Little Bones

by Sam Blake

  Cathy found herself nodding. ‘Where did she drown?’

  ‘In the house.’ O’Rourke inflected the end of the sentence like he only half-believed it. ‘Place of death is Oleander House, Monkstown.’

  ‘Here, at home? But where?’

  ‘I’d guess the bath.’

  ‘How the hell do you drown in the bath?’ That was nuts . . . children drowned in the bath, but adults? ‘Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless someone holds you under or whacks you on the head. I did wonder that myself.’

  ‘Or you take an overdose.’ Cathy could almost hear him thinking, which you might be inclined to do if you’d recently murdered your child . . .

  O’Rourke continued, ‘Exactly. Very tidy. I think we can safely read between the lines. Half the certs right up to the eighties were dolled up to suit the parents’ sensibilities. Suicide was still a crime then, don’t forget, only decriminalised in 1991.’ O’Rourke paused. ‘I think I’d better come down and give you a hand.’

  ‘Jesus, it’s cold out there.’ Bringing a blast of fresh air into the hall, O’Rourke shook the rain from his shoulders in a shower of quicksilver. ‘And in here it’s like an oven. Christ, it’s stuffy.’ O’Rourke pointed to the patrol car that had dropped him off, pulled up on the pavement outside, its engine still running. ‘Back to base for you, young Fanning. The lads are working on Eleanor Grant. Need a hand with the calls. They’ll get you organised.’

  Throwing O’Rourke a salute, Fanning hovered for a moment before dashing out into the rain, his jacket pulled up over his carefully gelled head. Rolling his eyes, O’Rourke closed the front door firmly behind him and took a moment to look around the hall, to quickly inspect the dining room with its toppling mound of files. Cathy stuck her head out of the study door.

  ‘Are you coming to help or what?’

  ‘Have you had a look at this lot?’ O’Rourke indicated the files on the dining-room table.

  ‘Trish’s, I think. They’re all press clippings, social stuff, lots of her articles. Seems to be an awful lot here bearing in mind this isn’t her house.’

  ‘Perhaps she stays here a lot,’ O’Rourke said meaningfully.

  Cathy nodded. ‘Zoë said Lavinia didn’t like being on her own apparently. I’m definitely starting to think they might have been a lot more than friends.’ She paused. ‘I thought I’d start in the study here and work outwards.’

  O’Rourke nodded, throwing his coat onto a spindle-legged occasional chair positioned between the doors of the two rooms. He slipped off his navy pinstripe jacket, loosening his tie to unbutton the collar of his shirt.

  ‘Right, show me what we’ve got.’

  ‘I’ve done the two top drawers of that filing cabinet but that’s about it so far. It’s all bills, house repairs, receipts for everything from the carpets to the kitchen scales – Lavinia Grant even had invoices for dry cleaning in there. Looks like she’s kept everything since they launched the Ark. I haven’t found her life-insurance policy yet, or any personal papers.’

  O’Rourke opened the next drawer down and pulled out a large handful of documents.

  After ten minutes leafing through them he gave up.

  ‘This is going to take for ever. We need the Divisional Search Team to do it properly. There might be nothing, but I’d hate to miss Eleanor Grant’s suicide note . . .’ He looked around. ‘Computer?’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘Zoë says Lavinia Grant was convinced someone would hack into it so she never used one. Her PA handles all the business stuff from an office in town.’

  O’Rourke nodded. ‘She’s on the interview list.’ He looked around the room, running his eye over the files packed along the bottom of the bookshelves. ‘Let’s leave this lot to the team and have a look in her room. If she’s worried about people delving into her personal stuff she might have it all at the back of the wardrobe instead of in the study.’

  At the bottom of the stairs Cathy stopped, her hand on the scrolled end of the banister. A wave of tiredness had hit her in the study, welling up and overwhelming her before she’d even realised it was coming. She leaned her elbow on the polished wood, rubbing her hand over her eyes, breathing in the cooler air in the hall. Right now she felt like curling up in a small ball on the carpet and sleeping, not rushing up the mountain of stairs.

  Ahead of her, O’Rourke was already halfway up the first flight, the broad outline of his shoulders blocking out the light from the window on the half landing.

  ‘What I still don’t get is what she was doing at the top of the stairs in the first place.’

  Hearing Cathy’s voice, realising she was still at the bottom, he slowed, looking at her over his shoulder as she continued.

  ‘It’s a hell of a long way up for someone in her seventies. And did you see her shoes? I wouldn’t climb all these stairs in those heels. If I knew I was going up that far I’d have kicked them off at the bottom, unless I was in a real hurry.’

  Reaching the half landing, O’Rourke turned around to look down at her, put his hand out to lean on the banister as it made the turn for the next flight. Connecting them.

  Sliding her hand along the polished mahogany of its length as she headed up to join him, taking it slowly, hauling each foot up, Cathy was thinking as she spoke. ‘And I know the PM conclusion was that she’d only been dead a few hours when we found her, but could the heat in this house have screwed the results a bit? It’s been boiling here all morning, but since you got here it seems to be cooling down. The heating must have gone off.’ She paused as if she was testing the air temperature. ‘It was pretty chilly when we arrived the other night, and it’s a draughty old house, there’s no double glazing. If the heating went off it would have cooled fast like today. If she died mid-afternoon, say, when the heating was on, her body temp would have dropped more slowly than normal. We’re reckoning she died early evening because of her body temp and the housekeeper saying that she liked to read before she went to bed.’ O’Rourke was nodding, letting Cathy finish. It wasn’t coming out quite as fluently as she would have liked but he was getting the picture. ‘What if she actually died much earlier, closer to the time Zoë’s house was broken into? Then there could be a different reason why she was up there. Maybe she’d gone to look for something – or to hide something – in a hurry.’

  ‘Which was why she didn’t take off her shoes.’ O’Rourke screwed up his face, working it through. ‘What made you think of that?’

  ‘Nifty Quinn. I was thinking about Zoë’s breakin while I was sorting through all those papers. He’s –’

  ‘Got a thing about shoes.’

  ‘Exactly, and I’ve been boiling until now – the heating thing is a bit of a no-brainer.’

  O’Rourke bit his lip to stop from laughing. ‘Professor Saunders would be delighted to hear his work described so aptly.’

  Full of amusement, his eyes met hers. Blue, very blue. For a split second Cathy forgot why they were there.

  Cathy dragged her eyes from his, pulled her polo neck away from her skin like it was irritating her, trying to let some heat out. Had he noticed? He had transferred his gaze to the stairs snaking around above him, and was nodding to himself.

  ‘So let’s start at the top instead.’ Turning to continue up, O’Rourke unclipped his mobile phone from his belt. ‘We’ll get her phone records, see if she made any calls starting from early morning, and start house-to-house to see if she had any callers. Saunders is in no doubt that she had a heart attack, that there was no interference, but it’s all a bit neat for me.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well done, Kitty Cat, well done.’

  It was years since he’d called her that. Years since . . . a dark night, rain stinging her face, the whap of a bullet leaving the barrel of a Glock . . . the beat of his heart as he held her . . . ‘You coming?’ O’Rourke threw a grin over his shoulder. Cathy felt it land home somewhere in her middle, glowing, skittering about like a firework trying to take off.

&nbs
p; Phew. Focus. She had enough problems . . .

  At the top of the stairs O’Rourke pulled a pair of latex gloves from his trouser pocket, shaking them out before snapping them on.

  ‘Right – first things first, we need a bit of light.’

  O’Rourke flicked on the single bulb at the switch by his shoulder. It was barely adequate for the space. Striding forward to lean over the pile of cardboard boxes, he threw open a door tucked into the corner of the landing. Even with the door open, the light wasn’t much better.

  ‘So she was lying on her back, with her head here.’ O’Rourke tapped the beige corded carpet with his foot, indicating the position of Lavinia Grant’s body. ‘Her feet over there.’ He pointed, indicating the angle of the body, recreating the scene in his head.

  Leaning her shoulder on the textured wallpaper, Cathy nodded. ‘Assuming she didn’t perform some sort of mid-air flip, she must have been heading into that storeroom, with all the boxes, or into that room’ – she indicated the door O’Rourke had just opened – ‘and when we found her she was lying, like she just keeled over. There was no sign she tried to put out her hands to break her fall. So I reckon . . .’ Pausing, Cathy moved over to stand where Lavinia Grant’s feet had been lying. ‘I reckon she was heading this way . . .’ Cathy took a step forward into the storeroom, squeezing in beside the box blocking the doorway, looked over her shoulder to double-check the position Lavinia Grant had been found in. Raising her hands to her shoulders, palms out, she glanced behind her again. O’Rourke was nodding. Cathy was taller than Lavinia Grant, but if she fell backwards, her head would certainly be in the right position.

  ‘Looks good. So what was she looking for in there?’

  ‘Let’s see . . .’ Cathy reached over the box to flick on the light.

  The storeroom was the size of a large single bedroom, had a small sash window, smelled strongly of dust and the acidy tang of corrugated card. The floral wallpaper was a drab mustard, the floorboards stained dark brown, thick with dust. A 1930s-style walnut dressing table had been abandoned in the far corner, its mirror catching the light from the doorway, the white of O’Rourke’s shirt a blur behind Cathy’s black sweater and jeans. Beside it, a pile of chairs had been stacked. More boxes beside them, and more behind the door. Against the wall to Cathy’s left, someone had propped an ancient wooden ladder.

  She looked around, at the floor, at the layout of the furniture, her mind clicking. It took a moment for it all to fall into place, a moment in which O’Rourke came to stand behind her. Cathy could feel his breath on the back of her neck. She snapped her fingers and took a step into the room. Safer with some distance between them.

  ‘Look at the marks on the floor. See, the ladder’s been dragged from the back wall to here’ – Cathy turned to look back at the doorway – ‘and with that box in the way, it would be a struggle to get it through.’ She almost pounced on a shadow in the dust. ‘See, the box has been moved, only an inch or so, but pulled or pushed like someone was trying to move it out of the doorway.’

  ‘Surely you’d just twist the ladder and carry it out?’

  Cathy bit her lip, went to the ladder, tried to lift it. ‘Weighs a ton. You might be able to pick it up, but I’d have to drag it. And I’m pretty fit.’

  ‘So let’s say Lavinia dragged the ladder from the back wall to here, realised it wouldn’t fit through the doorway . . .’

  Cathy cut in, ‘So she tried to haul the box onto the landing, to move it out of the way, and pop, her heart gave out. Exertion after the climb up those stairs. Fags, the blood pressure . . .’

  It was O’Rourke’s turn: ‘Fatal combination. OK, I get it. But what was she going to do with the ladder? And how do you know the housekeeper didn’t move it when she was stowing the books?’ O’Rourke looked at her half sceptically, but Cathy knew from the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth that he was playing devil’s advocate.

  ‘We can ask the housekeeper, but I reckon . . .’ Cathy brushed past him, her skin jumping at the contact. She was on the landing in a moment, pointing upwards triumphantly. ‘She was trying to get into the attic.’

  25

  ‘Good evening, Mr Hierra.’ The voice was heavily accented, the smell of expensive aftershave hitting him like the first warning tremor of an earthquake.

  Half into the doorway of his darkened hotel room, Hierra froze. He’d only been gone a few hours, checking what was happening, keeping an eye on that detective bitch – how the fuck had they found him already? And how had they got in? Sweat began to run down his back, cold, as if the barrel of the gun he knew was pointing at him was already on his skin.

  He knew the voice. The big guy; accent pure Moscow gutter, heavy with the menace of chains and the drip of freezing water running down a cell wall in Lubyanka.

  ‘Why don’t you come in and have a chat? We’ve been looking for you, Mr Hierra.’

  To his right Hierra detected a flicker of movement in the doorway to the bathroom. There were two of them. There were always two. He’d bet his last dollar the other one was the skinny shit, the Mexican with the mismatched eyes. As if reading Hierra’s thoughts, a figure moved into the room, small and lean, confirming his identity without a doubt. The knifeman.

  ‘Did you think you could run, Mr Hierra? Did you think we wouldn’t find you?’ The big guy paused. ‘Mr Kuteli isn’t happy. It’s cost him a lot to send us halfway across the world to find you.’

  His mouth dry, Hierra stepped into the room. His foot met something slippery, what the hell was it? It felt like plastic. His mind whirling, he took another step forwards. The other foot connected with the same surface and he realised exactly what it was. They’d spread plastic sheeting over the floor. To stop the blood staining.

  Fear gripped his stomach. Would it be better to run? Die with a bullet in his back? Or try to talk his way out? The one thing he’d inherited from his father was the gift of the gab. Worth a try. Anything was worth a fucking try.

  Hierra changed his stance, striving for relaxed.

  ‘I was expecting you. Can we have the light on, or do you feel more at home in the dark?’

  The Russian let out a sharp, hissing breath. That was probably a no to the light.

  ‘I don’t like cheek, Mr Hierra. Mr Kuteli doesn’t like cheek. And he also doesn’t like people who owe him a lot of money . . . disappearing.’

  Hierra’s eyes were getting used to the half-light now, he could see the blocky shape of the Russian half leaning on the windowsill, his huge shoulders square in a dark suit. Hierra couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to. It was about as ugly as a human being could get without being branded a freak.

  Hierra held out the lapels of his coat as if he was asking the Russian’s permission to take it off. The gesture was met with a curt nod. He threw it onto the bed, the face of his watch catching a stray beam of moonlight penetrating the thin curtains. And suddenly it hit him. His watch. It was the fucking watch . . .

  ‘I left Mr Kuteli a message. But I had to move fast. Please extend my sincere apologies to him if I have caused him any upset.’

  Formal language. Time to think.

  ‘I will of course “extend your apologies”.’ The Russian’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Hierra continued as if he hadn’t noticed. ‘I came across a very interesting prospect. Very interesting and very lucrative for Mr Kuteli and the organisation. I had to move fast.’

  The shape in front of him moved fractionally – a shrug? The way the guy was sitting, Hierra couldn’t see the gun, but he knew it was there, kept his body open like it didn’t worry him. He’d learned every trick at the tables, watched the masters shuffling the cards for years as he’d waited for his mom to finish work, observing them bluff and double bluff. It was all about attitude . . .

  ‘When I have things stitched up here, Mr Kuteli will be very pleased. He’s been looking at diversifying, moving outside Las Vegas. This gig will get him into
New York to start with, and after that it goes global. Toronto, London, Dublin.’

  The Russian snorted like it was one big joke. ‘You know too much about the organisation.’

  Hierra shrugged again like he had a personal understanding with the man calling the shots.

  ‘Mr Kuteli can trust me. He knows I’m good for it, and . . .’ Hierra took a deep breath. This was the ace. ‘I’m interested in his interests. That’s why I’m here. I could have lost you easily, but I didn’t. I know how you work.’

  It was the watch, had to be – it was the only thing he’d brought with him. The bastards must have put a tracking device into his watch. Hierra waved his wrist at the Russian, raised his eyebrows like he’d known they were on his tail the whole time. Bluff and double bluff.

  The big guy didn’t answer. Good, that was good.

  ‘I’ll be speaking to Mr Kuteli personally, but look in my bag if you don’t believe me – over there.’ Hierra nodded towards his case lying on the floor at the end of the bed. ‘There’s a magazine, have a look at the cover and the article inside. You’ll see what I mean.’

  The Russian paused for a beat, then flicked a nod to the skinny one. Hierra felt his heart rate increase. He’d heard enough about them to know they worked like a scorpion’s pincers, each knowing the other’s movement, anticipating their victim’s next move, perfectly tuned for the kill. They were Kuteli’s best men.

  Holy fucking shit. But this wasn’t the time to lose his nerve. This was the time to show his hand. He just needed to keep the trump cards concealed a little bit longer.

  The skinny one leaned forward, flipping open the lid of the suitcase. The magazine was tossed on top of the carefully folded clothes, its white cover glowing in the darkness. It was scruffy, the edges curling, obviously old, but the title was unmistakable: Vanity Fair.