Lake of Sorrows

He parked outside the station and walked around to the front entrance, a tiny room with a window for the duty officer and a row of hideous molded-plastic chairs opposite. No one was at the window, but a woman sat in one of the chairs, waiting. She cast a brief, anxious look in Ward’s direction, then turned back to the empty window and sat a little straighter in her chair, arms crossed across her chest. Her handbag hung over one shoulder and two bulging carrier bags rested at her feet. She’d come in after doing her shopping for the day, after trying to decide whether to speak to the police. She wouldn’t stay long if no one came to her aid.

Crossing the waiting area to the inner door, Ward formed an impression instantly. The woman was perhaps his own age, he decided, fifty-ish, though she looked younger. He would have described her as handsome rather than delicately beautiful. She had dressed with care, and the clothing, though not in the latest fashion, was of good quality: a tailored trouser suit, a crisp white blouse, and just a touch of makeup. A farmer’s wife, Ward decided. Respectable. Her face showed concern, perhaps that she would be seen sitting in the reception area of the Garda station, but there was something deeper as well. In his years in the Guards, Ward had learned to read many different layers and grades of concern. There was the annoyance of parents come to fetch unruly offspring who had committed some relatively minor offense such as public drinking or joyriding; complainants about noisy neighbors often brought with them a nauseating air of moral sanctity. This woman’s face had none of that. The idea struck him that she was here to make a confession, but perhaps it was better not to jump to any conclusions. He turned to her. “Excuse me, have you been helped?”

She looked up, startled by his sudden attention. “No. No one’s been here. But I haven’t been waiting very long.”

Just then the duty officer returned from the inner room, pulling the door shut against the sound of laughter and the murmur of male voices. Upon seeing Ward in the outer room, he straightened and put on a serious face.

“I can help the lady now, sir,” he said. Ward noted a few crumbs of seedcake on the young man’s shirt front.

“That’s all right; I’ll look after her myself,” Ward said. He returned to the security door to press in his code, then ushered the woman down the hall and upstairs to the plain beige office he shared with Maureen Brennan. The space was spare and impersonal, but at least they had a view, overlooking the street in front of the station.

“May I get you a cup of tea?” he asked.

She seemed surprised at the offer. “No, thank you. What I need—” She looked down at her knees and couldn’t seem to find the words to continue. Perhaps she was unused to stating her needs so baldly, and to a stranger.

“Let me get you some tea,” he said. “I won’t be a moment.” He stepped into the corridor and closed the door, watching her through the glass as he crossed the hall to the galley kitchen to fetch the tea. He poured the steaming water over the bag in the large mug, not watching the tea as it steeped, but instead studying the woman in his office. She continued to look straight ahead, not even glancing around the room. This woman was completely focused on whatever it was she’d come to say. Again he thought of a confession, but pushed the idea aside.

Ward squeezed the darkness from the teabag, added milk and sugar, and headed back to his office. As he handed the woman the steaming mug, he noticed her hands. Where he had expected to see skin rough and reddened from farm work, he saw long, delicately tapered fingers, fresh and pink as a young girl’s. She began speaking before he could take out a report form, so he leaned back against his desk and listened.

She introduced herself as Teresa Brazil, then said, “I’ve come because I think the body they found at Loughnabrone yesterday might be someone I know—someone I knew, that is—my husband’s brother. Danny Brazil.” It came in a rush, as if she was afraid she’d stop before getting it all out. And having said what she had come to say, she fell silent and looked up at him, unsure what would happen next.

Ward considered for a moment; there’d been no details released, besides the fact that the deceased was a man. Why would she presume that it was someone she knew? He remembered the leathery corpse he’d just left in the mortuary and wondered whether this woman was just another case of wishful thinking. Whenever a body turned up, the relatives of missing persons came forward and prepared themselves for the worst, just in case. Somewhere way in the back of his head, the name Brazil seemed familiar; he’d met Teresa Brazil before, he was sure. The why of it might be a little longer in coming to him.