He finally turned to her. ‘Who told you, Carrie?’
‘What?’
‘I want to know who it is who’s spreading the rumour. I think you owe it to me to tell me.’
She felt pinned under his gaze. She looked back into his green eyes. She trusted him. She didn’t know why. What was it about Cormac Reilly? Was she fooling herself? What did she really know about him?
‘I already know it was Moira Hanley. She was pissed off, she went looking for dirt and she found it. I’m not worried about Hanley but I want to know her source.’
Carrie shook her head. ‘I don’t know. She didn’t tell me, but it probably doesn’t take much imagination to figure it out. It will be the usual suspects. The no hopers who sit in the corner bitching and moaning about …’ Carrie paused, shook her head, angry with herself that she hadn’t stopped to properly consider the source of the information before coming to Cormac all guns blazing. ‘Do you want me to find out?’
He brushed her off, made his excuses. He clearly didn’t trust her, and could she really object? She hadn’t exactly covered herself in glory over the past twenty minutes.
They sat in silence for another moment. Then Carrie put the car into gear, turned it, and headed back towards the city. The story about Emma was too much to take in … she needed time to think it through. On the one hand, Emma’s injuries and the fact that she was at home minding her own business when the attack took place made it fairly clear that it had been a legitimate case of self-defence. On the other hand, not many people would have the balls to cut a man’s throat. It was so brutal, so final. There was no getting away from the fact that she had actually killed someone. Taken as a whole, did the story really make Emma less of a suspect in the hit-and-run case?
‘Cormac,’ said Carrie. She spoke in a clear, steady voice, wanting him to hear her. ‘You need to think about whether you running this case is the right thing for you, or for Emma.’ Carrie knew that she had some blame in this too. She’d been too tired and too pissed off to do what she should have done on Friday night. She should never have gone along with Cormac running this case. ‘Maybe you should step back. Hand the case over to someone else.’
‘I’m not going to do that, Carrie. There’s no conflict here. Emma is nothing more than a witness to the aftermath of a crime, and I’m not going to give credibility to a bunch of bullshit by stepping back now.’
There was no point in arguing with him. He wasn’t going to move.
Was he blinkered, blind to the possibilities because he loved the girl? A stray thought crossed her mind … what would it be like to be loved by a man like that, to be supported by him? She slammed the door on the thought.
‘If the Lambert lead works out then the case may not be connected to the lab after all, of course,’ she heard herself say.
There was a pause.
‘What Lambert lead?’ Cormac said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Cormac picked up a squad car at the station and drove straight to the Lambert house. He switched on the lights and siren to expedite his drive through Galway traffic, switching them off again once he made it out of the city. He called the station on the way, got Fisher who was full of apologies. He’d thought the lead had been tied off, or he would of course have mentioned it. More voices in the background as clarification was sought. Eventually Fisher came back on the line.
‘Sorry sir. The report came in first when you were at the Henderson interview. Then Rory dropped the boy – the brother that is – home and when he came back to the office he reported that it was a false alarm. I’m afraid I didn’t ask any follow ups. It seems that Rory spoke to the mother who assured him that her daughter was not missing, and Rory took her at her word.’
Cormac made not much more by way of comment. He had work to do and there was no time to waste on recrimination. He drove on and fifteen minutes later he pulled in outside a nice-looking semi-d in Athenry, a small commuter town. There was a car parked in the driveway, boot open, groceries half unloaded. As Cormac watched, a middle-aged woman emerged from the house and gathered bags of shopping from the boot of the car.
‘Mrs Lambert?’ Cormac approached, ID out. ‘DS Cormac Reilly, Mill Street. I’d like to talk to you about your daughter Della, if you have a moment.’
‘This again. Look, whatever Della’s done has nothing to do with us. She doesn’t live here anymore. Barely bothers to call home even.’ She straightened and looked at him with a sour expression on her face, plastic shopping bags digging into her fingers.
‘Right,’ Cormac said. He looked behind her to the house. The curtains in the upstairs windows were closed, and there were no signs of life. ‘I’m not here about anything Della might have done. I’m here to speak to you because your son Paul has reported Della missing.’
She looked at him with narrowed eyes, like someone waiting on the punchline for a joke that she so far found distasteful. ‘What, because she didn’t call him for a couple of days? A teenage boy has a tantrum and you lot jump. What is it, a slow month?’
‘Could we speak inside, Mrs Lambert? It would be better if we could speak inside.’
She rolled her eyes, shifted the weight of her shopping bags in her hands. ‘It’s Eileen,’ she said. ‘You’d better come in.’
He followed her through and into the kitchen. A little girl with the distinct almond-shaped eyes of a child with Down’s Syndrome was methodically unpacking each shopping bag, putting everything neatly away in cupboards and shelves. Eileen put the last of her bags on the floor beside her daughter, and turned to Cormac, hands on hips.
‘When was the last time you saw Della?’ Cormac asked, and leaned down to roll a tin of peas that had escaped the little girl back towards her. He smiled at her and got a careful smile in return.
‘I don’t know.’ Eileen paused. ‘I suppose she was here for Geraldine’s birthday in February. For lunch. Probably not since then, but Della never does make much of an effort to stay in touch with her family.’
‘Let’s sit, will we, Eileen?’ Cormac stepped forward smoothly, moved a stack of laundry to one side, then took a seat at the kitchen table. The gesture was deliberately familiar, as if he were a regular visitor to the house. Eileen Lambert hesitated, then moved to take a seat.
‘Will I make tea, Mama?’ Geraldine asked.
‘Go and watch TV, Geraldine,’ Eileen Lambert said, her voice tight. The little girl looked at her mother, then disappeared from the room without another word. A moment later and they heard the theme tune for Dora the Explorer coming from the living room.
‘Nice kid,’ Cormac said.
‘Looking after Geraldine is a full-time job,’ Eileen said, her voice sharp. ‘I haven’t worked outside the house since she was born. If I wasn’t here, playing with her, working with her, giving her day structure, what do you think would happen to her?’ Her tone was more than defensive; it was almost an attack, as if she and Cormac had been engaged in a long and bitter argument about Geraldine’s fate and Eileen’s choices.
Cormac didn’t react. ‘Paul is very concerned about Della, Eileen. He says that they are usually in contact every day, or every second day. But he hasn’t heard from Della since Friday, and she’s not answering her phone.’
‘For God’s sake. She’s probably gone off with friends for a few days. Della’s eighteen years old. She never comes home, never telephones her own mother. What eighteen-year-old keeps her teenage brother informed about her every movement?’
‘Did you know that Paul went to Della’s apartment? That he waited for her there, alone, overnight? He didn’t have a key so he just sat in the hall.’ Cormac’s tone was measured. He was careful to ensure that the question did not sound like an accusation. He didn’t want Eileen Lambert to shut down, and she was very obviously the type who wouldn’t take criticism lying down.
‘What are you talking about?’ Eileen asked.
‘Paul went to Della’s apartment yesterday. He stayed there all night.’
‘No, he didn’t. Paul was at home all day yesterday. And he slept in his own bed.’ The words were flat, absolute.
‘You saw him?’
Eileen compressed her lips. She wore a slash of deep red lipstick, and it had bled into the corners of her mouth.
‘Paul told us that he got the train to Galway after school. He took a bus and then walked to Della’s apartment. Someone let him in the main security door. He was there all night.’
Eileen Lambert shook her head, face grim, lips thin.
‘You didn’t put your head in the door at bedtime, check up on him?’
‘He’s fifteen years old. More than old enough to put himself to bed. I have a child with real needs to take care of. Forgive me if I get a little distracted.’
‘Tell me about Della, Mrs Lambert,’ Cormac said. ‘Does she often go away for a few days without telling you?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Della is an adult. She makes her own money, pays her own way. I don’t look over her shoulder.’ She looked at Cormac, read something into his steady gaze. ‘Della and Paul know that in this house Geraldine comes first. That’s the way it should be and that’s the way it is.’
‘Paul mentioned that Della moved to Galway just over two years ago, when she was, what, sixteen? Was that for work?’
‘College. Della was accepted early at the university, to study chemistry. She would have gone the year before but her father said no.’ Eileen delivered this as if the idea of a fifteen-year-old studying university level chemistry was completely run of the mill.
‘She must be a very bright student.’
Eileen shrugged. ‘It didn’t suit her in the end.’
A noise from the hallway distracted Cormac for a moment – then he returned his attention to Eileen. ‘You were saying it didn’t suit her …’
Eileen was looking down at her wedding ring. ‘Della lost interest. She always did get bored easily. She dropped out of college and got a job. I think it suited her better.’
The kitchen door opened then and Paul came in, his face flushed. His eyes went straight to his mother. ‘Mum,’ he started.
‘Is what he said true?’ Eileen asked, voice tight. ‘Did you go to see Della without telling me? Spend the night sitting outside her apartment in Galway?’
Paul hesitated then nodded his head once.
‘If you thought there was something wrong with Della you should have come to me. I am her mother. If there was reason to be concerned, of course I would be, more than anyone. If I’m not worried about her why should you be?’
Paul was facing his mother but his eyes were slightly averted. He didn’t say anything.
Cormac cleared his throat. ‘I’d like to look at Della’s apartment,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Lambert, that Della is just busy. But given that she hasn’t been in touch, and that no one seems to know quite where she is … I think it would be no harm to make a few preliminary inquiries.’
Eileen Lambert wanted to object, that was written all over her face. But how could she? What sort of mother tells the police not to look for a daughter who may be missing? She was trying to frame a counter-argument and coming up with nothing. Paul took advantage of the distraction to slip quietly from the room.
‘Do you have a key to her place?’ Cormac asked.
Eileen didn’t, but she made no argument against Cormac’s proposal that he seek out Della’s landlord and request access that way. She walked him to the door, opened it for him, then held it, half-leaning against it, and spoke again as he left. ‘Della’s fine, you know,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t care about this family, that’s all it is. She thinks she’s better than us. That’s why she never comes home. Paul always thought he was different. I told him and told him, Della doesn’t care about you. But he wouldn’t listen, he thought she loved him. This is just Paul waking up and realising that he’s just the same as the rest of us.’
Christ. ‘We’ll be in touch Mrs Lambert,’ Cormac said.
‘Whatever Della’s been doing, it’s her business, you understand me?’ she called after him as he walked away down the path. ‘She’s an adult. She’s living her own life. It’s got nothing to do with me. Did you hear me?’ He kept walking.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Cormac rang the station and had Fisher call the letting agent – a quick online search for Della’s address had disclosed the historical rental listing and the name and phone number of the agent. By the time he reached the outskirts of Galway, Fisher called back to confirm that the young woman who had leased the property was willing to open the place up for them.
‘She’s coming now,’ Fisher said. ‘By the time you get back in she should be there.’
‘She didn’t ask for a warrant?’
‘Didn’t seem to occur to her. She met Della Lambert herself and was worried to hear she was missing. Said she’d always thought Della was too young to be living alone.’
Fisher suggested that he park at the station. The apartment was less than five minutes away and it would be easier to walk over than drive and look for a place to leave the car. Fisher was waiting at the station gates when Cormac pulled in.
‘Rory’s very aware that he fucked up, and so am I,’ Fisher said a bit grimly. ‘He let the mother give him the bum’s rush, and then I compounded the error by not asking for a detailed report. Sorry sir.’
Cormac nodded, chose not to pursue it. ‘I just met Eileen Lambert. She wasn’t particularly interested in the fact that her daughter is missing, and we’re on her doorstep asking questions. For whatever reason, she’s working hard to distance herself from her older daughter.’
‘Did you meet the brother?’ Fisher said.
Cormac shook his head. ‘He came in briefly, but his mother didn’t give him much of an opportunity to speak.’
‘You think she’s involved in some way?’
‘I think she’s afraid of something. Not that her daughter is dead, I don’t think. Something else.’
They walked in the direction of the city. Cormac cast a dubious eye at the darkening sky, but they’d only been walking for a minute when Fisher turned down Dominick Street and led the way across the road to a narrow alleyway.
‘The apartment building is accessed this way,’ Fisher said. ‘It’s infill development. It used to be all storage yards for old mills, backing up to the river bank. They knocked them all down, built forty or fifty apartments back there. It’s a nice building.’
‘You’ve been here before?’ Cormac asked.
Fisher shrugged. ‘Not inside, like. But I walk up this way to the station. I walked past every day when all the work was going on.’
They turned down the alley. It was just wide enough to allow the passage of a small car, assuming the wing mirrors were tucked in.
‘What’s this place like?’ Cormac asked. ‘The kind of place students would rent?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. I’d say it would be too pricey.’
Cormac thought of Carline Darcy’s designer digs but said nothing.
‘I called the café Della was supposed to be working at,’ Fisher said. ‘The manager had never heard of her but he’d only been working there a year. I get the impression they have pretty high staff turnover.’
They turned the corner and found the apartment building. It was nice-looking, if a bit twee, with cut-stone walls at the ground-floor level, and wooden window frames painted red. Despite the olde-worlde look the front door had an electronic lock, accessible by pass card.
They waited for the estate agent for another five minutes or so, were alerted to her arrival by the sound of a pair of heels hurrying down the cobble-stoned alleyway in their direction.
‘Sorry. Sorry.’ A young woman appeared around the corner, arrived in a flurry of explanations and too much perfume. ‘I got here as fast as I could. But I can’t get the car down the alley, so I had to find parking, and it’s a nightmare at this time of day.’
‘You have the keys?’ Cormac asked.
> She poked about in her shoulder bag and pulled out a heavy keyring. ‘We manage the place. I mean my agency, Donnellan & Molloy, manage it.’ She pressed a key pass to the pad and the lock buzzed and released. ‘It’s 4B, right? That’s the fourth floor.’ A nervous laugh. ‘I hope she’s okay. She seemed like a nice girl. A bit young to sign a lease for a place like this in her own name, but she was happy to pay the equivalent of six months’ rent in as security deposit, so I thought it would be okay.’
The estate agent subsided into a nervous silence as they rode the lift to the fourth floor. She led the way down the wide, tiled corridor. The lock on the apartment door was a standard Chubb lock, not electronic, and she fumbled with the key before she got it right. Cormac asked her to wait outside for them, then he opened the door and entered, Fisher on his heels. They found themselves in a small hall, which had four doors leading from it. Only one was ajar, and through it they could see a kitchen, a dining table, and a large window looking out onto the dashing water of the river below. The room looked empty.
‘Check the kitchen,’ Cormac said and Fisher nodded and moved off. Cormac opened the door to his right. A bathroom, very clean, white fluffy towels placed strategically, like a show home. The next door led into what must be the master bedroom. A double bed, neatly made, bright white linen, a thick-knit throw that looked expensive on the end of the bed. A curved window offered a second view of the river. The room had a fresh smell, like clean laundry brought in from the line. Nothing personal on show, no photographs, but there was a stack of paperback books on the bedside table, more on the floor beside the bed. There were a couple of prints on the wall – anonymous splotches of abstract colour that left Cormac cold – and a white phone charger cable snaked out from behind the bed and onto the bedside table. There was an en suite bathroom, smaller than the bathroom he’d already seen, and this one had shampoo and conditioner bottles, one of each, a toothbrush and a toilet bag on a single glass shelf. He returned to the bedroom as Fisher entered.
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