Holding

by Graham Norton

  Looking up, she saw the dark shape of a man come around the corner. Who was that? It looked like Sergeant Collins, but why would he … Oh, of course. Evelyn had expected someone to come. She raised her hand and waved. The guard returned the gesture and then stood and waited as she picked her way through the weeds and long grass towards him.

  ‘Good morning, guard.’

  ‘Hello. It’s Evelyn Ross, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. I was just … How can I help you?’

  ‘We just wanted to ask you a few questions about the disappearance of Tommy Burke. Just any details you can recollect. Would that be …’ He trailed off.

  Evelyn smiled broadly. ‘Of course. Will you come inside?’ She indicated the way he had come and began to move off even before the sergeant had grunted his assent. They walked around the shed in silence and crossed the cobbles towards the back door of the house.

  Evelyn was wondering where she’d put him. Did the kitchen seem too casual, overfamiliar? Yet the front room seemed wrong too, and besides, she hadn’t drawn the curtains in there yet, or cleaned out the fire. PJ found he was pleasantly distracted by the way the soft grey material of Evelyn’s trousers clung to the curve of her hips. He wondered how old she was.

  Well, he thought, in a minute I can ask her.

  Evelyn gave a slight start when she saw her sister Florence sitting at the kitchen table with a small stack of books. Then she remembered that the night before she had said she was getting a half-day because of some plumbing issue up at the school. Florence looked up and smiled, but before Evelyn could make any introductions, PJ had marched forward with a burst of unexpected confidence, his arm outstretched. ‘Miss Ross.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ came the reply of recognition along with a vigorous handshake. PJ noticed the puzzled expression on Evelyn’s face.

  ‘I go in a couple of times a year to talk about road safety to the kids in Miss Ross’s class.’

  ‘Of course,’ Evelyn said, as her sister stood, pushing away her books.

  ‘Oh please, we’re not in the classroom now. Call me Florence.’ She finished her sentence with a strange high-pitched giggle that Evelyn had never heard before. Was it possible that her sister was flirting with this shiny-faced lump? Oh God. Look at him. He was blushing.

  ‘Florence, I wonder if you could excuse us? The sergeant wanted to ask me a few questions.’

  Her sister looked puzzled for a moment but then quickly realised what was going on. She gave Evelyn the same smile of encouragement she used for children before an exam. ‘Of course, of course.’ She began to gather her books. ‘I can do this in the other room.’ As she got to the door, she looked over her shoulder. ‘Nice to see you, Sergeant Collins.’

  ‘And you …’ he hesitated, ‘Miss … Florence.’ He attempted a smile. Evelyn silently noted that smiling really didn’t suit him.

  Tea. Should she offer him tea?

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No, I’m grand, thanks. Well, unless you’re making some.’

  ‘I am, of course,’ Evelyn replied and brought the kettle over to the tap. ‘Sit down there.’ The sergeant did as he was told.

  Over at the dresser, she decided on mugs. This was not a cup-and-saucer situation.

  ‘I’m not sure how helpful I’m going to be. It was all such a long time ago, I’ve probably forgotten everything,’ she said out loud, though of course she knew that was a lie. She could remember every detail of what had happened. As she poured boiling water on the tea bags, she wondered how much she would actually tell this man. Why couldn’t she tell him everything? She had nothing to hide. Walking back to the table, she felt an unexpected twinge of excitement.

  The tea poured, the milk and sugar added (Evelyn watching in horror as the sergeant added three heaped teaspoons to his mug), they both settled themselves for the main event. PJ reached for his notebook. Oh for fuck’s sake! He pictured the small black notebook lying on the passenger seat of the car. He took out his pen and held it in the air like a wand with which he could conjure some paper out of thin air. He was glad there was no gobshite from Cork with him to witness this. He cleared his throat.

  Evelyn leaned forward. ‘Oh Sergeant, would you like something to write on?’ PJ knew she wasn’t trying to mock him, or make him feel foolish. She was just being helpful and kind. He beamed.

  ‘Yes please.’

  Oh, she thought, that smile suits him better. She caught a glimpse of the man behind the Garda uniform. He seemed sweet, almost vulnerable. Despite his enormous bulk, there was something boyish about him. She handed him an old spiral-backed jotter she used for making lists, and the interview began.

  It lasted for just under half an hour. His questions were simple and thorough: ‘What was the nature of your relationship with Tommy Burke?’ ‘When did you last see him?’ ‘Have you heard from him since then?’ ‘Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?’

  Evelyn spoke calmly. It felt so strange to hear her voice saying his name out loud again after so many years. She hoped her tone came across as measured and reflective. Sometimes, just for effect, she paused as if trying to recall exactly what order certain events had occurred in. PJ took copious notes. Linus the prick would not catch him out on this one.

  She told him how Tommy had needed some help around the house after his mother died. He must have mentioned it to Abigail when he was paying the rent money, and she had suggested that Evelyn could do it so she’d have a little bit of cash in her pocket. Back then her sister thought she might still have a life of dances and boyfriends away from Ard Carraig. She detailed the day she had been getting ready to head over to Burke’s when Florence had read out the engagement notice from the Irish Times. Glossing over the way both her sisters had teased her, she described going to the farm and finding the house locked up. She had never seen Tommy again. No, she didn’t know his current whereabouts.

  She answered truthfully and in as much detail as she could, and yet as the sergeant began to bring things to a close, tearing the pages from her jotter and thanking her for the tea, Evelyn knew she had not told her story. This man had garnered some facts but he didn’t know what had really happened. She thought of all the things she hadn’t told him.

  She hadn’t described her feelings when Tommy had walked into the kitchen one morning with his shirt unbuttoned. He was startled to see her and immediately began to cover his chest, but not before she had seen the ridge of dark hair that led down to his belt, and his smooth white skin and honey-coloured nipples. His blushes. His smile. How her heart had thumped; how she had closed her eyes so many times to see him come around that door once more with his wet hair and shirt flapping free.

  She didn’t tell the sergeant how she had fussed around the house, imagining a time when she would live there with Tommy. A jug of flowers on the dresser, two bath towels, making sure the toilet seat was down. She couldn’t talk to Tommy directly, but by coaxing the house into accepting her, she felt the rest would follow. She could just slip into his life. She stood and watched him eat his lunch before taking the empty plate over to the sink, her hands shaking after the way he had looked up at her and smiled his thanks, a lock of hair hanging over his eyes.

  No mention had been made of the small brown paper parcel she had found on the kitchen table one morning. Tommy had thrust a finger towards it and, not looking at her, said, ‘That’s for you.’ She opened it slowly, trying to hide her excitement. After all, it might just be a few tea towels or some dusters. As she peeled back the paper, she let out a little gasp. Pink roses on a silky cream material. She held it up, wafting it through the air.

  ‘It’s a scarf,’ Tommy had explained.

  ‘Sure, I know. It’s only gorgeous.’ And then she had hugged him. This policeman would never understand the heat of Tommy’s body, how solid he felt, the smell of him, grass and soil and a musky maleness. After she had broken away, there was an embarrassed silence between them. Evelyn slid the scarf between her hands and held it up to
her face.

  ‘Thank you.’ His smile. His flushed cheeks. That had been the last time she had seen him.

  For years she had thought the scarf was some sort of leaving present, but now she knew that she had been right that morning when she had folded it back up ready to bring it home to take pride of place on her dressing table. It had been a love token.

  She failed to mention her humiliation outside O’Driscoll’s, or how when she had found the house locked up she had let herself in. Part of her had wanted to see him so she could tell him that she would never be coming back to clean or cook for him again, but the coward in her was glad to find the house empty. She wondered when he’d move in with his new wife. Just thinking about it had made her feel unsteady on her feet. How could he prefer that girl? How could he want to live with her?

  She didn’t tell the sergeant how she had washed the one dirty plate and cup that had been left on the counter, how she had climbed the stairs and thrown herself on Tommy’s unmade bed, drinking in the smell of him and leaving his pillow drenched with her tears. There was no mention of her placing the silky scarf neatly folded on the kitchen table. She had considered leaving some sort of note as well, but then thought about Tommy and Brid reading it together and laughing, or even worse, pitying her. She left the door wide open and put one leaden foot in front of the other as she walked back to her loveless past that seemed to also be her future.

  ‘It’s Tommy, isn’t it?’ she blurted out.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Up above. The remains. They’re Tommy’s, aren’t they?’

  ‘Too soon to know who it is. There will be tests, I’m sure, and then we’ll find out.’ PJ paused and looked at Evelyn’s face. Her eyes darted around the room. There was a twitch in her upper lip. ‘Why are you so sure it’s Tommy?’

  She hesitated before she spoke. She had told no one, but then no one had asked her before. She had found this interrogation unexpectedly pleasant. She couldn’t remember the last time another human being, and certainly not a man, had been so interested in her. She knew he was only doing his job, but she felt flattered.

  ‘It just makes sense that it’s him. When I heard about the bones, I knew at once. He … You’ll think me very foolish, Sergeant, I know I was only a girl at the time, but Tommy Burke … well, he loved me.’

  She felt a sudden engulfing tsunami of emotion come over her. She grabbed the mugs and stood up with her back to the sergeant, determined not to collapse, a sobbing mess, in front of this man. She moved quickly to the sink and let the cold water run over her hands. A few deep breaths. She tried again. What did she want to say? She decided to forgo any preamble about Tommy’s feelings or how she could be so sure. There was only one thing she needed to tell this man:

  ‘Brid Riordan killed Tommy Burke.’

  She turned and stared at Sergeant Collins, awaiting his response. She wasn’t exactly sure of what reaction her accusation would provoke, but she had certainly expected more than this. The sergeant sat perfectly still, staring back at her, breathing through his slightly open mouth.

  PJ was thinking.

  Of course Brid would be a suspect, but surely Evelyn Ross must know that she too was under suspicion? He was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Somehow being alone in this room with a woman who was clearly very emotional didn’t seem like one of his better ideas. He wondered if he should call for Florence to try and defuse things. Evelyn’s statement sounded less like the facts and more like a deeply intimate secret that she shouldn’t be sharing with a stranger. Neither of them was looking away, so that the stare was now locked. PJ felt very warm and his mouth was dry. He swallowed and spoke. ‘Thank you for the tea, Miss Ross. We’ll be in touch should we have any more questions.’ He smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging way.

  ‘Did you hear me, Sergeant? I told you who killed Tommy.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, it is an ongoing investigation and I, we … they will be exploring many different roads … not roads, sorry, avenues.’ PJ longed to be out of this room and back in his car. One glance at Evelyn’s face and the twitching muscles in her neck told him that wouldn’t be happening as quickly as he’d like.

  ‘Do you not believe me? Am I just some deluded old spinster to you?’ Like a fuse being lit, Evelyn felt outraged that rather than thanking her and heading off to arrest the ugly drunk bitch, this man was talking to her as if she were one of the old biddies who came down from the mountains to collect their pensions from the post office counter in O’Driscoll’s.

  PJ was standing now and speaking as he moved to the door. ‘It’s not that at all. But you must understand that we have to wait to learn all the facts. The investigation has really only just begun, and we don’t yet know who the bones up there belong to.’ He hoped these sentences sounded plausible. He just wanted Evelyn to go back to being the calm, charming woman he had met just half an hour earlier. He was in the hall now.

  ‘Goodbye, Sergeant!’ It was Florence’s voice, coming from a room to his right. The front door was steps away. His hand was on the large brass lock when Evelyn pressed herself close to his face and whispered urgently into his ear. ‘You’ll see. I’m right. That woman knew he’d never really love her.’ PJ could see the fine hairs above her lip.

  Evelyn stepped back, startled by her own intense outburst. She knew she was right, but she was also suddenly aware of how unhinged she must seem to this poor policeman so clearly desperate to escape.

  ‘Sorry, Sergeant. Let me.’ And she reached up and opened the door for him.

  They stood together for a moment in silence. The wind moved through the trees and the cold air felt good on their faces. She looked up at the sergeant. ‘I do apologise.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. We’ll be in touch.’ And then without thinking he found that he had reached out and stroked her arm. It wasn’t a gesture that came easily to him and yet it felt like the right thing to do. Evelyn too found the hand on her arm surprising but appreciated that this man wanted in his own clumsy way to help her heal. She smiled and he started across the gravel towards the police car.

  Out of the rustle of the branches came the sound of a car engine. PJ stopped and looked. A small red hatchback was making its way down the drive. It was going slightly too fast, and as it reached the expanse of gravel in front of the house it skidded to an abrupt halt. Behind the wheel was the horrified, wide-eyed face of Brid Riordan. Three sets of eyes met, and then the hatchback did a violent U-turn before taking off with a screech in a cloud of dust and gravel, heading back towards the gate. Inside the car, Brid gripped the steering wheel and bellowed a long, loud ‘Fuuuuuuck!’

  9

  Linus sat hunched in a small cave of light at the end of the dark abandoned office. In the grey gloom, empty desks were arranged in rows like hospital beds; the glint of a street light coming through the blinds, the green glow of a fire exit sign, the flickering light from a computer screen saver at someone’s desk. Detective Superintendent Linus Dunne had the privilege of his own glass-and-plywood cubicle. At this time of night he left the door ajar for air, but during the day he tended to keep it firmly shut. If he couldn’t hear their stupidity, he reasoned to himself, then he might forget for a few hours that he worked with idiots.

  Mind you, he thought, as he scrolled through endless emails from various departments, brains weren’t helping him much here. O’Shea, the fuckwit, had by fluke got the guys who did the stabbing, and when they went to the house to arrest them had found it packed with stolen goods, meaning that in the space of two hours he had closed about fifteen cases and was now downing pints.

  A long, weary sigh escaped from Dunne’s lips. This was not going well. He reached out to his mug of coffee. It was cold. He considered going to make another but decided against it. The kitchen area was downstairs, and besides, he should go home. He was making no progress here.

  The trip to Dublin hadn’t really answered any questions. He had quickly found Fergus Connolly in his well-maintained terra
ced house in Ranelagh. They had sat in an overdesigned kitchen-diner extension at the back of the house while Mrs Connolly set about getting refreshments for the ‘Super Detective’. Linus had looked ruefully at a pristine Gaggia machine sparkling on the granite worktop as Mrs Connolly placed a steaming mug of weak instant coffee in front of him.

  Fergus told his story. When his mother died, she had left him far less than he had been expecting. They suspected that a neighbouring widower had convinced her to invest in various doomed business ventures, but they could prove nothing, and in any case the money was gone. Fergus had remembered his mother talking about how her nephew down in West Cork had gone missing and by rights how that land should be hers. Over the years he had forgotten about it because it was only a few acres out in the wilds. What would it be worth? By now, however, land was gold, especially if you could get planning permission. He had got a lawyer involved and eventually the High Court had agreed to issue a death certificate for Tommy Burke. At this piece of information Linus had choked on his coffee and his face turned rhubarb pink. The old couple looked at him with surprise. Even they were taken aback that the investigation hadn’t unearthed such a basic fact. The old man continued. He was his sole heir. Fergus smiled widely at his wife and she in turn grinned at Linus and made a gesture with her right hand like a gone-to-seed magician’s assistant. Voilà! A ridiculous seventy-thousand-euro kitchen!

  It was a good trick, thought Linus as he made his way back out to his car. Christ, was that a Sean Scully hanging in the hall? He made a mental note to check just how much money they had got for the scrap of a farm. Could Connolly have killed Burke? He looked back at the couple on the doorstep waving him off with inane grins, both of them wearing cardigans that didn’t quite meet over generous bellies. No, he decided, they were not killers.

  Linus had opted not to stay in the city after all but instead drove straight to Cork to scream at his worthless team of fuckwits. There was a death certificate for Tommy Burke and nobody had thought to look for it. It beggared belief! A group of ten-year-olds armed with nothing more than Google could do a better job. At least the reports he found waiting for him from the technical bureau were more efficient. The body was that of a male between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two. The cause of death was blunt-force trauma to the side of the skull, and they estimated that the remains had been in the ground for over two decades but less than three. The end of the email contained the bad news: neither dental records nor DNA could provide an identity for the body.