Flynn cleared his throat. ‘Did you call McBride?’
‘Yeah.’
Claire rolled her eyes. Flynn had been gone less than forty minutes, but the conversation with the former mayor of Rathoban hadn’t taken even a fraction of that time. Yes, Richie McBride had confirmed cautiously, Stephen had been the name of the pupil at the centre of James Mannion’s dismissal, or resignation, or whatever you wanted to call it. Stephen Millar. But, no, he had no idea where he was now. England, possibly; at least, that’s where the family had moved to when they left Rathoban. No, he didn’t have an address for him. No, there were no relatives back in Rathoban as far as he knew. Sorry, detective, I’d love to help you, but it was all so long ago.
Claire had run the name through Pulse, the Garda database, of course, but hadn’t come up with anything. Not to worry. She’d track down Stephen Millar. But it was going to take time. And those letters, the ones Liz said she received, were bugging her. OK, it had only taken her five minutes to confirm that Liz was listed in the phone book and had mentioned the fact that she lived close to Tír na nÓg in several interviews. So there was no huge mystery about how this Stephen guy had got her address. It could all be just someone messing, some eejit, living with his ma, with funny ideas about how to pick up girls; some freak, and there were plenty of them out there, deciding to capitalise on what had happened at Tír na nÓg. Or there might be more to it. After all, who stalked people with handwritten notes these days, when there were many more electronic ways to make a nuisance of yourself?
Claire was just about ready to hit the road. She’d better return the call to Matt first though. He had probably just been checking to make sure she was on her way.
But her husband’s voice, when he answered, didn’t sound friendly.
‘Hello, yes?’
‘Hi there. Sorry I missed your call. Hell of a day; I was locked in an interview room. Did you get milk?’
‘I called you five times.’
‘Did you? Sorry, I had my phone on silent.’
‘I really needed to talk to you.’
Claire’s heart jumped.
‘Oh, shit – is Anna OK?’
‘She is now.’
He sounded angry, yes, but Claire suddenly realised that her husband also sounded utterly exhausted.
‘The crèche called. She woke up from her nap with a temperature of a hundred and two.’
‘A hundred and two? Shit.’
Claire thought back to the book on childhood illnesses her mother had sent her and that she’d thumbed through in the bath one evening when she’d forgotten a magazine.
‘That’s really bad, isn’t it?’
Her husband sighed. ‘Well, it’s not great. I brought her home and it came down after bath and some paracetamol. And after she puked all over me.’
‘Well, thank Christ for that. Not for the puke, obviously, but—’
‘Claire.’
Her husband’s voice had an edge to it that broke through his weariness.
‘My meeting with O’Neill was today. For the website contract?’
‘Oh, shit; yeah. Did you manage to go, or—?’
‘No, I had to cancel.’
He was speaking slowly, emphasising each word.
‘I cancelled at very short notice. And, after I’d calmed Anna down, I called to rearrange but they’d already spoken to someone else at that stage. They are probably going to go with him, too. They called me an hour ago, thought it was only fair to let me know.’
‘Shit. I’m so sorry.’
‘Are you?’
Claire bristled at the hostility in his tone. ‘Well, yeah, I am sorry that it happened. But there’s nothing I could have done.’
‘You could have answered your phone. You could have looked after your sick child.’
‘Are you pissed off with me?’
‘I’m pissed off, Claire. That contract was important, for all of us. I could have done a lot of the work from home; it would have saved us from precisely what happened today.’
‘Yeah, but I was in an interview!’ She could feel a pulse beating in her temple. ‘This is a murder investigation, for God’s sake. You can’t just walk out in the middle and . . .’
Suddenly aware that her voice had risen and that Flynn had stopped typing on the other side of the desk, she climbed out of her chair and walked into the corridor, still talking.
‘I was in an interview! I can’t even keep my phone turned on in there, the lawyers would—’
‘Yeah, yeah, lawyers.’
‘Yeah, lawyers!’
Claire’s temper was at boiling point now. Everything was just so bloody hard – the case, the long day, the guilt she was feeling about not being around when Anna was sick, guilt about feeling guilty when she’d only been doing her job. And there was only one person to whom she could complain, so she gave him both barrels.
‘This is a murder investigation. I am a detective. I’m sorry, Matt, I know your meeting was important and I will make it up to you but, not trying to be funny, here, but this is literally life and death, you know?’
‘The guy’s already a corpse, he’s not going to mind waiting around a few hours anymore.’
Dead silence. And then they both burst out laughing.
‘I can’t believe you said that.’
Matt groaned. ‘Me, neither. I’m having such a shitty day.’
‘Tell me about it.’ She leaned her forehead against the wall, not caring who passed by. ‘Look, I’m leaving now. I’ll get milk, OK? And pizza. And I’ll wash the puke out of your shirt.’
‘Make sure you do, woman.’
‘Promise.’
She glanced down at her watch. Nearly five p.m. She’d a mountain of paperwork to do and needed quiet time too, to think about what Liz Cafferky had said, let it sink in. There had been a time when she’d just drive around on an evening like this, stick on some music, anything, hum along, maybe, and let her brain turn things over. She’d had some of her best ideas doing just that.
But not tonight. Her baby needed her. It sounded like Matt did too.
Chapter Twenty
The square-ish but goodlooking-ish cop gave her a lift, but Liz insisted he let her out before they got to Tír na nÓg, peddled him some bullshit about how the sight of a cop car might freak out the clients, but the truth was she just needed a few minutes to herself. To stop, and think, to breathe in some cold air before the fustiness of the cop shop was replaced by the aroma of stale food and neediness that permeated her workplace. So she thanked him, even managed a smile, and then climbed out of the car at the top of the road and watched while he drove away.
And that’s when they jumped out at her.
‘Liz!’
There were at least three of them, maybe more; she fumbled in her handbag for her keys.
‘It is her; I told you she’d turn up here.’
‘Liz! Over here, please!’
The flash dazzled her and she took a step backwards, out into the street, a cyclist narrowly avoiding her and swearing as he raced past.
‘Liz, can I ask you your reaction to the latest killing?’
They were sticking things in her face now – a microphone, a mobile phone.
‘How well did you know Eugene Cannon?’
‘Are you worried for other people at Tír na nÓg?’
‘Elizabeth? Are you worried for your own safety?’
‘I don’t . . . I can’t . . .’
Shaking her head, she turned right and then left as question after question slapped against her face. It was hard to tell how many of them there were now. She stumbled, stepped on a man’s foot and heard him swear.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Liz! Ian Flaherty, here; we met the other morning! If I could just have a quick word . . .?’
Liz met his eyes and gave an instinctive smile of recognition. Then realised his microphone was closest of all.
‘I don’t think—’
‘Can you at le
ast confirm Ireland 24’s story? That Eugene Cannon was a client of yours? That’s two deaths linked to Tír na nÓg, Liz; have you anything to say about it?’ It was a woman asking, this time, her face familiar from a thousand television bulletins. Liz had admired her once, thought her calm and authoritative. Now all she could see was how hassled the woman looked as she tried to get her microphone in even closer than the others.
‘Liz, just a quick word.’
‘Will you miss Eugene?’
‘Of course, I . . .’
She tried to find a gap, to spot a way through to the front gate of the centre, but there were more of them now and she was completely hemmed in, the panic rising as she wondered just how excited they would be and how high up their news bulletins they’d carry it if she fainted right in front of them.
Suddenly, she felt a hand on her elbow and a hiss in her ear.
‘Come on; the car’s around the corner.’
For a moment, she thought about resisting. Then she realised that whatever he had in mind for her couldn’t be any worse than this. Liz kept her head down as he tugged her through the crowd and into his car. She stayed silent until they stopped at the next traffic lights, then she looked down, made sure the handbrake was on, reached out and slapped him on the face.
‘The fuck?’ Dean’s hand reached up and he massaged his cheek. ‘I’m on your side! Jesus’ sake, Liz, I got you out of there.’
‘You got me into it, you mean.’
If the lights hadn’t changed at that precise moment, she’d have hit him again, but instead she settled back into her seat and glared at him.
‘They were all shouting about some Ireland 24 story. Was it yours? Did you tell them that Eugene was a client of ours?’
Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. ‘I was just doing my job.’
‘That’s the excuse, is it? Your job? Well, that’s alright, then. I hope you enjoy your job. I hope they make you the presenter of the main freaking evening news. I hope you make millions out of us—’
‘Ah, Jaysus, Liz, calm down, will you?’
Dean slowed the car at a Yield sign and glanced over at her before speeding up again.
‘It’s called news, Liz – having an exclusive. It was going to come out in a few hours, anyway; I didn’t do anything wrong; the family were all informed.’
‘Give me your phone.’
There was no point in hiding from it, not at this stage.
‘What?’
‘Your phone. Give it to me. I want to see what they’re saying.’
He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged, pulling his phone from his pocket before tossing it into her lap.
‘Look away. I didn’t make anything up; it’s all true.’
She tapped into the home screen and Googled her name, then shuddered as page after page of news unfolded in front of her.
Terror at Tír na nÓg.
Lovely Liz linked to double murder.
Grim discovery of man’s body linked to prominent charity.
A Dean Evans exclusive.
There were images too, pages of them: a photograph of Tom standing at the front door of Tír na nÓg, hand raised in front of him as he greeted, or maybe tried to get rid of, someone just outside the frame; a photo of Eugene that looked to be at least twenty years old; the front of the building, lifted from the Facebook page; and Liz herself, pictured just minutes previously on the footpath, looking distracted, exhausted and completely freaked out.
‘How do they even get this on there so quickly?’
Dean, glancing over, rolled his eyes. ‘One of the hacks would have tweeted it. There – look.’
The car swerved dangerously as he pointed out a tiny black name written under the photo.
‘And whoever is on the paper’s rolling blog lifted it. It’s pretty standard, I’m afraid.’
But she wasn’t listening anymore. Not caring whether or not he crashed, and maybe hoping he would, Liz flung the phone back into Dean’s lap and rested her head back against the car seat, her eyes gritty and dry.
A Dean Evans exclusive.
Who was he, anyway, this Dean Evans that she considered a friend? She hadn’t even known his phone number until six months ago, might have walked past him in the street if he hadn’t called her name. Now here he was, giving her lifts and writing exclusives about her.
‘It’s not as bad as you think.’
Dean slowed the car and then stopped in a long line of traffic, using the opportunity to try and grab her hand. But Liz jerked it away. What was it her father would have said? To hell with you and the horse you rode in on. God almighty, how had she even ended up here, anyway? The job at Tír na nÓg was supposed to be a halfway house, a place to rest, regroup and reconsider until she could leave Back Then behind her and make her way to some place better. And now things were worse than before.
‘Paper?’
‘Good JESUS!’
The man’s face was pressed against the car window, his bright orange jacket lighting up the side of her face.
Liz’s heart hammered in her chest.
Dean looked over, concern written on his face. ‘It’s OK, hon; it’s just a lad selling the Herald; tell him to feck off.’
‘No.’ The word came out louder than she intended and, fingers trembling, Liz lowered the window down. ‘I might as well see what they’re saying.’
She handed him a euro and the man slid a paper through the window.
Liz looked at her picture on the front page.
TERROR AT TÍR NA NÓG
She shoved the paper at Dean, wordlessly, and he shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. Look, let me make it up to you. Buy you a drink?’
‘Sure.’ She nodded and then looked down at the paper again. ‘Actually, no. A coffee. I need to think.’
Chapter Twenty-One
He pulled the covers up over his head and, in the darkness, swooped backwards in time.
‘I’m thinking of building a playground.’
It had been such an unusual thing for his father to say, so unexpected, that neither he nor his mother answered straight away. For a moment, the scrape of her fork against the plate was the only sound in the room. Her mouth twisted and Stephen knew she was holding the food in her mouth, seeking an excuse not to reply. Saying nothing was better than saying the wrong thing. Always.
‘There’s nowhere around here for the kids to go – so Richie McBride told me, anyway.’
His mother patted her mouth nervously with a tissue.
‘Sure, that’s a lovely idea,’ she ventured, finally, the fork now shaking slightly in her hand.
Stephen had hidden behind her words and stayed silent, concentrating on the soggy lumps of turnip, sucking them down so they didn’t touch the sides because the taste made him feel ill but there were children starving in Africa and you were an ungrateful pup if you turned your nose up at good food.
Now, years later, lying in his lumpy bed, the sheets balled up and uncomfortably warm beneath him, he knew what had prompted his father’s sudden interest in the welfare of the local children. There had been talk around the town of low wages at the factory, of the men joining a union. The playground had been his father’s way of making himself the big man again – throwing up a few discounted swings and making sure a grand big plaque with his name on it was put on display. Nobody said Lar Millar wasn’t a smart man.
Just not a very nice one.
Back then, though, his son had seen it as just another source of worry. His father bought him new clothes for the opening ceremony: grey trousers, a yellow shirt and brown shoes that pinched his feet as they walked across the tarmac to where Mayor Richie McBride was waiting to cut the ribbon.
The children had all been tentative at first, Stephen remembered. Even after the speeches were made and the gates to the playground opened, they had all just wandered around, reaching out to touch the new equipment, not wanting to be the first to have a go. Eventually, they’d all gathered at a large contraption in the c
orner – a cone-shaped metal climbing frame which soared into the bright blue spring sky. And, as the children and their parents nudged each other in silence, the tips of Stephen’s da’s ears had turned red. A stage whisper came from the back of the crowd.
‘It doesn’t look safe, does it? I heard they didn’t want to build it, but Millar insisted it was the latest thing.’
The dig of a fist into the small of his back made Stephen stumble forward.
‘This lad here will show you how it’s done, won’t you, son?’
Neutral words, but their meaning clear. Climb the fuck up there and don’t make me look like an eejit. Look like you’re enjoying it, or there’ll be trouble later.
It was like a spider’s web, Stephen thought, a terrifying, metallic spider’s web that stretched up so far you could barely see the top of it. He reached out, felt the metal cold under his fingers, hauled himself up the first rung and climbed up another one. Looking around then, he realised, for the first time in a long time, that he was doing everything right. Faces in the crowd looked impressed, supportive. He climbed another rung, and another. And then his foot slid from under him, the new shoes completely unsuitable for this task. Another rung and his hands had grown sweaty, their grip unstable. There was no fun in this now and his trousers were too tight; what if they tore? What if they tore right across the arse? And half the town standing underneath him. Stephen climbed up another rung and then even that image disappeared, replaced by the bigger fear of falling and plunging on to the tarmac below.
Another rung. He looked down again and then wished he hadn’t. Below, the men drew on fags and feigned nonchalance while not taking their eyes off his retreating rear end, and the women vied with each other to see who could tut the loudest. A couple of fellas from his class were nudging each other in excitement. His father caught his eye. Make it look like fun, you little scut. Make it look like fun or there’s no need to bother coming back down again.
It was that last glance that broke Stephen’s concentration altogether and, as he reached for the next rung, his foot slid again and the handrail slipped from his grasp. He swung out into the blue, dangling on one arm. The crowd gasped and, from the centre, his mother screamed.
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