by Eoghan Egan
‘Never reckless,’ Hugh said. ‘But even if I knew he was a killer, not sure what I’d have done different. Sharona was in danger, and the element of surprise was on my side. Reckless? God, no. Pure self-defence. Scary to think evil operates so close to us. Hiding in plain sight.’
‘By and large,’ the detective said, ‘evil people aren’t the criminals locked up. Real monsters are seldom caught. You’d no idea what you’d find in Styne’s house. You’re a lucky man.’
Hugh said: ‘Hadn’t a clue whose house it was. Hard to imagine a psychopath can masquerade as a businessman—’
‘Or vice versa,’ Mulryan webbed both hands behind his neck.
‘A psychopath in a suit,’ Hugh said. ‘I didn’t consider the consequences; just reacted at the time. But why murder Ciara? And others.’
Mulryan shrugged. ‘Greed’s a motivator in most criminal acts. Or power. No one becomes a depraved serial killer overnight. Everybody could get involved in unlawful activity, but the majority stay within the law because they don’t fancy the consequences if they’re caught. A few ignore the penalties; get a thrill out of bucking the system.’ Mulryan shrugged. ‘Maybe Styne gets off on killing. Thinks of it as fun. A game. I can’t explain what sparks these episodes.’
‘Might feel the law’s for other people,’ Hugh said. ‘That it doesn’t relate to him. Thinks he’s too clever to get caught.’
‘Hmm. The people in white coats can decipher him.’ Mulryan stood and jingled pocket change. ‘But, the brain’s peculiar. There’s a delicate line between sanity and insanity; teeny incidences can escalate and cause enormous consequences. Still, this points to you and Ruth in the spotlight with Sharona.’
‘No, thanks. That’s not for me. I’m happy to keep out of the limelight.’
‘You mightn’t have a choice.’
‘I don’t want to become the story. I prefer to remain in the background. One celebrity is enough in Ganestown.’
‘It’s a small town,’ Mulryan said. ‘This story will be major news. Your involvement will leak, whether you want it to or not. Prepare yourself.’
Afternoon
Just before afternoon coffee break, gardaí charged Styne with Ciara McGuire’s murder.
Whether it was an official tip-off or Dorothy Ridgeway, Sharona’s near-fatal miss grew wings when it got fed to the media. When an eagle-eyed hack recognised her with Ronan in Starbucks, Sharona got pulled into mainstream broadcasts again, and the media scrum began anew. Her wish of getting back to reality lasted fourteen hours.
By teatime, a communications village mushroomed in Ganestown’s Square, with the speed and efficiency of a stage set. Camera crews swamped Sharona, exploiting the photogenic heroine they’d become acquainted with, and who could deliver concise sound bites. The multi-coloured discolourations got snapped and filmed at every angle to satisfy the media’s thirst for drama. Editors sourced her as the cover story on the main bulletins, relegating other breaking news to second and third spots. Local politicians praised gardaí for their speedy intervention, and Hattinger’s family solicitor issued a terse declaration of his client’s innocence, urging the authorities to concentrate on arresting the actual killer. Ambrose Hattinger drew the shutters on all business units, closed ranks and the family withdrew into a bubble of silence.
To fill newspaper column inches, roving reporters went on a feeding frenzy, door-stepping Adam Styne’s neighbours in Kilcormac and Tullamore. Outside Broadcasting Units looped the district, foraging for news. Hardened farmers scratched their heads, straightened peaked caps, listened to everything and said nothing. Grinning kids bobbled into camera range, making faces for the nine o’clock news. Housewives expressed disbelief at what they’d seen and read. ‘Knew him since he was a youngster,’ one said. ‘Kept to himself. His father, God rest him, was a hard worker.’
‘Can’t blame parents’ background or lack of education,’ another added. ‘They grafted hard to put him through university. Well-educated, he was.’
‘He was odd,’ a third noted. ‘Bit stand-offish, like he was better than the rest of us. Distant, unless it suited him. Had high notions. Seldom mixed with us locals. I didn’t know he’d a big job in Hattinger’s. I thought he was a salesman.’
Night
‘Any issues today?’
‘No. Kathleen’s tip-top,’ Sarah said. ‘We drove to Athlone, walked a little. Called into Ozanam House on the way back. Kathleen helped settle in a group of four that were evicted from their rented house. We’re not long home. She’s tired. Wanted to get to bed. Oh, I got a pill organiser. It’ll help.’
‘Great idea.’
‘I’ll give Kathleen her medication before I go.’
‘Let me do it. Did Ma ask why you’re chauffeuring her?’
‘Seems content to sit in the passenger seat.’ Sarah put on a coat. ‘Did you hear they’ve arrested a man for Ciara McGuire’s murder?’
‘I caught it on the news bulletin. Um, I’m having a meal with a friend on Saturday night, and I wonder—’
‘That’s a coincidence. Kathleen and I planned to go to a Céilí on Saturday. Don’t know what time we’ll get back, so if it suits, I’ll stay over …’
Sarah had organised a week’s drugs in a twenty-one slot pillbox. Kathleen had stuck a handwritten note to a cupboard:
Dont forget to take tablets every day
Her immaculate handwriting was deteriorating.
Hugh hobbled upstairs with a thimbleful of tablets and a glass of water.
‘Peter?’
‘It’s me, Ma. Hugh.’
Kathleen sat up. ‘Peter. Thank God you’re here. Get that woman out of our house.’
‘Sarah’s gone. She said you’d a wonderful day.’
‘Indeed I hadn’t. Nasty woman. Locked me in here and took my schoolbag. Tore up my homework—’
‘Sarah—’
‘Shhh. Don’t let her hear you. Have you an hour free to deliver food parcels? We can’t let people go without food on Christmas day.’
‘Christmas is … Yes, Ma, we’ll organise food later.’ The front door closed. ‘I’ve got your night tablets.’
Kathleen slapped Hugh’s hand away. The pills strewed across the bedroom floor. ‘You’re poisoning me.’
‘Ma!’
Kathleen cried.
Hugh held his mother, rocked her and babbled about nothing in particular.
No response.
He worked through the names of County Council representatives contesting the local elections in a few months, and asked who she’d vote for this time around.
No reaction.
He tempted Kathleen with another set of pills. Tried talking again, to distract her. ‘Who’d you meet in Ozanam House today?’
No reply.
He coaxed and cajoled her to swallow the tablets, and never felt more helpless watching his mother refuse, lips tight as a vice, trapped in a world of her own.
It took two hours for the tension to ebb. Hugh crushed up the pills, blended them in ice cream, and Kathleen finally accepted the concoction. He stayed by her side until she drifted off to sleep. Hungry, but too fatigued to eat, he lay on his bed and dialled Ruth. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting.’
‘It’s quiet at the moment. A young guy came in earlier, paralytic, but managed to hold onto a slab of beer, though. He’s asleep now, cradling the twenty-four pack. Two mates with him, both pissed, described every ache and pain they’ve suffered, and I’m supposed to laugh hysterically when they ask for a sponge bath as if it’s the funniest thing ever.’
‘Give them a sleep-off-the-hangover injection.’
‘I wish. What plans have you for tonight?’
‘I’m chilling. Ma’s upset. Took ages to pacify her. Wrecked my head. I cheated and stirred the tablets into ice cream.’
‘That’s good. Yoghurt works too. And a pill crusher might help. Chemists have them. You should consider short-term respite care.’
‘Yeah, for myself.’
‘Ha-ha. Seriously, even one weekend a month. Caregivers need care too.’
‘I’ll manage for the present. I’ve got Sarah ’til mid-February.’
‘It’ll get complicated if you’ve to travel for work. Think of your own health, Hugh.’
‘The Mullingar job ended quicker than I thought. I’ll—’
A monitor bleeped.
‘There’s trouble. Gotta go. See you Saturday.’
Hugh considered Ruth’s suggestion. What were the choices? Will I find a job and be able to continue caring for Ma, he wondered. If I opt for a self-employment scheme, would it afford me more breathing space? What ventures work best? Would I make enough income to survive? Or set myself up for failure? How’ll I anticipate and avoid the pitfalls? If it sinks, I’m finished.
His mobile buzzed. Ferdia.
‘Ciara’s body is being released tomorrow afternoon. Sealed casket, though. Bastard destroyed her face with acid. Funeral Mass Saturday, eleven o’clock.’
‘I’ll be there. How’s David?’
‘He’s …’ Ferdia turned his shaky voice into a cough. ‘See you at church.’
Chapter 12
Friday, 18 January
Morning
Nature’s choir sang in full chorus.
The sun cast a silver hue on the shimmering landscape. Kathleen and Sarah were in the kitchen. Sarah tidied and Kathleen doodled dreams on a sheet of paper. ‘I’m off, Ma.’ Hugh gave his mother a kiss and hug.
‘I’m going dancing tonight,’ Kathleen’s eyes shone.
‘Oh?’
‘Tomorrow night, Kathleen.’ Sarah said. She looked at Hugh. ‘Still okay if I sleepover?’
‘Sure.’
Hugh knew from Sarah’s smile the cousins had talked.
‘Where’re you off to?’ Kathleen’s expression became anxious.
‘Mullingar. To help out at McGuire’s.’
‘Will you be home soon?’
‘Soon. I promise.’
‘How long?’
‘Three, four hours.’
‘Where are you going?’
Mullingar, Ma …’
Hugh zipped across town to his own home for a change of clothes, passed the school where Eilish taught. Still closed.
In Starbucks, he spied Ronan and Sharona sitting face-to-face in a secluded corner. Ronan’s boy-band smile had returned.
‘Can anybody join in?’
Ronan jumped.
‘Relax, man.’ Hugh squeezed in beside him.
‘We were gossiping ’bout you,’ Sharona said. The inflammation had reduced, but make-up couldn’t disguise the mottled bruises.
‘God. I’m sure you could find a more stimulating topic.’
Sharona’s mobile beeped. ‘Another text from Dorothy,’ she showed them the screen.
‘She’ll adopt you,’ Hugh said.
Ronan nudged Sharona: ‘Go on, tell him the latest.’
Hugh eyed them both. ‘What?’
‘No question, my email account got hacked,’ Sharona said. ‘Gardaí will monitor it for a few days, and if the person logs on … bingo. Then the file gets sent to the DPP, whatever that means.’
‘Means if there’s enough evidence, the court will convict the hacker,’ Ronan said.
‘And jailed, I hope.’ Sharona looked at Ronan. ‘Ron was fab.’
Ronan blushed.
‘And in other news,’ Sharona added, ‘a TV3 producer asked me to audition for an investigative reporter’s role in a true-crime series they’re planning.’
‘Wow. That’ll set you up for life. Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. They want me to screen test next week, but I’ve got my heart set on opening the art gallery.’
‘No harm in going for the audition, anyway. Bet you’ll ace it,’ Ronan said.
Sharona made a face. ‘The camera adds five kilos. I mightn’t appeal to—’
‘You will,’ Ronan nodded.
‘I enjoyed the craic around the TV crews over the last few days,’ Sharona said. ‘If I got the job, I know what my first project would be. I could write the script now—’
‘Wait ’til after the interview,’ Hugh said.
‘Hmm. But if I showed the interviewers I’m serious—’
‘Still think you should wait.’
‘If I go for it, I want to give it my best shot. Anything else on Styne today?’
Hugh shook his head. Hope he’s locked up forever, or dies. I’m good with either. Any luck on the jobs front?’ Hugh looked at Ronan.
‘I’ve a dozen CV’s mailed out. Hope I get an interview soon. You?’
‘Haven’t committed to anything, except—’
‘Except tomorrow night.’ Sharona flashed her impish grin.
‘What’s tomorrow night?’ Ronan asked.
‘Hugh’s got a date.’
‘Cool.’
‘Not cool. Hot.’ Sharona bounced her eyebrows.
Hugh rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus. Add matchmaker to your list of talents.’
Sharona’s mobile rang, and she moved outside to pick up a signal.
Ronan said: ‘If you get any hint of work dude, keep me in mind.’
‘Course I will, Ron, if you’re still around. You’re the guy who, and I quote, “Can’t wait to get outta this poxy place. I’ll give it a week. If I don’t get a break by then, I’m outta G’town”.’
‘Yeah, well, circumstances change, dude.’
‘That was Dorothy.’ Sharona slid back into the conversation. ‘Jana Trofimiack talked. The PSNI arrested a professional art forger in County Armagh. On the back of that, Europol arrested an art dealer in Spain, and two other people in France. This scam was massive.
‘Did Dorothy get the McKelvey back?’
‘They’re tracking it. A Spanish collector bought it.’
‘So, what now?’
‘The police will hold both the genuine and forged pieces as evidence. The case will wind its way through the court. Dorothy said Jana and her son will get deported, once she gives the police all her information, and hands over the scam proceeds.’
‘What happened to “Go to Jail? Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred pounds”?’
Ronan shrugged. ‘It’s the prisoner’s dilemma, dude. Little pawns sometimes wriggle free.’
Afternoon
McGuire’s had the mood of a funeral home.
Customers stood in clusters outside; mourners alone, together. Inside, thrums of deep conversation, words clipped tight with anger, buzzed through the store as customers and staff comforted each other.
‘Charlie’s discharged himself. He’s upstairs,’ a checkout man told Hugh.
‘Really? He shouldn’t be here.’
‘Yeah, he’s fighting a tailspin at the moment, but who’s gonna stop him? He looks rough.’
Hugh hobbled past empty shelves. Malcolm met him on the stairwell. ‘Dad’s distraught.’ His voice dropped. ‘He blames himself for Ciara’s death.’
‘I’m here for you both,’ Hugh said.
‘Thanks. But don’t tell me that God wanted Ciara with Him, or He only gives these crosses to people who can bear them, or, it’s His will, part of an eternal plan, and Ciara’s in a better place now. I’ve listened to that crap for two days. It makes me puke. I’m fed up with people telling me the Lord meant it to be; that it happened for a reason.’
‘Words spoke with good intentions, Malcolm.’
‘They don’t stop the pain or relieve the agony. We’ll never have a chance to talk again. A detective showed me pictures of the room where he held her.’ Malcolm gulped. ‘Bastard threw acid or weed killer on her. And he kidnapped Sharona? I mean, what the—?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Hell’s the matter with people?’
‘Can’t answer that, Malcolm.’
‘Why’s your foot plastered? And the head bandage? Did you crash?’
‘No. I got tangled up in Sharona’s rescue.’
‘Oh? You rescued her?’
‘Did you see him? Styne?’
‘Mmm.’
‘I hope you hurt him. Bad.’
‘Not enough.’
‘I’ll repay what I owe you, soon as this nightmare ends. You know I’m good for it.’ He looked over his shoulder and whispered, ‘Don’t mention it to Dad, he’s got enough worries—’
‘Sure. Keep the faith, Malcolm. Help him get through this.’
‘C’mon, Dad’s in his office.’
Charlie sat at his desk, head cradled between his hands.
‘Hugh’s here,’ Malcolm said.
Etched lines of grief and faded buttery coloured bruises marked Charlie’s face and forehead. His eyes were watery and bloodshot, their normal crispness dimmed to a pale tan. The side of his mouth, Hugh noticed, drooped. In less than two weeks, Charlie had become an old man.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, Charlie. I’ve no words, can’t imagine—’
‘Thanks, Hugh. Your support means everything. It’s Ciara’s birthday tomorrow, you know.’
‘Knew it was around now, but—’
‘What happened to you?’
‘Hugh helped rescue Sharona,’ Malcolm said.
Charlie stared. ‘How’d you get involved in—?’
‘I’ll tell you another time.’
Malcolm left.
‘I dealt directly with Adam Styne once,’ Charlie said. ‘Knowledgeable man.’ He sighed. ‘Who can you trust nowadays, when the person who smiles most turns out to be the biggest villain?’
‘If there’s anything I can do—’
‘Everybody’s rallied around. The staff … Their offers of assistance … Genuine people. Thanks, Hugh. You’ve helped manage the fort.’
‘I didn’t do much—’
‘All I ever wanted was a chance to be a first-class employer and leave a decent inheritance for my kids. I envisaged Ciara taking a role here after Malcolm grew into the business. They’d both run the company together. That’s been my dream.’
‘You’ve built a legacy. It can—’
‘The business doesn’t interest me anymore, Hugh. I can’t focus. Passion’s gone.’ Charlie’s eyes skimmed the walls. ‘It’s my moment to ride off into the sunset.’
