Little Bones

by Sam Blake

  ‘I think she’s on the right road,’ Emily said, stretching. Unimpressed, the cat had decided to try its luck with Tony, set out across the cream carpet guerrilla style. A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks.

  ‘When was the Aden crisis? Mary mentioned that one of the children she looked after had joined the army and was killed in Aden.’

  Tony pursed his lips, thinking. ‘The sixties. Sixty-three to sixty-seven, I think. Pre-Vietnam.’

  Emily sighed, there were still so many years missing. She’d said she’d been nineteen when she went to them. ‘Mary said she was given a ticket –’

  But Tony wasn’t listening, instead interrupted her. ‘Guess what.’ He sounded like a child bursting to tell her what he’d bought her for Christmas.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ – Tony paused, trying to make the sentence sound dramatic – ‘I have been asked to give a keynote address to the Irish College of Psychiatrists.’ Emily would normally have laughed at the way he was announcing the news, but right now she was too preoccupied to get enthusiastic.

  ‘Sounds exciting.’ She yawned, wriggling down into the sofa cushion.

  ‘Actually I wasn’t first choice. That guy from Seattle was going to do it but he’s had a heart attack.’ Tony was working hard to sound sympathetic. ‘And guess what – the conference is in Dublin.’

  ‘In Dublin?’ Suddenly wide awake, Emily pulled herself up and looked at him. He was slouched in the chair, grinning at her. ‘At the Shelbourne Hotel. Five-star – end of the first week in December . . .’

  ‘But that’s so soon. What do they want you to talk about?’ Tony shrugged. She was missing his point but he knew she’d get there in a few minutes. ‘Can you get the time off?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. The great Dr O’Mahony is delighted. Might be able to get the leave that’s owing to me too if I play my cards right . . .’

  Then Emily got it. ‘So we could go home for Christmas?’

  ‘We could. Well, if your parents will have us. Will I have to eat black pudding again? I don’t think I could stomach it. Maybe I’d better tell them I’m too busy.’

  Emily picked up a cushion from beside her feet and aimed it at him. It fell short, sending the cat behind the armchair in a panic. ‘You eejit. We haven’t been home at Christmas for years . . .’

  ‘I know. Too many Christmas Eves on the ward. So, do you want to go? They’re covering all the expenses and we’ll have a couple of days to ourselves in Dublin – I’ve always wanted to have a look at the library in Trinity, and I bet there are some great antique shops . . .’

  ‘Urgh.’ Rolling back, Emily made a sound like a balloon deflating.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I won’t be able to come. You’ll have to go on your own. I couldn’t leave Mary. She’s not ready to go back to her flat on her own yet, and it’s so close to Christmas.’

  It took Tony a moment to work out his response. ‘One of the reasons I love you, Mrs Cox, is that you are such a caring soul, but honestly, I’m sure we can find some residential care for her while we’re away.’

  Even if I have to pay for it personally.

  ‘No, I couldn’t dump her in some care home. She’s confused enough as it is. I don’t think she could cope with being abandoned again.’ Tony opened his mouth to speak but she was midstream. ‘Unless . . . unless we take her with us, see if visiting Dublin stirs any memories . . .’

  ‘Take her with us?’ Tony couldn’t hide the groan that escaped. ‘Emily, how on earth can we take her with us? You’ll be saying we’ll have to take the cats next.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, next door will feed them. They spend half their time asleep in her front room as it is.’

  ‘“Don’t be silly”? Who’s being silly?’ asked Tony, exasperated.

  ‘It could be the best thing. Mary might remember more about who she is, where her people are.’

  ‘And do you think they’ll want her back, Em, after all this time?’

  ‘Of course they will. Honestly, Tony, you’ve no concept of family.’

  Tony flopped back into the chair. How the hell was he going to talk her out of this one?

  Then Emily’s words sunk in . . . no concept of family. It echoed around his head, reverberating like a drum roll.

  ‘You cannot be serious. Honestly, Em . . . how can we take Mary with us? It’s a conference, it’s a five-star hotel . . .’ Tony Cox had his back to her, was topping up his coffee cup, a last caffeine hit before he ran for the Tube.

  ‘I can be, totally and absolutely. It’s you who’s not being serious.’

  This whole situation was getting out of hand. He’d honestly thought that after a few days Emily would see the utter lunacy of the idea, would see that carting Mary off to Dublin, while it wasn’t an inherently bad idea, was just crazy at the same time as this conference. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he had a psychotic patient living in his home . . . Sometimes he wondered how much the assault in Boston had really affected Emily, wondered if it had damaged something deep in her subconscious mind. There were times when Tony was sure she was suffering from delayed post-traumatic stress. He ran his hand across his brow. ‘OK, OK. But what I don’t get is why it’s so important to you now, why can’t we take her after Christmas?’

  ‘Because it’s Christmas, Tony. Because that’s when you spend time with those close to you. How many Christmases do you think Mary’s spent on her own? How many do you think she’s got left?’

  He opened his mouth to speak but Emily didn’t let him. ‘She hasn’t been home since she was nineteen, Tony. That’s a hell of a long time. Are you going to be the one who denies her one last chance?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Tony took a deep breath. He was having trouble holding it together here . . . how could she be so blinkered? ‘You make me sound like the Grinch. But I’ve got a life too, Em, I thought you’d be delighted to spend a couple of days away from everything, in Dublin of all places. We can have lunch, go to the theatre . . . How are we going to manage that with Mary in tow?’ He tried hard to hide the desperation in his voice. ‘You’re my wife, Em, and I love you and we don’t get to spend enough time together . . .’

  Tony wasn’t sure what he’d said to make her see sense, but Emily suddenly mellowed, her shoulders slumping like she’d been pricked with a needle and all the air that had been holding her up had shot out. ‘I know, you’re right. You’re right . . .’

  Pushing her chair back, the sudden noise of the legs scraping across the tiles sending one of the cats tumbling from the counter where it had been making for the butter dish, Emily crossed the void between them. She hooked her arms around Tony’s neck, smoothing the collar of his jacket, running her hand over the soft silk of his tie, a mysterious blue-green today, like the sea had been captured along its length.

  ‘I love you, Tony Cox, don’t you ever forget that. But it’ll be fine, honestly. I’ll get it all sorted out. Mary’s not a child, she doesn’t need a babysitter. We’ll have some time on our own, I’ll make sure we do.’

  Tony’s shoulders tensed; he’d thought she was seeing his point – obviously not. ‘Mary might not legally need a babysitter, but what if she starts wandering again? Dramatic change can be extremely unsettling for someone of that age, to say nothing of someone in her state of mind. What if taking her there unearths unpleasant memories? We’ve no idea why she left Ireland – she could have been running away from something, from someone. Maybe she was in trouble or escaping an abusive husband. It could be catastrophic.’

  ‘I’ve thought about that. I know, I –’

  Interrupting her, Tony kissed her hair, pulling her close, resting his chin on the top of her head.

  ‘And even if it’s all fine, Em, what’ll we do with her when we go to your parents? I can’t imagine they’ll want her to join them for Christmas.’

  Emily sighed. Could he make her see it was unrealistic, that it w
as a mad idea? She buried her head in his jacket.

  ‘Do you think I’m crazy?’

  Tony laughed, a deep chuckle.

  ‘Only a little bit. You just get passionate about things, get an idea in your head and feel so strongly that it’s the right thing to do that you don’t see the fallout. You just have to realise that not everyone sees things from your point of view, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Emily paused, digging her head into his shirt, breathing in his aftershave. ‘We can’t take her to Mum and Dad’s, can we? It wouldn’t be fair on any of them.’ Then, her voice muffled by the angle of her head, ‘I just really feel that it would be so good for her, so good to go home and see Dublin again. And she can’t go on her own. Argh.’ She paused. ‘Let’s both think about it, see if we can’t come up with a plan.’

  ‘Sounds good. The conference schedule’s on my desk with a brochure from the hotel. Why don’t you ring them and book in for a massage or something while I’m at the conference? I’m sure they’ve got a spa.’

  ‘Did you call the hotel yet?’ Tony’s voice sounded distant on the phone, the smooth walls of his office at the hospital always making him sound slightly echoey, like he was inside a box.

  ‘Was just about to.’

  Emily stood in Tony’s study beside his desk, one knee resting on his chair, cradling the desk phone in her shoulder as she reached for the conference information. Half-reading it, half-listening to him speak to someone who had obviously just walked into his office, she scanned the page.

  ‘How’s Mary?’ Tony was back to her.

  Emily ran her eye down the schedule, flipped over the page. ‘She’s having lunch. She seems much better, pretty together. I’ve got my flower-arranging class this afternoon at the community centre. I thought I’d take her along. It’ll be good for her.’ Emily paused, then spoke half to herself. ‘And she was grand when we went out shopping. I was a bit worried going back through the crowds and everything. I reckon that little gurrier mugging her has brought all this on. Everyone I’ve spoken to said she was a bit muddled before it happened but not nearly as bad as she is now, and she’d never wandered.’

  ‘You said . . .’ They’d had a whole conversation about this . . . ‘It makes sense. Late-onset schizophrenia isn’t that common, but a traumatic event would be a trigger. You could be right that she’s had mild symptoms for years though . . .’ Emily didn’t reply, was still only half-listening to him. ‘And the hotel, will you ring them?’ Tony sounded hopeful.

  ‘I’m looking up the number now.’

  ‘It’s on my desk.’

  ‘I know, I know, I’ve got it.’ Emily paused. ‘Do you know you’re doing the opening speech on Friday evening, then on Saturday you’ve got a panel, and they’ve got you introducing someone else later on, and another panel after lunch. You’re going to be tied up all day.’ She flipped to the next page. ‘And there’s another dinner on the Saturday, and you’ve got another speech on the Sunday morning. It doesn’t finish until 2 p.m.’

  ‘Damn, I thought it was just the Friday night and a couple of hours on Saturday morning. I haven’t had time to read it yet.’

  ‘So . . .’ Emily flipped back to the front page again, her mind whirring. ‘You’re on at seven thirty on Friday. If we flew in on Friday afternoon, you could go straight to the conference. I could take Mary out for the day on Saturday and bring her back here on Sunday morning. If I fly from City Airport I could get the afternoon flight back to you for Sunday evening . . .’

  If Emily could have seen him in his office, she’d have seen Tony bury his face in his hands.

  24

  Lavinia Grant’s study was hot and stuffy, the smell of beeswax, furniture polish and cigarette smoke strong. Stale cigarette smoke. Lots of it. Like the windows had never been opened. Lovely. Cathy could feel a wave of nausea welling up inside. Was this ever going to stop?

  Uncomfortably hot, sweat starting to prick at her spine, Cathy stood inside the door and looked around, suddenly feeling at a total loss. It had sounded easy in O’Rourke’s office last night, but where should she start?

  The place was meticulously tidy, even the ornaments on the mantelpiece regimented. Despite the heat, a shiver ran up Cathy’s spine. It wasn’t a comfortable room, it was too neat. The walls were covered in bookshelves; beside the fireplace a section was empty where the housekeeper had begun to remove the books for the decorators – not that the room looked remotely like it needed redecorating.

  Beyond a Victorian mahogany pedestal desk, tall sash windows overlooked the back garden, the light coming in blocked by an enormous monkey puzzle tree, exotic and bushy. Two filing cabinets stood between the windows, no doubt crammed with more documents.

  Cathy thought of her own personal papers, filed in a cardboard box under the bed. Everything was there, in one place, clear plastic files keeping the various bits of correspondence together. Organised. A whole lot better organised than the rest of her life was right now. But she was twenty-four, worked for the state, rented her house, had one bank account, one savings account, one car, one car loan. Lavinia Grant had been over seventy and ran a multinational business empire. Her paperwork was going to be more complicated. Much more complicated.

  Suddenly, Cathy felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Pulling it out, she checked the screen. O’Rourke. She almost groaned. He’d be phoning for an update and she hadn’t even started . . .

  ‘Cathy, that you?’

  She winced. ‘The one and only.’

  ‘How’s 007?’

  ‘Good, he’s in the dining room. Zoë’s gone to meet Trish at the undertakers.’

  ‘How are you doing on Eleanor Grant?’

  ‘Working on it; haven’t found anything concrete yet.’ Cathy ran her eyes around the room, looking for inspiration, for something to tell him. Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing . . . that was it – that was the reason why the room felt strange. There wasn’t a photograph or a personal memento anywhere – on the mantelpiece, on the desk . . . nothing. Not even a photo of Zoë.

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘What?’ Still absorbed by the clinical feel in the room, Cathy didn’t quite take in what he was saying.

  ‘You won’t find anything. No postcards, letters or emails. Nothing. Nada. Diddly-squat.’

  ‘Why not?’ What was he on about? He was the one who’d told her to come and look.

  ‘We found her. Well, one of the lads did. Easy when you know where to look.’

  ‘Where? Where is she?’

  ‘Guess.’ What had he found out about Zoë’s mother? Where was she?

  ‘Feck that, just tell me.’

  ‘Cathy, sorry to interrupt.’ Cathy jumped: Jamie Fanning, his head around the door. ‘Hold on.’ What the –?

  Cathy glared at him, just as Zoë appeared at his shoulder. She must have come back.

  ‘How are you getting on? I’ve got to go out again.’ Zoë’s voice was hesitant.

  ‘Grand, you work away, we’ll be fine.’ Cathy smiled reassuringly. Zoë really wasn’t getting this search thing, obviously didn’t realise that a warrant gave them the right to search the premises without her being present. ‘If we finish up before you’re back we’ll pull the front door behind us. Just leave the number for the alarm and I’ll make sure it’s all secure.’

  ‘Grand.’ Zoë nodded, then her face clouded for a moment like she’d just remembered something. ‘I’ve got to go to the gallery too. I might be gone a while. Max said something about dinner. And Trish said she’d be late.’ Then more decisively, she said, ‘I’ll write the alarm code down.’

  Zoë’s head disappeared. Cathy could hear her in the hall. The phone back at her ear, she kept her voice low.

  ‘Just a sec, that was Zoë back from the undertakers, but she’s going out again.’

  ‘I gathered. Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee as well? I’ve got all day.’ O’Rourke was being sarcastic but Cathy could tell he was
laughing he knew she was desperate to hear what he’d found out. ‘We could talk about the weather, the state of the economy . . .’

  Finally the front door closed again, the knocker banging as Zoë slammed it shut, and Fanning was back in the doorway, his mouth open, about to speak. Cathy shot him a look that would have melted ice, making her irritation at being interrupted clear, then turned her attention to the phone. He got the point. Hovering, Fanning shut his mouth.

  ‘She’s gone. Tell me before I have kittens.’

  ‘I’d like to see the tom that gets the better of you.’

  Feck, why had she said that? She’d left herself wide open. But what was he like? The blush hit her hard and hot. Thank goodness he couldn’t see her.

  Turning her back on Fanning, trying to focus on the call, Cathy drew in a breath, summoning strength from the musty air of the room, pulled a corkscrew of hair out of her face, tucking it back into her ponytail.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So.’ O’Rourke paused. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘What?’

  O’Rourke spelled it, ‘D.E.A.D. Accidental drowning, it says here.’

  ‘What? What do you mean, “says here”?’

  ‘Wake up, Cat, get with the programme. I have the cert in front of me. We went looking for her birth cert, and guess what we found . . .’

  ‘But Zoë . . .’

  ‘Thinks she’s in France,’ O’Rourke finished the sentence for her. ‘More likely Glasnevin Cemetery, I’d say, assuming she made it into the ground. From what I’ve heard of our friend Lavinia Grant, she’s probably dust by now.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘But lots of things.’ O’Rourke’s pause was loaded. ‘So now you’re looking for anything, and I mean anything, that might relate to Eleanor Grant.’ He spelled it out like he was talking to a child but Cathy knew he was working it through in his head, was processing the information as it came to him. Then half to himself, ‘There seem to be a lot of unexpected deaths in the Grant household . . . We still don’t know exactly how old the bones are, but there’s every chance they link back to Eleanor, assuming we believe Zoë that it was her dress.’ O’Rourke paused again, apparently thinking, then continued briskly, ‘We need to build a picture of this Eleanor, talk to her friends, see if there was any hint of another pregnancy before or after Zoë’s birth. And look for anything that might suggest hers was anything other than an accidental death.’