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I’d see that he was still the same man I’d never fully got to grips with: full of anger and resentment and bitterness. We had an attachment, most of it unsaid, in the loss we’d suffered and the way we’d been drawn together in our working lives; and we had an emotional tie to one another too, however slight: I’d saved his life once, and he’d repaid the favor. But, mostly, Healy was a wall I couldn’t break down. Part of me wondered if he thought he was helping by taking Liz’s calls; the other part, perhaps the part of me that had grown to know him over the past year, thought he was doing it so he had something over me. As long as I couldn’t be sure, I couldn’t discuss it with him, and whatever it was we had—our connection; our friendship, if it was even that—carried on undefined.
    â€œThey reckon it’s a man,” he said.
    â€œThe body?”
    â€œYeah.” He nodded, using his thumb and forefinger to remove a sliver of tobacco from his lips. “No decomposition, that’s the thing. Or, at least, none that I could see.”
    â€œSo it’s fresh.”
    â€œOr frozen.”
    â€œBy the air temperature?”
    â€œBy a refrigerator.” He shrugged. “They didn’t tell me anything. I’m just going on what I saw. No sign of decomp anywhere. It was in good condition too—seriously good—so if you want my guess I’d say someone put him on ice before he gassed up.”
    If you froze a body before putrefaction kicked in, you could keep it indefinitely with few, if any, signs of decay. As long as it wasn’t allowed to thaw, bacteria couldn’t feed on it, and the body wouldn’t break down. No gases. No acids. I watched Healy turn his empty pint glass, deep inthought, and I could see what was going on in his head: he’d got a taste of his old life, had felt—however briefly—the buzz of a case, and now he was struggling to rein his curiosity back in. I doubted he’d be willing to watch from afar, and as that thought came to me I turned and looked back at the man he’d been studying.
    â€œWhat do you want with him?” I asked.
    He flicked a look at me. “Eh?”
    â€œThe one you’ve been watching.”
    â€œAny idea what he does for a job?”
    â€œHe’s the skipper on a fishing trawler. What’s your interest in him?”
    â€œHe was the one who found the body.”
    â€œSo?”
    But he didn’t respond. Instead he grabbed his coat, scooped up his cigarettes and stood. He didn’t like the fact that I’d second-guessed him, so now came the blank. He just remained there, stock-still, any response or emotion wiped from his face. Except I knew that look. I’d seen it many times—and it was a look that couldn’t lead anywhere good.
    â€œBack away, Healy.”
    â€œDon’t talk to me like I’m a child.”
    â€œYou know what happened last time.”
    He glared at me, but he knew I was right. The reason he was down here in the first place was because he didn’t know where to draw the line. “Maybe
you
should take a bit more interest in the case, then,” he said to me, removing a cigarette from its packet. “Keep your mind occupied; help the healing process.” He was being facetions now, so I didn’t bother rising to the bait. He nodded in the direction of the bar. “I heard a couple of the locals talking about this village being cursed—so who knows what it could lead to?”
    â€œCursed?”
    â€œSome woman and her family who used to live here.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    He buttoned up his coat. “I’m going for a smoke.”

8
    The wind was dying down by the time I left the pub, but rain still swept in off the water. Fifteen minutes had passed since Healy had gone for a cigarette, and he hadn’t returned. I looked along the front of the