Claire moved away from the radiator and leaned against the wall beside it. She appeared not to have even heard him.
‘You were a little too heavy-handed back there, with Tiery,’ she said. ‘You pushed it too far.’
‘What? What’s that got to do with anything? Maybe I was. So what?’
‘If you do something like that again while I’m around, I can’t guarantee that I won’t report you.’
Beck did not take his eyes from the computer screen.
‘At least you’re honest,’ he said. ‘You’re right of course. I’m trying. I really am.’
‘That’s a start. I’m glad you see it like that.’
‘I hear you, Claire. Now, let’s move on. Billy Hamilton.’
He nodded at the computer screen again.
‘Burglaries, shoplifting, possession for sale and supply. Wear out the cartridge on any printer if you tried to run that lot off. The poor girl could pick them, couldn’t she?’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Why? Don’t you agree?’
‘Maybe she didn’t know what they were like. Maybe they fooled her. Maybe she just didn’t know what she was getting herself into.’
‘Maybe,’ Beck said. Was she speaking from experience, he wondered?
‘Anyway, maybe we should go? Talk to forensics.’
‘Forensics. Forensics. Forensics. People are obsessed with forensics. I know some people who could gawk at forensics all day and think they’re getting something done. What’s this endless fascination? It’s not a CSI programme. Leave specialities to the specialists. We have to wait. Anyway, I have a better idea.’
‘What?’
He looked at the Ops Room clock.
‘I think the best possible course of action we can take right now is to go get something to eat. It’s getting late.’
‘You can’t be serious?’
Beck got to his feet.
‘We need to eat. Remember what people did for a head of cabbage. Van Diemen’s Land. Botany Bay. What would those people make of it if you turned up your nose at the prospect of proper food?’
Twenty-Four
The special at Frazzali’s was fish and chips. Beck was pleased.
‘Excellent,’ he said, putting the menu aside.
The road outside was thrown half into shade by the buildings on the opposite side, the other basked in bright sunshine. An articulated truck rumbled by, and Beck could feel the vibration through the floor. Different accents and languages drifted through the busy restaurant. Summer in Cross Beg brought a transformation of the town from ugly duckling to swan, the town an eruption of colourful flower boxes underneath a clear blue sky.
While Claire was still looking at her menu Beck took the opportunity to observe her. Something was wrong. That much was obvious. To him at least. He watched as her eyes scanned the piece of laminated paper in her hands, her eye lashes flickering as she blinked excessively, her fingers constantly altering their grip. Beck said nothing, shifted his gaze from her.
‘I’d feel better with a takeout,’ she said finally, putting the menu aside. ‘If we were actually doing something, you know.’
‘Just because you’re doing something,’ Beck said, ‘doesn’t mean you’re actually doing something.’
‘What does that mean?’
The waitress came. They both ordered the special.
‘It’ll come to you, give it time,’ Beck said.
‘Bloody philosopher… But it’s hard. Just sitting here. Knowing she’s out there. Somewhere.’
‘Unfortunately…’ Beck said, ‘A baby can’t just disappear for Christ’s sake? Not of its own accord. It’s impossible. But…’
‘But,’ Claire interrupted, ‘You and I have been around long enough to know anything’s possible. She’s been abducted most likely, or we’re looking for a body.’
‘Well yes, of course, but we’ll continue searching. If someone has her, and they’re very clever, we may never…’
‘I know.’ Claire said. ‘I know.’ She shifted her body, a shift of subject too, if only for a little while. ‘You haven’t changed your mind, by the way?’
‘Changed my mind?’
‘Dublin? Pearse Street?’
Beck smiled. ‘Did you think I had?’
‘You haven’t mentioned it lately, that’s all.’
‘I haven’t mentioned it because there’s nothing to mention. I’m waiting on my transfer. Biding my time, as it were.’
‘You make it sound like you’re waiting on a bloody bus.’
‘There are similarities,’ Beck said. ‘I don’t have a lease, on my accommodation, it’s week to week.’
He had turned a door handle, and now Claire pushed and came through.
‘In your last place, what really happened? You don’t talk about it. Can’t have been easy, Beck.’
It was still fresh in his mind. The memory of finding the body of his old landlady, Mrs Claxton – murdered, and placed under his bed. Questions had been raised, and answered, thankfully. But Beck hadn’t been back there since.
Anyway, he didn’t want to be bloody reminded of any of this right now.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, getting to his feet, slamming the door shut again. ‘I need the loo.’
When he’d finished and was making his way back to the table, two builder types came through the door. They entered in single file, flapping hi-vis vests and barrel bellies, their bulk making it impossible to see that someone much smaller had slipped in between them.
Beck sat back at the table opposite Claire again. When he looked up she was there, standing by the table: Claire’s wife – Lucy Grimes. He was about to speak, give a false greeting. But something stopped him, her expression, and he said nothing.
‘We need to talk,’ Lucy said, ignoring him.
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Claire said. ‘And how’d you know I was here?’
‘What does that matter? I saw you come in, okay?’
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Claire repeated. ‘Not now. And certainly not here.’
‘What? You can’t be serious. We have a lot to talk about.’ She turned her head to Beck. ‘Look at him. Could you go and leave us alone? This is a private matter.’
Lucy’s voice was loud enough now for people to turn and look.
‘No, Lucy,’ Claire said. ‘It’s time for you to leave. Lucy. Go. I mean it.’
Lucy’s eyes were still on Beck. ‘You. You’ve been talking to her, haven’t you?’
‘Leave him out of it. I’ve told him nothing.’
‘You’ve done alright out of me,’ Beck said, unable to help himself.
Lucy leaned onto the table.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Your syndicated serial killer story. Nice little earner. Creative licence for sure. I have to say a great read, even if you made half of it up.’
‘Get lost.’
The waitress appeared, clutching two plates of fish and chips. She sensed the mood, placed the plates on the table and walked quickly away. Beck busied himself with his food, grateful for the distraction.
‘Lucy. Please go,’ it was Claire. ‘I mean it.’
Beck’s phone rang on the table next to him. He could see the word ‘Station’ flash across the screen.
He nudged it with his elbow towards Claire, his mouth too full to speak.
Claire took it up, glanced at Lucy.
‘Go.’
‘Okay. For now. But we’ll talk.’ She pointed at Beck. ‘When he’s not around.’
Claire pressed the answer button but waited until Lucy had turned to leave before she spoke. Then: ‘Claire Somers… Yes, Dempsey… Beck is busy, you can give it to me… Really… Okay… Of course… Goodbye.’
She put the phone back onto the table.
‘Samantha Power’s car has just appeared on the CCTV from Crabby’s supermarket.’
Beck swallowed. Maybe they should have ordered a takeaway after all.
Sitting in the Focus outside, Beck draped an arm out the window, a cigarette held between two fingers, the smoke gently curling upward into the still air, while Claire fumbled with the keys.
‘This is a work place, Beck. You’re not supposed to smoke.’
She fanned the air in front of her face with a hand, looked at the cigarette, and then to Beck.
He took a long draw, placing his face out the window, and gave a theatrical wheeze as he exhaled, mock punching his chest a couple of times. Finally, he dropped the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and sat back, sighed.
‘There. Happy?’
Claire turned the key and started the engine, pulled away from the kerb.
‘That’s criminal damage, by the way,’ she added. ‘Throwing a cigarette out the window like that. Comes under the littering act.’
‘I’m quite the criminal then. What you going to do, arrest me?’
They drove in silence. But a moment later, Claire braked. Beck hadn’t bothered to put his seat belt on, he’d merely pressed his thumb into the mechanism to stop the alarm from sounding. He grabbed the seat now with both hands to stop himself from tumbling forward.
He turned to Claire, who had her head bowed over the steering wheel. She was sobbing.
Beck stared, open mouthed. This was a woman he’d considered to be teak-tough. The woman who’d always stood her ground, held her place in a man’s world, always gave as good as she got. This was that woman.
Beck felt helpless, his hands like dead weights too heavy to lift and reach out to comfort her.
She took her hands from the steering wheel and wiped her eyes, taking some of the make-up away, smearing her mascara so that it looked like black blood trickling down her face.
And as she did so, the dead weights became hands again. He reached out and rested one on her shoulder, the other just below the nape of her neck. He held her gently, reassuring her: I’m here, you are not alone. And that, more than anything, was what she needed right now.
‘I’ve been doing this all day,’ she said. ‘Crying. I made sure no one was around to see me. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.’
She took a deep breath.
‘You want to talk about it?’ Beck asked.
He thought it’d been a long time since he’d cried. Way back in what he called The Dark Ages, his school years. He’d had plenty to cry about back then.
‘Thank you,’ Claire said. ‘I do want to talk about it, only just not right now. Lucy and I, we’re going through something, okay? But we’ll work it out. Sorry about what happened.’ She took a tissue from her sleeve and carefully dabbed her eyes. ‘Right now, we’ve got work to do.’
Twenty-Five
The searchers realised it was not as easy as it had first appeared. The land was not a neat blanket that fell into place, tucking itself into the corners without sharp or rough edges. In some places the ditches along the borders of the fields hid steep inclines that disappeared into heavy undergrowth. The sun did not penetrate here, and the ground was boggy and waterlogged. It was only when the beaters had fought their way through the thorny bushes and placed their feet onto the ground at the bottom, that they noticed they were standing in a foot of thick sludge. And it was here, in these places, that they knew it was more likely than any other that a body could be concealed. A small body, a baby’s body, one easy to miss. So they made sure they didn’t miss anything, and took their time, beating back the bramble, sliding down the inclines, sloshing through the stagnant water and mud. The process was slow. Every hollow and cavity was searched, nothing left undisturbed, and only when they had done all this, when they were completely satisfied, only then did they move on. The sun had passed its highest point in the blue sky now, but still the heat was intense. The breeze had faded, and there was nothing to temper the harsh, uncustomary heat. A weather forecaster had already termed it a freak. Even as four o’clock approached, the heat did not diminish. Some beaters wore sunhats with handkerchiefs tied about the back of their necks, others T-shirts they had converted into bandanas. Everyone wore something. A helicopter had joined the search, a drab green military Agusta Westland AW139 that crisscrossed the sky, the chomping noise of its rotor blades dropping and rising as it went. The Civil Defence Second Officer, named Sharkey, looked at his map, at the rows of empty grid boxes and the wavy contour markers beneath that marked the terrain. He had crossed a mere handful of these off with his pen. If the baby was out there, he was losing hope with each passing minute, because, in this heat, he had to admit, she was probably already dead.
Twenty-Six
Sergeant Connor touched the screen with the tip of his pen.
Beck and Claire leaned in.
‘It’s right there. See.’
Beck already had. The cobalt blue Citroen. His heart began to canter inside his chest, the sound of his rushing blood filling his ears like a waterfall. He took a deep breath, held it, exhaled slowly.
‘Play it,’ he said.
ACTION: The world on the computer screen came alive. A car traversed across the foreground. There was the sound of wind, a hollow flapping noise, also voices, and engines, all rolled into one, becoming an indistinct low rumble. The camera was positioned high, the world through its wide-angle lens curved as if looking from the inside of a goldfish bowl, taking in the roadway and the car park beyond.
For a long time there was nothing, just that indistinct low rumbling noise. But then, the car driver’s door opened and she got out. Beck stared. Samantha Power was taller than he had imagined. Looking at her now, at her tumbling hair, the clothes he had seen torn and partially pulled from her body, knowing that she wore purple underpants that someone would very soon try to pull from her, remembering her exposed breast, the underwire of her white bra biting into the flesh, knowing all this was like knowing an evil secret. If only he could shout and warn her, go back in time to stop her.
Jesus, run for your life girl.
If only he could stop it from happening.
But he could do none of these things. All he could do was watch.
Samantha stood by the door of the Picasso, and lingered, as if undecided about something. Leaning forward now, resting her knee onto the driver’s seat, twisting her body and leaning over it into the back seat.
‘Stop it right there,’ Beck said.
The screen froze.
‘Zoom in. I can’t see the baby.’
The computer screen world fragmented, as if gravity had suddenly been sucked out, the pixels breaking free, suspended in air, tiny digital atoms. The wording on the sticker across the bottom became legible: ‘Clementine’s, Main Peugeot and Citroen Dealers – Athlone Road, Cross Beg’. The backseat headrests were visible too, something rising above the one on the passenger side.
Sergeant Connor tapped the screen. ‘That’s the baby seat. Right there. It’s got a high back, so we can’t see the child. But her little hands were flailing through the air earlier. See, Samantha’s attention is on it?’
‘Baby Róisín,’ Beck said softly.
Samantha took a €10 note from her purse and some loose change from the central console of the car. She put the purse into the glove compartment, making sure it was closed tight, and looked in the rear-view mirror. Róisín was sleeping. She decided that she would not wake her daughter. She would leave her here. The child was exhausted, as was she. It was one row after another now, day in, day out. How much more of this could she take? Concentrate, she told herself. She only needed bread and milk, something for Naomi too. Her friend. Her saviour. Especially at a time like this, because without Naomi, it was either back to her mother’s or sleeping in the car. If she had to, if she absolutely had to that is, and she wasn’t sure which one of those two options she’d take.
Anyway, how long would her shopping take? A couple of minutes at most. In and out. No longer. Still, she paused, two fingers on the door handle, as she looked at her sleeping daughter in the rear-view mirror again, and felt it, as if her heart would bur
st with all the love it carried for her.
‘I won’t be long, my sweetheart,’ she whispered, opening the door.
She got out, but paused again. Was it her imagination, or had Róisín’s eyes just flickered? Carefully, she leaned into the car, resting one knee onto the driver’s seat, peering into the back at Róisín. No, her daughter was sleeping soundly. The rear windows were slightly open, allowing a gentle breeze to waft in. Still, should she cover her with something? Róisín only had a nappy and a T-shirt on after all.
Samantha smiled and got back out of the car, telling herself she was fussing too much. She gently closed the door and pointed the keyfob, pressed the button, the squelching sound reassuring her the car was now locked. She would not be long. In and out.
She walked quickly. She did not want to meet or talk to anybody, did not want to be delayed in any way. Passing in through the supermarket doors, she headed straight for the bread section.
‘Heeello.’
Samantha could not see anyone. She looked down. Mr Crabby was kneeling in front of the information booth, refilling crisp packets into the space beneath the counter. He smiled, his white teeth gleaming from his perma-tanned face.
‘How are you today?’ he asked.
Smarmy git.
‘I’m fine thanks. And you?’
She cursed silently for not having merely walked on, a simple hello would have sufficed.
He squeezed in the last of the crisp bags.
‘Swinging the devil by the tail,’ he said. ‘You know how it is. Yes indeed, swinging the devil by the tail. I must say, you’re looking well today. Motherhood suits you.’
She smiled, a ‘you can’t be serious smile’, and walked on. She doubted Mr Crabby even knew her name, it was all soft talk, from a salesman with a shop full of stuff to sell. She picked up a Crabby’s Local Shop Rite Wholemeal Bread loaf and headed for the milk fridges on the other side of the supermarket. She grabbed a two-litre container of milk and a tub of low fat yogurt for Naomi and then it was straight to the checkout. In and out, just the way she’d planned.
The Child Before Page 7