by Eoghan Egan
‘What? Why? That’s … It’s more than suspicious. She’s—’
‘I know, and they’re listening to me, but they won’t interfere in case there’s an innocent explanation, and she shows up.’
‘And how long’s that going to—?’
‘Forty-eight hours.’
‘Dear Christ. What can I do to help?’
‘Were you in Mullingar?’
‘Yeah. I have your laptop.’
‘Can I pick it up? I’ll meet you in Ganestown Hotel.’
‘Half an hour.’ Hugh dialled Ruth next.
‘I’m here with Sharona,’ Ruth said. ‘She’d forgotten her house keys got locked inside when Styne pulled the door closed, so we contacted a locksmith. Took ages to replace the locks. Her mobile was under the stairs. Still worked once she put the bits back together. Then we cooked. I’m fed for the night shift.’
‘Can we organise dinner too when you’re off night duty?’ Hugh asked
‘Ooh, lovely. I’m on nights up to and including Friday.’
‘So Saturday’s okay?’
‘Saturday night’s excellent.’
‘What time?’
‘Eight?’
‘Great,’ Hugh said. ‘Why don’t I cook? I’ve a family recipe, handed down for generations … Jesus, what have I said? ‘Me’ and ‘cook’ shouldn’t be in the same sentence. That was a rush of blood.’
‘Too late. You’ve committed. I accept. No pressure, but I’m—your favourite word—a terrific cook.’
‘And modest,’ Hugh said.
Ruth laughed. ‘Better believe it. I’ll bring wine. How’d your day go?’
‘Busy tying up loose ends.’
‘Any vertigo?’
‘No. How’s Sharona?’
‘Well on the mend, but the news on Ciara McGuire has upset her.’
‘We both know Ciara. Can’t understand how or why she’d disappear. It’s not like her to go AWOL without letting—’
‘When I get into work, I’ll check if she got admitted to any of the Midland hospitals. Perhaps there was an accident. A car crash. This weather …’
‘Car’s still at home, unless she borrowed one,’ Hugh said. ‘I don’t want to hear she’s hurt, but it would be a relief to know she’s safe.’
‘I’ve gotta go, Hugh. See you Saturday. Meantime, phone, if you want.’
‘I want. I’ll call tomorrow.’
‘Good. Hold on. Sharona wants a word.’
Hugh overheard the women murmur, then Sharona took the mobile. ‘It’s all over social media about Ciara. Jesus. It can’t be true. Is it? Why would …? I mean … God. Where could …? How? It’s … Aw, Jesus.’
‘I can’t understand either. Hope it’s—’
‘I met her a couple of times when I was with Malcolm. She went out of her way to be nice and make me feel at ease. And poor David? I can’t imagine the agony Charlie and Malcolm are facing. I want to phone them, but I feel … helpless.’
‘Me too,’ Hugh said. ‘I phoned Malcolm a few minutes ago. There’s no update. All we can do is wait. And pray for good news. I expect Ciara met friends, and they’ve taken off, on impulse. She’ll appear in a few days, laughing at us for causing a fuss.’
‘Ciara never struck me as … yeah, hope you’re right.’
‘Hmm. Ruth said you’re well improved.’
‘Bit shaky. Like after a week with flu. Dorothy arrived back to the hospital before breakfast. Gave me a list of friends who want their artwork appraised. Imagine that? Me? An appraiser?’
‘Nice work.’
‘I’m not in an academic position to evaluate other people’s art. There’s a world of difference between a lucky break and getting hyped as an appraiser. I’d have to enrol in refresher courses, get back into study and research.’
‘That shouldn’t be an issue.’
‘Part of me wants to leave everything associated with this episode behind, but … Oh, remember the chat we were having before Styne called?’
‘No.’
‘I’d started to tell you something weird is happening with my emails—’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘I think I was hacked.’
‘What? How? By Who?’
‘No idea. And I could be wrong, but—’
‘I’ll pop over in a while and we’ll figure it out. Is it possible you’ve made—?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Okay. See you in a bit.’ Hugh pressed Ferdia’s number.
‘Rough day,’ Ferdia said, ‘Where’re you?’
‘On the outskirts of Ganestown.’
‘Did you have the exit interview?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m home now, but I’ve to go out later. Drop in for a chat.’
Malcolm snatched the laptop case from Hugh’s hand. ‘Thanks. This waiting’s the worst thing ever.’
‘How’s Charlie?’
‘He’s kept in. Minor stroke. Stress can cause awful harm. Doctor’s hopeful he’ll have no long-term effects. Listen, I’ve to head out to Ciara’s place. I need to organise a search. Err, I forgot my wallet. Can I borrow cash?’
‘Sure. How much?’
‘Three, four hundred?’
‘Four hun—?’
‘I’ve no idea when I’ll get home.’
Hugh frowned. ‘I don’t carry cash. I’ll go to the ATM and see what it’ll let me withdraw.’
‘I’ll go with you. Save you coming back here …’
Ferdia looked worn-out.
Raw emotion showed on his gaunt, unshaven face, eyes underlined with black circles, shoulders slumped in grief. ‘You missed Master David’s bedtime story,’ he said to Hugh. A timber fire blazed in the hearth; the flickering flames casting shadows over the drowsy, curled figure on the couch. Ferdia stroked David’s cheek, his touch light as a snowflake’s kiss. ‘Say night-night to Hugh, Master David.’
‘One more story, Uncle Ferdi.’
‘It’s way beyond bedtime.’ Ferdia lifted David onto his shoulder. ‘We’ll read tomorrow.’
‘Will Mammy be home tomorrow?’
A coughing bout gave Ferdia a few seconds. ‘I’d say she’ll be home by the time you wake.’
‘Why did she leave and not tell me?’ Tear tracks glistened on David’s cheeks. ‘Mammy always tells me where she’s going.’
‘I’ll be heading out soon to bring her back.’
‘Promise?’ David tugged Ferdia’s sleeve, pulling the pledge from him.
‘I promise.’
‘If you know where she is—’
‘Mammy got delayed, that’s all. She thought she’d get home in time to tuck you in. Hold tight now.’ Ferdia tramped upstairs.
‘Is she stuck in snow? What if—’
‘Nah. She’ll be fine.’
‘Uncle Ferdi?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I’ll go too. I’ll call her. I can shout really, really loud.’
‘I know. But its best you get sleep, Master David.’
‘Does she know I’m here with you? Mammy might … might be at home now, calling me, and …’
Hugh gazed into the flames.
Ferdia’s heavy footsteps stomped downstairs, and he threw more logs on the fire. ‘Feckin’ madness that cops don’t want to get involved in a search before forty-eight hours.’
‘Especially when they’re saying it’s suspicious,’ Hugh said.
‘They say that about every case. Lots of gardaí around earlier, not too many an hour ago. Feckin’ cutbacks.’
‘Malcolm’s gone out to Drumraney. He’ll organise it,’ Hugh said.
Ferdia cracked his knuckles. ‘I’m guessing Ciara’s nowhere local.’ Ferdia handed Hugh a box full of loose photos. ‘Master David wanted to see himself as a baby.’
Hugh fanned the snaps. David’s baptism; the baby doll-sized in Ferdia’s big hands. Ciara, laughing at the camera. Charlie, proud as a peacock, smiling in the background. Older, dog-eared black and white pictures: Ci
ara at Eilish’s tenth birthday party. On holidays together in Tenerife. A weekend in London.
‘How’d the meeting go? Sorry I wasn’t there for you.’
‘Director Wiseman couldn’t wait to get rid of me.’
‘Director, huh. A title given, not always earned. Fella’s all box and no biscuits. Light on people skills, but heavy on connections. That’s what counts.’
‘Dished out business cards like—’
‘Holy water in Lourdes?’
‘—confetti at a wedding, but yeah. Glad I didn’t bother preparing a speech from the dock.’
‘Anything else I missed?’
‘Denis said you’d “triangulate” with me.’
‘Jaysus. That’s his word of the week. Said it half-a-dozen times over the last few days. Any word from Eil—?’
‘No.’
‘Huh. Talked to her earlier, but she said nothing ’bout, you know …’
‘Good.’
‘Aye. Anyhow, I’ve a bit of business to sort out in Dublin. Babysitter should be here in a few minutes.’
Ferdia reclined like a cat in sleep mode; relaxed but ready to explode at the slightest sound. Waves of energy, similar to heat haze, radiated off him. His arm sinews writhed, biceps jumped and bulged, threatening to rip his shirt. Hugh tried to draw him into conversation, but the glum giant withdrew into his own private limbo, bottling grief, face hard as teak. They sat in silence, staring at silhouettes the flames threw on the walls and ceiling, loath to break vigil, hoping for the best, fearing the worst, and powerless to act in the interim. The doorbell chimed. Ferdia propelled himself from the armchair and grabbed a briefcase. ‘There’s the babysitter. We’ll have news on Ciara’s whereabouts soon.’
------
Ruth had left when Hugh reached Sharona’s house.
A tawny tabby stepped into the hallway, swishing her tail in the air.
‘Say hi to Cleopatra,’ Sharona said. ‘She belongs to a neighbour, but calls in for titbits.’
The cat inspected Hugh and ambled off.
‘Come in and have a taste of what we cooked earlier, to demonstrate the standard that’s expected Saturday night.’
‘God, word travels fast.’
Sharona grinned. ‘Ruth left floating on air. You’ve made an impression.’ The smile waned. ‘She told me about your mother. And Eilish.’
‘Yeah, she’s going through a similar process with her dad.’
‘Anything further on Ciara?’
‘No news.’
They moved to the kitchen. A dish with lavender oil and spiced berries sat on a warm radiator, infusing the area with its fragrant scent.
‘I can’t fathom it out,’ Sharona shook her head. ‘Dear Jesus, why—?’
‘No idea. There’s a good possibility it’s all a crazy mix-up. Ferdia believes she’ll be back tonight.’
‘Hope and pray he’s right.’ Sharona withdrew a casserole dish from the oven.
‘What’s the problem with your emails?’ Hugh asked.
‘Eat first. I’d imagined it was an error, a glitch. I assumed … The thing is, I didn’t take my laptop to Belfast, and when I got home and logged on, I noticed the emails I’d received since last Friday weren’t in “bold.” Somebody read my mails and didn’t bother, or forgot to click the “mark as unread” button.’
‘You didn’t check your emails anyplace while you were away?’ Hugh tucked into the leftovers.
‘Didn’t have time.’
‘How could somebody get your password?’
‘I’ve different passwords. I don’t keep them under lock and key. They’re in my purse, written on a scrap of paper.’
‘But if you got hacked, it means—’
‘Malcolm maybe? He had loads of opportunities.’
Hugh blinked at her. ‘I can’t imagine him rummaging through your handbag for passwords. That’s criminal.’
‘I can’t see it either. Wouldn’t put it past Milo Brady, though.’
‘Milo? Yeah.’
‘Remember, I said it’s as if he’s stalking me? Lately, no matter where I am, he turns up. Feels like I’m in a locked cage, chased by a dog.’
‘Two different things, Sharona. Even if your email … it might be a random hack. Change the password.’
‘Right. More than likely I’m over emotional after the last few days. But … No, that’s too weird.’
‘What?’
‘I got punctured twice outside McGuire’s. I mean, could it have been on purpose?’
‘Yeah, too weird.’ Hugh polished off the food and sat back.
‘But, see, the thing is, Milo—’
‘I don’t like him either, Sharona, but I’d say you’re judging the man wrong.’
‘You reckon?’ Sharona said.
‘It may be a glitch, or else you’re spot on, and your laptop’s breached. A guy I know, Ronan Lambe, is a computer whiz. He’ll know if your account has been accessed. Or not. I’ll make a call.’ Hugh left a message on Ronan’s voicemail.
‘And meantime?’ Sharona asked.
‘Check your bank account and credit card activity. Leave this computer idle ’til Ronan calls. If it’s hacked, best not let the person cop on he or she’s got rumbled.’
‘Jesus, I’ve just remembered something else.’
‘Go on.’
‘A few weeks ago, Malcolm and me were in a pub. I went to the loo, and when I came back, Malcolm was at the bar buying a drink for Milo, who, as usual, leeched onto us. I’d left my handbag on the bench, and I swear he was rifling through it, but I wasn’t sure and you can’t accuse—’
‘No.’
‘I asked him what he was doing, and he said the bag had fallen and he’d picked it up. No big deal, right?’
‘Right.’
‘But …’
‘Hmm.’
‘Except, with Milo …’
‘Yeah. See what Ronan says,’ Hugh said. ‘A day or two. Patience is a virtue.’
‘And a vice. So, I wait?’
‘Yep. You’ll get your chance.’
‘If I’m right, I want my pound of flesh. Then I’ll decide what to do with my life. Have to get back to reality.’
Hugh’s mobile beeped, and he read Malcolm’s text:
Detectives are questioning a man
named Adam Styne about Ciara’s
disappearance.
‘What the …?’ Hugh showed Sharona the message.
They read the text together.
Sharona’s face turned pasty. ‘Jesus! How can that be? Oh. My. God. That’s crazy. Ohmygod.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m gonna get sick. Why the …? He kidnapped me for, I don’t know, some weird revenge thing ’cos I hurt his business reputation. But Ciara? I don’t get this. Crikey. They must’ve found evidence, or … Jesus.’
‘Makes sense,’ Hugh said. ‘Styne abducted you. It’s logical that he’s interrogated on other missing persons. Doesn’t mean he has anything to do with their disappearances, but detectives need to eliminate him as a suspect. Also means so long as Styne’s name is in the spotlight, you’re linked to him. What’d you say about getting back to reality? Whatever happens from here on, your life has changed.’
‘Then we’re both connected because you rescued me. Both our lives will change. Forever.’
Night
The longer Ferdia thought, the more sense it made. Dessie Dolan snatched Ciara and was using her as a bargaining chip to ensure Charlie didn’t renege on Malcolm’s debt.
Fuelled by conviction, Ferdia turned onto O’Connell Street, eyes glued for breaks in the stop-start traffic. Nobody on planet earth would stop him taking Ciara home to Master David. He willed himself to stay objective, but it wasn’t working. Cold fury made his blood boil. He circled the Garden of Remembrance. Twice.
No parking space.
He shot up Gardiner Row, down Great Denmark Street and swung into Temple Street. A steel barrier blocked the Lidl car park entrance. He retraced his path, spotted a sp
ace in Nerney Court, and tucked the Merc between a Bedford truck and a Honda Accord. Swallowing a mouthful of antacid liquid, he checked the bulging A4 size envelope was in the briefcase and left it there for protection against the elements. He lit a cigarette, grabbed the case, and trekked back towards the supermarket.
Sleet and snow covered the ground in crusted slush. A skin-numbing wind, sharp as glass splinters, whipped along Temple Street, sweeping up fast food litter. Fog clung to the streets like a grey blanket, and the whole graffiti-ridden area looked derelict, apart from a bony cat rooting through a burst bin bag.
Ferdia glanced at the parked cars. A taxi, cleared of snow, fumes floating from its exhaust, stood out from the other ice-encrusted cars. His phone hummed as he watched a shadow shift around in the taxi. He was being watched. Ferdia crossed the street and rapped on the driver’s window. The glass slid down, and the burned grassy smell of marijuana hit Ferdia’s face.
‘Whaddaya want?’ The driver sniffed and rubbed a fingerless glove across his runny nose.
‘You Dessie?’ Ferdia bent and peered in at the small man, thin as a heroin addict.
‘Who’s askin’?’
‘I’ve a package for him.’
‘I’ll deliver it. Where’s McGuire?’
‘Where you put him. In intensive care.’
‘Defuk are you?’
‘Postman Pat.’
‘Let’s see it.’
‘What?’
The driver leaned towards the window. ‘You tick or wha? Dosh. Dough. Moolah. Cheese.’ He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. ‘Flash de cash.’
Ferdia’s stare searched the interior. No Ciara. He flicked the cigarette butt away. Sparks flared as it scudded along the footpath.
The driver held out a gloved fist. ‘Gimme money.’
‘Gimme receipt.’
The driver eyeballed Ferdia and sucked his teeth. ‘Funny man. Fifteen gran’.’ He tapped the dashboard. ‘Haven’t got all nigh’. Cash on de dash.’
‘Where’s Ciara?’ Ferdia asked.
‘Wha?’
‘Ciara McGuire. Where is she?’
‘Dafuk ya onabout? Cash. Now.’
Fast as a striking rattlesnake, Ferdia reached in, grabbed the scrawny neck and pulled the driver’s face out the open window. ‘Where’s. Ciara. McGuire?’ His gruff growl resembled two rough surfaces grinding together. The man gagged. Behind him, Ferdia heard the heavy thunk of a jeep door closing.
