Set in Stone

by Catherine Dunne

  ‘I’m well, thank you, Mr Graham.’ The watcher gazes at him. His expression is unreadable. ‘Mr Danny Graham.’ His voice is low now, with an edge of steel to it.

  Danny nods in delight. Just as he thought. ‘As a former copper,’ he says, swallowing the last of his pint, ‘it’s the least I would have expected. I understand you were good at your job. Once.’

  This time, the man’s face is impassive. ‘Pay me what you owe me,’ he says, ‘and I’ll be on my way. I’ve no time for games.’

  Danny sighs, sitting back in his chair. ‘Now, I just don’t think I can do that,’ he says. ‘You see, there are some loose ends here.’

  The watcher leans forward. His gaze is intense. ‘I did what you employed me to do,’ he says. ‘Let’s keep to the rules. Pay me.’

  Danny shakes his head. His tone is regretful, patient, as though he’s dealing with a conscientious, but limited student. ‘You don’t understand,’ he says. ‘I can’t do that.’ He reaches into his pocket. ‘By the way,’ he says. ‘These are copies. The real thing is safe.’

  He places a CD on the table in front of him. ‘Here’s the evidence of your vandalism. Won’t be difficult to convince the cops. Inappropriate surveillance, wasn’t that it? Wasn’t that why they fired you in the first place?’ Danny has allowed his voice to grow louder. A couple of men sitting at the bar turn to look in their direction. Then they return to their newspapers.

  ‘And in addition,’ Danny lowers his voice again, ‘you recorded yourself destroying that poor woman’s garden. It’s all here,’ and he picks up the CD and waves it in the air. ‘Pretty poor practice for an ex-cop, isn’t it? A man of the law?’ He allows his tone to be incredulous at the questions he is driven to ask. A nice touch, he feels.

  The watcher’s eyes fill with hate. Danny is pleased. Now we’re getting somewhere. Then something else settles across the man’s face. Danny is not able to read it, not yet. The watcher reaches into his pocket and pulls out something slender and black.

  ‘Digital recorder,’ he says. ‘I’ve downloaded our conversations – all of them. They’re sound files. Already attached to emails.’ He reaches into his inside pocket and retrieves his phone. ‘This is a BlackBerry,’ he says. ‘And those emails are ready to send. I’ve still got friends in the force.’

  ‘But you’d incriminate yourself,’ Danny says softly.

  The watcher shakes his head. ‘You’d be part of my ex-colleague’s investigation. I’ve checked. My immunity would be part of the deal. After all, you’re the controller here, the instigator. We have files on you, going way back. And this time, your brother and his wife have already reported you to the Guards. Did you know that?’ He knows he’s flying a kite here, but it’s what most sensible, middle-class people would do.

  Danny sits back, considering this. ‘I see,’ he says. The man may be telling the truth, he may not. It hardly matters, not any more. It makes the final card all the more glorious.

  ‘Let’s leave that aside for a moment.’ Danny pauses. ‘We have other, more interesting things to discuss. How’s your wife?’

  The watcher looks at him, startled. The defences are finally pierced now. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I asked you how’s your wife. How’s Amy?’ Danny signals to the barman for another round. ‘Amy Munroe?’ Then he turns back to the watcher and smiles. ‘Well? It’s a polite inquiry, after all we’ve done together. All we’ve been through. How is she?’

  The watcher pushes back his chair. ‘None of your fuckin’ business,’ he says.

  Danny admires him, just a little. Pride, loyalty to his wife, to his life, prevent him from asking how Danny knows Amy. He waits until the watcher has almost reached the door of the pub.

  ‘And Tina?’ he calls. ‘And, of course, Amy’s son? How are they all?’

  The watcher turns slowly. Danny sees that his face is yellow, not white. He is reminded of Robert, standing on the doorstep that day. Telling him never to come back.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Danny waits until the watcher makes his way back towards the table.

  ‘What did you say?’ he repeats.

  Danny notices that his hands are now fists, with white knuckles under translucent skin.

  He smiles, makes a face full of sympathy, concern. ‘Didn’t Amy tell you? She and I were an item for, oh, nearly two years. Of course, it’s a long time ago now.’ He lowers his voice, draws the watcher in closer. So close he can see the pockmarks on his face, see the red veins in his eyes. ‘I fucked her,’ he says softly. ‘Didn’t you know that? We have a lovely son.’

  Then his cheek explodes under the force of the other man’s fist. He hears glass breaking, shouts, the clamour of chairs falling, running footsteps. He stumbles, but catches the back of the chair and rights himself, just in time. He won’t be brought down by anyone.

  The barman has leapt over the counter and has the watcher’s arm twisted behind his back. The other customers are watching, still as a photograph. Some have their mouths open. Others have glasses halfway to their lips. Danny notices, in that heightened way you notice details in a crisis, that some of the women have moved closer to their men. One has her hand on a mobile phone. All are watching, waiting.

  ‘You’re barred!’ the barman says, pushing the watcher roughly towards the door. ‘Get out before I call the Guards. And you,’ he says, pointing to Danny, his forefinger stabbing, ‘you sit for ten minutes and then make yourself scarce.’ His voice is no-nonsense, full of righteous authority. ‘I never want to see either of you here again. Take your argument somewhere else. Not in my pub.’

  At the door, the watcher turns. His face is stricken.

  Danny sits, gathers up the CD, the digital recorder and the BlackBerry off the table. He feels quite calm. He’s guessing that the emails are a bluff. Doesn’t matter, anyway. First thing tomorrow morning, he’s history. Miles away, before anyone can even begin to come after him. When he looks up again, the door of the pub has closed.

  ‘Have you a rear exit?’ Danny walks over to the bar. He touches his face gingerly with the tips of his fingers. The barman glares at him. ‘Your man is a psycho,’ protests Danny, gesturing towards the door. ‘Dunno what got into him.’

  The barman looks sceptical. ‘What do you want?’ he asks, pulling pints for the customers who are averting their gaze from Danny.

  ‘A taxi,’ he says. ‘As soon as possible.’

  The barman nods. ‘Where to?’ he asks, reaching for the phone on the wall behind him.

  Danny smiles. ‘No offence, but in the circumstances, I think I’ll keep that for the taxi-man.’ And he goes back to finish his pint.

  ‘Five minutes,’ the barman says curtly. ‘Out that way,’ and he nods in the direction of the Gents. ‘I’ll let you out when the taxi’s here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Danny, politely. He sits down and finishes his pint. A job well done, he thinks. A satisfying project overall.

  Just one more thing and then he’ll be on his way.

  11

  ‘THANKS FOR seeing us at such short notice, Jennifer,’ Robert said.

  ‘Not a problem. Come in. All of you.’

  They sat, clustered around the desk in Jennifer’s overheated office.

  ‘Right.’ Jennifer adjusted her glasses and addressed herself to Ciarán. ‘What age are you, Ciarán?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘We can conduct this interview, just the two of us, if you’d prefer. Do you object to your parents being present?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. They can stay. It’s fine.’ He was agitated, pulling at his fingernails. Lynda winced as he made one of them bleed.

  ‘Your father has given me the broad outline of the other night. It seems that a young woman,’ she leafed through pages on her desk, ‘called Larissa, is that right?’

  Ciarán nodded.

  ‘Larissa seems to have made an allegation of rape against you and you have been asked to appear voluntarily at the Garda station
and give your own statement. Do you understand?’

  Again, Ciarán nodded.

  Jennifer took off her glasses. ‘A voluntary statement means that you are not being arrested. You will be there of your own free will. You may leave any time. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ciarán. ‘It’s clear.’

  ‘What happens in these cases is that the young woman, Larissa, will be required to go to the Sexual Assault Unit at the Rotunda, and submit to an examination.’

  ‘I don’t—’ Ciarán began.

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Jennifer, quickly. ‘Don’t say anything until you hear me out.’

  Ciarán looked at her. His mouth was slightly open. At that moment, Lynda was filled with fear for him. He was so confused, so vulnerable, that he might admit to anything. She hoped that Jennifer could see that.

  ‘If you admit the rape, you will be cautioned and detained for further questioning. I understand from your father that you deny the allegation, is that correct?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ Ciarán whispered. ‘I just . . .’

  ‘In that case,’ said Jennifer briskly, ‘I will be advising you to say nothing. And that means what the word says. When asked, you will reply “I have nothing to say”. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yeah, but Jon . . .’

  Jennifer leaned towards him. ‘I don’t need to hear any more, Ciarán. The Guards have already taken away bedding for forensic examination. That may, or may not tell them something.’ The phone rang, making Lynda jump. ‘Five minutes,’ said Jennifer picking up the receiver and speaking briskly into it. She turned back to Ciarán. ‘I will meet you outside the station at five-thirty this evening. Do exactly what I tell you and we’ll be out again in half an hour. If things proceed, then we will have a further, much lengthier conversation. For now, it’s enough that you understand to say nothing at all when questioned.’

  ‘May I ask something?’ said Lynda.

  ‘Sure. Fire ahead.’

  ‘This girl, Larissa.’ Lynda paused. ‘If she doesn’t proceed with her allegation, I mean, if she refuses to go to the Rotunda or whatever, what then?’

  ‘Then there will be no case against Ciarán.’

  ‘What if the bedding . . .’ Lynda trailed off. What an appalling thing, she thought. Poor Larissa. She had to speak to her again. The girl had been right: nobody was going to be punished for this. Except, she thought, looking at her son’s distraught face, except those who are innocent.

  ‘One thing at a time,’ said Jennifer. ‘Let’s get today over with, and then we’ll see where we are.’ She stood up.

  Lynda felt a flash of anger. We’re just a job to her, she thought. A case. A file. A fee. She stood and took her handbag off the floor. She left it to Robert to thank the woman. All she wanted was to get out of there.

  The minute Lynda put her key in the lock, she knew something was wrong. The alarm wasn’t working. The air in the house felt disturbed. The kitchen door was creaking back and forth, as though in a draught.

  ‘What’s up?’ Robert was directly behind her.

  ‘Somebody’s been here. The alarm is off.’

  ‘Jesus!’ said Robert. ‘Is there no end to this?’ He was angry; had been angry ever since they’d left the solicitor’s office. The journey home had been a silent one. He pushed Lynda to one side and made his way into the kitchen. ‘There’s a window broken here,’ he called back, ‘in the downstairs bathroom.’

  But Lynda didn’t answer. Automatically, she had stepped into her studio. Where she always went as soon as she came through the door. Her space. Her haven.

  ‘Mum?’ Katie was right behind her.

  Lynda couldn’t speak. The whole studio seemed alive with colour. Paintings fluttered on the walls. Brightly coloured confetti littered the floor. Her desk was a tumble of blues and greens and greys. At first, the whole impact was one of curious, chaotic beauty. Then, as things began to settle, Lynda cried out. ‘Oh, my God! My God! Robert! Robert!’

  He came crashing in behind them. Katie seemed to have been struck dumb. She clutched her mother’s hand and stared around her, her eyes wide and unblinking. Ciarán leaned against the door frame. Robert pushed him, roughly, out of the way.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. And ‘Jesus,’ again. He held Lynda’s other hand and together, they looked at the destruction all around them. Katie pulled herself away and began to pick up the pieces off the floor. ‘Mum,’ she said, lifting her eyes to Lynda, the full impact sinking in. ‘They’re your paintings.’ Her voice was barely audible.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Lynda heard Robert mutter. ‘Upstairs.’ And he fled.

  Lynda turned away and walked into the kitchen. She stood in front of the double doors and looked out at her garden. It was as she had left it, weeks back. Bare, sad. Waiting to be fixed. She walked over to the sink and filled the kettle. Then she sat at the table and waited.

  She heard Robert and Ciarán and Katie moving about upstairs. Everything else was curiously quiet.

  Later, when they gathered around her, she said: ‘Well?’

  Robert sat. ‘Pretty much everything has been destroyed,’ he said. His voice was matter of fact. ‘Mattresses slashed, stuff broken, drawers upended. And nothing in my office works. It’s been trashed, too.’

  ‘Ciarán?’

  ‘Yeah. My room’s in bits,’ he said. ‘Everything’s a mess.’

  Katie looked grey. Lynda had never seen her this upset without tears, before. ‘They left my dolls and teddies and stuff alone,’ she said. ‘The rest is pretty badly damaged, though.’

  Lynda stood. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Call the Guards. In the meantime, let’s photograph everything for the insurance. Once the police go, we start the clean up.’

  Robert looked at her. ‘Now? Today?’

  She lifted her chin. ‘Why not? Any other way, he wins. Danny wins. Do you want that?’

  Robert didn’t answer. Instead, he said: ‘I’d better call someone straight away to fix the bathroom window. And the alarm. It’s Friday afternoon.’ He pulled the mobile out of his pocket. ‘Katie – use the house phone to call the police.’ He turned to Ciarán. ‘Go and have a shower. Get out of those clothes and put on something decent for your interview this afternoon.’

  Ciarán left, without a word.

  ‘I’m going into my studio,’ Lynda said. ‘And then I’m going out to my garden.’

  When Robert and Ciarán got back at six-thirty, Katie and Lynda had the studio cleared. Katie had wept her way through it.

  ‘It’s okay, love, please don’t be so upset.’ Lynda looked at her daughter. ‘These are things. They can be replaced. The four of us are safe. That’s what matters.’ They both looked up as they heard Robert’s step in the hall.

  ‘Well?’ asked Robert as he came through the door of the studio. ‘What did the cops say?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ said Lynda, ‘the usual.’ She stood up from where she’d been kneeling on the floor and wiped her hands in a towel. Spatters of paint clung to her fingers. ‘They took fingerprints and photographs and looked around a good bit.’ She shrugged. ‘They were very nice, but a bit useless, really. I mean, what can they do? I’m just ticking the boxes for the insurance, that’s all. We know who did this.’

  Katie stifled a sob. Lynda looked from Ciarán to Robert, feeling suddenly afraid. ‘What’s your news?’

  ‘Larissa didn’t turn up to go to the Rotunda,’ Robert said. He sounded almost breathless. ‘And without her, there’s no case to answer. She gave a false address.’ He shrugged. ‘Doesn’t look like there’s much the cops can do about it.’ He looked exhausted.

  ‘Is that it, then?’ asked Lynda, hardly daring to hope.

  Ciarán nodded. His face looked raw again, as though he had been crying. ‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘I think it’s over.’

  ‘You,’ said Lynda quietly, ‘are only just beginning, Ciarán. Your new life starts now – and it will be absolutely nothing like the old one, I can promise you that.’


  Ciarán looked uncomfortable. ‘I know I have to do things better,’ he said. ‘I want to. And I’m sorry about all of this.’

  Lynda nodded. ‘We all are. And Jon may well not be finished with us yet. But you – you have a lot to make up for.’

  There was a silence. Ciarán shifted from foot to foot.

  ‘I’m staying for the next few weeks, here, at home,’ said Katie, suddenly.

  ‘What about college?’ asked Robert.

  ‘There’s only a couple of weeks of term left,’ said Katie. ‘We finish at the start of April. I’ll talk to my tutor. I need to be here. I want to help sort this . . . this . . . wreckage.’

  ‘We’ll talk about that later,’ said Lynda.

  Katie shook her head. ‘My mind’s already made up.’

  Lynda’s mobile rang. She pulled it towards her, flipped open the cover. ‘Where?’ she said. She could feel the others looking at her. ‘Give me ten minutes.’ She threw the phone into her handbag.

  ‘What?’ asked Robert. He looked fearful. ‘What now?’

  ‘Larissa. I gave her my mobile number. Told her to call if she needed anything. Let’s go, Robert. I want you with me.’

  When they entered the cafe, Larissa looked startled. She stared at Robert, then looked quickly back at Lynda. She’s still terrified, Lynda thought, poor kid. She couldn’t help thinking that this could be Katie, in another life. The thought made her shiver. The girl’s face was white, the eyes dark and vulnerable.

  ‘This is my husband, Robert,’ said Lynda. ‘Robert, this is Larissa.’

  Robert nodded and sat opposite her. ‘Hello, Larissa.’

  Lynda pulled out a chair and sat beside her. Larissa couldn’t take her eyes off Robert. ‘I’m glad you called us,’ Lynda said. She touched the girl’s hand, gently. But Larissa flinched and drew back. Lynda paused for a moment. ‘We want to help you, Larissa. I promise you we’ll do everything we can to—’

  ‘The other man,’ interrupted Larissa. Her voice sounded harsh, on the verge of cracking. She spoke directly to Robert. ‘The one he look like you? He give me this yesterday.’ She pulled an envelope out of her bag. Her hands were trembling.