No Turning Back

by Sam Blake

  Ahead of her O’Rourke crossed the road, stopping at the mouth of the broad tunnel connecting the outside world with the ancient interior of the sprawling university.

  ‘Arts block is this way. That’s where she said her office was?’

  Cathy nodded. ‘She’s usually over in Foster Place but they’re redecorating or something. She said she’d wait for us.’

  O’Rourke’s phone began to ring in the depths of his overcoat pocket as, dodging students, they headed down the tunnel. He rolled his eyes and took a step backwards as they reached the other end, to take the call.

  Tom’s mother had sent Cathy a list of his friends, but she was quite sure there were people Tom had come into contact with that his mother knew nothing about. Kids his age had a way of not quite telling their parents everything. Especially – assuming Karen Delaney was right – when their career plans were diametrically opposed to their parents’ ideas. As she scanned the quadrangle, Cathy wondered what scandals this place had seen since it was built in the sixteenth century; how many students had passed through its gates and what problems they’d faced. People’s lives were messy in any era. Even perfect families had secrets.

  She technically only had thirty minutes left of her shift but it ---seemed crazy to come back into town when they were both here already. Right now, their main concern was to find out how well Tom and Lauren knew each other, and who the last people to see them both alive might be. Which, at the very least, was something Cathy needed to know in order to fill in the gaping spaces in the Sudden Death reports.

  Finding out who had seen Tom last was crucial to moving this investigation forwards. Whoever it was might be able to give them information on the vehicle involved in his accident – although in real terms they were equally likely to have been driving the car that had hit him. It would take at least a week for forensics to come back with a match on any paint samples or glass particles that had been found at the scene – a week in which the vehicle could be repaired.

  Standing at the top of the steps outside the concrete and glass Arts block, Cathy’s thoughts turned to Lauren. Someone knew why she had been in a freezing cold park in the middle of the night. Had she and Tom seen each other on Thursday evening? Was that why she had gone to Dalkey in the first place? Saunders hadn’t been able to give them an exact time of death yet, only an approximation that she had died within the twenty-four hours previous to her being found. He wanted to check temperatures and assess the environmental impact before he committed himself. Appearing beside her, O’Rourke’s voice cut into her thoughts.

  ‘This way, I think.’

  Finding Anna Lockharte’s office turned out to be easier than Cathy had expected. All the corridors in the Arts building looked exactly the same – grey concrete block walls and grass green carpet with hundreds of turquoise doors – but everywhere was clearly marked. Whoever had chosen the colour palette had interesting taste. The walls in the stairwell were painted bright red to the halfway mark and bare concrete above, the stair treads covered in equally bright blue rubber matting. But the green carpet was a triumph of strangeness.

  When they found the right door, O’Rourke’s knock was met with a muffled ‘Come in.’

  Despite the darkness outside, the room was brightly lit. Modern, like the rest of the building; two desks were set at right angles, the walls crammed with bookshelves and filing cabinets. O’Rourke filled the space as he stepped inside.

  Coming out from behind her desk, Anna Lockharte held out her hand, her face creased with concern. In her early thirties – Cathy wasn’t sure if she was even that, but she couldn’t be younger with her qualifications – she was wearing wide, pale grey herringbone trousers, cinched at her narrow waist with a slim belt, and finished off, rather surprisingly, with a pair of red Converse runners. She was about twenty years younger than Cathy had expected and, while clothes weren’t something that Cathy took a lot of interest in, she could recognise quality when she saw it, as well as good taste.

  ‘Good afternoon, Professor, thank you for hanging on for us. I’m Detective Inspector Dawson O’Rourke, this is Detective Garda Cat Connolly . . .’

  ‘You’re soaked. Let me hang your jackets up so they dry a bit. Did you find me OK? I feel like I’m in the land that time forgot at the end of this corridor. Do sit down, please.’ Anna had a strange accent to Cathy’s ear, sort of cultured mid-Atlantic, not quite American but not British either.

  Shaking the rain from her hair as she slipped her jacket off, Cathy passed it to Anna, who jiggled a coat stand closer to the radiator beside the window and hung up their coats. Cathy watched her, fascinated. Anna Lockharte had a sort of luminosity that drew you in. And to be a professor at her age, she was obviously very bright.

  ‘That should help.’ Anna hesitated. ‘All of this really is so awful.’ Cathy could see the pain in her face as she headed back around to her desk chair. ‘Orla called me this morning. Tom was such a lovely boy, it’s just such a terrible waste. How can I help?’

  O’Rourke cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got some more bad news for you, but it’s news that needs to be kept confidential for the moment.’ Anna froze as he continued, ‘I believe you have another student named Lauren O’Reilly on your course?’

  Anna nodded wordlessly. Cathy could see the colour draining from her face.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m very sorry to have to inform you that Lauren’s body was found on cliffs below Dillon’s Park in Dalkey earlier today. Her identity has been confirmed and her parents are being informed this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ Anna’s hand shot to her mouth. Her eyes filling with tears, she couldn’t speak for a moment as she struggled with her emotions. ‘How . . .?’

  ‘We aren’t sure at this stage, investigations are being launched into both Tom’s and Lauren’s deaths. We’d like you to tell us as much as you can about them, who their friends were, and if they knew each other.’ Shaking her head, Anna ran her fingers into her hair as he continued. ‘I know this is very distressing for you, but the early hours in any investigation are crucial and we want to build a picture of both victims as quickly as possible.’

  Cathy sat forward in the chair, her notebook open on the desk. ‘Anything you can tell us will help us understand what happened.’

  ‘My God.’ It took Anna a moment, but then she seemed to centre herself. ‘I’m sorry. It’s such a shock. But – Tom first?’ O’Rourke gave a gentle nod as she continued. ‘He was doing so well in college, having a great time. It’s a cliché but he was the life and soul of the party. I don’t understand how anyone could run him over and just leave him.’ She paused. ‘If they’d stopped, could they have saved him?’

  ‘He certainly would have had a much better chance if he’d got medical attention immediately.’ O’Rourke kept his face impassive. Cathy knew exactly what he was thinking: whoever had hit Tom had a lot of explaining to do, and not just about leaving the scene.

  ‘Can you tell us who Tom’s friends were, who was in his tutor group?’ Cathy asked. ‘His mother said he often went walking in the evening – it might have been a way he found to relax when he was studying, but we wondered if he could have been meeting someone in Dalkey village for a drink before walking home.’

  ‘It’s possible, I really don’t know. I’m year tutor so I look after the welfare of students as well as teach. I can give you a list of everyone in their tutor groups.’

  ‘They were both studying international politics?’

  ‘The course is actually philosophy, political science, economics and sociology.’ Anna nodded at Cathy’s raised eyebrows. ‘I know, it’s a mouthful. Trinity College is the only university in Ireland that offers that combination. It’s a four-year course, students specialise in two areas in the second two years – Tom was planning to focus on international politics. I’m not sure what Lauren wanted to do, she was still finding her way, I think.

  ‘The course examines the way
societies are organised and create wealth. My PhD was in international terrorism so I cover some of the sociology modules too – race, ethnicity and identity – but my main area is international politics.’ She continued, ‘Tom was enjoying the whole course. He was very bright. His French was excellent too – in the third year students can go and study abroad as part of the Erasmus scheme. He wanted to go to France, so quite often we’d have our one-to-one seminars in French.’ Anna stopped herself. ‘Sorry, that’s probably all irrelevant. Information overload.’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘Everything is useful to us. Do you teach French as well?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I was at the Sorbonne before I went to Cambridge. My sister . . .’ She hesitated for a split second and Cathy sensed O’Rourke shift marginally in his seat. Then Anna continued, ‘My sister lived in Paris. It was like my second home.’

  She stopped speaking and there was a moment’s silence. Cathy’s antennae twitched. She got the distinct impression there was more to tell, but Anna continued anxiously before Cathy could ask.

  ‘So they were both in my second year political science class. There are a couple of lectures a week and then tutorials once a fortnight. It’s a big tutor group, around twenty-five students. Tom seemed to have lots of friends. Lauren was much quieter but I’ve seen him chatting to her – I think he knew her pretty well. Actually, I think she interned at his father’s radio station over the summer, so they would have worked together at some stage, I know he helped out there. There are others in the group – Michaela O’Brien, Paula Garcia who I’ve seen with Lauren – I can give you a list.’

  ‘Were either of them on any sports teams, or in any of the societies?’

  Cathy was suddenly realising that getting a full background and finding out who may have last seen both Tom and Lauren would mean talking to an awful lot of students. It wasn’t the number of interviews that worried her – one investigation she’d worked on had ended up with over three thousand statements. It was the time. Witnesses forgot things, and the longer it took for the police to reach them, the fuzzier events became.

  Anna shook her head. ‘Lauren seemed to keep very much to herself. She was quiet, quite shy, worked hard, was getting good grades. Tom was more involved – he was very techy, had friends studying computer science and engineering. I know he was a member of Amnesty and the French society, the Internet society too. Perhaps others, I’m not sure – we’ve over a hundred societies here, from juggling to knitting, there could have been more he was signed up to.’

  ‘Any close friends we need to know about?’

  Anna shrugged. ‘Tom didn’t have a girlfriend that I know of – he was very good looking so he was obviously popular, but students these days seem to be very gender fluid; dating isn’t as simple as it was when I was in college.’

  She grimaced, her look making Cathy smile. Dating was never simple. When Orla had told her that Tom went out for late night walks she had immediately wondered if he was meeting someone he didn’t want his parents to know about.

  ‘So, boyfriends?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him with anyone – you could ask Olivier Ayari, he might know. They hung out together – he’s one of the international students. Olivier’s family is originally Tunisian but his family live near Paris, I think. His brother Xavier is here too, doing a PhD. Their family paid for the new science block, the Ayari Building.’

  ‘That must have cost millions.’ Cathy couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.

  ‘I think they are very well off. Xavier drives a BMW.’ Anna raised her eyebrows. ‘Most students don’t even have the money for the DART. They’ve got a family home in Killiney too, I think. I heard someone say Xavier has a yacht in Dun Laoghaire as well.’

  Cathy made a note to check that out. ‘And Lauren?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her with anyone, but her friends would know. I don’t think she and Tom were dating each other, anyway.’

  ‘So what’s the best way to get in touch with their friends? Do they live on campus?’

  ‘Most of them are second years so they are either in private rented accommodation or they live at home. Olivier and Xavier Ayari have an apartment in the International Financial Services Centre, I believe.’

  Cathy raised an eyebrow. The IFSC was the heart of the Dublin business district, surrounded by five-star apartment complexes that only the super-rich could afford.

  Seeing her reaction, Anna continued, ‘I think their father is a trader of some sort, or works for one of the international banks, I’m really not sure – perhaps their family is in oil?’ She shrugged, ‘I know the money for the science block came from a company in the Cayman Islands, Ayari Enterprises. Xavier and Olivier were both at the opening representing their family. Their father works in the Far East apparently and couldn’t get away from whatever project he was busy with.’

  Cathy nodded. There were some very wealthy people in this world, people who had their businesses registered in tax havens and thought thirty million was small change. She knew there were individuals living in the Dun Laoghaire station district who could buy and sell small countries. She’d been inside their houses. Anna continued, ‘I know Lauren’s family are farmers, from the midlands. She was staying in halls for a second year rather than moving out with friends – she’s a first year “mother”, helping with the new students.’

  ‘And when did you see them both last?’

  Anna grimaced, trying to remember. ‘I saw Tom on Wednesday evening, with Olivier. I was working late and I was heading home about eight. They were walking ahead of me . . . And Lauren? It must have been in our tutorial meeting on Tuesday. She was very distracted; said she wasn’t feeling well. She looked like she’d slept very badly.’

  ‘So something could have been worrying her?’

  Anna nodded as she remembered. ‘Yes, definitely. She was doing really well in all her subjects, was on top of her work, so I don’t think it was a study issue. It must have been something else.’

  Chapter 9

  Saturday, 7 a.m.

  Cathy looked at the second hand on the clock on the wall of the Phoenix Gym, unconsciously swinging the skipping rope, her trainers rhythmic as they pounded the wooden floor. Squats were next but she had another three minutes here first. The gym was surprisingly busy for this early on a Saturday morning but after Christmas excesses and New Year’s resolutions, a legion of determined faces always appeared in January.

  Cathy checked the clock again – she knew she’d fly down the M50 to the station on a Saturday but part of her knew her workout time was limited. With two investigations running in parallel, getting over to the gym regularly and for long enough would be a challenge. Last night it had been nine by the time she’d finally written up all her notes on their various interviews and left the station; she’d only been fit for bed. Her Nikes squeaking as they hit the boards, she kept skipping, the sweat starting to run down her spine under her sports bra and black lycra vest top. With the championships on the horizon she knew she needed to keep her hours up.

  From the other side of the gym, her coach Niall McIntyre looked up to check she was still hard at it. Five foot six of sinewy muscle, McIntyre was an ex-para from Belfast who had joined the British Army and then been posted right back home. By the time he retired he’d seen active service all over the globe and had ended up training some of the world’s most elite troops. A twist of fate had landed him in Ballymun, and knowing how good boxing was for keeping lads off the street, he’d opened the Phoenix Gym and never looked back. Nicknamed ‘The Boss’, he’d trained all her brothers and had taken her from a shy ten-year-old to national champion. He was her friend, mentor and her rock.

  She grinned across at him. It wasn’t a proper grin, more of a grimace. As if he sensed something was wrong, McIntyre turned to speak to the overweight middle-aged man he was demonstrating punches to. Indicating that the man should work on his own, he headed over towards Cathy. She finished her skips as he reac
hed her and they fist-bumped before she hung over at the waist, catching her breath.

  ‘Looking good, girl.’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’ She straightened up, scowling.

  ‘What’s got your goat, young lady?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Promotions list.’ She opened her mouth again, but she couldn’t say it.

  McIntyre knew exactly what she wanted, what she’d been working for. Telling him was almost harder than telling her parents. She still couldn’t believe that, after everything she’d given to the job, she’d been passed over. Was it because she was a girl? She sure as feck hoped not. There were winners and losers in every walk of life. And with every skip this morning she’d been surer than ever that there was no way she was going to become one of the losers.

  But she didn’t need to spell it out for McIntyre. He’d been with her every step of the way: helping her in the aftermath of the explosion; pushing her for a first in her Master’s; holding her when she broke down when Sarah Jane had disappeared. He threw his arm around her shoulder. She stared ahead, avoiding his eye, conscious that her voice was full of emotion.

  ‘Taoiseach’s fecking nephew got my job.’

  There was a pause while he digested the news. ‘You’ll have your moment.’ His voice was low, his Belfast accent harsh. But he sounded sure. Absolutely sure.

  Cathy didn’t answer. She knew he was her champion, and that he was absolutely right. There would come a day when the gormless eejit who had got her job would make a Horlicks of something and she’d be the one to step in. She knew it with unwavering certainty. She took a deep breath, controlling her emotions. She’d got past the raw anger that had had her stamping up the stairs and slamming doors in the station. She still wasn’t happy, but now she felt like she was in target mode, calm and precise like an Exocet missile locked on the enemy. She’d have her moment. He was damn right about that.

  She’d work out what it was she was going to do and she’d use all the negative emotion to get her there. It was like that moment in the ring when your opponent scored a lucky punch that pissed the hell out of you and gave you that extra bit of fight to hit back and win. Sarah Jane had told her venture capitalists called it pivoting – that moment when everything was going to shit so you sat down and regrouped and came up with a whole new plan. That’s what she needed now. A plan.