Little Bones

by Sam Blake

  ‘They owed me. The Grants owed me. I needed cash. In the end I had to move quicker than planned.’ Hierra’s face changed, going hard. As he spoke, Cathy could suddenly see how he could be capable of killing two people and frightening the wits out of Zoë Grant. Why the hell had she gone after him? Why hadn’t she just walked away? Something deep inside her flipped over. Under the desk she was very glad she could feel O’Rourke’s knee next to hers.

  ‘Why didn’t you take the painting the first time you broke into Zoë Grant’s property?’

  Hierra looked mystified for a moment. ‘The first time?’

  ‘Zoë Grant’s house was broken into the day Lavinia Grant was found dead. Zoë’s bedroom was ransacked.’

  ‘So?’ Hierra shook his head, folded his arms. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Perhaps you can explain then exactly how you knew Zoë had the painting, that it was an original. Are you an art critic?’ O’Rourke raised his eyebrows, enunciating his point. They had no evidence that Hierra had been present the first time, but if they were lucky . . .

  ‘There was an article in Vanity Fair about Lavinia Grant opening up a store in New York, all about Zoë and her mother disappearing. My father kept it. The painting was in one of the photos. Guy who wrote the article kept going on about it.’

  ‘Angel, we aren’t stupid. The only way you could have known that Zoë, specifically, was in possession of that painting was if you saw it in her house.’

  Hierra shrugged and rolled his eyes. ‘You can see it from the front window.’

  ‘Half of it. If you’re standing in the flower bed,’ Cathy chimed in. ‘The only way to identify it is as an original is to see it close up.’

  O’Rourke glanced at his watch. ‘I think you’re wasting our time, Angel. I don’t think you have any connection to the Grants. I think you read Lavinia Grant’s obituary in the paper and thought you’d have a crack at Zoë while she was weak and vulnerable.’ O’Rourke moved to stand up like he was finished, like Hierra had nothing to tell him worth hearing.

  ‘Wait.’ Hierra’s response was fast. ‘If I can help you, what can you do for me with the Feds? I can’t go back to the States. I’m a dead man if I go back.’

  O’Rourke coolly shuffled his papers together. Cathy could almost hear him thinking – Hierra was spinning them a line, had to be. But Hierra’s next statement stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘I can help you with the bones. Zoë’s neighbour said you found bones. It was a baby boy, wasn’t it?’

  42

  Steve Maguire had just sat down at his desk with a fresh cup of coffee when his mobile rang. He’d only been in the office ten minutes, had a lot of catching up to do before he headed over to the gallery to meet Zoë. Focusing on the document open on his laptop, he was only half-listening as he answered.

  ‘Maxie boy, how’s it going?’

  ‘We’ve got a problem.’ It was the urgency in Max’s voice rather than the words themselves that made him put his cup down with a crack. ‘That Trish O’Sullivan came to see Zoë – I don’t know what she said to her, but Zoë’s hysterical.’

  ‘Jesus. Where is she now?’ Standing up abruptly, sending his chair rolling back into the specimen Swiss cheese plant his mum had given him as a house-warming present, Steve was heading to the front door before Max had a chance to reply.

  ‘Here in my office. She’s been vomiting, but now she’s just catatonic. Do you know who her doctor is?’

  Weaving through the traffic coagulating on the main arterial road heading into the city, every spit of rain hitting his face like a needle, Steve could feel the adrenalin pumping around his body, mixed with a potent blend of fear and guilt, his stomach twisting. He bet he knew exactly what Trish had said to Zoë. It had to be about her mother. The bitch. Ahead of him the lights changed to amber, the stream of traffic continuing like they were still green.

  Almost there. Shite. SHITE. Why the hell had she decided to tell Zoë now, right before her big night? Jesus, he knew she was dangerous, but . . . Jesus.

  Barrelling in through the door of the gallery, ignoring the pink-haired receptionist, Steve didn’t bother to try and get his bike up the stairs, instead threw it down in the middle of the floor and headed up, taking them two at a time, leaving the door banging behind him.

  ‘Where is she?’

  Hardly able to speak, his breath coming in short bursts, Steve burst into the office, looking around wildly. Max was on the phone at his desk, pointed towards the sofa.

  Zoë was curled up into a tight ball in the corner, foetus-like, her face buried in her arms, her knees pulled to her chest. Someone had taken off her boots, put a glass of water on the low table beside the arm of the chair.

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s great, soon as you can.’ Max hung up.

  ‘Doc’s on her way. She’s an ex, works with an on-call service. I think y’one needs a sedative.’ He nodded in Zoë’s direction.

  Slipping in beside Zoë, Steve pulled her into his shoulder, rocking her. She moaned as she felt his arms around her, nestled into him. Steve’s eyes met Max’s over her head.

  ‘You’ve got to give that Trish marks for timing.’ Max’s face was pale, he was chewing his thumbnail. Having his star collapse right before her opening night wasn’t part of the plan. And the opening of an exhibition like this wasn’t the type of thing you could postpone. They’d pulled out all the stops to get the international press on board, had spent a fortune on advertising and the timing was perfect to pick up the Christmas spend. You only got this sort of chance once.

  ‘Zoë, are you OK, love? What happened? What did she say?’

  Steve felt some of the tension leave her at the sound of his voice, felt Zoë mould into his side.

  ‘My mother. Trish told me what happened to my mother.’ It wasn’t much more than a whisper.

  Jesus, he knew it. What should he say? Did he ask her to tell him what Trish had said? Pretend he didn’t know? Would repeating it be cathartic, or make her live through the shock all over again?

  Steve didn’t have a lot of choice.

  ‘What did she say? Tell me, love.’

  Zoë made a noise that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, a wail, like an animal wounded, dying. Then she sobbed again and again, trying to catch her breath to speak. Finally she did.

  ‘Trish said she was dead. She’s known all this time.’ Zoë pulled away to look at him, but her eyes were unfocused. Steve smoothed a tear from her cheek. Her face was blotchy, eyes and nose red. A moment later the distant look went and she was back. Back with a whole heap of information she didn’t need right now.

  ‘Trish said . . . she said I found her . . .’ The wail came again as Zoë clung to him, hid her face in his shoulder. ‘I found her . . . I didn’t know. But when she said it, it all came back. I remember now . . . I remember.’ Zoë gulped back the sobs. ‘She was in the water . . . in the water.’

  In the water. It all clicked in Steve’s head. The paintings, her morbid fascination with the sea, with water. No wonder she was terrified of it. And Cathy had been right about the drowning, about it happening in the house. But Zoë finding her? She must have been a child. Steve’s mind clicked again. Zoë must have been three or four. Zoë Grant had been three years old and she’d found her mother dead in the bath. No wonder she’d suppressed the memory. She’d hardly had grief counselling at the time, was probably lucky if she even got a cuddle from either of those two witches.

  The sound of heels skipping up the wooden stairs was loud even over Zoë’s breathy sobs, her body vibrating with each one. Steve looked up sharply.

  ‘Sally, am I glad to see you. Thanks for coming so fast.’

  A statuesque blonde rounded the top of the stairs, a briefcase in her hand. Shaking raindrops from her cropped hair, she threw Max a grin. ‘Long time since I’ve heard that from you, Max Igoe. Where’s the patient?’

  Max couldn’t hide the reli
ef on his face, came out from behind his desk, pointed to the sofa.

  ‘This is Sally – Sally, Steve Maguire. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be downstairs.’

  ‘Great.’ Unbelting her raincoat, Sally’s eyes met Max’s as he hovered for a moment at the door to the stairs.

  ‘She’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

  ‘Thanks. Thanks, Sas, I owe you one.’

  Slipping her coat off, Sally laid her briefcase gently on the floor beside the sofa, bobbed down on her haunches to get a look at Zoë, unbuttoning her tweed jacket. It was soft green, out of place somehow with their denims and the bright white walls of the studio. She was wearing a cream silk shirt that set off a pair of huge brown eyes, high-heeled boots and brown jeans. Just Max’s type. Brainy and good-looking.

  Brainy enough to be reading his mind. She flicked a grin at Steve like she could see inside his head. He could feel a flush rising, but she had already turned away, speaking directly to Zoë.

  ‘My name’s Sally, I’m a doctor. Max says you’ve had a bit of a shock. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions and we’ll see if we can’t make you feel a bit better?’

  No movement. It was as if Zoë hadn’t heard her. She still had her knees drawn up on the sofa, her face hidden by the crook of her arm and her hair, her hand tucked in behind Steve’s shoulder. Like a bird with a broken wing.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  Sally’s voice was so low, Steve almost missed the question.

  ‘Zoë, Zoë Grant. I’m Steve Maguire, her . . . boyfriend.’ It was a split-second pause but Steve was sure Sally picked it up. Doctors were trained to read all the signals. He continued hastily, ‘I’m a pal of Max’s. They’re Zoë’s pictures downstairs.’

  Sally nodded. ‘They’re fabulous . . . Zoë?’ She raised her voice a notch. ‘Zoë, I need you to answer some questions. I know you’ve had a shock, love, but I just need you to talk to me for a few moments.’

  ‘Will I . . .’ Steve moved fractionally, suddenly realising that Sally might want him to go. But Zoë grabbed him, unfolding, her face appearing from behind her arm.

  ‘No, stay. I need you to stay.’

  ‘That’s fine, Zoë, he can stay. Don’t worry.’

  Sally reached for her briefcase, clicking open the catches. ‘Before I give you anything I need to get some basic information, check your pulse and blood pressure. Is that OK?’

  Zoë sniffed, nodding. Gathering her to him, Steve slipped his arm around her shoulders, steered her to face the doctor.

  The first few questions were standard: full name, address, date of birth. Still crouching, Sally jotted them down into a pad on her knee.

  ‘Whew, I’m getting stiff. Mind if I grab a chair?’

  Standing up, she headed for Max’s desk, pulled over the chair opposite it.

  ‘She’s nice, isn’t she?’ Steve whispered into Zoë’s ear, kissing the side of her head, smoothing her hair away from his face. Zoë managed a small smile, a sigh, ragged but without a sob. Steve felt himself relax, realised he’d been so tense his back was aching.

  ‘Must be the weather, I’m like an old crock.’ Squaring the chair off next to the sofa, Sally sat down, pad on her knee, bent down to pull her case towards her. ‘Nearly there now.’

  Sliding up the sleeve of Zoë’s blouse, slipping the blood pressure cuff around her upper arm, Sally smiled. ‘There, that’s not too bad is it?’

  Zoë shook her head, not meeting Sally’s eye but definitely calmer.

  ‘Blood pressure’s grand.’ Sally pulled off the Velcro, the ripping sound making them both jump. Bundling the cuff into her case, she picked up her pen.

  ‘Now any allergies? Penicillin, that sort of thing?’

  Zoë shook her head.

  ‘And are you taking any sort of medication?’

  Again the shake. Sally’s eyebrows twitched for a second. ‘Nothing at all?’

  Zoë shook her head.

  ‘I’m thinking of paracetamol for a headache, the pill, even iron tablets, anything like that?’

  The shake was definite.

  The pill? The words roared through Steve’s head like white water. She wasn’t on the pill. SHITE. DOUBLE SHITE. Why the hell was he finding that out now? How stupid was he? Steve felt his mouth dry, sweat breaking out down his back. He could see the next question coming like a steamship heading for an iceberg, its horn howling fit to burst.

  ‘And is there any chance you could be pregnant?’

  ‘I . . . I . . . no . . . I don’t know . . .’ Finally Zoë spoke, her voice tiny, raw with emotion. But the doctor had seen the look on Steve’s face, watched him pale until his only colour was two bright circles in the middle of his cheeks.

  ‘I need to be sure before I prescribe anything. Do you think we ought to do a test?’

  Her eyes flicked to Steve.

  ‘Zoë, you better do a test. It only takes a minute.’ Like he was an expert. Steve unwrapped his arm from behind her, turning to face her. Why didn’t you tell me? He felt like shouting it, but now wasn’t the time, she had enough on her plate . . . ‘It’s really easy . . .’

  Sally was already rooting in her case.

  43

  ‘Bones?’ O’Rourke looked puzzled. ‘Now what would you know about that, Angel?’ O’Rourke laid his papers down on the interview-room table and looked straight at Hierra, a direct challenge.

  ‘There’s no way I can go back to the States. You have to guarantee you’ll look after me. They’ll kill me if I go back.’

  Cathy could feel O’Rourke’s tail twitching, like a cat watching a mouse, assessing the kill.

  ‘We need to know if there’s something to play for. What do you know about the Grants?’

  Hierra shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I know there was a baby boy. I know it died. I know how it died.’

  Jesus. How the feck did he know that? Cathy forced herself to look blank, not to react, didn’t dare take a look at O’Rourke but she knew him well enough to know that the hairs were standing up on the back of his neck, just like they were on hers.

  Apparently unruffled, O’Rourke switched gear. ‘Who will kill you? You needed the cash, the painting, was it to settle a debt?’ Hierra nodded. O’Rourke paused for a beat. ‘So who do you owe?’

  Cathy could almost feel the cogs turning inside O’Rourke’s head as Hierra’s eyes darted between them, weighing up his hand.

  ‘Guy called Kuteli. His operation runs the big games out there, in Vegas. Runs everything. You don’t mess with him.’

  ‘So why did you?’

  Hierra shrugged like he was exhausted, worn out with it all. ‘The first time? There was a big game. I’d had a bad streak, reckoned I could turn my luck around. And it was a dead cert, I paid them back no problem. Then one of their guys gave me a tip-off about a private game – high stakes – said he’d do me a favour and talk to the boss about getting me in, loan me the stake.’ Hierra grinned ruefully half to himself, shaking his head sadly. ‘I was broke, thought it would be an easy play – but the game went wrong. Thought I’d square it with the next game, bigger stake, but it didn’t happen.’ The shrug again, the hesitation. ‘Then I found out about Lavinia Grant. It was time to get out. I thought I could get enough cash to set myself up somewhere else. I’d nothing to keep me in Vegas.’ A sigh caught in his throat. ‘They were really breathing down my neck.’

  ‘I’m surprised they let you out of the country.’

  It sounded like a fairy story. Cathy could hear it in O’Rourke’s voice. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him studying Hierra, looking for the tell. Most people had a habit that came out when they were lying – a twitch or the compulsion to scratch their ear, a small unconscious action that put what they were really thinking up in lights. Hierra hadn’t moved. But then he was a card player, had either mastered his poker face at the tables or was a born liar. And Cathy knew which she’d go for.

  Hierra’s pause was heavy, l
oaded, the whir of the DVD suddenly loud, punctuated by the dull sound of O’Rourke’s pen tapping on the page of notes in front of him. Hierra cleared his throat.

  ‘They didn’t let me go. Thought I’d given them the slip but they found me all right. Tracking device in my watch. Sent two stooges to make sure I delivered.’ He paused. ‘I had to tell them the whole story, convince them I was here to help Kuteli expand. It was all going great until Lavinia Grant croaked. I was going to wait for the cash but Kuteli’s guys were getting restless. I thought I could use the painting as a sweetener while I worked out what to do.’

  O’Rourke nodded slowly. ‘This Kuteli must think you’re valuable to send two guys halfway around the world after you.’

  Hierra shrugged again. ‘I know how he works, who his key people are.’

  O’Rourke nodded, accepting the answer. ‘So why didn’t you take the painting the first time? Wasn’t that why you broke in?’

  ‘No.’ A stubborn look flashed across Hierra’s face, but it was fleeting. He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t planning to stick around long enough to sell it – I don’t have the contacts out here. I broke into Zoë Grant’s place to give Lavinia Grant a bit of a scare. And I reckoned Zoë would have keys to her grandmother’s place. I’d heard she’d told everyone my father was dead, reckoned if I showed up again she’d have a bit of explaining to do, would see me straight. But she might have slammed the door in my face. I needed to show her I meant business.’

  Had Lavinia Grant known who he was? Had he called in and frightened the life out of her? After all these years, hearing Hierra’s story, Lavinia Grant would probably have had a heart attack. The thought was through Cathy’s head before she realised it. She took a glance at O’Rourke. She was sure he was thinking the same thing.

  ‘I’m getting the picture.’ O’Rourke sat back, his elbow over the back of his chair. For the first time since they had come in, he looked relaxed, taking control.