Free Silence by Anthony J. Quinn Page A

winter few landscapes could have presented a gloomier prospect to travellers.
    However, the hotel seemed busy with the aftermath of what must have been a wedding party, parked cars festooned in white ribbon, young children colliding with each other, and groups of well-dressed men and women standing at the doors, grabbing a smoke between drinks. They steered clear of Daly as he approached, as if they knew exactly what he was, a portent from the outside world, a carrier of bad news.
    The receptionist at the front desk was not facing the entrance; he was turned towards a computer screen and speaking into a telephone. Daylight flickered against the wall. From the corner of his eye, Daly caught the silhouettes of children bolting past the windows. The front doors banged open and shut. A man appeared out of the shadows, kneading his forehead. After several minutes, Daly cleared his throat to get the receptionist’s attention.
    ‘My name is Inspector Celcius Daly,’ he said.
    The receptionist turned to regard him, placing a hand over the receiver.
    ‘They warned me you were coming.’
    ‘I need to search a room. It was booked by a priest called Walsh.’
    ‘You’ll have to wait a moment.’ A frown shadowed the receptionist’s face. He continued talking on the phone. The coolness of his manner irritated Daly.
    ‘Father Walsh died last night in unusual circumstances,’ he said, leaning over the counter in anger. ‘I can arrange for the details of the hotel to be circulated to the media as a key to the mystery of his death. You’ll have the press here taking pictures and interviewing guests within the hour. If that’s what you prefer?’
    ‘Absolutely not.’ He looked aghast. ‘That’s not the type of publicity we want.’ He replaced the phone. ‘I was wondering why Father Walsh seemed to be hiding from everyone.’
    ‘Who’s everyone?’
    ‘There was a woman and a man enquiring about him. He missed some sort of meeting. What was your name again?’
    ‘Inspector Daly. When did you last see him?’
    ‘Yesterday morning at breakfast time.’
    ‘How did he seem?’
    ‘Fine. Like any other guest at that time of the morning.’
    ‘What room had he booked?’
    ‘Follow me and I’ll show you.’ He led Daly up a wide staircase to the second floor. ‘His room has the best views of the nearby mountain,’ he said.
    A fine prospect for a dead man’s last day, thought Daly. A drove of children had converged upon the top of the staircase. They pointed down at Daly and the receptionist as though they were figures of fun. It must have been difficult finding something worth giggling at in such dismal surroundings.
    The receptionist swiped the door lock with a card.
    ‘That’s odd,’ he said, pushing open the door. ‘It’s unlocked.’
    They walked into a darkened room. Daly sensed something throbbing within, a swarming presence. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he made out a tired-looking carpet patterned with dark congealments. For a long moment, they listened to themselves breathe. Whatever it was that Daly had expected to find, it was not this. Someone had turned the room into a pit of red. He turned on the lights and saw that it was blood staining the walls and the blankets on the bed. Only the light shade dangling from the centre of the ceiling had escaped the spattering.
    Outstretched by the bed lay the body of a man, the source of all the blood. Daly walked with small steps, careful not to disturb any evidence. He approached the bed and saw that the bloodletting had been arterial and catastrophic. He stared at the body, an elderly man with sunken features, the blankets around him swamped in blood. Methodically, he scanned the bedclothes and floor for anything the murderer might have dropped. He glanced at the victim; his mouth contorted in a grimace and his head tipped forward, blue shadows forming around his drained features. The window hung slightly open. Laughter and squeals of children playing on