“Jesus,” I said. It’s not as easy as it sounds to ignore five people right there in front of you, looking for your attention. It takes a lot of concentration to override all your instincts like that; you need a reason, something hard and cold as bedrock. I tried to keep an eye on the lane in both directions at once.
“Justin’s getting upset and wants to leave, Rafe’s getting angry and wants to stay, Lexie’s getting more and more hyper trying to make these old fellas talk to her-offering them chocolate, telling them lightbulb jokes-and a bunch of younger guys in a corner are starting to throw over dirty looks. Abby wasn’t too keen on backing down herself, but she and Daniel both figured this situation could get out of hand any second. They grabbed the others and left, and they didn’t go back.”
A light rustle of wind swept through the leaves, moving up the lane towards me. “So the bad feeling goes right through Glenskehy,” I said, “but only one or two people are taking it that step further.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. And it’s going to be a right laugh finding out who they are. There’s about four hundred people in Glenskehy, counting the outlying farms, and none of them are about to give me a hand narrowing it down.”
“There,” I said, “I might be able to help out. See, this I can profile. Sort of, anyway: nobody collects psychological data on vandals like they do on serial killers, so it’ll be mostly guesswork, but at least there’s enough of a pattern that I can give you something.”
“I’ll take guesswork,” Sam said cheerfully. I heard pages rustling, a shift of the phone as he got ready to write. “I’ll take anything, sure. Go on.”
“OK,” I said. “You’re looking for someone local, obviously-Glenskehy born and bred. Almost definitely male. I think it’s one person rather than a gang: spontaneous vandalism mostly involves groups, but planned hate campaigns like this one tend to be more private.”
“Anything you can tell me about him?” Sam’s voice had gone blurry: he had the phone caught under his jaw, writing.
“If this started about four years ago, then he’s probably in his midtwenties to early thirties-vandalism’s usually a young man’s crime, but this guy’s too methodical for a teenager. Not much education-Leaving Cert, maybe, but no college. He lives with someone, either his parents or a wife or girlfriend: no attacks in the middle of the night, someone’s expecting him home by a certain time. He’s employed, in a job that keeps him busy all through weekdays, or there would have been incidents during the day, when we’re all out and the coast is clear. The job’s local, too, he doesn’t commute to Dublin or anything; this level of obsession says Glenskehy’s his whole world. And it doesn’t satisfy him. He’s working well below his intellectual or educational level, or he thinks he is, anyway. And he’ll probably have had ongoing problems with other people before, neighbors, ex-girlfriends, maybe employers; this guy won’t play well with authority. It might be worth checking with Byrne and Doherty for any local feuds or harassment complaints.”
“If my fella hassled someone from Glenskehy,” Sam said grimly, “there’s no way they’d go to the cops. They’d just get their mates together and give him a beating some night, sure. And he wouldn’t bring that to the cops, either.”
“No,” I said, “probably not.” A flicker of movement, off in the field across the lane, a dark streak turning the grass. It was way too small for a person, but I moved deeper into the shadow of the tree all the same. “Here’s the other thing. The campaign against Whitethorn House could have been triggered by some run-in with Simon March-he sounds like a narky old git, he could well have pissed someone off-but, in your boy’s mind, it goes way deeper than that. To him, it’s about a dead baby. And Byrne and Doherty don’t have a clue about that, right? How long have they been here?”
“Doherty only two years, but Byrne’s been stuck out here since 1997. He says there was a cot death in the village last spring and a wee girl fell into a slurry pit on one of the farms, a few years back-God rest them-but that’s the lot. Nothing suspicious about either death, and no links to Whitethorn House. And the computer didn’t come up with anything in the area.”
“Then we’re looking for something further back,” I said, “just like you thought. God knows how far. Remember what you told me, about the Purcells round your way?”
A pause. “We’ll never find it, so. The records, sure.”
Most of Ireland’s public records went up in a fire in 1921, in the Civil War. “You don’t need records. People round here know about this, I guarantee you. Whenever that baby died, this guy didn’t get the story out of some old newspaper. He’s way too obsessed with it. To him, that’s not ancient history; it’s a real, fresh, crucial grudge that needs to be avenged.”
“Are you saying he’s mad?”
