Fearghal gave the smallest of involuntary nods.
‘Does your dad hit you, Fearghal?’ The question so matter of fact it felt like conversation.
Fearghal shook his head.
‘Yeah,’ Cormac said. He paused, put his head to one side. ‘But it’s weird, isn’t it? I hated being at home but I couldn’t have explained why. My dad just … scared us, I suppose. He had a heart attack when I was about the same age you are now, and he died in hospital the next day. It was an awful shock. My mother cried at the funeral. But honestly, we were so much happier after that. Everything was easier. And afterwards, if you’d asked me why we were so unhappy when my dad was alive, I really wouldn’t have known how to explain it.’
Lucy Henderson was very pale. She was so thin. Her skin stretched over her cheekbones, her lips were so dry they had cracked.
‘It was the small things,’ she said. ‘He made you feel like you couldn’t do anything right.’
Cormac nodded, very slowly, holding her gaze. He waited.
‘Rob had so many rules. He wasn’t like that when we married first, he really wasn’t. But after, there were so many rules.’
‘Did he hurt you, Lucy?’ Cormac asked.
‘He never hit me. Never hit the kids. But … he made it very hard.’
‘He did hit you, Mum,’ Fearghal said quietly. ‘At Christmas. He hit you because you made the brussels sprouts wrong. He said you got the wrong variety. He said he’d wanted local. He hit you so hard he broke your glasses.’
Lucy Henderson looked at her son as if she had never seen him before. ‘I’d forgotten,’ she said. ‘How could I have forgotten something like that?’
Fearghal shook his head.
‘But that was the only time. The only time he hit me.’ Lucy looked from Cormac to Fearghal and back, as if asking them to confirm it.
Eventually Fearghal shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said again. ‘I think so.’
Cormac let the silence sit for a moment. Moira Hanley hadn’t said a word since he’d started telling his story.
‘Were you afraid of him, Lucy?’
For a moment he thought he had pushed too fast. He could see the fear, the self-protective mask slipping back over her face.
‘Mum,’ Fearghal said.
It was enough. Lucy blinked, then turn a helpless gaze in Cormac’s direction.
‘There were so many rules,’ she said. ‘What to use to wash the floor, and only wash it from left to right. How to wrap the cheese in the fridge. The right way to make the beds in the morning. And he wouldn’t let the kids breathe. He told Gracie that she would never have a boyfriend. She could get that idea out of her head right now. She’s only seven.’ Lucy started to cry, dropped her head into her hands.
Fearghal turned to her, patted her ineffectually on the shoulder. ‘Don’t cry, Mum,’ he said. ‘Please don’t cry.’ But Lucy didn’t stop, couldn’t stop it seemed. She wept into her hands as if her heart was broken.
After that it was easier. It took time, but they drew the story from Lucy Henderson, and it was an old pattern. Her relationship with Rob started with ostentatious romantic gestures from him, over-the-top birthday and Valentine’s Day presents. A holiday abroad for her first Christmas present from him – a holiday that happened to overlap with Lucy’s parents’ fortieth anniversary celebrations. A mistake, he’d told her, head hung low, but he’d gotten a deal on the holiday. It couldn’t be cancelled, couldn’t be postponed. And Lucy, not wanting to ruin the joy of the moment, had agreed to go. He’d proposed to her on that holiday. She’d accepted. And they’d married three months later, eloping at his insistence.
She told them that he wanted her to stay at home with the children and she hadn’t minded that at all, not at the beginning. Over time his mania for control of the minutiae of their household got worse and worse. There were chore lists, with allocated timings, that he posted for her on their bedroom door. He set impossible budgets and monitored them religiously. She told them about the cleaning checks. The homework checks. The rituals.
‘When did he decide to do it?’ Cormac asked in the end. ‘Can you think of anything in particular that might have set him off?’
Lucy and Fearghal were holding hands now. It was hard to tell who was providing the support, and who was receiving it.
Lucy shook her head. ‘I still can’t believe it. Can’t believe that he would try to do that. Kill the children. There’s no reason in the world …’
‘It was because he was fired from his job, Mum,’ Fearghal said, cutting across her. ‘He would have hated you going back to work, even if you gave him all the money. He couldn’t have handled it.’ He glanced in Cormac’s direction. ‘Michael Hutchinson told everyone at school. His dad works for the same bank. Michael’s a … he’s not a friend like, but I knew he wasn’t lying. And there was another thing.’ Another pause. A longer hesitation. Then he squeezed his mum’s hand and looked straight at her.
‘He knew that you’d stopped taking the pills.’
‘What?’
‘The pills he gave you. You stopped taking them and he knew it. You thought he didn’t know. But you were different, Mum. I could see it, and so could he. He watched you.’
Cormac stayed in the interview until it was done, but he stepped back from the questioning bit by bit, letting Moira Hanley step forward. She needed to have her own relationship with the family, would need to work with them as they prepared for trial. She found her rhythm after a little while, did a good job. He told her that afterwards, in a brief exchange outside the room. She looked mortified, avoided his eye.
‘What you said in there. I didn’t know you had such a difficult childhood. I’m sorry you went through that.’
Cormac debated with himself for a moment. He recognised that she was the type who might react badly to what he was about to say, if only because she would feel exposed and taken in, but he couldn’t maintain the fiction with a colleague. ‘Moira. My father’s alive and well and living happily with my mother in West Cork. They go on cruises. Play cards with their friends. He’s a good man, a good father, and my mother wouldn’t put up for half an hour with the sort of bullshit Henderson got up to.’
Moira stared up at him, lips parted, looking like he had slapped her. For Christ’s sake. She’d been a cop long enough. How many interviews had she been part of? None of this should be a surprise.
‘All that stuff about routine and chore lists was on the file.’ She’d probably gathered half the evidence herself. ‘You use what you have to use, Moira. You find common ground and you lead them to it until they start talking.’ But there was a flash of fury in her eyes, quickly hidden under hooded eyes, and Cormac ran out of patience.
‘Let’s move on. Talk to the social workers and make sure that a counsellor goes by the Henderson house today.’ He asked her to get the interview recordings to the typists and have the transcripts typed up as soon as possible. ‘You do the first pass on them, and then I’ll have a check. And let’s set up a meeting with the DPP for next week, all right?’
By the time Cormac got home that night, Emma was already in bed. He looked in on her. She was sleeping deeply but not well, murmuring in her sleep and tossing and turning. He lay down beside her for a few minutes, held her hand, felt his usual sense of helplessness. She didn’t wake, but seemed to settle into a deeper sleep. He returned to the living room, turned on the gas fire, and went in search of food. He spread the Lambert file out on the coffee table and ate reheated takeaway Indian he found at the back of the fridge, washed it down with beer. Eventually the words started to blur. He sat back on the couch, a photograph of Della Lambert in his hand. It wasn’t good quality – just a black and white print out of a photo Paul Lambert had sent them – but it was the best he had. Della Lambert looked back at him, a laugh in her eyes. She looked very young. He fell asleep and dreamt that he met her by the river on a sunny day. She had a chemistry textbook on her lap and tried to explain the same concept to him again
and again, but he couldn’t understand.
He woke, confused, to find Emma standing over him. It was dark, the room lit only by the flickering flames of the fire. Emma was in her pyjamas. Her hair was tousled, loose around her shoulders. She was holding Della’s photograph in one hand.
‘Em?’ he said. He blinked himself awake, swallowed against the sour taste in his mouth.
‘I know this girl,’ she said, her voice a little hoarse with sleep.
‘What?’
‘I think I know this girl. I’ve seen her.’
It took him a moment to make sense of what she was saying. ‘Where?’ Cormac asked.
‘In the lab. I’m sure of it. I saw her with Carline Darcy, more than once.’
Cormac sat up straighter. ‘Emma, are you sure?’
‘Yes. I remember thinking how young she looked, for a student. Is this her? Is this the girl?’ Emma turned to him, held out the sheet of paper.
Cormac sat up, ran his hand through his hair. ‘Her name’s Della Lambert. She’s … we’ve identified her as the victim of the hit-and-run.’
Emma’s eyes dropped to the photograph. ‘But … she has dark hair in the picture.’
‘She dyed it.’
‘So she was a student?’
‘She used to be. But she dropped out a year and a half ago, after her first semester. Her family thought she was working as a waitress.’
‘And she had Carline Darcy’s ID in her pocket,’ Emma said. It wasn’t a question.
Cormac shook his head slowly. He wanted to talk about the case, but he should stop this conversation now. Emma would need to give a statement, and it couldn’t be to him. He felt a creeping sense of dread. He would have to give a statement too, as to exactly how it had come about that she had seen the photograph, and exactly what they had each said after that.
‘We can’t talk about this anymore, Em,’ Cormac said. ‘You’ll have to give a statement about what you saw. If it ends up being relevant you’ll have to give evidence. Better that we don’t discuss it further. I’ll ask Fisher to come over in the morning.’
‘If that’s what you want.’ She sat down on the edge of the chair opposite him. ‘There’s something else. Did you hear that someone broke into the lab last night?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing was taken, they just trashed one of the offices. It’s just … I don’t think it was reported, and given everything that’s going on, I thought you should know.’
He had so many follow-up questions, and every one of them related in some way to a case he couldn’t discuss with her. He stood up, took her hand. ‘Let’s go to bed,’ he said. ‘It will wait until morning.’
Thursday 1 May 2014
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Carline was awake when Mark knocked on her bedroom door. She hadn’t closed her curtains properly the night before, and early morning light streamed in between them. She lay, cheek against her pillow, and watched the dust motes dance in the air. She was conscious that the laptop was lying on her desk, out in the open, and couldn’t bring herself to care.
The knock came again, and this time Mark opened the door without waiting for her to respond.
‘Carls? Do you fancy a coffee? I’m making breakfast if you want to eat.’ He took in her appearance and his brow creased. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s after eight you know. Exams start in an hour and a half.’
Carline’s eyes felt gummy, her face hot and flushed. There was a strand of hair stuck to one cheek. Conscious of Mark’s eyes on her, she sat up in bed, started to tidy her hair with her hands then felt a wave of fury so powerful and so unexpected that it made her dizzy. She dropped her hands.
‘What do you want, Mark?’ she said.
‘Aren’t you feeling well?’ His gaze travelled behind her to her desk, taking in the used tissues scattered about, the mess of papers.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I mean, no, I’m feeling sick. I’m not sure that I’ll make it to my last exam. It’s not a big deal.’
‘Right,’ Mark said. He looked confused. ‘Well, can I get you anything? I’m making breakfast …’ His concern was so obviously insincere that it only fanned the flames of her anger. Once she’d been stupid enough to think he liked her for herself. Until Valentina had pointed out that Mark’s sporadic and halfhearted efforts to bring his relationship with Carline to another level were always preceded by a phone call from his father.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Carline said. Mark didn’t move, and she felt a sudden urgent need to get him out of her room. She stood and pulled on her dressing-gown, walked to the door.
‘I’ll have coffee while you’re eating.’
Carline took a seat on one of the barstools, watched him make toast and eggs, turned a cup of coffee in her hands but didn’t drink it. She felt unsettled and jittery and coffee wouldn’t help.
‘Did I hear you on the phone last night?’ she asked.
He grimaced. ‘Dad,’ he said. ‘Wanting to know how I’m going with the exams. Went on and on about how well Sinéad is doing at Trinity. I don’t know why he thinks that would motivate me.’ A quick flick of his eyes in her direction. ‘He’s got this really amazing development on the go. Sort of mixed-use light industrial on the outskirts of Dublin. Actually, he thinks it could be a great location for Darcy Therapeutics if you’re going to expand.’
‘Right,’ she said.
‘He’s happy to show it to you, next time you’re down. He was wondering if we want to go down after the exams, take a weekend off, go sailing or whatever. Sinéad will be home too, before she goes to the States. He thought we might like to have a party at the house.’
Carline closed her eyes, passed her hand across her forehead. ‘It’s not my decision. Whether or not the company expands or where. That has nothing to do with me.’ Her tone was sharper than she’d intended, exasperation leaking through.
‘Yeah, of course,’ Mark said. He took a bite of toast as a flush stained his cheeks. ‘Dad just thought you might like a party, before you go to France.’
‘France?’
‘I thought you were going to spend the summer with your mother.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Carline said. The thought of living with her mother again made her stomach clench. ‘I’m going to stay here and work on my thesis.’
‘Your mother won’t be disappointed?’
Carline almost laughed, except that a laugh right now would almost certainly turn into a sob. Evangeline had never minded her absence, preferred it really, as long as the cheques kept coming. She took a sip from her coffee, put it down. ‘I think I’ll go back to bed for a while. Good luck with your exam.’
His eyes were on her as she stood. ‘You’re not coming to the dinner tonight?’
‘Vee’s thing? No. Have fun though.’
‘Carline.’ His voice was quiet. ‘Carls.’ He waited for her to look at him. ‘You know that it was Della who died. The story’s all over college.’
Despite herself, Carline stiffened. ‘I know,’ she said. She tried to sound natural.
‘When are you going to tell the police about her?’
Carline stiffened. ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘I mean, there’s nothing to tell.’
‘You told them you didn’t know her. That she was a stranger.’
‘God, Mark. They’re a bunch of bloody clodhoppers. They called my grandfather, for God’s sake. You can imagine how that went down.’
‘Right … but …’
‘And I didn’t tell them I didn’t know her. When that detective came here he didn’t mention Della’s name once. No one knew that it was Della who had died at that stage, and no one’s asked me about her since. If they did then of course I’d tell them the truth. But I don’t see why I should seek the police out, just because Della and I were classmates once. ’
He fell silent, and there was something ugly, something knowing in his expression. ‘A bit more than classmates, Carline,’ he said.
She hesitated for
a second, her mind flick-flicking through what he might know. Almost nothing, surely. She could call his bluff, but the look in his eyes held her back. He was waiting to pounce.
Carline reached for whatever bit of fight was left in her. ‘I’m going to do some work,’ she said. She gave him her best and brightest smile. ‘Have I told you that I’m nearly finished with my thesis? Nobody knows … they think I’m just getting started but it’s nearly ready. I’m going to submit it early. Two thousand words and the thing is done. Would I be the youngest PhD in Ireland, do you think? Or did someone get there before me?’ She paused, then turned towards her bedroom with a girlish, theatrical twirl.
‘Carline,’ he said again.
Carline opened her door. She leaned against it as she turned a smiling face in his direction.
‘Oh, and Mark? Do you think your dad would invite me to his party, if you asked him nicely? I’m going to be working very hard, and it would be good to have something lovely like that before I really get into it.’
A range of emotions passed over his face then, in the space of a few seconds. She watched them war with each other – relief, frustration, anger and a few others she couldn’t put a name to. Then he gave her a sour smile, and nodded, and turned away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
For two long days Paul Lambert had hidden in his room, pulled the blankets up over his head and ignored the disrupted rhythms of the house outside his closed bedroom door. He knew that his mother was angry, his father worried, and Geraldine likely suffering the results of both, but he turned away from that knowledge. He couldn’t stop thinking about Della. When had she stopped trusting him? And how could he have been so stupid? How could he have thought she paid for that flat working as a waitress? She’d bought his phone for him, given him her barely touched laptop when she’d upgraded. She’d been giving their parents money too – their mother had been talking of sending Geraldine to a state home, then Della had dropped out of college and all that talk stopped and suddenly there was steak every Friday and a new telly in the living room. Paul went over it again and again in his mind. All the mistakes he’d made, all the signs he’d missed.
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