Darkest Truth

by Catherine Kirwan

  ‘Did Ann say anything about why I wanted to see you?’

  ‘Nothing, only that it was about poor Deirdre’s death and that you were looking into the background. That’s about it. C’mere, I never asked if you wanted a cuppa?’

  ‘I’m grand, thanks, Jessica, I’m only after it. You knew Deirdre well, I hear?’

  ‘When we were kids, we were best friends, in the same class all the way up. But I didn’t see much of her after we left school. And when we were there, she was out sick a lot, scraped through the Leaving, nervous breakdown, but you know that, I suppose. I tried to keep in touch, called in occasionally. Believe it or not I hadn’t even seen her for a few years before she died. But strange as it sounds, you know, I think we would’ve grown apart no matter what, even if she hadn’t got sick. We were on different roads. She was heading to university from nearly the day we started primary. I was only dying to finish school myself. I went to the College of Comm after, did a book-keeping and secretarial course, and never looked back. Met Paul, had the smallies and, sure you know yourself, moved on, like.’

  She frowned.

  ‘Between work and the kids and Paul, I hadn’t a minute. Still haven’t.’

  She paused again.

  ‘With everything, I had no time left for Deirdre.’

  ‘I never forgot about her, though,’ Jessica added, willing me to believe her. I didn’t. I reckoned that plenty of time had gone by when Deirdre was alive that she never crossed Jessica’s mind. And that she thought about Deirdre a whole lot more these days.

  ‘When she died, it brought it all back, you know, how close we’d been,’ Jessica said. ‘I was so sad. But I suppose life’s like that, and it’s nobody’s fault and that’s it.’

  She looked at me, waited for me to agree. I couldn’t. Somebody was at fault, I just didn’t know who, not for sure, not yet. But maybe Jessica did.

  ‘Was there a trigger for the breakdown, the change in Deirdre, do you think?’

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Jessica said. ‘Some people are more susceptible to that kind of thing, aren’t they? Around the time of the Film Festival, she broke up with her boyfriend and––’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Yeah, Joey O’Connor, mind you when I say boyfriend it was all very innocent. She was only fifteen and we were all in the same class at St Finbarr’s. Joey was a rich boy, from the Blackrock Road. Gorgeous, in his day. A bit like Colin Farrell, but tall as well. Played rugby, too.’

  She laughed.

  ‘He couldn’t believe it when he got dumped.’

  ‘Deirdre broke it off? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t surprised she got tired of him. He thought he was God’s gift. He was crazy about Deirdre, though.’

  ‘Any idea where he is now?’

  ‘As far as I know he’s working in the family business, they have that big car sales place on the Kinsale Road.’

  ‘Ann Carney never mentioned a boyfriend,’ I said. ‘Do you think she knew?’

  ‘No way. Deirdre didn’t tell her. No point. And the dad would have had a canary.’

  ‘I see. It’s interesting that the break-up with Joey happened around the time of the Film Festival. The Carneys trace the change in Deirdre to then.’

  Jessica put her head on one side and looked at the ceiling. I followed her gaze upwards, towards a paper globe with a map of the earth pattern on it, and a small hole where Buenos Aires should have been. I looked at her afresh, and at the furrow between her brows. I wondered what had put it there. She started talking again.

  ‘That’s right. Now that you mention it, she was never the same after the festival.’

  ‘You went to the closing ceremony with Ann Carney and Deirdre, is that right?’

  ‘It was a long time ago. All I remember is being in the Opera House, and it was boring, at the beginning anyway, loads of speeches and giving out prizes, and all that.’

  ‘Jeremy Gill won that year, didn’t he?’ I said.

  ‘God, yeah he did. Cork really put him on the map.’

  As far as the local population was concerned, whatever about his talent, Gill’s later success was entirely due to the fact that Cork had discovered him. ‘He’d be nowhere only for us,’ taxi drivers said, too often for my liking, even before I’d heard about Deirdre.

  ‘I was volunteering that year. I did it for a few years back then. I didn’t meet Jeremy myself, unfortunately. Did you?’

  ‘I did of course,’ Jessica said. ‘We did the workshop with him.’

  ‘Oh yes, the workshop. I have some photos of it. Didn’t know you were at it.’

  ‘Well, to be honest, it wasn’t really my thing. But Deirdre was doing it and at that stage we were joined at the hip. And it was a day off school, of course.’

  I took out my iPad and got up the scanned photos, the group shot first. Jessica squealed.

  ‘Oh my God, look at me, I was so fat,’ she said.

  She pointed to a round mousey-haired girl, and looked at me expectantly.

  ‘I wouldn’t say fat exactly,’ I said. ‘But you look a lot different, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I took up running down by the Lough to get out on my own for half an hour a couple of times a week. And the weight fell off me. Mind you, it’s a struggle to keep it off. I nearly have shares in Special K. But look at Deirdre, God help us, may she rest in peace. She was so pretty, such a star. No wonder Jeremy Gill was mad about her.’

  ‘Really? How do you mean?’

  ‘Just asking her opinion and things,’ Jessica said. ‘And if he had to demonstrate anything, he got her to help him, all that. Teacher’s pet. But we were used to that with Deirdre. Everyone loved her. Mr O’Donnell the art teacher adored her. Even after she got sick and gave up art in school and dropped down to doing all pass subjects, he kept asking about her all the time. We used to say that he was in love with her.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Dunno. Doubt if it was love, really. But it happens, doesn’t it?’

  I’d need to talk to Mr O’Donnell, find out more.

  ‘I suppose. But tell me, do you recognise anyone else in these photos, Jessica?’

  ‘Well there’s Joey,’ she said.

  She pointed to a thick-necked, surly youth in the second row.

  ‘And Aifric Sheehan, she was Deirdre’s friend more than mine. Aifric’s still around. I bump into her occasionally. She went on and did teaching. Works in our old school, would you believe? I don’t think I’d send our two there, though I don’t know, they’re still young. But from what I hear, the school’s changed a lot since our day. Less mixed, more exclusive.’

  I had to get her back to the case.

  ‘I don’t have kids myself so it’s not really on my radar. Em, the two boys in the other photo? Any idea who they are?’ I asked.

  ‘They were on the youth jury with her, as far as I know,’ Jessica said. ‘But don’t ask me their names. I only met them that one day, at the workshop.’

  ‘What about the other guy, the adult who isn’t Jeremy Gill?’

  ‘Oh he worked for the festival, what was his name again? He was really nice to me, I should remember him. I felt out of place, didn’t know much about films, the rest of them were way cooler than I was, but he looked out for me. Hang on, was it Donal or something like that?’

  ‘Could it have been Daniel? According to the programme, the education officer was called Daniel O’Brien.’

  ‘Yeah, it could have been,’ Jessica said. ‘He was something to do with education, I’m nearly sure. Yeah, it could have been Daniel.’

  ‘That’s good to know, Jessica, thanks,’ I said. ‘And do you remember the badges you were all wearing? Anything about them?’

  ‘I don’t even remember seeing one, let alone wearing one.’

  ‘Okay. And, one more time, any joy on the two jury boys’ names?’

  ‘Not a hope,’ she said. ‘Not even a glimmer.’

  It didn’t matter. If they w
ere on the youth jury, as Jessica had said, their names would be in the catalogue. And she had confirmed my suspicion that the other adult male in the photo was probably Daniel O’Brien, the education officer.

  But I hadn’t bargained on having two new suspects in the mix: a jilted boyfriend and a besotted teacher. I had intended being open-minded about Gill’s culpability but this new development was, most definitely, not part of the script.

  10

  Back home, I went to my study to log what I’d gleaned from Jessica. In my ‘Connections’ file, I noted that Gill had known Deirdre well, that she had been something of a teacher’s pet to him at his workshop. But, as far as Jessica was concerned, Gill was a celebrity they were lucky to have met once, a public figure with no significant connection to Deirdre. If Jessica was telling the truth, she knew of no subsequent contact between Gill and Deirdre after the festival. Even worse, the clues that I had been so excited about, the badges and name tags, meant nothing to her. Jessica didn’t even recall wearing them.

  But one of the others might. I checked the catalogue for the names of the youth jury members and saved them to my file. One of them was Lorcan Lucey from Presentation Brothers, a famous rugby school universally known as ‘Pres’, though bespectacled skinny Lorcan didn’t look like he spent much time on the pitch. The second boy was Patrick McCarthy from a boys’ school in Bishopstown. Patrick was open-faced, athletic and enthusiastic-looking, like the star player on the school hurling team.

  With a sigh, I opened a new document labelled ‘Other Possibilities’ where I typed two names: Colm O’Donnell, art teacher and Joey O’Connor, ex-boyfriend. Then I left my study and went upstairs to my bedroom. It was after two. I needed to get ready. Davy would be around to pick me up soon.

  I had intended to wash my hair but a mane like mine takes too long to dry and I hadn’t left enough time. I pinned it up and went for a 30-second shower, keeping my head out of the water. Then, quickly, I pummelled my skin dry and slathered on Summer Harvest body lotion that I’d bought in the Burren Perfumery in Clare the previous August. Next, I shook out my hair, put my head upside down, and sprayed on my old music festival staple, Batiste Dry Shampoo. I smelled nice and my hair didn’t look too bad, but at twenty to three I still had no clue what to wear. Eventually I settled on a purple seventies vintage dress, with a high neck and long sleeves, and high-heeled Mary Janes. And too much black eyeliner and mascara, forgetting that I was going to Muskerry Castle for work reasons, and not on a date with Davy Keenan.

  My phone pinged. It was Davy.

  ‘Your carriage awaits.’

  Which probably meant that he was stopped in the middle of Barrack Street, blocking traffic. I’d better leg it.

  But when I got to the end of the lane and on to Barrack Street there was no sign of him. I looked down the street, in the direction of town. No sign either. Then I heard him call my name. Parked to the south of the turn-off, he was leaning against his car, a black BMW. A drug dealer’s car, I’d teased, when he got it, asking if NA didn’t have some kind of a ban on black BMWs?

  ‘You’re only jealous, Finn,’ he’d said at the time, unfazed. And maybe I was, a little, though cars don’t interest me usually. Davy gave a little nod and a smile and I strolled towards him, trying to look casual, which was not easy when he looked this good, sandy hair and beard, six foot two, slim but strong, wearing a vintage brown Donegal tweed jacket over jeans and an open-necked white and blue cornflower print shirt.

  ‘You look nice,’ Davy said.

  ‘So do you,’ I said.

  He opened the door and I got into the car as fast as I could. I needed the seat.

  We drove west from the city, past the Lee Fields, out the Straight Road, where they used to run land speed record attempts back when people were interested in that kind of thing. Then, instead of continuing along the main route, Davy chose the narrow winding road that tracked the river, high above it, a shimmer of water visible intermittently through the hedgerows.

  Once or twice I felt him looking at me, but he said nothing. He always knew when I wanted to talk and when I needed quiet. As we turned on to the mile-long tree-lined driveway to Muskerry Castle, the BMW earning us an effortless wave through gate security, I tried, with limited success, to drag my mind back to why I was here.

  The hotel was as beautiful as I remembered: castellated limestone, carved oak and stone interiors, Turkish carpets, open fires, pastoral views from every window. It had been the landed estate, the ‘big house’, of the area, not burnt out as many like it had been in the 1920s, or demolished, or fallen into ruins, as others had been after their farms were compulsorily acquired by the Land Commission; death duties had crippled even more. Almost by default, the house had survived intact until one of the less useless members of the family, a daughter, had stopped yearning for a vanished Downton Abbey idyll that had never been, and turned the place into a hotel. She had done well. It was part-owned by an international group now, but the family was still involved in the running, and it was one of the few places in Cork that the recession didn’t seem to have affected, except to make hiring staff a lot easier.

  ‘Is it a special occasion, madam?’ the waitress asked as she led us to our table. Thrown momentarily, I looked to Davy for help.

  ‘It might be,’ he said and flashed a smile in her direction.

  As we sat down, he asked ‘Why are we here anyway, Finn?’

  ‘It’s a work thing, Davy. I can’t tell you too much about it, you know, client confidentiality and all that. But I really appreciate you coming along.’

  I watched his expression change and settle as I spoke, from curiosity to resignation, with a hint of disappointment somewhere in the middle.

  ‘Excellent,’ Davy said. ‘You know me, always up for a bit of legal work.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  But it felt like I was using him and, when they came, the perfect mini-sandwiches and cakes tasted like cardboard in my mouth. I had to salvage something from the afternoon, and got my chance when a florid, silver-haired man in Muskerry Castle livery, royal blue, for the kings of Munster, and red trim, for Cork, stopped at our table.

  ‘Davy Keenan, as I live and breathe, how are you?’ the man said.

  Startled initially, Davy made a quick recovery.

  ‘Edward, how’s it going, boy? I’d forgotten you worked here. I wouldn’t have known you in the outfit anyway. In all fairness, you look like a reject from the Opera House panto. Buttons, is that his name?’

  They laughed.

  ‘And who’s this lovely lady?’ Edward said.

  Davy introduced me as his friend Finn and Edward introduced himself as Edward ‘Call me Ned’ Foley, concierge of this fine hotel for more years than he cared to remember.

  ‘Would you like to join us, Ned?’ I asked. ‘It’s my first time here for afternoon tea, and only my third time ever. I’d love to hear more about the hotel. Is it okay to have a look around, do you think?’

  ‘I can’t join you, I’m afraid,’ Ned said. ‘The curse of the day job. But if you call by the concierge desk on your way out, I’ll be only delighted to give you a tour and to tell you what little I can about the place.’

  ‘Hey, what’s the story with you and Ned?’ I asked after he’d left.

  ‘Sorry, can’t say,’ Davy said.

  ‘Now who’s gone all secretive?’

  What I didn’t say was that I liked the man of mystery act he was putting on; liked it a lot. I leant across the table towards him and whispered, ‘It’s from NA, I’ll bet. That’s how you know him.’

  I knew that members weren’t supposed to tell who else went to meetings.

  ‘Come off it, Buttons in NA? Hardly,’ Davy said.

  ‘AA so. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘I never said it, okay, so you can stop right there. But he’s a good guy, believe me. Though I can see you have every intention of bleeding him dry for information, whatever you’re up to.’

  ‘
Don’t worry,’ I said, calling for the bill. ‘I’ll be the soul of discretion.’

  Not as discreet as Ned. For all his apparent friendliness, he was giving nothing away. He showed us the ballroom, and the bar, and gestured dramatically up the stairs in the direction of the bedrooms, and the various suites named after the ancient clans of Munster, the O’Briens, the McCarthys and the O’Sullivans and so on. I could have learnt as much, or more, from the hotel website. And when I mentioned Jeremy Gill arriving on Tuesday, dropping in that I was a Film Festival board member, I got an arctic reception.

  ‘Oh, Finn, we never talk about our guests,’ Ned said as he ushered us into the bar for a complimentary drink. I ordered a grapefruit juice and Davy a still water. At least I’d be able to check what kind of coasters the hotel used.

  But there weren’t any.

  ‘You don’t use coasters any more,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve never used coasters in the bar, Finn,’ Ned said.

  ‘But I have one,’ I said. ‘Small and round with fluted edges and “Muskerry Castle” printed on it.’

  ‘I thought you said you’d never stayed over?’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘We only use those coasters in the bedrooms. In the bar, we’ve always used a cocktail napkin, American style.’

  ‘I must have picked it up when I was at that wedding, maybe, or I’m not sure, I …’

  ‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t,’ Ned said, with a quizzical glance at Davy, and a ‘Byeee’ as he went back to his duties.

  ‘Well that was weird,’ Davy said. ‘What was it all about?’

  ‘Davy, I can’t say,’ I said. ‘I told you, it’s something to do with work.’

  ‘You’re a solicitor with a sudden professional interest in coasters?’

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘Give me a break. All I know is, the minute Ned mentioned “bedroom”, you got very uncomfortable.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said.

  ‘I’m ridiculous now, am I? Thanks.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘It’s what you said, though. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’