No Memory Lost

by Valerie Keogh

  ‘I’m sorry to have taken so long in getting back to you,’ he said, ‘but you’ll be relieved to know I’m ringing with good news. We love your novel. It needs some work,’ he added quickly. ‘One of my editorial staff, Aidan Power, has it at the moment. He’s going to send it back to you with corrections and suggestions.

  ‘As soon as you can, get the changes done. Once we’re all happy we can meet up to discuss everything. We’d like to offer you a three-book contract, Edel. We’re really excited about this.’

  She was shaking when she hung up. Still holding the phone in her hand, she went downstairs. West, as she’d guessed, was sitting on the sofa with Tyler curled up beside him, some news programme flickering across the TV screen.

  ‘Some good news,’ she said, coming into the room and perching on the seat beside him. She reached out to rub the little chihuahua who gave her a lick of acknowledgement before dropping back to sleep. ‘The publisher loves my book. They’ve offered me a three-book contract.’

  West, who’d been sitting with his eyes closed, going over and over his decision to release Denise Blundell without charge, managed to drag up a smile. He pressed the mute button on the remote control. ‘Well done,’ he said. She deserved this. He wasn’t going to let his misfortune spoil it for her. He pulled her into a hug, annoying Tyler who got up and retired to the armchair. ‘Let’s celebrate,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you out to dinner at the weekend. We can have champagne.’

  Edel kissed him. ‘Let’s wait until I sign the contract, Mike. I don’t want to jinx it.’

  He pulled her into the crook of his arm and they sat in silence for a while, each of them lost in vastly different thoughts.

  * * *

  In the morning, he was gone as usual before she was up. He’d rung her during the day to tell her he was busy and wouldn’t be home for dinner. It suited her, she got stuck into her writing and didn’t move until late evening when she stretched wearily and went down to watch TV. She was enjoying a sitcom that she hadn’t seen before when she heard his key in the front door. Muting the sound, she waited for him to join her. ‘Rough day?’ she asked, when he came in and sat onto the sofa beside her.

  She didn’t need to ask really; he’d looked preoccupied recently, the Blundell case weighing heavily on him, but now there were lines of strain around his mouth and a sadness in his eyes. ‘A tough one, Mike,’ she said, resting her hand on his arm.

  He nodded and put his hand over hers. ‘A body was found in a suitcase, tossed away like garbage. Just a child, about two or three. We’ve no idea who she is, no child has been reported missing. It’s going to be a very tough one.’ He picked up the remote and unmuted the sound. Edel took the hint; he didn’t want to talk about it.

  They watched the end of the sitcom silently. At ten, before the nightly news broadcast, West reached for the remote again and switched it off. ‘I don’t want to hear their interpretation of what’s happening with our case,’ he said.

  ‘They’ll have dragged in some psychologist to give an in-depth analysis of how a child can go missing without being reported,’ she said with a yawn. ‘It’ll be put down to a breakdown in society and family structure. That’ll lead to a hundred more discussions that will go nowhere toward identifying the child or who killed her.’

  ‘Such cynicism,’ he said, giving her a hug before gently pushing her away and getting to his feet. He reached a hand down to her, she took it and he pulled her up beside him. ‘But, yes, that’s exactly what will happen. Hopefully, before they have run out of experts, we’ll have solved the mystery because their next step will be why haven’t the gardaí solved the case.’

  ‘Now who’s being cynical,’ she said with a smile.

  Leaving him to settle Tyler for the night she headed to bed. She was asleep before he slid in beside her, and when she woke in the morning, his side of the bed was empty. For a moment, she wondered if he’d come to bed at all, but when she moved her hand over, she found it was warm. He must have just got up. Listening carefully, she could hear him moving around downstairs, and she relaxed.

  He came up to say goodbye a few minutes later, peering round the door, his face breaking into a smile when he saw her eyes open. ‘Hello, sleepyhead,’ he said, coming over to sit on the bed beside her, bending down to press a kiss on her mouth. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  She lay unmoving for a few minutes after he left before throwing back the duvet and having a quick shower. Dressed in a T-shirt, jumper and jeans, she headed downstairs for tea and toast, sharing the crusts with Tyler who had a fine line in polite begging.

  The secret to working from home, she knew, was a disciplined approach. She made herself start at nine, sitting in the office and switching on the computer. Writing her new novel would keep her occupied until she heard from the editor.

  She didn’t need to wait long. Late morning, she checked her emails and saw one from Aidan Power.

  She opened it. It was short and to the point. He was delighted to be working with her, excited about her novel and had attached the manuscript with some suggested changes and corrections.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the attachment. At first glance, everything seemed to be highlighted in yellow. She was stunned. Maybe it would be easier to delete the whole thing and start again from the beginning, but after an initial panic, when she looked closely, it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought.

  She dashed off an email to the editor and told him she’d work through his comments as soon as possible. And then she got down to it.

  To her surprise, it was easier than she’d first expected. Some of the corrections were the usual typos that slip through despite checking and rechecking. Others were suggestions she took, nodding her head in satisfaction when a sentence read better for it; some suggestions she ignored. After all, it was her novel.

  When West rang late afternoon to say he’d be late again and wouldn’t need dinner, it suited her perfectly. She’d grab a snack instead of cooking and have extra time for editing. Even with hard work, it was going to take a few days to get it done, maybe longer. But she’d get there.

  At least one part of her life was on track.

  6

  West was pleased to see that the initial flurry of demands for results in the investigation died down within twenty-four hours. There was no grieving family – so no newsworthy sound bites for reporters to latch onto. He’d been right about the plethora of experts who were brought forward to give their opinion, but even they were quickly reduced to sidebars. Within a few days, other news caught the public’s attention and, unless something turned up soon, the child would soon be forgotten.

  Two days following the post-mortem, West’s phone rang.

  ‘It’s Fiona Wilson,’ the voice said.

  ‘Hello.’ West sat back in his chair. ‘Good to hear from you. I hope you have some news for me.’

  ‘I managed to get your case expedited,’ she said, ‘it’s surprising how willing people are when they know there is a child involved. I’m heading to your side of the city later this morning, and thought I’d drop the results over myself. There are a couple of things I need to explain, it would be far simpler to do so face to face.’

  ‘Okay,’ West said, checking his watch. ‘What time do you expect to get here?’

  ‘Eleven thirty,’ she said promptly. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  She hung up before West had a chance to respond. He looked at the phone, slightly bemused, and hung up with a shrug before heading out in search of Andrews.

  Baxter was at his desk, fingers flying over the computer keyboard, a lock of ginger hair falling over his eyes. ‘Seamus,’ he asked, getting the man’s attention, ‘have you seen Andrews?’

  Baxter shook his head, his fingers continuing to pound the keys without the slightest reduction in speed.

  ‘How is the mugging investigation going?’ West asked.

  Finally, as if giving in, Baxter’s fingers slowed and stopped. He ran one hand through his hair,
pushing the untidy lock back where it belonged. ‘We’ve spent a total of twelve hours in the car park over the last two days,’ he said, ‘and there’s been no sign of them. We’re planning to spend the whole day today. Foley is already there with Mackin, I’ve just come back to do some paperwork and I’m heading to join them.’

  West nodded. It was going to be a long, tiring stake-out. ‘Okay, keep me informed, and,’ he added, as the other man’s eyes flicked back to his computer, ‘be careful.’

  Baxter grinned and resumed his typing. Minutes later, West, pouring some coffee, saw him stand and leave.

  Andrews came through the door at the same time, and West waved him over. ‘Fiona Wilson came through for us, Pete. She’ll be here at eleven thirty to go through some of the information with us so it looks like we might have something to go on.’

  ‘Good, because we’ve nothing else,’ Andrews said bluntly, sitting at his desk. ‘I spoke to a contact at Interpol. There are thousands of misplaced children from conflicts in several countries. She could be one of them, smuggled into the country for any number of reasons.’

  West frowned. ‘That’s taking us in a very different direction, Pete. I’m not ruling out that she’s an Irish citizen who met a violent end, and the family have chosen to cover it up.’

  ‘Or her situation was one that needed to be hidden.’

  They continued to discuss the various possibilities until interrupted by a cheerful voice raised in greeting.

  ‘Is this where it all happens?’

  The two men turned together. Fiona Wilson stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe, her head tilted to one side. She waited there a moment before making her way slowly across the room and extending her hand first to Andrews, then to West.

  Andrews, who’d thought she was a pretty woman when they’d met on Clare Island, realised the work clothes she’d worn at the time hadn’t done her any favours. Now with her hair loose around her shoulders, in a smart dress, and wearing what his wife, Joyce, would call killer heels, he thought she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

  He glanced at West from the corner of his eye. If she was having the same effect on him, he wasn’t showing it.

  ‘Come into my office,’ West said, gesturing towards the door. ‘Would you like some coffee? I have to warn you, it’s not very good.’

  ‘I passed a cafe on the way,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘perhaps when we’re done here we could go for a cup?’ She took the chair he indicated, sitting and crossing one elegant leg over the other.

  West sitting behind his desk, smiled. ‘Depending on what you have for us, I might even run to lunch.’

  She returned the smile. ‘I think with what we’ve got, you might have to run to dinner.’ Opening her briefcase, she took out a sheaf of papers. ‘We’ve sent this to you by email too,’ she said, handing the first sheet across to him.

  Andrews moved to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder and squinting to read what was written on the page.

  ‘As you can see,’ she explained, ‘there were no identifying marks on the suitcase. It’s a cheap generic type and could have been purchased anywhere.’ She handed over the next report. ‘The labels on the clothes, unfortunately, had deteriorated too far and we were unable to get any information from them.’

  The two men scanned the reports and then, as one, looked over to where she sat, puzzled looks on both their faces.

  Fiona smiled reassuringly. ‘This is where it gets interesting,’ she said, placing the next report on the desk and tapping it with her index finger. ‘Whoever this child was, she had sickle-cell disease. Sickle-cell anaemia to be exact.’

  Her smile grew broader as she sat back. ‘Based on this information, there is a strong possibility that she was of African, Middle Eastern or Asian descent, with a higher likelihood that she was of sub-Saharan African descent. About eighty per cent of all sickle-cell diseases come from there.’

  West tried to remember anything he knew about the disease. It was congenital, that was about as much as he could remember. ‘Her parents would have had it, wouldn’t they?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t congenital diseases registered somewhere?’

  She nodded. ‘There are a number of registers. There’s BINOCAR, for one, that’s the British and Irish Network of Congenital Anomaly Researchers, and there’s a European register, Eurocat. It only needs one parent to actually have the disease; the other parent may have it or may just be a carrier.’

  ‘It gives us a place to start,’ Andrews said.

  ‘There’s something else.’ Wilson shut her briefcase and sat back in her chair. ‘Sickle-cell anaemia may also be what killed her.’

  Andrews, who’d moved to sit in the other vacant chair, clenched his hand. This was even better. ‘What do you mean?’

  She held up her hands. ‘It’s speculative, I’m afraid. But, given the lack of any other evidence as to cause of death, we consider it a distinct possibility. One of the symptoms of sickle-cell anaemia is breathlessness,’ she explained. ‘The child’s positioning in the suitcase may have restricted expansion of her ribcage and made taking a deep breath more difficult. Theoretically, she may have asphyxiated.’

  ‘She was alive when she was put inside?’ West’s eyes opened wide.

  She held up a cautious hand. ‘It’s a theory,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, there was too much tissue deterioration to allow for a definitive conclusion. But the fact is, this child had sickle-cell anaemia and it is one of the side effects.’

  ‘It wasn’t something we’d considered,’ West said, a frown creasing his forehead. Perhaps they should have done. ‘If she was put into the suitcase alive, that changes the direction of our enquiry. When nobody came forward to identify her,’ he explained, seeing her puzzled look, ‘we considered she may have been smuggled into the country somehow and, as a result, when she died, her relatives were too afraid to come forward. Now it seems she may have died while being brought in.’

  Andrews frowned. ‘She could be the victim of a people trafficking ring.’

  ‘I know someone in the HTICU,’ West said, looking at him.

  Fiona held one hand up. ‘Okay, what does an intensive care unit have to do with it?’

  Both men looked puzzled before West gave a short laugh. ‘No, sorry, it doesn’t stand for an intensive care unit. It’s the Human Trafficking Investigation and Co-ordination Unit, a branch of the Garda National Protection Bureau.’ He looked back to Andrews. ‘Jos Cotter, I’ll have a word with him, see if he can offer some advice.’ He tapped a finger on the desk. ‘Pete, contact someone in the National Immigration Bureau. Tell them our situation and see if they can offer any assistance.’

  Fiona Wilson picked up her briefcase and stood. ‘I can see it’s not a good time to be dragging you… either of you,’ she amended quickly, ‘for coffee.’ The comment may have been for both, but the smile she gave was directed solely at West.

  His smile was perfunctory, his mind focusing on the best use of his limited resources. ‘Another time,’ he said, standing and holding out his hand, ‘you’ve been a great help, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that, Sergeant West,’ she said and with a nod to Andrews and another smile to West, she left.

  ‘You’ve got an admirer there,’ Andrews said, watching her go with a flicker of admiration.

  ‘She’s just being friendly, Peter,’ West said, dismissing the woman immediately from his mind to concentrate on the news she’d brought him.

  Andrews’ eyebrow rose. ‘I have a feeling it’s not the last we’ll see of Fiona Wilson,’ he said cryptically. ‘I’ll go make that call.’

  Sergeant Jos Cotter wasn’t available when West rang his office. Leaving a message asking him to return his call as soon as possible, he hung up and drummed his fingers on the desk for a few minutes before switching on his computer. It would have been better to speak to Jos first, but there was no point in hanging about. A quick search found contact details for BINOCAR, Euro
cat, and the National Congenital Anomaly and Rare Diseases Register. With the phone wedged under one ear, and a pen and pad in front of him, he started into the phone calls and explanations.

  Two hours later, he put the phone down and stretched his arms over his head to ease the knots that had built up in his shoulders. He headed out to the main office where he spied Andrews, his phone in one hand, scribbling madly with the other. He stood watching him, mentally considering their next step. At least the reporters had lost interest. It took the pressure off.

  ‘Well, that was interesting,’ Andrews said, putting phone and pen down.

  ‘Tell me.’ West rested a hip against the desk.

  ‘I spoke to a very helpful woman, by the name of Helga Fischer. It appears there are between 20,000 to 26,000 illegal immigrants living in Ireland at any given time.’ He tapped the notes in front of him. ‘Oh, and by the way, the politically correct term, as she told me, is undocumented migrants, not illegal immigrants.’

  West whistled. ‘That’s a much higher figure than I’d have thought. Do they know how many of these undocumented migrants are children?’

  Andrews shook his head. ‘They’re understaffed, and overwhelmed.’

  West knew the score. It was the same everywhere. ‘The three registers I contacted were quite helpful. They wouldn’t give me a list of names, but when I told them about our suitcase child they promised to contact the social workers who look after every child with sickle-cell anaemia within a year of our child’s age to ensure they are still hale and hearty.’

  ‘That’ll take a while.’ Andrews sniffed. ‘And it’s very unlikely to be one of them. A child on a register won’t just disappear.’

  West nodded. ‘True. But someone may have panicked.’ When his phone rang, he motioned Andrews to follow him back to his office. ‘It might be Jos,’ he said, picking up the phone. ‘West here.’

  He listened for a moment before saying, ‘I have my partner, Garda Peter Andrews here with me, I’ll put you on speaker.’ He pushed the button and immediately Jos Cotter’s voice filled the room. West reached for the volume and turned it down slightly. ‘Good to talk to you again,’ he said, sitting behind the desk. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to help us with a case we have here in Foxrock.’ It didn’t take long to fill him in. There wasn’t much to tell.