and especially on weekends, the place could get very crowded, in the afternoon it was always quiet. 

How is it going? Dan, the owner, asked, laying a pint of Guinness and a glass of whiskey in front of David. 

It’s going, David responded, lifting his glass.

After over thirty years in Ireland, Dan’s South California accent had practically completely vanished, but yet David still found that his Irish slang sounded funny and made him smile. Over time Dan had become a sort of a friend to David. A confessor mostly, -but aren’t all barman in some way? - David spent most of his afternoons on that stool at the bar. Some weeks he struggled to pay the bar bills, but any bill he had ever left he had repaid as soon as he got some cash in. Dan never had a problem with it, and while David rambled day after day about how cruel life has been with him, Dan patiently listened. In reality, David O’Sullivan had thrown his life away himself and deep down he knew it. Just blaming it on someone or something else was easier, and alcohol was the perfect way to forget about it. Unfortunately, that night not even the bottle of whiskey he had quaffed could settle David’s head. His father’s words were impressed in his memory. The old man was not the saint everybody thought. These monthly charity donations were nothing but a pathetic attempt to cleanse his conscience, leaving to him, his only son, his burden.

2

The morning light slowly filled the bedroom through the curtains, and the hangover made it impossible for David to go back to sleep. He took a shower, shaved and got dressed. David then grabbed the letter from the bedside table and stuck it in his trousers’ back pocket.   His stomach was rumbling, and he stopped at Maude’s cafe. The place was nearly deserted that early in the morning. David picked a table by the window, looking over the main street. From there he had a clear view of the Garda Station. While slowly eating his full Irish breakfast, he mentally practised what to say to Billy and when the last piece of mushroom had disappeared from his plate, he paid and left.

The little metal pedestrian gate was freshly painted, dark blue, like the window frames of the old house hosting the station. Once inside, David asked to speak to Chief McCabe. If he was going ahead with his father’s absurd plan, he wanted to do it with someone who knew his old man. Annette let him take a seat and told him to wait as the Chief was not there yet but would arrive soon. The wait felt immeasurably long but gave David all the time to see things from a different perspective. What his father had asked him to report was something far bigger than himself. It involved influential people. What if the police didn’t believe him? What if they covered it up again like they did 45 years ago? Maybe following his father’s will was not the right thing to do. With an excuse, David left the station, grateful that Billy was not there already, or else he would have never realised the big mistake he was about to make. Only now, he realised the value of his father’s confession. 

Once at home, he grabbed a beer and sat outside in the little square that was his back garden. David felt a sudden rage growing inside him, -Fucking selfish cowardly bastard-he screamed, throwing the beer bottle at the wall. That was what his father was.

David grabbed another beer and sat back on the deck chair, ignoring the shards of glass all over the ground. His train of thought was broken by the doorbell.  It was Norman, the postman, and he was carrying an envelope in his hand that was for sure a registered post, or else Norman would have pushed it through the letterbox. David opened the door reluctantly. In his experience, a registered post usually meant speeding tickets, or debts collectors’ warnings. 

Hey Dave, Norman greeted him with his usual happy face, here man, just sign there, and he passed David the electronic signature machine.

Thanks, Norman, David signed and took the letter.

Have a good day, Norman said while leaving as smiley as he arrived.  Norman was a good man, but sometimes he certainly got on David’s nerves. He had to ride around town in whatever weather and his wife had recently left him for a guy she had met during their honeymoon and he still looked happy all the time. David closed the door behind him and turned the letter around. There was no sender, but according to the stamp it came from Germany. There were only two people who could write to him from Germany, his ex-wife and his by now estranged daughter. David ripped the envelope and read the letter that it contained. It was from Greta. She wanted to inform him that their daughter Marika was getting married. Klaus, Greta’s husband, would walk her down the aisle and it was better for everybody if David did not attend the ceremony.

David couldn’t say he was surprised. After Greta and Marika went back to Dusseldorf, he was not much involved in his daughter’s life. When she was small, he went to Germany to see her a few times a year, and it only took a teddy bear bought at the airport to make her happy and love her daddy. Unfortunately, Marika didn’t stay a child forever and growing up she couldn’t avoid comparing her birth father with the man she had grown up with, Klaus.  David couldn’t dislike Klaus. He married Greta shortly after their divorce and loved Marika like she was his own kid. The time came when Marika was old enough to ask more questions about what had happened between her parents. Why did you give up on me leaving mum sole custody? she asked him one day. David didn’t try to deny his faults or disguise the facts. Thanks to her parents’ wealth Greta could afford the best divorce lawyers, and considering David’s personal and financial situation, she easily obtained sole custody of Marika. David didn’t have either the economic resources or the psychological strength to go through a legal battle. What he had, instead, was a long queue of creditors outside his door.  David had moved back into his tiny bungalow and regretfully agreed on all Greta’s conditions in exchange of a severance payment. The feeling of having sold his daughter never abandoned him, but he had to survive. When they met, for David it was love at first sight, but soon it became evident that Greta was as spoiled as she was charming.  David would have done anything to make her happy until her spending habits went out of control, and before he knew it, he had lost everything, his business, his wife and his daughter.

David knew he should only be grateful to the man who had supported his daughter over the years, compensating for his absence, financially and emotionally. Nevertheless, the content of the letter was like a stab in the heart. No matter what caused Marika and him to be estranged, she was his flesh and blood. He was her father, not Klaus. David crumpled up the letter and threw it in the kitchen bin. He picked up the phone and called his ex-wife.

David, you have no part in Marika’s life, and that is nobody’s fault but yours. So please don’t even try to vindicate your paternal role, for the sake of our daughter. Greta’s voice had not changed. Cold and unwavering, as he remembered it.

Exactly, our daughter, Greta. She is my daughter, David tried to argue. 

No, David, you renounced her when you took my father’s money!

The line went dead, and a sudden fury arose inside David. He was not going to take it anymore. His father died and left him to clean up his shit; his ex-wife left him and took away the only good thing he had done in his life, but all this was going to change. David O’Sullivan was about to resurrect himself in all his old splendour, and he would take back what was his.

He had made up his mind.

3

The bomb was dropped.

David couldn’t deny feeling some guilt for making a profit out of a crime, and such as a heinous one at that, but what difference would it make now? The only one who could make the difference was his father, but he chose not to talk and instead be an accomplice in the cover-up.

The generosity of the Brookenbridges towards him was now explained. They had bought his silence. David wondered if the old man did it out of loyalty or greed. For whatever reason, he had helped them and now he expected his son to give Margaret Morehouse justice?

-What a coward, and he didn’t even have the guts to tell him in person-

Of course, morally, David was at fault, but he needed the money, and his father’s confession was the way to secure a constant flow in his bank account. Without realising it, Aran O’Sullivan left his son something more valuable than any sum of money. David’s plan was simple but if well-orchestrated, it would work. Those men had everything to lose, and if they wanted him to keep it quiet, they would have to buy his silence too.

4

A re you not going to work today? Martha asked, looking at her husband entering the kitchen in his blue suit.

I’m going in later. There is the old O’Sullivan funeral this morning,

Right, I totally forgot about it. Do you think I should come with you?

Nah, you didn’t even know him, Billy said, kissing his wife on the forehead and stealing the toast she had just finished spreading with jam, I’m only going because he was a good friend of my father. You know, just to pay my respects. 

He was the Brookenbridges’ gamekeeper, right?

Gamekeeper, gardener, guardian, odd jobs man. He did a bit of everything for the family. He worked there ever since I can remember and then when he got sick the young Brookenbridge paid all his medical expenses. Very generous, 

And by ‘the young Brookenbridge’ you mean James, right? Who is, what? Mid-sixties? Martha said with a smirk.

They had the same conversation multiple times. She thought it was ridiculous that in the village James Brookenbridge was still referred to as ‘the young Brookenbridge’, but apparently this was how it worked. - What could she possibly know; she was a blown in and would be for the rest of her life, no matter how long she lived in Seacross. Unless you were born and bred in the village, you weren’t local. 

Billy drunk the last of his coffee in one go, blew a kiss to his wife and headed to the door.

 The church was full, mostly elderly. Billy felt a sudden pain to his stomach, thinking of his father, confined in a nursing home. The decision had not been easy, but his dementia had degenerated so badly in the last year so there were no other options. At least his mother had died before seeing him like that, although Billy believed that his mother’s death and his father’s dementia were related.

After the Mass, there wouldn’t be any burial because Aran O’Sullivan wanted to be cremated, but that wouldn’t happen for another week.

A waiting list to get cremated, can you believe that? I’m telling you; funerals are a gold business! One of the men from the church approached Billy, Are you coming for a pint, Chief?

No, thank you. I have to go back to the station, Billy waved at the man whose name he couldn’t remember and walked away.

The Catholic church was on the main street, just a few yards from the Garda Station. Billy didn’t bother to go home or change into his uniform.

Wow, funeral or wedding? Annette greeted him from her desk massaging her baby bump.

Funeral and you stop massaging your bump, it’s not going to make the baby come out sooner, Billy barked back, peering at the baby bump that the young guard could hardly fit behind the reception desk and went into his office.

And good morning to you too, Sir, Annette yelled bitterly from behind her desk.

Anything to report? Billy answered back, softening his tone apologetically. He had snapped for no reason.

Nope, Sir, Annette’s tone had softened too. Apologies accepted, And I must mention that I’m starting to become bored. Think how nice it would be to have a big case just before I go on maternity leave? 

Are you hoping for some member of our lovely and peaceful community to die, Annette? The inspector responded with a false grin of disconcertment.

No Sir, more to be murdered actually. But I understand another Greaney-Mulligan case is unlikely to happen.

The Dr Greaney and Paul Mulligan murders and the suicide of their killer, who was also the mistress of the first one and wife of the second, had shaken the dormant coastal village to the bones. Love affairs, illegitimate offspring, drug dealing, murders. The case had everything an excellent hard-boiled detective story must have to be successful. The national media thoroughly covered the case, but soon something else captured the first pages of the papers, and Seacross went back to its normal life. Still, McCabe and Annette had their chance to shine and prove their abilities in solving the murders.

Sir, Annette stopped at Billy’s office door, "they called from the seafront reporting some disturbances at the funfair. Something to do with a dog and a stolen wallet. The crowd