Too Close For Comfort

by Niamh O'Connor

  Liz gasped. She clicked down to the details but didn’t recognize the number. She dialled it without hesitation.

  It answered after one ring, ‘About time,’ a man’s voice growled.

  Liz didn’t answer. She barely breathed. She wanted to say, ‘Who are you?’ and ‘What the hell is going on?’ But the words wouldn’t come out. And something else was making her heart stall. The voice was familiar.

  ‘Derek, stop mucking about, where are you?’ the man raged. ‘I want to negotiate terms.’

  Liz’s hand moved to cover her mouth as the raspy Dublin accent had the exact same effect on her as in the car wash earlier. It was George the clamper on the other end of the line. Maybe by ‘negotiate terms’ he meant the sale of her car, but why hadn’t Derek told her they’d discussed it? And what had George meant when he’d told Derek the game was up in the text? Why all the aggro, calling Derek a horrible name? She hung up quickly, and clicked open the second text sent by ‘Mervyn’ – the name of Derek’s boss – scanning it: ‘You’re a dead man walking.’

  Liz stared, horrified. She held the phone away from herself like it was a bomb about to go off. What the hell was going on? What had Derek got involved in? Who had he brought into their lives?

  She gave a start as the phone rang. George was trying to ring back. She didn’t answer and waited a minute after it had rung out before dialling 171 to get into Derek’s voicemail, to see if he’d left a message

  Derek had three messages, the robotic voice announced. Liz listened aghast as the first began to replay. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with,’ George snarled.

  The next message was her own: she’d rung on the way to the hospital to say she coming, asking if he was all right and explaining that she’d heard he’d been hurt. Her eyes filled as she heard herself promise him that everything would be OK.

  The final one had been left on Friday at 10.35 p.m., and Liz listened to a woman’s voice: ‘Fuck you. You’re just like all the rest. No man is going to bully me any more. I’m going to spill the beans.’ Liz was in no doubt who that was, either. Even if she hadn’t scrolled through Derek’s contacts and managed to match the number listed there for Amanda Wells to the missed call in Derek’s caller log on Friday night, she’d have known. The sound of Amanda’s plummy vowels were also etched deep in her recent memory, making her feel about one inch high.

  Liz shivered. She thought about Friday, and what she had seen and heard in Amanda’s office, and how bad it all looked from where she was standing for Derek, whom just this morning she’d still loved. She thought about what could happen if people who didn’t care about her husband started putting two and two together and deciding Amanda’s killer was in their midst. She thought about her son, and how his life would change irrevocably if his father became the prime suspect for a woman’s murder all over again.

  Swallowing, she dialled back into Derek’s voicemail and pressed ‘5’ to erase the messages one by one. Next, she went through the texts, deleting them quickly. What option did she have? She’d been gullible, naïve, and stupid. But if he was found out, she’d be hounded, like Maxine Carr, the girlfriend of Ian Huntley who’d killed those two girls in England, and been presumed guilty by association. She’d have to go into hiding for Conor’s sake.

  She took a few deep breaths, but the airless overheated stink of carburettor fumes being pumped back into the bus through the air con only made her feel worse. Her head was racing. What if the gardaí started that slow drip of information to the press, the way they had last time, so the pressure to get Derek before the courts resulted in his arrest? If that happened, their lives as they knew them would be over. She could forget about setting Conor’s adult life up for good. She hated herself for thinking it, but she couldn’t stop: if he’d died in the crash that morning, it would have been a solution of sorts …

  A nudge to her ribs made her turn and glare at the man sitting too close to her on the seat. He was elderly, but dressed in a smart suit, with a razor-sharp crew cut of snow-white hair, and a set of false teeth too big and too white for his mouth. Liz had tried to inch sideways a couple of times, but the friction of her shiny Supersavers pinafore against his suit had made such a loud squeak that she’d stopped. She wouldn’t have minded, but he was as skinny as a rake. There was plenty of room on his side.

  Catching her eye, he indicated the inspector standing beside them.

  ‘Ticket,’ the inspector barked, in a way that meant he’d asked at least once already. Liz fumbled through all her pockets, then all over again, before spotting her ticket on the floor beside the man’s feet. She tried to lean down to pick it up, but couldn’t reach at the angle. He retrieved it for her and handed it over. The inspector punched a hole in it and gave it back.

  ‘You ask me, it’s a disgrace they keep putting the cost of fares up when nobody has a shilling,’ the man said as the inspector moved off. He had a Limerick accent and a briefcase on his lap.

  Liz turned her head to stare out the window. They were at the Bewley’s clock at Newland’s Cross. It was 2 p.m., and the traffic was heavy – HGVs were tailgating across two lanes, the air outside was thick with exhaust fumes. She wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. She had enough problems of her own. She wanted to be left alone so she could think.

  ‘Do you agree?’ he asked out of the blue.

  Liz glanced sideways. The man had a deep tan and cold eyes.

  ‘That the cost of living has gone through the roof. You got children?’

  ‘Just the one,’ Liz mumbled. She checked her own phone. Still no calls, texts or emails from Derek.

  ‘Let me guess – a boy, right?’ the man said.

  Liz pretended not to have heard, straining to look out the window. Why did she always have to end up beside the nut jobs when she took public transport?

  ‘What age? Let me guess – twelve, right? Conor, isn’t it?’

  Liz turned slowly. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘Drink, drugs, unprotected sex, it’s a jungle out there when you’re young and innocent and have no father-figure to protect you. Anyone can get to you anytime.’ He pulled a couple of schoolbooks from his bag.

  Liz gasped. She recognized Conor’s handwriting on the front. She snatched them off him, and then stood and tried to get past. The bus was crowded, but the word ‘Help’ wouldn’t come out. The man’s legs didn’t move an inch to let her by. His bony hand did, though. It reached out and gripped her wrist.

  ‘Then there’s the worry that a kid will take it all too seriously, do themselves an injury. Tell Derek to stick to the agreement if he knows what’s good for him. Got that?’

  She nodded rapidly, felt faint and sat down. He stood and made his way to the front of the bus – which was pulling up outside Derek’s factory – before stepping off. Liz’s head was spinning. She stood and frantically pressed the red bell button to stop the driver moving. Gripping the seats and bars to steady herself, she hurried out the folding bus doors.

  16

  LIZ TAILED THE man at a distance, never letting him out of her sight. She watched in disbelief as he walked into Mervyn’s Meats. He worked with Derek! How had he got his hands on Conor’s books? What had Derek done? What had the man in mind for their son? Who was Derek messing with? What agreement? If it turned out Derek had put their son at risk, Liz would kill him herself with her own two hands. Nobody was going to hurt Conor as long as she still had a breath left in her body.

  Hooking her fingers in the wire fencing, she took in the dreary, windowless plant, built in the shape of a chimney stack. The patchy, uneven grass verges were in need of tending. The sign above reception was in the same orange italic bubble font as on the wage slips and company newsletters that came home every month.

  Spotting a familiar face on duty in the security hut, she hurried over. Tom was a former plasterer who’d worked for Derek’s building company before it had folded. His pension had been wiped out in the global meltdown. Derek had managed to
secure this job for him operating the lever that let the jeeps pulling animal carriers in and out.

  Tom tipped the peak of his cap back at a tilt when he saw her, walking out to meet her. He didn’t look pleased, or surprised, Liz noted. He looked worried.

  ‘What can I do for you, Liz?’ he asked, checking the entrance to the building over his shoulder.

  ‘Who was that man who just went in, Tom? The oldish one in a suit, with white hair and the over-sized false teeth?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone go in,’ he answered.

  ‘You couldn’t have missed him. It’s not five minutes ago. He’s skinny as a rake and has horrible, mean eyes.’

  Tom shook his head like he hadn’t a clue.

  ‘Is Derek in there?’ Liz asked, not trying to hide her impatience. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d invited Tom over for dinner, feeling sorry for him at home on his own. And after everything Derek had done for Tom, he could have been a little bit more helpful.

  ‘Derek? No. Why?’ Tom asked.

  It was clear from his rigid expression that he was trying to decide politely how to tell her to move off.

  Liz tried to explain about Derek’s crash.

  Tom didn’t seem in the least bit surprised or bothered. He was starting to really piss her off. She looked beyond him into the hut at the wall-to-wall posters of bare-breasted women – their arms stretched behind their heads – tacked to the slatted wooden walls. Liz shivered. Her stomach lurched. An open-bar electric heater was drying up the air. Tom’s sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil were on a corner of a desk in there, beside a flask, and smelled of bacon. She felt sick again. She’d thought he was a sweet little old man. She’d invited him into her home. How well did anyone know anyone? she wondered. She took a deep breath of fresh air.

  ‘I got to get back to work, Liz. I really got to get back to it now, you know.’

  ‘I’m going, but if Derek stops by, maybe you could give me a ring.’ Liz scribbled her number on the top sheet of his clipboard.

  ‘Why would he stop by here?’ Tom asked. There was a real edge to his tone. ‘He was fired two weeks ago. If he shows up here again, he’s a dead man.’

  There was that horrible phrase again. What the hell had Derek done?

  17

  THE MOBILE-PHONE ANALYSIS on Amanda Wells’s number was back by the time Jo and Sexton got to Store Street, and Foxy took her through it in her office as Sexton kept Alfie Taylor at bay in the bustling incident room outside. It was clear from the heated conversation she’d picked up walking across the unit that as far as Alfie was concerned he was the only chief superintendent heading up the case, and he was furious Derek Carpenter hadn’t been arrested yet. She could tell by the way Alfie was gesticulating on the far side of the glass that he was also now hopping mad that she’d set up the incident room in the city centre, rather than in the burbs where he was based.

  Foxy pointed at a line of type on a sheet of green and white striped computer paper. ‘The mobile number you got for Derek was bouncing off the same masts as Amanda’s late on Friday night. It looks like Derek was the mystery man with her in the restaurant.’

  Jo leaned on her palms to scan the information on the printout. She pointed to Amanda’s last call at 10.35 p.m. to Derek’s number. ‘If they were together, why would she need to ring him?’

  ‘Well, the restaurant manager said Amanda stormed out after a row. Maybe Derek rang to apologize, or to find out where she’d gone.’

  Jo wasn’t convinced. ‘Nobody calms down in five minutes. Is Derek’s number listed in Amanda’s phone as a contact?’

  Foxy nodded. ‘Yes, but not by his name, Amanda had saved his details under a number – twenty-nine.’

  ‘That’s the number of his house,’ Jo said. ‘Any other contact between them?’

  ‘Lots from him to her on the Friday, in which he demanded she pay him what he was owed. There’s only one message from her to him, left at 10.35 p.m. that night. In it, she said she was going to “spill the beans”.’

  ‘Shit,’ Jo said, holding her hair off her face and looking out into the detective unit.

  Sexton was sidestepping Alfie in both directions to block his path, and looked set to rugby tackle him.

  ‘Alfie also found out Derek recently took out a hefty life-insurance policy on his wife,’ Foxy explained.

  ‘His wife, or the whole family?’ Jo asked.

  ‘The whole family,’ Foxy admitted.

  ‘So maybe he was being sensible, or maybe he was feeling under threat,’ Jo said crossly.

  ‘He also came into an unexplained six-figure sum. Perhaps he was blackmailing Amanda over something.’

  Jo bent down and took the cactus out of the cardboard box and placed it back on her desk. ‘What about Amanda’s account? Did the equivalent amount go missing?’

  Foxy shook his head. ‘No. If anything she was broke, and lonely.’

  ‘Lonely?’

  ‘Why else would she do so much online networking? She actually tweeted when she arrived at, and was leaving, the restaurant …’ He rustled through the folding sheets to find the one he wanted, ‘“Men are all pigs. I can confirm.” I asked Sue to contact the people she communicated that to, and they didn’t know her at all, other than online.’

  ‘Social networking is an oxymoron,’ Jo remarked.

  Aishling stuck her head around the door. ‘We’ve found the Beamer.’

  Jo gave a victory clench, and waved her in quickly.

  Aishling entered, and Jo shut the door behind her as she handed over a brown cardboard document. ‘We also found this.’

  Jo shot her a quizzical look and then studied it.

  ‘Amanda’s car was in a multi-storey in Temple Bar,’ Aishling explained. ‘These were inside it: deeds, for a couple in Nuns Cross. I know that Amanda was the local solicitor, so it’s not unusual that she’d have them, but it’s mad that they’re just in her car and not in a bank safety-deposit box. Without them, those homeowners have nothing to show for their mortgages.’

  ‘What were their names?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Frieda and Charles McLoughlin. I checked, and Amanda did handle the sale of their house for them, so it’s not unusual that she’d have the deeds, it’s just weird where she left them.’

  Jo turned to Foxy. ‘Were the McLoughlins listed in her contacts?’

  He rummaged out a sheet of paper and ran his finger down a list. He shook his head.

  ‘Does she have a contact listed as “thirty-one”?’ Jo asked, glancing at the deeds.

  He looked up, surprised. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ring it later from the landline and see if it’s them. Any other numbers there?’ Jo asked.

  Foxy nodded and counted under his breath. ‘Lots.’

  ‘Get me a list of them and find out if they correspond to owners in Nuns Cross, too.’

  ‘OK,’ he replied.

  ‘Aishling,’ Jo said, ‘can you see if you can track down the shoe that belonged to Ellen Lamb years back? It’ll be in storage somewhere. When you locate it, we need it tested for mitochondrial DNA. I’ll organize a sample from Derek Carpenter when I call to his house.’

  Aishling nodded, and ducked back out, holding the door for Joan to slip in. As a result, Jo managed to overhear part of Alfie’s animated argument with Sexton. He was saying, ‘What she needs to do is park her career and go home and look after her children.’

  Alfie reacted to Sexton looking over his shoulder, appalled, to check if Jo had heard that one, by turning and trying to get Jo’s attention himself, but Jo ignored him. Alfie went back to jabbing a finger at Sexton.

  Jo skimmed through the questionnaire Joan was handing her for approval, which she’d wanted to see before dispatching anyone to knock the doors in Nuns Cross. She said, ‘Yep, yep, yep, and scratch that one.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that one?’ Joan said, over her shoulder.

  ‘It’s enough to ask the neighbours if they saw anyone acting suspiciously,’ Jo e
xplained. ‘You don’t have to ask if they’ve seen anyone they recognize acting that way. It’s going to make them think they don’t have to mention seeing strangers, and it’s pointing the finger at Derek.’

  She turned to Foxy. ‘I want to hear that Friday-night phone message Amanda left for Derek about “spilling the beans”. Her tone will tell a lot. Maybe it was a private joke.’

  Foxy made a face. ‘Not with the opening words, “Fuck you.” There’s no way it was a joke.’ He moved to her landline, glanced from the printout, where he’d circled Derek’s number, to the phone, and put Jo’s phone on speakerphone. He entered Derek’s number, placing a five before the service provider’s code. He pressed hash and the factory default PIN of four zeros to get into Derek’s messages.

  ‘You have no messages,’ a voice said.

  ‘He’s wiped it,’ Foxy reacted.

  ‘Did you transcribe it?’

  ‘Yeah. Alfie’s got it. He thought that it might have been a reference to their affair.’

  ‘Now they’re having an affair? We haven’t established it was definitely him in the restaurant yet.’

  ‘He fits the description. Oh, and he was in a single-vehicle crash today,’ Foxy pointed out. ‘A matron called Sheila Franklin in St Vincent’s Hospital assessed him, and thought he seemed depressed.’

  ‘What about his car?’ Jo asked.

  ‘It was a write-off, has gone to the scrapyard. Come to think of it, that’s one way to get rid of a car, isn’t it? I’ll organize having it collected, and get forensics to comb it.’

  Jo went back to the printout. ‘What time exactly did Derek’s phone ping in Temple Bar?’

  ‘At nine in the evening. It was back in Nuns Cross by ten.’

  Jo walked a biro through her fingers. ‘But Amanda stormed out of the restaurant at half ten. This should be enough to let Derek off the hook.

  ‘Alfie thinks it’s possible he dropped the phone to cover his tracks.’

  Jo sighed. ‘He would. So why leave Amanda’s with her? Come on! I take it Derek’s didn’t ping in the Dublin mountains?’