Little Bones

by Sam Blake

  Pulling down her duvet, grabbing her Bagpuss hot-water bottle, Cathy sat down heavily on the edge of the narrow single bed, hugging the heat to her. Boy, she was tired. She tried hard to focus on what Steve was saying.

  ‘Whose mother d’you mean? Zoë’s?’

  ‘Are you looking for anyone else’s mother at the moment?’

  ‘Less of the sarcasm, thanks.’

  The retort was quick, but then Cathy paused, unsure what to say next. She knew there was no way she should discuss the progress of the investigation with him, but she knew it wouldn’t take Steve long to find exactly the same information O’Rourke had, and just as quickly. Even so, she hesitated. ‘Zoë definitely thinks her mother’s in France?’

  ‘Yep. Paris. You know that.’

  ‘OK . . .’ Cathy paused, lingering on the edge for another second before she decided to take the plunge. If she brought Steve into her confidence then he might do the same, give them something on Zoë. ‘Has she thought about the possibility that she might not be in Paris?’

  ‘Eh, no.’ Steve’s voice was cautious. ‘She’s convinced she’s there somewhere. I haven’t had a minute to start looking yet; we go to print in a couple of days. Have you found her?’

  ‘You could say that. If she was still alive.’

  ‘Ah, shit.’ He said it with passion, then again with a hint of despair. ‘Ah shit. Jesus, I don’t think she can take much more bad news.’ He continued before Cathy could say anything, ‘When did she die? Bloody hell, it’s a classic headline, “Daughter Loses Mother Twice”. How’s that for shit? If she’d looked for her sooner, had some help, she could have met her. Now all she’s got is a gravestone somewhere in France.’

  Cathy chose her words. ‘It doesn’t look like she got to France.’

  She heard Steve stop, his breathing steadying, the sounds around him – engines accelerating – clearer. ‘What do you mean? She’s been living there for years, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Not exactly. The only reference we’ve found is her death certificate. She died in Ireland.’

  ‘In Ireland?’ His voice was laced with incredulity, like Cathy had pulled a loaded Smith & Wesson out of her hat instead of a rabbit. ‘You must have the wrong Eleanor Grant.’

  ‘Nope, definitely the right one.’

  ‘Shit, Zoë was sure she went to France . . .’ Steve paused like he was thinking about it. ‘What happened? How did Eleanor die?’

  ‘It says accidental –’

  Steve interrupted her, his voice confused: ‘Did she get hit by a car or something?’

  Cathy paused significantly. ‘It’s looking like drowning, actually. At home.’

  ‘What do you mean, “at home”? How do you drown at home?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’ Cathy sighed – it was too late to be having this conversation. Right now she just wanted to get out of this damp towel and into a warm pair of pyjamas. ‘We’ll have to tell Zoë.’

  ‘Not tomorrow though, eh? That’s why I’m ringing. Her grandmother’s funeral is at eleven o’clock in Monkstown. They want to keep it private, no press.’

  ‘Good of them to let us know.’

  ‘I expect she forgot.’

  ‘Expect so. Expect it’ll be me that gets to go, too.’

  ‘Good. You can keep me company. That Trish will be there – she gives me the heebie-jeebies. I don’t think I’m her favourite media mogul right now.’

  ‘Media mogul?’ Cathy’s tone said it all.

  ‘Brains in my head, feet on my feet. One day, girl.’

  ‘Yeah, like I’ll be Commissioner.’

  ‘“Kid, you’ll move mountains.”’ There was a strange strangled beep. ‘Shite, battery’s flat, gotta go.’

  Steve clicked off before Cathy had a chance to ask more, like who else would be going, like have you slept with Zoë Grant yet? Not that it was any of her business. Cathy knew it was irrational but she felt bizarrely possessive of him, irritating habits and all. They’d known each other a long time.

  Cathy put her phone down beside the photo on her bedside table, and picked up the slim silver frame, angling it towards the light spilling in from the hall. The colours had faded, but the memories were still there as though it had been taken yesterday. Her three brothers: Tomás the youngest, Pete and Aidan; and Steve Maguire, of course, all hanging out at the tree house. The only picture of them all together. Beside Pete, Steve grinned like there was some big joke, his blond hair tousled, always a mess, two fingers making rabbit ears behind Pete’s head. Like they were about eight years old.

  Steve Maguire. What was it about him that reeled her in over and over again? Maybe it was his total lack of respect for authority, his self-confidence, or the charm, the cheeky grin . . . Cathy sighed, slipping her legs into bed, pulling Bagpuss to her. Whatever it was, she’d be seeing him again tomorrow. And he’d be with Zoë Grant. Was she a child-killer? The thought arrived like the howl of a steam train coming through a tunnel. Cathy pushed it away, shocked at its force, at the speed it had shot into her head. Behind it she could hear O’Rourke’s voice echoing through the dark . . . could be a victim herself . . . innocent until proven guilty . . .

  The church was almost empty when Cathy arrived at Lavinia Grant’s funeral service. She checked the time on her phone. It was bang on eleven. And Steve had been right when he said they wanted to keep it small.

  Right at the front, Zoë sat with Trish to her left, Steve a bum shuffle away on the other side of her, nearest the aisle. In the pew behind them two young guys with trendy haircuts, both in overcoats, were sitting close together, one wrapped up in a Doctor Who scarf. The one with the scarf reached forward to rub Zoë’s shoulder affectionately. Her friend, the picture framer?

  On the other side of the church, a blonde sat leafing through the prayer book, a paisley silk scarf over her navy trench coat, and beside her a man, balding, the collar on his tweed shooting jacket pulled up. Lavinia’s PA and the manager of the Grafton Street Grant Valentine store.

  Cathy slipped into the back pew, pulling her good black coat around her, trying to retreat into its high Cossack collar. The scent of incense was strong, even at the back of the huge church, biting at the back of her throat, making her stomach contract. God she hated funerals . . .

  O’Rourke had been all smiles when Cathy had shown up at the station this morning fresh from the gym, had thrown his arm around her shoulder as they’d headed up the corridor, filling her in on the preliminary reactions from the Technical Bureau, with that smug look of someone who knew they’d made a breakthrough. He’d already put up scans of the photographs they’d found in the suitcase. There weren’t as many as Cathy had thought, and seeing them spread out, well lit this time, she’d almost forgotten about the funeral had become absorbed, with him, in the faces that looked back at her.

  ‘That’s definitely Lavinia Grant. She was quite a looker.’ O’Rourke had put the wedding picture centre stage. ‘And I think this could be her as a child’ – he indicated the picture of the two little girls they had looked at the night before. ‘It’s about the right period, but I’ve no idea who the other one is.’

  ‘Could be a cousin or a friend from school?’ Cathy stared at the picture. ‘They don’t look much alike.’ O’Rourke had nodded. ‘And this must be Eleanor.’

  Cathy had put her finger up on the board, let it linger for a moment, trying to make a connection. If only the photos could talk. It was a small black and white snap of a girl with waist-length hair, parted in the middle, a clip pulling one side off her face. She looked about eighteen, was pulling a stripy shawl or blanket around her, had a deep fabric holdall slung over her shoulder, was wearing flared jeans, a long bead necklace. But the most striking thing about the picture was her beauty, thick eyebrows and haunting eyes.

  ‘You can see where Zoë got her looks.’ O’Rourke was standing back, his hands in his trouser pockets.

  Cathy nodded, scanning the rest of the board. ‘There don
’t seem to be any of Eleanor as a child, or of Zoë for that matter. What happened to the rest?’

  ‘These are the only ones with people in them. All the rest are location shots – mainly of a garden, some of a city, could be holiday snaps.’

  ‘Lavinia Grant’s garden?’

  O’Rourke shrugged. ‘Maybe; it’s hard to judge. They were taken a long time ago, that’s for sure – it looks different now. There was a pond and a birdbath, lots of paving, sort of split-level. Here.’ He indicated a photo on the edge of the group, a man sitting in a deckchair wearing a straw boater and stripy blazer. It was hard to tell if the man was smiling, his face hidden by a huge moustache. ‘This was taken in the same place. Could be Oleander.’

  Cathy pulled a face, looking hard at the picture. She hadn’t spent a lot of time in Lavinia Grant’s garden but there was something familiar about the photo.

  ‘I think it is – I’ve no idea what an oleander bush looks like but see this tree in the border? It’s a monkey puzzle. It looks tiny here but there’s a big one in the garden beside the wall – you can see it from the study. If the lads at the bureau can blow it up they might be able to match some of the bushes around it to what’s there now and confirm it’s Oleander House. There’s a guy up there who specialises in plants and seeds and stuff, isn’t there? He’d know about trees and bushes . . .’ She paused. ‘How long before they can tell us what that stain is?’

  ‘A day or so. They were being cagey when I phoned.’

  ‘It only takes a few seconds to test for blood.’

  O’Rourke nodded, grimacing. ‘They want to do more tests before they confirm anything. You know what the lab’s like, has to be black and white.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we be sealing the house?’

  O’Rourke chewed his thumbnail for a moment. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. Trish doesn’t know we have the suitcase, so she’s not likely to do anything she couldn’t have done between Lavinia’s death and us finding it . . .’

  ‘Like moving the rest of the bones.’

  ‘Exactly. I’d prefer to keep an eye on her, see what she does while we wait for the test results.’

  It was at that moment that Cathy remembered the funeral.

  ‘Think you can handle it on your own?’ O’Rourke asked. ‘You don’t have to stay, just show your face and see who else is there, make sure there’s no one hovering with malicious intent.’

  Cathy nodded, sighing. It was part of the job and she couldn’t think of a good reason why she couldn’t go. Apart from the fact that it was bloody freezing . . . and the chance of being hit by a bolt of lightning if she set foot in a Catholic church.

  ‘Just keep your phone on vibrate.’ O’Rourke’s face was serious. ‘I’ll ring as soon as I have any news from the lab.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Trish’s voice was like barbed wire. They were outside the church, after possibly the longest funeral service Cathy had ever had to sit through. She’d hung back as the organist had finally struck up something resembling a dirge, catching Steve’s eye as he’d escorted Zoë, leaning heavily on his arm, out towards the door, the guy with the scarf on her other side, his arm around her shoulders. Despite Cathy’s attempt to melt into the granite walls of the church, Trish had spotted her the moment she came through the huge oak doors, rounding on her like it was Cathy’s fault that Lavinia Grant was dead. Her breath reeked of gin.

  Cathy took a step backwards, smiled like the question hadn’t been some sort of challenge, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘Paying my respects, Ms O’Sullivan.’

  Trish’s eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotchy. ‘You’re like vultures you lot, hovering over the kill. As if it’s not enough that you’ve turned Zoë’s house upside down. Come to have a good gloat, have you?’

  Cathy opened her mouth to speak but Trish cut across her, advancing, her voice rising with every step. ‘What gives you the right to come here? How dare you?’ Cathy took a step backward, trying to keep the smile fixed to her face. ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage already with all your questions, poking and prying?’

  ‘It’s procedure, Ms O’Sullivan. If there was any interference in Mrs Grant’s passing, you would want us to find out, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Interference?’ Trish’s voice went up another notch. She was almost shrieking now, had drawn the attention of the other mourners. Cathy could see them over Trish’s shoulder looking embarrassed, pretending they couldn’t hear.

  Now Trish was almost on top of her, and Cathy could feel the gin-soaked spit hitting her face. She winced and felt herself gag, her stomach turning over in an agonisingly slow roll. She put her hand to her mouth.

  Trish didn’t seem to notice, was at full throttle.

  ‘Interference? You are the only ones interfering. There are criminals out there robbing banks, kidnapping children – why aren’t you out there catching them instead of wasting taxpayers’ money sullying the name of highly respected citizens with all your bloody questions?’

  Cathy was sure Trish could have continued indefinitely, but at that moment the undertakers appeared, the coffin between them supported on a wheeled trolley, clattering across the tarmac. Distracted, Trish pulled herself up straight, turned to watch them.

  Cathy drew a breath, deep and slow, closed her eyes for a second as she tried to calm her stomach. A moment later the coffin was loaded into the back of the hearse. As the undertaker pulled the boot closed, Trish turned back to Cathy, hissing under her breath: ‘Don’t you dare come to the grave, do you hear me?’

  Cathy smiled benignly – the smile she saved for suspects in custody, the ones they were about to throw the book at. She wouldn’t be at the grave, but she had every intention of going to the graveyard.

  A second car drew up, the driver opening the rear door ceremoniously. Turning her back on Cathy, her trouser legs and the skirt of her black coat flapping in a flurry of icy wind, Trish climbed in. Zoë and Steve followed her, pulling the door behind. Cathy could see Trish open her handbag, rooting for a mirror and lipstick. Behind them the guy with the scarf and his friend, the PA and the store manager climbed into a third car.

  Cathy waited until the cars were out of sight, and then climbed into the unmarked DDU car she’d purloined, to follow them. When they reached the massive car park beside Shanganagh Cemetery, Cathy reversed into a side bay well away from the cortège. The heater on full, she waited until the Grant group had all got out of the official cars, pulling their coats around them, setting off into the sea of headstones towards the family plot somewhere in the middle. There was no way she was going to get cornered by Trish O’Sullivan again today.

  Cathy looked around her. This place always depressed her. It was too regimented, too organised, too flat. Even the trees, naked now, pointing towards the sky with arthritic fingers, were strategically planted in unnaturally tidy rows. To Cathy’s right, a much larger party was lingering, straggled untidily across the graveyard. Slipping out of the car, Cathy headed towards them, her good black winter coat blending in seamlessly. They didn’t notice her arrival, were discussing the funeral, the weather. Keeping within their shadow, tiptoeing along the shale paths between the graves, trying to avoid her heels sinking into the mud, Cathy moved in as close as she could.

  Ahead of her Trish and Zoë had reached the freshly turned grave, were standing opposite each other on either side of it, with their heads bowed, Zoë flanked by the men in her life. Trish had her back to Cathy. Steve, who had managed to find a dark jacket for the occasion, a dark striped scarf knotted tightly around his neck, had his arm around Zoë, was glancing around him, looked cold and tired and bored. Suddenly Steve looked Cathy’s way. Cathy shook her head, willing him to ignore her. He got the message, turned back to Zoë, pulling her closer to him, smoothing her hair.

  On the other side of the graveyard a crowd of rooks took off, creating a black cloud obliterating the sun, their crie
s startling, loud. Cathy shivered, looked around her, then, hastily, over her shoulder. What was it about graveyards? She was getting a creepy feeling like she was being watched. Very creepy. She looked around again. It was the same feeling she’d had outside Oleander House that had sent a shiver down her spine.

  Cathy was supposed to be watching them, but the feeling that she was being watched was growing with every minute. She checked around her again, her hands in her coat pockets, tried to look like she was supposed to be there, like she wasn’t getting creeped out.

  She scanned the borders of the cemetery, could see nothing strange or unusual. But it was so big, and the feeling wasn’t going away. Anyone could be hiding behind a tree, behind one of the larger headstones, one of the sculptures. She fingered her mobile, wondering if she should ring O’Rourke . . . but how could she say she had a feeling?

  29

  ‘Why on earth are you bringing that thing?’ Emily Cox threw her basket into the front seat of Tony’s car. In reply Tony pulled his head out from the back seat of the battered Mercedes E220 Estate and lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘It’s my briefcase. Obviously.’

  ‘But it was washed up with the Ark. Don’t you want to bring that one your sister gave you?’

  ‘Nope, I like this one. Freud had one like this. Think of all the patients’ stories it’s heard, the world events it’s witnessed.’

  ‘It’s a bag, Tony.’ Emily tried not to smile.

  ‘Yep, but it’s a doctor’s bag, a real black Gladstone.’

  ‘That you found in a pawnbroker’s. Are you sure that’s a good omen?’

  Tutting, Tony shook his head. She’d never understand. No matter how often he explained it, Emily couldn’t understand that he’d found this bag the day before his finals, a day when he should have had his head down studying. Instead, feeling distinctly frazzled, he had taken the bus downtown, only to see this bag, this very bag sitting, waiting for him in the corner of the pawnbroker’s window. It was a wonderful bag, always made Tony think of Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind sending Prissy on that mad dash through the burning streets of Alabama. And it might be old and battered, but it had got him through his finals, and it would, Tony knew, bring him luck at the conference. But he wasn’t about to start telling Emily all that again – right now they had other things to worry about.