‘Well… it was the winter of ’93–’94,’ Dazza began, slightly louder than was necessary for any would-be conspirator. ‘A wee lassie, not all that much younger than you, was found battered to death on Inchmahome. Her heid was caved in. Terrible sight, so they say.’
‘She’d walked over the frozen lake, you see,’ Kenny took up the story. ‘Never made it back. Poor wee thing. Murdered in the old priory. Blood and broken bones everywhere.’
Narey let a shudder visibly ripple through her, her shoulders shaking in a girlie manner sure to encourage them to continue their tale of gore.
‘So who was she?’ she asked, lowering her voice as if joining in on their intrigue.
‘No one knows,’ Kenny told her. ‘Never identified. Her face was bashed in so no one really knew what she looked like.’
‘Never found out who killed her either,’ Dazza added with a barely concealed grin. ‘He’s still out there somewhere.’
Narey dutifully squirmed. She wasn’t the only one: the barman had his back half-turned to them but she saw him wringing the life out of a pint glass, rubbing at it with a towel as if trying to wipe the logo from it.
‘You hear all sorts,’ Kenny confided, leaning in towards Narey, clearly revelling in the story. ‘I was told it was one of them paedophile rings. Tried to kidnap her but it went wrong and they had to murder her.’
‘Nah,’ Dazza disagreed. ‘She was too old for that. I heard talk of her being a gypsy girl. There were definitely a good few Romany families who were in the area. The word is the deid girl was one of theirs and that’s why no one ever came forward.’
‘And what do you think of that?’
‘Could be,’ Kenny conceded. ‘Folk say how she was a Romany princess who had been determined to marry her lover, except that he wasn’t a gypsy and so her father killed her.’
‘Definitely,’ Dazza nodded enthusiastically. ‘I was talking to a bloke in here who was adamant that she was a gypsy girl. He said it was some other gyppo guy that had killed her — the one her family wanted her to marry. Certain of it, so he was.’
Kenny shrugged, seemingly unconvinced. ‘Paedophiles. That’s what I heard. She was a runaway, living rough and the bastards killed her.’
‘Poor girl,’ Narey lamented. ‘It must have been horrific.’
‘Aye. Months before she was found,’ Dazza agreed, half an eye on the barman standing just a few feet away. ‘Horrible.’
‘A bag of bones inside a red anorak,’ Kenny added coldly. ‘All broken up and left there to rot.’
Suddenly all three jumped as the sound of breaking glass rang through the pub. The pint tumbler that was being dried had slipped from the barman’s grasp and shattered on the floor, sending shards flying to all corners.
The two drinkers on either side of Narey grinned at each other as mocking jeers rose from the pub’s other customers.
‘That will be coming out of your wages, Bobby,’ Dazza laughed at him.
Bobby Heneghan scowled back at his tormentors as he bent over the smashed tumbler, his hands shaking as he swept the glass splinters onto a plastic brush pan.
‘Get stuffed,’ he told them, an obvious tremor in his voice.
A plump blonde in a pair of tight denims and a grey sweatshirt came round the side of the bar and squatted down beside Heneghan, slipping an arm round his shoulder.
‘It’s okay, Bobby, I’ll clean this up. You’re due for a break anyway. Go and get a seat and I’ll get Moira to bring you a cup of tea.’
Heneghan nodded silently and got to his feet, slipping away without a backward glance and turning a deaf ear to the sniggers from the men beside Narey. The blonde stood too and glared at Kenny and Dazza.
‘Leave him alone,’ she hissed at them. ‘I’ve told you two a hundred times. This time I mean it: any more of that crap and you’re barred. Both of you.’
The men had the good grace to look shamefaced but Narey doubted they meant it. She glanced over to see Heneghan sitting in a chair in the corner, his arms crossed across his chest. Kenny and Dazza saw her looking and let their faces lapse into spiteful grins again.
‘Don’t worry about old Bobby,’ Dazza sneered. ‘You’d think he’d be over finding a body after all this time.’
‘Aye, silly old sod,’ Kenny agreed. ‘How about we get you a proper drink and tell you more about the murder?’
Narey smiled sweetly at the pair of them and let a single word slip quietly from her lips: ‘Arseholes.’
Bobby Heneghan looked up to see Narey standing at his side, his eyes immediately falling back to the table and the cup of tea that had appeared in front of him.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know those guys and I didn’t realise they were winding you up. I’d never have…’
‘I know. It’s okay.’
‘No, really. I feel terrible about being part of that. They just started on about it and I… well, I didn’t know. Was it you that… found her?’
Heneghan nodded without looking up, reached for the tea and edged the cup to his lips.
‘Do you mind if I sit down? I really feel like I owe you an apology.’
‘Forget it. It’s okay.’
Shit, he was a stubborn old bugger. She needed to get him to open up.
‘It’s Bobby, isn’t it?’ she asked softly. ‘My name’s Rachel. Look, this isn’t any of my business but it is what I do for a living.’
Finally, he looked up at her, a questioning look on his face.
‘I talk to people who have been through traumatic events to help them make sense of what happened and get to the truth.’
‘Like a counsellor?’
She nodded.
‘I’ve seen similar reactions many times, even years after the event that causes it. Have you ever been diagnosed, Bobby? Because I’d be sure you are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.’
Heneghan’s mouth trembled as if he were going to speak but he didn’t find the words. Instead, he gave the merest shake of his head. Narey put her hand over his and squeezed it gently, bringing a sad smile to the man’s face. His eyes were tired and lined, nervously darting from place to place.
‘I know I’m just being a bit stupid,’ he said quietly.
She squeezed his hand again. ‘Of course you’re not, Bobby. You have been through a psychological ordeal. It’s not about being strong or “being a man”. It’s about getting help to deal with it.’
Heneghan sighed.
‘Those… those buggers at the bar are always taking the piss out of me about it and maybe they’re right. Maybe I should be over it by now. It’s not funny though. They should try finding a young girl like that — see how they like it.’
Narey’s head flash filled with thoughts of Tony, camera in hand, and the peculiar pleasure he would take in stumbling across such a scenario. He would like it and that still bothered her.
‘I’m sure they wouldn’t,’ she told Heneghan. ‘But how did it happen?’
Heneghan sighed and lowered his voice further, his eyes slowly closing over.
‘It was late March and me and old Tam Conway, the bloke I worked with, were going to Inchmahome. The island is shut to visitors from October to April so before it opened up again we would go over and cut the grass, do weeding, repair work, whatever was needed. I remember it was cold because Tam was moaning all morning. That was old Tam though — he never stopped complaining.
‘Anyhow, we got the boat over to the island, just the two of us. I always liked the old place. Full of history: Mary Queen of Scots stayed there for three weeks back in fifteen forty something; Robert the Bruce before that as well. And there was the wildlife and all — ospreys and merlins and swans and geese. Brilliant so it was.
‘So this day, me and Tam get to Inchmahome. It was raining but not very hard. We got the gear out of the old boathouse by the jetty and split up the way we always did. He’d start at the chapter house and I’d begin at the priory. Suited me fine — meant I didnae have to listen to his moaning. There wasnae much in the way of growth because of the winter having been so harsh, like. The island had been under snow for most of it. So we figured we wouldnae need to be there too long. We could spin it out for a few hours but that would include at least three fag breaks.