Fisher shook his head. ‘No, no, you’re grand.’ He repressed the urge to reassure her further. Her face had lost colour. She looked shaken, like she might be about to cry in earnest.
‘Did you see anyone else at all?’
Emma shook her head. ‘No one.’
‘You thought you recognised the victim as Carline, is that right?’
‘Not straight away. But when I was sitting in my car, waiting for Cormac, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. All that blonde hair. That cardigan with the purple lining. I realised I recognised the cardigan.’
Fisher nodded. ‘Right. Do you know her well, the Darcy girl?’
‘James introduced me to her when I started at the lab. She’s a second-year student. Brilliant, by all accounts, and a research assistant, but she works out of James’s lab, not mine.’
‘Must have been a bit awkward, was it? She’s your boss’s granddaughter.’ He gave a laugh. ‘Might even be your boss someday, right?’
See, this was the thing. You couldn’t shut off being a policeman, even if you wanted to, and he didn’t. He liked Emma Sweeney, for herself, not just her looks. She struck him as a good person. But first impressions were wrong as often as they were right and good people did bad things all the time, they were just a bit more inventive at finding justification for it than the average gouger. Fisher didn’t need anyone in his ear to remind him that he was there to do a job and do it well. He thought Reilly would understand that. If he didn’t, would that change anything? Fisher told himself that it wouldn’t. And so he needled Emma the way he would any other witness. To provoke a reaction.
‘It doesn’t really work like that,’ Emma said. ‘John Darcy owns the company, yes, but he’s not my boss.’ She was relaxed. No sign of a nettled ego.
‘You don’t have to report to him? Discuss progress or anything?’
‘Well, yes. We have quarterly meetings where we discuss progress and agree project target dates. But I’m not an employee, exactly. I’m a contractor. I’ll stay with Darcy Therapeutics until this project is completed, then I’ll move on. And I have part ownership of the intellectual property. I developed the nanotechnology with my team. So I suppose I see it as more of a partnership, really.’
Fisher wondered if Darcy saw it the same way. He tapped the magazine.
‘And this guy?’
Emma shrugged. ‘James has worked with John forever, and the lab is his really, to run. We don’t see a great deal of each other, day to day. James is the one who introduced me to Carline Darcy, soon after I came to Galway. After that I ran into her a few times around the labs, but I’ve never gotten to know her. We nod and smile, you know the way.’
‘Right. But you would have seen her fairly regularly, if she worked in the same lab?’
Emma shook her head. ‘My lab can only be accessed by me and my researchers. Only those who need to know – those working directly on the project – get swipe cards. Even James doesn’t have one. Carline worked on her stuff in James’s lab, in the work spaces he makes available to students.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘It wasn’t Carline anyway, was it? It was another girl who died.’
Fisher decided to change direction. ‘Is there anyone else you can think of who would fit the description? Someone with a connection to the Darcy lab? With the campus shut down it’s hard to see why anyone would have been hanging around, unless they had a swipe to the labs, like you.’
‘I’m not sure that’s right,’ Emma said. Her voice was firm but she was still pale, looked tired. ‘She could easily have been a student walking through campus from town on her way to the student residence. If she came out of town by University Road she would have seen that security had been lifted and she could easily have walked through.’ She looked at her watch.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Fisher said, and he stood, closed his notebook. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ Emma said, but there was little animation in her voice.
‘What did you need?’ Fisher asked, his tone conversational.
‘Sorry?’
‘You said you needed something from the lab, to finish your article. I’m just wondering what it was.’
‘Oh.’ Emma put her head to one side. ‘I’m not sure I remember exactly. Let me see if I made a note.’ She pulled a battered but expensive looking leather handbag to her and started to rummage through it. How much did researchers earn, exactly? More than Fisher had assumed, obviously, given the bag, and the small but fashionable and extremely well-located house they were sitting in. Not the kind of place a detective sergeant normally lived in. Well, rumour at the station was that she came from money. Emma found what she was looking for – a palm-sized notebook with a virulent orange cover. She leafed through the pages, her brow a little furrowed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I remember now. I didn’t have a data set I needed to refer to for my article – some of the data is too sensitive, too valuable to be removed from the lab, even on an encrypted laptop. I’m afraid I can’t tell you the details, not without clearing it first with the company lawyers. It’s all subject to a non-disclosure agreement. Does it matter?’
‘I’m sure it doesn’t,’ said Fisher. But he wondered.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cormac didn’t get in that night until after nine. It had been a long and frustrating day. Professor Egan’s email had received only two responses, which his office had forwarded, along with each girl’s college photograph. They had been young, both blonde, interchangeably pretty. The team had tracked the first girl down within the hour. The second girl had taken a little longer. They’d spoken to every family member, every friend by the end of the second hour. By the end of the third, with the girl not found and the feeling they were on to something, they’d brought in CCTV footage captured in the area of her last known movements and started exhaustive analysis. The girl’s mother, terrified, distraught, had agreed to provide a DNA sample. And then, just after 7 p.m., the girl herself had sheepishly phoned the station.
‘I bumped into my old boyfriend in the pub,’ she said. ‘We ended up going back to his place and just, you know, hanging out. My phone died, and he’s not in college so we didn’t hear about all the fuss, you know? Sorry. Like, I’m really sorry. But was it completely necessary to call my mum?’
The missing persons files had proven equally unrewarding. A day down, and no real progress made.
Emma’s car was sitting in the driveway when he got home – he’d made arrangements for it to be dropped back that afternoon, when forensics finished with it. He was pleased they’d brought it back quickly, less pleased to see that there was a crack in one of the brake lights that he hadn’t noticed before. He looked the car over, then went inside. The house was quiet except for the intermittent sound of canned laughter from the TV in the living room. He went in, but the room was empty, felt empty. He tried the kitchen but it was similarly deserted, everything as it had been when he left that morning, except that two additional dirty coffee cups had joined his in the sink.
He went upstairs in search of Emma, found their bedroom empty, and the door to the en suite closed. He heard the unmistakable sound of someone being sick.
‘Em?’ He knocked on the door. ‘You okay?’
The sound of the toilet flushing, then Emma’s voice. ‘Give me a minute.’ She turned on the tap at the sink – he could hear the water running.
Cormac retreated a few steps and sat on the end of the bed to wait for her. It crossed his mind that she might be pregnant, and he didn’t know whether he was delighted or terrified at the possibility. When she emerged she was pale, harried-looking. She held up one hand.
‘Don’t come near me,’ she said. ‘It’s probably just something I ate, but just in case it’s probably better to keep your distance.’ Thoughts of fatherhood died a swift death.
Cormac stood up, put his hand to her forehead, gave her the gentlest hug he could manage. She didn’t feel feverish. He let her go so she could m
ake her away around to the bed. She climbed under the covers and leaned back on the pillows, looking up at him.
‘The timing is rubbish,’ she said. ‘I really need to be at work tomorrow. I can’t afford to miss a day right now.’
‘See how you feel tomorrow,’ Cormac said. ‘It might have run its course by then.’
She half-smiled at that. ‘You sound like my mother,’ she said. ‘When we were kids, whatever was wrong with us, she’d tell us to take a disprin and wait for it to run its course.’
‘Your mother’s a doctor.’
‘Well, shoemakers’ kids and all that.’
Her voice was dry and tired. He wanted to lie down beside her but if she was feeling rubbish his presence might not be welcome.
‘Your left brake light’s had a bit of a bang,’ he said. ‘Did you know? Was that you or do I need to have words at the station?’
‘Gawd,’ she said. ‘Men and cars, you’re all the same. Fisher noticed too, on his way out. Pointed it out to me and even recommended somewhere I can get it fixed. I was hoping I’d get it done before you noticed. I dinged it when I went to the shops. Parking, if you can believe that. And no comments about women drivers, please.’ She was trying to force a lightness of tone, not quite making it.
For a moment there was silence. ‘I’m sorry that you had to deal with Fisher today,’ Cormac said quietly. ‘If you’re feeling sick I’m sure it’s the last thing you wanted to do.’
‘It was fine,’ Emma said, but she didn’t meet his eye. ‘He was fine.’
‘Emma.’ Cormac waited for her to look at him. ‘I’m sorry too that I wasn’t here with you. Last night. I know it was a shock.’
‘It would have been a shock for anyone,’ she said, chin coming up.
‘Yes. But particularly given everything you’ve been through. I feel like a dick for not getting home.’
‘You were doing your job,’ she said.
He opened his mouth to speak again but she cut him off. ‘It’s fine, Cormac, honestly. I called Rachel but she was at a wedding. She couldn’t come over, but we talked for ages before I went to sleep. She was so good. I must have totally screwed up her night. We talked until I was so tired I just fell asleep.’
‘Well,’ he said, feeling completely inadequate, ‘I’m sorry.’ He was conscious that he felt irritated, tried not to show it. He wanted to do it all, that was the problem. Be there for her, always, but he had to do his job.
‘He wasn’t too hard on you, was he?’
‘Who, Peter? He was just doing his job.’
‘Em, come on.’ He wanted her to talk to him.
In a burst of obvious exasperation Emma sat up for long enough to rearrange her pillow, then lay down again and pulled her blanket determinedly up over her shoulder. She paused before she spoke. ‘Cormac, I’m not going to fight with you. I’m really tired, and I don’t know what you want me to say, okay?’
At that he did go to her, lay down beside her on the bed, took her hand in silent apology, and she curled into him. They lay there for a time, not speaking, until he thought she had fallen asleep. When she spoke her voice was quiet, sleepy.
‘I’m sorry I got it so wrong,’ Emma murmured.
‘Sorry?’
‘I was so sure that was her cardigan. I’m sure I saw her wearing it.’
She sounded exhausted. Not really awake.
‘Go to sleep, Em,’ Cormac said. ‘We’ll talk in the morning.’
She was out in moments, and he stayed where he was, initially because he was unwilling to risk waking her. Then, as time passed, because he hoped to fall asleep himself. And eventually he just lay there and thought about Carline Darcy, tried to convince himself that she wasn’t involved. No connection to Darcy meant no connection to the lab, which meant he would be able to keep this case where it belonged – at the station, far away from his home, far away from Emma.
Monday 28 April 2014
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cormac and Moira Hanley left the station for the Henderson interview at 8.30 a.m. on Monday morning. The drive was accomplished mainly in silence. Moira gave directions as they drove up into the hills, but she didn’t seem to feel the need to fill the silence with an unnecessary briefing or anxious questions. Cormac was glad of it. He had read the Henderson file cover to cover for a second time the night before. He felt he knew where they were with the case, and the quiet drive to the house gave him an opportunity to clear his mind so that he could form his own first impressions of the woman who may or may not have conspired with her husband to murder their three children.
Lucy Henderson opened the door to them with a baby in her arms and milk stains on her shoulder. She was a bird-like little woman. Petite and fine-boned and with a definite air of abstraction. She stood looking from Cormac to Moira, as if uncertain what came next. A second woman appeared from further down the hall. The second woman looked very like Lucy, but sharper somehow, more robust, as if Lucy was an artist’s rough pencil sketch, and the second woman was the finished picture.
‘For goodness sake, Lucy, would you bring them in out of the cold?’ The woman introduced herself as Susan Armstrong, Lucy’s sister, as she took the baby from Lucy’s arms and led the way into a comfortable living room. The room was furnished with a couch and matching armchairs that had seen better days. A white IKEA storage unit housed an oversized TV, and the hearth was dark with old ash and half-burnt embers.
Lucy Henderson took a seat in the corner of the couch, and her sister placed the baby in her lap.
‘I hope you’re feeling better now, Mrs Henderson?’ Cormac asked as he sat in the armchair opposite her.
‘She is,’ Susan Armstrong said firmly. ‘And she’s ready to answer any question you need to ask her. Isn’t that right, Lucy?’
Lucy nodded slowly.
Susan Armstrong was clearly reluctant to leave. She hovered over her sister until she realised that nothing of substance would be said in her presence. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,’ she said eventually, as she retreated towards the door. ‘The older children are at school so you’ve no need to worry about being overheard or anything like that.’ A last look at Lucy and she disappeared.
‘I think it’s all just a big mistake,’ Lucy said. Her voice was hoarse, her stare unfocused. ‘Rob would never hurt the children. Could it just be a mistake?’ Her eyes found Cormac’s.
‘You know it isn’t a mistake, Lucy,’ Moira said, before Cormac could reply. ‘All the windows were sealed. Your husband blocked the ventilation shafts. He bought eight canisters of carbon dioxide – and built the pipe system into the house. He knew exactly what he was doing and his intention was to kill you and the children.’ Moira was leaning forward in her chair, her voice low and intense. She was trying to make a connection but she was moving too fast, giving Lucy nowhere to go.
Lucy shook her head, blinked, shook her head again. ‘I know I’ve neglected him,’ she said. ‘Our marriage, I mean. It’s just, the baby’s so small. There’s always so much to do.’
‘He didn’t do this because you haven’t been paying enough attention to him, Lucy. This is about much more than that,’ said Moira.
‘Has Rob ever been diagnosed with a mental illness?’ Cormac cut in, keeping his tone conversational. ‘Ever suffered a brain injury?’
‘What?’ Lucy looked at him, met his eyes for the first time. ‘No. Never. He’s always been well.’
Cormac worked at keeping warmth in his eyes. ‘Rob hasn’t been well since he’s been in custody.’ Which was the understatement of the year. According to Carrie O’Halloran’s meticulous file notes, Rob Henderson was catatonic, would lie for hours in whatever position the nurses placed him. He was doubly incontinent, which would have been a bigger problem except that he hadn’t eaten anything for three days. The doctors had him on an IV for electrolytes, and might soon have to introduce a feeding tube. They were talking about electroshock therapy. All of which sounded very much like a man who wasn’t g
oing to trial.
Lucy Henderson’s anxious eyes held his.
‘He’s not physically unwell, Lucy, at least not yet. But he seems to be mentally unwell, not able to engage with anyone, to speak, or react in any way. I wondered if this was something Rob had experienced before, or if you’d ever seen any signs.’
‘No. Nothing like that. Rob’s never been sick in that way. Never sick at all really. He has a good job, you know? He’s a programmer. He just got a big promotion. That’s why he was off work, having a little holiday before he took on all the extra responsibility. He got paid a big bonus too. We were all going to go to Euro Disney for my birthday.’ She looked back and forth between Cormac and Moira. The baby squirmed on her lap and Moira put her on the floor, where she sat for a moment before moving to all fours and crawling clumsily in Cormac’s direction.
‘He was fired,’ Moira said bluntly. ‘There was no bonus, no holiday. He lost his job because he was surfing porn on the bank’s computers and he didn’t stop even after two warnings.’
Lucy shook her head. Her eyes wandered and rested on a framed wedding photograph that sat on the bookshelf. ‘We have a happy marriage. We don’t even fight, not like Susan and John. They fight all the time. Rob says Susan just likes to row. Not me though. I like everything to be peaceful.’ She smiled in a distracted way, eyes wandering. Christ. She’d gone from anxious to soporific in less than two minutes. She was definitely medicated.
‘That may be, Mrs Henderson,’ said Moira. ‘But if your boy hadn’t let his teacher know that something wasn’t right, that he was afraid, your husband would have killed you and your children, including that baby at your feet. You owe Fearghal your life. And you owe him the truth. You keep denying it and where does that leave him? He sent his dad to jail for the rest of his life and it was all a big mistake? Because Rob is going to prison. And you can either be a support to your boy or you can bury your head in the sand.’
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