by Sam Blake
The Internet made you feel like you were on call 24–7. Anna knew Hope had a lot of difficulty regulating her online life; the imagined need to be available day and night was a constant drain. Hope had met the most amazing people over the Internet, other teens all over the world who shared her love of music and science, who understood her intense desire to learn. Anna smiled. Jennifer would have been so proud of her, of how she was adapting to life in Ireland, of the friends she had made, of what a beautiful young woman she was turning into. She shared their red hair – Anna’s was curly, Jennifer’s straight, Hope’s something in between, thick and wavy and the most incredible blend of colours. Titian would have gone mad for her.
Minou shifted, grumbling to herself in her sleep, and Anna smiled, reaching over to rub the cat’s belly with the toe of her Converse. Hope couldn’t keep a cat at boarding school, so Anna had ended up minding her. It wasn’t a problem; Minou was great company, kept her sane, and she’d always been an indoor cat so she hadn’t noticed particularly that she wasn’t in Rome or Paris. The nomadic lifestyle of a diplomat meant that since Hope had been born she’d lived in more countries than most people visited in a lifetime. And so had Minou. Anna felt that dull nauseous feeling of anxiety build again. Little knowing what the future held, Jennifer had given Hope the Russian Blue when Paris had been first mentioned as a possible posting, when Minou was not much more than a silver ball of fluff.
Anna loved her brother-in-law Charles Montgomery dearly, but the posting in Paris had been difficult from the start. Jennifer had never really taken to the Parisians, and then they’d all found themselves in the bank.
Since that day, the day Jennifer had died, Anna’s points of reference had changed. She didn’t have her big sister any more, instead she’d become like Hope’s big sister, had tried to be there for her all she could. Anna knew that when she was sixteen, she hadn’t had a care in the world. For Hope, life was very different.
Anna was about to get up to boil the kettle again when an email pinged into her inbox from Hope. From one of her many anonymous personal accounts, ‘John Smith’. Anna picked up her laptop, open on the sofa beside her.
You’re right. This email is weird. The warning is about a Trojan worm which could be someone trying to hack your computer. Forward everything that came in today to Uncle Rob to check out properly – his antivirus software should have isolated it, but if it’s new code, it might not have.
Anna typed back:
Thank you, will do.
Hope replied:
Coolio. See you next Thursday morning, don’t forget you need to sign me out. Excited!
Anna sent back a smiley face emoji.
She smiled at Hope’s excitement. She was taking her to London the following weekend and she wasn’t sure which of them was looking forward to it more. Anna couldn’t wait to show her around the city – the plan was that they’d fly over on Thursday afternoon and once Anna had got her lecture out of the way on Friday they’d have the rest of the weekend to themselves. Hope would find plenty to do while Anna was tied up, she was sure. They both needed a break and her speaking engagement there had been the perfect excuse for a sightseeing trip.
But Hope was right, Rob always said she should check with him about anything she was worried about. It had been clear that ISIS had had very clear targets that day in Paris, and in the ensuing investigation, backtracking through her correspondence with Jen, the fact that they needed to call at the bank had been mentioned. There was a strongly held belief in intelligence circles that their email had been hacked, and the fact that the American ambassador’s wife and daughter would be in the bank on the way to their lunch appointment in the restaurant next door was a factor in the timing of the attack. They could easily have hit the restaurant instead but there was significance in attacking a pillar of western capitalism. It made Anna shudder to think of it. Her trip to Paris had been the reason they’d been in the bank, she’d wanted to get cash out for Hope’s birthday. She was the reason Jen was dead. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever learn to live with that.
It had been Rob’s team who had gone over her and Jen’s laptops forensically, to try and detect if they had been compromised – not always easy, as Rob had explained, malicious viruses were often coded to self-destruct after they had served their purpose. Privately Rob had assured her that it wasn’t her fault; in this instance it was extremely unlikely to have been her emails that created the situation. More likely one of the embassy staff who had overheard Jen and Hope chatting, or heard Jen on the phone to her, had passed on the information. He knew what he was talking about – he’d been approached by the US government before he had even graduated with his Master’s from MIT. He led a team that focused on cyber threats, and Anna knew that Rob was increasingly worried, as she was, that ISIS in particular were engaging with rogue hackers to broaden their terror campaigns. The Anonymous hacker group had declared war on ISIS but there were other groups, Anonymous’ rivals, who were solely focused on cyber dominance and destabilising democracy, who didn’t care who their paymasters were and only wanted to go down in history for orchestrating the most devastating cyberattack. Anna was developing a whole section of her course in international terrorism to reflect the developments in cybercrime. She knew there was a bigger picture, but a part of her would always feel that Jen’s death had been all her fault.
Chapter 14
Saturday, 2 p.m.
‘You sure you want to do this now, Cat? You’ve been up since dawn and you’re due off at six.’
O’Rourke turned around from his office window, his hands in his pockets. He’d abandoned his tie and had his sleeves rolled up. It was only early afternoon but he looked like he’d done a week’s work already.
Cathy came into the office properly and leaned on the back of the guest chair. She was tired. After the gym in the morning and then the briefing, interviewing Orla and Conor Quinn again had been pretty intense, but she wanted to get this bit done, and if she was honest with herself, over with.
‘It’s a two hour drive to Longford and Lauren’s parents’ place is this side of the town, we won’t be there more than an hour. And it’s Sunday tomorrow. They’re farmers, it’ll be their only day off and there’s a good chance they’ll be in church in the morning. The last thing they’ll want is us bowling in and asking loads of questions. We can be there and back by this evening.’ She straightened up. ‘I want to find out what sort of girl Lauren was. Everyone’s saying she was very shy. I want to know if that’s just because she was up here in a strange environment, or if she was normally quiet. Perhaps she was the life and soul of the party out of uni and we’re completely missing a trick.’
O’Rourke held her eye for a moment than nodded curtly. ‘I’ve got overtime authorised – we’re running two enquiries simultaneously here, one of which is clearly murder. Reaction times are crucial.’
He didn’t need to tell her. Before she could reply, Fanning stuck his head around the office door.
‘I’ve got an unmarked car from DDU in Cabinteely. It’s a bit of a junker but it should get us there.’
‘Grand so, let me grab a coffee and we’ll get on the road.’ Cathy turned to follow Fanning out of the office.
‘Eh, Cat?’
She paused at the door. ‘Yeah?’
‘Make sure Fanning stays inside the speed limit? You’re a valuable asset, we don’t want any accidents.’
Her face cracked into a grin. ‘Don’t worry, I think self-preservation is pretty high on his list of priorities.’
*
The drive to Longford was long, slow and marked mainly by the number of tractors they had to overtake. Also by Fanning’s taste in music, which had surprised Cathy. She’d expected chart music but it appeared he was more into Shania Twain than Taylor Swift. Ever since she’d first gone to Pearse Street as a newbie and O’Rourke had been her sergeant, she’d never forgotten his advice:
‘Welcome to Pearse Street. There’s Templemore and there’s
the real world. This is where your training really starts. No smoking in the car, no country music and you’ll do grand.’
It still made her smile. And she could imagine O’Rourke’s humour if he had to spend two hours in a car with 007. To make it worse, as they’d hit a clear bit of the N4 close to Kinnegad he’d started singing.
Garth Brooks didn’t have anything to worry about. 007 might have earned his nickname from his gorgeous dates and his conviction that he was devastatingly attractive, but he was never going to make it on The X-Factor.
The O’Reilly farm was signposted from the main road, down a deep, dark, narrow winding lane that seemed to go on for miles. Between breaks in the hedges, Cathy could see endless empty fields, the occasional whitethorn tree lonely in the middle, silhouetted in the gathering darkness. Single whitethorns were said to be the places where the fairies gathered and were considered sacred. Roads had even been diverted to avoid felling them lest bad luck fall on the builders and the road users. She shivered.
Bad luck had definitely fallen here, but Cathy was quite sure that it wasn’t down to the fairies.
With the chill of the evening already setting in, the cattle now snug in their barn, Cathy could see how such powerful folklore could evolve around these ancient lonely trees. She was sure she’d read that some were four hundred years old, and stories were told of people seeing lights dancing around them at night.
Cathy was very happy with the lights of the city any day, and as they rounded a bend she was relieved to see a yard and a substantial Georgian two-storey farmhouse ahead of them, its windows lit to the encroaching darkness.
‘Looks like we’re here.’
Fanning slowed and glanced across at her. ‘This is going to be fun, isn’t it?’
She nodded silently. Nothing was going to be easy about the next hour. As soon as Saunders was able to release her body, the undertakers would bring Lauren home, but Cathy had no idea when that would be. She knew Lauren’s parents would want to come up to Dublin to collect her things from college, but her room had been sealed until it could be searched. And Cathy wasn’t sure when they would be able to release it.
When their whole world was falling apart, people needed definite answers, and the only thing they knew for sure right now was that Lauren O’Reilly was dead.
Cathy had called ahead and the O’Reillys were expecting them. As Fanning pulled up outside the five-bar gate in the granite wall surrounding the house the porch light came on and the front door opened. Silhouetted against the light from the hall, Cathy could see a thin woman in jeans and a chunky roll neck sweater, her arms crossed, waiting for them. A dog appeared beside her, looking out silently into the night.
Hopping out of the car, Fanning lifted the latch on the gate and pushed it open. It swung easily, well oiled. Everything about the place seemed to be well oiled, from the tidy path that swept to the house to the gleaming red front door. Cathy’s boots crunched on the gravel. She’d pulled on her black jacket before she’d left the station, the one she kept in her locker for court, had tied her hair back in a low ponytail. But looking smart didn’t make her feel any better.
‘Mrs O’Reilly. I’m Detective Garda Cathy Connolly. Thank you for seeing us. We’re very sorry for your loss, we know this is a terrible time.’
With the light behind her, Cathy couldn’t see Eileen O’Reilly’s face clearly, but from the picture she’d seen on Lauren’s student pass, she recognised the same bone structure, the same high cheekbones.
‘Come inside; it’s cold out.’
Turning abruptly, Eileen walked along a black and white tiled hall. It was warm inside, cosy. The type of home that featured in interior magazines. Fanning pushed the front door closed behind them and Cathy followed Lauren’s mother down the hall. She stopped to show them into the living room.
‘Himself’s inside. Cows need to be done at five. You’ve just caught him. I’ll get the tea.’
‘Himself’ was obviously Lauren’s father, a fit weather-beaten man in his early fifties, his red and navy check shirt emphasising a face flushed by the flames from a huge open fire. As Cathy put her hand out to greet him, a log shifted, sending sparks up the chimney.
‘Tadgh, I’m Lauren’s dad.’
‘Thank you for seeing us.’
‘Sit down. Excuse me if I wish we’d never had occasion to meet.’
Cathy nodded; she seconded that. Before she could say more Eileen appeared with a huge tray laden with a teapot and cups, home-baked scones crowded on a plate. Moments like this always gave Cathy a physical pain. How people could find the ability to be hospitable when they were in so much pain themselves, she would never understand.
As Eileen began to pour the tea, Cathy sat forward on the sofa.
‘I believe the local Gardaí spoke to you yesterday? I’m afraid at this stage I don’t have much more to add, but we need to establish exactly what happened to Lauren on the cliff, and how she got there.’ Lauren’s father nodded curtly. Cathy continued, the silence filled with grief. ‘Can you tell me a bit about Lauren – did she enjoy going to Trinity?’
Eileen sat down beside her husband. ‘She loved it – well, this term she did. We hardly heard from her. At the start it was a big change, she was on the phone every day and she came home at weekends whenever she could. She’d been excited about going. She had her heart set on this international politics course, but living up in Dublin was a big change, to be sure.’
‘Did she have many friends that she talked about?’ Beside Cathy, Fanning had slipped his notebook out of his pocket. They’d agreed that she’d ask the questions.
‘She found it hard to make friends at the start. She met a lovely Spanish girl, Paula, early on. I think they were both a bit like fish out of water.’ Lauren’s mother’s voice broke. Her husband put his arm around her, pulling her close. ‘And then she got herself a job in the radio over the summer and she met the Quinn lad, Tom. He seemed to be a nice fella, he looked out for her. I think she’d seen him in lectures but didn’t feel she could talk to him up to then, like – but she got to know him a bit at the radio station.’
Cathy nodded slowly. ‘When you say she wasn’t in touch much this term, you felt that was because she was happier?’
‘I don’t know. Really I don’t. She sounded happy. I thought she wasn’t in touch so much because she’d settled in. Lots of the second years move out of the halls into rented flats, but she volunteered for something so she got a place in the student accommodation for another year. It all seemed grand, I really thought she’d settled. And then . . .’
As she trailed off, a small ginger cat pushed open the living room door and jumped up onto the sofa between the O’Reillys. It sat looking at Cathy, its eyes an accusing shade of green.
‘There are a lot of questions, and we’re looking for as many answers as we can.’
Cathy paused, glancing at the cat. It was wearing a lilac collar with diamanté studs that flashed in the light of the fire. She had the hardest question to ask now.
‘Had Lauren ever given you any indication that she might take her own life?’
Eileen O’Reilly looked at Cathy, incredulous. ‘She didn’t take her own life.’ She couldn’t have been more definite.
‘You seem very sure.’
‘I am. The Guards told us she was found on rocks below a cliff. There’s no way she would have jumped. Just no way. Laurie was terrified of water. She never learned to swim, it caused huge problems at school when the class had lessons.’ Eileen looked from Cathy to Fanning keenly. ‘She almost drowned in the trough when she was five. She wouldn’t have gone anywhere near that cliff edge unless there was someone else there. She just wouldn’t. If she’d wanted to commit suicide she’d have taken a load of pills so she could go to sleep and not wake up. There’s no way she would have jumped voluntarily. Not a chance.’
Chapter 15
Saturday, 6 p.m.
The cafe was quiet, even though it was a Saturday evening. It wa
s hardly surprising though; the coffee was terrible, bitter, and hardly hot enough to call itself coffee. But the Internet was open access. It wasn’t quite as secure as the library, but it wasn’t far off. He turned the screen to face him. He was sitting right at the back wall, facing the door, so no one could see what he was looking at.
His fingers flying over the keys, he logged in to the admin area of the Discovery Quay site. This was where he saved the links to the camera feeds he didn’t make public; usually it was because there wasn’t enough happening, or someone had gone on holiday. Site visitors liked variety so it helped to have some streams in reserve. Although since he’d set up that link on the beauty website he’d had a constant supply of new feeds that were building into an interesting library. Soon it wouldn’t matter if some of them were inactive. It was amazing how few women had virus protection and who didn’t cover their laptop cameras. And that seemed to be the case all over the world – for his visitors, language wasn’t an issue.
He clicked into a live window on the feed he’d been waiting for. The whole webcam thing was all about timing, and a little bit of luck. Not everyone used their laptop in the bedroom or the bathroom, although he’d discovered a lot of women watched Netflix in the bath. A fact that was keeping a large number of his visitors very satisfied.
Mobile phone cameras were his next target. He was going to have some real fun with them. Wait till he showed Karim. His mind went back to the empty office in Shepherd’s Bush. He’d only been in Dublin a few months, and Karim had called to tell him that the group were relocating from Frankfurt to London, the excitement in his voice barely concealed. He wanted them all to meet up face to face.
The building Karim had found was ideal: a disused office block, loose papers scattered over the grey carpet in the entrance hall, a pile of cellophane covered telephone directories propping open the door to the stairs. On the way up he’d glanced through the glass landing doors to see odd chairs and desks abandoned at strange angles, a desiccated potted plant, trailing wires where computers had been disconnected. When they’d got to the fourth floor, he’d followed Karim across the landing and into what would have been a huge open-plan room, empty now. As the door sucked closed behind them Karim had beckoned him over to a group of ten guys of different nationalities sitting in a circle on the thin corded carpet, their laptops on their knees. They were all dressed in jeans or combats, sneakers and hoodies. Lots of layers as the building was freezing.
