by Sam Blake
About to tell him this was the most direct route, behind her Emily heard a seat belt unclick. Turning to check on Mary, she realised that the rear door had swung open.
‘Dear God! Pull over. It’s Mary, look, she’s got out!’
Still focused on the traffic ahead, now drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Tony turned at the sound of Emily’s voice to find her unclicking her seat belt, her door already open.
‘What?’
‘It’s Mary, look . . .’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘I’ll get her . . .’
‘I can’t park here . . .’
Emily ducked her head back inside the door. ‘Pull over in the next side road, I’ll catch up with you.’
‘This is ridiculous. How much longer is this going to take?’
Standing outside the gate of Oleander House, Trish O’Sullivan lowered her umbrella, shaking the rain off as she closed it. The street lamp threw shadows across her face, made the umbrella look like a weapon.
‘It’s hard to tell. Obviously we don’t want to tie up resources any longer than absolutely necessary, but the lads are very thorough. They need to be satisfied that the search is complete.’ Cathy resisted a smile, enjoying the look on Trish’s face. The muscles around Trish’s mouth had tensed like she wanted to spit. Sometimes Cathy loved her job.
Her eyes cold, Trish grabbed the few envelopes Cathy had in her hand – bills, a magazine – and shuffled through them. But Cathy was pretty sure she was too angry to read anything. If they’d been in a cartoon strip there would have been smoke coming out of her ears. Cathy couldn’t resist laying it on a bit thicker.
‘As DI O’Rourke explained, we’ve found the partial skeleton of a child. We’re going to find the rest.’ It was a definite statement of fact.
‘After all these years, how the hell can you expect to find anything?’
Cathy smiled. ‘You’d be amazed what can turn up . . .’
Trish shivered theatrically. ‘Lavinia would hate the idea of having her garden dug up. Do you have any idea of how much it cost to landscape?’ It was more of a snarl than a statement. Cathy nodded like the cost of the landscaping was relevant. ‘Just you make sure you put everything back exactly as you find it . . .’ Trish drew a breath. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow for the rest. This is hardly everything, is it?’ She waved the letters in the air, perilously close to Cathy’s face. Holding her ground, ignoring the intrusion of her personal space, Cathy frowned.
‘We can only give you what’s been checked while the investigation is ongoing. We wouldn’t want to miss finding out that someone was blackmailing Lavinia Grant by post now, would we?’
Her eyes glowing with anger, about to make a cutting remark, Trish stopped herself, catching sight of an elderly woman standing on the pavement staring at them.
‘What the hell are you looking at?’
‘Please don’t speak to her like that.’ Arriving beside the old lady, catching her breath, a younger woman in a bright pink sweater put her arm around her protectively. ‘She’s a bit muddled. Come on, pet, let’s get back to the car.’
But the old lady wasn’t moving. She was starring fixedly at Trish.
And Trish’s face was creased in a look somewhere between shock and amazement. It was a cliché but she looked exactly like she’d seen a ghost. And as Cathy watched, Trish’s eyes widened, in recognition?
Who was she? Who could have this effect on the impervious Trish O’Sullivan? It was the first time Cathy had seen her stuck for words. One eye on Trish, Cathy bided her time, waiting for the old lady to speak. When she did, her voice was fractured like broken glass, sharp-edged.
‘Patricia? Trish? Is it you?’
The old woman paled, swaying as she spoke. Supporting her frail shoulders, her minder looked in amazement from her to Trish and back again. It was possible that the old woman and Trish could have been around the same age, but with the layers of make-up and jewellery and her hair perfectly done, Trish looked at least twenty years younger.
‘Do you know each other? Mary, do you know this woman?’
To Cathy the minder’s accent sounded like Donegal, but with an American twang. Trish opened her mouth to speak, closed it again. When she finally got the words out they were whispered, her voice incredulous, laced, Cathy was sure, with a large measure of horror.
‘Grace?’
‘Where’s Lavinia? Is Lavinia here?’ The old woman stepped forward, reached out to grasp the spikes of the fence, her voice getting stronger, her eyes locked on Trish, unwavering.
Cathy felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Who was this? Trish had turned ashen, was leaning on the gatepost, her voice shocked.
‘Grace? I thought you’d never come back. Thought you’d left.’ Then, realising she’d been asked a question, recovering a little, Trish said, her voice harsh, ‘She’s dead, Grace. A heart attack, a few days ago.’
‘Dead?’ The old lady’s mouth fell open. ‘No! . . . Dead?’ Laden with disbelief. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’
‘We didn’t know where you were, Grace –’
The answer came back like a bullet. ‘But she knew. Lavinia knew. She must have done. She must have told you.’
‘I thought Lavinia had lost touch with you . . . years ago.’ Trish faltered. ‘It’s been so many years. You upped and left so long ago.’
So long ago? Cathy’s mind was racing.
‘But dead? How can she be dead?’ The old woman’s voice was thin, disbelieving.
‘It was her heart, Grace, it gave up. She’d had high blood pressure, high cholesterol.’
The old lady staggered, the shock written across her face, raw, painful. Trish didn’t move, appeared to be stuck to the spot. But the old lady looked like she was about to fall. The woman in the pink sweater tried to steady her, her face flushed; a second later Cathy was supporting the old lady on the other side.
‘Are you OK there?’ Cathy’s eyes met the younger woman’s over the old lady’s head. Was she a relative, a carer? Turning to Trish, she kept her voice level, calm. ‘Do you know her, Trish? Is this lady a relative of Lavinia Grant’s?’
Trish didn’t answer, just nodded, seemed to be in some sort of daze.
‘What’s going on? I managed to park around the corner.’
Cathy looked up to see a dark-haired man arrive behind Trish, a set of car keys dangling from his hand. American. Fifties, professional despite the jeans and impractical lemon cashmere sweater. The minder was obviously relieved to see him.
‘Mary knows this lady. She recognised her.’ The minder sounded amazed, nodded towards Trish.
Cathy’s eyes flicked from the old lady to Trish. Why was Trish calling her Grace when the other two were calling her Mary?
‘She’s in shock, we need to sit her down.’ The American turned to Trish. ‘I’m sorry about this. Tony Cox.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘I’m a doctor. We need to get her into the warm, calm her down. She’s been ill.’
Juggling the mail in her hand, sticking the umbrella under her arm, her face confused, Trish automatically returned his handshake, not really registering what he was saying. ‘This is my wife, Emily. Mary’s been staying with us.’
It took Cathy less than a second to make a decision.
‘There’s a restaurant around the corner. Why don’t we pop in there and get you a nice cup of tea?’
But the old lady wasn’t having any of it.
‘No. No. I’m not leaving. This is my home. I want to go inside. I’m not going –’
Her home?
The American, Tony Cox, interrupted Cathy’s thoughts. ‘Now Mary, a cup of tea’s exactly what you need, that sounds like a plan to me. And we can find out who’s living here now while we’re at it. It’s been a long time, it’s probably changed hands several times since you lived here.’
‘No, no it hasn’t. I live here.’ The words were out before Trish realised their implication.
‘You?’ The old lady’s face contorted. ‘You’re living in my house? Why? This is my house, my father’s house.’
‘I . . .’
One eye on Mary, on her increasing distress, Tony spoke again. ‘Could we go inside? I really think we need to get her out of the street. And it’s going to rain again any minute.’
Trish opened her mouth to speak, but it was Cathy’s turn to interrupt.
‘I’m afraid the house is sealed. There is no way you can go inside.’
‘Sealed?’ Tony looked at her like she was mad. Then, like the pieces were falling into place, he looked from the white Garda Technical Bureau van on the pavement to Cathy and back again, his brows creased. He opened his mouth, about to ask what was going on, she was sure, but he thought better of it. Just as well.
Damn it – Cathy felt frustration pricking at her – there was no way they could go inside the house. Even if she kept everyone together, stuck to Trish like flypaper, letting anyone inside could contaminate the scene, prejudice the final case when it came to court. The defence would chew them up and spit them out. But the old woman obviously knew Lavinia, knew Trish – had LIVED here. What if she knew something about the bones?
‘I think we should go and get that cup of tea.’ Cathy steered the old lady around. Dazed, she finally allowed herself to be moved. ‘She’s had a shock.’
She wasn’t the only one.
Cathy glanced behind her to see Trish following them like she was on autopilot, like the world had just stopped turning. It was time to get O’Rourke down here.
PART FOUR
Binding the Edges
Encasing the raw edges of a blanket or quilt with another piece of fabric. Binding also refers to the fabric itself that is folded and used to encase raw or fraying edges.
36
‘Hey, Cathy, what’s the craic?’ Only a step away from the gate of Oleander House, Cathy turned at the sound of her name. Thirsty was skipping down the steps of the house, a cigarette already between his teeth; he waved to her.
Thirsty. Someone must be smiling on her today . . .
‘I’m sorry, I won’t be a second.’ Cathy untangled herself from the old lady’s arm and slipped back inside the gate.
‘The old lady used to live here. She’s just found out about Lavinia. I want to talk to her, but I can’t take them all down to the station yet, she might have a coronary. And I can’t bring them into the house. I thought we could all get a cup of tea around the corner.’ Thirsty grimaced. She read his mind. ‘I know, it’s not ideal.’
Thirsty took a puff of his cigarette. ‘Want me to talk to the guys inside? You’ll get more out of her here than somewhere public, and you never know what she might say when she walks back inside the front door.’ He paused, exhaling the smoke. ‘They’ve pretty much finished at the front downstairs. Still have the kitchen and upstairs, but . . . let’s see what we can do.’
Not daring to look at him, Cathy worried at a loose piece of gravel with the toe of her boot, shaking her head, smiling to herself. Sometimes Thirsty was such a bloody gem. Cathy knew he watched her back, had heard on the grapevine that he’d sung her praises more than once to the Super in Dún Laoghaire, had, Cathy was sure, been the one who’d got her out of uniform and into the detective unit in the first place. He and John Lacey the Super went way back, had been stationed together in Ronanstown – bandit country – when they graduated, blood brothers. What had she done to deserve this? Cathy looked up, met his eye. He knew what she was thinking.
‘Reckon you could? If we can get her inside, spark some memories, she might let something slip.’
‘Consider it done. We’ll need the seal of approval from Lacey, but I’ll have a chat to him. Give me five minutes. I’ll call O’Rourke too, fill him in.’
Moments later, his fag stubbed out into an empty matchbox in his pocket, Thirsty was on his way back into the house, his mobile clamped to his ear.
Back on the pavement Tony Cox was getting restless, looked cold, was jangling his keys in the pocket of his jeans. Cathy threw him an apologetic grin.
‘Sorry about that. I think we might be OK to go inside. The scenes-of-crime team are just getting clearance. You’ll have to keep to the taped areas, but they’ve finished the drawing room. It’ll be more private.’
Before Tony could open his mouth, Emily stopped him. ‘Why don’t you go on? I can catch a cab with Mary later. I think we ought to let her see the house again if she can, and you don’t want to be late.’
Tony checked his watch. ‘OK, I’m sure Mary wants to see inside. Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Tony turned to Cathy expectantly. She realised she hadn’t introduced herself.
‘Detective Garda Cathy Connolly.’
He lifted his eyebrows, and turned back to Emily. ‘Perhaps the detective can help you get a cab when you’re done.’ Then, to Cathy, ‘We’re staying at the Shelbourne Hotel. I’m speaking at a conference . . . they’re expecting me.’
‘We’ll be fine, honestly.’ Emily threw him an encouraging smile. ‘You’d better get moving, the traffic’s terrible.’
‘Cat?’ Cathy heard Thirsty’s voice behind her. He was at the top of the steps, beckoning. ‘You’re grand. Permission granted. O’Rourke’s on his way.’
The smile on her face said it all.
‘Careful there, Mary, mind the mat. Perhaps I should be calling you Grace.’ Emily Cox held Mary’s arm, steadying her as she struggled up the steps and across the threshold. Trish, her face pale, was bringing up the rear, the umbrella passive at her side, mail stuffed under her arm.
‘Here, the sofa’s comfortable,’ Cathy said, guiding Mary and Emily into the drawing room. The old lady was looking around her like a child in a sweet shop, her eyes glazed, mouth open.
‘It’s a beautiful room.’ Emily helped Mary to sit, perching on the sofa beside her, looking around at the magnificent chandelier, the thick drapes.
Trish came in behind them, headed for the fireplace, flipping open a cigarette box on the mantelpiece, picking up her lighter. Watching her, Cathy sat down on the arm of the easy chair beside the fireplace.
‘Now, isn’t this cosy?’ Trish took a drag on the cigarette, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Glancing nervously from Cathy to Trish, Emily rubbed Mary’s arm. ‘Was this your house, Mary, I mean Grace? Is it the same as you remember it?’
Cathy shifted slightly to get more comfortable, thinking of Thirsty’s advice as he’d shown them in. Let them talk. He was right. Whatever was going on here, Trish was wound up like a spring. And she wasn’t the type to keep her thoughts to herself.
‘Where’s my painting? The one of the harbour, where is it?’
Startled, they all turned to Mary. The old lady’s voice was barely a croak but her face had flushed. She glared at Trish. ‘What have you done with my painting? Daddy gave me that painting for my birthday. It should be there, over the fireplace.’
Trish didn’t answer immediately, instead paused to pick something off her lip. A piece of tobacco? Then, offhand, like it was no big deal, said, ‘Lavinia gave it to Zoë. A house-warming present. She wanted something more modern in here.’
The picture now hanging over the fireplace was a wild scene of the sea, charcoal and pastel, impressionistic. Predominantly grey.
‘But it was my picture. She had no right.’
‘Did you live here when you were a little girl, Mary? Did your parents live here?’ Emily put her hand on Mary’s knee, her eyes alight with excitement. Mary frowned, like the memories were coming back in pieces. ‘My father. I don’t remember my mother.’
‘She died. Giving birth to you.’ Trish’s voice, cold and hard and matter-of-fact. Like it was Mary’s fault her mother had died. ‘I don’t think Lavinia ever forgave you for that.’
Even Cathy felt the sting of her words. Emily glanced at her, her eyes dark.
‘I’m sorry, are you a relative?’
Trish looked at her like
she was dirt on the floor. ‘A close family friend. Lavinia’s friend.’
‘But you live here?’
Before Trish could enlighten her, Mary turned on Emily. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me Lavinia was dead?’
‘I’m sorry, Mary, I didn’t know, honestly. Who was Lavinia, pet?’
‘My sister. She was my sister. You know who she was.’
Cathy drew in her breath, trying to hold on to the questions bubbling up inside her. She was Lavinia Grant’s sister, and there was no love lost between her and Trish, that was for sure . . . she must know something . . .
‘I don’t, Mary. I’m Emily from London, I don’t know Lavinia.’
‘Of course you do. She sent you, didn’t she? Sent you to find me. And why do you keep calling me Mary? I keep telling you, my name’s not Mary.’
Emily threw a concerned glance at Cathy, suddenly unsure whether this had been a good idea. ‘Because that’s what we thought your name was . . .’ Emily took it slowly. ‘Social Services found a letter in your pocket addressed to Mary. You told them you had to move out of the place you were living because it was being sold. You didn’t have any documents.’
Feeling the need to explain, Emily turned to Cathy. ‘We think she was in rented accommodation somewhere in London, then something happened. She was very confused. They found her a place in a residential unit. I’m an occupational therapist, I work for Tower Hamlets, the local authority.’
Cathy nodded but before she could comment, Trish had taken another drag on her cigarette, was stubbing it out in the lid of the box.
‘The Virgin Mary was it, Grace? Were you getting mixed up?’ Her tone was loaded with vitriol. Cathy felt a shock wave cross the room, but Trish wasn’t finished. ‘Did you spin them a story, Grace? Did you tell them that you were misunderstood, that you were a good little girl?’
Before Cathy had realised quite what was happening, Emily was on her feet, had crossed the room.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are, but how dare you speak to her like that? How dare you? Can’t you see how difficult this is for her? She hasn’t been well, she’s very confused.’