Dismissed in every sense of the word, I dragged myself towards Heuston Station, along the north bank of the Liffey, a walk I had done a thousand times before, to and from the Four Courts and the Law Society. As I ran my hand along the black cast-iron railing of the Croppies Acre, I thought about Rhona and I thought about my sister and I thought about Jeremy Gill. And I didn’t care how, but I was going to bring him down.
31
The last train to Cork was as slow as a hearse and, as was usual for the last train, it had no dining car or tea trolley. Pre-prepared, I ate a bag of Tayto Cheese and Onion, bought on the platform, for main course, and chased it with a bag of Salt and Vinegar for dessert. I hadn’t bought a big enough bottle of water though, and thirst kept me half awake, and staring out the window into the blackness, as the train alternately hurtled through the dark countryside, then shunted in and out of every nowhere town and station until the announcement for Cork came at long last. Another fifteen minutes and I would be in my own bed. But my phone rang as I alighted on the platform at Kent Station at ten past midnight. No caller ID.
‘Am I speaking to Finn Fitzpatrick?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Bridewell Gardaí here,’ the voice said.
‘Is there news?’ I said, thinking of DI Lenihan and the Macbride case.
‘Are you the owner of motor vehicle 03C____?’
‘Yes, I am, is something wrong?’
‘Could you furnish me with the make of the vehicle, please?’
‘VW Golf. Please tell me what’s wrong.’
‘And the last known location, if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Fort Street, Off Barrack Street. But what is it?’
‘Finn, I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you about your car. It’s after being set on fire.’
There were no taxis left at the rank, but I hailed one on the slope down into the city centre and was across town in minutes.
A swarm of passers-by and locals had gathered to view the inferno. I stood well back until the flames started to weaken, after they had been doused by the fire brigade, which took longer than I might have expected, if I had ever expected anything of the sort.
As the crowd started to thin, I made my way over to the firefighters and introduced myself to a man who looked like he was in charge: ruddy, big, and strong enough to carry most people of normal weight down staircases and through smoke and collapsing masonry.
‘Chief Wilson,’ he said and shook my hand. ‘This is unpleasant for you.’
‘Horrible,’ I said. ‘Though it could be worse.’
‘That’s true. Things could always be worse.’
Some folk memory or superstition meant that no matter how bad the circumstances, people were always giving thanks that they weren’t worse. Which annoyed me, usually.
‘Are you sure it was deliberate?’ I asked.
‘Definite. We’ll examine her properly tomorrow. But the way the flames spread, it looks like someone sprinkled an accelerant over the seats and threw in a lighter.’
‘A cigarette lighter?’
‘No, something burning, a rag, paper, even a match would have done it.’
‘Any idea who did it?’
‘Could be vandals,’ Chief Wilson said. ‘Or somebody with a grudge against you. Or maybe just some head-the-ball who likes starting fires. We’ve had one repeat offender over the last while, haven’t caught him yet. Though this looks a bit different to his usual modus operandi. Could be a copycat, or could be him trying something new. That’s why we always check through the crowd. Have a look yourself. These guys like to watch their handiwork.’
I did, but recognised nobody.
‘How did you contact me so fast?’
‘One of the residents in the Gregg Road flats. When he rang to report the fire, he said you’re parked in the same spot nearly every day, so he knew your car number. Once they had the reg, the guards were able to track you, I don’t know how.’
‘Maybe they got my mobile number from the phone company?’
‘Dunno, to be honest, girl, you’ll have to ask them yourself. They’re over there.’
He moved his chin up and his head to the right. I walked across to where two young Gardaí in yellow high-vis jackets were standing, and identified myself.
‘Hard luck,’ the bigger one said. ‘It must be a terrible shock altogether.’
Her eyes shone in the flames like it was bonfire night, and someone had just produced a pound of sausages. Not long out of Templemore, I reckoned.
‘A shock all right.’
The Garda said I could call into any station to get my car insurance claim form stamped. I nodded, and turned again to look at the fire.
‘Thanks for contacting me so fast,’ I said.
‘It was no bother. Once I had your name via the car registration, it clicked with me. You’re a solicitor. Your name and number are on the custody sergeant’s list.’
‘Mystery solved. By the way, what did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t,’ the Garda said. ‘But it’s Ruth Joyce. From the Bridewell. It was me who rang you. I’ll be in touch about making a statement.’
Once the flames had died down, the fire truck pulled off and the guards left and the crowd drifted away. Eventually, I was left all on my own, beside the smouldering wreck that had once been my car. Was Gill responsible? Or someone else? But how? And why? Though the why was easily answered. Someone had intended to frighten me.
In that, they had succeeded, I thought later, as I locked my bedroom door and wedged a chair under the handle, and placed a carving knife under my pillow.
32
‘Jesus Christ! Why didn’t you call me last night?’ Davy asked.
‘Good question,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. Didn’t want to bother you, I suppose.’
The truth was that it hadn’t even crossed my mind to contact Davy, or my parents, or Sadie, or any of my other friends. I had retreated behind the walls of my tower and recovered as best I could. On my own. Like I always did.
Davy shook his head.
‘That’s bullshit, Finn,’ he said. ‘Promise me, next time, you’ll call.’
‘Next time my car is burnt out, I’ll definitely call,’ I said.
Davy’s face was like granite.
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. I know our relationship has got more complicated in the last while but …’
‘It’s not a relationship,’ I said.
‘Whatever it is.’
‘It’s not going to happen again.’
‘That’s what you said last time,’ he said.
‘It’s what you said too, if you recall.’
‘I recall.’
Davy had messaged me around 10 a.m. to ask if I wanted to go for a run. I had replied, saying that I was still in bed but awake and that he could call by for coffee if he wanted. We didn’t bother with coffee, as both of us had probably known we wouldn’t, and I didn’t bother telling him about my car until he was putting his jeans back on. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Anyway, I was due at my parents’ house for Sunday lunch and I needed to get going. By now they knew that I was on an unscheduled holiday from work and, as usual, my mother was worried. Her anxiety levels would go off the scale once she heard about my car.
‘Do you want me to drop you over to your parents’ house?’ Davy asked.
No, Davy, that’s the last thing I want.
But I’ve just had sex with you for the third time in a week.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You can drop me over. Thanks.’
My words came out in a whisper, and Davy said nothing but I think he knew how hard it had been for me to say yes. He took my hand as we walked out of the lane and on to Barrack Street. I let go first as we approached his car.
My parents lived halfway up Gardiner’s Hill, on the left side of the road. It was so close to the primary school that, when I was a pupil, I could be home for lunch almost before the bell stopped ringing. And it was near enough to
the corner shop for my mother to stand at her gate and watch little me walk there and return with a litre of milk or my dad’s Evening Echo.
‘You have to give the child a bit of freedom,’ my dad used to say, as I got older.
There was no talking to her. In time, I realised that she was different to other mothers, that her anxiety about me was bound up so closely with love that she was no longer able to tell the difference.
Dad was an electrician with the ESB, a well-paid secure job. With an only child and a small mortgage, my parents could afford to take the ferry from Ringaskiddy to Roscoff every summer for a fortnight in France, when many of my school friends would have thought themselves lucky to get a week in a caravan in Youghal.
But the job had risks. On stormy nights, when Dad was called out on repairs, Mam would bank up the fire with coal and she and I worried together. No matter how late it was, we would wait up, for the sound of the key turning in the door, and for her to help him out of his yellow oilskins and towel-dry his hair in front of the fire. I wondered about that, about how it was that these were my happiest childhood memories. Not Christmas or birthdays, but times when tragedy was imminent, and averted.
When I got to the front gate, Dad was in the garden, though it was November and there was little for him to do. He had a pair of secateurs and was snipping at a square-cut box hedge. Grey-haired and blue-eyed, he moved like a much younger man even though, like Mam, he was seventy-two. Living on Gardiner’s Hill kept them both physically fit.
‘I thought you’d be inside setting the table,’ I said.
‘No need. Sure you’re here now. How’s my girl today?’
‘I’m great, Dad. How about yourself?’
‘I’m as good as ever. Divil a fear o’ me. Though I can’t say the same for herself.’
‘The form is bad with her?’
‘Not too bad. Sure you know yourself. But who have we here?’
He was looking over my right shoulder. I turned around to find that Davy had followed me. Without being invited. This was going too far, I thought, but I didn’t want to cause a scene in front of my father.
‘Dad, this is Davy, a friend of mine. He’s just dropping me off, he can’t stay.’
‘Ah, I’m not in that much of a rush,’ Davy said.
I wanted to give him a kick.
‘That’s great altogether. Sure if you’re in no rush, come in and meet herself.’
Dad turned and walked towards the front door.
‘I’d love to,’ Davy said.
I made a face at him and went into the house. He followed me, laughing softly.
My mother was in the dining room at the back: west facing, it had double doors giving out on to the garden. The house was on the part of the hill that shelved higher than the houses below it, so the garden had a southerly aspect too. Sometimes I wondered why I’d moved to the other side of town when the mountainous northside had all the best views, and a lot more sun. A visit home always reminded me why. I loved my parents, but having the river between us was healthier.
Mam saw Davy, but said nothing until she had kissed me. Once that was out of the way, she started to scold me, but for show, rather than with any real intent.
‘Finn, you’re very bold, why didn’t you tell me you were bringing a visitor?’
‘Mam, this is my friend Davy,’ I said.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Fitz,’ Davy said.
I choked back a laugh. Mam wasn’t going to like being called ‘Mrs Fitz’.
‘My name is Doreen.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Doreen,’ Davy said. ‘I just dropped Finn over, don’t worry, I won’t be staying long, I don’t want to intrude.’
She smiled.
‘Intrude my eye. Nobody ever intruded in this house.’
Which wasn’t quite true.
‘You’re staying for your lunch and that’s that,’ Mam said. ‘Tell him, Jim.’
‘I wouldn’t argue with her, if I were you,’ Dad said. ‘Many a man has tried and failed. I gave up years ago myself. ’Twasn’t worth it.’
‘Would you listen to what I’ve to put up with, Davy? Sit down there and Jim will get you a drink.’
‘No thanks, Doreen, I’m driving and, em, I don’t drink anyway. But I’d love lunch.’
I could see my mother weighing up what Davy had said. On the one hand, being a careful driver was a positive. On the other hand, being a teetotaller raised questions. If you want to find the alcoholic in the pub, the old joke went, look for the man drinking soda water. Her mouth tightened by a few millimetres, and she double-blinked. She was thinking about it. But when it came down to it, women liked Davy, and Mam was a woman with an eye for a good-looking man.
‘That’s settled so,’ she said.
She smoothed her thick, grey, curly hair, the only part of her she had never been able to control, and nodded. She had decided to approve of this development. For the present.
Davy had that easy way about him and, with him as my wingman, the laser was off me. I batted away questions about my job easily enough, and slipped in the burnt car as something that was conceivably accidental or, at worst, the work of a serial arsonist. Having Davy there also meant that I could defer telling my parents about Deirdre. And I could defer asking them the question that had been gnawing at me since I’d found out about her: had they known that I had a sister? I had been in the care of the Health Board. It was inconceivable that the social worker responsible for me didn’t know that my birth mother had had another baby. But had she told my parents – my foster parents, as they then were? And, if she had, why had they never told me? I didn’t want to think about what the answer to that question might be.
Like I didn’t want to think about what I was going to do with the information the DNA test would throw up on whether Deirdre and I shared a father.
The same way I didn’t want to think about what had been happening between Davy and me, and how feeble my ‘we’re not in a relationship’ protests had started to sound.
I didn’t have the headspace to think about any of that. And I didn’t have the time.
At around four, Davy drove me into Coughlan’s Quay Garda Station. Mainly I wanted to meet Sadie, if I could, but it was also a good opportunity to get my car insurance claim form signed and stamped by the duty Garda.
I didn’t say much to Davy on the trip in, but I had a lot on my mind. For all my bravado, the arson attack had left me seriously rattled. And, along with the fears for my own safety, I had money worries. Between the cost of the DNA tests, and getting a new car, and my various trips to Dublin, I was going to be flat broke unless I managed to persuade Gabriel and the rest of the partners that I was safe to let back to work. And tonight was the Film Festival closing ceremony, the first time in years that I wouldn’t be there. Knowing I wouldn’t be welcome made me sad. But I felt worse about the loss of my friendship with Alice. I hadn’t heard a word from her since our fraught encounter after the Jeremy Gill workshop. I would send her an email, try to mend fences.
Grumbling along underneath everything was the guilt I felt about Rhona’s death. No matter how often I told myself that Gill was the perpetrator, that he carried all the blame, I was certain that, if it hadn’t been for my investigation, Rhona would still be alive.
‘I’ll wait for you,’ Davy said.
‘Thanks but best not,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be. I might have to wait a while for Sadie. I know she’s on duty but she might be busy.’
And she still knew nothing about my non-relationship with Davy. I was waiting for the right time to tell her, if there would ever be a right time to tell my best friend that I’d been having a thing with an ex-cokehead with a criminal record.
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, go on. And, you know, we have to try and get things back to normal between us.’
Davy replied with a kiss that reminded me why that wasn’t going to be easy.
33
‘It must have been
a fairly bad one,’ the young Garda said, after he’d stamped my form.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re smiling a lot for someone whose car has been burnt out is all.’
‘You know, so much has happened over the last week or so, this is actually way down the list,’ I replied, realising it was true as I said it.
It was time to let last night go. The car-burning was either targeted at me, or it wasn’t. But it was done. Dwelling on it would get me nowhere.
‘Is there any chance Sadie O’Riordan’s in the building?’
‘She was in earlier, all right. Have a seat there and I’ll check for you.’
I sat and worked through my plans for Monday and Tuesday. There was the car insurance stuff. Get that out of the way. Check with Tina what progress she’d made on Deirdre Carney’s medical records. And, top priority, ring Setanta Labs to make sure they had got the DNA exhibits and to see if they could expedite the results. Then, track down Lorcan Lucey, who had been on the youth film jury with Deirdre, though any evidence he might give seemed less important now, after Rhona’s and Christopher Dalton’s revelations. Start putting together a brief for counsel, in anticipation of positive results from the DNA tests and medical records. Which was counting my chickens, I knew, but I needed to start the process. Find time to update the Carneys. That was low priority. Better to work towards something tangible first. Finally, arrange to talk to Gabriel about coming back to work, if possible. At least Christopher Dalton’s statement to the Gardaí meant that the partners would see that I wasn’t a complete crank and that I’d had just cause for my actions.
But I had been acting on my own, without authority, far outside my job description so, arguably, I was guilty of gross misconduct. Which was a firing offence. I thought – hoped – that Gabriel McGrath would swing back to my side, would be able to see why I’d acted as I did. He was fundamentally decent, with a strong moral code. But that snake Dermot Lyons would leap at the chance to be rid of me. If he got a few of the other partners onside, I’d be in real trouble.
I checked my phone. There was a missed call from a number I didn’t recognise, and a voicemail. I rang 171. It was a message from Marie Wade – I had nearly forgotten about her – asking me to give her a ring. Maybe she had remembered something about Daniel O’Brien, the ex-education officer? I’d call her later, but it wasn’t important any more. My focus was Gill, and Gill only.
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