‘Emma?’ It always felt weird to enter unannounced. It would be different, maybe, if he’d ever lived here with her, but in Brussels he always felt like a visitor. He dropped his bag in the hall, pushed the door closed behind him.
A moment’s silence, then, ‘Cormac?’ Emma appeared in the hallway, wearing a pair of silk pyjama bottoms and one of his old jumpers, hair soft and loose, a pair of socks on her feet. She had papers in one hand, a pen in the other. The sight of her was so welcome, such a comfort, that he stepped forward and hugged her, wrapped her in his arms and lifted her a little off the ground. He kissed her and put her back down, and she smiled up at him.
‘Well, there’s a nice surprise,’ she said.
‘I haven’t disturbed you?’ he asked. ‘Did you have plans?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘Well, Giovanni left half an hour ago, and Luc won’t be here until ten, so you’ve just caught me between boyfriends.’
‘Great,’ he said. ‘We’ve a bit of time so.’
She laughed and hugged him back, led him into the living room.
His eyes wandered the apartment, taking in the changes. It was beautiful, if very different from their cosy place in Galway. The building was a renovated 1830s mansion, but the apartments were modern, all concrete floors and bare walls. When Emma had rented the place, it had come fully furnished, but the furniture had always seemed too small, lost in the vast open-plan living space. Now the rented furniture was gone. In its place was a new couch and a large modular sofa that looked soft and inviting, with a thick-pile rug in muted colours covering the floor. An expensive-looking glass coffee table hosted a stack of printouts and Emma’s laptop, as well as a half-empty glass of wine.
‘You’ve made some changes,’ he said.
She avoided his eye. ‘Roisín came over for the weekend. You know what she’s like. She said it was depressing. Like a hotel room. So we went shopping.’
‘It looks good,’ Cormac said.
She flashed a smile at him, went to the kitchen and came back with a second glass and the bottle.
‘What will you do for bookshelves?’ he asked. The white melamine bookshelves that had lined one wall were gone, and little stacks of books sat on the floor awaiting a new home.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I haven’t decided. Maybe built-ins.’ She drew him down to sit on the couch. She sat cross-legged, tucked her feet underneath her. ‘I’ve been reading about Peter Fisher,’ she said. ‘It’s all over the papers, online. Is he all right? How is he doing?’
Cormac took a sip from his wine glass, relaxed into the couch. He reached out and put one hand on her knee, and she immediately put her hand on his.
‘He’s okay, I think.’ Cormac shook his head. ‘Actually, I don’t know, really. He’s shell-shocked. He killed someone. It’s a hard thing to wrap your head around.’
‘I know that,’ Emma said. There was a slight edge to her voice.
‘Yes,’ Cormac said. ‘Sorry. I know.’
‘But it wasn’t his fault,’ she said, softening. ‘He was trying to save that little girl. The way those articles are written you would think Peter was a loose cannon. That can’t be the real story?’
‘No,’ Cormac said. ‘But . . . Peter’s exposed. The child wasn’t there when he shot Kelly. If Kelly was the one who took her – and we haven’t proven that yet – then he’d already released her by the time Peter shot him.’
Emma shook her head. ‘I don’t believe Peter shot him without good reason.’
‘Kelly was in his car. He drove it straight at Peter. That’s when Peter shot him.’
‘Well, for god’s sake. Then it’s clearly self-defence. And he’s a garda too. It all happened in the line of duty. But there’s nothing in the media from the garda press office. Nothing to put Peter’s side of things forward.’ Emma drank from her glass, a long swallow, finishing the wine. She reached for the bottle, topped it up. Her eyes went to his glass, but he’d barely started.
‘Kelly’s family are talking to the papers. Until the investigation proves that he was the one who took Peggah, it’s probably better not to feed the machine.’
‘That’s debatable,’ Emma said. ‘Sometimes it’s a case of give them nothing and they’ll fill the space with what they’ve got.’
She would know, of course. She’d seen it from Peter’s side of the fence.
Cormac just nodded. He felt a heaviness settle over him again, the good humour that had been lit by their spark, by the warmth between them, extinguished by the realities of the situation.
‘I’m not sure that I’m going to be able to do much to help,’ he said. ‘I’m off the case. Suspended, actually, pending an investigation. The suggestion is that I fucked up. That Peter was off by himself, inexperienced and unsupervised by me.’
Emma’s lips parted. She drew in a slow breath, let it out again, and put her wine glass down on the coffee table with an unsteady hand.
‘It’s never going to stop, is it, Cormac? They’re never going to leave you alone.’
‘It will be fine. This is just . . . it’s just a blip. The whole situation was a disaster. I went to Murphy to ask for bodies as soon as I knew about the abduction. He wouldn’t release anyone to me. I had a handful of inexperienced officers, no support staff.’
‘And Murphy’ll back you up on that, will he? When the ombudsman comes calling, and you tell them that’s what happened, Murphy’s going to say, Oh yes, sir, actually, it’s my fault because I’ve had a target on Cormac Reilly’s back for two years, so I’ve been setting him up to fail.’
Cormac frowned and rubbed his hand across his jawline, hard enough that he could hear the rasp of his stubble. ‘I don’t know what he’s going to say. But the facts are what they are. It’s a matter of record that I’ve been asking for resources for months.’
Emma was quiet for a long moment. She filled the space with another long drink from her glass. Cormac glanced at the bottle. She’d had at least two glasses before he arrived. It wasn’t like her.
‘I think you need to leave,’ she said.
‘What?’
She reached out and took his hand. She leaned forward, eyes moist and intense. ‘Why stay? They don’t want you, Cormac. Don’t you think they’ve made that very clear? Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say you get through this suspension and out the other side, what then? Are you just going to go back to working side by side with Murphy, as if nothing happened? I don’t think anything will change; if anything, it will be worse. And I don’t think he’s ever going to be happy to let you be, do you?’
Cormac leaned against the couch, let his head rest back and stared up at the ceiling. He let out a long breath.
‘I’ll have to figure something out,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to be smarter. Maybe I should I have dealt with things differently. I misjudged the situation. Miscalculated.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘Corm, I think . . . isn’t it madness to stay? Do you really want to spend the next ten years watching your back? Waiting for whatever they come up with next? Look what they did to that guy, what was his name? You know, the garda whistleblower who tried to report incompetence and corner-cutting. McCoy? McCabe? Look what they did to him. They just don’t stop when they want someone gone. Next thing you know, you’ll have some trumped-up charge of child abuse made against you, and then your life will just be over. Over.’
She blinked back tears, wiped angrily at her face with the back of one hand.
‘Emma, come on. That was a long time ago. We’re not . . . I’m not in that situation. And I have friends. I have colleagues who support me.’
She shook her head, swallowed, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Too much wine.’ She put her glass down. ‘You should come here,’ she said, in a stronger voice. ‘Come here and live with me and leave all of that behind you. There are other ways to live, you know. It’s all . . . it’s just not worth it.’
He looked into her eyes, searched for words and c
ouldn’t find them. He reached out, drew her near and kissed her. She came closer, swung one leg across so that she straddled him, then wrapped her arms tightly around him and hugged him hard. She kissed him again, then deepened the kiss, and moulded her body to his like she would crawl inside his skin if she could. Suddenly, being with her was the only thing he wanted. A chance to hold her and love her and forget about everything else. They moved to the bedroom, and for a little while, all was well between them. She fell asleep afterwards. Cormac lay awake and thought about all the things they hadn’t said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Peter worked until five and he was the last to leave. Des had disappeared after lunch and never came back. Jim Brennan lasted until three-thirty, then departed with a suggestion that Peter give him a call if anything came in. Nothing did. Peter had only the Lynch file to keep him company for the rest of the day.
He drove past Horan’s on the way back to the flat, picked up a bag of turf and some firelighters, a box of cereal, milk, some rashers and a loaf of bread. That was about all the place offered. He’d have to go to Clifden soon, stock up, as much as his bank balance would allow. When he got back to the flat, he fried his rashers, made a sandwich. Ate without taking his jacket off. It was so bloody cold. He got the pillow and duvet from the bedroom, set them up on the couch. He’d light the fire and sleep out here. Peter was down on his hands and knees, clearing out the grate, when a knock came at the apartment door. He sat back on his hunkers, looked at the door, then back at his hands – they were black with soot and ash. He gave them a quick wash at the sink and a second knock came before he had a chance to move towards the door. He opened it to his father. Des looked past him into the small apartment, clearly unimpressed.
‘So this is where you’ve settled yourself,’ he said. ‘Must be costing you.’
‘I got a deal,’ Peter said. He was standing there in his socks and wished he wasn’t.
‘Not as cheap as free, though, is it?’
Peter stood there in silence. There was no way he was inviting him in.
‘Will you come for a drink?’ Des said gruffly.
‘What?’
‘The pub. A pint. You might have heard of the idea.’
‘I was having an early night,’ Peter said.
‘Work very demanding at the moment, is it? Full of early starts and long hours?’ Des asked. Another silence. Then, ‘Come for a pint, Peter. It won’t kill you. I can almost guarantee it.’
Oh Christ. Was this going to be part of the deal? Forced socialising? He wanted to say no. But . . . Des was his boss, at least for the foreseeable. It would be better to avoid open warfare.
‘Fine,’ he said. Peter turned to the couch, sat and started to pull on his boots. Des said nothing, but Peter could see him taking it in. The empty grate, the depressing kitchen, the couch set up like a bed with a single cheap paperback on the coffee table. Peter stood up, back very straight, and grabbed his coat.
‘Are we going or aren’t we?’
Des led the way into Gilmartin’s with the kind of swagger that announced to all that he had arrived, he was at home and he was in control. He gave a nod to the barman as he settled himself onto a bar stool. The barman reached for a pint glass.
‘What’ll you have?’ Des asked Peter.
‘A pint,’ Peter said. He didn’t want to accept a drink from his father, but he might need alcohol to get through the next hour.
In Galway, there was a growing fashion for renovated superpubs, all chrome and glass and gleaming maple countertops. There was none of that here. The bar had whitewashed stone walls, a slate floor and a bar counter that had been in place for generations. There was an open fireplace with a turf fire, and a few round tables. The owner, Brian Gilmartin, had always said that the locals came for familiarity, and the tourists came for the traditional Irish pub experience. He therefore kept the place clean and well maintained but refused to change a thing. Looking around, it was obvious Gilmartin knew his trade. It was a Wednesday night, and the place was doing all right for numbers. There was a couple, probably American – they had that confident look about them – eating a meal at a front table with a bored-looking teenage daughter. A man with a laptop in the corner, finishing his meal. And a cabal of regular drinkers in the back bar.
‘Séan Cummins,’ Des said.
‘Sorry?’ Peter said.
‘Séan Cummins. He was an old schoolmate of yours, wasn’t he?’ Des asked. ‘Or he might have been a couple of years ahead of you.’
Peter shook his head. ‘Do you mean the school in Roundstone?’
At Des’s nod, Peter shook his head again. He could have pointed out that he hadn’t gone to school in Roundstone since he was eight, so even if Cummins had gone to school with him, chances are he would have forgotten the name.
‘Who is he?’ Peter asked.
‘He’s a piece of shit,’ Des said. ‘Sexually assaulted his niece. We’re bringing him in tomorrow for interview.’
‘Right,’ Peter said. ‘You and Jim, you mean?’
‘She’s fourteen years old,’ Des said. ‘He definitely did it. He has a reputation. There were rumours a few years back that he managed to get his hands on some GHB. There was talk that he might have spiked a couple of drinks at a nightclub in Clifden. But no one ever came forward to report him, so there wasn’t anything we could do.’
‘What’s the family dynamic like?’ Peter asked.
Des shrugged. ‘We might have some trouble ahead. The mother wants his head on a platter, the father has his doubts that it happened. Cummins is his brother. He doesn’t want to accept it.’
‘And the girl. The niece?’ Peter said. He had an image in his head of Des – a serial womaniser – and Jim Brennan interviewing a fourteen-year-old girl, a victim of sexual abuse, and it wasn’t good.
Des held up one hand, tilted it one way, then the other. ‘She’s all right, under the circumstances. We’ll have to see how it goes. If the father puts pressure on her, she might retract the allegation’
‘That would be . . . bad,’ Peter said.
‘He’ll be a fucking eejit if he tries it. The wife won’t have it. She’ll leave him rather than risk Cummins having access to the girl again. Rightly so. Fucking prick needs a gun to the head. If I had my way that’s how we’d deal with all of these bastards. Shoot them. Or take them out, string them up. Leave the rest for the birds.’
Peter made a non-committal sound, took a drink from his pint.
‘You don’t agree?’ Des looked. His expression was unreadable. It was hard to tell if he was serious, or just letting off steam.
‘There’s a process,’ Peter said. ‘It’s not perfect, but it’s what we’ve got.’ It sounded pious, even to his own ears, but what was the alternative? They weren’t judge and jury.
‘It’s far from perfect,’ Des said. ‘We’ll work this case for months, Jim and I. Half the time we’ll be glorified social workers, dealing with the family fallout. We’ll put a case together for the prosecutor, and then, always assuming they think the case is strong enough for court, it’s more likely than not that a jury of his peers will find him not guilty. And maybe by then the family will have managed to convince themselves that Jane was just looking for attention. And soon enough Cummins will be back at it again. Except maybe with the younger sister this time. She’s ten, by the way. Name’s Elaine. Great little dancer, I’m told.’
‘I thought you said the mother wouldn’t have it.’
‘She won’t,’ Des said. ‘I’m just making the point. A gun to the back of the head. A nice handy boghole. Save the state a lot of money and the family a lot of heartache.’
Peter took another long pull of his pint, avoided eye contact. Des clearly wasn’t serious, but he was trying to make some sort of point. It felt like a lecture with an agenda attached.
Des laughed. ‘You don’t approve. You weren’t always such a goody-two-shoes. You didn’t get that from me. Is that the influence of your former boss? I’
m told he’s a bit of a box-ticker.’
‘You mean Reilly?’ Peter asked. ‘What’s your problem with him?’
‘Who says I have a problem with him?’ Des said. He was enjoying himself. Peter could see it in the gleam in his eye.
‘You brought him up,’ Peter said. ‘And you clearly want to have a go.’
‘I don’t even know the man,’ Des said. He picked up his glass, downed half his pint. There was a burst of laughter from the back bar. Peter looked at his watch. It was only eight o’clock. The place was getting busier, a little louder.
‘What’s the story with drink-driving in the village?’ Peter asked. He nodded towards the back bar. ‘Will that lot go for their cars after this?’
‘No, no,’ Des said. ‘There’s a little minibus that picks them all up and drops them home. Collects them in the morning and brings them back for their cars.’
‘Oh, right,’ Peter said, nodding.
Des laughed. ‘Jesus, no. There’s no minibus. They’ll be driving. You know that.’
‘And you’ll turn a blind eye?’
‘I’ll use my subjective judgement,’ Des said. ‘I police this community twelve months of the year. Most of the people who live here are good people. They work hard, raise their families. If they want to have a couple of pints in the local after a long day, I’m not going to be taking their keys off them. That’s how you kill the heart of a place. Take away the pub and you take away the place where people meet, share a laugh, talk about their kids, their marriages and go home a bit happier. This is where they build the friendships they can call on when things get rough.’
‘That’s grand, yeah,’ Peter said. ‘Until one of them kills one of those kids on the way home. That’s not likely to do much for community spirit.’
Des gave him a pitying look. ‘On two pints?’
Peter wanted to point out that Des wasn’t down in the back bar watching how much drink was being poured down throats, and he sure as hell wasn’t out on the streets with the breathalyser, so how did he know if they were keeping to two pints or six? Peter finished his own drink. Surely his duty was now done. Before he could open his mouth to make his excuses, Des had given the nod to the barman, who started pulling another two pints. The barman was chattier this time.
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