Hannah sat at a table pushed up against the far wall, alone if you didn’t count the baby on her lap. She looked tired and strained, pale-faced with grey circles under her eyes. Her dark hair was unwashed, and tied back from her face in the same loose plait she’d worn at fifteen. Despite everything, she was still beautiful. Hannah acknowledged him with a brief flick of her eyes and an attempt at a smile, before she dropped her gaze again to her daughter. Tom looked at his sleeping niece. She was a round, happy little baby. He desperately wanted her to stay that way.
‘I already know the appeal was refused,’ Hannah said, her head still bowed.
‘How did you . . .?’
‘Cellmate has a cousin who’s a social worker. She was delighted to give me the good news.’
Bitch. ‘When did she tell you?’
‘Week ago.’
Jesus. He’d wanted to keep it from her, hoping that he’d find a solution. He’d known the likely outcome when he’d visited the week before, but he’d had to tell her about Jack, and that seemed enough tragedy for one day. Besides, he’d still been hoping to pull a rabbit out of the hat, had even thought about asking Aggie, but she was too old to foster now. She couldn’t be the rescuer this time, and even if he’d had a guardian angel to call on, these days the system was much more regulated.
‘I tried, Hannah. But I’m not married. I work long hours. I told them I’d hire a full-time nanny, but they insisted that they want a foster parent who’ll be at home all day.’
‘Bastards,’ she said, but she was distracted, her tone without rancour. She stroked a stray lock of wispy hair back from Saoirse’s forehead. She’d been avoiding eye contact since he sat down.
‘How is she?’ he asked.
‘She’s grand. She doesn’t know where she is. She doesn’t know what normal is.’
Tom said nothing. They’d talked so many times about the situation she was in. The overcrowding. The drugs. Her fears for Saoirse. Hannah was terrified for her baby. He’d tried and tried to reassure her. When his first application to foster the baby had been refused he’d told her that the system was better now, that the families were properly vetted, that he’d visit Saoirse every week, as much as they’d let him. She’d looked at him with despairing blue eyes and said, ‘You won’t be there at night though, will you, Tom? You won’t be there when they come into her room at night.’
‘Hannah,’ Tom said quietly.
She still wouldn’t look at him.
‘Hann, I know.’
‘What do you know?’
‘I spoke to Maude.’
She went absolutely still. The remaining colour deserted her face, and for a moment he thought she was going to faint. She cradled the baby closer, raised her eyes to his.
‘Have they arrested her?’
He nodded, and her eyes filled with tears.
‘Tom. I feel like there’s nothing left of me. I keep trying. I keep saying I’ll do anything, anything at all to keep Saoirse safe. And every time I take another step everything gets worse. I’m running out of choices. And every choice I make is a bad one.’
‘Listen to me, Hannah. You’re doing the best you can.’
‘Do you remember when we were kids, Tom? Do you remember how we used to be together? You and Maude so serious. And the way she would mind little Jack. Do you remember when she came to Kilmore first? She used to push him around everywhere, in that knackered old pram. And the way she’d run, I mean just run home after school? And when he got bigger she never left him alone, except at school.’
‘I remember,’ said Tom. He waited, but she said nothing, her eyes lost in memories. ‘Hannah, tell me the whole story. How did you know Maude was home? Who did you call to set this up?’
Her eyes came to his, confused. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said. ‘And I didn’t call anyone. He came to me.’
‘Who?’
‘The guard. He said he knew I grew up in Kilmore, that I had a drug history. He said he could get me early release if I gave evidence against a woman from back in the day. I didn’t know he was talking about Maude, not at first.’
Tom sat still. ‘You didn’t call anyone? Didn’t mention Maude by name to anyone?’
‘No,’ Hannah said. ‘Not to a sinner. Why would I? Maude’s been gone twenty years, or at least I thought she was. Why would I think the guards would give a shit about something that happened twenty years ago?’
‘Tell me exactly what he said.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘They brought me out of my cell to an interview room. This guy – McIntyre is his name – he was waiting for me. He took Saoirse out of my arms the moment I came into the room. He held her, gave her a cuddle, and I just knew, Tom. He would have knocked her against the wall as soon as look at her. Holding her was a threat, you know?’ Her grip on the baby had tightened as she spoke, her voice grew louder, and Saoirse shifted and made a soft sound in her sleep.
Tom reached across and held Hannah’s hand, and she loosened her grip.
‘After Saoirse was born and I knew I couldn’t lose her, I went to the governor. Told him I would give evidence to the gardaí if it would get me a remittance on my sentence. He set me up with a detective. I told her everything I knew about the trade, gave her names. Stuff that would get me killed probably, if anyone was to know about it. But she told me my information was no good to them. That they knew it all already. That the people I knew were too low level to be any use to them.’
‘You never told me,’ Tom said.
‘I was ashamed of myself,’ Hannah said. ‘The people I talked about, they were the dregs, mostly, but I still felt like the worst kind of shit.’
‘And McIntyre?’
‘I don’t know. He must have gotten my name from somewhere. He knew enough to look me up anyway, check my record. I was still living at home in Kilmore the first time I was picked up by police. He said they were very interested in someone called Maude Blake, and if I was in a position to say I knew Maude had bought or tried to buy heroin back in 1993, that he could get my sentence remitted.’
‘Christ.’ Tom held Hannah’s gaze, wondered for a moment if she could be shading the truth. But the look she gave him was open and clear, and Hannah had always been a useless liar. ‘Hannah, are you telling me that he didn’t know? That he just stumbled onto the truth?’
Hannah shook her head slowly. ‘It sounds crazy, I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what happened. I told him I would go along with it. Told him I’d say that I knew Maude, that I knew she had been looking for someone who sold heroin. But that’s it.’ She locked eyes with him then, pleading with him to understand, and he had a momentary flashback to the morning when he and Maude had found Hannah at the apartment. The morning when they’d sat with her and explained everything, and she’d made no protest, asked no questions, just got them what they needed and explained exactly what to do. He remembered the sick feeling in his stomach as he realised just how familiar she was with the process. Remembered the moment before he and Maude had left, how the three of them had sat there, in silent solidarity. Three damaged kids, determined to save a fourth.
‘This was a set-up,’ Tom said. ‘Maude was right. They are trying to set her up. This isn’t about Hilaria. They’re after her because of Jack.’
‘Jack? I don’t understand,’ Hannah said.
‘Hann, did McIntyre realise that he’d stumbled onto the truth?’
‘I don’t think so. I didn’t tell him. I wouldn’t have gone along with it at all except that he told me that if I didn’t give the statement, he could charge me with conspiracy to commit murder. He would say that I was in on it. Either way, Maude was going down, and I could go down with her. But if I gave the statement, he’d get my sentence remitted and me out of here before the end of the month. I’d get to keep Saoirse.’
‘Why didn’t you call me?’
‘He told me I had to make a decision there and then. If I agreed he would take a statement from me, then he’d get a deal signed off.’
Tom hesitated. ‘Did you get the deal in writing?’
She snorted. ‘Of course I bloody did. You can’t spend a year in this place and learn nothing. Are you going to ask me to withdraw it? But the thing is, Tom, apart from Saoirse, this guy McIntyre? I’m afraid of him. He’s a garda, but I think he’s the type who’d kill you if you crossed him.’
Hannah had good instincts for everyone but her boyfriends. ‘No Hann, no. I’m not going to ask you to withdraw it. Jesus. I’m your brother. And it’s not just me. Maude wants you to stand over your statement. She’s not going to contradict you. She wants you and the baby out.’
She held his gaze, fear and hope in her eyes.
‘She thinks she can beat the case regardless of your statement. She’s willing to take the risk, because she owes you.’
‘Jesus.’ A breath of hope, of air, an exhalation.
‘I think she should be right. There’s not enough evidence against her for a murder case, nowhere near enough. But I’m worried.’
‘Tell me,’ she said. And her eyes were dry now, and steady.
‘I’m worried. This guy McIntyre is out to get her. Maybe more gardaí, too. Why? This all has to come back to Jack, doesn’t it? Someone killed Jack, and Maude wouldn’t let it go, so now they’re after her too.’
‘And if they were willing to kill Jack . . .’ she let her voice trail off. ‘Tell me what you want me to do.’
He shook his head. ‘Let’s get you out first, then figure out what to do next. Maude’s bail hearing is on Monday. The full trial won’t be for months. What does your deal say? When do you get out?’
She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket. Handed it across to him and he read it. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘We might be able to get you out after the bail hearing, the way this thing is written, and with Saoirse and everything.’
‘Really? On Monday? That can’t be . . . he never said.’
‘He’d want you here as long as possible, to keep an eye on you, but the deal is done, remittance of sentence in exchange for testimony. You’ve given a written statement. I’ll bring this to the governor. See if I can arrange release for Monday.’
She reached across the table and gripped his hand hard, tears brimming in her eyes. She couldn’t speak. She swallowed. ‘Do what you can, Tom,’ she said. ‘And tell Maude thank you. Tell her I’ll see her soon.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
They went out on Saturday night. It was the last thing Cormac wanted to do, but Emma pulled a rare veto. If they sat in and watched TV he would only brood over everything, and end up in worse humour than he’d started. Better to go out, have a few drinks, talk to friends about everything and anything else for a while. Let his subconscious mind work at the problem while the rest of him got on with living. She knew him well, and she might have been right, if it wasn’t for the fact that most of his friends were in Dublin, and none of them were here, in the pub, providing the required distraction. Instead they had met most of Emma’s team. Emma’s second in command had young children and hadn’t come. The others – three women and two men, all under thirty – were happy with their new jobs, happy with the progress of the last few weeks, and ready to celebrate both. In other circumstances he might have enjoyed their company, but tonight they seemed too young, and in spite of their undoubtedly vast intellects, too insubstantial. Cormac could feel Emma’s eyes on him as he allowed himself to withdraw from the conversation. He gave her a wink, and was relieved when the buzzing phone in his pocket gave him a reason to excuse himself and go outside.
It was Fisher, calling from Strandhill.
‘Anything?’ Cormac asked.
‘I’ve been watching him since four,’ Fisher said. Cormac checked his watch. Nine o’clock. Fisher continued, ‘It’s busy. Other than himself there’s just a young one working the bar. A student I’d say. When she arrived Lanigan disappeared into the back for a while. He might have eaten but if he did there’s no opportunity in it for us. Since then he’s been working. He’s not touching the drink, just a plastic bottle of water he keeps behind the bar – he’s taken a few swigs out of that. But I don’t see how we could reach it.’
‘And?’ Cormac asked. Fisher’s tone told him there was something else.
‘I think he’s a smoker. He served me himself, and his fingers are stained. Every thirty minutes or so he’s disappearing out the back. Has to be to have a smoke. Can’t be inside. Smoking ban.’
Cormac thought for a moment. ‘Can you get around back? Without being seen?’
‘It’s a carpark. It’s full, and mine’s out on the street. I could wait for the next person to go. Take their place, and wait and see.’
It was a mark of Fisher’s ambition, or maybe his youth, that he sounded enthusiastic at the prospect.
‘Do that,’ Cormac said. ‘Text me when you have something.’
When he returned to the bar a full pint stood next to his last one, which he hadn’t finished. There was talk of going on to a nightclub. Cormac caught Emma’s eye. Not a fucking chance. She smiled, a quick flash of amusement, noticed by no one but him. God he loved that smile. That sudden dimple in her cheek, the arch of her eyebrow. He felt his mood lighten, and took a drink from his pint. Then he turned to his neighbour and joined a debate about Galway football.
They walked home together, hand in hand. It was cold, but the rain held off and there was such simple pleasure in that.
‘What will you do?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. If Murphy ordered that arrest, then he’s taken the case out of my hands. If he didn’t order it, if Mel Hackett just saw an opportunity and went for it, that might be just as bad.’
‘Why? Because Murphy won’t undo it?’
‘Exactly. She must have thought – they must have thought – that Murphy would at least condone it.’ He shook his head. He had bigger problems, but he wasn’t telling Emma about the rumour, not until he had dealt with it and it was in the rear-view mirror. He couldn’t wrap his head around how quickly things had gone wrong, how fast the ground had slipped from under his feet. The first few weeks had been nothing more than he’d expected – a testing period. He hadn’t thought much of the hazing – messing around with cold case files was unprofessional, in his opinion – but it had been within the realm of normal. But the looks, the not-so-subtle cold shoulders he’d received from other detectives this week, was something different. It was the rumour of his involvement with Maude Blake that was doing the damage. And if Murphy suspected him of that then taking him off the case was the necessary next step.
It could be Healy. Healy saw him as a threat to whatever he had going on, and perhaps he had decided that he was going to take Cormac down before Cormac could get to him. But Cormac had a nagging feeling that Danny was in this thing too.
As they turned into Canal Walk, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Fisher.
He smokes at the back door. Drops his butts. Probably a hundred of them there. Take some?
‘What is it?’ Emma asked.
Cormac replied. Leave it. Find a place to stay. I’ll meet you tomorrow, four o’clock. Bring some rubbish bags and a brush.
‘I might have to work tomorrow,’ he said to Emma.
Her eyes searched his face in the dim light of the street lamp. ‘Another case?’ At his nod, she shrugged. ‘If you have to, you have to.’
She didn’t ask him anymore about the Blake case. About what he was going to do on Monday. She must have known that he didn’t have any answers. Instead, they went home, went to bed, and did what they could to forget about everything but each other.
Sunday 31 March 2013
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Despite all her resolution, by mid-morning on Sunday Aisling found herself driving out to Lough Mask, Jack’s smaller backpack keeping her company in the passenger seat. She’d traced his every step so far, including the deli stop, and the backpack held a sandwich and a thermos of soup, as well as the mini-firs
t aid kit, her water, and the basics that usually took up space at the bottom of the bag.
She reached the trail at 2 p.m., two hours later than Jack would have. The small parking area was just off the road but hidden by trees – if you didn’t know it, it would have been easy to pass it by. The place was deserted, despite the fact that the weather was good for the time of year. No rain, beyond a bit of drizzle, and the sun had won the battle with the clouds so far that day. Aisling parked, and grabbed the backpack and her jacket. She pulled everything on as she stood beside the car. Would she really find answers here? What was she looking for – signs of a struggle? She felt ridiculous, a grown-up playing at Veronica Mars. She excused it by telling herself that this was where Jack came to figure things out. Maybe it would work for her.
She zipped up her jacket and started to walk. The advantage of the cold weather was of course that the mud was frozen. She was able to balance her way through the worst of the tussocks and ruts that made up the first few hundred metres of the track. Once she’d passed the last farm gate the track narrowed very quickly, and the trees drew in overhead, splintering and fracturing the feeble winter sunlight.
She reached the point where Jack’s trail stopped, and looked about her. It was shaded under the canopy, the air frigid, the ground covered in a blanket of wet leaves. There was nothing to see. She turned, stared back down the trail, then turned again. Nothing. The place was innocent, and deserted, and there was no sign that Jack had ever been here. Aisling told herself she hadn’t been expecting anything anyway, and pressed on.
The track split in two and she chose the right fork. The left would have been an easier route – out towards the quarry – but she wasn’t looking for easy that day, and she wanted to be out from under the canopy, wanted the warmth of the sun on her face. She pushed hard, and it didn’t take long for her breath to feel tight in her chest, for her hamstrings to complain. She ignored it and pushed harder. When she was out she would slow her pace; would need to anyway once she hit the steeper incline. The hike was harder than she’d remembered, and she wasn’t as fit as she should be, but she was strong enough. She stopped thinking about everything, about Jack, about the future; switched everything off except her focus on the next step, the next breath.
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