It took Siobhan a moment to understand what the woman was getting at, confirmed when she saw the forefinger pointing at her belly.
‘Jesus, no,’ Siobhan gasped, horrified by the very idea. A child was the last thing she needed in her life. For now, at any rate. ‘I’m not … ’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ the woman said, looking a little mortified herself now.
‘God no, no.’ Siobhan stumbled, recovering a little, half laughing now. ‘I mean, I’m not pregnant. I just felt a bit light-headed. I didn’t have any breakfast and I’m dressed all wrong for this weather. But I’m fine, honestly. Thanks for asking.’
The woman smiled shyly back at her. ‘I saw you, at the mass and … Well, I suppose now’s probably not the best time.’
‘For what?’
‘I was hoping to have a word, if you could spare me a minute.’ Again the woman seemed to hesitate. ‘You are the one who wrote that article about Cormac in the Sunday Herald, aren’t you? I saw you on the television.’
Siobhan nodded, trying not to look too inviting. She hadn’t seen this woman inside in the church and was beginning to find the encounter a little bizarre.
‘It’s about my daughter,’ the woman said. ‘Gemma. Gemma Kearney?’
‘I’m sorry – do I know this … ?’ The name meant nothing to Siobhan. ‘Was it Gemma you said?’
‘Yes, Gemma – she was Cormac’s girlfriend.’
That brought Siobhan up sharply. Her brain lurched back into focus. Nobody had mentioned a girlfriend. Quite the opposite in fact. Everyone she asked had said Horgan was single. She was sure of it. No way would she have missed a crucial detail like that.
‘Cormac, as in … ?’ Siobhan looked back towards the church. The hearse was gone now, a long trail of cars streaming out of the car park in its wake.
The woman nodded sadly, but said nothing more.
‘Look, Mrs … eh?’ Siobhan took a closer look at her, trying to judge her plausibility.
‘Kearney.’
‘Yeah, Mrs Kearney. Don’t get me wrong’ – Siobhan shook her head, desperate to word her next question properly – ‘but I was told Cormac didn’t have a girlfriend. Is Gemma here? I mean, was she at the mass? I’d really like to talk to her.’
‘No,’ the woman said, a desperation creeping into her voice. ‘That’s just it. She’s disappeared. I can’t find her. Not since weeks back, when she said she was going away for a break to England with him. I can’t get anyone to look into it.’
Offering to listen to Mrs Kearney’s story was the emotional equivalent of unblocking a drain. Beside herself with worry, the woman’s bottled-up fears burst out in a bitty, half-digested rush: how she’d been to the Gardai, but they were useless; how Gemma and Horgan had gone out while they were at university together, but they’d split up, got together again …
It was too much for Siobhan to take in. Standing there in the graveyard, the sun still pounding like a piston on her head, she knew if she didn’t find somewhere to sit down soon, she’d probably begin to feel faint again. Yet every professional instinct told her to stay where she was. She scanned the parade of shops across the road from the church and spotted a café.
Mrs Kearney seemed relieved when Siobhan suggested going for a coffee, like it was confirmation that she wasn’t going to be fobbed off.
‘I’m sorry, I really am, but I’m at my wits’ end,’ the woman said. ‘I have no one else to turn to. I just don’t know what to do.’
‘Come on, now,’ Siobhan said, steering Mrs Kearney through the gate. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to think of something.’
The café was a neat place with red gingham oilcloths and sprays of yellow freesias in vases on each of the tables. They were the only customers. Siobhan sat Mrs Kearney down at a table by the window and went to the counter to order a couple of cappuccinos, and a plain chicken sandwich for herself. She asked for a glass of tap water while she was waiting and stood there sipping, feeling the chill revive her as it trickled down her throat, using the time to run back over what had just occurred – to reassure herself that she wasn’t suffering some kind of post-traumatic breakdown. Or, for that matter, that Mrs Kearney wasn’t some fantasist who’d just wandered into the churchyard from the local mental-health facility.
She reminded herself again that she had researched Cormac Horgan’s background thoroughly when she wrote her original piece and ‘no’ had been the unanimous reply from friends and family to the question of whether a broken heart might have been part of his decision to end his life. Even so, Mrs Kearney clearly knew what she was talking about. Much more than anyone could have picked up casually at the funeral, or even by reading about it in the papers. Siobhan glanced over at her again: the prim suit, the neat hair, the slightly haggard look. Of all the instincts Siobhan relied on for her job, it was her feel for people that she trusted most. And there was no denying that there was something terribly ‘right’ about Mrs Kearney, this lonely-looking woman, staring out the window lost in thought, struggling to keep her emotions under control. Somehow, Siobhan was already convinced it would be worthwhile trying to get to the bottom of this.
She brought the coffees over and sat opposite Mrs Kearney. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I eat,’ she said, tucking into her sandwich.
Mrs Kearney shook her head politely and seemed consciously to avert her gaze from the back of Siobhan’s hand as she munched. Again Siobhan took in the woman’s demeanour, noticing how her short hair was growing out of a style that needed regular cutting, how the skin at the sides of her eyes was crowed into tight furrows, how even a heavy layer of concealer couldn’t disguise the dark half-moons like bruises beneath her eyes. Mrs Kearney was a worried woman.
‘It might be best if we start at the beginning again, Mrs Kearney,’ she said, automatically checking that the red recording light was showing on her tiny voice recorder on the table. ‘Can you tell me again when you last heard from Gemma?’
‘It’s been over three weeks now,’ Mrs Kearney said, swallowing hard.
‘And you’ve heard nothing since? What about friends and colleagues?’
‘I’ve tried everyone I could think of. Nobody’s heard anything from her.’
‘And did they sound concerned for her, as well?’
Mrs Kearney looked Siobhan in the eye for the first time. ‘She didn’t have many friends. Nobody seems to know anything, or care for that matter.’
‘Couldn’t any of Cormac’s family help?’ Siobhan asked, nodding back towards the church, the car park out front empty now except for one or two stragglers.
‘No,’ Mrs Kearney snuffled. ‘They have their own grief to contend with.’
By the looks of it they had never been aware of her existence, Siobhan thought, but decided against going down that route.
‘And the Gardai?’ she asked, taking another nibble of chicken. ‘You said you’d been to see them. Weren’t they any help?’
Mrs Kearney gave a small sigh of exasperation. ‘All they did was write down her details on some forms and say they’d look into it. That was over a week ago, and when I phone, all they’ll say is that they’re doing everything they can.’
Which wasn’t necessarily much at all. Siobhan knew the stats on missing persons: over six thousand cases reported every year. One for every two Gardai in Ireland. Most resolved themselves without intervention. Unless a child was missing, or someone was clearly at risk, the chances of a serious investigation were minimal.
‘But the last time you heard from Gemma, she was okay then?’
Mrs Kearney nodded. ‘She rang me at home to say she had news that I’d be pleased about. It was the first time we’d talked in a while and I was delighted to hear her voice.’
‘Weren’t you in regular contact with Gemma?’
Mrs Kearney stiffened. ‘She was never the easiest of girls. Two or three months ago I said a few things to her – you know, motherly things, caring things. About the way she was living, her values. Like how she se
emed to think money was the only thing that mattered, that sort of stuff. It didn’t go down well with her at all. I didn’t hear from her for a while after that.’
‘But something happened to change that,’ Siobhan said. ‘What was this “news” she wanted to tell you?’
‘Gemma said she’d been seeing a bit of Cormac again. She might’ve had a drink or two taken. She was sort of giggling, or trying not to laugh, when she said it, like she was interested in him again – you know, romantically. She knew that I always liked Cormac – approved of him, if you want – and that I was disappointed when they broke up. I was so relieved to think they might be, y’know, an item again.’
‘So what made you suspect she went to England with him?’
‘I didn’t. I mean, I’m not sure she did.’ Mrs Kearney hesitated, running the conversation back in her head. ‘She said they were thinking of going away for a few days together. I can’t remember exactly. And then, a couple of weeks later, I heard about Cormac on the radio, and I saw your article in the paper. I was desperate to get in touch with Gemma, but no matter how many times I tried, I couldn’t reach her. That’s when I started to get really worried.’
‘You don’t think,’ Siobhan suggested gently, ‘that maybe she might have heard about Cormac’s death herself and had trouble handling the news? That she might have just gone off somewhere to be on her own?’
‘And done what?’ Mrs Kearney asked, the desperation alive in her voice now. ‘Isn’t that exactly what I’m afraid of? That the girl’s gone off and done something stupid to herself, like he did. How could I not think it?’
Something about the way she said it made Siobhan wonder if Mrs Kearney didn’t have more reason than most to worry, but now was not the time to ask. She was already beginning to crumble, opening her handbag and rummaging in vain. Siobhan reached across to the chrome dispenser on the table, pulled a paper napkin from it and handed it to her.
‘You don’t live in Cork yourself, Mrs Kearney?’
‘Not the city, no.’ She sounded relieved to be talking about something tangible again. ‘We’re from Drimoleague, about forty miles west of here. Do you know it?’
‘Only by name.’
‘It’s lovely but very quiet, especially in winter.’ Mrs Kear ney gave a final snuffle and stuffed the crumpled tissue into her cuff. ‘All Gemma ever dreamt of was getting away from there.’
Siobhan glanced at her watch, knowing she’d have to leave soon to catch her train. All she could do now, she thought, was get the rest of the basics and follow it up later.
‘Can you tell me how old Gemma is?’
‘Thirty-one.’
Siobhan struggled to hide her surprise. From the way Mrs Kearney had been talking, she’d had in mind somebody younger, mid-twenties maybe, especially as Horgan, she knew, had only been twenty-nine when he died.
‘Thirty-one?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Kearney said. ‘She’ll be thirty-two next month.’
At least she’s thinking she has a future, Siobhan reflected. ‘And what does she do for a living?’
‘Same as Cormac, an accountant. A very good one, so I’m told.’
‘But Cormac was an estate agent,’ Siobhan said. ‘I mean, that’s why he committed … ’
For some reason she couldn’t bring herself say the word ‘suicide’. Perhaps because her mind was racing off down another path, her belief in Mrs Kearney assailed by doubts again.
‘That’s right,’ the woman replied quietly, ‘but he trained as an accountant, at UCC, at the same time as Gemma. That’s where they met. When he graduated, they both started working in Cork, but then he went to Skibbereen to join the family firm, Horgans estate agents and auctioneers.’
Siobhan already knew that Horgans was one of the longest-established estate agents in West Cork, and that Cormac had been a nephew rather than a son. The whizz kid drafted in to give the old family firm a new lease of life. She’d even wondered if that had made its collapse more unbearable for him.
‘And does nobody from Gemma’s work have any idea where she might be? I mean, you’ve spoken to them, right? Aren’t they worried about her, too?’ Siobhan imagined the fuss Paddy Griffin would kick up if she failed to turn up for work for a couple of days, let alone for three weeks.
‘That’s just it,’ Mrs Kearney said. ‘There is no “they”. Gemma works alone. She owns and runs her own practice, Kearney Accountancy, here in Cork. I mean, she has a secretary, an assistant, but when I call, there’s never any answer now.’
‘She has an office, then?’
‘Yes, off Patrick Street in town. I went there again this morning before I came out here, but it’s all locked up. I asked the people next door, but they only moved in a week ago and haven’t seen any comings or goings.’
‘No sign of her assistant, either?’
Mrs Kearney shook her head.
Siobhan drained her coffee cup. It all sounded too weird. Deliberate almost, although there was no way of judging from such a small amount of information. Baffled, all she could think of was the obvious question again.
‘And you’ve told the Guards all of this?’
Mrs Kearney nodded, looking more lost now than ever. ‘I know what they’re thinking: that Gemma’s just gone off on holiday without telling me, that it’s all in my imagination. Do you know what they said to me? That they’ll let me know “if anything turns up”.’ Her bottom lip quivered as she battled to keep her fears at bay. ‘“Turns up,”’ she repeated, her voice a whisper of disbelief. ‘It’s like they don’t even think she’s a person any more. My poor girl, like she’s just some thing that might be lying out there, waiting to be turned up.’
3
Another street, another row of grey, close-packed council houses looking all the greyer for the rain. Mulcahy and Ford walked back to the car and got in, the two of them slicking the rain from their hair and unbuttoning their coats in unconscious unison. This was the fifth address they’d visited, each with a different cast of hardcore Dublin scumbags, but exactly the same script.
‘This is hopeless,’ Ford said. ‘These eejits have no more clue what happened to Begley than we do.’
‘Looks like it, all right.’
It had been looking that way since they’d had the chat with Hanrahan, but Mulcahy hadn’t wanted to admit it: the atmosphere on the doorstep, the posturing, the bluster, the craic. If there had been anything to play for, it would all have been a lot stiffer, stupider, more defensive. But it was the same everywhere: no tension, no spark. Nothing. Like it or not, Declan Begley, former pillar of the Dublin underworld, had been out of sight, out of mind in Spain. None of his former cronies gave a damn about who had blown his head off or why.
‘Is that it, then?’ Ford said. ‘We go back and tell the Spanish that there’s no obvious connection this end?’
‘Maybe.’ Mulcahy checked his watch. What had started as an early morning diversion was beginning to eat into their afternoon.
Ford was restless. Almost a year on, he was still getting used to the ebb and flow of the liaison job. He missed the action, the adrenaline, the short-term gains on the streets. And this kind of trawling around for crumbs of information for other people only reminded him how many nasty little shitehawks were out there, begging to be banged up. Sometimes Mulcahy worried that Ford felt he had made a mistake coming over to the unit, that he would have been better off staying where he was, pulling bottom-feeders off the street, where his bulk came in handier than his brain. As far as Mulcahy was concerned, though, Ford was still, as he had been when they worked together ten years before, the best detective sergeant he had ever come across, street-smart and with a razor-sharp brain beneath all the laddish play-acting.
‘I just didn’t want to go back to them with nothing, Liam.’
‘But it’s not nothing, is it?’ Ford said irritably. ‘I mean, we know more now than we did when we came out this morning. And we have a ton of other stuff to be getting on with. You know, these Span
ish cunts, they’re probably just being lazy. They need to be looking locally, concentrating on Begley’s known associates out there. There’s nothing for them here.’
Mulcahy’s mobile rang. He listened, grunted, finally said, ‘That’s fine. Be sure to tell Aisling, too. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ He hung up and turned to Ford. ‘That was Aidan. Murtagh just called. The Rosscarbery Bay meeting has been brought forward to tomorrow, so I’ll have to prepare for that when we get back. Did you sort out that final report from MAOC we talked about on Friday?’
‘On my desk, just waiting for me to hand it to you,’ Ford sighed. ‘So we can get the fuck out of here now, can we?’
‘Yes.’ Mulcahy grinned. ‘But there is one other person I think we could talk to before we head back.’ He laughed as Ford responded with a groan. ‘A guy I used to run years back. Incredibly well connected, not your typical hard man. Knows all the old faces out in Spain. He’s useful. You could do with knowing him.’
On the train back to Dublin, the first thing Siobhan did was write up the notes on her conversation with Mrs Kearney. She had every word of it on the voice recorder, but she wouldn’t listen to that again unless she was stuck, or needed to check some detail. What she wanted to get down immediately were her impressions of the woman and what she’d said, while she still had the feel for it.
It took half an hour to get it all into bullet points and short paragraphs. She worked at it furiously, undisturbed, glad that at the railway station she’d walked up the platform, avoiding the busier carriages, and gone for a table in the empty dining car. ‘Peace for the price of a sandwich,’ the steward had said, although he hadn’t insisted on her ordering food. A smile and a request for a Diet Coke with ice, that seemed to keep him happy. She’d been nursing it ever since.
She was more convinced than ever that something weird was up with this Gemma Kearney girl. Whether it was serious, though, something that would reward her involvement, remained to be seen. She felt sorry for the mother, of course she did, but Siobhan wasn’t the Gardai and had no interest in doing their job for them. Not unless there was a story. And despite her gut saying this was worth pursuing, there were still things that didn’t stack up for her. Principal among them being the great hulking fact that nobody she’d spoken to before had even mentioned Gemma’s existence, let alone suggested a relationship with Horgan.
Dublin Dead Page 3