Disappeared by Anthony Quinn Read Free Book Online

victim’s chest with a pair of forceps. There was a wheeze and then a series of sounds caught in the corpse’s throat. A reedy, birdlike gurgle. It was one of the strangest noises Daly had ever heard. High-pitched, savage, inhuman.
    He glanced at Butler with an almost pleading look. “What the hell was that?”
    “You don’t recognize it?”
    Butler pushed the corpse’s mouth ajar. He had already given the throat a meticulous examination. Using the pair of forceps, he whisked out a small metallic object with a practiced motion and held it up to Daly.
    “A duck whistle. Wedged above the voice box.”
    Some of the tension eased from the detective’s face.
    “From the trauma in the area it looks as though it was forced in while the victim was still alive.”
    “Gives a new meaning to croaking it.”
    Butler ignored the remark. He paused for a moment, using a measure of his theatrical talent to regain the stage. “The way the body has been left in plain sight in such a dramatic fashion and the fact that a priest was informed of its location suggests the involvement of paramilitaries.”
    “We’ve no evidence to substantiate that yet,” grunted Daly.
    “Either way, the media will swarm all over this one.”
    Daly shrugged. “Perhaps the attention will bring forth some leads.”
    “Here’s one for you. His death meant a lot to his murderers.”
    “How come?”
    “Burnt and tortured and then beaten to death, a duck caller lodged in his throat. In my experience, not a common way for a victim to be dispatched. A bullet to the head is much simpler and more efficient.”
    Daly grumbled. “So our prime suspects are a group of paramilitaries with macabre imaginations and an interest in duck hunting.”
    Butler bared his teeth in a half grin. He went back to working on the corpse while Daly set off to explore the rest of the island, glad to escape the sight of that sinister tree stump. He ought to have remained and given the crime-scene technicians a hand, but he needed to clear his head. Besides, Butler was in charge and would ensure no stone was left unturned.
    Back at the shoreline, he took a deep breath of the lough air and watched the cloud shadows shuffle across the water. Farther south, he could see the purple-gray gloom of the Mourne Mountains retreating into the horizon along with the disappearing winter light.
    Coney Island was a wild, weird place, visited only by fishermen waiting out a storm or adventurous bird-watchers. It had been used as a place of refuge by the O’Neill chieftains during the Elizabethan wars, and was named after a witch who was supposed to have been a spy for the British queen. The story went that she had poisoned Red Hugh O’Neill while administering aid to a battle wound. A witch, a murderer, and a spy, thought Daly. Mrs. Coney made Mata Hari sound like a Girl Guide.
    He followed the shoreline and began to plan the investigation, setting out the different stages. After examining the crime scene, they would start questioning people who lived or worked near the lough. They would try to work out how the dead man came to be on the island, how the killers got there and made their escape. Had anyone noticed anything strange? Any unusual boats or vehicles in the vicinity? The lough shore had two tightly knit communities, one of Protestants, the other of Catholics, both sides wrapped fiercely in a web of mutual suspicion. Anything odd within the visible rim of the horizon would have been noted by someone.
    He reached a shingle beach of perfectly rounded boulders and, picking his way over them, idly wondered if he could manhandle a few of them into the fisherman’s boat. They would help decorate his father’s ruined garden. A seagull dove into the water and resurfaced with a wriggling eel. The lough was teeming with life, and murder, too, he thought. The civilized land across the lough might just be a figment of his imagination.
    Northern Ireland was no longer a bad place, he reassured