by Sam Blake
It wasn’t like they were short of possibilities in Dublin, whatever the tourist board would like you to believe. You were more likely to be mugged in the street than meet a leprechaun, that was for sure. Drugs, organised crime, and everything that went with that from armed robbery to prostitution and gangland feuds, weren’t just features of the inner city, but spilled into the suburbs on a regular basis.
How could you just disappear? Cathy pulled out her phone and checked her messages. Maybe Sarah Jane had texted her and she’d missed it. Maybe she’d met a guy at The Rookery over the weekend, some visiting star, had fallen madly in love and had had the weekend of her life. Maybe they’d hooked up and headed off on a plane to somewhere where the sun shone and the wine flowed . . .
Cathy doubted it.
Sarah Jane was way too focused on her degree to get distracted by some casual date. She dated all right, she’d even been to the movies a couple of times with J.P., but she wasn’t a clubber, wasn’t a party girl. And she wasn’t with anyone at the moment, although she had her eye on some guy who worked near The Rookery.
Sometimes Cathy thought Sarah Jane took life too seriously, but she knew she was just driven to succeed. Perhaps it was having parents who were passionate about causes. Cathy didn’t know. It didn’t matter; they understood each other. They were both focused on their careers, both loved sport. But where Cathy had three brothers, Sarah Jane was an only child, and a privileged child by her own admission. She’d been a boarder at the girls’ school where Cathy’s scholarship had covered her day fees, but nothing else. Their friendship was enriched by the differences though, and once they’d got chatting that day at the gym, they’d bonded like long-lost sisters. Then they realised they lived near each other and could save a fortune if they shared lifts to college.
Cathy picked up her phone from the passenger seat and hit dial. Sarah Jane’s voicemail kicked in immediately. ‘Hello, this is Sarah Jane Hansen, leave a message and I’ll get right back to you . . .’
‘It’s me. If you get this, give me a call . . . please . . .’ Cathy hung up – if she left too many messages the mailbox would fill up. For a moment she wondered if O’Rourke could get access to listen to the other messages in Sarah Jane’s phone. Maybe there was something there that would tell them where she was, maybe someone had arranged to meet her . . .
From the moment he’d left Sarah Jane’s house, Cathy knew O’Rourke would be getting things moving. Like he’d said, it was too early to declare her a missing person and they didn’t have enough to start an official investigation, but he’d be calling in favours to do all he could. He’d wanted Cathy to stay at the house for a while, just in case Sarah Jane turned up, working through the rest of their friends and friends of friends, checking to see if anyone had seen her. And sitting down at the untidy kitchen table, pushing away the pizza boxes and free newspapers, Cathy had methodically checked through Sarah Jane’s social media to see if she had mentioned anything about her plans for today.
Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Instagram.
Sarah Jane wasn’t exactly glued to any of them on a good day, but they all looked quiet. She used Facebook the most, to keep up with her friends back in New York and around the world, to share photos with her dad. Even her mum used it, sending Sarah Jane pictures of her psychedelic paintings and photos jumbled with unknown faces from the knit-your-own yoghurt parties she went to.
Listening to Thirsty and his colleague chatting in the hall as they dusted for prints, Cathy had opened Sarah Jane’s Facebook page and felt like she’d been slapped in the face. Sarah Jane’s azure-blue eyes stared back at her from the profile picture, full of laughter, her then honey-coloured hair blowing across her face. Cathy had taken the photo last summer. They’d all gone to the Festival of Culture in Dún Laoghaire, she and Sarah Jane and Decko. J.P. had been working; they kept seeing his head bobbing above the crowd, hat on, melting in the heat. They’d listened to a Caribbean band on the stage in the People’s Park, stood for ages in the queue for ice cream at Teddy’s, had noodles in the international village, laughing at the little kids marvelling at the huge fairground wheel. It had been hot and sunny and a bloody great day.
Sitting in Sarah Jane’s kitchen, Cathy had taken a deep breath and closed her eyes. She knew she needed to focus here. Ever since the bomb, she’d found her emotions seesawed unpredictably, and now wasn’t the time to hit a dark patch. Sarah Jane needed her to use everything she could to find her.
Dragging her mind away from that day in Dún Laoghaire, she’d opened her eyes and started scrolling back through Sarah Jane’s Facebook wall to Friday, going through all her posts. At ten thirty on Friday morning Sarah Jane had posted a photo of a seagull on the DART platform trying to open a chip bag. Cathy was pretty sure it was Dún Laoghaire Station – she must have been on her way into work. Saturday morning she’d commented on a cute photo of a beady-eyed owl, had a conversation with her mum, mainly about the weather. Nothing else. But she’d said she had to study all day Saturday. Sunday next. Cathy’s heart rate had increased: Sarah Jane had been talking to one of their pals about a concert at the National Concert Hall the following week, her last comment, ‘In work but I’m on for that. Call you when I get home.’ She checked the time on the post: 12.30. She was usually due in work at The Rookery on a Sunday around twelve.
Cathy had called the friend straight away, but Sarah Jane hadn’t yet been in touch to confirm the Concert Hall arrangements.
They needed to start at the restaurant. From when she left work on Sunday. Cathy flicked off her phone and, pushing open her car door, was met by the cold salt tang of the October night. And O’Rourke’s voice coming from right behind her car.
‘Come on, we’re heading into town. That restaurant Sarah Jane works at is just closing. The manager’s hanging on for us.’ Cathy swung around to look at him, her eyebrows raised. O’Rourke pulled his long navy blue wool overcoat around him, ‘He says she wasn’t feeling well yesterday, he put her into a cab at about eight o’clock and hasn’t heard from her since.’
7
They flew into the city centre, O’Rourke’s sleek blue BMW 7 series eating up tarmac still glistening from the earlier rain. Cathy crossed her arms more tightly and shifted in the soft beige leather seat. She’d run into the station to her locker and picked up her SIG, buckling the leather shoulder holster on under her black hoodie. Now she could feel it under her arm, its gentle pressure reassuring. She was sure she wouldn’t need it, but that wasn’t the point, she was required to carry her personal issue firearm, would be in more trouble if she was caught without it. It had become part of her when she was working, and in this job nothing was predictable.
Still in her sweatpants and trainers from the gym, her muscles were starting to stiffen up after her training session. Too much tension.
She could definitely live without anything going off tonight.
Where was Sarah Jane? Fear nagged at her, but Cathy pushed it away. There was nothing she could do except try and override it with positive thoughts. They were on the move, they were doing everything they could and as fast as they could.
Whatever had happened, with O’Rourke in charge there would be no lost time, no mistakes. He’d bring in all the manpower they needed, the media if necessary. He would do everything he could.
Feeling her legs starting to tighten, Cathy shifted in the seat and stretched. At least there was plenty of leg room in O’Rourke’s car. Everyone thought he was mad using it for work, but the alternative was a DDU pool car that would have his dodgy back crippled after a week of nights. He reckoned he spent more hours in work than out of it, and most of those were in the car, so he needed some comfort. Life was short.
That was for sure.
*
The city centre was as quiet as the main road into town had been. A rare thing for Dublin. But it was a Monday night, and it was October and it was raining.
Weaving through the city centre’s one-way system,
down roads better designed for horses and carts, O’Rourke pulled in under an ancient brick arch that linked The Rookery restaurant to the building next door. It must have been the entrance to stables or a coach house at one time, but now security lights came on ahead of them revealing a large car park, hemmed in by a terrace of four-storey Georgian buildings, their windows lifeless, only the lights above the fire exits opening onto the car park giving any hint that they were occupied.
Cathy had the car door open before O’Rourke had unclipped his seatbelt. Glancing into the car park, empty except for several huge overflowing wheelie bins, a red Fiesta and a black Audi Sport in one corner, she turned to take in the streetscape, instinctively looking for trouble. It came automatically to everyone in the job, but Cathy’s experience in the ring, the need to read body language and be constantly one step ahead of her opponent, gave her an edge that had gotten her out of trouble more than once. The different teams she’d worked with over the past six years had learned to rely on her instincts; they could all detect trouble a mile off, but she was faster. Tonight the street was quiet, light from the shopfronts and street lamps reflecting in puddles on the uneven pavement. A taxi cruised past.
Looking across the roof of the car, Cathy caught O’Rourke’s eye as he pushed the driver’s door closed with a gentle click. He didn’t need to speak, instead jerked his head in the direction of the restaurant’s on-street entrance. But before he could move his phone rang.
He rolled his eyes. As he answered, his words monosyllabic, Cathy used the time to take another look at the street, her eyes roving over the upstairs windows of the business premises. A few doors down, across the road, an all-night newsagents cum mini-market glowed welcome, its windows plastered with advertisements and notices. She caught a movement inside, the shopkeeper probably, wondering what she was doing standing in the street in the middle of the night with a man in a suit who had lined his car up neatly on a set of double-yellow lines under the stone arch to a car park.
Ignoring him, Cathy looked down the road. She’d had her tarot cards read along here somewhere – Sarah Jane had got out of work early and they’d met for coffee. It had been Sarah Jane’s idea; she’d needed guidance with her love life, she said, rolling her eyes theatrically, hadn’t wanted to go on her own. They had gone nervously down winding iron stairs to a cramped basement and a woman called Tiffany. It had been a bit witchy, the round table covered in a faded purple cloth with tantric symbols embroidered on it, the tiny room with its cheap carpet heavy with the scent of incense. The cards had been in silk pouches – six or seven of them, Cathy couldn’t remember – all different, faded and worn through use.
Tiffany had asked her to choose a pouch, and then shuffle the cards. She’d spread them across the table so Cathy could select them in groups of threes. Cathy didn’t believe in having your fortune told, but part of her was nervous. If she’d come here a year ago would this woman have been able to tell her how her life was about to change? Would she have done anything differently? That was the million-dollar question. As it turned out she’d been surprised how accurate Tiffany had been about the men in her life, about work, about where the two overlapped, about her family. But it had only been a bit of fun.
This visit was a whole lot more serious.
It had been a month or so since Cathy had last been to The Rookery to eat. Sarah Jane’s dad had been over, his last visit before he went to Syria, and Sarah Jane had been keen for Cathy to meet him. She’d only been working there a few weeks then, had wanted to show him the place, and it had been a great night. The Rookery was always full of media types, journalists and TV news anchors, and of course they’d all recognised him; he’d almost been signing autographs by the time they left. Sarah Jane’s manager had been agog.
Cathy had walked past the red-brick Georgian building often enough before then, though, its steep granite steps and shiny blue door guarded by two clipped bay trees making it look more like a private club than a restaurant. A very exclusive private club. South William Street had its own unique blend of hipster chic and Georgian grandeur; brightly lit bars were dotted between faceless nightclubs and adult shops, beauticians and designer boutiques that you needed an appointment to get into. The Rookery was the jewel in the crown.
O’Rourke finished his call and glanced into the car park as he triggered the central locking. ‘Manager is Billy Roberts, does all the hiring and firing. He normally takes Mondays off because it’s quiet, so we’re lucky to catch him, apparently – he came in to catch up on his paperwork.’
Cathy nodded to herself, recognising the name. She fell in beside him as they headed out onto the narrow pavement. O’Rourke took the steps two at a time, leaning on the buzzer on the entryphone. From the pavement Cathy didn’t hear a response, but O’Rourke glanced back at her as the door clicked, his coat swirling like Sherlock Holmes’s cape as he pushed open the door. She half smiled. It suited him.
The hallway was narrow, with black and white tiles set at right angles to create a diamond pattern, candles on an ornate credenza backed by an enormous gilded mirror dancing with a warm glow, their reflection the only light. Adele’s Hello album played softly in the background, the air warm with the scent of recently snuffed candles and some sort of incense. Just how Cathy remembered it from her last visit. There was something about this place that oozed sophistication.
Before Cathy could comment, a figure appeared at the end of the corridor like a dancer, tight black high-waisted trousers and a white shirt buttoned to the neck only emphasising his exaggerated movements. He swept towards them, rolling his hand in some sort of ridiculous bowing gesture, like a matador greeting his public, the light catching the oil in his dark, slicked-back hair as he inclined his head. ‘Billy Roberts. At your service, Inspector. How can I be of help?’
If she had been less tense, Cathy would have laughed. Sarah Jane called him ‘the host with the most’, his flamboyance well known. Standing behind him, Cathy couldn’t see O’Rourke’s face, but she knew precisely what he was thinking, and it didn’t involve Billy Roberts servicing him anytime soon.
‘Thanks for seeing us – I know it’s late.’ O’Rourke’s tone was flat, matter of fact. ‘Is there somewhere where we can talk?’
Smiling broadly, Billy made an exaggerated movement with his hand, better suited to the stage. ‘Of course, come this way. I’m afraid my office is below stairs, but perhaps that might suffice?’
O’Rourke’s nod was curt.
As she followed them along the corridor, O’Rourke keeping a safe distance from Billy Roberts, Cathy glanced into the dining rooms on either side of the corridor. They were high ceilinged, panelled, with empty tables already set with crisp white linen and glittering silver ready for tomorrow’s lunch trade. The lighting was low, candle like, polished oak floorboards and jewel-coloured flock wallpaper a stark contrast to the virgin linen. From the moment she’d arrived the last time, Cathy could see why Sarah Jane loved working here – it was a beautiful building, it held a mystery and grandeur that only came with age and impeccably good taste. The customers were generous too – the tips were awesome. Cathy could hear Sarah Jane’s voice as if she was right behind her. She shivered.
Beyond the period splendour the back corridors and kitchens of The Rookery were functional and disappointingly twenty-first century. Pushing open a door hidden in the wainscoting at the end of the corridor, Cathy recoiled slightly at the brightness of the kitchen’s practical strip lighting, at the dull, sand-grey lino and stainless steel doors. It was almost like a theatre – the stage dressed for a performance, and here, the backstage workings of the place.
Billy led them through the deserted kitchen, huge, industrial-sized sinks and massive stainless steel counters gleaming in the brilliant fluorescent light. Knives hung in order on the wall, and beneath the counters huge steel trays were stacked, everything spotless, military in its neatness.
‘This way, folks.’
Stopping in the narrow corridor that l
ed from the kitchens, presumably to the car park they’d just seen, Billy swung open the door to his office, gesturing them inside.
It was an ordinary office. Small, dominated by a large desk, a filing cabinet and a noticeboard that almost filled one wall, staff rosters marked out in red, blue and green marker, brilliantly coloured Post-it notes stuck all over it. Billy slipped in behind a desk covered in paperwork, invoices, more Post-its and a scattering of biros. O’Rourke sat down in the chair opposite, hard plastic. Cathy hung back, remaining standing, leaning on the white painted wall, taking it in, her eye drawn to Sarah Jane’s name on the staffing rota.
She was rostered to work Friday and Sunday, it looked like she was off today and wouldn’t be back in until Thursday evening. That made sense. She worked Thursday evenings if they needed her, alternated Friday and Saturday evenings and did the lunch through to evening shift on a Sunday. It was a complicated roster with what looked like up to ten staff working the floor in the restaurant at the busiest times. Below it was a kitchen roster with even more names listed.
All people who could have spoken to Sarah Jane in the days leading up to today. And they only needed one of them to know where she was, what her plans might have been.
Billy leaned forwards, all smiles, ‘So how can I help you, folks? What’s Sarah Jane been up to? Don’t tell me she’s an illegal immigrant on the run from the FBI?’
O’Rourke paused for a second before saying, ‘She’s disappeared. We are aware that she was working here on Sunday but she hasn’t been in touch with her family or friends since Saturday. We are very concerned for her safety.’
Billy’s smile turned to puzzlement as his face creased in a frown, then he leaned forward shaking his head. ‘Are you sure? This is terrible, I can’t believe it. We all love Sarah Jane here, the staff and the customers. She’s very popular.’