Stone Heart

by Des Ekin

  And yet. And yet he had appeared genuinely sympathetic, genuinely eager to help.

  Part of the act, you moron, she told herself. Part of a smooth, polished, perfected stage routine which helped him win awards for his professional skills. What had Melanie’s friend Carla said about Andres?

  ‘As soon as he gets close to anyone, he jets off to the other side of the world and leaves her in the lurch.’

  Grow up, Tara. Time to stop being so trusting.

  You don’t need him. You don’t need anybody.

  She finished her coffee and reread the note. Stay here? Stay in this luxurious flat while Fergal was still under suspicion? While a genuinely decent man was still being followed and hunted around County Clare by police who had yet to be convinced of his innocence?

  She’d rather go for sculpting lessons with Michael de Blaca.

  The phone rang when she was in the bathroom. Tara dashed out, practically at a sprint, but the answering machine cut in before she could lift the receiver.

  She stood for a while, wondering whether she should interrupt the process, and eventually decided she shouldn’t. But as she was about to step into the shower, she had second thoughts. What if the caller had been Andres himself? Phoning her to explain his mysterious actions and leave a new contact number?

  Wrapping a towel around herself, she returned to the sitting room and rewound the cassette on the answer-phone. But when she played it, the tape began with an even earlier message. It had been logged the previous evening, as they’d been flying back from Paris.

  ‘Andres? It’s me.’ A deep male voice, middle-aged, American but with a heavy foreign accent, possibly French. ‘It’s…uh…three-fifteen in the afternoon our time. Just to let you know I made the connection. I got the person you want. If you’re still interested, book a flight and meet me at the airport tomorrow night, say eight, eight-thirty our time. Oh, and bring the cash, Andres. Otherwise, no deal.’

  Tara hardly listened to the most recent message, a brief call from a garage to tell Andres that his BMW was ready for collection. The first call had left her stunned. Up until now, she’d been simply hurt and annoyed that Andres had let her down. But this message, which had obviously prompted his unexpected dash abroad, provoked thoughts that were much more disturbing.

  What if Steve and O’Rourke had been justified in their concern about Andres’s mysterious meetings with Villiers and the Limerick cannabis distributor?

  ‘I made the connection…bring the cash, otherwise no deal.’

  The mystery caller.

  ‘I have to go abroad on a matter of great urgency.’

  Andres.

  Tara walked slowly back to the bathroom. She set the shower to maximum pressure, and focused the jet of water directly on her forehead, almost as though she could use it as a riot hose to chase the most frightening images out of her mind.

  She finished her shower and dried herself off. Her heart had stopped beating so fast; she was beginning to calm down and think more logically. She had been making wild assumptions, she told herself. Jumping to crazy conclusions. There must be a rational explanation for all this.

  Damn.

  She’d dropped one of her earrings into the wastebin under the bathroom sink.

  She knelt down beside it and began to rummage. Of course, the tiny earring had worked its way right through the rubbish to the very bottom. The bin hadn’t been emptied for a while. She had to sift through the usual bathroom detritus to find it. There were empty shampoo bottles, tissues, disposable razors and…

  She froze, transfixed by what she saw in the heart of the debris. There were five of them, altogether. She recognised them instantly. She’d done enough stories about them. Opaque plastic cylinders that had been used once and then discarded.

  Hypodermic needles.

  The little Fiat was waiting for her like an eager puppy. Well, no, it wasn’t, it was waiting for her like a heap of rusted Italian metal, but Tara had always given personalities to cars and probably would go right on doing it for the rest of her life.

  She put her overnight bag into the boot and mentally rehearsed the route home. Skirt the south city from east to west, then hit the motorway in the direction of Galway. Finally take that atrocious, winding, potholed road that led to the coast of northwest Clare, to Claremoon Harbour, and to what used to be home.

  Tara paused for just a moment to take a deep breath of the sharp, cool air before flinging her handbag on to the passenger seat. It hit something hard and metallic: her mobile phone. She cursed her own stupidity. Had she really been daft enough to leave it there as an open invitation to any passing thief?

  As she started the engine and drove slowly out of the car park, she lifted the phone and automatically punched the code that would replay her own taped messages.

  The first one was an outdated message from a radio researcher who wanted to interview her about the Clare-moon Harbour killing, for a programme that would have gone out yesterday.

  The second one was a request for an interview from a famous magazine editor.

  The third message was from a woman with a strong French accent who said she was from Paris Match.

  The fourth said: ‘Tara, it’s Melanie here. Where are you, girl? We’re all getting a bit concerned. Listen, please don’t worry, pet, but your father’s been taken ill. The doctors think it may be some sort of stroke. All the stress, I suppose. But they think he might be okay. He’s out of hospital now and I’ve taken a couple of days off to stay with him and help out. I’m at his house in Claremoon Harbour. Give me a ring as soon as you can.’

  Tara swung the car off the road and parked in a tiny lay-by overhung by a huge copper beech. Her fingers shook uncontrollably as she tried to punch the keys on the mobile phone. It was her father’s phone number, as familiar as spelling her own name, but she still made three mistakes before getting it right. It rang and rang. It seemed to ring forever. Then, finally:

  ‘Hello…?’

  Melanie’s voice, but not her usual voice. Uncertain, apprehensive, even fearful.

  ‘Hello, Mel. I just got your message. This is terrible. How is he?’

  ‘Tara! Thank God it’s you.’ Her relief was obvious. ‘He’s doing well. Don’t worry. It’s okay. He’s out of danger and he’s recovering. They kept him in hospital for only a couple of nights and then discharged him to the care of his GP and a visiting nurse. Lots of rest and he’ll be fine, they say.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him? Was it really a stroke?’ She was worried sick.

  ‘They thought that at first, but now they’re not so sure. They say it could have been anything. He can’t even speak yet. But relax – it’s not life-threatening.’ She paused for a second as though wondering whether to go on. ‘Which is more than I can say about the strange phone calls we’ve been getting.’

  ‘Oh, dear God.’

  ‘Some sicko has been phoning up late at night. When I answer the phone, he seems to think I’m you.’

  ‘What does he say?’ Tara waited for a reply. ‘Go on, Mel. I’d rather know than not know.’

  ‘That you should get out of Claremoon Harbour and stay out. Otherwise you could end up in the cemetery alongside Ann Kennedy.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Words to that effect. Sorry, Tara.’

  ‘Obviously someone who has lost touch with his inner child, Melanie.’ Tara tried to put a brave face on it.

  ‘Someone in good need of therapy, Tara. In fact, I have been giving him directive counselling. It comes in the form of two words, the second word being “off”.’

  ‘Have you notified the gardaí about the calls?’

  ‘Of course. They asked if anyone had a grudge against you. I said: “You mean, apart from the entire population of Claremoon Harbour?” They didn’t seem to think that was funny. They gave me the stock advice about handling nuisance callers, and told me to contact them if it happened again.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘Yes. Twice. More
or less the same warning every time. It’s probably just some emotional cripple acting out his macho power-fantasies. According to the textbooks, they rarely translate these fantasies into action in real life.’

  ‘So you don’t think there’s any cause for concern?’

  ‘Are you joking? Textbooks, schmextbooks. I’m keeping your dad’s shotgun loaded and ready by the front door.’

  ‘Make sure all the doors and windows are properly locked, too.’ Tara felt powerless, one hundred and fifty miles from home. ‘Listen, why not call Fergal? He could stay with you until I get back.’

  Silence. Melanie was obviously not impressed by the idea.

  ‘Hello, Melanie? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here. You still haven’t told me where you’ve been for the last couple of days.’

  Tara hesitated. ‘I’ve been with Andres Talimann.’

  ‘The same Andres you can’t stand?’ asked Melanie. ‘The same Andres who’s a right pain in the neck?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tara shortly.

  ‘So he’s not a pain in the neck any more?’ Melanie was keeping her voice deliberately neutral.

  ‘No. He’s not a pain in the neck any more,’ she said. ‘He’s graduated to being a pain in the ass.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘He promised he would join forces with me to help find Manus Kennedy, then he just…he just pissed off without even saying goodbye. He’s left the country.’

  ‘Oh, Tara, That’s awful. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. He’s got too many shady connections for my liking. I couldn’t care less if I never saw him again. I genuinely, honestly, absolutely, couldn’t give a stuff.’

  Melanie said nothing. She could hear the hurt in Tara’s voice.

  ‘When will you be home?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Very soon. As fast as I can drive from Dublin.’

  Melanie sighed. ‘Which in your old jalopy means next week sometime. I’ll throw an extra spud in the pot.’

  ‘Thanks, Mel. You’ve been an absolute tower of strength.’

  ‘Hey, enough of the male-orientated phallic images. I’m a Freudian Feminist.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mel.’

  ‘Bye, pet. And remember – don’t worry about a thing.’

  Tara had driven another fifty miles before she’d noticed a fifth message, alerted by the mobile’s insistent bleeping on the passenger seat. It was an unfamiliar voice – male, with a strong west of Ireland accent.

  Judging from the noise he seemed to be calling from a public phone box near a busy highway. His message was curt and to the point.

  He said: ‘This is me. The guy you’ve been looking for, asking questions about all over Inismaul and Bernietown and Ballymahon flats.’

  A pause on the tape as a coin rattled noisily into a kiosk slot. Cars were roaring past in the background. Someone sounded a horn.

  ‘Well, don’t worry about trying to find me any more,’ said Manus Kennedy. ‘Next time, I will find you.’

  The weather turned as she crossed the Shannon. Leaving Athlone behind, she found herself driving towards great massed banks of tank-grey clouds, hovering like immense castles from a Grimm fairy tale just above the wet green flatlands of Roscommon and east Galway. Miles away, in the far distance, she could actually see the rain falling, connecting earth and heaven like some Victorian engraving of Jacob’s Ladder.

  By the time she drove past the gloomy pastures of Aughrim, scene of the bloodiest battle of the Williamite wars, the rain was pounding on her roof and windscreen like kettledrums.

  And that was when her engine chose to give up.

  It just ran out of steam, like a superannuated locomotive, and drifted to the roadside, coughing and juddering in hopeless resignation.

  Rain in the electrics. Again.

  It was already early evening before she managed to thumb a lift to the nearest garage and find a friendly mechanic. By the time she drove off with a brand-new distributor, a new set of spark plugs and a credit card slip showing a bill for nearly ninety pounds, dusk was falling as fast as the torrential rain. And by the time she reached the west coast of Clare, Claremoon Harbour was enveloped in a dense shroud of darkness and sea-mist.

  Tara didn’t even glance to left or right as she drove down the deserted main street, past the bright lights and music of Breadon’s Bar, past the church and the cemetery. She realised, with a sudden spasm of shame, that she was hoping no one would notice her.

  Was this what it had come to? Was this how she was condemned to live her life? Like some furtive rodent scuttling from one cover to another under the protection of darkness?

  When she pulled in to the driveway of her father’s cottage, she was shaking with exhaustion, anxiety and suppressed anger. She killed the engine and sat for a moment to let the caustic, poisonous emotions drain out of her. Inside that cottage were new burdens, fresh responsibilities, and she would need all her strength to take them on.

  But wasn’t it strange, she thought, that no friendly light went on in response to the noise of her car?

  Strange that no familiar face peeked out through the curtains with a smile and a welcoming wave?

  She collected her bag from the boot, swung it across her shoulder, and searched for her keys. Nowhere. They must be in the pockets of her other coat.

  She rang the doorbell and waited in the rain for Melanie to answer.

  Nothing.

  No answering footsteps. No shout of greeting. Just nothing.

  She was about to go back to her car to fetch her keys when she realised it wouldn’t be necessary.

  The front door wasn’t even shut.

  It was almost closed, but not quite. There was the merest sliver of light between door and frame.

  All her other emotions were swept aside in an all-engulfing wave of sheer dread.

  Something was very, very wrong.

  Dumping her bag in a puddle, she pushed open the door. It opened only a foot or so before jamming on a soft, yielding obstacle.

  The obstacle on the floor was Melanie. Her body was twisted into an unnatural shape as it lay motionless on the cold tiles. The eyes were closed. And the glorious red hair was matted and covered with congealed blood.

  Chapter Eighteen

  AT AROUND the same time Tara was leaving Dublin for Clare, Andres Talimann was sitting down to lunch with Wendy Killegar in an expensive restaurant in Dublin’s St Stephen’s Green.

  Wendy was a statuesque strawberry blond, six feet tall and striking in an immaculately styled jade jacket by Rocha and a black Versace dress. Around her neck was a double string of freshwater pearls.

  She ordered gravlax followed by lobster salad. Andres had salmon mousse and Dover sole. Over a shared and correctly-chilled bottle of Muscadet de Sèvre-et-Maine sur Lie, they began to talk. Their conversation was at first shallow and desultory, their voices quieter than usual in the reverent hush.

  ‘Okay, out with it, Andres,’ said Wendy suddenly.

  Amused, Andres made a small show of looking at his lap. ‘Out with what, precisely, Wendy?’

  ‘You only ask me out to lunch when you want some information about the art world. Here we are at lunch. Ergo, you want to pump me for free info for which I would normally charge a breathtakingly exorbitant consultancy fee. If I ran my gallery the way I indulge you, I would be in Stubb’s within a week.’

  Andres sipped the bone-dry Muscadet. ‘Instead of being on your way to your second million,’ he teased.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve barely reached my first yet.’

  ‘I was talking dollars.’

  She conceded his point with a good-humoured nod. ‘The only reason I indulge you at all, Andres, is that you are such good company. So’ – she raised a fork with an impaled portion of salmon, as though in a mock-warning – ‘don’t blow it by talking of such vulgar topics as money. What do you want to know about?’

  Andres finished his last bite of salmon mousse, washed it do
wn with a gulp of Muscadet, and plunged straight in at the deep end. ‘Michael de Blaca,’ he said simply.

  ‘Well, well.’ She pushed her chair backwards so suddenly that the wooden legs honked noisily against the terracotta tiles. She was genuinely surprised and not a little amused. ‘Well, well, well. You are on the ball, aren’t you? How in heaven’s name did you find out?’

  Andres hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. He decided to bluff his way anyway.

  ‘Oh, one has one’s contacts,’ he said vaguely. ‘You would be surprised how many people indulge me. I’m such good company, you know.’

  She dabbed her exquisite mouth with a linen napkin. ‘It’s all very hush-hush, darling. If you write anything at all before the auction next month, I’ll personally turn your testes into gravlax.’

  Wendy pushed her fork firmly into another roll of marinaded salmon as though to illustrate her point.

  ‘That depends on the date. When exactly is it?’ Andres was flying blind. He’d never heard of any auction next month.

  ‘The twenty-first. The date was finalised only this morning. We don’t have a lot of time, Andres, and secrecy is of the very essence. Please.’

  She looked pleadingly at him with eyes that would have made Woodward and Bernstein tear up their notes on Watergate.

  Andres was grateful for the arrival of the waiter, an angular young man in white shirt and faded blue jeans, who cleared their starter plates and delivered their main course. It gave him time to think.

  ‘Is there a lot of money involved?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Oh, thousands, darling. Hundreds of thousands. And before you ask, I’m talking dollars. After all, the goods may be in Ireland but the auction is in New York.’ She adjusted the angle of her plate to a more aesthetically-pleasing position. ‘Now come on, darling, spill the beans. How did you manage to find out? Who else knows? That worries me a teensy bit, I must say, Andres.’

  She frowned and then pouted like a petulant child. Wendy must be in her late thirties, thought Andres, but the gesture still looked curiously endearing.