Little Bones

by Sam Blake

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘We don’t want anything nasty to happen, do we? A hundred thousand in cash now, a down payment.’

  34

  ‘Cathy? Are you at work?’

  ‘I am. What’s up?’ Cathy put her finger in her ear, trying to block out the noise of the incident room. There was a note of urgency in Steve’s voice, urgency or fear, she wasn’t sure which, but neither was characteristic.

  ‘Zoë just rang.’ Cathy could tell he was fighting to keep his voice level. ‘There was a man in her house – I think he broke in. She’s not making much sense. I’m in a cab on my way there. Can you meet me?’

  Slipping off the desk she was sitting on, heading for O’Rourke’s office, Cathy kept the phone clamped to her ear.

  ‘I’m on my way. Did she know him?’

  At the other end she heard Steve clear his throat. ‘He had a knife.’

  ‘Thank God you’re here.’

  Steve jumped physically as Zoë threw open the back door, falling into his arms, her sobs jumbling her words until he was hardly able to understand what she was saying. ‘Oh my God, I was so scared . . .’

  Half-carrying her inside, trying to kick the door closed behind him, Steve yanked out one of the kitchen chairs from the table, lowered Zoë into it, trying to free himself to see her face, to get a clear idea of what had happened. But she wasn’t letting go, was clinging on to his jacket, still sobbing.

  ‘Did he hurt you? Zoë, listen to me, did he hurt you?’

  Struggling to keep his voice calm, Steve squatted in front of her, gripped her shoulders. He wanted to shake her, wondered for a moment if he should slap her face to calm her down. She was pale, wild-eyed, staring at him like he was an apparition, like he was part of the nightmare. Zoë opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  ‘I’ve called the Guards, Cathy’s on her way. You’re safe now. Tell me what happened.’

  Zoë interrupted him, suddenly getting her breath. ‘No, no, he said not to call the Guards. The man. I don’t know how he got in. Tell them not to come.’ Her words were tripping over themselves, her eyes wide with fear.

  ‘It’s OK, I called Cathy. She’s a friend, it’s different. Did he do anything to you? Did he hurt you?’ She’d been incoherent on the phone, babbling about the exhibition, about the breakin, obviously deeply shocked.

  ‘He cut me.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  ‘Jesus, where?’

  ‘He grabbed my face. He had a knife, he cut me.’ Zoë began to sob, the sound raw, unnerving, pointing to the wound on her chest, blood clotted around it.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ She shook her head, held on tight to his jacket as she continued, ‘He said he knew my grandmother, that she owed him money.’ Zoë’s whole body was shaking, her fear like static.

  ‘Was he someone who worked for her?’

  Zoë shook her head, taking a deep breath, her eyes brimming with shock, bleak as a storm-tossed sea.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. He was American – he had an American accent.’

  Steve pulled Zoë towards him, holding her tight. She was so fragile, so vulnerable. Behind him, Steve heard the door open, realising at the same moment that it hadn’t closed when he kicked it. Christ. He felt a gust of cold air in the warmth of the kitchen. Had he come back . . . ?

  His eyes met Cathy’s as she pushed the door firmly closed behind her, her warning about getting involved with Zoë Grant suddenly ringing in his ears like a klaxon . . . but it was too late for warnings. In the short time he had known her, Zoë Grant had become imprinted in his subconscious like a watermark. For a split second he felt like he’d been caught with his trousers down.

  ‘Cathy, thanks for coming.’

  Cathy nodded curtly, and he could see she was taking in the set-up: the distraught heroine, the knight comforting her – the only thing they were missing was the horse. Cathy didn’t need to speak. Steve could feel his cheeks flushing. She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

  Pretending he wasn’t reading her disapproval, Steve disentangled himself and sat back on his heels, lifting Zoë’s chin so she was looking at him.

  ‘Cathy’s here. Tell her what happened.’

  Zoë drew in her breath, the sound sudden, like a rent in a piece of fabric, her voice when she spoke not much more than a whisper. ‘But he said –’

  ‘I know, but Cathy’s different.’ Steve turned to Cathy. ‘He said not to call the cops.’ She nodded curtly. ‘Just tell her what happened.’

  Zoë drew in a shaky breath. ‘I was upstairs, tidying up. I came down with the washing and . . . and he was here, in the kitchen. But I locked the door. I know I locked the door.’

  The strength of Zoë’s words left a void of silence in the room, a void filled by the sound of a clock ticking faintly from somewhere down the hall, by the rasp of her breathing. Cathy nodded towards the kettle.

  ‘Why don’t I make us all a cup of tea, and you can tell me exactly what happened.’

  It took Cathy a few moments to find the mugs, teabags, milk, a few moments she knew would give Zoë time to calm down. As the kettle boiled, Cathy pulled open a drawer, looking for teaspoons. Beside the cutlery tray were about a dozen keys, each one meticulously labelled in neat black ink, plastic tags creating a rainbow of colour against the dull rubber matting in the bottom of the drawer. Zoë was sure she’d locked the door . . .

  Sliding it closed with her hip, Cathy put a large scoop of sugar in each of the mugs. They all needed it today.

  ‘Here we are.’

  Pulling out a chair, she sat down opposite Steve, Zoë between them at the head of the table. Cathy cradled the cup in her hands. ‘Tell me what he looked like.’

  It took a moment for Zoë to reply.

  ‘He had a tan, short hair. An American accent. And a knife, he had a knife.’ Zoë sniffed loudly. ‘I just don’t understand. He said Lavinia owed him money.’ Abandoning her cup, Zoë put her face in her hands, then looked up, straight at Cathy, her voice little more than a whisper: ‘He said I didn’t want anything to come out in the press, that it might ruin my exhibition. What did he mean?’

  Cathy sat back, her mind whirling. An American.

  Then, so quietly that Cathy almost missed it, ‘He had grey eyes.’

  Cathy sat forward. Freaky eyes. ‘Do you think you’d know him again?’

  Zoë nodded, her face saying it all, how could she forget him?

  ‘So what did she say?’ O’Rourke looked up from his desk the second Cathy put her head around the office door.

  ‘Like Steve said, there was a guy in her kitchen. He pulled a knife on her.’ Cathy closed the door firmly behind her.

  ‘Did she know him?’

  Cathy shook her head, drew in a breath. ‘He was American. Six foot, clean-shaven, grey eyes.’

  ‘What?’ O’Rourke paled about three shades. ‘Is she sure?’

  Cathy pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, sighing, rubbing her face with her hand. ‘It’s the eyes. She said he was tanned, dark, but he had grey eyes. And he wants 100k in cash.’

  ‘Hierra. It has to be Hierra. Jesus Christ. How the hell did this happen?’ O’Rourke was shaking his head, didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘How many men have I had out looking for him? And what does he do? Turns up in bloody Zoë Grant’s bloody kitchen.’ He looked like the thought was giving him a physical pain. And Cathy knew she was about to make it worse.

  ‘He seems to know something about Lavinia Grant. Said she had a lot to hide.’

  O’Rourke closed his eyes for a moment, ran his hands over his face, then looked back at her. ‘He’d be right there. He didn’t happen to mention hastening Lavinia Grant’s departure from this world, did he?’

  Cathy put her elbows on the edge of the desk, playing with the band holding back her ponytail. ‘He said he’d been talking to her about a deal, all right. Think it’s likely?’

  ‘With his record? More
than likely. Can you die of shock?’

  ‘If you’ve got a weak heart. Zoë’s always saying Lavinia hated publicity, that she was paranoid about the press.’

  O’Rourke nodded slowly. ‘But what the hell is Angel Hierra’s connection to Lavinia Grant?’

  Cathy ran her fingers through her ponytail. ‘Honestly, I don’t know that there is one. I reckon he’s trying it on. I was thinking about it all the way back here. He’s a con man, we know that; he’s violent, and he’s on the run. He must need money. I don’t know that he ever met Lavinia Grant. I reckon he saw the obituaries in the paper . . .’

  O’Rourke interrupted. ‘And put two and two together?’

  Cathy nodded. ‘Zoë said he had spoken to her neighbour. He knew about the exhibition, but he could be winging it on the history. There’s every chance that Zoë’s neighbour caught wind of the bones being found, could have overheard something the lads said . . .’

  ‘And maybe she let something slip to Hierra that fitted neatly with his plan, and he thought he’d try a bit of blackmail.’

  Cathy nodded. ‘The FBI said he was a charmer.’ She paused. ‘I reckon that there’s a good chance Hierra is our burglar. Zoë was sure she locked her back door this afternoon, and he managed to get in without a sound – but she’s got a load of keys in a drawer in the kitchen. I think when he broke in, he borrowed the back-door key in case he had to go back.’

  O’Rourke nodded, weighing up Cathy’s words. ‘And presumably she had a key to Oleander House. Is that still there?’

  ‘I’ll have to ask her.’

  He frowned, obviously thinking, then said, ‘But why would he have had a slash at that dress?’

  ‘Maybe he was just trying to give Zoë a fright, thought it was her dress. Or maybe he’s got a problem with marriage.’

  O’Rourke nodded again slowly. ‘He certainly had a problem with his father, so maybe. God knows . . .’

  He paused, as if he was turning it over in his head. ‘She’ll need protection. I’ll get a team on the house.’

  ‘He insisted no cops so they’ll have to be invisible.’

  ‘We can do invisible. We’ll need someone on the inside plus a team outside. She on her own?’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘Steve Maguire’s with her.’

  ‘The boyfriend? He won’t be much help if Hierra reappears. The lads will have to go in through the back in case he’s watching.’ O’Rourke paused. ‘I’ll call the FBI, let them know. You get down there with his picture, see if Zoë can identify him. I don’t think we need to tell her who we think her visitor was yet, she’s had enough of a fright tonight.’

  Cathy pushed her chair back, but O’Rourke wasn’t finished. ‘The lab was on. The soil samples from the bones aren’t one hundred per cent conclusive but they reckon there’s a fighting chance they came from Oleander House.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘So the lads are going to start on the garden?’

  He nodded. ‘They’re having a good look at the fireplaces and the drains right now; nothing yet.’ O’Rourke drifted off for a moment, looking over Cathy’s shoulder, spoke half to himself. ‘Jesus, Hierra. That’s all we need.’ Then coming back to her: ‘You getting an early night?’

  Cathy leaned back in the chair, stretched. ‘Trish O’Sullivan left a message with the front desk. She wants to collect the post from Oleander. I explained we’re processing it but I said I’d meet her to give her what I could. Don’t trust her one little bit. Thought I’d check in and see how the lads are getting on at the same time.’

  ‘Grand. Then go home, you look like shit and you’re going to need your beauty sleep.’

  ‘Thanks a million.’

  O’Rourke shrugged. ‘You look knackered. And we’re going to be busy if this does turn out to be Hierra. Could be the last full night’s sleep you get for a while.’ Cathy half-nodded. He was right; she needed an early night. ‘Is Zoë getting the locks changed?’ he asked.

  ‘I called the locksmith from Dalkey when I was leaving.’

  ‘Good. Wouldn’t want her turning up dead. We’d look right prats.’

  Cathy couldn’t resist a smile. ‘You’re all heart.’

  O’Rourke’s eyes met hers, lingering for a moment before he looked back at his laptop, shaking his head. ‘Mind that Trish one, I think she bites.’

  35

  ‘Do I go right here?’

  Tony swung the car out of the Stena terminal. The signs for Dublin were straight ahead of him, positioned high, but he was concentrating on the car ahead that had been lurching erratically since they rolled off the ferry. He’d thought at first the driver must be dazzled by the floodlights illuminating the port after the darkness of the ship, but now the driver had stopped at the traffic-light-controlled T-junction. Which was fine. But the lights were green. Tony flicked the wipers on to max, trying to clear the rain from the windscreen. It was like someone had turned on all the taps and left them running.

  ‘Do you think he’s waiting for a train? What colour of green does he want?’

  ‘What is the matter with you? Calm down, they’re probably lost.’ Emily looked at Tony out of the corner of her eye, surprised, his exasperation electric in the confines of the car.

  ‘They’ve only just got off the boat, how can they be lost already? Jesus . . . The sign is there.’

  Tony smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand and pointed ahead of him at approximately the same time the other driver spotted the sign. The car swung into the narrow two-lane feeder road just as the lights changed. Tony opened his mouth to say something and shut it again, bottling his anger. This wasn’t the time or the place.

  Tony knew damn well it wasn’t the car ahead that he was mad with; it was himself. The image of the little girl on the ferry flashed before him again, the bond she had with her mother stronger than anything he’d ever seen. Their love, their closeness, despite her disability, because of her disability, because she was just a wonderful child, was so strong it didn’t look like anything could break it. And right now he was standing right between Emily and any hope she had for ever feeling like that, for them both as a couple to ever experience that joy. And they had so much to offer a child. Tony could hear Emily’s words echoing through his mind. They had so much to offer.

  ‘This bit’s all new.’ They both jumped at Mary’s voice in the back of the car. Like a comic double take they looked at each other and then back at Mary. Her face was passive, her tone matter-of-fact. She didn’t seem to notice their surprise. ‘There were never that many yachts. Look at all the masts.’ Sitting behind Emily, Mary pulled her safety belt out a fraction so she could lean forward and get a better view out of the rear window, nodding towards a long, low granite building to their right, Palladian pillars guarding elegant steps. In the gathering darkness the front was bathed in pools of light thrown up from concealed spotlights. Even in the rain it was pretty impressive. ‘But that’s the same – the Royal Irish Yacht Club, that’s the same. It was very smart . . . Lots of doctors.’

  Tony took a deep breath. Christ, how mad was this? He’d denied his wife a child and what had he got instead? An old lady, crazy as a coot. For a moment Tony felt like laughing.

  ‘Will we stop for a coffee, Mary, check it out?’ Keeping one eye on the traffic light, Tony looked at Mary in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Oh no, you have to be a member. They have a doorman and everything.’

  Tony nodded sagely, the lights changing to green before he could think of a suitable reply.

  ‘Did you go there, Mary? Do you remember you were telling us about watching the yachts race at the regatta?’ Turning in her seat, Emily spoke over her shoulder.

  Mary nodded slowly. ‘They all had regattas – bands outside during the day and then dancing at night.’

  She trailed off, craning her neck to look behind her as they passed the single-storey building. Tony almost groaned as he pulled up at another set of lights. At least the rain seemed to
be lessening. He knocked off the wipers.

  ‘Right again here, for the city?’ Leaning over to look at the map, open on Emily’s knee, Tony traced the edge of the coastline with his finger.

  ‘Yep, through Blackrock, then it’s pretty much a straight drive into the middle of the city, to Stephen’s Green.’

  ‘Goodness, look at those.’ Mary again, this time dipping down in the back seat, looking out of the window at a huge glass and steel apartment block on their left, every window lit to a view of the harbour.

  ‘Has it changed much, Mary? Do you remember Dún Laoghaire?’

  ‘Oh yes, none of those buildings were there. You could see right through to the church from here.’

  Tony glanced at Emily, his eyebrows raised. The memories were obviously flowing freely, Mary was speaking as if they’d never been missing. Maybe Emily had been right, that a trip home was exactly what Mary needed. Maybe it was what they all needed.

  ‘It’s a neat area.’ Tony glanced over to his right towards the sea. In the darkness it danced with the wind, wavelets tipped with white catching the light from the moon as the clouds passed. High up across the bay he could see white warning lights flashing, the faint outline of huge chimneys.

  The lights changed.

  ‘Jesus!’ Eyes back to the road, Tony slammed on the brakes, the map sliding off Emily’s knee, hitting the floor hard. The car ahead had stopped suddenly in front of them, its brake lights blazing, a queue of traffic snaking ahead of them.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  Emily nodded, reaching for the map, looked over her shoulder at Mary. She was frowning hard, her hand on the seat belt where it had restrained her.

  ‘There can’t be more traffic lights . . .’ Tony sat up in his seat, craning his neck to see what the hold-up was. A white van was parked at the side of the road, a constant stream of oncoming traffic preventing the first car in the queue from getting around it.

  ‘At this rate we’ll never get to the hotel on time.’ Tony let out a sigh of exasperation, glanced at his watch. ‘Is there a back route we can take?’