‘We’ll have to check with this girl.’
Iris began to fold away the papers before her. The day was catching up with her. A bath would be just the ticket, a long hot soak. Unfortunately, Mrs Leddy’s bathroom was hardly designed to invoke anything near a relaxing experience; anyway, chances were she’d just collapse into bed, too wound up to sleep, too tired to do anything else. Another short night of tossing and turning lay ahead.
‘What was it you were saying about Rachel?’ John O’Boyle cleared his throat.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Nate butted his head towards the photos. ‘It was just, Rachel seemed to have come into money, lately. She’d started splashing cash about like it meant nothing to her. Gave me a loan to pay for repairs to my car and she wasn’t in any great rush for it to be repaid.’
‘And you think it might have some bearing on what happened to her?’ Iris heard her own voice, soft as a whisper.
‘I don’t know, do I? It might have come from her communion money in the post office for all I know for certain.’
‘Well, hazard a guess for us.’ Iris sat forward now, but Nate seemed to shrink a little further into himself.
‘All the same.’ Tony Ahearn leaned closer to him; they might have been sharing a pint, splitting a bet on a sure win in the national. Insider knowledge. ‘It might give us a better picture.’ And he ran a finger over the folder of photos once more.
‘Once, a while ago now, we were both very drunk, but it’s the kind of thing that stays with you.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Rach hinted she had something on Kit Marshall. I had a feeling it was something big, but…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, that’s the thing, if it was anyone else but Rach – at the time I couldn’t imagine her blackmailing the cat, to be honest. She just wasn’t like that. But then, I never expected her to be murdered either so…’ He exhaled. More soft information. It meant nothing, it could mean everything – finally they had a connection outside of Eleanor. ‘That was it, just drinking talk. We were both too pissed to know what we were saying. I probably told her I screwed my granny.’ He grinned across at Ahearn. ‘I didn’t, by the way.’
The room fell into silence. The atmosphere absorbed another side to Rachel McDermott, a side Nate Hegarty had been aware of, but he’d have kept it to himself, if his own neck wasn’t on the line.
‘Anyway, about two months ago, suddenly Rach has all this cash, and like it’s come from nowhere, but…’ Hegarty’s lower lip stuck out like a seven-year-old let down by his little mate. ‘She wouldn’t say where the money came from and, to be honest, I never properly asked. Well, it wasn’t the kind of thing I could ask, you know?’
‘So?’
‘Well, it’s obvious now, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘She was blackmailing Kit Marshall, wasn’t she?’ Nate Hegarty’s words rang too true around the room.
Twenty-Six
Iris drove aimlessly and ended up at Cuckoo Lane. She knew this little road very well and although it led to nowhere of consequence, on the map it cut directly through Eleanor’s route.
She hadn’t planned to come here, but as she pulled the car to a stop, Iris knew it was inevitable. To assuage her guilt over having a dry bed to sleep in? Perhaps. On the other hand, maybe, just maybe, some small part of her thought she might actually run into Eleanor. That was just stupid. What would she do then? Convince her to get into the car, drive her coolly to the Marshall house and reunite her with her broken mother?
Eleanor haunted her all day, but night-time was even worse and this evening she had to get the sense of Nate Hegarty’s words clinging to her thoughts out of her head. He couldn’t tell them anymore; he said he’d never seen Eleanor’s file, they’d no reason not to take his word for it. Still, the day proved difficult to leave behind. She was motivated by a combination of nerves and anxiety, probably as much for the past as for Eleanor, if she was honest.
The woods were silent, save for the few birds that were turning in for the night and the evening shift reporting for nocturnal duty; letting her know that the night-time sentry positions were filling fast. The car door squeaked nosily on neglected hinges as she threw it open. The noise pierced the otherwise sleepy woods, waking a grey crow from his stupor so he cascaded noisily from high branches, swooping over the bonnet and barely missing Iris’s head.
Then she heard it. Not like the other sounds, this wasn’t a rustling or a scurrying. It wasn’t a bird high up tucking her head beneath resting wings for the night. This was more like a stalking. Movement that was stealthy, not stumbling. Eleanor, she imagined, would be running, or moving fast, bumping into things, tripping up – she wouldn’t move like a shadow. That was the only word that came to Iris’s mind as she turned the one hundred and eighty degrees to make sure she wasn’t about to be set upon. Suddenly, she knew she wasn’t alone; she shouldn’t be here. Not now, not like this. Her car was only feet away, but Iris couldn’t run, she could hardly walk and when she did, she barely trundled. A silhouette moved, somewhere to her left, only barely visible from the side of her eye, but it was enough to set her frayed nerves on edge.
‘Eleanor? Hello? Eleanor?’ Part of her knew the words were futile. If it was Eleanor, she didn’t want to be found. If she had, she’d have got in that car the other night. Travelled in comfort to whatever hospital or Gardai station the old man arrived at first. If it wasn’t Eleanor, then who was it? Iris moved forward. ‘Eleanor, I’m here to help, it’s okay. Please come out. I’m a garda. I’ll take care of you…’
As she said the words, she felt a mass wrench of inhalation around her. It was as if all of the oxygen was sucked out from the woods. Perhaps, this presence – whoever, or whatever it was – didn’t want the police anywhere near.
Instinctively she began to retrace her steps, backing slowly away from whatever was watching her, keeping her eyes on the foliage before her where the noise had come from only seconds earlier. The only thought going through her mind now was the location of her handgun. It was just a standard issue; she’d placed it in an inside pocket of her ridiculously oversized bag, on the passenger seat. Shit, shit, shit, the words tumbled through her. Retrieving it would be a nightmare in the dark. She cursed silently as she turned a throbbing ankle on one of the many gnarled roots that zigzagged across the boggy path. Only yards to go. She’d left the keys in the ignition, stupid, stupid, stupid.
The thing rustled again, too big – whatever it was. Too big to be Eleanor. She held her breath, held her stance. People talked about a predator cat roaming the woods that dashed along the butt of the Comeragh mountains. A few had even reported it at the station, convinced they saw a panther roaming freely beneath the trees. One of the national papers had come down hoping to get a picture of a bear or some other newsworthy predator, a wild cat escaped from a private collection, or perhaps set free from a travelling circus and not reported for fear of prosecution. All kinds of stories had done the rounds at the time. Dead sheep, once-off sightings and unexplainable damage had all combined to whip up local frenzy only months ago. Then, just as suddenly as the stories had begun, they stopped. Absently now, Iris began to wonder if they would surface again for lambing season at the end of the year.
That movement was too heavy for a wild cat and too menacing not to scare Iris to her very core. She stumbled once more, backwards slightly, stifled a small shriek that had escaped from somewhere beyond her belly, from some part deep in her rattling nerves.
Then she saw it move, properly this time, across her line of vision. It was moving hard and fast, across her path. Did it want to be seen? Did it realise she spotted it? She gathered herself up straight, stacking head and shoulders to make her as tall as she could be. The tingling feeling in her spine had disappeared, replaced now by full-throttle rasping darts that shot upwards and forwards just seconds apart, not allowing her to ignore her fear now.
The thing stopped, five, maybe four metres away, and assessed her. It was dark and long, sleek and
smooth, with eyes that peered at her as if her presence here was even more surprising than his. Iris held her breath. For a moment, she was aware of every breathing, heart-beating sound around her, every rivulet of rain, every squeaking green leaf, but no pain. The shots and darts that she thought would tear her apart had faded away, her body on tenterhooks, waiting. Waiting for what? For fight or flight? Neither an option at the moment. She stood her ground, afraid to take her eyes away for those long seconds. Afraid that even one move could result in her stumbling, breaking the connection and then—
She imagined he’d be beside her in a fraction of a second. Those strong legs tearing up the earth, his hungry face breathing into hers. She shivered at the thought. Then he stood, perfect even teeth shining out in the darkness, but still, she knew it must be her imagination. In that second, she tried not to recoil, to hold on tight. She thought she might hit the ground, felt rather than planned her leg moving backwards, hands reaching behind her to break her imminent fall – and then she felt the cold metal of the car.
She placed her hand flat across the bonnet; it was reassuring, familiar, steadying. She kept her eyes straight on the woods before her, feeling her way round the side of the car like a blind woman, cast astray with no bearings. The familiar lines of her car guided her sweating hands, her body trailing, worn-out and scared. Surprisingly, her hands were steady and that, she knew, was probably a miracle. The fear that had consumed her when she caught sight of that emotionless face had managed to make her entire body shake involuntarily.
The door opened quietly this time. She took her eyes from the spot for only a second, and didn’t see him blend into the enveloping foliage beyond. Once inside the car, she locked the doors immediately, reached for her bag and retrieved the handgun she’d placed there earlier. Had she dreamed it all? Had it just been her imagination? Why had he shown himself, she wondered, and what was he doing out here? It felt for those long few seconds as though he was warning her, threatening her to stay off his patch. Was he searching for Eleanor? She didn’t want to think about that, prayed they’d find her first. Something told her that anything vulnerable finding itself in his path might end up paying a terrible price, even a temporarily vulnerable detective, and she shivered with a cold she couldn’t blame on the mild evening.
Twenty-Seven
Day 6
The knock at the door was strong and authoritative. Real men never rang bells and Slattery had decided a long time ago, he was not a bell ringer. Imelda McDermott’s shoes echoed on the Victorian tiles and he watched as she paused stiffly before a faded mirror to check that her normally immaculate hair sat just so.
‘Mrs McDermott, I was passing so I hope you don’t mind.’ He was not tall, but his presence filled the doorway, he kept his smile lazy but his eyes were keen.
‘You’re welcome anytime, Mr Slattery. Actually, I tried to ring you.’ She stood back from the door, holding it open for him. He walked past her into the hall and stood while she closed the door, his hands folded. His expression was almost sanguine.
He bent his head towards her. ‘Is everything all right? Have you thought of something that might be able to help us?’ He was following her now through the dark hallway, pulling up short when she stopped at the foot of the stairs.
‘Well, there is something, if you’d like to take a look up here.’ She was leading the way up the stairs, the carpet well worn, but perfectly maintained, cushioning the sound of her thick heels. She stopped three quarters of the way up, pointing at a small patch on the wall. Eventually she broke the silence. ‘Don’t you see it?’
‘I see the torn wallpaper, but Mrs McDermott, I’m not sure what I’m meant to be looking at.’
‘You don’t understand…’ She turned away from him, jerking her head towards the first floor so he would follow her. She made her way into a room facing the back garden; it was Rachel’s room, neat and tidy. The smell of light, floral perfume still permeated the air despite the open window. ‘Someone has been here, someone has broken in, I’m quite sure of it.’ As she said the words her hands moved to her mouth and she turned away from him.
‘Is anything missing?’ His voice was gentle now.
Imelda McDermott looked at him for a moment, perhaps wondering how to explain. ‘Not that I can tell, but I think I know what they were looking for.’ She paused, looked at him now. ‘Last night, late last night, I found a file. It was upstairs in the attic. We never go up there, to be honest. I’d never have thought, only Tim wanted a black tie for the funeral and I had a little rummage about. I didn’t want to bother you, not at that hour, but I would have rung you…’
‘Have you still got it?’ He leaned closer to her, drawing her out, his words were soft whispers: be not afraid.
‘Of course. It’s the girl’s file, a big thick file, all her notes probably. I know what that will mean to her family, I slept with it under my own bed.’ The guilt, that’s what the church gave you in the end, not peace, not calm, not even spirituality, really. Slattery knew the look well, had seen Maureen eaten up by it over the years. Imelda had chosen to take on the guilt for her daughter’s death; even if they found her murderer, it would never be enough to lift the burden from her mother.
‘Did you look at the file? Notice anything about it, any marks where maybe Rachel had been specifically reading?’
She was thoughtful, moving away from the drawers. ‘I’ve never looked through anything that wasn’t mine, never mind reading through a file that said “confidential”.’ She sat on the perfectly made bed, winding the thin wedding ring round her finger repeatedly.
Slattery had pulled latex gloves over his hands before further inspection. There was no doubt that the window had been opened with some force. Scrapings of white gloss paint lay forlornly on the heavily patterned carpet beneath the sill. ‘What about your son? He wouldn’t have opened this window just to freshen the place up?’ He nodded towards the direction of the door, which shielded them somewhat from the slow thump of bass music playing somewhere downstairs.
‘Tim?’ The tone was incredulous, as though the very idea was ridiculous. She laughed a hollow sound from deep in her throat. ‘Tim would be less likely to notice if the house needed an airing than Rachel was.’ She returned her attention to the band on her left hand. Suddenly, she looked very old.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to get some people here to look around, it may take a little while.’ His eyes were almost apologetic.
‘Look, there’s something else, something about Rachel, something I didn’t know when you came here the other day.’
‘Yes?’ he prompted. He was bending towards her, waiting, his face wrinkled with years of other people’s worries and the weight of doing right. If someone had broken into her house, then she had to consider that there might be more to Rachel’s death than just the frenzied attack of a madwoman. ‘Imelda, is there something you want to tell me?’ He was jolting her back – back to Rachel’s room, away from her thoughts, back to the unfamiliar territory that had become reality.
‘Well, you probably already know, but I didn’t realise, I’d never have imagined…’ Tears at the back of her eyes were welling up and reddening the normally clear whites. ‘Just yesterday, Tim told me, he was…’
‘Imelda, whatever it is, it can’t hurt Rachel anymore.’
Down the stairs the sound of the Swiss clock that had hung in the hall for longer than she had lived in this old house called out the hour. ‘I think she was involved with drugs.’ The words were out; no other way to say it. The first words were the hardest. After that, they plummeted in a free-fall sort of way, releasing with them some of the pent-up grief that had so far only found expression with the odd single tear, dropped and quickly wiped away. There was no place for tears in Imelda’s world. As she always had, she squared her shoulders and got on with things. She told him everything that she’d heard: her daughter liked to use cannabis. Imelda’s imagination did the rest. Her grief conflated this one unexpected tr
uth with the money and then she had taken the huge leap into the impossible.
‘Do you think she might have been selling drugs?’ The tears were streaming down her cheeks now, the familiar memory of her lovely daughter lost in a maelstrom of grief and shame. ‘Do you suppose that’s where the money came from?’ Her voice was sad, as close to defeat as she’d ever been.
‘No.’ Slattery’s voice was calm. ‘No, I don’t for one moment think Rachel sold drugs. I think that like every other youngster in this town, she wanted to experiment. These days, well, it’s like smoking a fag was when we were young – no different if you’re smart enough to pull away from it in time.’
‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘Thank you for putting my mind at rest, I couldn’t have borne to think…’
‘Who told you about the drugs?’
‘Tim says it’s common knowledge, that every kid in the place is doing them and Rachel was no worse than any of them.’ She searched his face, willing him to tell her that at least that much was true.
‘Mrs McDermott.’ Slattery leaned closer and his face softened. ‘Imelda, Tim is right, so please, try not to worry about that now.’
‘Thanks be to God for that.’ She exhaled.
‘But.’ His voice was strong, low. ‘We still can’t figure out how she came into that large sum of money you found.’
‘Maybe she was saving up, putting the few pounds aside?’ Imelda could convince herself of that at least for a while.
‘There was a lot of money in that box, Imelda, not the kind of money you put aside when you’re earning what Rachel was and trying to live too.’
‘It doesn’t mean she was doing anything wrong though. I mean, there could be a simple explanation.’ Her voice rose, just a decibel, but enough to sound desperate.
‘I’m sure there is,’ Slattery said softly, looking around the room again.
Why She Ran Page 20