The sound of his phone on the dash vibrating was an irritation. It was Corbally station, work; no one else ever rang him. It was an odd thing, he lived for the job and yet tonight he’d pulled down the shutters on his day, he wanted nothing more to do with it. When had that started happening? He cursed, yanked the thing to him and swiped his fat finger across to answer it.
‘Sergeant Slattery?’
‘No, Mary bloody Poppins,’ he answered gruffly.
‘Oh, right.’ It was one of the new youngsters, Slattery couldn’t put a name to him, but he was all fresh-faced and eager-eyed and probably couldn’t understand why Slattery had to pull himself around the station and never managed so much as a fleeting nod to job satisfaction.
‘There’s been a report of a body out in the woods around Curlew Cross,’ the voice said neutrally and Slattery waited a beat. ‘Acting Inspector Locke said you were to go out there immediately, there’s a connection with the McDermott case.’
‘Right.’ Slattery managed not to curse, but he put the phone down morosely. The fact that he was gasping for a pint meant very little to him suddenly. If he’d hoped for one thing, probably they’d all hoped for the same, it was that Eleanor Marshall could be alive and well. That somehow, going forward, her life could be improved. Finding her body in the woods was the one thing he’d hoped wouldn’t happen. He indicated left, pulled out on the quiet road, ignoring the traffic light that was stubbornly sitting on red. Usually, he liked sitting waiting for the green. If he was lucky it gave him enough time to light a cigarette and grumble about having to hang about. Tonight, his complaining counted for nothing.
Curlew Cross at its busiest was little more than an intersection with a convenience store, a pub, a church and a school. The only tourists here were surfers brave enough to take on the Atlantic, which rushed in treacherous waves and hidden currents onto a pebble beach a five-minute journey towards the west. Rush hour was either mass or a funeral. Parking was along the main road, with two streetlights to get you from your car to your destination and keep you out of pot holes if you were lucky. If you weren’t lucky, they could result in a soaking up to your ankles if the rain was heavy.
Curlew Hall and the woodlands that some gentleman farmer had planted a hundred or two years earlier ran off to the east. They fanned out from there, drawing all the way back to the Comeragh mountains, running from birch to pine, covering a stretch of land that even now you could see was more suitable for grouse than for potatoes. The landlord had done the people of this place a favour, even if it didn’t seem like it at the time.
Slattery turned right for the woods. There was only one road in from here and Traffic corps had set up a marker alerting drivers on the road that there could be a Gardai presence about. It was enough to slow down most motorists. He pulled up his car next to Iris’s. They were among the first to arrive, most of the techies would have to be called from their beds at this stage, but Iris was here and it looked like there was one Traffic team who’d probably been in the area and decided it made a change from night duty on the motorway. They had set up between them a couple of lanterns, cutting into the darkness and creating a narrow path to the victim. Slattery checked in his boot, he had two more lanterns and his Maglite – they couldn’t hurt. Soon enough the crime-scene boys would arrive with huge lights and cover to keep the scene as virginal as possible. He hated this, dreading seeing Eleanor Marshall out here in God alone knows what kind of a state. Maybe it was better that the machinations of crime-scene procedure had not been put in place to dehumanise her just yet.
He cleared his throat, knowing he couldn’t put it off forever, cursed and threw his half-smoked cigarette on the ground, stamping it out viciously under his shoe. The incline was not steep, but it was enough to knock the wind out of him all the same. Near the top, Iris stood with a tall thin man, decked out in running gear.
‘Slattery.’ Iris nodded to him, informally making introductions. ‘This is Matt Deering, he found the body when he was running through here.’ Even in this light, limited as it was, there was no mistaking the shock that filled the man’s face.
‘It’s a bit of a jolt, I’m sure.’ Slattery gazed towards the mound of leaves and twigs, covering an unnatural knoll just off the main path.
‘It’s a crude attempt to cover her over.’ Iris put words onto some of Slattery’s thoughts.
‘Her?’ he said then, turning to look at her and immediately noticing something unexpected in her expression. Shock?
‘Yes. Her,’ she confirmed darkly. Her expression told him they had lost, the investigation had timed out and they’d been too late to save Eleanor Marshall. ‘You can get a little closer, take a look if you want,’ she said, but they both knew he did not want to see her, even if he had to.
Slattery walked around a tight trail circling the body. The flattening of grass looked just about wide enough to have been created by a badger, which may not be good news for forensics. He pulled his Maglite from his pocket and angled the glare onto the form beneath him. From up here, there was no mistaking, this victim had been battered every bit as violently as Rachel McDermott, but the link here was not drugs or any other gang-related activity they’d been focussed on.
Karena Marshall’s cold dead eyes met Slattery’s, her once pretty face oddly angular thanks to an almighty blow to the side of her head. The sickening sight of open skin and bone protruding was too fresh to have attracted foxes or other scavengers who would have quickly set to work had Mathew Deering not almost fallen over the body. Slattery would guess, from the condition of the wound, Deering had found her very quickly after the poor kid had been murdered. She’d obviously been walking here, dressed in an expensive weatherproof jacket and expensive hiking boots, which poked out beneath the mound of leaves.
The question was why? What on earth was the girl doing here, in the middle of nowhere, when her mother had been so convinced that she was in danger from Eleanor? Slattery sighed; he bloody hated the idea that the Marshalls had been correct all along.
‘Right,’ Slattery managed when he made his way back down to Iris and the shocked jogger. ‘What time did you find her?’
‘Just when I called your lot, about half an hour ago. I was coming along here, my flashlight had grown weak—’ He held up a headband with a small light that might not look out of place on an old man’s bicycle. ‘I began to slow down, I’m parked just over there.’ He jabbed a thumb in the direction of Slattery’s car. ‘And then just as I came over the hillock, the light caught her eyes… the poor wee girl was just staring up at me and I…’Deering was shaking still, probably cold and definitely in shock. ‘I must have tripped, because the next thing I knew, I was rolling towards her… and…’
‘You’re not hurt?’ Iris asked, checking, but she’d already carried out a visual and there was no sign that he’d been given the same rough treatment as the victim.
‘No, no, I’m fine, just…’ He shivered. ‘It’s not what you expect to come across…’ At that, Slattery saw a couple of squad cars arrive, their blue lights filling up the trees with unnatural vivid eeriness.
‘Come on, let’s get you warm at least,’ Slattery said, guiding Deering towards the clearing beneath them and away from the crime scene. God knows it’d be hard enough for the poor man to sleep tonight without making it worse by hanging about here any longer than it was necessary to keep the foxes away. ‘You didn’t notice anything else, you know, running through the woods? Other people? Lights or voices? I’m presuming you run here regularly – there was nothing out of the ordinary?’
‘No, not that I can think of. I tend to run here because I don’t want to meet people. It’s a way to de-stress after the day, just me and my thoughts. I’ll have my iPod going sometimes, but not tonight.’
‘Often people remember things, later, you know, when they’re back in their normal routine, away from all of this.’ Slattery ranged his hand around the clearing now, where various officers were gearing up to cordon off the scene and
techies were emptying out of a van and suiting up for a long night ahead. ‘If you think of anything at all – cars you might have noticed on the way, or even just sounds that didn’t seem right—’ He reached into his pocket. ‘Give us a buzz, yeah?’
‘Sure.’ Deering took the card and began opening a pouch he had attached to his waist, but his hands shook too much to make any real headway.
‘Here,’ Slattery called to one of the uniforms, ‘take care of Mr Deering, will you? He’ll need a lift home and someone to take his car back.’ He leaned into the opened boot of one of the squad cars, pulling out a foil blanket and placing it about the man’s shoulders. ‘These lads will take care of you now. They’ll need to take contact details and we’ll be back in touch for a full statement in the next day or so,’ he said, leaving Deering next to a marked car that would take him safely home while Slattery made his way back up to Iris at the crime scene.
‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked him now they were alone.
‘I don’t know what to think. That poor kid.’ Slattery shook his head. If he thought about it, this feeling that was welling up now – apart from shock at the utter waste of such a young life – was probably guilt. They should have done more, although, Slattery was damned if he knew what. ‘Same as you, not what we expected… a bit…’
‘I know. Shit.’ She shook her head. It was terrible to feel as if they were somehow at fault, even if they couldn’t put the words on it. ‘It looks like Marshall was right all along,’ she said quietly. ‘If I’d only listened, instead of thinking I somehow knew better.’ Iris had tears in her eyes now and he could see she was taking the worst kind of beating up, the kind you can only inflict on yourself.
‘I was no better. It wouldn’t have mattered what you’d thrown at me, I wouldn’t have believed that the kid could be that bad to the bone.’ He shook his head; it was the utter loss of innocence. Karena Marshall had been a good student, a caring sister, a naïve kid – she deserved better than this from a Murder Team charged with keeping the city a safe place.
‘It’s definitely Eleanor?’ Iris sighed wearily.
‘I think we have to accept that it is. Whoever killed Karena got her out here on purpose. It’s too much of a coincidence that she’s walking out here and Eleanor is missing in the same woods and then the kid turns up dead.’
‘How in God’s name did they find each other out here? I mean, there isn’t even a phone signal, never mind anything much to mark it out as a spot much different to any other across the miles of woodlands.’
‘Who knows? Maybe it’s a place that meant something to both of them? Maybe Eleanor knew she’d come here anyway and waited for her… who knows? We’ll have to check with the Marshalls.’
‘Oh. God.’ Iris drew in her breath. Visiting the Marshalls would be a nightmare. How on earth were they going to break this to them?
Slattery had no answer to that, he turned towards the narrow route, there was no putting it off anyway.
‘Sergeant—’ Deering was making his way over to them as they scrambled down the incline. ‘I’ve just remembered something.’ He looked to Slattery as if already he might be recovering slightly. ‘You asked if I noticed anything different, saw or heard anything?’
‘Yes.’ Slattery loped towards him.
‘I heard a scream…I didn’t think about it at the time, just one of those noises, assumed it might be a bird or youngsters playing deep in the woods… over there.’ He nodded deep into the forest off in the general direction of the Comeragh mountains.
‘A scream?’
‘Yes, after I stumbled over the…’ He looked back at the child’s remains. ‘The more I think about it now; it was definitely a scream. Just the one, loud and long.’ He shivered again, as if he could hear it in his head. ‘A young girl, I’d say, and dear God…’ The realisation of what that could mean. ‘A frightened young girl. You don’t think…?’
‘No, Mr Deering, I don’t think anything at all,’ Slattery said through gritted teeth and turned to light up the cigarette that he’d needed since he’d looked into Karena Marshall’s dead eyes.
Fifteen
Eleanor felt as if she had walked for miles. The rain had stopped now. There was a bland punctuation of wet leaves and sodden earth. The voices were fading, as if their activity was gradually being absorbed by the trees. Now only the occasional whisper – and that sounded so familiar that she assumed it was coming from somewhere in the back of her memories.
She would sit for a while, try to assimilate what had happened; it was too much to take in. She dropped down to her hunkers, breathing as slowly as she could manage, knowing she had to try and stay calm. There were plenty of logs, cut and abandoned, waiting to be seasoned. She took possession of one, sitting astride it, and let her eyes travel up to the tops of lush, dark trees. At the back of her mind, she knew she should find somewhere to sleep for the night. A rush of exhaustion threatened to overtake her. In the distance, she could hear again the rustle of the undergrowth. Foxes, badgers and hedgehogs were all getting ready to waddle about in their nocturnal world. As the night drew in, the other inhabitants were getting more boisterous in their work and Eleanor pulled her flimsy sweatshirt around her.
The search party had left the woods now. She had heard them go, the dogs yelping, the forced laughter, backslapping, their voices strained. Probably wishing that their quarry had been found, but at the same time conscious that they’d meet another day. This strange non-time, suspending real life for another few hours, she should be alone in the woods now until first light.
The images of a thousand different days played through her mind, a medley of words and taunts and fairy tales, strung together so she couldn’t make out anything clearly. She could see Rachel lying there, her head angled, bloody and desperate. And then Karena – she’d come across her in their secret place and she’d run, knew she had to get away. She’d left her there – what did that make her? She could hear Karena’s voice, soft and reassuring. She was not meant to die, Eleanor was sure of that. And then she knew. It was her. It was meant to be her.
Sixteen
Day 3
Duneata House was in darkness apart from a few lanterns lit to show a path towards the front door. Iris knew that not sleeping in twenty-four hours and the memory of Karena Marshall’s battered body probably had as much to do with her shivering as the cold morning.
‘You know the way you hate PMs?’ She shot a look at Slattery, but she knew he felt the same. Of all the shitty things they had to do in their jobs, breaking news like this was probably the worst.
‘Yeah, I hear you, but it’s an hour for us, a lifetime for these poor buggers.’ Slattery flicked his cigarette out onto the gravel drive. From where they stood on the steps, Iris saw one of the security guards lurking in the shadows, watching them. They’d already had to show their identity cards to his sleepy muscle-bound colleague on the gate.
‘Amazing how Kit Marshall goes from self-important git to poor bugger in the space of a few hours,’ Iris murmured as a light flicked on somewhere in the vast emptiness behind the heavy door. Susan Marshall pulled back the door gently.
‘Yes?’ She also looked like a woman who hadn’t slept in too long. Although her hair was as groomed as if she’d just stepped out of the salon, her face was free of make-up, showing worry lines and dark circles about her eyes that added ten years to her. Worry? God they weren’t going to make it any easier with this news.
‘Mrs Marshall, can we come in?’ Iris said softly, as if afraid to wake the birds in the trees.
‘Of course, has something happened? Have you found Eleanor? Is she all right?’ She was pulling her fingers through her hair now, her words trying to keep up with her thoughts and perhaps outpace her worst fears.
‘Is Mr Marshall here?’ Slattery said then, looking towards the stairs. ‘It’s best if we speak to you together.’ Iris and Slattery both knew this was code for the very worst news. Perhaps Susan Marshall knew it too. Iris felt
a pang of compassion for the woman – she had no idea just how bad the news was.
‘Of course, I’ll get him, just give us a minute, it’s very late…’ She looked at her expensive wristwatch. ‘Or early.’ She shook her head, mumbled something to herself as she made her way back upstairs.
It took Kit Marshall all of two minutes to arrive downstairs, looking as if he’d been roused from the deepest sleep, his hair a crow’s nest of silver and gold, his lips dry, his monogrammed smoking jacket thrown unevenly about him and firmly tied over matching pyjamas and slippers.
‘So,’ he said when he reached the bottom step. ‘You’ve found Eleanor?’ His words carried no sentiment, as if he’d always expected someone to turn up in the early hours and tell him she was dead.
‘No. Perhaps we can…’ Iris gestured towards the room they’d sat in last time they’d been here.
‘Of course, of course…’ He looked at Susan, who had joined him now, a little brighter, as if she’d taken time to douse her face in cold water; suddenly she looked more alert than anyone in the room. A mother surely knows, Iris thought as she looked at Susan sitting straight-backed in a huge winged chair.
‘I’m afraid it’s Karena we’ve come to tell you about.’
‘Karena?’ Kit looked as if he’d missed a thread in the conversation. ‘Should we call her down? Surely you don’t want to speak to her at this hour?’ The familiar disdain had once again returned to his voice.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ Slattery said and looked across at Iris.
‘I’m sorry to tell you both that we were called out to an incident at Curlew Cross this evening. I’m afraid Karena was the victim of—’
Why She Ran Page 13