The Blissfully Dead

by Louise Voss

  ‘Come and sit down, Roisin. I just need your help, that’s all.’

  ‘It was ages ago.’

  Her mother’s eyes opened wide. ‘What was ages ago, Roisin Marie McGreevy?’

  ‘Mam! You know. That business with that man. The money.’ Roisin was actually wringing her hands.

  ‘Ach, that business. I might have known.’

  ‘Well, what else would it be?’ Roisin turned to Carmella. ‘Amn’t I right? Is that what it’s about?’

  Carmella smiled gravely at her. ‘It depends what man you mean.’

  ‘Mervyn Hammond . . . We weren’t supposed to tell anyone about the money.’

  Carmella nodded, although this was the first she’d heard about any money. So the sleazy bastard had actually paid Roisin’s family off, to keep quiet?

  ‘How much money did he pay you, Roisin? It’s OK to tell me. He’s the one that gave us your address, so he knows I’m talking to you.’

  ‘Ten grand, he gave her,’ said Mrs McGreevy contemptuously. ‘Damages, he called it. Not nearly enough, in my book. You should’ve seen the bruise on her cheek! Still, it’ll pay for her university.’ She banged down a cup in front of Carmella, grains of undissolved coffee swirling in a greyish liquid on top.

  A guilty look passed across Roisin’s peachy face, unnoticed by her mother. Ahah, thought Carmella. Mrs McGreevy clearly doesn’t have all the facts.

  ‘I’ve to be in work in half an hour; my shift starts at noon,’ Roisin said.

  Carmella took a sip of the coffee and tried not to grimace. It would be better for her bladder for her not to drink it anyhow. ‘Mrs McGreevy, would you mind ringing Supermac’s for Roisin, to tell her boss that she’ll be a bit late?’

  ‘I’ll get fired!’ wailed the girl.

  ‘Tell them that you’re being interviewed as a police witness but you can’t say why – I’ll call them too if they give you any grief, OK? Please go ahead, Mrs McGreevy.’

  As soon as Mrs McGreevy had left the room, Carmella pulled out the chair next to her, gesturing to Roisin to sit. ‘Quick, now, if you want to tell me while your mum’s out of the room. You’ve not told her the whole story, have you?’

  Roisin bit her lip, her shoulders slumped. She was an exceptionally pretty girl, with pink, clear cheeks, a pointy little chin and bright blue eyes. ‘Has he done it to someone else?’

  She started picking at the skin around her fingernails, ripping shreds off them, worrying at them until she pulled a strip too far on her thumb and a bead of blood sprang to the surface. She stuck it into her mouth, then turned it sideways so that she didn’t look like a toddler sucking its thumb. Poor kid, thought Carmella.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say what it’s about. I know this won’t be easy for you, dragging it all up when I’m sure you don’t ever want to think about it again. Can you talk me through what happened? But before your mum gets back, tell me – was it just the bruise on your face that made Hammond give you that money? I’m guessing it wasn’t.’

  Roisin shot a panicked look towards the hall, where her mother was on the phone – they even had an old-fashioned telephone with a curly cable, on a little wooden table by the front door. ‘Please don’t tell her. It would kill her if she knew what he really did to me,’ she whispered. ‘They wanted to make sure I never told the papers.’

  ‘What was it, Roisin? What did Shawn Barrett do to you?’

  But at that moment they both heard the click of the receiver being replaced and Mrs McGreevy came back in. ‘It’s grand. Nicola will see you when she sees you, she says. I told her you’d been a witness to a road accident and the police were talking to you.’

  ‘Oh, Mam! What if she asks me about it?’

  Carmella glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something, Roisin. In the meantime, could you talk me through how you first met Shawn? Do you mind if I record this, just so I can write notes later?’

  Roisin nodded. Her mother bustled around the already-clean kitchen, wiping down clean surfaces with a clean sponge, listening but pretending not to.

  ‘I went to an OnTarget concert, their first big tour. It was the first time they’d played in Dublin. I’d never been to the O2 arena—’

  ‘That’s the place that used to be the Point, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Think it’s changed again now, to the 3Arena. Anyway, I’d never been there. Me and my mate Scarlett went together, queued for hours to get near the front, we did. Couldn’t believe it when Shawn got me up out of the crowd.’

  There was just a hint of pride in her voice, even after everything that happened that night.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was during “Catch Me Falling”, in the first encore. He just pointed at me and beckoned, and before I knew it these two massive bouncers dragged me up on the stage. Everyone was screaming and cheering. I sang a whole verse with him into his microphone! He kissed me . . .’

  Her voice faltered.

  ‘Then what? How did you end up at his hotel?’

  ‘When I was up there, he put this little bit of paper in my hand without anyone noticing. It said “CALL ME AFTER THE SHOW”, with a number on it.’ She was starting to look slightly sick.

  ‘And you did?’ Carmella prompted.

  Roisin looked at her mother’s set shoulders in her flowery housecoat. ‘I know it was wrong. I know it was asking for trouble, but I honestly thought it would be OK. I mean, he’s so famous, surely he wouldn’t risk doing anything mental . . .’

  ‘What about your friend – Scarlett? Did she come with you when you went to meet him?’

  Roisin shook her head. ‘Her older sister was there, at the concert. We were meant to be going home with her after, but I told them that I’d bumped into my auntie and my cousins who live round the corner, and they’d take me. Shawn said on the phone not to worry about getting home, he’d get a car for me, but I wasn’t to tell anyone and I was to come on my own.’

  ‘Did anyone ask how old you were?’

  Roisin looked sheepish. ‘Yes. One of his bodyguards. But I . . . I—’

  Her mother interrupted, a harsh edge to her voice. ‘She had a fake ID saying she was eighteen. And she looked different then. You wouldn’t believe the phase she was going through. Right little skank she looked – bleached hair, ridiculous heels and enough make-up it’s a miracle she could even open her eyes. If her da and me had seen her before she went out dressed like that, we’d never have let her go. Never!’

  ‘I’ve not worn a scrap of make-up since that night,’ Roisin said quietly. ‘Or heels, or short skirts.’

  Poor girl, thought Carmella. The sort of rite of passage that no girl ever deserved.

  ‘So that’s one good thing that came out of the whole sorry business,’ said Mrs McGreevy sanctimoniously, polishing the already-gleaming kettle. Carmella suddenly felt desperate to get Roisin on her own. She clearly wasn’t going to say what really happened, not with her mum there being all judgemental.

  Roisin looked up, anguished. ‘If he has done it again, will I have to go to court? They’ll kill me – if my name gets out, they will actually kill me, I’m not joking.’

  Her mother’s hand stilled on the disinfectant spray.

  ‘Who will, Roisin?’ asked Carmella gently, wondering who she meant. Hammond? The band? Shawn’s family?

  ‘OnT fans!’ Roisin wailed. ‘They’d hunt me down and kill me, I know they would! Some girl got glassed in the face by four fans just for getting her picture with Shawn – can you imagine what they’d do to me if I helped get him sent to jail?’

  She was weeping now, so Carmella got up and fetched her the box of tissues – housed in some sort of hideous pastel knitted cosy thing – on the windowsill. Interestingly, Roisin’s mum made no move to comfort her daughter.

  ‘Listen,’ Carmella said kindly, putting her hand on the girl�
�s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about that now. It’s very unlikely, and if the worst happened and you did, your name would absolutely be kept out of the press, you have my word on that. Now, how about I walk you to work? If we go now, you won’t even be very late, and we can talk on the way.’

  Without your mother listening, she thought. Then I can find out what really happened.

  Chapter 25

  Day 8 – Patrick

  Patrick hauled himself out of his bronze Prius and made his way through the station car park, passing Winkler’s white Audi and noticing the gleam of the paintwork, the alloy hubcaps, the licence plate bragging that this car was brand new. Winkler had been banging on about his new motor for weeks, and Patrick couldn’t help feeling a clench of envy, especially when he peered through the window and saw how immaculate it was. No crumbled Wotsits on the carpets; no half-chewed Haribo stuck to the seats; no discarded toys in the footwell. Bonnie had systematically wrecked the interior of Patrick’s car and he needed to take it to one of those valet places, where silent Eastern European men would render it spick and span – until Bonnie got in it again. Still, it was all worth it, wasn’t it? He’d rather have crisp crumbs mashed into his upholstery than live Winkler’s shallow existence. Rather get a big goodnight hug from his daughter before settling in front of the TV for an evening of – albeit currently awkward – conversation with Gill, than live Winkler’s life: pumping iron at the gym, then heading to bed with his latest desperate woman.

  He sighed. He hadn’t been to the gym in months, and when he tried to do press-ups at home Bonnie would invariably leap screeching onto his back. And going to bed with desperate women . . . well, there was ‘exciting’ desperate and there was the other kind. By the time Patrick reached the building, his mood had dropped from grumpy to foul.

  Winkler was hanging about in the corridor, chatting up the custody sergeant, the two of them falling silent when Patrick walked past scowling, a fresh burst of laughter following him down the hall. He was in a good mind to go back there, ask them what was so fucking funny. But he was distracted by the beep of his phone. Carmella? He was eager for news from Ireland. But no, it was Gill, asking what he wanted for dinner, even though he’d only left her company an hour ago. He very much doubted he’d be home before midnight – she knew that – and he felt irritated, then felt bad for being irritated. He knew she was nervous today because she had a meeting with her chambers about going back to her previous job in a month or so. He badly wanted Gill to resume her work as a barrister, even though it would cause more nightmares with childcare, because he believed that if she returned to work, she would begin to regain her old self, and the nervy, anxious woman he lived with would become his strong and capable wife again. He knew it wouldn’t be that simple, but surely it would be a start? Something had to give. Because at the moment he was happier at work, dealing with Winkler and dead teenagers, than he was at home.

  He replied to Gill as he sat at his desk, saying he’d grab a takeaway later, not to worry, and wishing her good luck with the meeting. He ended the text with a single kiss (there were four kisses on Gill’s message) and then sent a text to Carmella, asking her how it was going. He hated waiting around like this.

  He also felt antsy because at the moment they only had this one line of inquiry, if you didn’t count Winkler’s strand of the operation – which he didn’t. He knew from bitter experience how dangerous it was to focus on one suspect, to have tunnel vision in a case. In 90 per cent of investigations, the obvious solution was the right one. The prime suspect did it, the odds worked out. Human behaviour was depressingly but reassuringly predictable. But sometimes, as in the Child Catcher case, it was like trying to fathom a magic trick: misdirection, sleight of hand. Smoke and mirrors. Right now, all the evidence seemed to be pointing towards one person, but Patrick lived in fear of Plan A going tits up when you had no Plan B in place.

  He opened his Moleskine notepad, plugged his headphones into his computer and opened Spotify. This morning, even The Cure couldn’t lighten his mood. He needed something that would block out the chatter and ambient noise around him while not distracting him too much. Aural wallpaper. He clicked on an Elbow playlist and got to work.

  At the top of the first page, he wrote ‘ROSE’, adding ‘JESSICA’ in the corresponding spot on the facing page. In a space in the middle he listed the similarities between the two murders.

  OnTarget fans.

  Users of social media/fan forums.

  Caucasian, teenage (14/15 yo), lower m/c, state schools, average height/weight.

  M.O. of perp: strangulation, no sexual penetration, torture – cuts, sprayed with perfume, clothes and possessions removed.

  On Jessica’s side, he wrote some extra details: her injuries were worse, displaying an escalation in violence. The cuts were deeper and, according to Daniel Hamlet, had been inflicted with more force. Jess had bruises on her face; some of her hair had been yanked out. Why was this? Had she fought, made him angry? Was it the kind of escalation sometimes seen in serial murders, where the killer got more extreme as he went along, more confident and frenzied, needing the greater violence to feel satisfied? Or had he hated Jessica more than he hated Rose?

  Patrick pondered this last question. How had the killer chosen these two victims? Were the girls interchangeable or had they been targeted specifically?

  He wrote this down too, with a thick question mark that made him itch with frustration. From what Wendy and Martin had found out so far, there was no sign of them interacting online except in the most superficial way. They had both tweeted and written about the same subjects, namely how much they loved Shawn, how amazing the last OnT video was, how much they despised a Daily Mail journalist who had interviewed the band and described them as ‘vacuous puppies without the guts or gumption to say a single interesting thing’. The only thing that set them apart from a hundred thousand other OnT fans was the level of their online activity. They were – what did Wendy call them? – super users.

  What were the other differences and similarities? Rose was found in a hotel; Jessica in a photo studio. They knew the studio had once been used by OnTarget, but there appeared to be no connection between the Travel Inn and the band. They had never stayed there, not in this or any other branch. No-one at the hotel had any connection to the band. So why had the killer chosen the photo studio, with its direct connection, and the hotel, which had none? The use of the perfume suggested deliberate symbolism. It seemed he wanted it to be known that their fandom had made them targets. Or was it, as Carmella had pointed out, just that both girls had been carrying the fragrance with them? Their mothers had confirmed that they both owned a bottle of Friendship. Maybe that was all it was.

  Maybe, Patrick thought with a start, the fact that they were both OnTarget fans was a red herring. Could that be possible? After all, a large percentage of teenage girls in this country liked OnT.

  He spotted Wendy at the other end of the office and called her over.

  ‘All right?’ she said. She seemed a little wary, like an office worker who’s been summoned by their boss, but, more than that, she looked tired. Knowing her exhaustion was caused by the long hours she’d been putting in, Patrick felt more pleasure than sympathy, sure that Wendy was going to make an excellent officer when she got some more experience under her belt. With her youthful looks and Black Country accent, Wendy struggled to be taken seriously. Patrick, with his tattoos, could empathise with that.

  ‘Wendy,’ he said. ‘I need to know if there’s any connection between the Travel Inn and OnTarget.’ He summarised what they knew so far. ‘Any ideas?’

  She pondered a moment and then asked, ‘What room was Rose found in?’

  ‘Three-six-five.’

  She snapped her fingers in triumph. ‘Thought it might be.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘“Room 365” is the title of an OnTarget song. It’s on the first album. It’s
about wanting to lock yourself away with a girl 365 days of the year.’ She sang a snatch of the song, her voice sweet and tuneful. ‘And my baby comes alive/In room three-sixty-five, three-sixty-five.’

  Patrick stared at her. ‘Why didn’t anyone else know that?’

  Wendy gave him a little shrug. ‘You obviously didn’t ask the right person.’

  He grinned at her and she appeared delighted to have been so helpful.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ With the new focus on Shawn Barrett, Patrick had lost track of what Wendy was up to. ‘I assume you haven’t found any direct connections between Rose and Jessica online yet? Nothing on the forums? Or on their computers?’

  ‘Nothing direct.’ Her eyelashes fluttered nervously. ‘But I am making good progress. I’m getting to know the girls who use the OnT forum, the other super users, gaining their trust. I’m pretty much ready to start a conversation about Rose and Jess now. I just need a couple more days.’

  Patrick tapped his fingers on the desk. Was this a waste of time? Maybe it would be better to pull her off this task. Winkler kept going on about how he needed someone to help him with, as he put it, the donkey work. He would hate to bestow that fate upon her, but . . .

  ‘Please, Patrick.’

  He looked up sharply.

  ‘Sorry, I meant, sir.’

  ‘It’s OK. You can call me Patrick when it’s just the two of us around. Or “boss”, if you prefer.’

  She turned pink and met his eye and he realised his words had come out wrong.

  Embarrassed, he said, ‘OK, it’s fine. If you’re sure you’re getting close. But if it seems like these young women don’t know anything useful, I want you working on something else.’

  ‘Of course. Thanks, er, Patrick.’

  ‘Any decision I make is for the sake of the case, so you don’t need to thank me.’

  She deepened from pink to red, as bad as Gareth Batey, who was renowned for his blushes. Patrick sighed, wishing he could shake this prickly, irritated mood.