The Scholar

by Dervla McTiernan

  ‘Living room’s unremarkable,’ Fisher said. ‘The second bedroom’s been used as a study. Empty.’

  Cormac went to the living area next. It was one decent-sized open-space area, segmented by a breakfast bar into kitchen and living area. There was a small glass circular dining table with four chairs, a dark blue velvet couch and two striped armchairs. More books on the coffee table. Two large windows – one was really a door leading to a Juliet balcony – overlooked the river, which boiled darkly below, white tipped waves frothing. It was slightly surreal, looking over that rushing water and hearing nothing. The room was eerily quiet. Triple glazing.

  ‘It doesn’t feel like she was working out of here,’ Cormac said.

  ‘You’re thinking she might have been a prostitute?’ Fisher asked.

  Cormac grimaced, shook his head.

  Fisher nodded. ‘I thought she might be on the game, when you said she was living here. I mean, because of the expense. But you’re right, it doesn’t have that sort of feel.’

  Cormac opened the fridge. A pint of milk, open. Jars of this and that, orange juice, a few sausages in an opened pack, their skin pink and drying. ‘She could have been working out of another place.’ He closed the fridge and walked out of the room again, past Fisher and into the second bedroom. No bed this time, just a packed bookshelf, and one large desk installed against the wall, not looking out over the water as it might have been. There was a large, expensive-looking computer screen on the desk, and a keyboard. No hard drive, but there were unplugged cables on the desk.

  ‘She must have used a laptop,’ Fisher said, from behind him. ‘Plugged it in when working from home, taken it with her when she left.’

  Cormac was looking at the books. Novels, some of them, but mostly textbooks. Textbooks with obscure titles. According to her brother, Della Lambert had dropped out of college by the end of her first semester. He would have to check with Emma, but he felt sure that most of these books would be beyond first year undergraduate chemistry. He took Structure and Mechanism in Protein Science from the shelf. The spine was well cracked, and it fell open at a page titled Transition States in Protein Folding. There were handwritten notes in the margin, in a scrawl he couldn’t quite make out. He put the book back. They had no warrant to search the place.

  ‘It’s very clean, isn’t it?’ Fisher said. ‘The whole place I mean, not just this room. Almost as if she was preparing for visitors.’

  Cormac shrugged. He looked over the desk. There was a small stack of expensive looking notebooks, still wrapped in cellophane, the brand name Clairefontaine embossed on the front of each one. Nothing else. No unwrapped notebooks, no scrap paper, no print outs. He turned to the wardrobe, flicked through the rack of clothes. High street brand names, some of them still with tags attached. No Stella McCartney here.

  ‘Okaaaay,’ Fisher said.

  Cormac turned. Fisher had opened a desk drawer and was staring down at the content. Cormac crossed to him and found himself looking down at neat stacks of fifty-euro notes, still bound in a bank’s sticky white labels.

  ‘She didn’t earn that as a prostitute,’ Fisher said. He reached out to one of the bundles.

  ‘Gloves,’ Cormac said sharply.

  Fisher pulled his hand back, flushed.

  ‘Get her dental records in straight away, all right? Call her mother and don’t take no for an answer. If Della Lambert is our victim I want ID confirmed before the end of the day and a team back here with a search warrant.’ Cormac thought about Paul Lambert, waiting for news in that oppressive house in Athenry, and his stomach sank. Whatever Della Lambert had been up to it wasn’t waitressing, and it was looking very much like it might have gotten her killed.

  Tuesday 29 April 2014

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Valentina was awake when the knock came at six o’clock in the morning. She ran in the mornings, a nice six-kilometre round trip that took her down the Dock Road and over the bridge, out through the Claddagh and along the sea front. But six was early for her, and she was lying in bed, debating whether to make an early start or turn over for another hour’s sleep, when she heard someone at the door. Valentina sat up in bed and looked around for clothes. She pulled on the previous day’s T-shirt and jeans over the singlet and shorts she wore to bed, feeling a sense of dread and not entirely understanding why. Except that ever since that sexy policeman came to the door, Carline had been jittery, maintaining a brittle good humour that was unnerving.

  She opened the door to a stranger. An old man, in his late seventies maybe, very thin, with his hair cut short and wearing a dark suit with a white shirt open at the neck. He looked through her in a way that made her uncomfortable.

  ‘Yes?’ Valentina said. She wanted to pull the door across her body but he’d already taken a half-step forward, almost into the room.

  He didn’t answer, just waited with a bored expression, as if he was dealing with a particularly slow waitress. It took her another moment to twig. She had seen him before, if only in photographs. Carline’s grandfather. John Darcy, the Grand Poobah himself. He read the dawning recognition in her face, stepped forward into the room without waiting for an invitation, took the door from her, and closed it behind him.

  ‘Get her for me, would you?’ John Darcy said.

  Valentina wanted to refuse. Wanted to take the last moment back and pretend she didn’t recognise him, demand of him the mean politeness of a basic introduction, but instead she found herself walking – trotting damnit – over to Carline’s room and knocking on the door.

  When Carline didn’t immediately respond, she opened the door to a dark room, a room with a faint scent of illness about it, the hint of stale sweat.

  ‘Carline.’ She whispered the name. Stupid. Valentina reached for the light switch and turned it on. The light was too bright, she had to blink against it.

  ‘Carline,’ Valentina said again, louder this time, and took a few steps towards the bed. The other girl lay tangled and hot in her bedclothes. She woke slowly, turned a tired, puffy face in Valentina’s direction.

  ‘Vee?’

  Carline was disoriented, still half-asleep. As she came to full wakefulness what stole into her expression was not understanding, or wakefulness, but fear.

  ‘Carline, what’s going on?’ Valentina asked impulsively. She didn’t get an answer. Carline’s eyes went to something behind her and Valentina turned to see that John Darcy had followed her into the bedroom.

  ‘Thank you. Carline and I will speak in here.’

  Darcy stood, taking in his granddaughter’s bedroom in an unimpressed manner, before allowing his gaze to fall dispassionately on Carline. She sat up and straightened her blankets so they covered more of her body. Her expression, as she came fully awake, was one of mortification. One bare foot still protruded from under her blankets, and she drew it back, curling in on herself protectively.

  ‘John,’ she said, her voice rough with sleep. ‘I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Evidently.’ John Darcy turned to Valentina with an expression that told her she was intruding in a private conversation.

  Jesus, what a wanker. Valentina rolled her eyes at Carline but was met with such a look of terror that she retreated from the bedroom at once, closing the door quietly behind her. She hesitated, heard a low murmur of voices. Maybe she should make an excuse to go back in. Darcy was a shit. Carline was so clever. Why couldn’t she see how manipulative he was? She came back reeling from every conversation she’d ever had with him. He’d never once paid her a compliment without undermining her with his next breath. But talking to Carline about her grandfather had always been a waste of time. Valentina disappeared into her bedroom, feeling disloyal, and shrugging her shoulders against the creeping discomfort that followed her.

  As soon as Valentina had left the room, John Darcy took a seat in the chair that faced Carline’s desk and started to leaf absently through the loose papers that were there. He laid a hand on her closed lapt
op, drummed his fingers lightly.

  ‘You’re unwell?’ he said.

  ‘I … a little. My stomach.’

  A slow nod. ‘It is important to take care of your health. You’ve worked hard this year. If you feel a break is needed, certainly, you should take it.’

  The words were conciliatory, supportive even, but John Darcy was looking at her with blue eyes as cold at the Atlantic on a winter’s day, and just as comforting.

  ‘I’ll be better soon.’ Her eyes strayed to her computer, where his hand still rested. ‘I’ll get up, get some work done.’

  John nodded again. The worst of it was that he reminded her so strongly of her father. She wondered, not for the first time, if that was something she had constructed in her head. Her father had died when he was thirty-five. John Darcy was seventy-two. What similarity could there really be between them? And yet she felt it, that pull towards him, so strongly.

  ‘James has been telling me about your thesis proposal. I’m impressed Carline. Very impressed.’

  Carline felt a rush of heat to her cheeks, a mix of happiness and dread.

  ‘I … thank you,’ she said.

  ‘When do you expect to complete the paper?’

  Still sitting on her bed, Carline drew her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. It felt like a childish pose, but she held it. ‘It’s not ready. It has potential, but it’s not there yet.’

  ‘It’s important, I think, that nothing distracts you from completing the work. You feel confident that you will finish? Notwithstanding recent … events?’

  She nodded slowly. What did he know? Nothing surely, he couldn’t know anything or he wouldn’t be sitting calmly in her room, talking to her as if she still had some value, as if she was worthy of his attention.

  ‘We spoke about your exams the other day. James tells me that you have sufficient credits to graduate without them. If your work on your doctoral thesis requires all of your attention, I have no objection if you choose not to sit the exams.’

  Carline felt a flare of hope, which she quickly quenched. What did this mean? She wasn’t naive enough to believe that there was love behind her grandfather’s sudden gesture of support. She knew he didn’t care about her, at least not yet, and she didn’t resent that. Because John Darcy wasn’t like other people. He was better. He didn’t bestow love like beads at Mardi Gras, handed out lightly to a pretty smile and just as quickly forgotten. No, his love had to be earned, through a slow accumulation of achievement. And she’d never been afraid of hard work.

  Carline hadn’t always understood her grandfather. She’d felt his rejection hard as a child. When she turned eighteen and inherited her father’s shares in the Darcy companies, and her grandfather had chosen to exercise his option to buy them back, that had been a blow. The lawyer her mother hired had hastened to assure her that the purchase price was market rate, more than fair, and that if she spent responsibly – this with a judicious look at Evangeline – she would never have to worry about money again. He’d expected her to be happy, but money wasn’t enough. How could it be? Money didn’t keep you safe, she’d known that since she was a little girl. Without position, status, power, protection, what was she but just another pretty girl, floating around Cannes or Marbella?

  When she finished school and her grandfather wrote to her, advising her not to attend Trinity College as she’d planned, but suggesting Galway as an alternative, she’d finally understood. He promised to arrange a research position for her in the Darcy laboratory on campus, and Carline realised that he was offering her a test. If she could perform well enough, really impress him, then he would take her in and raise her up, and she would be a true Darcy. Untouchable.

  With a prize like that she’d had no choice, no choice at all, but to take drastic action.

  ‘It can’t have been easy for you this week. The death of a young woman your age. The confusion over her identity. To have the police show up at your door like that must have been very unsettling.’ His words were kind but the look in his eyes was dispassionate. He was so hard to read.

  ‘Do you need help? Why don’t you send me your current draft? I’d be happy to give you some notes.’

  ‘I … I would rather wait until it is more advanced. I think it would be better if you saw my best work.’

  Carline felt pinned under his gaze.

  ‘It’s not a weakness to ask for help when you need it, Carline,’ he said.

  Before she could speak, the door opened behind him and Valentina came in. She was wearing a very small pair of lime green running shorts and a sports bra. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face. She was angry. Carline could see it in the curve of her back, the cock of her hip, the challenge in her eye as she looked straight at John Darcy but spoke to Carline.

  ‘I’m going for a run, Carline. Do you want to come? I’m sure your grandfather won’t mind, seeing as he didn’t tell you he was coming.’

  John Darcy took his time standing up, as if to make it clear to Valentina that her presence and her words had no influence on him. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said, and he turned a stiff shoulder to her and left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Eileen Lambert wasn’t able to give them contact details for Della’s dentist. She claimed the girl had never seen one. Instead the team managed to track him down the old-fashioned way – they broke down the list of dentists in the Galway metropolitan area and kept phoning until they found the right guy. Della had gone to him for a filling six months before, and had been up-sold a comprehensive, and according to the dentist, overdue treatment plan. As a result, the dentist had a complete set of X-rays and identification could be confirmed. The dead girl was Della Lambert.

  ‘Why do you think Eileen Lambert lied?’ Fisher asked, when he delivered the news to Cormac. ‘Do you think she’s expecting this and she just doesn’t want it confirmed?’ Fisher was bright-eyed, despite the gravity of the news he carried. He was buzzing with the excitement of a good catch.

  Cormac shook his head. ‘Might not have been a lie, this time. I don’t think Della kept her mother informed about her day to day movements.’

  Fisher nodded, hesitated. ‘I’d like to come with you, help with the notification,’ he said.

  They drove out in silence, neither of them speaking until they reached the bridge on the outskirts of Athenry. It was a bright and sunny day. As they drove up Court Lane they passed a group of school kids eating ice-cream cones. Cormac looked them over carefully, realised he was checking to see if Paul Lambert was among them, and looked away. Paul Lambert was not the type to be walking along on a Wednesday morning, eating ice-cream and flirting with girls.

  ‘They should be in school,’ Fisher said, nodding in the direction of the small group.

  Cormac shrugged and Fisher kept driving. They turned off Court Lane and onto the Caheroyan Road.

  ‘Make sure you watch the family,’ Cormac said. ‘Get the best read you can. Watch for any reaction that feels off. It’s better not to try to analyse it in the moment, just catalogue it and consider it afterwards. Have you done many of these?’

  ‘A few,’ Fisher said.

  ‘Any murders?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ever tell a mother her child is dead?’

  Fisher’s face was stiff. ‘Once. A three-year-old wandered off, fell into a slurry pit.’

  Cormac nodded, looked out of the window. ‘You’ll have something to compare to then,’ he said.

  They pulled into the driveway of the house. The curtains in the front room were drawn. Something about the Lambert house was unfriendly. It wasn’t the neglected, scrubby plants in the garden bed, or the too-long grass of the front lawn. It wasn’t the absence of a kid’s bike discarded on the drive, or that all the windows were closed on one of the warmest days of the year so far. It was a combination of all of these things perhaps, and something else. An atmosphere.

  Cormac rang the doorbell, and a minute or so later it was opened by Geraldine
, balanced on a box placed, it seemed, for that purpose inside the front door.

  ‘My mama’s busy,’ she said, almond eyes staring unblinking at Cormac. Before he could answer, the kitchen door opened at the other end of the hall, and Eileen appeared, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She took in Fisher’s uniform, turned to Cormac.

  ‘Well?’ she said. She put one hand on a thin hip, gestured with the other to Geraldine, telling her to get inside. The little girl disappeared back into the kitchen.

  ‘Eileen,’ Cormac said. ‘There’s something we need to talk about. Can we come in?’

  She made an impatient gesture. ‘I’ve children to feed, and a husband who’ll be in the door for lunch any minute.’

  ‘It’s about Della.’ Cormac held her gaze. Did she know what he was about to tell her? He thought perhaps she did. She hesitated for one moment longer, then turned back to the kitchen, leaving them to follow.

  The kitchen was a little too warm. A radiator pumped out unnecessary heat in the corner, and onions sizzled on a frying pan that had been left on the hob. Three raw beef burgers sat on a cutting board on the counter top, ready to fry. Eileen Lambert switched off the heat under the frying pan, and turned to them.

  ‘Well?’ she said again.

  ‘Is your husband here, Eileen? It might be better to speak to you both together.’

  She shook her head impatiently. ‘Just tell me, for God’s sake.’

  Geraldine was sitting at the kitchen table. It was already set for lunch, but the little girl had created a small space for herself, and she was slowly and meticulously colouring in a picture of Elsa and Anna, from the Disney movie. Cormac thought about suggesting that Fisher take Geraldine out of the room, opened his mouth, but Eileen cut across him.