by Sam Blake
Trish shrugged again, twirled her cigarette around.
‘It’s her wedding dress.’
Cathy slid forward in her seat. The heat in the room was getting to her, making her palms sweat.
‘Do you know how the dress ended up in Zoë’s possession?’
‘It was given to her, obviously.’
‘Zoë thinks it belonged to her mother . . .’ O’Rourke left the sentence hanging.
‘It was a very expensive dress, passed down. That happens, you know.’
‘But we don’t have any record of Eleanor Grant getting married.’
Trish scowled. ‘You can own something and never wear it, can’t you? Zoë’s not married but it didn’t stop her having it in her wardrobe.’ She was getting defensive now.
O’Rourke changed tack. ‘Can you tell us who this is?’
Trish glanced at the picture of the young girl with the jeans, handed it straight back to him like it was hot. ‘That’s Eleanor.’
Cathy felt like cheering, giving Trish full marks for cooperation.
‘Zoë told us she went to France.’ Cathy tried to sound innocent, like it was a question.
‘She was young, headstrong. Lavinia never knew where she was from one day to the next.’
‘Do you know where she is now?’ Cathy asked.
Trish shrugged noncommittally, was about to speak when O’Rourke interrupted her.
‘We have found evidence that she never got to France.’
Trish lifted her eyebrows again, took another drag on her cigarette. ‘Really?’
‘What can you tell us about that?’
The shrug again. Cathy felt the impulse to stand up and grab her cigarette, to shout at her, just tell us. O’Rourke tried again.
‘Why did Lavinia tell Zoë that her mother had gone to France?’
‘It was probably the first thing that came into her head. Charles was French.’
Cathy felt a burst of impatience. He didn’t mean why did Lavinia tell Zoë that Eleanor had gone to France, he meant why did she tell her she’d gone anywhere? Why didn’t she tell her the truth? The truth – did they even know what that was in this house? Then Trish’s actual words hit Cathy like a slap in the face. The first thing that came into her head? How could you spin a tale like that for your granddaughter and keep it up for her entire life? How could anyone be that spiteful?
Cathy could tell from the tension in his jaw that O’Rourke was thinking something similar. Before he could say anything his mobile rang from the depths of his inside pocket.
‘Excuse me.’ Reaching for it, he stood up, an energy in the movement that conveyed his mood, his pent-up anger. He headed down the room to the window, the phone clamped to his ear. Cathy was aware of him nodding in her peripheral vision, was focusing on Trish. She seemed completely unaffected by his questions, uninterested as if they had nothing to do with her. She was some piece of work.
A moment later, O’Rourke turned back to them.
‘That was the lab, Ms O’Sullivan. We have reason to believe that this case is one of murder, whether infanticide or not, and that the body of the child was hidden in this house. We know that the bones were buried for a period of time before they were concealed in the hem of the dress, and we know we don’t have the full skeleton . . .’ He paused significantly. ‘So we’re going to have to examine this house and garden in order to locate the rest of the remains.’
Trish looked at him like he was mad. ‘Surely if it was buried here it would have been dug up by an animal? Would have degraded? The bones you’re missing could be anywhere.’
She’d obviously given the whole issue some thought.
‘Perhaps, Ms O’Sullivan’ – O’Rourke said it with some satisfaction; he could do the eyebrow thing too – ‘but we will need to establish that for ourselves. We’re going to need you and Zoë Grant to vacate the premises immediately.’
They had to wait for Trish, lethally silent, to throw her things into an overnight bag before she left the house. Cathy had watched her stamping around her room from the door, her arms folded, fighting a smile of satisfaction. Thankfully the scenes-of-crime lads from Dún Laoghaire had arrived promptly to secure the house for the Technical Bureau crime-scene techs, but Trish’s glare had been acidic as she had stalked off down the front steps of Oleander House to return to her own apartment.
‘What did the lab say?’ Cathy could hardly contain the excitement in her voice as they walked fast towards O’Rourke’s car, parked in a side lane off Longford Terrace.
His keys in his hand, O’Rourke turned and grimaced at Cathy, his teeth gritted.
‘Come on, tell me.’
He flicked open the central locking. ‘In the car.’
Cathy almost ran the last couple of yards.
‘So?’ Breathless, Cathy pulled the car door closed behind her.
‘They’ve found meconium.’
‘What the hell’s that?’
‘Faeces. I’m no expert but apparently it’s the stuff a newborn passes first – the by-product of whatever it absorbed in the womb.’
Cathy shivered, put her elbow on the window ledge, her fingers gripping the roots of her hair. There was a newsagent’s right next to them, busy, a gang of kids looking at magazines just inside the door, a builder, his overalls splattered with paint, juggling a cup of coffee and a sandwich, trying to get the plate-glass door open. Ordinary people with ordinary lives going about their business. There were days when Cathy wondered why she was in this job, days when the crap that people went through, the stuff they did to each other was just too nasty. This was one of them.
‘So the – it – was in the suitcase.’ Cathy tried to keep her voice level.
O’Rourke nodded, watching the builder cross the road to a battered Transit abandoned on the double yellow line. ‘Wrapped in the shawl.’
‘And the stain was this meconium stuff?’
‘Yep.’ O’Rourke sighed, ran his hand across his eyes. ‘The guy at the lab said meconium’s composed of the materials ingested during the time the baby spends in the uterus. They’re sending the full detail, but it contains intestinal cells and amniotic fluid – they’re going to try for DNA. The thing is that it’s only passed in the first few days of life.’
Cathy could feel herself pale, her stomach turn over. It had been shut up in the case. A tiny newborn baby had been wrapped up and stuffed in a case. It took a moment for her to get back on track. When she did, her voice was weak.
‘So it was alive?’
O’Rourke glanced at Cathy, patted her on the knee like he felt the need for contact. She sure did. Right now she needed a lot more than a pat . . . but he was way too professional for that.
‘They still don’t know for sure.’ O’Rourke paused. Cathy looked across at him. He was staring out of the windscreen, eyes fixed on a car ahead of them turning at the T-junction, its indicator flashing orange like a warning light. ‘If it was dead when it went into the case the meconium would have leaked when the body started decomposing. If it died in there, the same thing would have happened.’
‘And they think it was moved from there to the garden, and then at some stage, what was left of the bones was moved to the dress?’
O’Rourke nodded, biting his lip. ‘Looks like it.’
‘Will we find anything in the garden though, after all this time?’
‘A baby’s bones are soft. They may have degraded so much there will be nothing left to find. But we still have to look.’ O’Rourke paused, his voice low. ‘The fact is that a baby was stuck in a bloody suitcase.’ He turned his key in the ignition, firing the engine. ‘And from the traces they’ve found, the techs think it was in there for a while. I don’t know about you but I can’t leave it there. I reckon we’ll find out the rest when we find out who owned that suitcase and who the child was.’
31
Inside the newsagent’s, Angel Hierra twirled a stand of greeting cards like he was looking for something particular
, one eye on the road, watching them through the window. The guy – O’Rourke was it? – seemed to be giving the girl bad news. She was shaking her head. She looked good, had her crazy hair dragged back today like it had been when he’d seen her in the cemetery, but she had a good body, lithe and young. Cathy, Cathy Connolly. He twirled the stand again, lifted out a card, watched out of the corner of his eye as the unmarked car pulled out of the parking space, headed towards the junction.
Why were they back again? He’d been surprised that the pair of them had got to Oleander House so fast the other night. They’d shown up moments after the cop car had pulled up, its blue strobes penetrating the darkness and that fucking awful misty rain.
Hierra twirled the carousel of cards, thinking. The old bitch’s death had been reported as a ‘tragic loss’. It was fucking tragic all right. If Kuteli’s pair hadn’t appeared, he’d have collected enough to see him right and shot through, left the bastard whistling for his fucking money. But now he had company, and he knew Kuteli’s guys were watching his every move. Just because he couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there. He knew they’d stick to him like shit on his shoe, and he needed to come up with something fast to make it all work. He’d come too fucking far for it to go tits-up now. He was owed, owed big time, and he was going to collect.
Plan A had been to get a down payment, as much cash as he could to get him started and clear through, then set up something more regular. Keep it simple. When you had money you could do anything, change your identity, vanish. And vanishing was what he needed to do right now. But then the bitch had croaked and Plan A had become Plan B. Still simple, still with the same end goal, just not quite as fast as he would have liked.
Then Kuteli’s guys had shown up and he’d pulled Plan C out of the hat, pretending he was here to get a grip on the Grant Valentine empire for Kuteli. Not that he’d be telling them about Plan B; he’d be keeping that one to himself. And when it all came together he’d be out of this stinking country so fast – and this time they’d never find him. Plan C would keep Kuteli and his lot happy, all the balls in the air, while he got himself organised to move on through.
Hierra smiled to himself. It had taken a bit of persuasion, but he’d been pretty impressed himself as he’d leafed through Vanity Fair explaining who Lavinia Grant was, showing them that painting of the boats that was worth a fortune. He’d always been good at thinking on his feet and it had sounded plausible even to him – that he’d found a way to get control of the Grant Valentine machine, giving Kuteli an opportunity to develop the biggest money-laundering operation in the world, one that spanned continents. But it wasn’t the hired help he had to convince – it was Kuteli himself.
Hierra rotated the card stand again, his mouth going dry as he thought about it. When they’d got Kuteli on the phone he’d thought he was going to shit himself, but he’d kept his voice level, had outlined the plan, the background, practical, businesslike; explained what the fuck he was doing in Ireland. He’d even cracked a joke with him at the end. Some joke. When he was finished the joke would be on the big man.
Outside the shop, Hierra could see O’Rourke was getting ready to leave, had the engine of the BMW running, was checking his mirrors. Hierra smiled to himself. It was time to get the ball rolling on Plan B.
Zoë was next. And she’d be a pushover compared to her grandmother.
32
‘I brought you another coffee.’ Wobbling slightly with the motion of the ferry, Emily set a takeaway cup on the table and bent down to kiss Tony on the cheek, the scent of her shampoo, roses blooming, like a caress. ‘What have you been doing?’
Tony smiled up at her on automatic, watched her slip into the chair opposite, dropping her basket into the spare seat. But it was like she was moving in slow motion, like he had somehow got disconnected from the here and now and launched into the complicated world of his subconscious. Thoughts were flowing, weaving themselves together like the threads in a piece of fabric, the little Down’s girl, Emily lying in a hospital bed, the little girl’s mother . . .
Behind Emily, the mother and child were still looking out of the window, the little girl tracing patterns with her finger on the glass, her mother adding in imaginary detail. A butterfly, a boat. She looked like she was telling her a story. Both of them were smiling, locked into the moment, oblivious of everyone around them.
What had he been doing? Tony didn’t know how he should answer that one. Truthfully, he’d been thinking – thinking and realising what a selfish idiot he’d been.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Me? I’m fine . . .’ Hauling himself back to focus on Emily’s face, Tony tried to shake himself out of it. ‘Tired, I guess. Long drive.’ Tony picked up the coffee cup, took a sip. He needed it.
‘And perfecting your speech at midnight.’
Tony grimaced. The sound of Emily’s voice, the taste of the coffee, began to penetrate the layers in his head, bringing him slowly back to a seat on a ferry crossing the Irish Sea.
‘Yep, mea culpa.’ Tony held up his hands. ‘You’re right.’ He smiled. ‘You’re always right.’ Tony’s eyes flicked to the child again, still absorbed in her game. She had pressed her cheek to the window, feeling the chill of the glass, her eyes alight with mischief.
‘What have you been up to?’ Trying to divert Emily’s attention away from him, from his strange mood, Tony nodded towards her basket and the carrier bag sticking out of its open top.
‘Perfume for Mum, aftershave for you. Didn’t you go into the shop on your walk? There’s an offer on Tommy.’ Emily reached over and pulled the cellophane-wrapped box from the bag, showing him the label.
Tony shook his head, catching the twinkle in Emily’s eye. He didn’t shop – she did that for both of them, knew full well he’d rather jump off the boat than get trapped in the aisles of a gift store.
‘No, I managed to avoid it.’
Emily laughed, the sound golden, like a peal of bells. Beside him, Mary snorted in her sleep.
‘Oh goodness, I’ve woken her up.’ Emily’s hand shot to her mouth. As if caught in suspended animation they both watched, waiting to see if she would wake.
A moment later Mary opened her eyes.
Raising her hand to her forehead, smoothing the soft silver waves of her hair back from her face, Mary looked around her, unfocused, confused. They could both see that she couldn’t remember where she was.
‘It’s OK, Mary, you’re on the ferry, the mailboat. Almost home.’ Emily put her hand out across the table, took Mary’s hand in hers. It was light, more bone than flesh, her skin soft and dry, paper-thin.
‘The mailboat? Home?’ A flash of fear crossed Mary’s face, knotting the creases in her forehead tight. She shook her head again and looked around her, at the passengers gathering at the windows for their first sight of land, at the bright colours of the ferry’s 1930s-inspired asymmetric interior.
‘Not the mailboat exactly, don’t worry.’ Seeing her anxiety, Tony joined in, his tone relaxed, jovial. ‘It’s a ferry, Mary; it’s changed a bit since you were last on it. A bit more comfortable, isn’t it? And it doesn’t carry the mail any more, just lots of trucks and cars.’
Mary looked from Tony to Emily fearfully, still not quite awake. ‘But I can’t go back. She said she’d send for me when it was time. Did she write? I don’t remember a letter.’
Emily glanced at Tony anxiously.
He knew Emily was worried that Mary would slip back, experience a psychotic episode like the one she had before, a flashback triggered by a smell or a sound. But Mary was still half-asleep, and Tony could see that recognition was slowly beginning to dawn, that she was aware of them, of her surroundings. He nodded for her to continue.
Emily spoke confidently, keeping her voice low.
‘It’s OK, Mary, you’re with me, with Emily. We’re going back together.’
At the sound of her name, Mary’s confusion appeared to lift, like the cards were slipping
back into the pack, this time in the right order. She grasped for Emily’s fingers.
‘You came to get me, didn’t you? You found me.’
‘I did, Mary, and you’re safe now.’
The old lady nodded, still not entirely focused. ‘And we’re on the boat. Going home.’
‘That’s right.’
Turning to look out of the window, taking in the guard rail on the deck outside, the sea, Mary took a deep breath. To calm her nerves? Then her bottom lip began to quiver.
The distinct outline of a mountain range darkened the horizon. Tony followed Mary’s gaze, surprised himself to see that they were nearing land.
‘Almost there now. Do you remember those mountains, Mary?’
Mary nodded.
‘I didn’t know they had mountains so close to Dublin.’ Tony peered out of the window with interest.
Her reply was barely a whisper: ‘The Wicklow Mountains. They’re the Wicklow Mountains. We used to go for picnics in the summer. To the Sugarloaf. You can see the sea from the top.’
Emily glanced at Tony, her eyes wide with excitement. He shot her a warning look, mouthed the word ‘careful’. Behind them a gang of schoolkids were testing each other’s mobile phones, the ringtones merging like someone was trying to tune in a radio. But neither of them heard it.
‘Was that when you were a child, Mary?’ Emily kept her voice low, gentle, encouraging. Mary nodded slowly, concentrating, her eyes still fixed on the dark shape of the land. ‘Who were you with, Mary – who did you go on the picnics with?’
It took a few moments for the words to come.
‘Nanny when we were little . . .’ Mary brought her fingers to her lips in an unconscious movement, her elbow catching Tony’s Gladstone bag. Looking down at it, she paused. Tony and Emily could almost see the wheels inside her head beginning to turn, slowly, creaking with the effort. ‘Working . . . he was always working . . . too busy to come.’ Mary looked across at Emily, but it was as if she wasn’t seeing her, as if she was looking straight through her. She frowned, the effort of remembering painful, difficult.
Then suddenly Mary smiled, the years of hardship slipping away, like a veil had been lifted, like a cloud had moved away from the sun. Focusing on Emily’s face, she leaned forward, her tone conspiratorial. ‘Once, one of the fellas gave us a lift in his car.’ Mary’s eyes lit up. ‘A car! It was his father’s. I’ve no idea if he should have had it. We were very naughty. We were supposed to be at the regatta . . . at one of the yacht clubs.’ Mary paused, searching her memory for the name. It wasn’t coming, but that didn’t stop her. ‘I can’t remember which one, but it was near to the pier. It was a beautiful day, so hot. We were going to watch the races, but he was driving past and hooted and . . . ooh it was such fun.’