‘Yes, I know who you mean, impossible not to, when her face is splashed across every paper in the country.’ His accent carried a northern undercurrent, hardly detectable. Iris would lay bets he was south of the border, just, Donegal perhaps.
‘We believe you knew her before this… tragedy.’
‘Why would you say that? Because she was an artist, of sorts, and I am an artist?’ Boran lit another cigarette, dragged on its thin body and exhaled loudly.
‘Do you remember her?’ Westmont stood a little taller, leaning towards Boran. Truth was, they didn’t want to intimidate him, not yet at least. Always better to move softly at first. They had Slattery back at the station if they needed to run the tough-guy routine on him.
Iris leaned backwards again, allowing her face to relax a little. ‘She attended the National College of Art and Design, same time as you lectured there, late nineties to 2002.’ She managed to soften out the dates, knew that here, the tone was as important as the words.
‘That’s a fairly tenuous gambit.’ Boran smiled sardonically. Somehow the expression was incongruous with his nervy body language, but in that smile Iris could see how first-year girls, up from the country, could easily fall for his charm. His name was Gaelic, but Iris would bet Boran was upper-middle-class Irish protestant, probably educated across the pond. The accent had stuck only just beneath his northern lilt, delicately fondling most of his words.
‘You think?’ Westmont reminded them he was there, watching everything, his bulging eyes on stalks, taking in Boran, taking in all.
‘Detective, I’ve taught in more colleges around this country than your dog has found lampposts. Even if I remembered half of the people I met along the way, I couldn’t tell you when or where I met them.’ He dragged on his cigarette. ‘You might say I’ve forgotten more girls than you’ll ever be likely to know.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m sure they haven’t forgotten you.’ Westmont sneered and Iris caught his eye.
‘My colleague is right; we’ve seen some of the reports against you, Boran, it all makes for heavy reading.’
‘Unfortunate misunderstandings, that’s all.’ He dragged deeply again.
‘With matches and a can of petrol? I don’t think there was any misunderstanding there, now do you?’
‘That was different.’
‘Oh?’ Iris tried to keep her face neutral, her voice even.
‘I wasn’t well. At the time, I wasn’t well at all.’
‘And tell us, Mr Boran, how were you feeling last Friday night, the night that Anna Crowe died? Were you feeling well then?’ Iris waited for what seemed like an eternal minute. Boran didn’t smoke, didn’t move, and didn’t blink. Only the tick tock of a small travel clock somewhere amid the chaos toned out the seconds. In that stretching silence, Iris caught her breath and she half expected a full confession when Boran finally opened his mouth to speak.
‘I’m very sorry about the girl, sorry about her children too. They shouldn’t have died.’ He dropped his eyes, searching for some elusive pattern on the faded floor cover. ‘It’s a terrible tragedy. None of them should have died, not like that.’
When Westmont cleared his throat, Iris thought that Boran might jump from his skin and slide easily down the nearest drain. Instead, he looked towards the bare kitchen window. When he spoke next, his words were a whisper, a conquered undertone. ‘I suppose I’ll need a solicitor for this?’ And although he’d asked a question he was already taking out his mobile and scrolling down through a short list of numbers.
The rain had been steady all evening and that suited Slattery perfectly. He liked the predictability of it; you knew where you were with rain and there was no onus on a man to be doing things he had no interest in doing. He liked, too, the familiar smell of cold and wet settling along the window ledge beside his desk, the damp aroma of coats drying and umbrellas pooling across the incident room.
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ June said and he figured he’d never seen her look so worn-out. ‘Considering…’ There was only the three of them in the incident room now and it was hard to be sure if Iris was even awake, she’d been staring fixedly at the computer screen before her for so long.
‘Yeah, well… there’s nothing like the welcoming of the early evening and knowing that you’re going to be heading off for a pint in an hour or two to make any man feel he’s settled into himself for the day,’ he said cynically.
‘You’ll be going to the hospital first,’ June said.
‘I’ll be doing what I have to do… I hardly need you to tell me how to…’ he spat at her, but something in his voice must have alerted Iris and she stirred enough for him to know she was listening.
‘I’m just saying,’ June said, but she was staring determinedly at the papers on her desk.
‘Well, bloody don’t,’ he snapped. It was bad enough that Grady had handed his lead on Boran over to Iris Locke without a by your leave; assuming that Slattery wouldn’t be here, indeed. ‘That’s the trouble with you lot, everyone just says and assumes when it’s not your place.’ He grunted then.
‘Bad time to ask if you’ve ever noticed this fella about the place.’ Iris swung her chair about and popped a grainy picture of Darach Boran before him.
‘How did you guess?’ Slattery shoved the printout off to the side – there was a photograph of Boran already, hanging on the board; the image before him now looked ten years older. There was something about him, but it was fleeting, one of those people you pass by on the street maybe twice and they stick in your memory. He pulled the photograph closer again. ‘There’s something familiar about him, but, no…’ He shook his head, he remembered every face he’d ever put away – it wasn’t always a blessing. ‘No, I’ve never done this fella for so much as a parking ticket. That doesn’t mean much, though.’
‘I have a feeling about him… it’s more than just…’ Iris sighed.
‘If you ask me, in this case, you could have a feeling about anyone – we’re so far off having anything concrete – just do me a favour and don’t have any feelings about me, right,’ he said and decided it was time he got out of here. He headed towards the exit with only one destination in mind and it wasn’t the hospital.
It seemed to Iris that Satan, her father’s cat, eyed her with a certain amount of wariness when she arrived at Woodburn. The old cat scrutinised her for a moment, shook himself out insolently before burying himself further into the deep cushions of the weary sofa that ran opposite the timeworn stove in the shadowy kitchen. The house was warm and welcoming, and her dad had managed to stretch his culinary skills to coffee and his own hot buttered scones. She knew she was honoured, she knew too she had nothing to be proud of. She hadn’t lied to him about joining the Murder Team, but omitting to tell them was every bit as tactical.
‘Come on through,’ he said neutrally, walking ahead of her; he always preferred the front of the house, overlooking the long avenue that held back the village life beyond. Her parents had moved here when they first got married, long before they’d even thought about having a family. Jack and Theodora were young and in love.
The house had been a gift to Theodora from an elderly aunt. Iris had always assumed the inheritance had weighed heavily on Theodora’s shoulders, guilty conscience, we’d fallen out with them all beforehand, the old girl was dead a week before anyone realised. The Murder Squad gave her father a level-headedness Iris always hoped she wouldn’t inherit, as she seemed to have so much else of him. Woodburn hadn’t always looked like it did now. Even when Iris had been growing up, the place resembled a building site for many of her formative years. Old houses, never finished, he’d said it a million times. It looked now like he was wrong. There was nothing more to do here except play golf like her dad, or perhaps wither slowly away like her mother.
‘So, how is everyone in Corbally?’ He was balancing his cup on the seat beside him, moving a pile of magazines and holding onto his scone with his hands. He’d done well not to grill her before h
e’d brewed the coffee, she knew.
‘I’m sorry, Dad. How could I say anything when I knew how worried you would be?’
‘I’m not a child, Iris,’ he said thickly, with as much irritation in his voice as she’d ever heard. ‘Seeing you on the evening news with Coleman Grady is hardly the way I wanted to hear. You should have told us, I mean, how long have you known? You must have applied for it some time ago.’ His tone turned soft and she could see the hurt behind his eyes, the idea that she had been so duplicitous.
‘It wasn’t like that at all. Please, Dad, they moved me in just for this case. I may not even have a place on the team when it’s all wrapped up. They were short of bodies and you know how these things work…’ Her voice petered off.
‘Well, that’s something I suppose,’ he said grudgingly and she wasn’t sure if he was pleased because her term might be short or it was a measure of her honesty with him. Better that she’d lied for a week rather than a month. ‘So, you’ve been on this case since the beginning?’
‘Almost,’ she said, sipping her coffee. At least she could pretend that she’d only come to visit, rather than make amends.
‘Out of all the cases they could have put you on.’ He shook his head sadly.
‘Dad, just because it’s the same family as you investigated all those years ago, doesn’t mean there’s a connection. Grady hasn’t even looked at that old case…’ she offered, but of course, in her gut, she knew there had to be a link; lightning doesn’t strike in the same spot twice, does it? Well, not unless there’s a pretty ready conductor.
‘Well, of course not, the Baby Fairley case – well, there was no case, not in the way the papers tried to make out.’
‘Well then…’ she said, but she laid down her cup and waited for what he could tell her.
‘No, you don’t understand. That case, it was never about not solving it.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It…’ A tear glistened in his eyes and his thoughts wandered from her, searching the darkness of the gardens outside. ‘It all happened when you were so small. Your mother…’ he shook his head, ‘I think that it contributed to the way things turned out for her. You know with the…’
‘Post-natal depression?’ It wasn’t a secret exactly that her mother had taken almost two years to pull herself from a darkness that had hung about her after Iris was born. Jack Locke had always blamed her drinking on the depression. Iris had long thought the blame should probably be apportioned the other way round.
‘So, that’s it anyway, you finally got into a murder team, just like your old man.’ Jack Locke tried to smile, but he wasn’t fooling Iris. He would worry about her even more now.
‘Well, for now, it’s all press conferences and desk work,’ she lied.
‘That’s something, I suppose.’ He’d seen too many women chewed up by Murder; it gives you nightmares, he’d told her once. But she knew that wasn’t really the problem. His biggest fear was that she’d end up in some kind of danger, danger that was too awful to contemplate. He was quiet, gathering his thoughts, but his coffee had been placed on the floor, the scone abandoned on a nearby table – it’d likely choke him now, she knew. He ran a hand beneath his open shirt collar, for once it wasn’t checked. Since he’d retired it seemed to Iris he’d worn nothing but checked shirts. As though he was making up for a lifetime in plain blue and then white, he’d taken to small printed cream-and-beige patterns as though he’d lived in them forever. Funny, they’d worried he’d never survive without Corbally. Now he wanted nothing to do with the place.
‘Well.’ He finally took his eyes from the avenue beyond. ‘And are you enjoying it?’ His voice was as even as he could manage it. If she wasn’t his daughter, she wouldn’t have recognised the emotion that was filling it up.
‘We both know it’s not what I wanted, I’d have preferred the east coast, but…’
‘The times that are in it eh? You have to go where they send you, I suppose.’
‘I could be waiting a long time to get into Dublin Castle…’
‘Well, I’d like to be happy for you, but there’s no use pretending, you know how I feel… it’s dangerous for you there, too many people; they haven’t forgotten who I am, Iris. There are nasty feckers out there, still wanting to hurt me and by God, but if they hurt you, well… I don’t know what I’d do.’ It was as honest as he’d ever been with her. She couldn’t ever remember hearing him using foul language before, not in the house at least. ‘I can only wish you luck, but you know what I truly wish for.’
‘I do, Dad, of course I do. But, I have to take my chances; it’s no different to what you’d have done yourself.’
He knew she was right; he didn’t come up the ranks without grabbing every opportunity that came his way.
‘Of course, but things were very different then. Even now, I know all you young girls are liberated, but…’
‘How’s Mother?’
‘Oh, you know your mother, waiting for the next great cause.’ He winked at Iris; she knew he wouldn’t want to talk about Corbally any further. She’d leave it for now, so they spoke about the garden, about her mother’s newfound interest in bridge. ‘Anything is better than her pains and aches. I swear someone should ban that Google, it’s the worst thing that ever came into the house. You should hear herself and Judy Battle, anyone would think they were finished their internships at the Mayo clinic. I think it’s migraine today, but I’ve no doubt she’ll be up and running for her game of bridge tomorrow.’ He smiled. Iris knew that he was truly fond of her; even if their relationship had grown into something that more closely resembled carer and child than husband and wife over the years. Iris had always supposed that it would be very hard to be his equal. He was a protector by nature. Even now if anyone should hurt a hair on her head, he wouldn’t rest until they’d paid a heavy price.
They sat for ages, watched while the struggling sun dipped beyond the clouds, casting shadows through the trees that dotted the damp lawn. Eventually he turned to her. ‘There’s something else too, isn’t there?’ he said, his blue eyes watery pools, the whites they sat in almost permanently bloodshot these days.
‘The Baby Fairley case.’ She watched as regret flickered across his eyes, just for a second.
‘I thought you said they weren’t connected?’ He was almost talking to himself now and Iris wondered, when he read about the current case, had he turned over the possibilities in his mind? Imagined himself in Grady’s job? Suddenly she was glad she was in Corbally, glad she was on this case. Damn it, she’d hate to miss a minute of this, hate to leave it behind someday, but worse, know what you might have done and never taken the chance.
‘No, we’re pretty sure they’re not, but of course, it’s early days.’ Better have a safe conviction than a fast one. ‘Anyway, I’ve been trying to access the files on that earlier case, Dad…’ She could see he was miles away. ‘Dad?’
‘Sorry.’ His dark brows had drawn so close together it looked as though they were one. He was pensive, preoccupied with a world long gone and one that he’d never be part of again. ‘Brings it all back, you know?’ He looked away from her again, towards the darkening garden beyond. ‘I wouldn’t bother if I was you. That baby was well gone before we got there. I’ve always blamed the mother. She told the kid – your victim – told her not to look in the pram. It was post-natal depression, as bad as any woman could get it, she wouldn’t have known what she was doing. They called it the baby blues back then. Just lucky she didn’t take the other daughter as well. There but for the grace of God, I’d say.’ He lowered his voice now. ‘Doesn’t do any good raking these things up… going back.’
‘Maybe. But isn’t it strange that I haven’t been able to access it electronically?’
‘Really?’ He looked at her now, perplexed. ‘I thought all of the murder files had been transferred over? Yes, I’m sure they were. Every single file was, and then we had the almightiest bonfire you could imagine. Had to hold onto some bits, obviously for DNA testing,
what have you, but yes, all of those files should be on PULSE now.’ Her father had been there for the setting up of PULSE, he would have overseen the transfer of many files like the Fairley case.
‘So the originals are probably gone?’ That explained Blake’s reaction when she’d asked him to check it out at least.
‘Maybe not.’ He chewed on his lip for a second, shook his head sadly. ‘Probably though, probably.’ He didn’t offer her any more coffee or scones. Neither of them could face a thing to eat, but they sat side by side, he holding her hand, tracing the lines that were fading now as evening drew in.
By the time it had got dark outside, she knew she’d have to leave. Jack Locke threw two large logs into the open fire. He was greeted with a volley of shooting spits. As she left Woodburn, she was filled with loneliness. Her father had hugged her close, as though he didn’t want to let her go, afraid that the world beyond might take her from him. And after her visit, she was none the wiser, was she?
Although maybe she was. After all, her father had led out the investigation. He’d rarely been wrong in his career. There had never been a conviction called into question and she knew that his humanity would overtake all else in a case like the Fairley case. If he thought the mother had, out of some sort of desperation, killed her child, Iris knew without any doubt, that her father would feel nothing but compassion for the woman and give her support in any way he could. Maybe she knew more now than any file could tell her.
Chapter Twelve
Darach Boran’s solicitor was halfway across the country representing some nut job who’d taken a gun to the local primary school and frightened a couple of teachers witless with an empty rifle. Grady felt Iris Locke had made the right decision when she said she would expect to see them both at the station within the next twenty-four hours. Detaining him now would only eat into the time they could question him for later. Grady liked that there was no way she was doing anything that wasn’t by the book – so far she seemed to be the complete opposite of Slattery and that was a good thing for the team.
Silent Night: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 10