Cormac pulled the seat out and sat. A waitress came towards them, but veered away at a shake of his head. ‘She hit you,’ he said flatly.
Maude inclined her head. ‘She liked to hit. She liked to hurt. But in the beginning it was just me, and I could handle it.’ She raised her chin, as if expecting him to contradict her.
‘Your mother didn’t do anything about it?’
‘We didn’t talk about it. We needed the money. No one else would give me a job.’
‘And Schiller?’
She took a deep breath. ‘He was a friend of Miss Keane’s.’
‘You were afraid of him.’
Maude was very still now.
‘Did he hurt you? Hurt Jack?’ His voice was very gentle.
But she shook her head. ‘I only met him once. He never touched me, or Jack either.’
‘Because you stopped it. You knew what was coming and you stopped it, didn’t you Maude? You killed your mother because that was the only option. It was the only way to get you and Jack out of that house.’
Her eyes were far away, and very sad. Then Cormac felt a hand clasp his shoulder. He looked up to see Tom Collins, breathing fast and looking agitated.
‘Interviewing my client without my presence, detective?’ he asked. ‘Did you caution her?’
‘No caution, Mr Collins, this is just a conversation.’
Tom pulled another seat over to the table, sat, and picked up a menu. ‘This is not the time or the place, detective. If you want to interview my client I suggest you make an appointment at my office.’ He was making a valiant attempt at his usual professional poise, but he was nervous, afraid of what Maude might have said, or what Cormac might know.
‘That’s not what this is about. I’m not your enemy. I’m not saying what you did was right, but I understand why you felt you had no choice.’
But Maude and Tom were silent, unified now and unyielding.
Cormac stood. ‘Your sister, Hannah, she got early release?’
Tom gave a grim smile. ‘Yes.’
Maude’s phone buzzed where it lay on the table.
Tom looked at Cormac. ‘You’re going to lose this case, you know. Hannah’s statement is not enough to convict Maude of anything. Hannah claims she gave heroin to Maude, but that’s it. Even if you accept that evidence, all it proves is that Maude possessed heroin around the time her mother died. That’s the very definition of circumstantial evidence, detective. If you don’t have anything else then you have no case.’
Cormac looked at Maude as he spoke. ‘Then it seems you have nothing to worry about.’
Tom stared at him, trying to read him. When he spoke again, it was slowly and deliberately. ‘I’m not worried about the case. I’m worried about what your lot are going to do next.’
Maude’s phone buzzed again, and she picked it up, her eyes caught by whatever was on the screen, despite the conversation going on around her.
Cormac concentrated on Tom.
‘Someone in the gardaí wants Maude out of the way. Your Sergeant McIntyre went to my sister and pressured her into giving a statement. Do you hear what I’m telling you, detective? He made up a story, went to my sister, and put it in her ear. Why did he do that? And why was Maude charged and arrested when you have nowhere near enough evidence for a conviction?’
Cormac shook his head, not in denial, but because he didn’t have an answer yet.
‘I don’t know,’ he said in the end. Christ. It was one thing to acknowledge his doubts, his questions, in the privacy of his own mind. It was another to make them known to a lawyer, a defence attorney who could twist them, use them against the force. But Cormac’s eyes went to Maude involuntarily, and he found himself saying, ‘I’m going to try to find out.’
‘You do that,’ Tom said, then turned to Maude himself, concern in his eyes, but she was looking at her phone.
‘Maude?’ Tom asked.
‘It’s a message. From Aisling.’ She looked up. ‘She found Jack’s phone. On a hiking trail at Lough Mask.’
‘What, just now?’ Tom asked.
‘Last night,’ said Maude. ‘She sent the message last night, after she’d dropped the phone to the police station.’
It took Cormac a moment to process the words, and when he did he left without another word.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Cormac stalked back to the station. Motherfuck. Everything came back to Danny. He was the one who had appeared with the heroin evidence. Danny and Mel Hackett had arrested Maude. And now there was a connection between Danny and Jack’s death. Lorna McIntyre’s body had been pulled out of a quarry near Lough Mask; the last place, apparently, that Jack Blake had been alive. This was where Cormac ran into a brick wall. He saw the whole thing as a puzzle, every piece fit together, interlocking, with a single gaping hole. And the one piece he had in his hand didn’t fit.
Cormac was halfway down Shop Street when it started to rain. It was almost a relief – the street was pedestrianised, and always busy, but in the rain shoppers tried to walk under shop awnings, leaving a centre aisle that was unobstructed. He picked up his pace, ignoring the rain that soon plastered his hair to his skull and soaked through his shoes. Danny was knee-deep in the Maude Blake case, had been pushing it along behind the scenes, probably from the beginning. And the rumour about him sleeping with Maude, Danny was the obvious source for that. He was the only person in Galway who Cormac had spoken to about Emma.
Still he had no why. In their first week in Templemore they had attended a lecture on court procedure. The class had been taught by a retired lawyer who liked an audience. He’d told them that motive was the least thing in any case, because it need not be proven – it was not a legal element of a crime. ‘Intent, or mens rea, that is the thing,’ he’d said. But he’d immediately countered his own argument by telling them that a garda who prepared a file for prosecution without regard for motive was bound for disappointment. Juries, ultimately, needed a reason.
Cormac reached the steps of Mill Street and ran up them, slowing to a slightly more decorous pace as he moved through the halls and up the inner stairs. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. The squad room was busy. Cormac took his seat quietly and logged on. First things first. The slow warm-up of his computer was infuriating. He tapped his finger on the mouse, the small movement nowhere near enough to release his increasing tension. He forced himself to calm down. Focus was what was needed now.
He logged in. Found the Lorna McIntyre case and confirmed what he already knew. Her body had been found at Lough Mask. Identity had been confirmed that morning through dental records; no date or time of death had yet been determined. But there had been an arrest. Cormac scrolled down and clicked on the arrest report. Name of suspect arrested: Aengus Barton. An anonymous call had been made to Mill Street on Saturday, prompting the search of the quarry. Barton owned the surrounding farmland and, according to the arrest report, had a prior connection with the victim. He’d been arrested and charged with her rape in December 2011, though charges had later been dropped. Cormac stared at the screen, willing the words to make sense.
Fisher appeared at his shoulder, cleared his throat.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’ve sent the sample off,’ Fisher said. ‘And I’ve started looking at the process for extradition warrants, if it is positive.’
‘Right,’ said Cormac.
Fisher paused, then dropped his voice. ‘Murphy was looking for you earlier. Said if I was to see you, to tell you to call up to his office.’
Rodgers was crossing the room, heading for the door. Cormac looked at Fisher, who waited a beat, then shrugged. ‘Haven’t seen you, have I?’ And he left Cormac to it.
Cormac caught Rodgers before he reached the stairs.
‘I want that phone,’ Cormac said. ‘Jack Blake’s phone. If it hasn’t gone to the lab yet, I want it going under my name.’
Rodgers looked back at him, surprise quickly turning to indignation. ‘There’s no new e
vidence in the Blake case. And if there was, that case hasn’t been assigned to you, as far as I know.’
Cormac was wearing plain clothes, but he pointed to his shoulder, where the epaulettes of his uniform would be if he was wearing one. He took two quick steps towards Rodgers, loomed over him. ‘I’m not in the mood for bullshit, Rodgers. Get the phone to my desk, and get it there now.’
Cormac was barely back at his desk before the next interruption came, in the form of loud voices, laughing, joking, as Healy, Trevor Murphy and all the rest of them entered the room as a troop. Healy gave Cormac an ironic salute as he walked to the other end of the room. And there was Carrie O’Halloran, her back towards him, head bent over her work.
Jesus. The answers were right here. They were in this room. He was sure of it. Could feel them tapping at the inside of his brain, begging for his attention. Everything came back to Danny.
Danny had set Kavanagh up for drug dealing, which meant he had to get his hands on drugs. The obvious source of drugs for a policeman was the evidence locker, but a stash the size that Danny had used on Kavanagh would not be easy to get hold of. Cormac’s eyes dropped to his phone. He thought of the video Matt had sent him, of Healy standing over plastic-wrapped bales of drugs as they were pushed into the incinerator. Except if Healy was involved, maybe what was in those bales wasn’t drugs. Maybe the drugs had already been diverted elsewhere. Stored and sold on by Healy, Trevor Murphy, and whoever else he had in his dirty little network. Maybe even Danny. Why the fuck hadn’t he thought of this before? Danny didn’t take the drugs directly from evidence storage himself. He hadn’t needed to. He’d known about Healy’s stash and had helped himself. If Danny had stolen from Healy, that would explain the obvious tension and animosity between the two men.
It would also explain why Superintendent Brian Murphy had let Danny get away with so much. Setting up Kavanagh, for example, and that was just for starters. If Danny had proof that Trevor Murphy had been involved in drug running, or stealing drugs evidence for resale or whatever the fuck they were up to, what were the chances that Murphy senior would have looked the other way rather than risk his son’s future?
Everything fell into place in Cormac’s head. He had no proof, but he was convinced, although he still needed the why. He stood, and walked to O’Halloran’s desk.
‘I need to speak to you,’ he said. ‘It’s important and it has to be now.’
He made his way downstairs and waited for her in the carpark. She appeared a few minutes later, stood on the top step. Stopped there. When she didn’t take another step Cormac walked back towards her, stopping at the base of the steps. Even with that, she was just barely taller than him. She looked exhausted.
‘You found her,’ Cormac said. ‘You found Lorna.’
‘Yes.’
‘Another anonymous tip.’
‘Another?’
‘Jack Blake’s death was called in the same way. We got nothing useful about the caller.’
Carrie’s face was very still. ‘Nothing useful this time either. Call was from a burner phone to a Mill Street extension. A male who made a clumsy effort to disguise his voice said that Barton had confessed to him that he had killed Lorna, and dumped her body in the quarry. Claimed Barton had run into her and Lorna had gotten angry, had said she was going to file the charges again. Barton is supposed to have killed her in a fit of rage, dumped her body in the flooded quarry on his land.’
‘You’ve arrested him?’
‘No choice. Her body was in the quarry, on his land. We searched his place. There was bloodstained clothing hidden at the back of one of his wardrobes. We’ve sent it for testing but I think we both know that it will be her blood.’
The wind whipped Carrie’s hair across her face, and she pushed it back with one hand, looking past Cormac to the street beyond. ‘Everything leads to Barton. A great big neon sign, pointing his way.’
‘You don’t think he did it,’ Cormac said flatly.
Her eyes returned to his. ‘I know he didn’t do it.’
He knew it too, knew it to his bones, but that didn’t mean he understood. ‘Why would he kill her? His own sister.’
A look of intense relief crossed Carrie’s face, and was gone. ‘He’s not the person he pretends to be. Lorna was afraid of him. More afraid of him than she was of anything else. She was raped a year and a half ago. She came to Galway to report it and I met with her. She came alone, and her biggest concern was that Danny would hear of it.’ Her eyes took his measure, trying to read how he was reacting to her words. ‘I’ve just come from the house. Danny’s not there. He took compassionate leave, but he hasn’t been near the parents.’
Shit. ‘Jack Blake was there that day. At the lake.’
‘Your dead boy?’ she asked.
‘Danny’s been all over the case from the beginning. Pushing for the sister to be charged. Coming up with evidence.’
There was a noise from the station behind them. A pair of uniforms came down the steps, throwing curious looks in their direction. And then her phone rang.
Carrie answered it, pressing the mobile to her ear, her eyes still on Cormac in a way that let him know that whatever this was, he needed to hear about it.
‘Stay where you are,’ she said into the phone. ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’
She hung up, sliding the phone back into her pocket, her eyes still locked with his. ‘I need you with me,’ she said. ‘She might talk this time.’ She waited only for his nod, and then she was running, Cormac two steps behind her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The handover with Cummins hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Aisling was there, ready and waiting, at 8 p.m. At first she was relieved he was late, it gave her a chance to pull herself together after her scare at the quarry and her conversation with McIntyre. When he still hadn’t appeared by nine she assumed he was in a surgery that ran over. But when she went looking half an hour later she found that he’d changed his plans and wasn’t coming in until ten. By the time he finally showed up she’d been exhausted, and furious, and incapable of holding it all in. For the first time in her life she told a consultant exactly what she thought of him: unprofessional, self-involved, with completely unrealistic expectations. She got it all out, then stood there, hyperventilating, and waiting for her career to disappear down the tubes. He’d looked her up and down for a long moment, laughed, said that maybe she had what it took to be a surgeon after all, and invited her to join him in an emergency surgery that had just come in. Asshole, she’d thought, but hadn’t said. She’d taken a deep breath, and thanked him.
The aortic aneurysm repair started at ten thirty, and took nearly eight hours. She finally left the hospital just after 9 a.m. the following morning. Tired, but with her leave approved, and maybe an improvement in her relationship with Cummins. He’d let her run the procedure, only stepping in at her request for a pivotal section she had seen done only once before. Sometime in the night she’d made her decision. She was going home to sleep. Would take Monday and Tuesday to rest. Then, on Tuesday night, she would take those little white pills, go to bed, and wait. Aisling drove home feeling sad, and tired, but sure all the same that it was the right decision. Now was not the time for her to have a baby. Someday, maybe, if she was very lucky. She would do this, and she would forgive herself, and she would try, very hard, to move on with her life.
For now what she wanted was food in front of the TV, then bed. And she would try not to think about anything. Not about Jack, not about Maude, not about work, and definitely not about Wednesday. But she couldn’t help turning it all over in her mind as she drove home. McIntyre was wrong. Maude hadn’t killed Jack. She had done everything possible to force a police investigation into his death. If she’d killed Jack, why on earth would she set about trying to prove his death was murder, and not suicide? But something had happened to Jack at Lough Mask, and whatever was going on out there, it must be bigger than Jack and Maude. On Tuesday she would find a way to see Maude
, talk to her. If she could find out who her lawyer was, maybe she would be able to arrange a visit.
Aisling pulled up outside the house and parked, mentally cataloguing the contents of the fridge, and how long it would take for the living room to warm up once she got the fire on. But when she opened the door she found that the house was pleasantly warm. Odd. The timer on the boiler must be behaving itself. But there was light too, coming from the living room, and the sound of the television. She went to the living room and pushed the door open. And her stomach turned and looped and her heart was in her mouth. Because there was a man, the same size and shape as Jack, sitting in his chair, wearing his jumper – the same one she had worn the morning before. And there was a fire on. And that was their programme even – a repeat of Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway – the same stupid programme she’d been planning to watch with Jack the night he never came home. Except it wasn’t Jack sitting in the chair. It was Daniel McIntyre. And he was holding a gun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Carrie drove. She’d had keys for an unmarked in her pocket and that was what they took, driving fast and controlled through busy streets. The car had lights they could have thrown onto the roof, and a siren, but she didn’t use either and he assumed she had her reasons.
‘Who was it, Carrie? Who called you?’
She didn’t take her eyes from the road. ‘Sarah McIntyre. Danny’s wife. I gave her my number months ago, but she’s never called me before.’
‘Your domestic violence case,’ Cormac said slowly. ‘The one you talked about the other night. Married woman, two kids. That’s who you were talking about, right? You were talking about Sarah.’
Carrie slowed, shifting down a gear as she took a corner, accelerated out of it. ‘It’s not a case. There’s never been a formal investigation. Lorna told me about the abuse. I tried to talk to Sarah about it, more than once. She’s always denied it.’
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