He looks down into his drink, his mouth pushed up against what he wants to say. “She was the girlfriend.” He throws a cold glance at me. “Or supposed girlfriend. But that fucker lied. He fucking lied. And I wasn’t going to have my daughter pay his price. No fucking way.”
“Her testimony could’ve prevented him getting a prison sentence.”
He lets out a hard laugh, takes another drink. “You’re cold on this one, Frankie. Rona spent the night with that piece of scum, yeah. But he left the next morning. Nothing she said would’ve changed the fact that Seán Hennessy butchered his parents and attempted to slaughter his sister.”
“Then why try to cover it up?”
“I wasn’t about to let my daughter’s name be dragged through the mud because she was a teenager with hormones. He used her. Used her to try and unhook himself from a mess he made.”
“We can’t rewrite the past when it suits us then force others to relive every step of their own truth.”
“Bollocks to that.”
“Jack.”
He takes a long, slow drink of his pint. It’s empty by the time he emerges for air. “It would have ruined her life.”
“It would have been a blip.”
“A fucking blip, my hole. She was top of her class, had just got her acceptance into law at Trinity. Statutory rape. How’s that for a blip? And not only that but your boyfriend is a fucking murderer. Her contribution to Hennessy’s case would not have made a blind bit of difference to how his sentence played out.” He leans forward, meets my eyes. “Because he’s fucking guilty.”
“So you sought a court injunction on having her name mentioned?”
His eyes widen. “You would’ve done the same.”
We sit in silence for a few moments. I drink my wine. He places his empty down on the table; white foam slides down the inside of the glass.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It’s all out in the open now; there’s not much I can do.” His face draws down. “Rona is beside herself. I’m surprised it’s taken this long to surface, to be honest. She’s married now so that’ll make her a little harder to find, but it won’t take long for those fucking weasels to hunt her out,” he says, meaning the press.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” He meets my eyes. “What about that sister-in-law of yours? I thought she would’ve dug this little treasure up a long time ago.”
I smile. “Yeah, but if there was a court injunction, she’d respect that. She would’ve found out eventually though.”
“Like a pig looking for truffles that one.”
“She’s only interested in the truth.”
“We all know where that gets us. Good luck to her.” He waves a hand back at the bar, and Enda picks up another pint glass.
I consider telling him about the rest of Tanya’s evidence. The hesitation marks around John’s throat, which say John turned the knife on himself. That Seán has been innocent all along. But I look at Jack, see the way his shoulders are curving inwards, how low they are, his elbows pitched on his knees, his head dropped, looking down at his hands. I can see what this has cost him. He looks lost.
“Rona will be fine. She’s your daughter. If she’s anything like you, she’ll get through this.”
He makes a grunting noise at that.
“I need to speak to her,” I say.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then, “When?”
“Tomorrow. Morning.”
He gives a reluctant nod. “How’s the timeline for the Shine murders looking? For Sheridan?”
“We’ve nothing,” I say. And that’s the truth. The words slap down onto the table between us; Jack, despite everything, sinks into himself a little more. There’s a stiff silence, both of us beyond frustration. I give him the rundown on our killer’s latest message. The missing piece of the puzzle that Healy destroyed. The word VICTIM.
“So that’s the lot then?”
“That’s it.”
He shrugs, as if to say, It’s no longer my problem.
Someone at the bar calls for the TV volume to go up. And the opening notes to Seán Hennessy’s documentary strike out across the room. Enda approaches, places down Clancy’s drink. He glances at me and I put my hand over the wineglass, shake my head.
Clancy settles back into his seat, looks up at the TV. “Well, what’s this fucker got to say for himself.”
I turn in my seat. A couple of old blokes, their heads together at the bar, tip back their faces, look up at the small screen.
Seán Hennessy pauses, reaches for a glass of water. Takes a slow drink. Puts down the glass, smiles an apology to an unseen cameraman, and goes on: “Cara, the Irish for friend. My sister, my friend. Cara would never be any great beauty, never be confident enough to strive for great things. But to me, she was everything. Is everything.”
He stops, struggles against something. Sadness. Regret. His nostrils flare into little white circles, cheeks turn, color. Pain falling over his features. The muscles in his throat work. He coughs. “Sorry. Sorry.” He breathes in, his head back. Pushes his palms against his jeans. A sniff. Another breath. He nods. Okay. His eyes approach the camera, cautiously, testing the strength of his emotion.
He coughs again, starts over. “Cara. She was small for her age, thin. She didn’t have many friends. Then. On the periphery at school, both academically and socially. Slipping through, or weaving in and out of conflict like a bird through trees. It was a skill she learned early. She was gentle. All those good things moved as easily in her as blood through veins. As young as she was, if you hurt yourself, out of nowhere, she’d materialize, her hand always seeking to comfort. Silent and soft.
“Often I’d come home to find the kitchen empty. Make a sandwich. Sit at the counter. When I finished eating, I’d be clearing up and I’d spot her foot or hear a page turn. And I’d find her, under the table or maybe sitting on a cushion, back pressed against the lukewarm radiator, reading a book.
“My da. Everything and anything lit his temper. Money, respect, the cold, the heat. Cara, as quietly as she moved, she left a trail. The space she occupied might have been small but she left her mark. A book upturned here, a half-glass of milk there. And my da, it would set him off, his anger spilling over, wanting to find her, to teach her respect.”
He grimaces at some memory then a gleam comes into his eyes. Remembered victory. “But we always beat him. That son of a bitch never got to her. Whatever it took. I did it. Took the hit. Or pressed her into my wardrobe, stood her in the windowsill, wide-eyed and stiff with fear, drawing the curtains over her small body. Whatever it took. I did it.
“Those first weeks in that cell. All I wanted was to see her. To tell her I loved her. I love her. To say, this time, I’m sorry. So sorry I couldn’t stop it. Every day of my sentence, every second, minute, every breath has been filled with her. But I never blamed her for testifying against me. I hope one day I can see her again. I’ve waited seventeen years. And I miss my friend. My protector.”
I look away, shrug into my coat.
Clancy watches me gather up my bag. “Get some sleep; you look like shite.”
“Charming. Thanks for the drink,” I say, and I feel Seán Hennessy’s blue eyes reach out from the TV. They follow me all the way across the bar until I step free into the wet night.
CHAPTER 18
I TUCK THE BOTTLE of wine under my arm. Another evening, another day slipping by. It’s Tanya and Justin’s housewarming. With three victims and no suspects our investigation has ground to a halt and I couldn’t think of an excuse to dodge it. Crooning over new curtains and kitchen appliances is not high on my list of things to do in the downtime allotted to me. And it’s not high on Tanya’s or Justin’s lists either. I suspect the only reason they’re suffering through a housewarming party
at all is to appease Mam. I received a blunt reminder text from her this morning, telling me to be here and more texts arrived hourly after that.
I cross the street and walk round the new housing development that has risen up on edge of Clontarf’s industrial area. I spot Justin at the front door. Hands on hips looking down the road. Mam is beside him, her face pale, her hand hovering over her lips. A man and a woman move out around them, say some quick good-byes, then walk across the garden to disappear into the house next door. I check my watch. I’m late, but not overly so.
Justin sees me, waves me over. “Sorry, sis,” he says when I get there. “We’ve had to cut our celebrations short.”
I kiss his cheek. “What’s going on?”
And then I see what the small gathering is about. The front window is smashed. Not completely but a large enough hole, the glass a jagged mess.
The hand drops from Mam’s mouth. “Someone pegged a brick through the window.”
“Fucking wankers,” Justin adds.
“Justin!” Mam says.
I’m aware of Dad, hovering somewhere inside. The clink of glasses and the sound of opening cupboards telling me he’s assumed the role of tidying up.
We all—Mam, Justin, and I—look stupidly down the small curved street as if the culprit will appear in front of us.
“From a car?” I ask.
Justin shrugs. “Dunno. We were out back and we heard the crash. Tanya’s phoning the guards now.” He moves back inside and we traipse after him, Mam muttering, “Fat lot of good that’ll do.”
In the living room, the brick lies in the middle of the new beige carpet. Glass thrown inwards. Written in black marker along the side of the brick are the words Justice is a bitch. Tanya is standing in the corner of the room, staring down at it as if it was about to speak.
She folds her arms across her chest. “Someone’s on the way out now,” she says, meaning the guards.
“We all know what this is about,” Mam says pointedly, throwing a look at Tanya.
“Mam, please,” Justin says. He gives me a wary look, pushes his blond hair off his forehead.
Tanya smiles but it doesn’t look real. She rubs a hand up and down her own arm. “It’s only a few thugs having a pop, Sharon, nothing to worry about really.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Tanya frightened.
“It would’ve been something to worry about if one of us had been sitting in here though, wouldn’t it?” Mam says.
Tanya moves toward her, puts an arm round her shoulders, and gives her a quick squeeze. “But we weren’t.”
Mam quiets but I know she’s thinking: What about the next time? Because that’s what I’m thinking. I pick my way over the carpet. The wine still wedged under my arm. The brick made it a good way in. Not likely a throw from a car. The windows are double-glazed. This took some force. New floral curtains shift in the incoming breeze; the smell of fresh paint stirs through the room.
I look back at Justin, then to Mam, then hold up the wine. “Let’s wait out in the kitchen for the officer to get here?”
“I’ll go with that,” Justin says. “I’m not standing here looking at a brick for the next hour.” He takes the wine from me and makes for the kitchen.
Mam follows him, worrying her hands all the way. I stay back, my eyes to the glass-speckled floor and to the window.
“It’s fine,” Tanya says. “It’s fine. Just some idiots. You get them.”
“Who knows you’ve moved?”
She shrugs. “I guess the neighbors, the decorators. Anyone who might know my face.” She shrugs again, her dark eyes pivot over the floor, don’t meet mine.
I turn, call Keith. Tell him to send round a couple of SOCOs. Tanya pulls a curl of hair forward, chews the end. “That’s a little much, don’t you think?”
“No. I don’t.”
She nods. And I see her throat working. Finally she lets out a long breath. “Drink?”
* * *
—
WE’RE BACK AT MY FOLKS’. Mam and Dad are in bed after two hours of nothing at the new house. Justin has stayed behind but it took less persuading than I thought to have Tanya leave her new home and return with us.
“I’m not going to let some git push me out of my own house,” she’d said.
Eventually, I used the Hennessy case to lure her away. She sits in her dressing gown at the desk in Justin’s old room. Legs crossed, bare foot wagging. The Hennessy murders all around us.
“Has anything like this happened before?” I ask.
She purses her lips then answers. “You know how it is; we get a few shitty messages via our Facebook page. But nothing personal. Nothing like this.”
“You saw the press conference yesterday?”
She dips her chin. “Yes. Jane Brennan was quick to sell out.”
“Isn’t everyone nowadays?”
Tanya watches me. I know she’s thinking the same thing as me, knows the leak won’t have come from Jane Brennan. But she doesn’t say anything more about it. Instead she offers, “I heard about Jack. I’m sorry.”
I nod. “Thanks.” Rona, Jack’s daughter, cried when she opened the door to me this morning. It was messy. And messier still was her guilt. I told her that there was nothing to feel guilty about. He still would’ve had plenty of time to stage an attack on his family. Ultimately, he left her house on the morning of the killings. Not the afternoon like he said. Or so she says. I believe her. I think.
Tanya tucks her head down, nods into her chest. There’s silence for a moment. “We’re still nowhere on Cara,” she says testily, looking up through the veil of her hair. “This whole leak to the press will not induce her to come forward,” she adds a little sadly.
“I would think she’d want to be left alone.” Nerves and a shitty conscience make it come out a little sharp but Tanya simply nods.
“Sure. Sure. I suppose that’s her right. Is there really a connection? Between the cases?”
“You know what it’s like. We get a whiff of smoke we have to see if there’s fire.” I get up, stretch. Move to the window. “There’s something there but nothing solid linking Seán to the cases. He has an alibi for the Shine murders, and we’re confident it’s the same killer for all the victims.”
I lift the curtain, look down on the street, imagine Bríd Hennessy’s desperate steps striking the hot pavement. Running for her life. I think of Ger Shine, her pleas for help landing on deaf ears. And I’m caught up with a peculiar feeling, a tension tightening round my gut. Two women, years apart, same story, same path, and it sinks through me, pulls me inwards. I swallow down their fear, feel the pulse of their lives thrum against the inside of my skull.
The chair creaks as Tanya gets up. “We’re almost ready to submit the appeal,” she says. “You’ve got a struggle on your hands, Frankie. I think your commissioner knows her job is on the line if, or rather, when we win this case. But if she’s already sent someone, Jack, to the executioners, then maybe the price has been paid and for the moment she gets to keep her cushy job at Phoenix Park, cutting fucking ribbons and sending out sound bites to the media until she can retire in a few years to a French chateau.”
“If I thought it’d be that easy to get rid of her, I’d join Clancy in retirement immediately.”
She moves to the door, smiles. “Good night.”
* * *
—
I SIT ON THE CARPET, pull my bag forward, and remove the Shine and Sheridan case files. I spread the pictures around me, a collage of murder. I lift the bottle of wine from the floor, top up my glass, take a drink. The glass is half empty by the time I put it down and there’s a nice glow of heat spreading through my veins, a balm for a dashed ego.
I lean forward, shuffle through a few of the pages. Find Conor Sheridan’s crime scene picture, him propped up against the wall, waiting for the
tide to take him out. I place him next to the Shines. Lean against the corner of the desk, take a mental step back, and study the spread of images. I wait for clarity, for my mind to build the connections. The ritual, the motive—I’m searching for both, for the killer’s signature. Nothing speaks to me.
I drift back to Geraldine Shine on the church floor. A beaten wife, prone, the wound through her throat silencing her cries for help forever. The text on her phone spelling out VICTIM. Then to Conor Sheridan, a journo, the media. KILLER scratched into the sand next to his body. Eyes trail slowly between the images. Back to the Shines. Alan Shine. An abusive husband, the murder weapon lying in his hand. WEAPON. I frown, feel the ache of frustration grow over my brow.
On the walls around me are the scenes of old. The Hennessys, John Hennessy, his cold body propped up against the back of the house. I look to Conor Sheridan, his body lit up in the darkness, against the seawall. Again, I have the feeling that the solution is in front of me, like one of those optical illusions; a sense that were I to narrow my eyes or adjust my view, the true image would reveal itself.
I pick up Geraldine Shine, trace the numerous wounds down her back, then glance at the Hennessy photos. Bríd Hennessy: facedown, head turned, throat cut. Stab wounds puncturing her back. And then I see it, see how the bodies are laid out. So similar to the old case. Geraldine Shine’s postmortem injuries mirror the violent burst of wounds over Bríd’s prone back, almost exactly.
I stand, draw closer to the Hennessy crime scene. Step into the past. I can almost smell the sting of blood tainting the air. The heat rippling up from the ground, searing down from the sky. Then back again to the images over the floor: to Alan and Geraldine Shine, to Conor Sheridan. A beaten wife. An abusive husband. Dressed in a priest’s vestments. A symbol of the patriarchy, of hypocrisy. Then Conor Sheridan. The media. KILLER. A tickle of adrenaline. I feel it chase the fog from my brain. As if the room were lighting up. I lean over the pictures. There. There! And I feel his anger rising through the room. His roar in my ear. “I hear you. I hear you,” I whisper.
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