by Eoghan Egan
‘Didn’t stop you dating that posh one, though, what was her name? Daphne? Darlene …?’
‘Danielle? Danielle Mitchell?’ Hugh said.
Ruth pointed a finger at him. ‘That’s her. Whatever happened to Danielle?’
‘We were kids, friends. After Leaving Cert, she studied medicine in UCD. Haven’t heard of her in years.’
‘So why not me?’ Ruth pressed again.
‘You took off with Ray.’
‘Who?’
‘Ray.’
‘Ray? Oh, Ray Brennan. God, I’d forgotten him. Wonder what happened to old Ray.’
‘He won the lottery.’
‘No way? How much?’
‘Fourteen million.’
‘Good God.’
‘Rollover jackpot for weeks and weeks. One winner.’
‘You. Are joking.’
‘Yeah, I’m teasing. Ray’s a carpenter, part of the diaspora. I’ve no idea where he is. Haven’t seen him for a while.’
‘Snooker,’ Ruth said. ‘Ray used to mitch and play snooker.’
‘And got away with it, ’cos he was teacher’s pet.’
‘Hmm, he was a favourite all right. What’re your favourite things?’
‘Fighting neighbours,’ Hugh said, ‘pushing old-aged pensioners under buses—’
‘Be serious.’
‘Okay. The aroma of fresh bread and homemade pie. Birds singing. Satisfaction of a job well done. You?’
‘Crisp clean sheets and pillowcases when you get home from holidays. Hmm, luxury. Who do you admire most?’
‘That’s easy. Nameless people like the Chernobyl clean-up workers who saved Europe from becoming a wasteland. They’re the modern-day superheroes. And Red Cross volunteers who risk their lives when they go into godforsaken war-torn countries, to tend the wounded. That takes real courage.’
‘Good answer. That’s enough questions for one day,’ Ruth yawned. ‘‘You need sleep, and I’m exhausted even before starting night duty tomorrow. Need a lift anyplace in the morning?’
‘Have to go to Mullingar. Exit interview. I’ll be fine.’
‘Are you insured if anything happens?’
‘I’ll take it easy.’ Sleet drummed against the café window. ‘Damn this weather. Can you drop me off at the Garda barracks? I’ve to collect Ma’s car.’
Ruth linked Hugh to the Garda station entrance.
The icy chill pressed them together. Hugh left the crutch against the wall and drew Ruth closer, curling his arms around her. His heart pounded. Ruth’s arms circled Hugh’s waist. She smiled and angled her head upwards. A vein pulsed at the side of her neck. The kiss hovered between them. ‘Déjà vu,’ she said.
‘No way,’ Hugh said. Their lips met for a long moment until the cold air pushed them apart.
‘Can’t wait for the encore.’ Hugh inhaled Ruth’s strawberry and vanilla essence scent.
Ruth’s lips brushed his ear. ‘Me too. But someplace warmer.’
‘Text me when you get home,’ Hugh said.
‘I will. Keep safe.’
They kissed again.
Hugh shivered in the sleet. Although wet and freezing on the outside, Ruth had warmed his heart.
Night
Sarah left, and Hugh settled in to watch the news. His mobile bleeped. Ruth’s goodnight text. Then it rang. Malcolm McGuire’s voice pierced like a soprano’s high G note.
‘Slow down, Malcolm. Say again?’
‘Ciara’s disappeared.’
‘What?’
‘Ferdia brought David home,’ Malcolm’s voice cracked, ‘and they found a shoe in her driveway and the hall door unlocked.’
‘Christ. That’s not like—’
‘I phoned her office manager. Said Ciara didn’t show today. Assumed she was sick. We’re … Dad’s … and the other missing woman. Ferdia’s contacted the police.’
‘Had Ciara visitors? Maybe she’s—?’
‘Her car hasn’t moved. I chatted to her Saturday night, and—’
‘Did she give any hint—?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Jesus. Did she visit Charlie? Is she—?’
‘No.’ Malcolm blubbered. ‘Dad keeps telling her not to drive in the snow. I’m wanted in Ganestown. We’re at our wit’s end.’
‘Where’s David?’
‘At Ferdia’s place. Can you call into Mullingar and—?’
‘Of course. I’d planned to—’
‘And pick up my laptop? I’ll meet up and collect it off you.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll be in touch. This’ll destroy Dad.’ Malcolm wept into the phone and cut the call.
Hugh jabbed in Ferdia’s mobile number. Voicemail. Rang Eilish, then cancelled the call; she’d have got word. Tried Ferdia once more. No answer. Changed his mind about Eilish, pressed her number. Engaged. Still busy when he rang five minutes later. He wanted to assist, but he’d be useless in his present condition. And he was reluctant to leave his mother alone again.
After Kathleen settled, Hugh took painkillers, removed the head bandage and had a shower. The water helped ease pain. He redialled Eilish’s mobile, left a message and went to bed. It had been a long day. The combination of tiredness and sedatives knocked him out. Later, a noise woke him. The phone hummed and vibrated on the bedside locker: A text:
Dad transferred 2 Mater
Private. Suspect heart
attack. No word on Ciara.
Guards say disappearance is
suspicious.
Chapter 10
Wednesday, 16 January
Morning
‘Looks like the food’s overrated.’
Adam Styne moved the nebulous mess that stuck to a blunt plastic fork like glue. He twisted his head, tried to pull himself into a comfortable position, and eyed the speaker who’d slipped around the railed curtain encircling the hospital bed. The thin mattress and hard pillows negated any relief. The cast on his leg weighed a ton.
The speaker placed a folder on the bed, settled into a chair, removed a scarf and leather gloves, pinched the sharp crease in his trouser leg and brushed away an imaginary speck. He looked at the plate of gruel and made a moue with his lips. ‘Mushed up on account of …’ he gestured at Styne’s face.
‘Who are you?’ Styne stiffened in agony. Any mouth movement sent darts of pain crashing through his wired jaw and skull. Fatigued and groggy, his voice sounded slurred and slow. He stopped moving and let the wave of pain pass.
‘Allister O’Brien. Your barrister.’
‘I know you.’ Styne attempted to avoid letting his tongue hit teeth. ‘That court case with—’
‘Yes. Opposite sides of the fence on that occasion. Now we’re allies.’
‘I asked for—’
‘I’m his colleague. My experience will be more relevant if the State takes a criminal action against you.’
‘I’m innocent,’ Styne said. ‘What experience?’
‘I’m a psychiatrist and a barrister. I’ve worked in mental institutions, plus I’m qualified in forensic evaluations.’
‘Mental—?’
‘Yes. I represented you at your court hearing yesterday. They’re transferring you to a psychiatric unit. Judge ordered you to be medically assessed.’
‘What?’ Styne attempted to sit up and was sorry he made the effort. ‘Psychiatric unit? Where?’
‘Haven’t told me yet. The powers that be aren’t obliged to disclose where they’re planning to send you. They’ll tell me once it’s decided.’
‘God damn—’
‘Easy, Adam. Are you hurting? Shall I call a nurse?’
‘Yes, I’m in pain. They’re deliberately keeping pain medication from me.’
The barrister looked at Styne from over the top of his glasses. ‘I doubt that, Adam. The rule is: first, do no harm. You’re being pumped with pain breakers, and—’
‘This place is …’ Styne tried to talk without moving his tongue. He pointed a finger. ‘I
want you to sue Hugh Fallon for causing this damage. Physical and mental torture, pain, distress.’
O’Brien opened the folder, took out a pad and scribbled a note. ‘All in good time. He’ll be a hero for a week, while this story gets splashed across the front pages. Let him have his fifteen minutes in the spotlight. After the initial news dump and rush to judgement, other tragedies will catch the headlines. While all that plays out, we’ve got pressing matters to address and—’
‘When will they move me?’
‘Soon. Tomorrow. Or the day after.’
‘What day’s today?’
‘Wednesday.’
‘What’ll happen after I’m—?’
‘Assessments.’
‘For what? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘The State will evaluate to see if you’re competent to stand trial for abduction.’
‘I can explain.’
‘So can I,’ the barrister said. ‘For now, we’ll call it a trigger moment brought on by stress, and compounded by, um, activities of a staff member across the border. Temporary insanity, right?’
‘I’m not insane. I—’
‘Adam, insanity isn’t bad. It’s a protection, understand? For the moment, we’ll go with temporary insanity. And you feel terrible. Right?’
The men stared at each other.
‘Right,’ Styne said.
‘Excellent,’ O’Brien smiled. ‘Now, in other news, gardaí are looking into the possibility you’ve a connection with the disappearance of two people from the Ganestown area. They’ve triangulated phone grids in an attempt to determine your movements on the evenings of …’ the barrister flicked back through pages of notes, ‘Monday, January seventh, and Monday, January fourteenth last. They haven’t found any record you were in that vicinity on the dates in question, which is good news. However, if they find a scintilla of DNA—’
‘They won’t. They can’t. I wasn’t there. I’m not going to a mental hos—’
‘That’s out of our hands, Adam. The State’s entitled to assess your mentality. Detention in accordance with provisions of the Mental Health Act, is a detailed and time-consuming process. It’s never done flippantly. Stringent procedures follow strict guidelines. Everybody’s story, every word and document gets dissected. Once your physical wellbeing is under control, the next stage is your mental health.’
‘My mental health is fine. What use are you if—?’
O’Brien held up his hand. ‘Adam, you abducted a person.’ He leaned forward. ‘Entered her home and …’ He settled back. ‘It’s not my job to decide if you’re guilty or innocent. My task is to safeguard your rights while the State collects evidence, considers its case, and if they decide to prosecute, that you receive a fair trial and an impartial jury. My other—’
‘This is a setup. Let’s go to court. Let the truth come out.’
‘Trials aren’t about truth, Adam. My other duty is to ensure minimal custodial sentence if a guilty verdict is—’
‘Jail? I can’t—’
‘If you’re found guilty. Let’s not dwell on morbid thoughts.’
‘What will this assessment entail?’
‘Lots of questions, starting from the year you were born. Verbal and written tests; nothing you can’t handle. Like psychometric assessments for senior management positions.’
Adam hadn’t time to reflect before a small, smiling, middle-aged Asian man stuck his head through the curtain gap. ‘Good morning, Mr Styne. Good news. Today you learn to walk again.’ He held up a pair of axillary crutches and tapped them together. ‘Now, no weight bearing on your right leg for six weeks. When you come back for check-up, if I find any sign of wear on the cast, I’ll be furious.’
The barrister introduced the doctor. ‘Adam, Doctor Anasi. He worked in Belfast during the eighties, has a lot of experience with ah … pinning and stapling bones. He’s pleased how well the operations went, and with your overall progress.’
‘I am.’ The surgeon pointed at Styne’s face. ‘They wired your upper and lower teeth, and implanted plates to bone, to give you normal eating motions in a week or so.’ He snapped his teeth together to show Styne how they’d work. ‘The leg, now, that was interesting. You can thank God the shattered tibia—’
The barrister held up his hand. ‘I think at this juncture, medical attention might outweigh the efficacy of prayer, Doctor, hmm?’
The doctor got the message. ‘Six months, you’ll be almost perfect.’
Allister O’Brien stood, fixed the cashmere scarf around his neck. ‘Looks like you’ve a busy morning ahead, Adam, and so have I. Oh, I’ve been in contact with Madeline—’
Styne’s eyes reduced to slits. ‘What’s Madeline got to do—?’
The doctor left the crutches aside and stepped outside the curtain.
‘She’ll be a witness to your mental health. Like it or not, she gets questioned too.’
‘Why?’
‘About living with you for fifteen, sixteen years. Going forward, it’ll be useful to learn what Mrs Styne will say, so I suggested either a visit—’
‘She didn’t. I don’t expect her to.’
‘—or write. She chose to write.’ The barrister took an envelope from his pocket and placed it on the bedside locker. ‘Read and fill me in. It’s important we ascertain your wife’s um, emotional state. Whether she’s a friend or foe.’
‘She won’t have anything good to say. Are the galleries open?’
‘Closed for the moment.’
‘Make sure they stay that way until I get back.’
‘Again, that’s out of my hands, Adam. But …’ O’Brien shrugged, ‘it’s feasible somebody may buy them out.’
‘What do you mean? Who’d—?’
‘Someone might make a generous cash settlement. Oh, I don’t know, I’m plucking a name from the air here, Dorothy Ridgeway perhaps?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Just that if a saviour offered a cash deal, I’d say Hattinger’s might take it. After the last few days, it would help cushion the shock, and all that.’
‘But—’
‘Adam, I’m speculating. I’m hearing rumours. At the moment, I can neither substantiate nor refute factoids. If you wish, I’ll ask on your behalf.’
‘Get me into court. Put me in the witness box. I’ll show—’
The barrister frowned. ‘No.’
‘What?’
O’Brien played with his shirt cuff. ‘I’d consider that reckless, Adam.’
‘Why?’
‘Three reasons. One, you don’t need to. At present, there’s no forensic evidence pointing at you for the disappearances of—’
‘Don’t know anything about those two women,’ Styne said.
The barrister stared at his client. ‘Who mentioned two women?’
Styne broke eye contact.
‘Perhaps you read some reports,’ the barrister continued. ‘Whatever. As I was saying, there’s no indication of your involvement in either Lord or McGuire’s disappearances. Suspicion isn’t proof, and without proof…’ he shrugged. ‘No evidence usually equals acquittal.’
‘Usually? What do you—?’
‘Circumstantial evidence generally means nothing in a trial, Adam; it’s a tiny speck on one side, stacked up against the presumption of innocence on the other. Until opposing council starts throwing little chunks onto their side of the scale. Fibres, blood specks, body fluids, a fingerprint… all these pieces acts as a counterbalance against our story. Add enough of them together and they can metaphorically tip the scales.’
‘There’s nothing to tip.’
‘Excellent. Yet people have got convicted solely on the weight of circumstantial evidence, Adam. For instance, if work and home computers revealed—’
‘I said, there’s nothing to reveal.’ What’s the second reason?’
‘Let me finish my first reason, Adam. We’ve no idea what evidence will be found on the bodies. We’ll have to wait for those resul
ts, but sometimes, the best clues come from the victims. Now, my second point. If there is a court case, it’ll be twelve, eighteen months away. By then, the emotional heat will have abated, and it’s my job to ensure certain facts get suppressed. Eighteen months is a long time. Memories fade and thankfully the public have a short recollection span. Witnesses become unreliable, evidence becomes stale and victims get lost in the shuffle.’
‘And the third?’
‘The third’s to do with perception. You’re innocent so far in the eyes of the law, but in the court of public opinion most jurors make up their minds after the opening statements. In this case, you’d be deemed guilty even before a trial starts. After all, why would our State spend a fortune building a case against an innocent man? Hmm?’
‘Let them—’
‘It’s Miss Waters’ abduction, Adam.’ The barrister leaned over the bed again. ‘You’d get crucified on cross-examination. And your manner … well, jurors would pick up on your resistance and reluctance to engage. Those that haven’t already made up their minds, won’t listen to the man on trial, they’d see a predator.’
‘So, I’m—’
‘Innocent until proven guilty. And it’s my job to create doubt. Obfuscate. Leave the jury psychology to me.’
Styne glared at O’Brien. ‘I want to go on the stand and refute all the lies—’
‘No.’ O’Brien stared back. ‘There’s no such thing as lies, Adam, only greater or lesser degrees of interpretation and misunderstanding.’
‘Ahem.’ The surgeon peeked around the curtain.
O’Brien straightened. ‘Well, I’m off. Defence counsel never rests. Meantime, good luck with your physio.’
‘I need my phone. Newspapers. Television—’
O’Brien buttoned his coat. ‘Gardaí are withholding your mobile as evidence, Adam, and the media is full of bad news. Trust me, you don’t want to see, hear or read it. Concentrate on getting well.’ He picked up the folder.
‘Wait.’ Styne pasted a phoney smile. Beads of sweat shone on his forehead. ‘This assessment? What can I expect?’
O’Brien held up a finger to the doctor. ‘One moment, please,’ and turned towards Styne. ‘Whoever killed those women must be angry, Adam. Angry with himself. Angry with … everyone. Whatever his motives were for doing this, be it revenge or retribution, it’s um … traumatic. Imagine that tension, that weight. Impossible to suppress. Especially difficult to conceal from professional psychiatrists. So, when gardaí apprehend that person, if I were his barrister, I’d be telling him it’s important, nay, vital, to show the authorities how cool, calm and collected he is. Nothing is stressing him, aside from finding himself locked up for no reason. And amenable too; every word calibrated to convey an eagerness to help get this mess sorted, and resume his life. I’d suggest submissive, even. Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full, sir. Less defiance, more compliance. Get it?’
