The Ruin

by Dervla McTiernan

  Thank you to Libby Mathews, for letting me bend her ear on our early morning walks. Thank you to the Australia Day camping team (43°. . . who needs a citizenship ceremony!?) – Libby and Tim Mathews, Claire and Grey Properjohn, and Sara and Michael Pearson. Thank you for your friendship, your humour, your support and encouragement.

  Thank you to everyone who stepped in when things were rotten, with such generosity and thoughtfulness – Libby, Claire and Sara, and of course Helen Pelusey, Kate Francesca, Katherine Kalaf, Lisa Whiteley, Jess Sharp, Lisa Eastwood, Maja Bajin, and Kylie Walford. Your kindness meant so much to us.

  Thank you to Hampers by HRP – Carly Dolinski, Katherine Davis, Louise Southalan, Carol Low, Kat Naude, and Tim Owen (I still have Ted with the Bandaged Head); and to Elaine Paterson and Michael Moltoni for your support and generosity.

  There is a garda sergeant out there who was very generous with his time but who shall remain nameless as I am sure is his preference. I took wild liberties with what I was told when it suited the story – all errors and omissions are mine.

  Thank you to Sara Foster, a wonderful writer and friend who was generous with her time beyond the call of friendship. Thank you too to Natasha Lester, for her fantastic teaching.

  Thank you to Mary and Mick Callan, for your hospitality and support . . . and for providing the world’s loveliest writer’s retreat!

  Thank you to Orla McGowan, for picking us up and putting us up! You were so lovely Orla, and we’ve never forgotten it. Thank you to Lorna Quinn, for your support and general all-round loveliness.

  Thank you to my quality control department, Kathleen and Seamus McTiernan, for all your love and kindness. Looking forward already to Perth 2018!

  Thank you to Freya and Oisín, for sometimes letting Daddy do bedtime so I could write. I love you both so very, very much.

  And thank you Kenny, for everything. For your unending support. For believing in me long before I believed in myself. Five-year plans are the best!

  Read on for an exclusive preview of Cormac Reilly’s next compelling case, to be released in 2019.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Carrie O’Halloran’s phone was stubbornly silent. She’d expected a call from Ciarán so the girls could say goodnight. When that hadn’t happened she’d held out for a post-bedtime update. Eight o’clock came and went and her phone screen remained dark. She could have called him, she knew that, but she didn’t have the energy for another one of those conversations. Instead she put her phone in the drawer, and turned again to the mound of paper on her desk.

  The case she was working on needed all her attention. It should have been a slam dunk – Rob Henderson had been caught red-handed after all – but the case showed distressing signs of slipping out of her control. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Carrie had interviewed Lucy Henderson herself, but now she was reviewing the statements of colleagues and extended family members, looking for the lever she could use to open Lucy up to the fact that her husband was a murderous bastard. Half an hour passed before Carrie put her pen down and sat back from her desk. She took her phone from the drawer and woke the screen. No messages, no missed calls. Damnit. She didn’t want to go home. The girls would be asleep, the kitchen in a tip, and Ciarán would be pissed off and sulking. It would be easier to just go down to the basement, find an empty cell, and sleep there. She’d have to be back by six the next day anyway if she was going to finish her Henderson prep on time.

  Carrie shut her computer down, stood, and took her jacket from the back of her chair. She looked around. She wasn’t the only one working, but she was the only one in the room who had started her shift at seven that morning. Fuck’s sake. It would be one thing if it was a once off, but it had been like this for months. When she’d made sergeant she’d been thrilled at the thought of managing her own time. She would report to Murphy, yes, but looked forward to the broad autonomy sergeants had to run their own cases, and the gardaí reporting to them. The reality was nowadays she had less control than ever. As a uniformed garda she’d been able to go in, work her shift, and go home. There was always someone to take her place. Yes, she’d worked overtime, but that had only been as needed, and in this day and age of budget cuts, as needed was a rare thing. Now she was one of only three sergeants working out of Mill Street Garda Station, and she never went home because if she did the work would never get done.

  Carrie walked out of the room, along the corridor to the stairs, started down. She was still holding her mobile phone in one hand and it buzzed, finally. A text message flashed up on the screen and she read it in a glance. I’m golfing on Saturday. Girls are going to my mother’s. Fuck. No way. Carrie stared at her phone, thought about Mel Hackett on holiday in the south of France, about Cormac Reilly walking out of the station at six o’clock, as he had every day this week. She turned on her heel and made for the superintendent’s office. She knocked on the door, waited, then opened it and leaned into the room.

  ‘A moment, sir?’

  Brian Murphy was engrossed in whatever was on his computer screen. His mouse hand clicked twice before he looked up. It was after hours; he was probably posting on triathletenow.com again. Not for the first time Carrie tried to think of a way to drop a hint that Murphy’s posting on the site wasn’t as anonymous as he thought. Somehow, someone in vice had found out his user handle, and it was now known across the station. The night that TopCopTriGuy had engaged in a detailed discussion of haemorrhoid problems in older cyclists had resulted in station-wide hilarity, and the placing of cushions on meeting room chairs whenever Murphy was likely to appear. He couldn’t possibly be as oblivious as he seemed, could he?

  He gestured to her to take a seat. ‘So Henderson is catatonic. Is he faking?’

  Carrie shrugged. ‘The doctor says not, but I’ve my doubts.’

  ‘And the wife?’

  ‘Still in denial. I’ve a meeting with her again tomorrow. I’m going to push her. I think she might be hiding something.’

  ‘Update me afterwards,’ Murphy said. ‘Let me know if you make any progress.’

  Carrie nodded. She would have done so without the request. The case was high profile, and Murphy had been all over it from the beginning. He looked at her expectantly, waiting for more.

  ‘Sir, I’ve got too much on,’ she blurted. ‘Too many cases, I mean.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve six active cases. Seven more that will go to court within the next few months.’ Meanwhile Mel Hackett had what, two? Three max. And Reilly nothing current at all. ‘It’s not sustainable. If I keep working like this I’ll make mistakes.’

  ‘It’s not a nine-to-five job, Carrie. I made that clear to you when I offered you the promotion.’

  She ignored that. Went straight to what she knew would motivate him. ‘I’ve had a look at the stats. Our timeframe to clearance is running long. And we’ve two missing persons not yet traced. I know the Commissioner was looking for a zero rate this year from Galway.’

  Murphy leaned back in his chair. ‘Hackett is due back next week,’ he said. ‘We’ll sit down then and do a case review, see what can be redistributed.’

  ‘Sir, I talked to Mel before she went on holiday. She’s positive she doesn’t have the capacity to take on anything more.’ Which was bollox, but beside the point.

  Murphy rubbed his jaw, compressed his lips, and said nothing.

  ‘Cormac Reilly . . .’ Carrie started to say.

  ‘Reilly is fully engaged,’ Murphy said. ‘He’s caught up in a cold case review that takes all of his time.’

  Carrie made no attempt to hide her frustration. ‘Christ sir, when do you want me to get it done? In my sleep?’

  ‘This is the job, Carrie.’

  ‘Sir, what I’m telling you is that you’ve got three sergeants working for you, and the least experienced of them is doing seventy per cent of the work load.’ Because Hackett was an old hand at managing the system, and Cormac Reilly wasn’t let near anything that looked like a
real case. ‘Reilly is a bloody good detective,’ Carrie continued. ‘I’ve heard about some of the cases he’s run and won. We’re lucky to have him. And it is madness to keep him working pissy cold cases that aren’t going to go anywhere. You need to put him on active cases, or replace him with someone you can use.’ Carrie stopped. She’d gone too far. She waited for Murphy to show her the door.

  ‘One of those pissy little cold cases, as you so colourfully call them, has resulted in a major arrest.’

  ‘That’s one case,’ Carrie said quickly, hiding her relief. ‘And the doer’s been extradited. He’ll be tried in the U.S., not here.’

  There was a long pause, during which voices from the last few police in the building could be heard loudly talking about pints and weekend plans. It was all so bloody stupid. Did he really think that Reilly would just throw in the towel if he was frozen out for long enough? He was a career cop, it was in his DNA. Reilly was going nowhere, unless of course he transferred back to Dublin. He might already have done that if it wasn’t for the girlfriend. Partner. Whatever.

  ‘It wasn’t his fault, sir. The shooting.’

  ‘I never suggested it was.’

  Carrie hesitated. The part of her that was interested in self-preservation and possible future career advancement wanted her to shut up. The part of her that was desperate for a weekend off, some time with her kids, and at least a chance of saving her marriage, said to press on. The little bit of her that believed Cormac Reilly had been treated unfairly tipped the balance.

  ‘It’s not going to work,’ Carrie said quietly. ‘He’s not going to go anywhere, and people are starting to talk. The uniforms aren’t stupid. They know about his experience, his previous success rate. Internal affairs cleared him in the shooting case, on paper he’s back on active duty, but in practice he gets nothing. They’re asking why. They’re saying there’s no smoke without fire. Sooner or later Reilly will have to do something. What if he calls in the union? Or worse, a lawyer?’

  ‘If you’re suggesting that Cormac Reilly has been treated unfavourably because of what happened in April, O’Halloran, you’re out of line. Reilly gets his cases in rotation like everyone else.’

  Carrie said nothing more, waited. Let the lie hang in the air between them. She looked at Murphy, caught his gaze and held it.

  He was the first to look away. When he spoke it was very quietly. ‘You’re sure about this, Carrie? There’s no going back.’

  She hesitated. ‘I’m sure.’

  Without looking at her he turned to his computer screen, moved and clicked his mouse. Read something that Carrie couldn’t see.

  ‘Give Reilly the Durkan case.’ Another click of the keys. ‘Nesbitt too.’ A pause. ‘And the Henderson case.’

  Carrie had been on the point of smiling in relief, but at the last she froze, opened her mouth to protest. ‘Sir, I . . .’

  ‘I read the transcript of your last interview with Lucy Henderson. You’re not getting anywhere with her. Let Reilly see where he can take it. She strikes me as the type who’d respond better to a man.’

  His tone made it clear that the meeting was at an end.

  Shit.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ She waited, but he didn’t react. She had reached the door when he spoke again.

  ‘O’Halloran. I hope this isn’t a mistake.’ His expression was distant and the message was clear. Carrie had been granted a favour and that favour had been noted in his little book of favours owed and given. He would call it in too, he always did.

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Cormac was surprised, but not unpleasantly so, to get a text message from Carrie O’Halloran asking if he was free for a quick drink on a Friday evening. He was in town anyway, as it happened, having a pint and waiting for Emma to finish work. They had a booking for a late dinner. He texted Carrie back, and ordered himself another drink and a glass of red for her while he waited.

  He liked Carrie. She was a good cop, a good sergeant, and he trusted her. Three months before, when an investigation Cormac was working led him to a violent confrontation with a colleague, Carrie had done what she could to ensure that the powers that be didn’t scapegoat him. Since then they’d had coffee or lunch together a handful of times, but they weren’t on the kind of terms that included Friday night drinks. Something must be up.

  She arrived five minutes later, made her way through the bar and found him in his corner booth. He watched her as she approached, noted the signs of tiredness around her eyes. She was still wearing the tailored pants and jacket he’d seen her in earlier that day. She clocked the wine as soon as she sat down.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But I should probably have coffee.’ She still reached out and picked up the glass, took a sip. ‘I haven’t been home before ten o’clock any night this week. I worked the last two weekends, and worked three last month. I’m overloaded. I’ve spoken to Murphy and he’s told me to transfer some cases to you.’

  Cormac nodded slowly. ‘That makes sense,’ he said. He couldn’t quite get a read of her – had she wanted this? ‘Which cases?’

  ‘Durkan. Nesbitt. And Henderson.’

  ‘Right.’ The first two he’d heard nothing about, assumed were standard fare. But the Henderson case. He’d heard enough about it to know that it was a case she’d been working passionately. It was almost certainly the case that had kept her at the station all hours for the past week.

  ‘Henderson,’ Cormac said. ‘Are you all right about that?’

  ‘No,’ she said baldly. She sipped her wine, then turned to him. ‘Murphy wasn’t too pleased with me putting him under pressure. I gave him an earful about you working cold cases. Said he needed to shit or get off the pot. Well, not in so many words.’

  ‘And Henderson was his way of saying . . .’

  ‘His way of saying thank you, yes.’ She put her glass down on the table. ‘It’s an important case to get right,’ she said, and he could tell that she was picking her words carefully. ‘Lucy Henderson is a hard read.’

  ‘Right,’ Cormac said. He drank from his pint, buying time. He didn’t want the case, didn’t want to pick something up that had someone else’s fingerprints, someone else’s method all over it. Particularly when that someone else resented handing it over. Christ, was he ever going to have a clean case to work again? Something that he could run from the beginning, something that wasn’t lousy with station politics.

  ‘Let’s talk to Murphy on Monday. Decide which cases are at a good stage to unload. You keep Henderson. I’ll take whatever you think is at a good stage to pass over. If we present Murphy with a fait accompli he’ll have to take it.’

  She looked surprised, then considering, then reluctantly shook her head. Took a longer sip from her glass of wine. ‘He’s right, though I hate to admit it. I’ve made no progress with the wife. She might respond better to you. And the hearing will almost certainly clash with one of my other cases. I think you’re going to have to take it.’ She still looked tired but some of the tension had gone out of her voice.

  Cormac leaned forward. ‘Carrie, I’ve no wish to be at outs with you.’

  She waived him off. ‘No. Sorry. It’s me. I was a bit pissed off, but that’s just the tiredness speaking. I should go home. Get some sleep.’ But she made no move to stand.

  A phone vibrated against the table and they both looked down. Cormac picked it up.

  ‘That’s Emma. Come with us for dinner. Have a bite before you drive home.’ Before Carrie could respond Cormac answered the call.

  ‘Em? You finished? I’m in Buskers. The back bar.’ The relaxed look on Cormac’s face faded quickly, and he stood, putting a hand to his ear to block noise so he could concentrate on the call. He locked eyes with Carrie.

  ‘Where are you? Emma. Stop. Take a breath.’ Cormac’s face was tense but his tone was very controlled. ‘Tell me where you are.’

  And then he was moving.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DERVLA McTIERNAN was born in County Cork
, Ireland, to a family of seven. She studied corporate law at the National University of Ireland, Galway, and the Law Society of Ireland, and practised as a lawyer for twelve years. Following the global financial crisis, she moved with her family to Western Australia, where she now works for the Mental Health Commission. In 2015, she submitted a story for the Sisters in Crime Scarlet Stiletto competition and was shortlisted. This inspired her to complete the novel that would become The Rúin. She lives in Perth with her husband and two children.

  COPYRIGHT

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  First published in Australia in 2018

  by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

  ABN 36 009 913 517

  harpercollins.com.au

  Copyright © Dervla McTiernan 2018

  The right of Dervla McTiernan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  978 1 4607 5421 4 (paperback)

  978 1 4607 0867 5 (ebook)

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  McTiernan, Dervla, author.

  The rúin / Dervla McTiernan.

  Cold cases (Criminal investigation) – Fiction.