No Turning Back

by Sam Blake

  Still standing in the middle of the office, O’Rourke looked out of the window over her shoulder. His face was set. He was cross. It wasn’t hard to tell. He shook his head.

  ‘We can’t lose this one. We need an evidential link or an infallible eyewitness to prove she actually met Lauren. Even if we can prove she was there, she can still claim Lauren jumped, but . . .’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘If that note was printed on one of the Quinns’ printers and she licked it closed, it’ll make it a lot harder for her to claim it was all an accident or a deliberate suicide attempt. Lauren couldn’t have printed it herself – it had to come from Mira, and that means premeditation.’ She pursed her lips. ‘We need to ask her about the affair with Quinn.’

  ‘She’ll just confirm it, won’t she?’ He stopped himself. ‘Sorry – what she’ll actually do is shrug like we’re idiots. She’s nothing to hide. There’s no crime in having an affair. Not one we’d be worried about anyway.’ O’Rourke uncrossed his arms and came over to to stand beside her, leaning both hands on the sill so he could see out directly below him. ‘Maybe they did it together? Maybe Conor Quinn and Mira killed Lauren and then hit Tom on the way home by accident.’

  Cathy closed her eyes and ran her fingers into the roots of her hair, thinking hard.

  ‘We need to think about Lauren and Tom separately. The Traffic guys are absolutely sure it wasn’t an accident. It could only have been someone who knew where Tom was that night and when he would be leaving.’

  ‘But how would they know that? Karen is sure no one knew about their affair.’

  ‘Maybe whoever it was saw him go in, knew he worked there. That wasn’t a secret. But they must have parked up, watching, to know when he left. I’m not seeing Mira or Conor having the time to push Lauren off the cliff – bearing in mind she was supposed to be meeting the texter at 10:30 – and then getting back in time to lie in wait for Tom.’

  She stopped, biting her lip as she thought. There was something else . . . She knew she was getting close . . . Then it hit her.

  ‘Orla said the event was live streamed – supposing there is someone who knew where Tom would be that night, and why. They’d know he needed to leave the Delaneys’ house at the end of the event, that Ronan Delaney would be heading home then. It’s, what, twenty minutes from Ballsbridge to Dalkey at that time of night? Karen said they weren’t watching the live stream, but if someone else was, they’d have a window.’

  ‘Lot of ifs, but I see where you’re coming from. The timing is very tight for Mira or Conor to be involved – you don’t shove someone off a cliff and calmly get back in the car. More to the point, I think Quinn might have had a quiet word with Karen before that night if he knew his son was having an affair with his best friend’s wife.’

  ‘I think we need to check the CCTV again at both ends of Ulverton Road from before Tom texted his mum, from when the charity gig finished – before that even, from when it started. If the driver of a metallic blue BMW knew the camera locations, it’s logical they’d avoid them after they’d hit Tom. But perhaps they weren’t so careful when they arrived.’

  O’Rourke was heading for his desk phone before Cathy had finished speaking. Watching him punch in Thirsty’s extension, Cathy screwed up her face. There was something else.

  ‘And let’s see how Mira spells tired, will we? I can’t spell “separately” – I get it wrong every time. If she sent those texts she might not have realised there was a typo.’

  Chapter 46

  Tuesday, 11 a.m.

  ‘Hey, honey, how are you doing? I got your message. Sorry I couldn’t call last night. You know what Mondays are like. By the time I got free it was stupid o’clock with you.’

  Anna could feel her spirits lift as she heard Rob’s voice. She’d left a voicemail on his office line yesterday, had been hoping he’d call back, but he must have been tied up. The time difference didn’t really help. She glanced at the clock – it was six in the morning in New York. She smiled; she couldn’t complain that he didn’t always prioritise her. For a moment she wondered where he was. Perhaps he was at home, making coffee in the kitchen, preparing for an early start at the office, but it was so early. Maybe he’d come downstairs specially to talk to her, his wife still asleep in bed. She sighed inwardly. She’d give anything to see him; it had been months since she’d been home. Last time she’d been in New York they’d had lunch and then dinner the next day, and then cocktails at the Rose Club in the Plaza before she left, snuggled into a corner of the pink velour banquette, surrounded by purple and gold tasselled cushions and the sound of jazz. Part of her ached to be nearer to him.

  ‘You should be asleep, Rob Power, not calling me at this time in the morning.’ She tried to sound like she was scolding him but it wasn’t very convincing.

  She heard him chuckle. ‘And how can I sleep if I’m worried about you all the way over there? What’s happening?’

  She felt her breath catch, fought to steady her voice. She didn’t want to panic him.

  ‘I . . .’ She stumbled, let out a sigh. ‘I thought there was someone following me yesterday. It’s happened a few times going home from work over the last few weeks, but this time the feeling was so strong. I really don’t know if I’m overreacting or if I should be worried.’

  There was a pause at the other end, like Rob was thinking. ‘You know the drill, honey, take no risks. Better to assume there’s a problem than to ignore it.’

  ‘I know. I’ve been varying my routes, I always do, and the couple of times it happened before, I went into a supermarket, or doubled back and caught the DART back a few stops so I could change trains.’ She paused, remembering the creepy feeling that there was someone in the carriage watching her. ‘Yesterday I was heading into Brown Thomas, I just got this feeling . . . So I took a really circuitous route, but then as I was going up the escalators—’ She stopped; she could feel herself getting emotional.

  ‘Take it easy, honey, I’m listening.’

  She started again. ‘So there’s this postgrad, Xavier Ayari. When I got that email about the conference, the one with the worm in it, the same day I got one from him asking if I’d speak to a group he’s setting up. It’s just . . .’ It sounded so crazy when she said it out loud. ‘It felt like a really weird way to ask. I mean, why email when he could just stop and ask me in the corridor? Too formal somehow. And he keeps appearing in the Arts block, he’s doing sciences, and the science students rarely come over to this side of the college. So anyway . . . When I got to Brown Thomas yesterday, there he is coming up the escalator behind me.’

  ‘What do you know about his background?’

  ‘Really not much. He’s an international student doing a postdoc, something to do with nanotechnology. Trinity are world leaders in that field, it’s a really progressive department. His younger brother is here too, doing computer science. Xavier’s French Tunisian, his family sponsored the new science block, it’s called the Ayari Building.’

  ‘That takes some amount of cash.’

  ‘I know – I think his family are in oil or something. I don’t know. I feel really bad because he could be completely innocent, it’s just that he’s dark and French and every time I see him . . .’

  ‘I know, honey, that’s not your fault. It’s PTS, you know that.’

  ‘Exactly, so I can’t tell if I’m overreacting, if he just gives me the creeps because of . . . or if I should really be worried.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the detective there about this?’

  ‘No, not yet. I probably should do but I’ve got absolutely no evidence. I don’t think the Gardaí take gut feelings and coincidences very seriously. And if they do, I could bring a ton of trouble down on a completely innocent man because of my own prejudices.’

  Rob thought about this for a minute. ‘How about I check him out? Do you think he could have anything to do with the stuff that’s going on there, with your students?’

  A
nna ran her hand into her hair. ‘I don’t know. He would have known Tom for sure. His brother hung out with him.’

  ‘So there’s a connection. And if he’s doing a PhD in nanotechnology he’s a bright guy, understanding the Web isn’t going to be a challenge. Let me see what I can find out. You know we’ve got that link between your two students and some cold cases. There are a couple in London too.’

  ‘It’s a pretty big case, then?’

  ‘Involving a very mobile perp. The question is, could this guy have been involved? If he’s following you because he can’t watch you online now, you need to be very careful.’ He paused. ‘He shouldn’t be hard to check out, leave it with me. Someone is behind Merchant’s Quay and Discovery Quay and Lauren O’Reilly seems to link both sites, between the emails she received and the drugs found in her room. It’s entirely possible that someone in her social circle could be involved. Maybe your instincts aren’t way off at all.’

  ‘Were the drugs in Lauren’s room bought from Merchant’s Quay?’

  ‘We’ve tracked the batch numbers back to a vendor who has a shop on Merchant’s Quay so it’s looking very likely. The information we have keeps interconnecting – I’m pretty sure we’re heading in the right direction.’ He paused. ‘So are you looking forward to taking Hope to London?’

  Anna smiled. ‘Yes, I am. I can’t wait. I need to get away and there’s so much to show her, she’s so excited.’

  ‘And is she really looking at London for university?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, she’s also keen on MIT but she wants to look around.’

  He hesitated. ‘Will you come home, when she leaves Ireland, I mean?’

  It was the way he said it, like he was asking her. But before she could answer there was a knock on her door. Her 11.30 tutorial.

  ‘Oh my, I’ve got to go.’ She paused, then said quietly, ‘I hope so, I’ve been away a long time.’ The knock came again, louder this time.

  ‘Whoever that is really wants you, you’d better go. I’ll call as soon as I have information on this Ayari character – might be a few days so don’t engage and keep safe, honey.’

  ‘I will. And I’ll check out flights home for Easter, Hope needs to see more of her grandmother.’

  She hung up and, swinging around, realised she was still sitting on her coat. She picked it up and went to open the door. Paula Garcia was standing with her back to it, her long glossy hair tied back in a low ponytail, her full attention on her phone.

  ‘Come in, Paula, sit down.’

  Leaving the door open, she crossed the office to hang her coat up just as her phone pipped with a text. As Paula settled herself, Anna could see it was from Rob: *smiling* xxx

  Chapter 47

  Tuesday, 11.30 a.m.

  Back in the interview room Mira Mandić looked relaxed, inspecting her neatly cut nails as they came back in. She had a cardboard cup of coffee in front of her and looked distinctly bored. She hadn’t asked for a solicitor; she was obviously confident enough to continue on her own.

  O’Rourke ran through the preliminaries for the tape again and glanced behind him to make sure the red light was showing on the video camera high up on the wall. As Cathy watched her, Mira’s eyes followed his, taking everything in. Conor Quinn had said she’d been to college when she’d arrived in Ireland, had done well. Sitting across the table from them, Mira reminded Cathy of a cat, her eyes intelligent and watchful.

  ‘Now you told us in the last session that you are originally from Sarajevo. How long have you worked for the Quinns, Mira?’ O’Rourke straightened the page of notes in front of him as he spoke.

  Mira shrugged. ‘Since Tom was about five. Fourteen, fifteen years? I was nineteen when I started.’

  Nineteen, very attractive and intelligent. Cathy was starting to see a pattern emerging here. O’Rourke was straight on to it too.

  ‘And when did your affair with Conor Quinn start, Mira?’

  If she was surprised they knew, she didn’t show it. She shrugged again. ‘About when I started working for them.’

  Cathy kept quiet, her notebook open in front of her. O’Rourke had been right: Mira couldn’t give a damn that they knew, but she wasn’t giving away any more than she absolutely had to, either.

  ‘And did Conor at any stage suggest that there was a future in your relationship?’

  The shrug again. ‘We talked about it, about if he could divorce Orla and how that could happen.’

  Watching her, Cathy suddenly felt sure that Mira would have considered lots of ways that she might get rid of Orla. One of the things that had been worrying her about the text messages, about the whole way Lauren had been duped into going to Dillon’s Park, about the note, was the speed at which the plan had been formed. But perhaps Mira had been walking through Dillon’s Park for years, ruminating on a life with Conor Quinn, and thinking about ways to get Orla out of their lives? Perhaps the plan was already half-formed when she overheard Quinn’s telephone conversation? The note in the pocket, the perfect place to push someone off the path? She must have had it all worked out.

  But while lots of people fantasised about what might change in their lives, very few of them actually acted on those thoughts.

  And she hadn’t bargained on Lauren’s fear of water making the whole scenario deeply suspicious.

  ‘Fifteen years is a long time to have an affair.’ Cathy kept her voice sympathetic, unthreatening.

  ‘We lived together. It wasn’t really like an affair. We were careful and Orla is out a lot.’

  Cathy raised her eyebrows, wondering if Mira had realised that their cosy arrangement meant that Quinn didn’t really have an incentive to leave his wife at all. He had everything he needed under one roof. The phrase ‘cake and eat it’ jumped into her head.

  Until Lauren came along.

  Another young and impressionable nineteen-year-old, with the added excitement of clandestine meetings. And no doubt Lauren’s attention flattered his ego – he wasn’t getting any younger. He had his cake and now he was getting the cream with it.

  ‘Do you know how to use a computer, Mira?’

  Mira looked at O’Rourke like he was stupid. ‘Of course, who doesn’t know how to use a computer?’

  ‘And a printer?’

  ‘Of course.’

  O’Rourke smiled before continuing slowly. ‘There was a note found on Lauren O’Reilly’s body, Mira, in an envelope in her pocket. It said “I’m Sorry” but unusually for a suicide note, if that’s what we are to believe it is, it was typed and printed.’ He looked straight at her. ‘Do you have any thoughts on that?’

  ‘You said this girl was a student. Students all use computers. What’s surprising about a student using a computer?’ Mira was totally unfazed.

  O’Rourke smiled again, as if he was agreeing with her. ‘Indeed, all students use computers. That is very true. But never in my career have I ever seen or heard of someone typing and printing a suicide note. It tends to be a more personal thing.’ He said it like it was the understatement of the year.

  ‘I’m sure somewhere in the whole world someone has typed a note.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s so. But this type of note is fairly special, wouldn’t you say? The very last thing you write before you take the extreme measure to end your own life?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have never thought about ending my life. I’m afraid I cannot help you.’

  Cathy leaned forward. ‘Writing is a very personal thing, though, isn’t it? Some people use particular phrases or punctuation, have their own way of saying things.’

  ‘I’m sure they do.’

  Cathy looked across the table at her. Mira’s answers were curt and uncommunicative. Perhaps she was just that sort of person but she was definitely giving the impression that this was all a waste of her time. Cathy could live with that.

  ‘Would you mind writing something for us?’

  ‘Why? Do you need to analyse my handwriting now? You said this note was typed.’<
br />
  Cathy smiled and, without elaborating, turned her notepad around, offering Mira her pen. Mira hesitated for a moment, then, as if it was a vaguely ridiculous request, sat up theatrically, the pen poised.

  ‘What would you like me to write?’

  ‘ “I’ve dreamed a lot. I’m tired now from dreaming but not tired of dreaming.” It’s a quote.’

  Beside her, Cathy felt O’Rourke glance at her sideways, but she didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes instead on Mira, who raised her eyebrows like Cathy was mad, then wrote on the notepad. Her writing was fluid, rounded letters flowing into each other.

  Putting in the final full stop, Mira pushed the notepad back towards Cathy.

  ‘Thank you. Perhaps you could sign that for me and pop the date underneath?’

  Mira pulled the pad back and did as she was asked, pushing it back across the table again.

  Cathy swung the pad around. She’d spelled tired, tierd. Twice. O’Rourke scanned the page smiling at Mira, then continued.

  ‘Thank you. We need to advise you that we’re currently examining the printers in Orla Quinn’s office and in the rest of the house, Mira. You may not be aware of this but all printers have a distinct pattern. Something to do with the way the ink heads become misaligned during use, I’m told. We believe that the note in Lauren’s pocket could have been printed in the house.’

  Mira shook her head like it wasn’t important, shrugging theatrically again like it wasn’t anything to do with her.

  ‘Perhaps Tom gave it to her?’

  She’d almost said ‘prove it’ but fell marginally short. And it was down to them to prove that she had given Lauren the note, but O’Rourke was saving the best till last.