A door to the side of the hall opened and a woman appeared pushing a trolley laden with mugs, biscuits and jugs of coffee.
‘Wonderful, Imelda,’ Heather sang, ‘we’ll have a coffee and get down to it.’
Resigning herself to three hours of boredom, Kelly sat back. But, actually, it wasn’t too bad. Some of the information, perhaps brought from the original group Tarjous, was interesting. Most of it was related to the art of listening, to the use of reassuring, if meaningless, words. Kelly, having heard so many over the last few months agreed with what Heather said – they may be meaningless but something about their being formulaic restored a natural order and anyone who had their world turned upside down, for whatever reason, longed to return to that.
The three hours, to Kelly’s surprise, flew by.
‘You’ve all been wonderful,’ Heather gushed. ‘That’s the formal foundation done. Now, I’d like to introduce our founder Viveka Larsson.’ She turned with raised hands and started clapping as the door opened and an attractive woman, younger than Kelly expected, came forward. Heather turned to them still clapping, raising her hands toward them. Kelly thought at first she was clapping them but quickly realised it was a hint. They were to clap Viveka Larsson. Reluctantly she did, unwilling to be the only abstainer.
Anyway there was something so dramatic about the woman. She wore a flowing silk Kaftan-like garment of various hues. If she were trying to evoke the image of an exotic butterfly, she succeeded. The image was heightened when she lifted her arms in response to their applause, stretching them out toward them and then bringing them back, her hands finally lying one atop the other on her chest.
‘Bloody hell,’ Kelly muttered under her breath, even as she continued to clap.
Finally, Heather stopped, and as if she pulled a switch so did the four new volunteers.
Viveka didn’t sit. She glided backwards and forwards before them, telling them of her plans for Offer. How it was going to grow. ‘At first,’ she said, her voice only slightly accented, ‘they said they didn’t need us. That we were surplus to requirements. But we have proven them wrong. Have we not, my dear Heather?’ She didn’t wait for Heather’s enthusiastic and emphatic nod but sailed away again, butterfly arms creating a slight breeze as she passed. ‘They need us more and more. And soon we will provide our service not only from police-stations but from hospitals, doctor’s surgeries, wherever, in fact, there is human drama and tragedy. And the name Offer will be synonymous with support and care!’
Charisma. Buckets of it, Kelly thought as once again Heather led them in a round of clapping.
Viveka Larsson’s perambulations had brought her to a full stop directly in front of Kelly and, under the harsh light that hung directly overhead, Kelly could see that the woman wasn’t as young as she had first thought. Mid sixties, maybe even more. Make-up was artful but heavy. The silk turban affair which covered her hair emphasised the high cheekbones and the beautiful, almost navy-blue, eyes. But the costume, the drama, the butterfly arms, couldn’t hide the sagging under her jaw or the fine lines that radiated from her mouth and the outer corner of her eyes.
As if aware of her regard, the woman looked down and caught Kelly’s eye and smiled. ‘Welcome,’ she said directly to her, and then lifted her gaze and her arms to the rest, ‘Welcome, all of you.’
And there and then, Kelly, who had already decided she wanted nothing more to do with the group, changed her mind.
14
Charisma was like suntan lotion, Kelly decided, five weeks later. You had to apply it every day otherwise it just didn’t work.
She hadn’t met Viveka Larsson since that first day. She’d been out with a couple of veteran volunteers and it turned out they had never seen her again either. Kelly had also learned the truth about Offer. They weren’t either wanted or needed and were most definitely still considered surplus to requirements. Only the blessing of Inspector Morrison, it appeared, enabled them to sit hour after hour in the waiting room.
Doing just that. Waiting for a call for help that never came.
By her third night out, she was heartily sick of it. Bored with making small talk to the other volunteer. Bored with sitting on hard, uncomfortable seats in a chilly room where the smell of urine was barely held at bay by the astringent smell of detergent.
And she hated the look of derision on the stocky desk sergeant’s face.
She had told Heather on her second night that not only were they not wanted ‘more and more’ as Viveka had said, but it looked as if they weren’t wanted at all. Heather looked aggrieved and assured Kelly that they were providing a very important service. But when Kelly asked when and who with, Heather hesitated, spun some unbelievable tale about confidentiality and then rushed away before Kelly could tell her she didn’t want to continue.
Never again, she decided leaving the station after her third night. Enough was enough. She had tried it. It most definitely wasn’t for her.
Despite the fact she had never had a chance to prove she could do it, she felt a failure. She was angry with Heather for dragging her into it. Angry for Viveka Larsson for making it seem so important, so life affirming. And really angry with herself for...? For what? Her counsellor had warned her anger would come. ‘It’s all about the grieving/healing process,’ he’d told her. ‘You will be angry at the world for letting it happen to you and angry at yourself for being the victim. For being the woman Simon lied to and cheated.’
‘He didn’t say I’d be angry for having been a fool,’ Kelly said aloud as she locked her car and went into her house. ‘But I suppose it all goes together.’
Restless following her boring evening, she pulled on leggings and spent an hour on her exercise bike. Finally tired, she headed to bed refusing to dwell on Offer.
Early next morning her phone rang. Startled she answered it, fear pumping. ‘Hello?’
‘Kelly, I am so sorry to call you and I wouldn’t only we are really stuck. We are supposed to cover the station this morning but Pat has gone down with a bug. There is nobody else to send. I’d go myself but I am rostered for this evening...’ Heather voice managed to combine equal measures of panic and manipulation. ‘It’s so important that we keep our presence up. I know you haven’t really had an induction yet; your three visits have unfortunately for you been very quiet. But if you could just do this shift this morning, Viveka would be extremely grateful.’
Evoking the name of the great lady was Heather’s trump card, it seemed. Kelly wanted to tell her the charismatic appeal had worn off. Wanted to tell her, no way. Instead she found herself agreeing. After all, she really had nothing else to do.
And that was why she was in the station when the call came through for help at the Roberts’ house. She had been the only one available.
And since that day she’d been busy. She’d been out with Mrs Roberts and her family a number of times. Just listening. Making tea. Listening. She’d also been out to that sweet Mrs Lee, sitting listening to her and her stories. The woman hadn’t yet recovered from the break-in. There was a marked tremble in her hands that Kelly would bet money, wasn’t there before it.
It was the writing on the mirror that did it, she knew. A simple burglary would have been bad enough but the mindless evil of that one word, die, struck a cold fear into the elderly woman. Several times during her visits Mrs Lee would say, ‘Who would do such a thing? Who would do such an awful thing?’
And Kelly would reassure her as best as she could. But she had no answers, just the usual platitudes that offered momentary comfort. She guessed her daughter would get her way and Mrs Lee would move in with her. She hoped it would work out for both of them.
Catching the person who did it would give her a lot of comfort but when Kelly asked in the station she was told simply that it was still under investigation. Which she took to be shorthand for, they didn’t have a clue.
And now the Mathews. Another mindless crime.
The gardai really needed to get their act togethe
r and catch the people responsible for these crimes. Police incompetence, she thought, practising the words in a derogatory tone she wished she could use when in ear-shot of Garda Sergeant West.
15
West was standing staring at their murder board when Andrews arrived in the station on Monday morning.
‘Hey, Pete,’ West said turning to greet him. ‘Petey ok after Saturday’s drama?
Andrews nodded and smiled. ‘Said it was the most exciting party he’s had. He didn’t seem to take it in that Jake might have been in danger. I didn’t want to rub it in too much but it concerns me, you know. We tell them, time and time again, not to go off with strangers. And all that woman had to do was promise to show Jake a game he hadn’t tried, and off he went.’
‘The report from the paediatric abuse unit came in. As we guessed. No interference.’ West frowned. ‘She may have noticed the extra garda presence, I suppose. Although we didn’t have extra in Bray, did we?’
‘We hadn’t gone that far out, Mike. We’d put feet on the ground in Dun Laoghaire at the ferry terminal. And the airport was alerted. But we hadn’t put it on the radio or TV.’
West brooded a moment, lost in thought. ‘I wonder if we should put an alert out, all the same. TV and radio. Just to make people aware. Make them keep a closer eye on their kids.’
Andrews shrugged. ‘People may for a while and then things will go back to the way they were. Our abductor will just lay low, bide their time.’
West looked at him more keenly, ‘You’re hedging there. You’re not convinced it’s a woman? Why?’
Andrews poured a coffee, took a sip and grimaced. ‘A weekend of decent coffee and then we have to get used to this crap every Monday morning.’ He perched on the side of a desk. ‘It may be a woman. But we have no description, no photograph. Young Jake couldn’t tell us one way or the other.’ He took a thoughtful sip of the bitter coffee, ‘He said she spoke in a whisper. It’s one way to disguise your voice. You or I might be able to tell the difference but I’m not sure a child as young as Jake could.’
‘What about the bumper car ride? Did the lads find anyone who saw Jake?’
Andrews laughed and shook his head. ‘A couple of uniforms called in to have a word. The place was jammed. The bumper-car operator who was on duty at the time said there was no way he would remember one stupid brat from the other. Didn’t remember any woman dressed the way we described but he pointed out that Bray has quite a high proportion of observant Muslims wearing the full garb.’
‘Probably why she chose to go there,’ West said.
‘Or he,’ Andrews countered.
West nodded, conceding the point. ‘I’m going to let Morrison decide about the alerts. That’s the kind of thing he likes to be involved in. For now, we can’t do anything else with it. We need to get back to our murder enquiry.’
Andrews stood, went to move to his desk and then hesitating, turned and asked, ‘Before we get on to that, what are we doing about this burglary? Mrs Lee?’
‘Officially the burglary case isn’t mine.’
‘Sergeant Clark would say the same if he were here, you know. Nothing was stolen,’ Andrews pointed out, ‘so officially it isn’t a burglary.’
‘A break-in, then. Same difference.’ West said.
‘We don’t have anywhere to log break-ins,’ Andrews said, moving to his desk and switching on the computer. ‘And if we log it as a burglary we have to fill in what was taken. Nothing was taken, so...’
West raised his eyes to Heaven. He detested the forms he was required to fill in. The red-tape, the mindless stupidity of it all. ‘I don’t know why you are doing this, where’s Declan gone?’
‘He asked me about it. I didn’t have an answer so I told him I’d speak to you and finish it up. I don’t mind helping young Declan. He’s a good worker. Diligent too.’ Andrews said, staring at his computer screen willing it to come alive.
West nodded, ‘I agree, he’s one of the good ones. Ok, log it as a burglary, Peter. And put down her ‘piece of mind’ under what was stolen. The computer won’t know any difference and you can finish the damn thing.’
‘Clever,’ Andrews said, his fingers moving slowly, steadily over the keys. He swore softly, deleted, tapped again.
West stood watching, his mind elsewhere.
Andrew finished and glanced up, ‘You look...what’s that nice word you use...ah yes, perturbed. You look perturbed.’
West smiled and leaned back against the desk behind. ‘I’m puzzled over this Roberts case. So far we haven’t been able to find a motive. We’ve cherchezed la femme, the money and anything else I could think of cherchezing. Nothing. Nada.’
‘Yet, murdered he was,’ Andrews muttered.
‘Murdered, he most definitely was,’ West agreed. ‘Reports of his death on the news and in the papers have been accompanied with an appeal for the unknown blonde lady to come forward. She hasn’t so we have to look on her as a person of interest. We certainly don’t have any other leads.’
Andrews stood. ‘The funeral’s tomorrow. You think we should go?’
West nodded. ‘I’ve never yet spotted a potential suspect at the funeral of a victim. But conventional theory suggests it does happen. Maybe we’ll get lucky and an unknown blonde woman will turn up looking shifty.’
‘Something has to go our way, Mike. We’re having a bit of a bad spell.’ He turned to deal with the other routine, day-to-day work that needed to be done in any Garda station.
West headed back to his office and sat. He just couldn’t get a handle on this one. Decent, upstanding law-abiding men weren’t murdered. Standing, restless, he went back out to the murder board. There were the usual crime scene photos. Laboratory reports detailing the results from examining the stomach contents and foodstuffs found in the Roberts’ kitchen. He glanced over the autopsy report for the millionth time, the details of the death made gruesome reading. Gerard Roberts had not shuffled off his mortal coil without a lot of anguish.
There was a report into Gerard Roberts’ finances and an overview of the finances of every member of the family. That was the sum of their investigations.
A motiveless crime? It wasn’t unheard of, West knew. But looking at the crime scene photographs. Seeing Gerard Roberts face he knew it was something more. To kill a man in this way. To cause such pain. There had to be a reason. It was there. Somewhere. They’d just have to dig a bit deeper.
He just wasn’t sure where to stick his spade.
16
The funeral was a colour co-ordinated affair. Huge brooding rain-clouds in a grim grey sky, black-garbed attendees, the wet greyness of the church.
People gathered in small groups outside the Church of All Saints, muttering sombrely, breaking apart, to form almost immediately into other groups, same sombre words, breaking apart, forming again. A wave of gentle movement, the same sad words said over and over, people catching up with distant relatives, vague acquaintances; the myriad people who float in the outer circles of everyone’s life gathering only for weddings and funerals. Heads nodding in sadness, shaking in incredulity. A crowd in constant motion.
West and Andrews, conventionally dressed in dark suits, back ties, stood to the back, keen eyes scanning the group watching for something or someone out-of-the-ordinary. So far all the two men had seen was genuine grief, all they heard was the usual platitudes, the empty meaningless words exchanged between people who didn’t really know each other but who felt obliged to say something.
Voices fell silent as the hearse came into view; faces, like sunflowers in the sun, turned to follow its progress through the church gates. They moved back, en masse, to give it room, staying back, staring in various degrees of horror, sadness, grief at the wooden box containing the remains of their friend, relation, colleague.
Their victim?
West, eyes narrowed, scanned faces, saw nothing suspicious, no vestiges of guilt, no shifty glances.
Following immediately behind the hearse, the black
limousine carrying the family stopped closer to the church door. It sat for a moment as if the occupants needed that extra moment to compose their faces for the ordeal ahead. David Roberts, gangly in an ill-fitting black suit, climbed out first then turned to offer his hand to his mother. She moved slowly, clumsily, tripping on the first step to the church door and then stopped and stood a moment, her tiny body doll-like in a tight fitting black coat, her face obscured by the brim of a black hat.
A silhouette, West thought, remembering a cameo brooch his mother used to wear.
An ‘Oh dear,’ softly muttered by Andrews brought his wandering attention back and he followed Andrews’ gaze.
Following Mrs Roberts from the car were a couple West took to be her sister and brother-in-law. But what had caused Andrews’ mutterings were the two women who followed close behind. Sophia Roberts, of course, he expected. But with her, arm-in-arm, was the bane of his life, Kelly Johnson.
West was spared the necessity of commenting as, just then, David Roberts returned to the hearse with his uncle. Two men West didn’t know moved forward to join them. The hearse door was opened and the undertakers organised the four men who hoisted the coffin shoulder high and carried it into the church. West didn’t think David was going to make it, his face was pale, his body visible trembling with the effort. But then he noticed the undertaker keeping a close eye, obviously ready to step in if needed, so he relaxed and fell into step with the crowd who followed slowly behind.
A determination to do his father proud kept David Roberts’ pace steady as the funeral cortege moved slowly, quietly down the long aisle of the Church of All Saints. Tears were already visible on many faces, the panda-eyed look on many of the women’s faces showing they weren’t the first tears of the day. Reaching the altar the four men lowered the coffin to the stand and stepped back, bowed their heads to the altar and then slid into the pews. David joined his mother who was sobbing quietly, his face stoic, his hand, as he placed it on his mother’s shoulder, visibly trembling.
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