‘Niece?’
Suddenly aware she had command of her audience, Margaret Delahunty gathered her cardigan around her self-importantly and took a forkful of pastry.
‘Yes, his niece. Lovely girl. You didn’t know about her, so? Lives over in Bristol, I think – or was it Birmingham? She called at his door a couple of years ago – that’s when I met her. James never let her in, though, poor girl. She was banging on the door so loudly, I said to myself, “You’ll wake the dead in America, child.” But James didn’t stir.’
Claire nodded eagerly and the woman, a crumb dangling precariously from the edge of her mouth, continued.
‘“Uncle James!” That’s what she was saying. “Uncle James! Uncle James, just let me in!” But he never came out to her. I knew he was in there; I saw the net curtains twitch. But he never opened the door. That wasn’t a bit like him. He had his odd moments, did James, but I always found him to be a very polite man. Sure, the poor girl was freezing by the time I brought her in here, and in a terrible state. Angela, she told me her name was, and her father was James’s older brother, Paul. Well, Paul had passed away suddenly – heart attack, poor man –’ Mrs Delahunty blessed herself before continuing – ‘and the next thing this poor Angela knew, she and her mother got a solicitor’s letter from Ireland asking them what they wanted to do about the land, and whether or not Paul’s brother was to be informed of his passing. Sure, they hadn’t known about any land, or any brother, for that matter. It turned out Paul had a small farm – a few fields, really – that he’d rented out this past thirty years. And, seeing as he hadn’t made a will, it would all go to Angela and her mother, but the brother had to be informed about it too. I was very confused, just listening to her.’
Resisting the urge to say, ‘I know how you felt,’ Claire gave her what she hoped was an encouraging nod.
Mrs Delahunty took another sip of tea before continuing.
‘So this Angela got James’s address off the solicitor and, when the funeral was over, made her way here. She just wanted to talk to her uncle, I think, find out who he was and why her father hadn’t mentioned him. But she only got as far as the door. James wouldn’t let her in. So, now!’ Mrs Delahunty sat back with the satisfied air of one who knew she’d held her audience, and drained her tea.
Claire leaned forward in her seat and kept her voice as conversational as possible. ‘Did she tell you why the brothers were – estranged?’
‘Sure, she didn’t know, poor girl! Isn’t that what I’m after telling you? The solicitor knew nothing and James didn’t let her past the front door. She went home knowing no more than when she came.’
‘OK.’
Aware that she’d probably exhausted Mrs Delahunty’s supply of useful information, Claire closed her notebook and began to gather her things. But the older woman reached across and grabbed her arm.
‘James was a fine man.’
‘I’m sure he was, Mrs Delahunty,’ Claire said, rooting around in her bag for her phone, which she’d turned off at the start of the conversation.
But Mrs Delahunty wasn’t finished.
‘I invited him in here all the time, you know, but he never came. Not even on Christmas Day. I’d hand him in a dinner and he’d give me the plate back – always washed, always spotless – but he never came in this door.’
‘OK.’
Aware that it had been hours since she’d contacted Collins Street and that the super would be climbing the walls waiting for information, Claire stood up to leave.
But the old woman opposite her was crying now.
‘I’m here all day – all bloody day looking out this window and not a stray dog goes down the street that I don’t see it. And today I saw nothing!’
Claire’s hand landed finally on the phone. As she pulled it out to check her missed calls, Flynn walked in front of her and pushed a tissue into the old woman’s hand.
‘It sounds like you were a great friend to him,’ he said.
‘I did my best.’ Mrs Delahunty blew her nose noisily and sighed again. ‘He was gay, you know.’
‘OK . . .?’ Flynn’s voice was gentle, but quizzical.
The elderly woman sniffed again. ‘I’m sure that had nothing to do with it. But I just thought, you know . . . that maybe it was something you should know.’
Flynn continued in the same, gentle tone. ‘And did he . . . Is that something Mr Mannion told you himself? Did he have a partner, or . . .?’
The old woman flashed a sudden grin. ‘Not at all. It wasn’t the sort of thing that comes up in conversation. Poor James, he had nobody, God rest his soul. No, it was just something I knew. I knew it about my Robert without any of them having to tell me.’
She turned her head and smiled at the largest of the photos on the wall – a studio shot of a sallow-skinned graduate, mortar board perched precariously on top of a cloud of fuzzy nineteen-eighties hair.
‘“Gaydar” is what you call it, apparently – I read it in a magazine!’
Both Flynn and Claire smiled, the tension in the room easing.
Mrs Delahunty pulled the tissue across her eyes again. ‘I knew poor James was that way inclined alright. Never bothered me. But I just thought, you know . . . that it might be of interest to you. In case it helps with anything.’
Her smile had vanished again as she realised that ‘anything’ in this case involved the brutal murder of her friend and neighbour on the other side of a very thin wall.
‘All done!’
Claire started as her husband returned from the kitchen, a fresh bottle of beer in hand.
‘Kitchen cleaned and bottles washed!’
She blinked and shook her head. ‘Jesus, fair play to you, I was miles away.’
‘I know.’ He sat back down on the sofa, closer to her this time.
‘I never even asked – how was your day?’
‘Grand. Meeting went well, got another decent bit of the project done and herself was in better humour. So all grand.’ Matt’s tone was light but he placed his arm around her again, his fingers tracing gentle circles on her shoulder blades.
This time Claire didn’t pull away. ‘D’ya reckon she’ll sleep?’
They looked towards the baby monitor.
‘Ah, she will, yeah. For a few hours, anyway.’
It was the most romantic thing either of them had said in weeks.
*
Afterwards, as she switched the bedroom light off and nestled into him, Claire heard the familiar whimper coming from the room next door. Matt stirred sleepily but she kissed him on the forehead.
‘I’ll go.’
‘Ah no . . .’
But he was fully asleep before he could finish the sentence. Moving quickly, Claire made it into the tiny box room she kept forgetting to call ‘the nursery’ before the baby worked herself up into a full cry. There was a carton of formula on the shelf and she poured it neatly into the clean bottle she’d stuck into the pocket of her dressing gown before coming to bed. There had been a time when she would have stuffed a bottle of wine and two glasses in there, but this was their reality now. Matt’s books said Anna shouldn’t be feeding at night anymore. Well, her little girl couldn’t read yet. The baby had had a tough few weeks, having to get used to the crèche and her mother going back to work and being strapped into her car seat and handed from parent to parent on the side of the road. It would do them both good to have a cuddle. Tilting the bottle, Claire picked the baby up, then sank down on the rocking chair that had seemed like such an extravagance at the time but had actually been one of the most useful things Matt had bought in his pre-baby shopping spree.
‘How’s my doteen, then? How’s my little girl?’
The little pink lips reached for the teat instinctively and Claire rubbed her cheek against the soft downiness of Anna’s hair as she sucked, first eagerly and then more slowly, moulding her body into her mother’s arms.
‘That’s the best baba, now.’
God, but things were
good – really good – at the moment. Maternity leave had been fun. But there had been something unreal about it, all that drinking coffee and hanging around in shopping centres and parks, not to mention that one never-to-be-repeated trip to the mother-and-baby group. It had felt totally manufactured and, although you were never supposed to say such a thing, a little boring. Claire wondered if Matt had found it boring too, coming home every night to a discussion about nipple confusion and sterilising and how much the little girl had pooed.
Things were good now, though.
The bottle slipped out of Anna’s lips as she drifted back to sleep and Claire picked her up and placed her gently against her shoulder. It was tiring, being back at work, trying to do everything. But nice to get her brain moving again.
And tonight with Matt – that had been good too.
Change was good.
The baby burped – a fine, fat Guinness burp – and then fell totally unconscious. Smiling, Claire laid her gently back down in the cot and pulled the fleece blanket close to her cheek, the way she liked it.
Something had changed for James Mannion too. She needed to find out what had happened, and what his niece had found out about him. Maybe those two things were completely unconnected with his death. But, at the moment, they were all she had to go on.
Anna was deeply asleep now, but Claire lingered for another moment, watching the tiny chest rise and fall. The baby would sleep till morning, as would her father. But her mother had a few things to think about first.
Chapter Eight
‘One of our lads, one of the regulars, he told me once that he used to go down to the local shop and buy a paper every morning, even when he couldn’t afford it, just to talk to someone. Just to prove he was alive. He said to me one day, “If I catch sight of myself on one of them cameras over the counter, then I’ll know I’ve made it through another night.” That’s what he told me. Now he comes into us three times a week and drives the others mad, grabbing the paper and filling in the crossword before they get a look at it. He looks ten years younger than he did when I first met him. Ten years. So that’s what we give them. A bloody newspaper, shared between ten men, and buckets of tea. And the knowledge that they are alive.’
Liz realised she was doing that weird jabbing motion with her hand again and, suddenly self-conscious, pulled it back down on to her lap. Beside her, the man with the receding hairline and the large pile of notes opened his mouth to speak, but the glamorous brunette sitting opposite them raised her own hand, smiled and shook her head.
‘And that’s all we have time for this lunchtime! I’d like to thank my guests, Liz Cafferky and Councillor Micheál Walsh, for joining us; fascinating stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. We’ll take a break now . . .’
The clock on the wall counted down ten seconds, five, three, two, and then the sound of the news jingle filled the small studio. The presenter, Sophie, took off her headphones and smiled.
‘That was fantastic, folks, great stuff. Thanks a million.’
Her voice was warm, but her eyes were already darting to the pile of scripts on the table in front of her and Liz recognised her cue to go. Grabbing her bag from the floor, she followed the politician out through the heavy studio door and into the control room. The tall man in the denim shirt who’d been watching them through the glass stood up from behind a desk-top computer and stuck out his hand.
‘Thanks, Micheál; that was great.’
A mutter, a quick handshake and the politician was gone, the studio door almost catching on his heels as he made his rapid exit.
Liz looked after him, bemused, and the tall man – Ian, she thought his name was – laughed.
‘I’m not surprised he didn’t want to hang around!’
‘Really?’ Liz took a quick look around the room to see if there was a fire or something that could explain the quick getaway.
‘Ah, you had him on the run there at the finish. It was a great debate; we really appreciate it. We’ve had loads of texts about it and tonnes of comments on our Twitter feed too – look.’
He pointed back towards his computer screen but Liz shook her head.
‘I don’t do the Twitter thing, sorry.’
Ian smiled. He had a nice smile, Liz thought. Genuine.
‘Fair play to you! I’d probably be a lot more productive if it wasn’t for the technology, but – you know, yourself – we have to keep up with it. Thirty per cent of our listeners are online at this stage; there’s a big push on to get them liking the Facebook page.’
‘Hmm.’
Liz smiled, vaguely, and let the words wash over her. Now that the adrenaline buzz from the interview was fading, she was starting to realise just how exhausted she felt. It had been a terrible couple of days. The news of James Mannion’s death had come as a shock to everyone at Tír na nÓg. But it was Tom’s reaction that had upset her most. Everything had tilted the moment he gathered the men together in the sitting room and told them the news. It was only then, as tears ran down his face and his voice shook, that Liz realised how much she needed him. Needed him to be strong, constant, supportive. Needed him to be there. Hearing his voice quiver, watching him so close to losing control, made her feel, well, gutted was the word that came to mind. Hollow inside.
She’d thought about hugging him, decided against it and made tea instead. And, as she’d handed him the mug, he’d looked at her with an expression of such bleakness that she couldn’t hold his gaze and turned away instead, muttering about sugar and the need to keep the kettle filled. When she looked back, he had blinked the sadness away – straightened his shoulders, swallowed some tea – turned back into the Tom she relied on. He thanked her for the drink then and opened the door to the guards who had turned up to take everybody’s statements. Anyone who had spoken to James in the previous weeks had to speak to them, apparently. Tom warned the cops they would be dealing with vulnerable men, men who had to be minded. As he said that word, vulnerable, his eyes had met hers again and she had felt minded too. Tom was in charge and everything would be OK.
So, when he’d asked her to do the radio interview that morning, she hadn’t felt able to refuse. There was a rumour, he told her, that funding to centres like theirs would be cut in the forthcoming budget. The station wanted someone to go on air and explain why that shouldn’t happen. Liz had agreed, reluctantly. Then, to her absolute amazement, had found that she’d enjoyed every minute of it.
There had been something stimulating about it, so challenging. Making points and scoring points and forcing a politician thirty years her senior to agree she had a point. Feeling listened to, respected. Taken seriously. She’d been playing this part for over three months but now, for the first time, it was like she was doing it for real. There was another Liz who appeared as soon as she sat in front of a microphone. A confident, fluent woman, completely secure in herself and her abilities. A whole new person.
And it looked like this dude, Ian, really liked her.
‘Thirty seconds!’
Liz hadn’t noticed the technician, sitting half hidden behind the large radio desk, but Ian turned to him.
‘Absolutely, be with you now. Listen, Liz –’ he stuck out his hand again – ‘it was fantastic meeting you; I really hope you come in again. Oh, and . . .’ He paused as the sound engineer fired the sting for the news bulletin, and then turned back again. ‘My sister just texted; she says to say hi!’
‘Your sister?’ Liz stared at him, puzzled.
‘Yeah! Small world, eh? Lara Flaherty? She says you were a friend of a friend, or something; met you out a few times? Maybe four, five years ago? She said you mightn’t remember her, but to say hi, anyway; she heard you on air this morning – said you did a great job!’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’ Liz took back her hand.
‘Just thought I’d pass it on, anyway!’ And he turned away, his brain clearly racing ahead to the job in front of him.
Rattled, Liz pressed against the heavy studio door. Lara. Didn
’t ring any bells, but that wasn’t surprising. Lara. No, nothing. Her stomach churned. That was the bit she hated most, when she looked back on everything that had happened: the blank spaces. The Fear, she heard people call it, jokingly. But there was nothing funny about it. Nothing funny about people coming up to her and saying, ‘Hey, you were crazy last night!’ and her laughing and backing away and trying to pretend she knew what they were talking about.
Unsettled, she pulled the door tight behind her and walked slowly down the corridor that led to the main reception area. She hadn’t had time to eat lunch; she’d grab a sandwich – that would make her feel better.
‘Ah, Liz! The star of the show, huh?’
‘I’m sorry? Richard?’
Away from Tír na nÓg, it took her a moment to recognise her least favourite client. Richard strode across the reception area and held out his hand.
‘Bloody brilliant performance, if you don’t mind me saying so! First class, first class indeed!’
Unable to avoid it, she returned a limp handshake and then cringed when his sweaty palm gripped hers for far too long.
‘What are you doing here?’ She was aware she sounded rude, but didn’t care. This was completely out of order, his turning up here. But Richard, oblivious to her discomfort, just grinned.
‘I was listening to you, you see, on the radio. And I only live down the road so I thought I’d drop in, say hi. We can walk in together, if you like? If you’re going straight into work? Or I’d be happy to buy you a cup of tea?’
Was that a nervous laugh? Jesus Christ, was he asking her out? Something halfway between a giggle and a gasp caught in her throat and Liz shook her head.
‘I don’t think . . .’ She pulled her hand away, saw disappointment in his eyes and something else – aggression, maybe? Christ almighty, just who did this guy think he was? Her first thought was how quickly she’d be able to get rid of him. Her second, how annoyed Tom would be if he knew she was thinking that way. Treat the men with kindness, treat them with respect, was his mantra. Well, feck that, Liz thought to herself. Tom didn’t know what it was like to be the only woman in the centre. You needed to keep some sort of distance. Most of the clients were brilliant, total gentlemen, but every so often one or two of them came close to crossing the line, and today, by turning up at the station unannounced, Richard had stepped right over it.
Are You Watching Me Page 6