But Sarah never judged. It was what made her easy company. She lit two cigarettes and passed one to her.
“Did your mum and dad not know that he was gay?”
“There was never an overt admission or a declaration or anything like that, if that’s what you mean,” said Kathy. “I knew he was. It was obvious to me so I don’t know about Mam and Dad. It wasn’t the kind of thing you’d talk about in our house.”
“It must have been ever so lonely for him.”
“Blisteringly lonely,” she agreed. “And I’m the useless sister he reached out to. I’m the bitch who ignored him. I could have tried explaining it to Mam and Dad. But I was selfish.”
“That’s not true,” Sarah said, reaching out to touch her arm. “Lawrence was trying to be someone he didn’t want to be. He was trying to be a farmer to please your dad. From what you’ve said, he never wanted to be a farmer either. Even if he’d been open about his sexuality he was still condemned to life on the farm.”
Sarah was right. How soothing it was to hear her words. There was nothing she would’ve been able to do about the farm.
“You were never going to be able to make things right,” said Sarah. “Lawrence had to do that himself. Trying to be something you’re not….” she paused, “it’s crushing – it’s stifling. Look at me for God’s sake – I mean do I look like a bloody pharmacist to you, well do I?”
“I don’t know,” Kathy said, smiling. “What does a pharmacist look like?”
Sarah made a V shape with two fingers to pull her under-eyes and push up the end of her nose with her other index finger so she looked like a pig. Kathy burst out laughing.
“Seriously though,” Sarah said, “this isn’t about me. It’s about you. And Lawrence.”
Sarah lit a cigarette from the dying glow of another. “Lawrence was trying to be something he was not, to please your parents. What happened is not your fault.”
“You’re the one who should be doing psychology, Sarah Nugent. Not me!” cried Kathy. “I’m going to end up basket weaving in Argentina. I haven’t a hope in hell of passing any exams. Unless of course I offer sexual favours to Professor Baker.”
“You mean you haven’t already –”
“I do have some standards!” She was indignant. “I draw the line at a paunchy beardy misogynist.”
“Christ,” groaned Sarah. “It’s two in the morning again. I’ve got to get to bed. I’ve a stack of missed lectures I need to photocopy tomorrow. You might as well have a crack at these exams – if only for a diversion.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Kathy.
She slept soundly for the first time since the funeral. Over the next few days she got to work. There was a blizzard of photocopying, a rash of creative mnemonics, and late night cramming sessions, all sustained by Lucozade and caffeine tablets.
There was a chance she’d pass those exams. A tiny chance. But a chance nevertheless.
Charlotte
Day Trip to Adare
Present Day
“Mother hen has flown the coop!”
Richard’s voice boomed as he lifted his sister off her feet, giving her a bear-hug. Everything about Richard was generous.
“Less of the ‘mother hen’, thank you, Richard,” said Charlotte tartly as he set her down. Was that the sum of what she was – a homely mum? She’d have to do more than buy a racy car to overhaul her image.
Her brother would never deliberately say anything to hurt her. However, his observation had been accurate – she rarely left the kids for long. She liked to be on hand. Others thought her over-protective, overly cautious. But Richard understood why she was the way she was. Richard had been there when it happened. He knew why she was prone to worry.
“The place looks great, Richard,” she said, taking in her surrounds. “I’m impressed.” She didn’t want to plunge into an interrogation about Sarah straightaway. She would wait for the right moment.
Charlotte enquired about Richard’s life in county Limerick. They chatted amiably in the small cottage-garden of the ochre-coloured house. She could tell Richard was proud of his purchase. The picture postcard town of Adare was different to the sprawling urban estates where Richard had rented up until now.
“Not bad, eh? For a humble police sergeant like myself,” said Richard, a shadow falling across his face.
“It’s fantastic,” Charlotte said. She knew his lack of progress through the ranks perplexed him. The recruits he’d joined the force with had long since passed him by. Over the years he’d experiences difficulties in the police and it pained Charlotte that he’d been under-valued. He’d had bad luck too. Two of his partners had met their deaths during the course of their work and for a while Richard was regarded as a Jonah.
“You’d never know, Charlie, I may even get round to putting up a hanging basket or two,” he said, breaking into a chuckle.
“I’d like to see that,” she said, grinning.
The thought of her well-intentioned but clumsy brother arranging a petunia basket seemed ridiculous. She worried about him. It was a crying shame that such a lovely guy had never met anyone decent to share his life. That girl, years ago in Westport had nearly ruined him. That wreck-head Lavinia Horgan. She’d done quite a hatchet-job. She’d completely broken Richard’s heart. Charlotte was in school at the time. She could picture Lavinia Horgan clearly – floaty dresses, long hair to her waist. Richard had been besotted. After they broke up, he didn’t leave the house or talk to anyone for weeks. He fell into a depression that took months of medication to shake off.
Richard deserved better than a tramp like that. He deserved a decent person. It made her sad at the thought of him growing old alone, but she’d be there for him.
“Something I said?” He was looking at her, curiously. “You look annoyed.”
“No. Not at all, I’m fine.” Charlotte shrugged. “Hey, you’ll have to keep up with your neighbors here. All the gardens look pristine.”
The winding stone-walled approach to Adare was pretty. Quaint cottages and shops lined the main street with low-slung roofs and hanging baskets.
“You have to see inside,” said Richard taking her arm. “I have to warn you though – it’s messy.”
“I doubt that. You ain’t seen messy until you’ve been to our house.”
Charlotte followed him through the yellow door. It took some moments before her eyes adjusted to the dark inside. The small windows didn’t allow the light of modern homes. The main room had a blackened stove, a squashy sofa, and an enormous TV that looked out of place.
Richard had been busy in the tiny kitchen. On the small table was a collection of Tupperware boxes and the debris of a sandwich-making exercise. A faded tartan thermos poked from a rucksack sitting on a chair.
“Going somewhere?” She was confused. “I thought you’d taken the day off to spend with me?”
“I have, don’t worry, Charlie. I just thought it might be nice to take a picnic into the forest park nearby.”
“That sounds lovely.” She was touched by his thoughtfulness.
Twenty minutes later, brother and sister sat on a picnic bench in the grounds of a ruined period house surrounded by forest and parkland.
“Ham or cheese? Or could I tempt you to a cheeky ham and cheese together?” Richard asked.
Charlotte looked hungrily at the sandwiches. They were dressed with rocket and cucumber. Again, it struck her what a caring husband and father he would make. Her kids loved him.
“Quite the chef these days, Richard,” she teased.
“Ah well, you know me, Charlie. I like to make the effort,” he said, grinning. “Hey,” he said thoughtfully, “whatever happened to that guy you went out with before you married Mark? Wasn’t he a chef?”
“Joe Hennessy, you mean?”
Joe had been a diversion. Nothing more. Charlotte had only dated him to spite Tomas Walsh.
“Yeah, that’s the guy – Joe Hennessy. Dropped out of college didn’t he?”
“That’s right,” said Charlotte, surprised that Richard even remembered. “Joe went to the States one summer and didn’t come back. I think he had money trouble – didn’t have the fees to continue college so he decided to stay in the States. Doing well, I believe.”
“You’d have done well with him,” said Richard, munching through his sandwich. “You’d be well off… if you’d stayed with Joe.”
Charlotte knew that he was only teasing. Richard and Mark got along famously together.
“And the guy before him?” Richard threw a crust to the birds. “Wasn’t there some other guy before Joe? A medical student?”
Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. How come the conversation was all about her all of a sudden?
“Tomas Walsh,” she said as casually as she could. She hadn’t uttered his name in years. She’d liked Tomas. Really liked him. “Tomas dumped me, remember?”
He seemed to remember everything else.
“Tomas dumped you?” Richard said, raising his eyebrows.
“Chalk it down, he did,” said Charlotte. All these years later and she still felt the sting of that rejection. She looked up at the gathering clouds. “Lots of people dumped us – when Sarah disappeared.”
Charlotte reached for the thermos. “Tomas became another casualty,” she said, pouring some tea. “He didn’t want to know me.” Charlotte screwed the top back on the thermos. “The thing is…” she hesitated, “I don’t know if Tomas ever truly believed what happened.” She spoke softly as she looked at her brother. “All of which brings me along to the question of this individual you have in custody.” She took another breath and looked Richard in the eye. “Have they arrested him yet?”
“They’re not at that stage yet,” he said, his expression turning solemn.
Charlotte’s heart sank. She hugged her fleece jacket close to her.
“This guy – you’ve got to understand, he came in off the street,” said Richard, noting her expression. “We didn’t go out there looking for him. He came to us. He was interviewed at the time but it appears that new evidence has come to light since. And as you know it’s considered a cold case after all these years. My pal, Shaw, is handling things in Henry Street Police Station.”
Richard was looking at her earnestly.
“I’m not involved in this in any official capacity – you get that, don’t you, Charlie?” he said. “I’m only involved because I knew Sarah. If you remember I was only on the fringe of the case at the time, but maybe this time there’s something more I can do to help.”
“He’s not another crank is he? Another looper?” she asked.
“I couldn’t say,” said Richard. “I haven’t interviewed the guy myself but from what I hear he’s knocking on a bit. According to Shaw he’s got quite a vicious stutter.”
That was it.
Charlotte could see it now. He’d been cursed with a stutter. A difficulty he couldn’t overcome – that made him feel inadequate, inferior. An impediment that had skewed his outlook. He wanted this crime for himself. He wanted his moment of glory.
“His stutter is probably because of what happened to him as a kid,” she mused. Charlotte could picture it. Absent alcoholic parents. Dysfunctional violent childhood. The ensuing descent into criminality and violence. “His mother probably belittled him. At school, other kids ridiculed him. He turned against women, seeing them as the enemy. Rape, dismemberment – that’s his revenge.”
“Jesus, Charlotte. Having a stutter is hardly evidence of a crime.” Richard, the voice of reason, looked shocked by Charlotte’s outburst.
“I suppose,” she conceded and thought a little more. “What does this guy look like then?” She needed to know. To imagine his face.
“Balding – one of those comb-over jobs. Scarred hands. A heavy smoker. That’s it,” said Richard. “To be honest he looks quite normal.”
“That’s how these guys stay undetected for so long though, isn’t it?” asked Charlotte. “Chameleons blending in with their surroundings. These freaks have wives and children and mistresses and neighbors who all swear they never had an inkling about the monsters they lived with. The guys that lure and rape and torture are the same guys that bring their children to Santa at Christmas and sit in the very front pew at church but behind it all they’re evil bloody bastards –”
“Okay, okay, Charlotte,” said Richard. “Can you please stop talking about rape and torture?” He looked disturbed by her remarks.
“Yeah, okay. You’re right.” She hadn’t meant to get so worked up. She couldn’t help it. She’d wondered about this person for years and years. “What about the scars on his hands?” she asked. “What’s the story there?” A riot of images flashed through her head.
“Get a grip, Charlie.” Richard looked exasperated. “It may not even be this guy. And whatever I tell you, you know you’ve got to keep it to yourself. This stuff is confidential as you know.”
Richard was annoyed with her now. She tried to stem the pin-pick of tears.
“I know that,” she said quietly. “But what do you mean it may not even be him?”
“That may be the case, Charlie. Although, I’m pretty confident the guys in Henry Street are on to something alright. Something significant.”
“Significant? What does that mean, Richard? What does this guy know?” Charlotte was shaking.
Never one to get to the point, Richard took the long way round. “Well, for a start he was up at the Blue Pool that day.”
Charlotte swallowed. “The day it happened?” she asked softly. She suddenly felt wary.
“Yes. The exact same day. He’d been working up at the cabins at the time.”
“Near Uncle Cyril’s?” asked Charlotte.
“Close enough to Cyril’s. A few cabins up, I think. We’ve checked it out, and there is a record of this guy being interviewed at the time. He was definitely there alright. Putting in a patio door at the gable end of one of the cabins. His story checked out. The owners were abroad and the investigation team had to get their permission to search the place.”
Shaken, Charlotte tried to think. To cast her mind back. Sometimes she had difficulty discerning genuine memories from stuff she’d seen on TV and in the papers over the years. Try as she might, Charlotte couldn’t remember seeing any work vans at the crescent of cabins at the Blue Pool.
“I can’t remember seeing any workmen,” she said racking her brains. “The place was so deserted at the time. That’s what I remember about it. We were only there for those three days at the end of August. It was the very end of summer. No one was around.”
“Yeah,” said Richard, listening carefully. “But think about it, Charlie. You wouldn’t see much from Cyril’s place, would you? I was up there myself only a fortnight ago when I was fishing and I stayed in the cabin. The way the eight houses are situated, the way they’re all nestled together snug and tight into the hillside, someone could easily come and go without anyone else noticing.”
“I guess so,” Charlotte agreed. She had thought that too. Cupping a cigarette against the breeze, she tried to light it. “I haven’t been up there since… since… it happened. I didn’t realise you still went.”
“I do,” said Richard, sounding upset. He began to tidy away the picnic. “I still go. Cyril can’t, he’s too old now. Poor old codger can just about drive to the bowling club for a coffee with his pals. But I think he’s happy that I go up and air the place from time to time.” Richard put the top back on the Tupperware box. “You know, Charlie, it’s so beautiful up there. It’s beautiful, even after all that’s happened. I love to go and fish. Have a pint in the pub. Sometimes I walk the rocks and wonder if some gully or gryke will offer up an answer.”
She had always known that Richard felt partly to blame for what had happened. But all he’d ever done was to suggest that they spend a few days at the cabin. Being a policeman didn’t help. They’d all looked to Richard for answers at the time – including Sarah’s family. He’d bee
n a big brother to them all. No blame whatsoever could be apportioned to him. Blame wouldn’t solve anything or make anything better. Blame had already ruined so much.
The Blue Pool was a gloriously magical out of the way kind of place. Or at least it had been once. A cluster of cabins nestled into the scraggy hillside overlooking an expanse of water called the Blue Pool. A small laneway off the main road led to the cluster of cabins. From there a rough pathway wound its way down to the water that had a number of boathouses that were shared among the owners. Four small jetties jutted out into the deep brackish water.
As a child, she remembered spending happy summers there, fishing, swimming, Enjoying red lemonade and crisps in the local pub two miles down the road. The days went on forever and at night she remembered looking out her four-paned square bedroom window to see the moon turning the water to silver.
It was a place of fun, and adventure. They met new families on holidays from Dublin, they had picnics on Black Island, and latterly it was a place to bring student friends from college. Sadly for Charlotte, her fond memories soured after Sarah went missing.
“I thought you gave those things up, years ago?” Richard disapproved of her smoking.
“It’s only the occasional one, every now and again,” she lied. The cigarette made her feel a little queasy. “Our secret, okay? Not a word to Mark or the kids.”
Richard shook his head indulgently. “And how are my lovely nieces and my nephew?” he asked.
“Yeah, fine. The girls are great. And Tom, well he’s good too. Finding it harder to settle at school this year. There are a few… distractions.” That cigarette was doing little to calm her. She felt even more on edge now.
“My nephew is a man of many talents,” smiled Richard.
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed. “Tom’s a bright boy. But he needs to focus. And now there’s a girl on the scene. Been sniffing around Tom like she’s on heat.”
“Lucky Tom.”
“We’ll see…” Charlotte stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette.
The Blue Pool Page 7