Guilty

by Siobhan MacDonald

  She drew a sharp breath.

  ‘Myra,’ came her cautious reply. ‘Why? What’s the problem?’

  ‘And who is Myra?’

  ‘Luke, there’s no need to be—’

  ‘It’s a simple question.’

  He could hear her breathing.

  ‘She’s the cleaning lady.’

  ‘No kidding.’

  Another pause. He waited.

  ‘She cleans here at Crow Hall and she does a bit for Roddy.’

  She cleaned for Gilligan, did she?

  ‘Did you arrange for her to come to the Glasshouse today?’

  ‘No … no, at least I don’t think so. Today is Sunday, Luke. I’m pretty sure I asked her to go on Friday. Why? What’s she done?’

  ‘I’m asking you one more time, who exactly is Myra?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ her words were slow and deliberate, ‘Myra’s a hard-working cleaning lady. Salt-of-the-earth. You know her husband, Sly Hegarty.’

  ‘Hegarty? Your father’s henchman?’

  ‘Well, if you must put it like that.’

  Luke hung up.

  This was worse than he thought. Myra Hegarty had been free to wander around the Glasshouse, his home. Free to study all the nooks and crannies of his personal life. Free to feed whatever titbits she saw fit back to her husband, Sly, and from there to Cornelius at Crow Hall.

  He often left stuff lying around at home. Unlike in his hospital rooms. Receipts, diary entries, scribbled notes or tickets could be discarded on a bedside locker. The innocuous debris from a coat or trouser pocket could easily be used to piece together a view of his daily activities and reported back to Crow Hall. At least he’d kept the basement locked.

  He thought back to what was on his bedside locker. Lance Armstrong’s It’s Not About the Bike, a phone charger and a few business cards. Among them the card of Terence Black, Psychotherapist and Counsellor.

  Suspect Device

  ‘Give Nina my love,’ said Fran.

  ‘I will.’ Luke grabbed his raincoat from the coat stand.

  Fran was standing at the office window. ‘She’ll want to turn straight around and head right back to the sun when she sees it here.’ She looked out miserably at the car park. ‘Just look at that rain. Look at all those potholes down there.’ The rain had opened fissures in the tarmac.

  ‘See you Monday, Fran.’ Luke opened the door to leave.

  Fran turned around. ‘You’re sure you want that security company calling to you tomorrow, Nina’s first day home?’

  ‘Certain.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now, I have to go.’

  As he headed for the lift, his brow furrowed. Fran was curious about why he was upgrading the security system at the Glasshouse. So far he’d managed to sidestep her none-too-subtle interrogations.

  He’d cleared away some stuff in anticipation of the engineers’ arrival. The basement had been a mess and he’d used the opportunity to do some filing. There were also those videotapes from the early days, the viewing quality poor in comparison to today’s high-definition imagery. He used to discard sensitive material in the compactors at Crow Hall. But using the hospital incinerator for personal use could raise eyebrows. It was time to look for a different solution. He’d ask Johnny and Hugh how they got rid of stuff.

  His thoughts returned to the business of the alarm as he waited for the lift. His home had been violated and he felt differently about being there. It didn’t quite feel like his any longer. He wasn’t taking any more chances. The alarm system was only one of a number of things he was changing. He’d informed Alison that from now on he no longer required the services of Sly Hegarty or his wife, Myra. He’d gone further, saying that in fact he no longer required the services of anyone from Crow Hall.

  Stepping into the lift, he avoided eye contact with the other occupants. He checked the time. He was running late. But would make it as long as traffic was light. First out of the lift, he bowed his head as he headed for the exit. Once outside, he made briskly for the car, weaving a path through the puddles.

  His heart sank as soon as he spotted his car. Every window of the Range Rover was plastered in lime-green stickers saying: YOU ARE ILLEGALLY PARKED. All over the front windscreen, the rear windscreen and each of the side windows. Security was trying to humiliate car-park users into observing the rules by using the most lurid stickers they could source. Hold on. He wasn’t illegally parked, was he? He’d fallen foul of the wardens before. Since then, he was careful to park in his own reserved space, the one he always used. Something must have changed and perhaps he’d missed an email.

  The stickers were a nightmare to peel off. The adhesive used was designed for maximum annoyance. This was a job for the ice scraper. He opened the passenger door. At least the fob was working again. He reached in to the glove compartment for an ice-scraper and set to work. It took fifteen minutes with rain sliding down the back of his neck before he managed to clear enough to see through the front and side windows. He didn’t bother with the rear window.

  Jumping into the car he started the engine. He checked the time on the dashboard. Dealing with Amanda Mellowes had taken longer than he’d thought. He could still smell that cloying perfume she wore. She had a habit of standing too close to him. Fran had suggested Amanda check with him before proceeding with a course of action for a child with Down’s syndrome who had breathing difficulties. Why medical staff would take a blind bit of notice of Fran was beyond him. Amanda was a senior reg and some of the questions she’d put to him were frankly ridiculous. The doctor was more than qualified to answer them for herself. Now he was going to be late. Turning on the radio, he pulled out of the car park.

  ‘Weather chiefs have upgraded their weather warning for certain counties to a Status Red.’

  Excellent. More rain.

  ‘A prediction of 90 millimetres of rainfall accumulation is expected in parts of the country overnight. The warning for this severe weather event is valid from 3 p.m. this afternoon right up until 3 a.m. on Saturday.’

  Seriously?

  When was it going to stop?

  ‘Unprecedented flooding in parts of the catchment area of the longest river in the country is continuing in what the National Emergency Coordination Group has described as a “once in a lifetime flood situation”. Landowners and small-town dwellers on the lower reaches of the river are incensed at the behaviour of the Water Authorities on the upper lakes. They stand accused of pandering to the concerns of business interests in the larger towns further up the river system. This from Independent minister Alison Forde-Thompson, whom we interviewed earlier today …’

  Luke turned up the volume.

  ‘Farmers in my constituency have said another ten thousand acres of land have been covered by water over the weekend. These farmers want the Department of Agriculture to defer inspections in flooded areas and to go ahead with EU farm payments before the end of the week …’

  Alison sounded competent and confident.

  ‘And Minister, what do you say to those people who are worried that by this time tomorrow their homes could be under water if the Office of Public Works goes ahead with their proposal to open the sluice gates at the top of the river to alleviate flooding there?’

  Alison responded immediately:

  ‘Well, Brian, as you know, the river system feeds into the top of Lough Carberry and feeds out into the lower river by the narrow channels at the hydroelectric station and the weir. If all the sluices are opened further up the system, there is a greater volume of water in the lough resulting in the unprecedented flooding that we’ve seen. The maximum capacity of the hydroelectric station is four hundred cubic meters per second and the remaining water flows over the weir.’

  ‘Yes, Minister, but as I asked, what can you say to those people who are worried?’

  ‘As my constituents are well aware, Brian, the Thompsons will always stand shoulder to shoulder with them. I’m a lough resident myself and I can tell you it’s most alarming when
you see that water coming closer and closer to your home. I’ve been affected personally by this, so I know what I’m talking about here and I can assure—’

  Luke switched stations. Her too-smooth voice was grating in his ears. Rain sluiced down the windscreen. He increased the wiper settings and turned his fog lights on. He was making time. He might not be disastrously late.

  ‘—and now to finish our round-up of more local news. Initial reports from Health and Safety experts at the site of a blaze that destroyed the temporary dwelling of environmental activist Lucy Considine at Dromafooka, suggest that an unattended chip pan may have been the cause of the fire. The Considine family is said to be moving out of the area, alleging a campaign of intimidation. An invitation to the family by this programme to clarify their position was turned down, and as of going to air the Considines remained unavailable for comment.’

  The airwaves were doing nothing to soothe Luke’s mood. He changed frequency again, this time selecting a classic hits show. They were playing ‘It’s Raining Men’. Some joker at the station had a sense of humour. Luke checked his calls. Nothing more from Nina since she’d boarded. He smiled as he re-read her last message:

  Yay. Got the window. Ignoring the weirdo coming on to me in the next seat. Dying to see u. xxx.

  Nina always had to have the window seat. As a kid during school holidays when Alison was busy, and Alison was always busy, he took her abroad to conferences with him. She’d sit with puzzle books and listen to him speak in vast conference halls. She preferred that to staying in the Glasshouse with a babysitter or rattling around Crow Hall with Cornelius.

  Arriving at the airport, Luke skidded to a stop at the short-term car park. He checked a flight scanner. The London flight had landed. He grabbed his umbrella, hoping to make it to Arrivals before Nina passed through. He got there, out of breath.

  As he stood there, he registered something rare. A happy anticipation. He couldn’t wait to throw his arms around his daughter. He checked the Arrivals board. Her flight had landed fifteen minutes earlier. It was the only flight in the last half hour. Passengers were coming through. She should be easy to spot among businesspeople dressed in suits and heels. Each time the doors into the Customs Hall parted, Luke rocked onto his toes, straining to catch a glimpse of her. The flow of passengers slowed to a trickle. Any moment now.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket to check for messages. Nothing. Looking up, he felt a poke of excitement. A girl with long dark hair was looking back over her shoulder, sleeves rolled up, a tattoo covering most of the skin on her forearm. Was Nina sporting a tattoo? Excellent stuff. Alison would be livid. The girl turned around. Disappointed, he saw it wasn’t her.

  Five more minutes passed by. Another handful of passengers with small children came through the doors. He felt a growing disquiet. Maybe she’d been stopped by Customs. He could imagine how that might happen. He hadn’t seen her in months but he could picture how she might look. Bedraggled, hair falling into her face, dark circles under her eyes. Being stopped was something she would relish. It would appeal to her inner rebel.

  For the third time, he took his phone out of his pocket to check if she was trying to contact him. Nothing. He became aware of a sudden shift in atmosphere. An unseen crackle of tension. Something was going on behind him. He could hear the sound of running and a sudden commotion. Airport police swarmed onto the concourse. There were four of them, all in hi-vis vests. And a robot. Airport personnel ushered people towards the doors with a sense of urgency. In seconds, the concourse had all but emptied.

  ‘Can you come this way, please, sir?’

  Luke felt a hand guiding him towards the door, away from the robot, away from the police who were standing at a distance. Away from the lone suitcase that was standing in the middle of the now empty floor. Even as he was being guided away, he recognised the suitcase, the stickers plastered all over it. He craned his neck over his shoulder. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. He kept staring at the stickers. Ban Fox Hunting. It was Nina’s suitcase.

  Taken

  The security office was cramped. It smelled of sweaty feet and damp. As soon as Luke disclosed his knowledge of the suitcase and who he was, he was whisked off to the security office next to the Customs Hall. Surrounded by the four airport police, he sat, eyes glued to a monitor, and watched a controlled explosion of Nina’s suitcase. He tried to process what was happening.

  ‘Do you know where my daughter is?’ he asked. ‘I have no idea what this is about.’ He scrutinised the stony faces of the airport police for clues. ‘I don’t understand why you had to destroy the suitcase.’

  ‘Your daughter came in on a flight from Heathrow, right?’

  ‘I believe so, yes. Where is she now?’

  ‘And she entered the UK earlier in the week on a flight from Sydney?’

  ‘Again, I think so. That was certainly her plan. Why? What’s going on?’

  ‘Has your daughter ever had any connections with extremism?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can you take a look at the screen here, sir? No, no … the one on the top right, yes, there … this is footage from thirty minutes ago.’

  The scrawny policeman with the hard eyes pulled his chair closer and pointed at the grainy images.

  ‘Just there.’ He pointed to someone on the screen.

  It was Nina. She was dishevelled. She was wearing a short jacket, the collar up, hair half inside the collar, half out. Sweat prickled his palms. He watched as she pushed her glasses up her nose, looking around expectantly. She was looking for him. She was dragging her suitcase behind her.

  A man with a briefcase cut across her, almost tripping her up. He turned to her and said something. Luke guessed he was apologising. Nina smiled, accepting the apology. Luke watched closely, the only sound in the small office coming from the policemen breathing heavily as they also followed Nina’s movements on screen. She was making her way beyond the steel handrails and out onto the concourse. She was looking, searching. Standing on the tips of her toes.

  He should have been there. If he’d been on time—

  ‘Look at this,’ the policeman pointed.

  Luke watched as Nina let the suitcase go and rifled in her denim jacket. She took out her phone and looked at it. Her expression was hard to decipher. The picture quality was poor. She looked agitated and was scanning the hall, running a hand distractedly through her hair.

  Looking back to the phone, her manner changed and she broke into a run, forgetting all about the suitcase. His adrenaline surged as he tracked her through the crowd and followed her to the exit. His heart was pounding and blood whooshed in his ears as he watched her race through the sliding doors to the rain outside.

  In the room, the four policemen remained silent. They were watching him, waiting, looking to see how he’d react.

  He shook his head and looked at them.

  ‘Where is she now? Where is my daughter?’

  Two hard eyes bored into him. ‘We don’t know,’ said the scrawny policeman. ‘The exterior camera in that location has been damaged by—’

  The door opened. Luke turned to look. A woman in army fatigues half-leaned into the overcrowded room and bent to whisper in the scrawny policeman’s ear. The policeman nodded, expressionless. The woman backed discreetly out of the room. Luke raised an expectant eyebrow.

  ‘As I was saying, Mr Forde … what was I saying … oh, yes …’ The policeman faltered. ‘Well, it would appear that there was nothing to be unduly concerned about with the suitcase.’

  ‘Really? But I just saw the robot blow it up.’

  ‘We have protocols, sir. And given the current climate,’ he shrugged, ‘we can’t take chances. You understand.’

  ‘What about my daughter?’

  ‘As I said, sir. There are protocols. We’ve checked things out and it appears that your daughter isn’t a person of interest at this time.’

  The policeman’s eyes narrowed as he spoke, suggesting a lingering suspic
ion about what had unfolded.

  ‘You’re free to go, sir.’

  Luke stood and steadied himself.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, realising how absurd that sounded. But he had no words for the situation.

  He left through the door to the Customs Hall. Evidence of the explosion was being cleared away. People were still clearly uneasy as they began to reappear in the Arrivals Hall.

  Proceeding briskly to the exit in Nina’s footsteps, he traced the route that she had taken. He stopped outside and scanned the drop-off area and the car park for any sign. People were scurrying to and from their cars shielded by umbrellas. There was no trace of Nina. She had disappeared into the rain.

  He stood, rain seeping onto his skin across his shoulders. He could hang around here hoping for a sighting, but deep down he knew that she was gone. Back in the car, he plugged his mobile in to charge. He tried to think. He tried to imagine what could have shocked her into running off like that, into abandoning her suitcase. He was starting to get cold. His wet shirt stuck to his skin and he couldn’t stop shivering.

  He tried her again.

  ‘Hi, this is Nina Forde. Please leave a message.’

  Her happy voice was jarring. In normal circumstances, Luke would have been amused that she’d dropped the ‘Thompson’ from her surname.

  He tried another number.

  ‘You have reached the voicemail of Minister Alison Forde-Thompson. If your call is about assistance for a flood-related matter, please call—’

  He hung up. He turned on the ignition. The time on the dash read 19:20. More than an hour after he’d arranged to collect Sophie. He should call her.

  No answer.

  He waited a minute and dialled again. Still no answer. Was she annoyed he was late? It seemed unlikely.

  His mobile pinged, a message from Sophie:

  Hi, Nina’s here with me. Safe and sound. Says you didn’t show? V agitated. Fill you in when you get here.

  He had never been so delighted to see a text. He called Sophie right back. She didn’t answer so he left a voicemail: