Are You Watching Me

by Sinéad Crowley

  All Flynn had managed to tell her during the course of the hurried early-morning phone call was that the body had been found by a Polish man, caught short on his way home from the pub. Poor bloke had a keener sense of modesty than most of the males of his adopted nation and had left the main road and wandered right down to the canal bank to take a slash. He’d been about to turn away again when he’d seen the body, half in and half out of the water. His first thought had been that some poor unfortunate, on a mission similar to his own, maybe, had fallen in, and he’d reached down and started to drag him out. But then he’d realised the man’s head wasn’t going to come neatly along with the rest of his body. He was still here, the Polish witness, sitting on the grass, waiting for Flynn or someone else to tell him he could go. Claire glanced across at him. Poor bastard. That’d be some tale to tell the mammy in Gdańsk on the next phone call home.

  Flynn gave her a brief nod and poked his head inside the tent again. Claire frowned. He looked great, the fecker – far healthier than she did, even though he’d been out just as late. Later, probably. And the rest. He hadn’t sounded a bit embarrassed on the phone. And why would he? She dug her hands in her pockets and gave herself a silent reprimand. He had nothing to be ashamed of. He’d had a night out and a snog at the end of it – or more, or less, or whatever. It was no big deal. He was single; Diarmaid too, as far as she knew. There was no reason she should pass any heed on any of it.

  All she did know was she looked and felt like the back end of a bus after her evening on the tear, and her colleague was glowing as if he had just completed a spa treatment. That was enough to put her into a bad mood for the rest of the day.

  But the look on his face as he left the tent and walked towards her drove all other thoughts from her mind.

  ‘Morning, detective. The body is that of a man; looks to be in his early sixties, maybe. We found this in his pocket.’

  He handed two plastic evidence bags to her without a word and she moved under a street light to get a proper look. The first contained a social-welfare card, belonging to Eugene Cannon. But it was the second item that drove all other thoughts from her mind.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Flynn was unable to keep the excitement off his face and now Claire understood why he’d been so insistent she visit the scene.

  ‘Elderly man?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, over sixty, anyway, by the looks of him. So, yeah, similar. It fits. Could fit.’

  ‘OK.’

  She looked down at the plastic bag again.

  ‘And this was where?’

  ‘In his pocket. Inside pocket. Clean and dry.’

  That fitted too, that it was an older person, or at least that the paper belonged to an older person – someone who wasn’t a slave to text or electronic reminders; someone who still wrote down important information.

  She peered through the plastic. The handwriting was old too, spidery.

  Tom Carthy. Tír na nÓg. Bus no 44.

  Christ.

  She looked at Flynn again and he nodded. There was no need to say what they were thinking, because they were both thinking the same thing. Two murders; one centre for old people. Two men; both linked. This had just got interesting.

  And another thought: Sorry Matt. You’re not going to get your day off for a while.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Why in the name of Jaysus didn’t you tell somebody?’

  Claire saw Flynn wince, but decided to ignore him. OK, so it wasn’t the type of language they encouraged in the Garda training college, but to hell with it. Any chance of seeing her family this side of bedtime had all but disappeared and now this young one, this pale-faced, save-the-world young one, had apparently been failing to pass on vital information pertinent to a murder investigation. The time for patience had passed, and Claire raised her voice again.

  ‘I’m just not getting it, Miss Cafferky. Someone wrote to you, sent you a newspaper clipping about a murder and told you that you would be next, and it took you, what, nearly a week to come to us? You do know this is an ongoing investigation, don’t you? A murder investigation? Both James Mannion and Eugene Cannon were clients of yours – doesn’t that mean anything?’

  Liz Cafferky looked up at her briefly, then ducked her head again. ‘Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. It does, of course it does. Look, I’m sorry, OK?’

  ‘So, do you feel ready to tell us exactly what happened, now?’ Flynn’s voice was gentle and Claire shot him an irritated look. There was absolutely no point in going easy on this kid; she knew it just by looking at her. Even behind the unwashed hair and miserable expression, you could see that she was extraordinarily pretty, but the young woman also looked fathoms deep in misery and completely unaware of just how much trouble she was in. In fact, it was highly likely she wouldn’t have come to the station at all if her boss hadn’t driven her to the door and all but carried her in.

  Anxious to confirm the dead man’s identity and the link to Tír na nÓg as soon as possible, Claire had called Tom Carthy on his mobile shortly before seven a.m. on Saturday morning, only to find that he was already at the centre. He liked to ‘spruce the place up’ before the clients got there, he told Claire and Flynn when they arrived less than half an hour later. Claire couldn’t see evidence of much sprucing, but she welcomed the opportunity to see Carthy alone.

  ‘Another death?’

  She was even more thankful for the privacy when she witnessed his reaction to their news. Carthy’s stance, mouth gaping, coffee mug paused halfway to his lips, would have been comical in another situation, Claire thought. And then she saw how quickly the colour drained from his face. They were standing in a dusty, unkempt hall and she nodded in the direction of the sitting room.

  ‘Perhaps if we could sit down?’

  Moments later, perched on the edge of a knackered grey sofa, Carthy placed his mug on the floor and looked at her, anxiously. ‘So there’s no doubt? That he’s one of ours, I mean.’

  Quickly, she filled him in on the identification they’d found on the body.

  ‘So, if you have any records of his family . . .?’

  Carthy shook his head slowly, and then paused. ‘Eugene is . . . was from Cork, I think? Yes, I’m almost sure I heard him mention that. I don’t know if that will help but—’

  ‘Anything at all you can tell us now would be useful.’

  ‘OK.’ He dropped his head again.

  Flynn stole a quick look at Claire and then offered further information: ‘There was a metal box lying beside him? Like a cash box? It had been broken open; we’re not sure if . . .’

  But the sudden flush of colour on Carthy’s cheeks told them he knew exactly what they were talking about. As Claire and Flynn looked on, the man swallowed nervously and then seemed to deflate, folding in on himself until he was almost lost in the shabby grey material of the couch.

  ‘That . . . that sounds like it could be ours, alright.’

  Moving slowly, Carthy hauled himself up off the sofa and lurched out of the room. Claire hit Flynn with an eyebrow raise. Overreact much? The twist at the corner of her colleague’s mouth indicated he was thinking the same way. When Carthy reappeared moments later, empty-handed, he was walking like a much older man. He lowered himself slowly down on to the sofa and Claire could see that his hands were shaking.

  ‘It’s . . . I mean, yes. That must have been ours. Our cash box, the one we keep in the office, it’s gone, alright.’

  ‘There was a fiver in it, Mr Carthy, and a few bits of change. Would that be accurate? We didn’t find any more cash on his body.’

  Carthy looked at them again. ‘That’s – I don’t – I’m not sure—’

  A shuddering intake of breath and then, as Claire and Flynn watched him, Carthy unfolded his arms. With what looked to them like a supreme effort of will, he straightened his shoulders, inhaled, shook his head gently from side to side and unfurled his spine. He took another long, slow breath and blinked, focus
ing on her.

  Get a hold of yourself. Claire’s mother used to use the phrase; she hadn’t heard it or thought of it in years but it seemed like the only one that fit. Tom Carthy had grabbed courage from somewhere and straightened himself out. Taller now, and in full command of the room, he sat back on the sofa and offered Claire a faint smile.

  ‘I’ll have a think about the money situation, but, no, that sounds about right. We haven’t had a lot of donations recently. Anyway, I’m coming across as a bit distracted. This . . . this news has come as a shock to me, that’s all. Dreadful business. So, is there anything else I can help you with?’

  There would be, Claire decided. Two deaths linked to Tír na nÓg within a two-week period meant she wanted to have a much longer conversation with Tom Carthy. Not straight away – there was too much immediate work to be done first to get a murder investigation underway – but soon.

  What she hadn’t expected, however, was that he’d drive himself to Collins Street, first thing on Monday morning, a reluctant Liz Cafferky by his side.

  ‘I knew there was something going on with her. But she wouldn’t tell me anything . . .’ His young employee staring miserably out of the window, Carthy had muttered in Claire’s ear, ‘She’s been in bad form for days, but she wouldn’t tell me what was behind it. Then, when I told her about Eugene . . . Oh, look, she’ll fill you in herself. But go easy on her, OK?’

  And then he’d left the young woman with a pat on the shoulder and the instruction to ring him when she was finished.

  Claire had felt railroaded and didn’t appreciate it. Her mood darkened further when Liz Cafferky told her about the mysterious letter and newspaper clipping she’d received. Who did that? Who got nasty mail, really terrifying stuff, and then clapped their hands over their ears and sang ‘la la la’ for the best part of a week? Claire was determined to find out, even if it took her all day. Especially if it took her all day.

  In the pocket of her jacket, her phone buzzed. Oops. Claire had made a big show of telling Saint Liz to turn hers off when they’d started the interview but had forgotten to do the same. She’d ignore it, though; it couldn’t be anything important. Matt knew not to call her at work, especially not on a day like today. She’d zapped him a quick text before they started the interview to let him know that she couldn’t be disturbed and that she’d pick up milk when she was finally able to make it home, whenever that might be. So, no, it couldn’t be anything important. She waited for the buzzing to stop and then looked at the young woman again.

  ‘How about you describe this note to me, so? Handwritten? Printed? Where is it, anyway? We’ll have to have it tested, although I presume you’ve put fingerprints all over it—’

  ‘I can’t really remember.’

  The girl stared at the table and Claire didn’t bother to disguise a sigh.

  ‘You’re going to have to start talking, you know. We can sit here all day, if you like.’

  Liz’s face appeared green under the fluorescent lights, and she gave a quick, violent shiver.

  ‘I . . . Just give me a second, OK? I need to think this through.’

  We don’t have a fucking second, Claire wanted to say, but she reckoned Flynn would blow a head gasket if she used another expletive. It was true, though: they really needed some new information. If the death of James Mannion had led them to a cul-de-sac, then throwing Eugene Cannon’s murder into the mix had blocked their exit altogether.

  If only the Cannon killing had happened in isolation, then Claire would have known exactly where to start. Carthy had been able to tell them Cannon was from Cork, hadn’t been in Dublin more than a few weeks, and a quick call to the guards in the southern capital had confirmed he had a string of previous offences the length of his arm and a history of violence. Given that he and his equally charming brother had had a very public fall-out almost a month previously, under normal circumstances his death would have prompted them to simply haul the brother in for questioning and start digging through the long list of people who wanted to cause him harm.

  But the Tír na nÓg link had blown that nice easy solution right out of the water, and now she had this Liz person, someone else connected with Tír na nÓg, claiming she’d received a threatening letter several days ago but hadn’t bothered to tell anyone until today. It was, Claire thought gloomily, about as far from simple as you could imagine.

  Her colleague cleared his throat, and leaned forward slightly on his chair. ‘I know this must be frightening for you. But I’m sure you understand that anything you can tell us could be very important indeed.’

  Claire resisted rolling her eyes. Alright, Flynn, try it your way. But, as she suspected, the good-cop routine didn’t work either. The girl just raked her fingers through her greasy hair and continued to stare down at the table. Liz Cafferky: online, Claire had seen her described as one of Ireland’s ‘hottest intellectuals’ – Flynn wasn’t the only one who knew how to use Google – but she wouldn’t make any top-ten list today, except perhaps Ireland’s most shell-shocked. It was amazing, Claire thought to herself, the damage a bad night’s sleep could do to a person. And worry. And fear.

  Right, it was time to try spoon-feeding. And, as the mother of a seven-month-old, she was good at that. Hell, she’d make aeroplane noises, if that was what it took. Forcing a smile, Claire took her irritation down a notch. ‘So, you got this letter in the post, when? Three, four days ago?’

  The girl made eye contact for a moment and then dipped her head again. ‘Yes – four. Well, it was a piece of paper, really; I mean, a bit clipped out of the paper. A bit about James, with a note attached to it.’

  ‘And it came to your home address?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Yeah. That . . . that freaked me out more than anything.’

  ‘And it was signed Stephen?’

  Another nod. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So where is that paper now? We’ll need to get it tested.’

  Liz dropped her head into her hands, muffling the answer.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said, I burned it.’

  ‘I don’t believe—’ To hell with level tones. ‘You are taking the piss.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I know it was a stupid thing to do. I was afraid, that was all!’

  And then the eighth-hottest babe in Ireland (intellectual category) was weeping, great gasps of air interfering with anything else she wanted to say.

  Flynn took a look at his superior officer and gave what she hoped was a sympathetic eyebrow raise. ‘I’ll get some tea.’

  It took them nearly two hours to get all of the details out of her. It wasn’t an easy story to listen to, but Claire believed Liz Cafferky was telling the truth, mostly because she couldn’t imagine why anyone would manufacture such a tale.

  ‘Can I go back to the beginning? It’s just . . . Well, it might make more sense that way.’ She shot Claire and Flynn a quick, nervous look.

  Claire nodded and took a sip from her Styrofoam cup of tea. Liz Cafferky looked like someone standing on a high-dive board, terrified of jumping, but aware there was only one way down. She was just going to have to hold her nose, and go for it.

  The young woman took a large gulp of her own drink, a muddy-looking black coffee, and then nibbled delicately at the edge of the cup. That must have burned on the way down, Claire thought, and wondered why she cared. There was just something fragile about the girl, she realised, a sense of aloneness that made you want to look after her. No matter how irritating she was being.

  ‘I had a pretty shit time in secondary school.’

  Oh God, how far back did they have to go? But, following a glance from Flynn, Claire repressed the sigh. OK, she’d see where she was going with this.

  ‘It started when I was about fourteen. I can remember the day, actually. I was in religion class and the teacher – you know, one of those ones who think they’re, like, totally cool and down with the kids? You know the type? Anyway, she was giving us this talk on bullying an
d shyness and how some people around our age find it hard to speak in crowds, and that they might get embarrassed or even blush or something, and that we should just ignore it? Or support them. And, just like that, I could feel myself getting red – like, this massive flush rising up from inside me; I was on fire. It was horrific.’

  She looked at them and Claire could see livid patches of colour on her neck.

  ‘Yeah, I still get it sometimes.’

  The young woman – although Claire was increasingly thinking of her as a girl – waved her hand in front of her face and then shrugged resignedly.

  ‘All the time. Anyway. Everything was pretty shit from then on. I just got totally self-conscious. I couldn’t speak in class – I tried to, one day, and I could hear this giggle from across the room – “Hey, Elizabeth, what colour is red?” – and I nearly died. And it just got worse and worse.’

  Fair enough. Claire had no idea where the conversation was going but sometimes you needed to leave things alone, let the information flow, and pick out the nuggets afterwards.

  ‘And then my dad stepped in. And he was amazing. I’m an only child and we had, like, this bond?’

  Liz was crunching the cup in her hand now and some of the murky brown liquid splashed on to her skin. Flynn reached over and passed her a tissue, which she accepted with a half smile.

  ‘I mean, I got on fine with my mum, but Dad and I were mates, you know? Eventually, he found out I was skipping school and I cracked and told him everything – how shit everything was. And he was amazing. Brought me to the library and got me books and stuff. Took me to the G.P., even. Told me loads of people got nervous, or shy, or whatever, at my age. It really helped just talking about it. Things weren’t perfect; I mean, I wasn’t about to go on the debating team, you know? But I was able to answer questions in class, pass my exams, that sort of thing. I was getting by; things were fine. And then my dad died.’