by Arlene Hunt
It sickened him.
He sickened himself.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Gregory Milton snagged a piece of sushi from the platter with his chopsticks, popped it into his mouth and closed his eyes in pleasure. God, but Cho was a marvel. Sweet and delicate, so fresh it was practically wiggling.
He opened his eyes and noticed that his dinner guest was staring into the bottom of his wine glass, deep in thought, his food untouched.
‘What’s the matter, don’t you like it? I can have Cho bring you another plate.’
‘The food is fine. It’s the fucking Rank I don’t like.’
‘It’s a formality, Dy, they have to ask their questions.’
Milton set the chopsticks aside, lifted his gin martini and took a sip. It was his fourth cocktail in less than an hour, and he was starting to feel the effects.
Dy Anderson’s blue eyes flicked upwards.
‘I’m worried about Delia Shawcross. She was a friend of Andrea’s; what if the cops want to talk to her?’
‘You told me Lucy left Delia’s name off the employee list.’
‘She did, but I still don’t like it, I don’t like any of it.’
‘Why would they want to talk to her? She’s been gone, what, a year?’
‘They might connect her with Andrea.’
‘Even if they do, so what, they worked together, that’s it. Look, there’s no way they’ll be bothered talking to her. She’s ancient history.’
‘History has a way of biting people in the arse. You of all people should know that.’
Milton pulled a face and put his glass down.
‘Delia’s not exactly in a position to cause any trouble for us now, is she? Besides, she signed a non-disclosure when she left the firm.’
‘Keep your voice down, will you?’
Milton glowered at him, but lowered his voice all the same and leaned across the table.
‘Dy, listen to me. You’re catastrophising – no, really, you are.’
‘Don’t mumbo-jumbo me, Greg. Delia Shawcross is a threat and you know it.’
Milton shook his head vehemently. ‘No, she would never risk losing Charlie.’
Dy raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘She’s a mother bear, that one.’ Milton drained his drink and waggled the empty glass at a passing waitress, who ignored him. ‘Look, if you want, I can talk to her, tell her—’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Dy said. ‘Stay away from that woman. Haven’t you caused enough trouble?’
He shook his head. He wasn’t angry, not really; besides, what would be the point? He had known Milton since college. He was a genius on one hand and a total and utter shit-gibbon on the other.
‘Did you talk to Walter about the new show? Have we got the green light yet or what?’
‘I spoke to him.’ Milton waggled the glass again, scowling. ‘What does a man have to do to get a drink around here?’
Anderson was not a shrink, but even he could tell when someone was being evasive.
‘What?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Don’t give me that shit. The treatment went in weeks ago. When I pitched it to him over a round of golf at the K Club, Walter was all for it. What’s changed?’
Milton gave up trying to get the waitress’s attention and sighed.
‘It’s Maureen.’
‘What about her?’
‘I think she put a spoke in it.’
‘You think?’
‘All right, I know. I was going to tell you, but with all this other stuff about Andrea, it—’
‘What? Why did she kill it?’
‘Why does she do anything? She’s a horrible miserable bitch, that’s why. I don’t know why Walter keeps her around. If it were up to me, I’d sack her. She absolutely hates me.’
Dy was furious. ‘That show was gold. I had six writers work for a fucking week on the treatment. You’re telling me she squashed it without even discussing it with me first?’
‘Don’t blame me, Dy, take it up with her.’
‘I will,’ Anderson said. ‘I’ll call Walter first thing in the morning too.’
He pushed his plate away. Milton finally caught the eye of the waitress and ordered another drink. It was definitely turning into a five-martini sort of evening.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘Dr Brennan, thank you so much for coming. I apologise for the short notice.’ Quinn was up and moving, his right hand outstretched, a big plastic smile already in place.
‘Hello, Inspector, I’m sorry I’m late.’
‘Not at all, not at all, please, come in.’
Roxy kept her eyes firmly on her screen, her fingers working. She was aware of Cora’s shifting attention beside her, aware of the change in her own breathing, the way the hair on her arms had lifted slightly in reaction to Lizzie’s voice, a voice that startled her in its familiarity. How had she forgotten that husky rumble? It was a forty-cigarettes-a-day voice; a newsreader’s voice; the kind of voice that lent itself to authority, to trust, to compliance. She wondered what kind of things that voice whispered in David’s ear, and mistyped a number of words that she then had to delete.
This was stupid, she chided herself: she was a professional, and it had been over a year since … since … Dammit! She deleted another slew of incorrect words.
Quinn was making the introductions, working his way around the room.
‘And these are our newest members, Officer Cora Simmons.’
Cora leaned over Roxy to shake hands.
‘Hi.’
‘And Sergeant Roxy Malloy.’
Roxy raised her head.
Yep, Lizzie was still beautiful, still with the same glorious wavy blonde hair, still with the perfect skin, the rosebud mouth, a Nordic queen amongst mortals. Sickening really.
You slept with my boyfriend and destroyed my life.
‘We’ve met,’ she said. She offered her hand. Lizzie took it and they shook briefly. ‘Hello, Dr Brennan.’
‘Hello, Roxanne. Um … congratulations on the promotion.’
‘Thank you. Inspector Quinn here has been rapidly broadening my horizons.’
Quinn scowled.
‘Right, well we won’t keep you, Malloy, those reports won’t type themselves.’ He hurried Lizzie away. ‘What do you need, Dr Brennan?’
‘Not much. I’ve taken a very rudimentary look at the information you’ve sent me and obviously I’d need a little more time to study all the information available before I can offer any advice, but I should have something for you by tomorrow.’
‘Terrific, I’ll find you an office where you can work.’
‘Oh, any old desk will do.’
‘I think we can manage better than that. But first, Superintendent O’Connor was hoping to have a quick chat.’
They left together. When they were gone, Cora whistled under her breath.
‘Wow, she’s really pretty, isn’t she?’
Roxy gritted her teeth. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘What’s the other way?’
‘Never mind.’
Cora looked sympathetic. ‘He’s been really rough on you lately, hasn’t he?’
‘Who?’
‘Quinn. You know everyone thinks you did a good job nailing Falstaff the way you did.’
‘For all the difference it’s made.’
Cora turned back to her EN and worked for a while.
‘Did you see the state of Noel Furlong, though?’
‘No.’
‘I wonder what happened. I wonder how Quinn knew where to find him.’
‘Telepathy.’
‘Huh?’
Roxy shut her mouth. Why was she being rude to Cora anyway? None of this was her fault.
‘I heard Furlong’s sister was downstairs earlier. Apparently she kicked up absolute blue murder after she spoke to him.
‘I hope Quinn finds the time to offer he
r a big hug. It’s what humans do; even monkeys.’
‘Are you okay, Sergeant?’
‘Peachy.’
‘Some of the squad are saying she’ll probably go to the media about her brother’s treatment. Do you think she will?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t think it’s him, though.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t think Noel Furlong is the Sweetheart Killer, do you?’
Roxy wished Cora would stop talking. She was trying very hard to concentrate on checking off the Albas employee list against that of Lorraine Dell and Estelle Roberts’ places of employment. So far she’d found nothing to connect them. Roberts and Dell had both worked in Park West Business Park, but for different companies. Hugh Bannon was a freelance accountant and had worked in various places, and Sean Kilbride had been a clerk at the law library in the city centre. There were no links to Andrea Colgan as far as she could see.
The door opened and Fletcher walked in, moving at a determined clip. Out of the corner of her eye Roxy watched him march up to Miranda Lynn’s desk, place a sheet of paper down in front of her and tap it. She wondered if he was still angry with her for her lie of omission.
Miranda read the page and looked up.
‘That’s interesting,’ Roxy heard her say. ‘Did they say what—’
‘What’s going on?’ Cora asked.
‘Shush.’
Miranda grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair.
‘Fletch has a witness said a courier buzzed her on Friday about a flower delivery.’
‘At the Dundrum apartment building?’
‘Yeah, there was no one home so she held onto them for Andrea.’
‘Please tell me she remembers where they came from.’
‘You got it.’ She strode to the door. ‘Come on, Fletch.’
As Fletcher passed her desk, Roxy leaned out a little.
‘Look, Fletcher, about before. I’m really sorry. I should have been clearer about wanting to bring Jerome Falstaff in from the outset.’
He kept walking as though she didn’t exist.
Yep, he was still angry.
Roxy went back to her lists, feeling lower than a snake. Fletcher had found something, something they probably would have had earlier if she had done what Quinn had asked her to do in the first place.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The wolf phoned in sick and went back to bed. He slept until late in the afternoon, then got up, phoned for a pizza and went back to his room to eat it.
He was exhausted, but satisfied. Estelle Roberts had taken some careful coaxing, but in the end her mind had given out and they had enjoyed a wonderful experience together.
In fact it had been so wonderful it gave him an idea.
He enjoyed the hunt, obviously; he enjoyed the feeling of power it gave him, knowing his prey was oblivious to him. He enjoyed his little rituals, the sense of theatre. He enjoyed the pay-off, watching the women morph and change from the venal snakes he knew them to be to the compliant doves they became.
He enjoyed making love to them, hearing them utter his name, the feel of their bodies under his. But it was too short, the drugs wore off too soon and then it was over.
If only there was a way to extend the experience.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, thinking.
Estelle had been the closest physically to Celine. She reminded him of her a lot; she even tasted like Celine. He would have liked to keep her, make her his.
Celine … he used to dream about her so often. He’d wake up and find his sheets sticky, his heart beating hard and fast in his chest.
She knew the effect she had on him, of that there was no doubt. How often had he come downstairs to find her in the kitchen in skin-tight jeans and a vest, rummaging around in the fridge?
‘Your dad’s thirsty,’ she’d say, leaning forward, letting her breasts press against the material. ‘He’s getting better, you know?’
He did not know and this was hardly welcome news. If he got better, Celine would stop coming. The house would revert to how it was before, except that that was impossible.
He never remembered how he came up with the solution. It wasn’t like he was involved with his father’s care. The man could use a toilet by himself, and didn’t have any particular needs that required his intervention. Celine made him food: soups and sandwiches. He ordered takeaway at the weekend and had her bring him a bottle of bourbon every Friday.
But suddenly his father was all he could think of; or rather, his recovery.
It had to be stopped.
The first time he drugged his father he used too much and almost killed him. He spent a miserable three hours holding ice to his father’s neck and wrists, watching his chest rise and fall, waiting for him to come back to earth. After that, he was more careful. He liked to drug his father’s late-night Ovaltine, knowing full well the old man had to get up several times a night to use the toilet. His father blamed his falls on the bourbon and vowed to cut back.
Still he fell.
Celine was concerned.
‘I’m sure it’s neurological,’ she told him one day, after she found fresh bruises on the old man’s legs and chest. ‘He needs to go to hospital and get checked out.’
The wolf nodded, drained his can of Coke.
Hospital. Would they run tests? Discover the ‘treatments’ he’d been providing? Could they do that?
For a few weeks he did not drug his father.
Curiously, this made little difference. The old man had changed over the course of his illness. He talked less and stopped reading the papers. Sometimes the wolf found him out on the landing without his crutches, peering into the shadows, listening for snatches of conversation that were only available to his ears.
‘He’s got an infection,’ Celine said. ‘Probably caught it through the pressure sores. Runs through the blood and makes him seem doolally.’
A doctor came, a thin man with a pronounced lisp. He prescribed antibiotics.
‘He should really be in hospital,’ he told the wolf, only it came out as ‘He thud really be in hothible.’ The wolf showed him out.
Day after day, his father weakened. Sometimes he cried out; other times he laughed and sang songs to himself. The wolf did not know what to make of it, but he knew it was bad. Not that he cared about the old man; he could sing himself into the grave if he cared to. But Celine … Celine would no longer come if he was gone. He needed the old man alive.
He needed Celine.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Gavin, the lanky boy working in the florist, was the kind of kid that gave Miranda Lynn a pain in the rear. He had blue hair, facial piercings and an annoying snotty laugh that went with his snotty attitude.
‘Last Friday, your shop delivered flowers to this address in Dundrum.’ She turned her EN around so he could read the address on the screen.
‘Yeah?’
‘I want to know who ordered them and how they paid for them.’
‘Don’t you, like, need a warrant or some shit for that?’
Miranda leaned her hip against the counter and narrowed her eyes.
‘This is a murder inquiry.’
He looked sceptical. ‘So you’re, like, investigating flower deliveries?’
‘Have you ever been arrested for interfering with a Garda inquiry, Gavin?’
‘No.’
‘Would you like to be?’
Gavin got the picture. With an overly dramatic sigh, he turned to the shop computer and began to tap the screen. While he searched, Fletcher peered at the elaborate flower arrangement he’d been working on when they arrived.
‘It’s for a civil partnership,’ Gavin said, noticing his interest.
‘What is that?’ Fletcher pointed.
‘That’s a king protea, very popular this year.’
Fletcher glanced at him to see if he was taking the proverbial, but apparently he wasn’t.
‘Okay, so yea
h, the roses were ordered the week before, on the second of January.’
‘By who?’
‘It doesn’t say.’
‘What does it say?’
‘It wasn’t an online order or a phone order.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess someone came in and paid cash.’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘I wasn’t working that day, Ro was.’
‘Ro?’
‘Rowena Delaney, she works here too.’
‘I want a number for her.’ Miranda looked around. ‘Do you have any security cameras in here?’
Gavin did the snotty laugh until she glared him into silence.
‘Get me that number.’
‘Fine, Jeez, chill.’
‘Sixteen roses, long stem, that’s how much?’ Fletcher wanted to know.
‘A hundred and forty yoyos,’ Gavin replied in an instant.
‘For a bunch of flowers?’ Miranda was astounded. ‘What are they, dipped in gold?’
‘For scented roses,’ Gavin corrected her. ‘For out-of-season scented roses.’
He found Ro’s number and read it out.
Miranda called and waited, tapping her foot impatiently. Fletcher wandered up and down the narrow aisles, peering at the shelves and pots, a little baffled at the variety. He knew next to nothing about horticulture. He’d had a plant once, a house-warming gift from his sister, but he’d over-watered it and it died.
‘Rowena Delaney?’ Miranda was saying. ‘My name is Rank Sergeant Miranda Lynn and I wonder if I could ask you a few questions. I’m here with Gavin at the shop. He gave me your number.’
She paused, listening for what seemed like an interminably long time.
‘No, you’re not in any trouble.’
Gavin smirked. Miranda resisted the urge to slap him.
‘I want you to think back, Ro, okay. The second of January, someone came into the shop and ordered sixteen long-stemmed yellow scented roses for delivery … That’s right, the second. It’s an unusual order and the customer most likely paid cash.’