‘I don’t understand,’ he said, ‘what this is all about. What you’ve been doing to me over the last few weeks. First of all you start harassing my wife, needlessly upsetting her by telling her things about my past which are my business and only my business. Then you start watching me, following me, going around all my sites, questioning my staff. Then you show up at my house again, asking me the same old questions over and over although I’ve already told you everything I know.’
‘And not told us everything you know, isn’t that the point, Dan? I’ve asked you repeatedly about where you might have gone with Rachel Beckett and you didn’t tell us about the trip you made with her on your boat. A lot of people saw you that day. They saw the two of you down at the pier. They saw you get into the dinghy and head off with her. But no one saw you come back. So why don’t you just get it all off your chest? Tell us what happened.’
He looked around the small stuffy room. There was Donnelly and Sweeney and an unnamed, uniformed guard standing in the corner. Every now and then there would be a knock at the door and someone else would come in to whisper in Donnelly’s ear or pass him a note. Donnelly would smile or frown, consult with Sweeney in another whisper. It was all play-acting, Daniel knew. He’d heard his father talk about interrogations often enough in the past to know what was smoke and what was fire. But he wasn’t taking any chances.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve had enough. I want my solicitor. I know what my rights are. I told you to phone him. I told you to get him here and I’m not saying another word until you do. Do you understand?’
‘Fine, no problem.’ Donnelly nodded to Sweeney. ‘Go and see what’s holding the guy up, will you, and while you’re at it bring in all the evidence. We might as well get started on that.’
They had served a number of search warrants on him. For his house, his office, his boat. Ursula had barely spoken to him for days now. The atmosphere in the house was poisonous. In vain, he had tried to tell her there was nothing to find, there could be nothing to find. Rachel Beckett was alive. He knew that.
‘But what I can’t understand,’ she kept on saying to him, ‘is what you were doing with her. Why did you see her again after that night at the party? I just don’t understand it. I don’t understand what was going on between the two of you.’
He had been present when they made their searches. He had seen the objects they had removed. Slipped in underneath the low double bed where he and Rachel had slept, where he and Ursula slept every night, they had found a pair of homemade earrings. Coloured beads on wire. They had found a button underneath the cushions on the sofa that matched, they said, one from a jacket of Rachel’s. They had taken fingerprints from door handles and tabletops. And they had found in the remains of a bonfire of leaves and garden rubbish, down by the path to the cliff, a charred leather handbag with a matching wallet and a small pocket diary, with a number of entries in Rachel’s handwriting. From his car they had picked hairs and fibres and found more fingerprints. And in the boot, in the canvas duffel bag in which he kept his sailing gear, they had found his jacket, dark brown smears all down the front. But it was what they had found in the boat that most worried him.
‘Explain that to us now, Dan. Your solicitor is here, present. He will, I’m sure, make certain that you don’t say anything that you wouldn’t want to. But you do have to give us an explanation for this.’
Donnelly held up a clear plastic bag. Inside was a knife.
‘So, Dan, tell us again what happened that Sunday when you and Rachel Beckett went out on your boat.’
The trap was being sprung. He thought of the rats he had seen his men and their dogs chasing on building sites for a bit of sport. He had watched the rats slither through impossibly tiny holes, flattening themselves to slide underneath stones, behind brick walls, jumping heights that might be eight, nine, ten times their own size. And then the moment of triumph when one of the dogs would seize the struggling rodent in its teeth. The sound of its frenzied screams made him cringe. He listened to the shrieks that were almost human in their pitch and intensity. And finally he would hear the dull sound as spade or shovel would flatten the animal against the ground. He thought of Rachel that day on the boat. She was wearing sunglasses, he remembered. They suited her, hid the tiredness of her eyes, made her look younger. He commented to her that they were expensive.
Where did you get them? he asked.
She smiled, her mouth opening, so her teeth peeped through her lips. A secret admirer, she said, then stretched herself out on the long seat on one side of the cockpit.
It was perfect sailing weather when they left the harbour. A south-easterly force four carrying them on a broad reach across Dublin Bay, past Howth, and onwards. He had forgotten what a good sailor Rachel was. She had an intuitive understanding of wind and wave. She moved with the boat, her balance perfect. As nimble as she had been years ago, although not as strong, he noticed, her hands soft and tender. But there were winches on this boat, so strength wasn’t such an issue. It was a good solid wooden sloop. Bermudan rig. Thirty feet in length over all, with one cabin below, a tiny galley and a toilet aft.
How far are we going? she had asked him.
And in reply he had said, How far would you like to go?
And she had laughed and held one hand over her eyes, in an exaggerated ship’s captain pose and replied, As far as the eye can see.
Time was a different commodity at sea. He had always noticed that. It was only his hunger that made him think of how long they had been out there, Hey, Rachel, you promised me food. I’m starving. What’ll it be?
He could hear her singing to herself down below. Her voice was tuneless. He looked around him. There weren’t so many other boats out today, despite the holiday and the weather. It was very quiet here. Very beautiful. Very lonely. He rested the tiller against his thigh, feeling the boat driving forward under the pressure of the wind. He closed his eyes and for a moment he drifted off.
He heard her voice. Saw her face looking up at him through the hatch. Dan, do you have a knife? I forgot to bring one.
Tool box, watch out, it’s very sharp. Turned his face up to the sun. Contentment, practically happiness. Then heard a cry. Sudden fear in her voice.
What is it? he shouted.
She didn’t answer.
Rachel, he called again, what’s the matter?
Screaming, no words, just sound.
Help me, help me. I’ve cut myself. I was using your knife to slice tomatoes and it slipped. I’m bleeding like mad. There’s blood all over everything. I’m so sorry. I’m making a real mess down here.
Then he heard her again. Dan, can you help me? I feel weak. I think I’m going to be sick.
He lashed the tiller in place and swung himself down into the cabin. She was sitting on the bunk, holding her left hand. Blood was running down her wrist, down her arm, dripping off her elbow. Blood on the flowered covers of the cushions, blood on the floor, blood all over her clothes.
Christ, he said as she reached out towards him, her face milky white, her eyes glazed, and fell against his chest. Blood on his shirt, blood on his jacket, blood all over the handkerchief he took from his pocket to bind the cut, the slice through the skin between thumb and first finger and down the pad of flesh beneath.
What did you do to yourself? How on earth did you do it?
It was your knife. I didn’t realize how sharp it was. I dropped it somewhere.
She stood up.
There. Look.
The knife was on the floor by her feet. He bent down and picked it up, putting it carefully out of the way on the shelf where he kept his charts, his compass, his sextant. He felt in the locker beneath the fold-out table for the first-aid kit. Then held her hand over the small sink in the galley, ignoring her protests as he pumped water from the tap on to the cut, watching the water turn pink as the blood ran down into the drain below. Then fumbled with a pad of cotton wool, a bandage, sticking plaster, anything to stop the blood that
continued to seep through. Finally, holding her hand, squeezing it tightly, ignoring the blood that stained his clothes, until eventually its flow ceased. Then bound her hand with a clean bandage and laid her back on the cushions to rest, while he found some brandy and gave her a glass then boiled the kettle for tea.
‘I see.’ Donnelly picked up the plastic bag again and looked at it. He turned it this way and that, then handed it to Sweeney. ‘I see. She cut herself with your knife. Your knife which only has your fingerprints on it. Your fingerprints in the blood which has been identified as her blood. She cut herself so badly that she bled all over the cabin of the boat, despite someone’s attempts to clean it up. She bled all over your shirt and trousers, your jacket, your handkerchief. And then, after she’d finished bleeding, she managed to slip the knife down behind the little cooker, in a place where it wouldn’t be found unless you actually pulled the whole thing to pieces, which is what, unfortunately, we had to do.’
Pick it up, Dan, before you step on it and get hurt. He could still hear her voice. The concern, the anxiety.
I’m all right, she said. I’m fine, really. I just need to rest for a little bit. But I think you’d better go back up on deck. It doesn’t sound too good out there.
‘So.’ Donnelly put the plastic bag back in the box again. ‘A number of people saw you leave the harbour with the woman on the boat. No one saw you come back. Now why would that have been?’
She was right. It wasn’t too good out there now. The wind had freshened. He reckoned it was force five, heading for six. It was cold suddenly and dark, clouds hanging low overhead, and streaks of rain, like wisps of dirty cobweb, visible on the horizon and getting closer. The swell had deepened and as he swung the boat around into the wind, struggling to gain control again, waves began to break over the bow and foredeck, sending streams of water rushing back into the cockpit. The weather forecast. Had it said this? He had asked Rachel to phone the recorded message. What had she said? Force three strengthening to four in the late afternoon. Visibility good. Possibility of light rain. Nothing like the storm that was gathering around him.
Can you manage? He saw her pale face looking up at him, still holding tightly on to the bandage, then reaching down into the cabin and handing him out his rain gear. Here, put this on. You’ll get soaked.
He had struggled with the main sail, to reef it, to make it smaller, fighting to keep his balance on the slippery deck, feeling the tide still carrying them back down the coast. It was she, wasn’t it, he was sure, who had said, the engine, use the engine, take the sails down. But when he checked the diesel he could see that the tank was virtually empty and the spare container was empty too.
Getting dark now, the lights from the houses along the coast glowing, wondering should he call for help. Then she was beside him, her hand wrapped in a plastic bag, wearing his old yellows, too big, so she looked like a clown. A smile on her face as she said, It’s all right. We can manage. Here. Taking the tiller. Somehow finding a course. Beating out on a long tack that took them, it seemed, almost out of sight of land, then going about, the bow of the boat rearing up, seeming almost to fall back on top of them, then settling down, cutting a furrow through the waves. Going below to hand him up squares of chocolate, slices of thick rich fruitcake, singing to him in her funny tuneless voice. Sea shanties and pop songs from their youth. Making him laugh, forget his fear. And all the time, keeping the boat on course, so eventually he saw the Dun Laoghaire lights, the encircling walls of the harbour, and felt peace and calm fall over him as they moored the boat. Got into the dinghy and reached the shore.
‘That’s why it was so late. That’s why no one saw us. Because of the storm. That’s why.’
‘And that’s how you were able to cover her killing, isn’t it? Where did you dump her body, Dan? How far out did you go with her? And you were careful, weren’t you? You took off her clothes, anything that might identify her further. And you dumped them too. But you know what, Dan? You should have given a bit more thought to the tidal drift in the Irish sea. Did you know that although there’s a hell of a rush up and down the coast, once you get out a bit further it’s like a bloody swimming pool. Nothing moves much. And that’s how we managed to get this.’
Another clear plastic bag, and inside it the remains of a black sack and some clothes.
‘Pulled out in some fishing nets. A trawler from Howth. The skipper was telling me. He said you’d be amazed what they find out there. You see, he said, the Irish Sea is like a tube. Once you get beyond the Kish lighthouse everything just goes round and round and round. You know what they are, don’t you? It’s what Rachel was wearing, wasn’t it? A pair of trousers and a shirt. Her new clothes. The ones that her nice friend Mrs Lynch bought her. She recognized them immediately. And do you know what’s in the shirt? Tears, rips, made with a very sharp knife. Just like the one we found in the boat. And do you know what else we found? Bloodstains. It’s incredible, isn’t it, the way even sea water can’t get rid of them all.’
‘But tell us, you took off her clothes, why was that? So she wouldn’t be identified by them? Was that it? Or had you already taken off her clothes before you killed her? And why didn’t you dump her bag out at sea too? Did she leave it in the car? Was that it? Or did she leave it in the house that day, and you found it when you came back that night?’
It was a trap, that’s what it was. He could see it all so plainly now. He had assumed she was going to come back with him for a last night. He looked at her clothes, bloodstained, crumpled. He said, he remembered, We’ll stop off at your place. You can pick up something to wear. Then we’ll go back to Killiney. A hot bath, a good bottle of wine. There are steaks in the freezer. I’ll cook us a meal. I don’t know about you, but I could eat a horse. Or maybe, here, let me look at your hand, will I take you to the hospital?
But she had shook her head. Said, no, she was too tired. She was stiff from the boat. She wanted to walk for a bit. Stretch her legs.
Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. If my hand is still bad in the morning I’ll go to the doctor myself.
Then she had kissed him gently on the cheek and given him a little push. Said, Go on, off you go. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me today. You’ll never know how great you’ve been.
‘So.’ Donnelly sat back, crossing his legs, folding his arms. ‘So, where is she now, Dan? You say you didn’t kill her, so where is she?’
He had thought they would charge him that night. But they didn’t. They let him go. They were sending the file to the Director of Public Prosecutions. They would be in touch. Sooner rather than later.
‘What do you make of it?’ he asked his solicitor as they walked to the car.
The tall thin man with a pronounced stoop didn’t answer immediately. Then he sighed. ‘I think we need some expert opinion on this. They’ve no body, but that doesn’t mean they’ve no case. It’s happened a couple of times before. There was one particular trial, I remember. A girl in Liverpool went missing. Never seen again. A barman in the local pub was questioned, charged with her murder on the basis of a piece of rope they found in the boot of his car. It had the girl’s blood on it. He was convicted, sentenced to life. Even though they never found the girl’s body.’
He got a taxi as far as the top of the hill. He felt like walking. His thigh muscles ached from the tension of the day. He felt dirty, contaminated. He could smell the staleness of his own sweat. He walked down the road towards his house. The black of the night pressed in around him. She had told him what prison was like. It’s never dark like night-time, she said. And it’s never bright like daytime either. It’s always in between.
Fuck the bitch, he thought, anger breaking through his despair. I beat her once before and I’ll beat her again. One way or another, she’s not going to get away with this.
Ahead of him lay the house. It was in darkness. He put his key in the lock and opened the door, forgetting that he was alone. Calling out for Ursula, for the children, for someo
ne, anyone. But the house was empty. He sat down on the stairs, his head in his hands. He had to hand it to her. What a trap. What a scheme. What a nightmare.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE HOUSE WAS very quiet now with Ursula and the children away. He had given the cleaning woman a month’s pay and told her to go. The gardener could still be seen pushing the mower backwards and forwards across the striped lawn and bent double over the rows of vegetables in the walled garden. He supposed he would keep him on for the time being. Ursula would not thank him if the gorse and bracken of the hillside, the bindweed, buttercup, and scutch grass was to swallow up all her hard work.
He did not know when she would come back. She had taken the children and gone back to Boston. She had been adamant. They would not return until this mess, as she described it, had been sorted out.
‘I will not put up with it!’ she had screamed at him. ‘I won’t go through all that shit, with the newspapers and television, and everyone looking at us, and spying on us, and making judgements. I won’t have it.’
He had watched her pack, noting the methodical, careful way she ticked off the items on her long list. Sending the children scurrying into their bedrooms to select their favourite toys. Laura had clung to his thigh, looking up at him with her round grey eyes, her shiny dark hair silky beneath his hand as he bent down to push her away. How old was she now, he wondered? That other dark little girl, who he had cradled in his arms when she was born, who he had watched as she grew, and grew more like him. Had he noticed it? Not really, not at the time. He had thought she had taken after her mother, rather than her father. And it was only that night when Rachel had phoned him and told him what had happened that he had seen her for what she was. His own daughter, his own flesh and blood. The only time he had ever had anyone who he could say was truly related to him.
‘She’s mine?’ he had said to Rachel. ‘You mean she’s actually my child? Is that what you’re saying?’
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