by Sam Blake
O’Rourke said sympathetically, ‘I’m afraid the back bedroom got a good going-over. It’s a bit of a mess.’
‘That’s my room.’ Zoë glanced nervously up to the window again, watching intently as dark figures moved around inside.
‘Do you have family nearby? You’ll need to stay somewhere else tonight.’ Cathy’s turn, her cue unspoken. Sometimes she wondered if O’Rourke could read her mind as well as she could read his.
Zoë continued to look out into the garden as if she wasn’t listening, then, snapping her head around, stared at them both intensely for a moment.
‘No. I mean there’s just my grandmother. My mother doesn’t live here. She’s . . . abroad. She lives abroad.’ The words seemed to stall in her throat. Then, ‘My grandmother said she’s probably in Paris.’
‘I see.’ O’Rourke nodded. Cathy could tell he didn’t see at all. How could Zoë Grant not know where her mother was living? From the way she was behaving, Cathy would put a week’s pay on her trying not to tell them something. And O’Rourke was like a terrier when he caught the whiff of an untruth.
‘Is there anyone else you could call – another relative or a friend?’
Zoë’s jaw tightened. ‘Just my grandmother . . . But look, I’m sure I’ll be fine here. He’s not going to come back, is he? Not now there have been Guards everywhere.’
Cathy hid her surprise. Whatever about not wanting to stay with her grandmother, most women would be terrified at the thought of spending the night alone in a house that had just been broken into. Never mind the fact that someone had been hanging about, in the dark, only the previous night. Didn’t she have any friends, someone else she could stay with?
What was really going on here?
Cathy felt a blast of irritation. The studio was too warm and she was starting to feel claustrophobic. Leaning on the cool glass of the door, Cathy pulled out a fine-bead chain from the neck of her sweater and began to play its oval silver dog-tag pendant along the length, her eyes on Zoë. O’Rourke glanced at her, their thoughts crossing for a second. It was time to crank it up or they’d be here all night.
O’Rourke’s face betrayed nothing as he considered the best way to give Zoë the bigger picture. He knew as well as Cathy did that there’d be no chance Zoë would get back into the house tonight.
‘I would be surprised if he came back tonight. But we might not be able to release the house just yet; it might be the morning before we finish processing everything.’ O’Rourke paused, watching Zoë’s reaction. Nothing. ‘You see we found something else while we were examining the scene of the burglary. In the hem of that dress we mentioned.’
Pulling at the ribbons on her blouse, Zoë looked confused, her eyebrows knotted, waiting for him to continue.
‘There were’ – O’Rourke chose his words carefully – ‘some bones stitched into the hem.’
‘Bones?’ Zoë screwed up her nose. Then after a long pause she said, ‘What kind of bones? I thought they used metal weights in the hems of dresses. Surely bones would be too light?’
Running her pendant slowly along its chain, Cathy could feel the hairs rising on the back of her neck at Zoë’s reaction – had she rehearsed it? Had she spent ages working out a way of explaining away the murder of a baby?
A baby.
A real little person who hadn’t asked to arrive in the world.
Cathy put her fingertips to her temple, trying to massage away the pressure she could feel growing there. Oh holy God, how could she have been so stupid?
It wasn’t like she didn’t know about safe sex, that she didn’t know the pill’s effectiveness could be affected by all sorts of things, like taking antibiotics – or forgetting to take it. It had only been one day, and instead of taking it in the morning she’d remembered late that night – well maybe technically it had been the next morning, but she’d taken the damn thing.
Cathy breathed deeply, trying to quell the panic that was starting to rise in her chest. Obviously they should have used a condom, that was the bottom line, pill or no pill. But sometimes you don’t plan for stuff to happen, there’s just a spark and it starts a fire and it’s happening before you know it, too fast and intense to stop. She hadn’t even thought of a condom at the time, had been so caught up in the moment she hadn’t even thought. Niall McIntyre, The Boss, was always telling her she was too impulsive, that she followed her heart when she had a damn good head that she really should check in with more often.
Was that what had happened to this baby’s mother?
Cathy pinched the bridge of her nose, glanced over at O’Rourke, who was looking hard at Zoë, waiting for her to answer – what had he asked her? Feck, she needed to get back with it.
‘There’s boning in the bodice.’ Zoë shrugged her shoulders in answer to O’Rourke’s question, like it was nothing to do with her. ‘Maybe the bones slipped down into the lining?’ She had her head on one side, her face puzzled. Was she really not getting it or was she being deliberately evasive? Perhaps she really didn’t know the bones were there? In any investigation everyone was a suspect until they could be conclusively ruled out, and Cathy had a feeling it would be a while before they would be ready to take Zoë off the list.
‘Maybe.’ O’Rourke didn’t sound convinced by Zoë’s suggestion.
‘So your mother gave you the dress?’ Cathy tried to keep her voice relaxed, to hide her irritation. ‘When was that exactly?’
‘About ten years ago, maybe more, I’m not sure.’
‘And was your mother living here then?’
Zoë faltered for a second. ‘Well, actually no.’
‘So she came home to Ireland and gave you the dress?’
Zoë seemed to be struggling with the facts. ‘No. My grandmother gave it to me, but it was my mother’s dress.’
‘OK’ – Cathy said it slowly, like she was talking to a child – ‘and your mother was aware that your grandmother was giving it to you?’
‘Look, I really don’t know. Does it matter? It’s only a dress.’ Zoë’s face was beginning to flush.
‘We just want to establish the chain of events that brought the dress into your possession.’ O’Rourke’s voice had an edge to it.
‘Your grandmother, does she live here in Ireland?’ Striving to keep her voice friendly, Cathy moved to take her weight off the door as she spoke. Her gun was digging into her hip where it was sandwiched against the glass. It wasn’t helping her mood.
Zoë seemed to know the answer to this one: ‘Yes. In Monkstown.’
‘And is she here in Ireland, in Monkstown, at the moment?’ Cathy knew she sounded sarcastic but she was reaching the end of her patience.
‘Yes. She lives there.’ Zoë paused. ‘She’s Lavinia Grant.’
Cathy paused, working on keeping her eyebrows from shooting up, working hard to keep her face straight. She hadn’t expected that. It only lasted for a second, but suddenly the silence in the studio was deafening. Cathy could hear her own heartbeat, the creak of O’Rourke’s shoe leather as he shifted on the stool. She caught a faint whiff of his aftershave, suddenly sure it was CK One, the same one she’d given him that Christmas. He must be feeling the heat too.
‘The Lavinia Grant of Grant Valentine?’ Cathy fought to keep the surprise from her voice. She might not have the cash to throw away on designer gear, but she read Image and VIP like every other twenty-something, leafed through the social pages to see what the A-list were wearing. And Lavinia Grant was the doyenne of Irish fashion, Grant Valentine a chain of department stores that rivalled Harvey Nichols, whose name had been part of Irish culture since the fifties when no one had any money and children walked barefoot to school to save their shoe leather. In the heat of the Celtic Tiger’s roar, Grant Valentine had opened up in New York and Toronto, already had stores in Belfast and London.
Zoë gave a sharp nod, her voice suddenly colourless. ‘Yes, that Lavinia Grant.’
O’Rourke cleared his throat again – Cath
y knew exactly what he was thinking. He could already hear the media banging on his door – this was all he needed.
8
Catching his breath, Consultant Psychiatrist Tony Cox shook mercurial raindrops from his shoulders and greeted his wife Emily with a hug and a peck on her cheek.
‘So how has she been since the mugging? Any progress? It’s been a few days.’
St Anthony’s basement community hall in London’s Bethnal Green was already filling up, the scraping of chairs and the chink of cutlery on china making it hard for him to hear her reply. But he could see Emily was frowning, her brown eyes clouded.
‘She’s still very confused. And I can’t find anyone who knows her history. She told me she was from Dublin, and she sounds educated, but at the moment she’s not even sure of her own name. You’ll see for yourself.’ Emily grasped Tony’s hand, leading him through the increasingly packed trestle tables, the rich scents of cake heavy in the air. ‘I’ve set her up over here where it’s a bit quieter.’
Without make-up, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, Emily’s jeans and trainers made her look like a teenager, made Tony, at almost fifty, wonder yet again what on earth she saw in him – and thankful, again, that his dark wavy hair was all his own. Even if it did need a good cut. Today Emily’s pale skin was flushed from the rising heat as more elderly local residents arrived, looking forward to their monthly singalong and afternoon tea.
The hall, with its dusty parquet floor, always reminded Tony of his school back in Boston, of the gym at St Paul’s, rank with sweat and smelly training shoes, with ambition and self-consciousness and fatigue, and the dull ache of homesickness. Tony felt a stab of regret, of guilt; old, but as familiar and impossible to shift as a stain on a favourite shirt. He could never detach thoughts of school from thoughts of his best friend, Anselm, and that intense, bitter sense of loss. Anselm had been so much more troubled than any of them could have guessed, his suicide something Tony knew he might never come to terms with. But Anselm was the reason he’d trained in psychiatry, and ultimately his job had been the reason he’d met Emily. Tony was sure Anselm had been looking out for him that night, the dinner party hosted by an Irish American physician a welcome break from his routine, the Irish girl he sat next to like a ray of sparkling light. And he’d been like a moth to her flame from that moment on. He still found it incredible that she’d agreed to a date – and he’d been full sure he’d never marry, not at his age, but she’d proved him wrong.
Focusing back on the busy room, Tony gently pushed the memories of school away. Boys learned to survive – most of them at least. And Tony was sure it had been the same for the people here when they had come to the basement of St Anthony’s, sheltering from the Blitz, singing the same songs they would be singing after lunch, keeping up their spirits, yearning for the all-clear. Everyone here had a history – he wasn’t alone in that.
Emily turned to him, keeping her voice low. ‘I checked with the housing officer. She turned up at the council offices about a month ago – she’d been evicted from her bedsit because the place was being sold. She didn’t have any ID but had a letter addressed to a Mary in her cardigan pocket, so they assumed that was her name. They found her a place in sheltered accommodation, and she’s been coming over to some of my classes, but she’s definitely becoming more withdrawn, more confused. And now with this mugging . . .’ Tony nodded. ‘Her thoughts seem to go round and around. She’s talking about dancing a lot, and the sea. And lipstick. She’s got quite a thing about the right colour lipstick.’
‘Has she been seen by a GP?’
‘She was assessed when she arrived at the housing office, and she’s monitored through Renmore House, the sheltered accommodation, but honestly they’re pushed to the limit. I thought it would be much simpler if you could just have a chat to her.’ Emily threw a cheeky grin at him. ‘No point in having connections if you don’t use them, is there?’ Tony smiled, amusement making his brown eyes shine. Emily had a knack for getting around bureaucracy, for ignoring red tape when it suited her. Emily had a knack for getting around him.
And, to be fair, skipping a few steps in the process might end up saving the NHS money in the long run. From everything Emily had told him, Mary’s behaviour suggested a psychiatric disease, one perhaps causing dementia. Emily had worked with the elderly for long enough to recognise the symptoms.
‘She’s such a sweetie, but she seems to be locked inside herself, doesn’t seem to be making any friends.’ Emily inclined her head in Mary’s direction. Sitting alone at one of the few empty trestle tables, her eyes were focused on the cup of tea in front of her.
Shouldering off his overcoat, Tony pulled up a chair beside her and sat down, giving the elderly lady a discreet but thorough appraisal. She huddled in a grey button-up cardigan, a maroon nylon shirt with gold sprigs peeking from the collar, and an unlikely overlong blue denim skirt. Mary’s thick bottle-green tights formed rings around her crossed ankles, her legs ending inappropriately in a pair of scruffy trainers. She seemed hardly aware of his and Emily’s presence. Owl-like, her short silver hair wavy and unbrushed, pale blue eyes rheumy and vacant, Mary was staring at something in the middle distance that neither Tony nor Emily could see, her only movement the anxious caress of a piece of fabric she clutched on her knee.
She looked exactly like one of Emily’s strays. Tony almost shook his head, amused and touched all over again by his wife’s compassion. Emily had been drawn to this place from the moment they had arrived in London six months ago, fresh from Boston. Whatever worries Tony might have had about taking up a new post, about Emily being stuck at home in a strange city, had evaporated as soon as she’d discovered that Tower Hamlets Social Care Team was crying out for occupational therapists with her experience. And she made friends easily, exuded an inner confidence that drew people to her. After six months she had already set up a book club, all ‘blowins’ as she called them, many from overseas who had made London their home. Passionate about local theatre and the arts, about supporting new talent, she dragged him out to meet her new friends at gallery private views and opening-night performances whenever he had an evening off. Too often, if he was honest with himself. Perhaps it was his age but he relished their time alone, loved nothing more than lighting the fire and closing the curtains and curling up on the sofa with her to watch an old movie. He sometimes wondered if she kept so busy so she didn’t have time to think . . .
Leaning forward towards the old lady, Tony kept his voice low, unthreatening. ‘Hello, Mary. I’m Tony, Emily’s husband.’ He searched her face for a reaction. She didn’t respond.
‘Do you remember I told you about my husband, Mary? He works at St Thomas’s.’ Squatting on the floor beside the old lady, Emily took Mary’s hands in her own. ‘He can only get down here to talk to my very special friends.’ Mary’s eyes seemed to flicker, perhaps registering the difference in their accents, but she still didn’t speak. Tony tried again.
‘Emily’s asked me here to meet you so that we can find a way of making you feel a bit better, Mary.’
Mary turned to him, her blue eyes puzzled, almost transparent silver-white eyebrows raised in question. ‘Better?’
‘Yes, Mary; Emily’s worried about you. She’s noticed you’ve been a bit distracted.’
‘Really?’ There was a long pause as the old lady gathered her thoughts. Then, speaking slowly and deliberately, she said, ‘Well, it’s very nice of you to come, but I’ve been waiting. Why did it take you so long?’
9
Angel Hierra slipped the parking ticket onto the dash of the hire car so that it could be seen from the outside and slammed the door closed, peeling off the latex glove and dropping it into his pocket. He checked his watch. In his head it was sometime in the early morning, he wasn’t sure. He’d been running on adrenalin but now jet lag was starting to catch up with him. He’d tried to sleep on the plane but the anticipation of customs, of passing through immigration, had kept him on edge.
Laughter began to fizz in his head like Alka-Seltzer. He should have relaxed – as the guy in the bar at the Holiday Inn had said, one spic looks like another . . .
A shadow flicked behind him, made him start. Distracted, Hierra spun around, running his eye along the seafront, over the paved plaza outside the ferry terminal, to the old building to his right, straining to see into the shadows. Nothing. Hierra rolled his shoulders, trying to relax. Must have been his imagination. Lack of sleep was making him jumpy.
Had he been followed? The thought tumbled around his head like hogweed, sending up a cloud of dust that made it hard to breathe. He shook it away fast.
How could he have been?
He’d been planning this for weeks, had been so careful back in Vegas, taking the back roads to the old man’s place. And he’d left his phone in New York, suddenly realising as he’d sat in the bar at the Holiday Inn that Kuteli and his monkeys might be able to track it through signals or GPS or something. He’d dumped the guy’s phone as well, just to be sure, left it in the trunk with the body. His face twitched into a grin – there was something funny about the thought of the guy’s wife calling him, the mistress too, leaving messages on the answerphone to deaf ears.
Pulling out the map from his pocket, crumpled where he’d refolded it, Hierra checked his bearings. It was a bit of a walk back to his hotel, but he wasn’t going to take any risks on this one. Just in case someone knew he was here. The mark was expected in Dublin, so using his credit card here wouldn’t arouse suspicion, would in fact be more likely to confirm that he’d arrived safe and well, but the hire car would be easy to track if anything had gone wrong. He had the cash he’d got from his father’s stash in the condo to live off and he’d only be here a few days if everything went according to plan.