“Database?”
“Yeah, one of them.”
“Well that story stacks up. I’m impressed you’ve become a hacker. You couldn’t figure out how to put paper in the printer yesterday.”
“I read an article on one of those things.”
“Websites?”
“That’s the one.”
“So after all we’ve been through, we can’t talk to our only lead?”
“Don’t worry,” said Stewart, “I’ve got my best man on the case.”
Stewart smiled at Wilson. An awkward silence descended onto the room.
“Look,” said Stewart, trying to find words. He wasn’t very good at apologies; he’d lived his life trying hard to ensure he didn’t have to give them. “You kinda saved my…”
“Forget it,” said Wilson.
“No,” said Stewart. “Fair’s fair. I was frankly, a bit of a prick to you and…”
The door opened and in strode Dr Sinha, much to the relief of both men.
“Ah, the good doctor,” said Stewart, before indicating Wilson. “The patient woke up.”
“So I see,” said Sinha. “Detective Wilson, how are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Super. Well, as I told you in ER, you only have a mild concussion and a couple of stitches in a minor head wound, nothing serious. We just need to keep you in overnight for observation.”
“OK,” said Wilson.
“Now, about Mr McLoughlin,” said Dr Sinha.
“Excellent,” said Stewart. “You asked him?”
“I did.”
Wilson looked at Stewart.
Stewart shrugged. “What? I told you I’d my best man on the case.”
“He said…” Sinha whipped a notepad out. “I took it down so I would get the quote exactly correct.”
“Good thinking,” said Stewart.
Sinha looked nervously between the two men. “And I definitely will not get into trouble for this?”
Both he and Wilson chorused how there was absolutely no possibility of that. Still, thought Stewart to himself, maybe best not to mention it.
“He said,” Dr Sinha continued, “Brigit Conroy? What the…” Sinha looked embarrassed, “ehm, actually there is a lot of ‘language’ here, perhaps you…”
Sinha held the pad out towards Stewart, who took it from him.
“Right,” said Stewart, scanning down the page, “I see what you mean.”
“Ahem,” said Wilson pointedly.
Stewart looked up. “Sorry. Well, to give you the PG version. Mr McLaughlin claims he met miss Conroy, his ex-fiancée apparently, and — some windsurfer bloke — which I assume is our boy Mulchrone, earlier today and - well lets just say, the next time they meet, it’ll probably be a fair bit less friendly.”
“And they gave him her phone?”
“Nah,” said Stewart, “I’m guessing they dumped it in his shopping bag.”
“Don’t think too badly of Mr McLoughlin,” said Dr Sinha. “He is in an understandably emotional state because of his… injury.”
“What injury?” asked Wilson. “I thought he didn’t get shot?”
Dr Sinha glanced at Stewart, who shrugged. “Don’t look at me. You’re the doctor.”
“Well,” said Dr Sinha, playing for time, “I don’t suppose you’re familiar with The World According to Garp?”
Stewart laughed. “Believe me, you’re barking up the wrong tree trying to make film references to this one, Doc.”
“Actually,” said Wilson, “I read the book.”
“Oh,” said Stewart, who was embarrassed to admit that he’d not realised there was a book.
“Yes,” said Dr Sinha. “Well, if the book is like the film…”
“Which starred Robin Williams, God rest his soul,” said Stewart, and then felt embarrassed by his own transparent attempt to reclaim some sort of higher ground.
“Yes,” said Dr Sinha. “A wonderful actor. I was a big fan of Patch Adams myself.”
Stewart pulled a face. Dr Sinha may well have saved lives on a regular basis, but some things couldn’t be forgiven.
“Hello?” said Wilson. “Can we get back to this guy McLoughlin, please?”
“Right, well…” said Dr Sinha, looking like he was in whatever Hindus have instead of hell. “You see… the thing is…”
“Oh for,” said Stewart, through a mixture of pity for Dr Sinha and annoyance at how long it was taking. “This Mills woman was, ahem – performing a sexual act on Mr McLaughlin when the shooting started. And, well – turns out she is quite jumpy. Not to mention bitey. ”
“You mean…” Wilson’s look of horror made it abundantly clear that he knew exactly what Stewart meant, and that he wished with all his heart he’d not asked.
“Yes, said Dr Sinha, “although I am pleased to report, he will regain complete use of his… area, eventually.”
“Right,” said Stewart.
“Good,” said Wilson.
“Yes,” said Doctor Sinha.
Then all three men held an impromptu moment’s silence as they each looked at a different piece of blank wall and had a private moment of reflection.
The silence was broken when the door opened and a rather harassed looking nurse poked her head in. “Sorry, Doctor, we need you immediately.”
“I actually finished shift thirty minutes ago, Joanne, I’m just helping the detectives...”
There was the sound of something metallic hitting a wall and something made of glass smashing.
“It’s Mr McLaughlin’s girlfriend doctor…”
Dr Sinha looked confused, “But we sedated her. She should sleep through until…”
Some other things crashed into some other things, and several voices were raised. The nurse winced. “That was Miss Mills. Not the woman who just came into reception. She is fully awake and really fucking angry.”
“Oh,” said Dr Sinha in confusion, followed by “ohhhhh” in understanding.
The nurse looked at the two policemen. “We could really use some help?”
“Suspended.”
“Me too.”
Well, thought Stewart, it seems Mr McLaughlin’s area might not be out of the danger zone yet.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Brigit leaned back on the sofa, stretched her arms out and yawned. With everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, she’d grabbed maybe four hours of fitful sleep on a cot in the nurse’s room back in St Kilda’s, which now felt like a lifetime ago. Now that the adrenalin from the day’s events was wearing off, her body was reminding her how tired she was. She’d have considered being this sleepy at 10:40PM on a Friday night to make her feel like an old woman, except she was in the company of an actual old woman, and she was showing no signs of slowing down.
The evening’s second game of Risk continued in an air of good-natured squabbling behind her, as Brigit sat with Paul’s copy of Hostage to Love on her knee. She had been a participant in both of the games of Risk, although not for that long. She’d not played since she was a kid and had needed to be reminded of the rules before they started. In the first game, she’d thought she’d been doing quite well, until Dorothy did that thing where she traded in cards to get extra armies and wiped her off the map in one turn of bloody rampage. Some people would’ve been inclined to go easy on the new girl; Dorothy was clearly not one of those people. She’d then gone on to destroy Paul, taking great delight in mocking him as she did so, for being just the latest fool to come undone trying to invade the East in winter. In the second game, Brigit had tried harder and, as a result, lost faster. She’d then excused herself to go read ‘that book she had on the go’ while the others battled it out to the bitter end.
Although she’d not discussed it with Paul, clearly nothing could be said about their situation in front of Dorothy. As far as she was concerned, Paul was her grandson and they were here on a social visit. Albeit a visit that’d turned into a sleepover, Paul having rolled out a weak sounding excuse abo
ut his apartment being redecorated. Dorothy had shrugged it off casually; it wasn’t like she was short of bedrooms. Brigit would have felt worse about being party to this fraud, except it was rather difficult to identify anyone who looked like a victim.
Brigit had read Hostage to Love twice before but it was entirely different now. Suddenly the electricity of immediacy crackled from the pages. The people in those pictures were truly alive and part of her life now. Apparently, at least one of them was trying to kill her. She moved back and forth, refreshing her knowledge of certain parts of the story, but she kept coming back to the pictures. Sarah-Jane Cranston, the pretty young thing who’d gone from being trapped under the thumb of overbearing parents to being sold into a loveless marriage. Fiachra Fallon, he of the dancing eyes and the matinee idol smile. Maybe he’d been as trapped in his own way. Doomed to follow his older-brother-come-substitute-father into a life of crime, whether he’d wanted to or not. Two star-crossed lovers that’d recognised in each other a kindred spirit. They’d broken free of the chains that bound them and made for a better life. Brigit prided herself on being more cynical than most, but you’d have to be made of stone to remain entirely unaffected by that.
Then she looked yet again at the picture of the young Gerry Fallon. His eyes now seemed to be filled with a soul-piercing malice. Had he really ordered the slaughter of an innocent young woman earlier that day just because her father had been an old acquaintance? Had he then followed it up by asking for a man he’d never met to be blown to smithereens for reasons even the victim didn’t know? There was so much of this that didn’t make sense.
Her contemplation was interrupted by the sound of a lady in her 80s whooping with delight. Brigit turned to watch and couldn’t help but laugh as Dorothy proceeded to do a less than dignified victory dance around the table. Paul’s grumpy pout made it all the more hilarious. This was no social game. Brigit had seen ‘The Pad’, an article of damn near religious significance to the two of them. It listed everything they played on their games nights, and the current score in their battle without end. Dorothy had a significant lead in Scrabble and Risk, Paul was winning only Gin Rummy. There were other pages for Cluedo, Monopoly and draughts but clearly they had their favourites. Dorothy appeared to enjoy Risk most of all. She stopped dancing and leaned on the table opposite Paul.
“Never mind, Gregory,” she panted happily, “or, as I believe your generation would say, ‘suck it!’”
Tears streamed down Brigit’s face as the mad old dear proceeded to do another victory lap back the way she had come. Even Paul had to crack at this, laughing despite himself.
Once the dancing had finished, Dorothy patted herself down and surveyed the room.
“Well, I must be to bed. Can’t handle more than two world wars in an evening at my age. Gregory, I’ll allow you to clear away the scene of my victory. Brigit, could you assist me with the plates, please dear?”
“Of course,” said Brigit, instantly on her feet, ever keen to be the good guest. The table before her was strewn with the debris of their impromptu meal. It was only when she’d started eating, Brigit had realised how hungry she was. She’d not had anything all day bar a bruised banana in the nurse’s room. Amidst all the chaos, basic sustenance had gone by the wayside. The food had mainly consisted of mince pies, macaroons, jammy dodgers and jaffa cakes. Paul, clearly intimate with Dorothy’s fridge, had prepared both himself and Brigit a roast beef sandwich too. The whole thing had seemed oddly reminiscent to Brigit of the sort of feasts the Famous Five had enjoyed. Brigit had devoured all of those books in one summer. In hindsight, they were the beginning of her obsession with crime. All that had been missing from the evening’s feast had been the lashings of ginger beer, whatever the hell a lashing was. It’d been replaced with a nice bottle of white wine, which also lay empty on the table.
Brigit gathered the plates and glasses onto a tray, and then carried them into the kitchen. Dorothy picked up the wine bottle and followed her.
“Just shove everything into the doo-daa, dear.”
“Dishwasher?”
“That’s the one.”
“Right,’ said Brigit, looking around the large kitchen, deftly designed to comply with the house’s period ambiance, while simultaneously being secretly crammed with every modern convenience no doubt. “Ehm, which one is it?”
Dorothy looked about at the cupboards arrayed around her, as if seeing them for the first time. “One of these I should imagine.”
Brigit found it on the third attempt and began loading. “So, I see being a despot hell-bent on world domination comes naturally to you.”
“It’s in the blood,” said Dorothy. “I believe there’s a German skulking somewhere in the branches of the family tree.”
Brigit laughed. “Paul certainly doesn’t enjoy losing.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Brigit could almost hear them thunk to the floor. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She looked up and noticed Dorothy’s eyes. They were as alert as ever, looking hawkishly back at her. Brigit had a sneaking suspicion this woman hadn’t missed a thing in her entire life.
“Ehm, Gregory, I mean,” she mumbled towards the ground as if praying for it to open up and swallow her.
Dorothy moved on silent feet across the room and closed the kitchen door behind them. Brigit looked up at her and was surprised by the calm smile that greeted her. Dorothy softened her normally strident delivery.
“It’s alright, dear. You see, my grandson, not unlike my idiot son, has one defining characteristic. He’s an arsehole. The gentleman currently putting the Risk away, is not.”
“You didn’t put an M on the front when you swore that time,” said Brigit.
“I feel no need to be polite about my grandson. Ideally, I would like to give him as little thought in a day as he undoubtedly gives me.”
“But…” said Brigit. “How long have you know?”
“Oh, quite a while. Probably since I first met him,” said Dorothy.
“But,” said Brigit, “if you know, why don’t you just tell…” She nodded her head towards the door into the front room containing Paul.
“Oh, it’d be awkward at this stage. Why upset a happy balance? And I won’t deny, I do look forward to his visits.”
“And it really doesn’t bother you?”
“What, dear?”
“Having a stranger in the house?”
“Nonsense. You don’t need to know who somebody is to know who they are. He’s a kind-hearted soul who, outside of the one really big lie, is in his own way as honest as the day is long. Do you know why I win at Risk?”
Brigit shook her head, confused by the segway.
“Because he,” she said, pointing at the door, “is obsessed to a fault with trying to control Australia. It is the easiest of the continents to defend. It’s like there’s a funny little voice inside him longing for his own little sanctuary, somewhere to call his own.”
Dorothy took off her glasses, letting them dangle down onto her chest by the chain. She looked out the window, watching the distant light of an airplane as it peaked out briefly from a gap in the clouds. “I did have someone check into him for me. I… I know a little but I stopped. It felt oddly intrusive, to look into his life when he’s not here. Does that sound strange?”
Brigit rubbed her hand along the back of her neck.
“No, I suppose not.”
“Have you ever known what it’s like to be truly alone? I mean, as a permanent state? To have an existence empty but for your presence in it?”
“I don’t,” said Brigit. “I’m… that must be really hard for you.”
Dorothy turned and gave a sad smile that made her suddenly look much older. “Oh, my dear, you misunderstand. I wasn’t talking about me.”
Dorothy looked at the door briefly, before turning away and straightening some objects on the counter that didn’t need straightening.
After a few long moments, she resumed speaking, the normal strident to
ne returning to her voice. “So,” she said, “how much trouble is Gregory in?”
Despite all that had just been said, he was still Gregory. Brigit didn’t know how to respond to her question. “Ehm, he’s OK…”
Dorothy turned and put her glasses back on.
“Please, dear, don’t you start mollycoddling me too or you shall be sleeping out in the dog kennel tonight. Gregory doesn’t go to the gym and I’ve enough medical knowledge to know that whatever is under that hideous jumper is a wound and not a muscle strain. Not to mention the fact that he wouldn’t just turn up here out of the blue. Not unless something somewhere has gone very wrong. So, I repeat, how much trouble is he in?”
“It’s… it’s not great.”
“Can you help him?”
“I think so.”
“Excellent. I shall not pry. I shall trust your good judgement to tell me what you need to as and when. Do let me know if I can be of any assistance. I really couldn’t bear to have to join one of those tedious Bridge clubs.”
“Thank you,” said Brigit.
“You’ll find a first aid kit under the sink. There’s a room up on the third floor that still has some of my dear departed Jacob’s clothes in it, as I can actually hear that hideous jumper lowering the property value. And most importantly…” Dorothy reached across and pulled another bottle of wine from the rack on the counter, “there’s this.”
Dorothy handed her the bottle of wine with her left hand, and then for the slightest moment, she tenderly touched Brigit’s face with her other hand. Then, she walked towards the kitchen’s other door, the one leading into the hall.
“Thank you,” said Brigit.
“You already said that, dear. Don’t repeat yourself, it’s the sign of a feeble mind. Gregory knows where the guest rooms are. Enjoy the monkeys.”
Brigit watched the door close behind her.
“Wait, monkeys?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Paul carefully dropped the needle onto the record and closed his eyes briefly as the guitar intro of You Told Me softly swirled about the room. The banjo kicked in, followed by the shuffling drums. With a gentle reverence, he put the cover down on Dorothy’s old but beautifully maintained record player. He gave the fire a quick poke, threw on another log and then returned to his seat on the oversized sofa. His shoulder ached and he was tired to his very bones. Still, the fire was soothing and the music held him like the comforting arms of a lover.
A Man With One of Those Faces (The Dublin Trilogy Book 1) Page 18