‘Lough Mask,’ he said.
‘Yes. Jack liked to hike there. I have his email password. I tracked his phone – that’s where he went, that last day. I drove there myself this morning, to see if I could find his phone, and I did. It was just sitting there, at the bottom of the trail, half-covered in mud.’ She didn’t say anything about her desperate search on her hands and knees. Didn’t say anything about her fear.
‘Okay,’ McIntyre said. He shivered, a little reflexive shake against the cold. ‘Do you think Jack was meeting someone?’
‘I don’t know. He liked to hike alone. But when I was up there I saw gardaí, at the quarry. Do you know what’s going on out there? What if Jack saw something, saw someone, while he was out there, and that’s what got him killed?’
McIntyre frowned and shook his head. ‘I haven’t heard, but I can find out.’ He held his hand out for the phone, and when she didn’t react, he took it from her hand. He pressed a button, waited. ‘You haven’t turned it on? Have you checked his messages?’
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve tried charging it but I think it’s broken. I hoped maybe the gardaí could examine it. Or if you can’t get it working, maybe you could get his messages from the phone company?’
McIntyre nodded. ‘And you wanted to speak to Sergeant Reilly about this?’
‘Yes. I’ve spoken with him before. I thought he might be helpful.’
‘Not Garda Rodgers?’
Aisling flushed. ‘No.’
He nodded slowly again, like he understood.
‘Rodgers is an old-style garda. He’s not always as proactive as he should be.’
‘Yes.’ If ever there was an understatement.
‘From the information you’ve given to me today, well, I was aware on the periphery of some of it, but your brother’s death was not my case. Put together like this . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Look, if you won’t repeat this, it’s obvious that a shitty job has been done on this case so far. No offence, Aisling, but it shouldn’t have come down to you to find this. It should have been traced from the beginning.’
‘Will Garda Rodgers . . .’ Aisling let her voice trail off. She wanted to know if this would finally get Rodgers kicked off the investigation.
‘This is still his case, for now. But if you can leave this information with me for a few days, I’ll see if we can make new arrangements.’ His smile was a little warmer, as if they were friends and he was going to do her a special favour. And Aisling felt a little internal reaction – the smallest glimmer of dislike.
‘Someone needs to go to the trail-head and look for evidence. There are rocks there. Tree branches. Someone could have hit Jack on the head, and the rock could still be there,’ she said.
‘As I said, if you give me a few days, we can move this forward,’ he said.
‘And you’ll keep me informed?’
‘Certainly. If you give me your contact numbers, where you can be reached.’
She gave him her details again, her address and how she could be reached at the hospital, her mobile number. He took a step closer to her and she caught a sour hint of stale sweat.
‘You’re heading home now?’ he asked.
‘To work,’ she said shortly. ‘Night shift.’ She hesitated. ‘Look, Jack’s sister Maude. You arrested her. Do you know if she has a lawyer? Is it possible to visit her?’ She tried to read his face as he shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, no visitors until after her bail hearing. She can see her lawyer, but that’s it,’ he said.
She noticed a little crust of sleep in the corner of his left eye; his skin had the thin papery look of someone who wasn’t getting a lot of rest.
‘Did something new come to light? New evidence I mean? It just seems . . . after all these years . . .’ she faltered.
‘I can’t discuss the investigation with you, Aisling,’ he said, looking grave. He hesitated. ‘I’d like to say more.’ But he just shook his head.
He walked her to her car, almost shepherding her, with his hand at the small of her back, a gesture that made her uncomfortable, and left her with the distinct impression that he was in a hurry. He waited for her to get into her seat, put on her seatbelt, all the time holding the car door. Then he leaned in, a little too close.
‘One thing,’ he said. ‘Maude Blake. I can see that you’re worried about her. And I will look into this matter of the phone. But there’s something I want you to think about.’ He leaned a little closer. ‘Did you ever wonder that it might be too much of a coincidence that your boyfriend, her brother, the only witness to what happened that night twenty years ago by the way – that Jack died in suspicious circumstances just after his sister returns to this country for the first time in twenty years?’
Aisling opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. Her stomach turned.
‘Just think about it,’ he said. ‘Think about it, and stay away from her.’
Aisling nodded. She turned the keys in the ignition. He stepped back, and she closed the car door. Through the rear-view mirror she saw him watching her as she drove away. The taste of fear returned, and stayed with her until she reached the bright, welcoming lights of the hospital.
Monday 1 April 2013
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
‘Judge, the accused is a clear flight risk. She has lived outside this country for the past twenty years. She has no family and no property in this jurisdiction. It is our contention that she has already run to escape this charge – she disappeared on the night she murdered her mother, has been living abroad, and only returned three weeks ago, around the time of her brother’s death, which took place in equally suspicious circumstances. The evidence against Ms Blake is strong – we have a statement from a woman who says that Ms Blake procured the heroin, with the intention of injecting it at overdose levels when her mother was under the influence of alcohol.’
‘Judge, I have to object to that.’ Tom Collins stood as he spoke. His manner was relaxed and his tone was measured, in contrast to the prosecutor’s excited delivery.
‘Yes, Mr Collins.’ The judge, his wig slightly askew but his white collar pristine, was reading the papers, holding them up and slightly away as if his glasses weren’t quite addressing his long-sightedness.
‘I have a copy of the statement my friend refers to. The statement does not speak to Ms Blake’s intent. In fact, the witness says very clearly that she had no knowledge of Ms Blake’s intent at the time and that Ms Blake did not say what she intended to use the heroin for.’
‘Is this the case, Mr Conway?’
‘Uh . . . I believe so, Judge. I apologise if I misspoke. But I would argue that the evidence is very compelling. I am also told that there are further witnesses speaking with the guards, although written statements have not yet been taken. These witnesses still live in the local area, and there is a risk that the accused would seek to influence their testimony if she were released.’
‘Judge?’ Tom didn’t stand this time.
‘Yes. Mr Conway, you have appeared in my court on enough occasions to know that I am not interested in potential witnesses who have not given statements, and I am not interested in allegations of potential interference where there is no evidence that the accused has any intention or history of interfering with witnesses. If you wish me to consider potential interference, you will have to give me more to go on than that.’ The judge didn’t even look up. He was turning the pages of the statements that had been given to him, his manner casual, but the tone of his voice was steely.
‘Yes Judge.’ Conway’s head was down now, as he shuffled through the papers in front of him. He looked towards the back of the courtroom. Hackett was there, standing against the back wall, frustration evident on her face. She nodded her head firmly at Conway, who turned back to the judge. ‘Judge, there is an active garda investigation into the death of Ms Blake’s brother, whose death was originally thought to be a suicide, but in the past number
of weeks evidence has come to light to suggest that his death may have been . . . uh . . . due to a third party. In the circumstances the gardaí are concerned that Ms Blake will again flee the jurisdiction, as she did when a family member last died in suspicious circumstances.’
Tom stood quickly. ‘Judge, I hesitate to suggest that any colleague would intentionally mislead the court but the implications made here are really quite outrageous. Ms Blake has been tireless in her efforts to prompt the gardaí to properly investigate her brother’s death. The gardaí have closed their investigation into Jack Blake’s death. They believe that Jack committed suicide. My client does not. She has gone so far as to independently investigate his death, and has provided gardaí with evidence to prove that the garda theory was entirely wrong.’ Tom looked at the prosecutor, his expression disapproving. He was very good at this, Maude thought. She wanted to applaud. Instead she sat stiffly, hands folded on her lap like a choir girl.
‘If my client was in any way involved in the death of her brother she would have accepted the garda decision that it was suicide, not sought to overturn it.’
‘Mr Conway?’ the judge said.
The prosecutor didn’t turn around this time. ‘I have no instructions on that matter, Judge.’ That felt to Maude like an attempt to put distance between the prosecutor and the gardaí, and the judge was having none of it.
‘Well, perhaps you should take them,’ he said.
The prosecutor gave a jerk of the head to Hackett; she came forward and they had a hurried, whispered discussion. There was another man standing at the back of the courtroom. He looked back at Maude solemnly. There was something familiar about him.
The judge had run out of patience. ‘Well, Mr Conway?’
‘Judge, I am instructed that the defendant did provide the gardaí with some evidence, but they do not accept that evidence as proof that Jack Blake’s death was not a suicide.’
Tom opened his mouth to speak but the judge forestalled him. ‘Mr Conway, the gardaí must pick a position. If you maintain it was suicide how can you argue that Ms Blake was responsible for his death?’
Conway tried to speak but the judge raised his hand. ‘This is not a full trial of the action gentlemen, and there are other applicants waiting to have their applications heard. I am not prepared to deny bail in this case, as the evidence before me has not satisfied the criteria I am required to consider. However, I am concerned about the accused’s lack of connection with Ireland and her resources outside of the country, as well as her history of leaving this jurisdiction . . . precipitously. Bail is therefore set at one hundred thousand euro. If your client cannot provide a bond or surety, Mr Collins, I will remand her into custody pending the next trial date.’ The judge held his gavel above the block, and raised his eyebrow in Tom’s direction, the first time, Maude realised, that he had looked up from his papers since she had been called to the courtroom. Tom turned to her, his face pale.
‘It’s more than I expected,’ he said, ‘but it’s bail.’
Maude shook her head. ‘It’s fine, I’ll pay it.’
Tom nodded, turned to pass that information to the judge.
‘Mr Collins, Ms Blake is to surrender her passport to the court. Bailiff, kindly take Ms Blake into custody and make arrangements for her to contact her bank.’ The judge struck the block with the gavel and a bailiff called the next case.
Maude smiled at Tom, who seemed a little dazed. ‘What happens next?’ she asked. The bailiff was waiting beside her.
‘I’ll meet you out there,’ said Tom. ‘We’ll make bail arrangements, which might take a while. Once the money comes through you’ll be released, but I suppose given it has to come from Australia it may take some time, worst case scenario.’ Maude shook her head, but they didn’t have time to say more.
It took a little time to get the payment sorted, to sign the paperwork, to collect her personal belongings. They walked out of the courthouse two hours after the bail hearing. Tom took her arm as they left court, steering her away from the only journalist who regularly haunted the steps of Galway Courthouse.
‘Where did the money come from?’ he asked.
Maude looked away, avoiding his gaze. Lawton had paid her well enough, and she’d had little to spend it on. ‘I moved my money over after the station was sold. I had my savings, and John left me something. Once the station was sold I didn’t really have a place in Australia anymore. I thought I might come back to Ireland.’
Tom reached out and squeezed her hand. She found herself staring down at his hand on hers. How easy it seemed for him now to touch her, how impossible it had been when they were young. She wondered if time had healed that part of him, or if it had been a relationship, and if so, where that person was now. Tom withdrew his hand as they crossed the road.
‘It fell apart pretty quickly for them, didn’t it?’ Maude said.
Tom shook his head. ‘Faster than I expected, that’s for sure. But it’s not over yet, Maude.’
‘Hannah?’
‘Should be released this afternoon. I have to go back to the office, make a call, just to be sure. Then I’d like to go to Dublin, be there to collect her.’ He stopped walking, reached out, and turned Maude towards him. ‘What they said in there, about Jack, was appalling. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘I knew it was coming.’ She shook her head. ‘Actually, I’m absolutely starving. Have you time for a late breakfast?’
Tom started to laugh.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
After the bail hearing Cormac left the courtroom, crossed the street, and entered the Town Hall Theatre. The box office was just inside the entrance. It was quiet, staffed by a young girl who showed a profound lack of interest in his presence – she was reading a magazine with Emma Watson on the cover, and barely looked up at his arrival. The room had a large window that offered a perfect view of the courthouse exit, with the added benefits of making him a little less conspicuous, and keeping him out of the cold. He watched Hackett and the prosecutor confer outside, the prosecutor gesticulating, very obviously angry, before they separated and Hackett turned in the direction of Mill Street. Hackett had fucked up, had sent the prosecutor in there with air for evidence, had actively misled him even. There would likely be repercussions.
It was a long time before Maude and Tom Collins appeared, leaving from the custody exit. They stood outside the courthouse and talked for a few minutes. The way Tom bent his head towards her when he spoke, the look he gave her when she laughed; there was such intimacy between them that he almost expected them to kiss. They crossed the road, then parted, Tom walking back towards his office, Maude crossing the street at the pedestrian lights and walking up Eglinton Street. Cormac took two quick steps down the theatre steps, crossed the street, and followed.
She walked quickly, and when she reached the corner at St. Anthony’s Place she turned down towards Woodquay. Cormac picked up his pace, but very nearly missed her – she had opened the door to a pub by the time he reached the corner. He followed her, a few beats behind. It was a maze of a place, with interconnecting rooms spread over two floors. He found Maude at the back, sitting at a table. She held a menu in one hand, but her attention was focused on her phone. She looked up as he approached.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
Up close she looked different. More attractive than he had expected. He’d remembered a child, and now there were fine lines around her dark eyes. She had freckles, and a light tan where she’d been pale before. And though she was still slight she looked much stronger.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I was at the bail hearing,’ he said, then stopped. He didn’t know where he wanted to bring this conversation.
‘I would never have hurt Jack,’ she said.
‘I know that,’ said Cormac. ‘I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what just happened in there, and for any part I played in it. And I’m sorry for what I didn’t do twenty year
s ago, when you were only a kid.’
She gave him a smile then, an echo of that sad smile that he’d never quite forgotten, despite all the cases and all the years. ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, detective. Nothing at all. You took us away from that house. There was nothing else for you to do.’
‘I’m sorry then that no one stepped in before that night. That you felt you had to do what you did.’
Her smile faded, and her face grew shuttered.
‘I know about Schiller,’ he said. And he had the only confirmation he needed in the look in her eyes. ‘I know why you did it. Your mother was a monster. She beat you. She beat your little brother. And then she handed him over to a paedophile. You had no way out. Social services were useless, you already knew that. There was nowhere for you to turn. So you did what you had to do.’
Her face had lost colour. She closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them. ‘My mother never touched us,’ she said, her voice faint.
‘You don’t have to lie about it. There’s no one left to protect Maude, except yourself. Look, this is your defence. If you did this to defend yourself, or your brother, you need to tell the truth.’ It was the sort of thing he said to suspects. He’d give them something that looked like a way out, so that they’d bolt for it, only to find themselves in a noose. Was that what he was doing now? Maybe, maybe not. He’d never felt so conflicted.
‘My mother never touched us,’ she said, again.
He shook his head, gripped the back of the chair in front of him. He opened his mouth to speak but she cut across him.
‘It was Domenica Keane,’ she said.
He stared back at her.
‘My mother was an alcoholic. She was sick. She tried to get a job at the school. But the nuns wouldn’t hire an unmarried mother. We had to rely on the allowance Mother got from the state. And with the cost of the drink there wasn’t much left. Miss Keane offered me a job working on her farm, helping with milking. She didn’t pay much but we needed the money.’
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