No Turning Back

by Sam Blake

  She sat down. ‘What can I do to help?’

  Olivier shifted in his seat. ‘It’s about Tom. I don’t know who else to ask. There are all these rumours going around about him, about what happened to him.’ He frowned. ‘Do you know anything?’

  Anna hid her surprise. It seemed a strange question to ask her. He’d been Tom’s friend; surely he knew Tom’s parents, or the rest of his close friends who had spoken to the Gardaí. But then perhaps he didn’t. Olivier may never have had a reason to go to the Quinns’ house. And he wasn’t the most sociable student on the campus. In fact, he was the polar opposite of his good-looking, popular brother. She’d always felt there was a tension between them whenever she’d seen them together, as if Xavier resented having a nerdy brother hanging about him. Or Olivier resented having a good-looking, popular one.

  He’d been friends with Tom, though. She chose her words carefully. When she’d seen them together the previous week, which felt like a lifetime ago now, they had been chatting and messing with their phones.

  ‘It was a car accident. The Guards don’t know what happened yet, they’re investigating. Have you spoken to them?’

  Olivier shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘They want to talk to all his friends, to build a picture of what he was doing in college. Have they been trying to get hold of you?’

  ‘I’ve had some missed calls . . . I thought they were sales calls or something, I haven’t picked up my messages. Perhaps it was them.’

  ‘I’ll give you the number of the detective I spoke to, she’s very nice. I know she’ll want to talk to you.’ Anna pulled out her drawer and fished out a pad of Post-it notes and a pen. She looked for her phone, flipping open the leather case, scrolling down for Cathy Connolly’s number.

  ‘Here you go. Give her a call.’ She wrote the number down and he took the proffered Post-it.

  ‘So they’ve no idea what happened?’

  Putting the lid back on her pen, Anna shook her head. ‘Not at the moment as far as I understand it.’

  She slipped the pen and Post-it pad back in her desk drawer as he said slowly, ‘Thank you.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘When will they know?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know. I’m sure the Guards can tell you more.’

  Anna tried to hide her irritation, then regretted being irritated at all. She shouldn’t be cross with Olivier, he wasn’t the problem here; he was asking about the rumours about his friend, a friend he had lost. He wasn’t being mean or creating malicious gossip. And he hadn’t asked about Lauren, although Anna was sure by Monday word would have spread across the university and there would inevitably be connections drawn to Tom.

  He nodded rather mournfully. ‘Thank you. I’d better go.’

  Anna stood up to show him out.

  ‘If you’re worried about Tom, about what’s been happening – there are people you can talk to, you know. People here. It’s very private. The university offer a counselling service.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Not meeting her eye, he slung his backpack over his shoulder.

  Then he turned and smiled at her and Anna look a step back. Her own smile polite, she closed the door quickly. She was sure it was her imagination, but something about the way he looked at her made her feel very uncomfortable. When he smiled she could see the family resemblance to Xavier. She shivered. This was ridiculous; she really needed to get her life on track.

  But at least her life hadn’t gone as far off track as Orla’s. Heading back to her desk Anna reached for the phone. She’d tried to call several times, had left messages on Orla’s mobile and messages with her housekeeper, Mira, but she understood completely that Orla might still not be ready to talk. She’d probably switched her phone off.

  Expecting to leave another message Anna was surprised when, this time, Orla answered.

  ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t return your calls.’ Orla’s voice sounded different, agitated, a little on edge for a woman normally so in command. But perhaps she’d just grabbed the phone before it rang off. Anna knew that feeling.

  ‘Don’t be at all. I just wanted to see how you were doing, to let you know if you need anything . . .’ Anna stopped herself. It was something people had said to her so often after Jen had been killed, but what could they do? The only thing she’d needed was Jen back and they couldn’t help with that. Orla must be feeling exactly the same.

  ‘I know, you’re so good. Really. Have you spoken to the Guards?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told them all I can—’

  Orla cut Anna off, ‘I don’t know what they are doing, it’s taking so long to get any information. I thought the first forty-eight hours in an investigation were supposed to be crucial. It’s Sunday today, that’s four days.’ She paused, and Anna heard her let out a sharp breath. ‘I’m sorry, I just need to do something. I’m not very good at just sitting back and letting things happen. I keep thinking of all our conversations, of what Tom was doing over the last few weeks. Going over and over everything. This can’t have been totally random.’

  ‘I know the Guards are questioning everyone.’

  As if Orla hadn’t heard her she continued, ‘I’ve decided if they haven’t got any solid information in the next few days, I’m going to have to hire a private investigator. I have to do something, I have to find out who did this and why.’

  Anna could hear the pain and frustration in Orla’s voice, could sense her helplessness. This was so devastating and Orla was so used to being in charge of her world, having to wait for news was making it all worse, if that was possible.

  Anna knew that feeling, she’d been there too. Orla needed closure before she could grieve for her son.

  Chapter 26

  Sunday, 5.30 p.m.

  Pulling up on the narrow pavement outside Ronan Delaney’s house, Cathy checked the wing mirror before she jumped out of the passenger seat of the District Detective Unit’s silver Opel. Ulverton Road wound down from the picturesque village of Dalkey to Sandycove, running parallel with the sea, but many of its bends were blind. It might only be early Sunday evening but it was dark now. And she didn’t want to end up like Tom Quinn.

  Standing on the pavement waiting for her, Fanning flicked his blond fringe out of his eyes and rattled the car keys, looking up at the house where Ronan Delaney’s dark blue Range Rover was registered. Like much of Dalkey, the houses here were big and well kept, set back from the road. Delaney’s was on the end of the terrace, a narrow ornate iron gate opening onto the pavement. Further down the high red brick wall that surrounded it, another wider gate opened into the garden; behind it a white jeep was parked, partially illuminated by the weak street lamp on the other side of the road.

  ‘Nice place.’ Fanning indicated the house. ‘That must be her car – very sporty. She used to work in TV, you know, did that fashion show on RTE.’

  ‘Yep, she runs the beauty salon in the village now.’ As Cathy spoke her phone rang. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  Answering it, she listened to the caller then signalled to Fanning that she needed a pen and paper.

  ‘Thanks for calling. I can’t give you any details at this stage I’m afraid, but I need to arrange a time for myself or one of my colleagues to meet you for a chat about Tom. Tomorrow morning?’ She listened to the answer. ‘Yes, eleven is great. I think we need to be somewhere more private than a restaurant. What’s your address?’

  Fanning passed her his open notebook. Leaning on the garden wall, Cathy scribbled it down.

  ‘Great, we’ll see you then.’ She ended the call.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Olivier Ayari, that friend of Tom’s that I’ve been trying to track down. Very apologetic, he thought my missed calls were sales calls. I’ll get over and talk to him in the morning. He said he hadn’t seen Tom since last week. The last contact he had was a text about a strategy they were working on for Dark Souls Three. It’s a computer game apparently.’ She handed Fanning back his notebook. ‘I’ll copy tha
t address down later. Right, let’s see who’s in, shall we?’

  A security light flashed on as they walked up the path, throwing cold white light over an immaculate front garden. It took a few minutes after they rang the bell for the front door to be opened. Despite a huge creeper that grew around the front door and blocked the security light, Karen Delaney looked just as good as she had done the last time Cathy had met her – her long dark hair pulled back off her face, her make-up so subtle it didn’t look like she was wearing any, despite her luxurious eyelashes and polished red nails. Dressed in a black high neck T-shirt, skintight black leather trousers and high-heeled boots, she had a fabulous figure. Fanning had noticed too, of course. Cathy could feel his radar bleeping behind her, but she held her ground in front of him on the doorstep. He’d have plenty of time to ogle later.

  Opening the door wider, Karen Delaney recognised Cathy immediately.

  ‘Hello again, is everything all right?’

  Cathy smiled warmly. ‘We’re sorry to call so late. We’ve got a few more questions about Tom and the accident.’

  Karen hid it well, but a shadow passed across her eyes. She took a deep breath before speaking. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘We were hoping to chat to your husband, actually. Is he at home?’

  ‘He’s at work, but he’s due back shortly.’ Karen forced a smile.

  ‘Would you mind if we waited for him?’

  Karen hesitated for a split second, then stood back from the door. ‘Of course, please come in.’

  Cathy could almost feel Fanning smiling behind her; she couldn’t see it, but she was quite sure he had his full beam on. She shook her head inwardly. One day they would need to have a serious chat about his approach to women.

  *

  Karen opened the door wide to a softly lit narrow hallway, the walls dark green below the dado rail, cream above it, the passageway floored in period black and white tiles. An elegant flight of stairs with an ornate banister rose to the right. To their left, a credenza with a mirror above it was flush to the wall, letters and keys tossed on its white marble top. At the end of the corridor Cathy could see bright lights radiating from the back of the house.

  ‘Come in, please, go straight though, the kitchen’s at the back.’

  Cathy smiled her thanks and, passing Karen, headed down the hall, followed by Fanning. Behind her she heard the door close, and a few seconds later Karen’s heels clicking on the tiled floor.

  At the back of the house a huge kitchen-cum-living room ran the entire width of the building. Obviously a later addition, it was mainly glass, a beautiful half conservatory, half family room, a huge scrubbed pine table in the glazed section, a comfortable sofa arrangement to the far right, soft sidelights casting relaxing pools of light from square occasional tables at the corners of each of the three sofas arranged facing the garden. The kitchen was state of the art, pale granite worktops and a spotless Siemens cooker, a white marble island in the centre with a huge butler sink in the middle. It didn’t look like a kitchen that was used all that much, if Cathy was honest. With the bright downlighters under the cabinets, it looked like it belonged in a show house. But maybe that’s what this was – more show house than home. It felt too perfect somehow. And from what Cathy had already seen of the Delaneys’ relationship, there seemed to be a lot of plaster covering the cracks.

  ‘Sit down, I’ll put the kettle on. Ronan shouldn’t be long.’ Karen indicated the sofa area and went over to the island, flipping a tap to noisily fill the kettle.

  ‘Thank you.’

  As Cathy sat down, she watched Karen fussing in the kitchen, took in the designer coffee machine, the American fridge. Fanning opened his mouth to say something, but Cathy silenced him with a raised eyebrow. She wanted to keep him focused and he could be less than tactful. What he was good at was watching and listening, giving her his angle on an interview. She needed him to be wallpaper right now, to use all his skills to read the hidden messages while Karen Delaney was speaking, not start a conversation about celebrity gossip.

  Cathy and Fanning sat down at right angles to each other on the oatmeal sofas. Cathy’s look had done the job; she could see that he was busy taking in his surroundings, looking at the original pictures on the wall, at the accessories artfully placed in the room.

  ‘Have you any idea when Orla will be able to organise the funeral?’ Karen had finished filling the kettle, busying herself getting cups and saucers out of the cupboards, setting them on a wooden tray on the island. ‘She’s still so shocked, and the delay is making it all worse. She’s used to getting answers and right now she doesn’t even know when he’s coming home . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears as she bit her lip, obviously fighting with her emotions. She took a ragged breath. ‘Do you know what happened yet?’

  ‘We’re still making enquiries at this stage.’

  Fanning chimed in, acting the innocent. ‘You know the Quinns well, then?’

  Karen stopped in the middle of the kitchen and crossed her arms. ‘We’re good friends with Conor and Orla. Tom worked for Ronan, as you know.’ She turned around, her back to them, looking at the kettle as it came to the boil. Cathy could see her shoulders shaking like she was trying hard not to cry.

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’ Cathy watched her carefully. ‘I’m sorry, I know how difficult this is.’

  ‘But . . .’ Karen turned back to them and waved her hand in the direction of the kettle, not quite focusing on it, like she knew she was standing there for a reason but had suddenly forgotten what it was.

  ‘Don’t worry. Detective Fanning makes great tea.’ Cathy turned to 007 and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Totally, master tea maker. Please sit down.’ Fanning stood up and headed into the kitchen area.

  Karen looked at him blankly for a moment, then, realising what he was saying, snapped back to the room. ‘Thank you. There’s sugar . . .’

  ‘I’ll find it, don’t worry.’ He blazed his full-on smile, all eyes and dripping with charm. Cathy had seen girls go weak at the knees when he did that, but it was wasted on Karen Delaney. As if she was in a daze, she came to sit beside Cathy on the edge of the sofa, her hands flat on her leather-covered knees like she was trying to control herself. Cathy could feel the tension radiating off her.

  ‘Tell me about Tom.’

  Cathy leaned forward in her seat, her voice soft. If her instincts were correct, there was more going on here than the death of an employee. She was suddenly getting the feeling that Karen had been very guarded the last time they’d met, had left out some important details. Being friends with Orla, it had seemed logical that Karen would have been invited to the charity event that her husband was MC-ing – famous faces added the gloss at those types of events – but now Cathy was beginning to wonder if that was the case. Ronan’s call to Karen while Cathy had been talking to her the last time had been quite a surprise. It had rattled Karen so much that Cathy was now sure that their relationship was far from perfect. As if to confirm Cathy’s thoughts, at the mention of Tom’s name, Karen paled, her lip trembling again.

  ‘He . . .’ She faltered, then continued almost too fast. ‘Tom was great. He needed a part-time job – he was in Trinity.’ She bit her lip. ‘Sorry, you know that . . . Well, he picked everything up really fast. It was a favour to Conor to start with, but it all . . . worked out.’

  ‘So he came here a lot?’

  Cathy watched her carefully. Beyond Karen, in the kitchen, she could see Fanning quietly sliding drawers open, looking for teaspoons. He was picking up on it too, kept glancing at Karen.

  She shrugged. ‘Most weekends.’ Her lip trembled again as she hesitated. ‘Some evenings. Sometimes.’

  ‘Thursday evening?’

  Staring at the glass-topped coffee table in the middle of the sofas, at the magazines artfully arranged on its spotless polished surface, she answered slowly. ‘Yes, Thursday evening.’

  Cathy took this in. Karen had said he o
ften worked evenings but if he was coming here on Thursday evening, why hadn’t he told anyone? His mum and Mira had assumed he’d gone for a walk – but why hadn’t he told them he was coming to work, why the secrecy? Cathy was suddenly sure there wasn’t much walking being done during Tom’s nocturnal excursions.

  ‘And Ronan was out on Thursday, at Orla’s charity event?’

  Karen nodded miserably. ‘I was invited too, but I had a migraine.’

  Cathy looked at her – a migraine? Yeah, right.

  ‘And what time did Tom get here?’

  ‘Just after eight I think.’

  ‘You mentioned before that he had his own key to the studio?’ Cathy said it innocently.

  Fanning had loaded a tray with a teapot, cups, the milk jug and sugar bowl, and now brought it over to the coffee table. Cathy slid the magazines away from the middle to give him space.

  Karen stared at the tray as if she wasn’t seeing it. ‘Yes, yes, he had his own key.’

  ‘Quite late to be working?’

  Fanning’s tone was just as innocent as Cathy’s as he lifted the teapot, but she could tell that he was thinking exactly the same thing as she was. Tom’s mysterious walks had been visits to see Karen; she was sure of it. The real question was, did her husband know?

  ‘He . . .’ Karen faltered. ‘Yes, he came late sometimes.’

  Still staring at the tea tray, it was like Karen had dried up, couldn’t say any more. Cathy tried a different tack.

  ‘And what time did Ronan get back?’

  Direct questions always helped get the wheels moving, helped witnesses focus on the facts.

  Karen shrugged. ‘After eleven, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Was Tom still here then?’

  ‘No, no, he’d just left.’

  ‘Could Ronan have passed him on the road?’

  Cathy kept her voice low. Was this what Karen was thinking, a further reason for her distress? Did she think Delaney had seen Tom leave and perhaps had his suspicions confirmed that his wife was having an affair? Had it been enough to push him over the edge and cause him to deliberately drive into him? Karen’s reaction when he had telephoned her, and his demeanour towards his wife, had rung alarm bells with Cathy.