The Scholar

by Dervla McTiernan

  On Thursday afternoon his mother entered the room and opened the curtains. She pulled his covers from him, and he sat up, slowly blinking his dry, sore eyes against the light.

  ‘Get up,’ she said. Her voice was flat. ‘You’re needed downstairs.’

  She turned and trudged down the stairs. He followed a minute later, like a puppet on long string, pausing only at the bathroom to unload a bladder that was suddenly achingly full. He tried to remember when he had last pissed, when he had last eaten something, and couldn’t.

  She was waiting in the kitchen. Her good coat, a sickly pale pink wool thing she’d had for years, was buttoned to her neck. She had her car keys in one hand. His father sat at the kitchen table, finishing a cup of coffee, eyes, as always, averted.

  ‘You’re needed to look after your sister.’ Her voice was clipped, angry.

  ‘Where are you going?’ His own voice was hoarse from disuse.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ she snapped. She nodded at his father, who stood on cue and made for the door, then she turned back to Paul. ‘You’ve no appreciation for anyone else’s feelings. Lying in bed all day as if you were the only one who suffered a loss. I’ve lost my daughter. My first born. You don’t see me lying around and crying. Someone has to think about our future.’ She gave him a hard, eager stare, but he knew better than to respond. Giving his mother what she wanted – whether it was an argument or anything else – never made anything better. A moment later, a grunt, and she was gone.

  He found Geraldine in the living room. She was watching TV, rocking herself gently, forward and back.

  ‘Ger,’ he said.

  She didn’t respond. He waited a second, tried again. ‘Ger.’

  She flicked her eyes towards him. ‘I’m watching Peppa,’ she said. Her hair was greasy, there was dirt under her fingernails, and she didn’t look well. Paul felt a sudden pang of guilt.

  ‘I’ll make you a sandwich, will I?’ he said.

  ‘I want a treat,’ Geraldine said, her eyes still on the television.

  ‘I’ll have a look,’ he said. He made the sandwich, and one for himself too while he was at it, the smell of fresh bread and cheese awakening his hunger. He cut up some fruit, and put that on the side of the plate, then found a packet of biscuits at the top of the long cupboard. They weren’t allowed to eat in the living room but fuck it. Paul brought the plates along with two glasses of milk to the living room, then sat cross-legged on the floor beside his little sister. They ate together, quietly watching Peppa, and when she’d finished eating Geraldine sighed, then reached out and took his hand.

  ‘My tummy feels better,’ she said.

  ‘Mine too,’ he said.

  He stayed with her for another few minutes, then got up to run her a bath. He used the last of the bubble bath he’d bought her for Christmas, and she didn’t object too much to the plan. She splashed around for a while, he washed her hair a bit awkwardly – he’d never been much good at that – then got her out and dressed again in clean clothes. He sat on the end of her bed and watched her play with her dolls. He couldn’t bring himself to join in, but she seemed happy enough. He thought about Della.

  Paul was absolutely sure that she had done something that had gotten her killed. It hadn’t been an accident, and it hadn’t been a random act of violence. Something had been going on in her life for months, something that had allowed Della to give up her job as a waitress and still pay her rent. He was so stupid. So fucking stupid.

  Time went by. Paul heard movement downstairs and was tempted to retreat back into his room. His parents were in the kitchen, talking. Their words drifted out through the door that had been left slightly ajar, and he sat at the top of the stairs and listened.

  His mother’s tone of voice registered first. She was tense still, but there was an eagerness in her voice that disturbed him.

  ‘It might take months, Michael,’ she said. ‘We can’t get carried away.’

  ‘No, Eileen,’ he said.

  ‘And we don’t know how much there is, of course. There might not be as much as we think.’

  ‘But the money, Eileen. If Della got it from something illegal, wouldn’t there be a problem …’

  His mother’s voice came again, tight, and fast and angry. ‘There’s nothing to say it was anything but legitimately earned. Jesus, Michael. You’re like a child with your questions. You nearly said it to the lawyer, didn’t you? And then how would we have looked?’

  There was silence for a moment from the kitchen. In his mind’s eye Paul could see his father’s head drop, as it always did. Could see his mother lean over him, hawk-like, looking for the smallest sign of disagreement.

  Paul stood and went back to his room, shut the door quietly behind him and leaned on it. Tears welled and fell. He walked to his desk and took up his laptop and hugged it to him, retreated again to his bed. He climbed under the covers, still holding the computer, the last thing he had of his sister.

  Everyone seemed to know more than he did. That was almost the worst part. He knew there was no point talking to his mother. She would tell him nothing. No point talking to the gardaí, they thought he was a kid. Paul opened his laptop and ran a search for Della’s name. There had been a newspaper article, hadn’t there? About another girl. There had been some sort of mix-up because Della had been carrying the girl’s ID when she died. Paul found the article, re-read it. There wasn’t much in it, not really, but he should be able to find this Carline Darcy, and at least ask her a few questions. If Della had been carrying her ID then they must have known each other, must have been friends. Maybe Carline Darcy had some answers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Cormac called the station first thing on Thursday morning while Emma was in the shower. It took a couple of minutes to confirm no report had been made of a break-in at the lab. He sat on the bed for a moment longer, phone in hand. Carrie might have been right. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken the case. The smart thing to do would be to find her now and tell her that, swap cases around so that he took on some of her workload and she took the hit-and-run. He already knew he wouldn’t do it. This case was his. He didn’t trust anyone else, not even Carrie, to see it through.

  He got to the lab at 9 a.m., allowing enough time for Emma to go ahead of him, for her to get through security and into her own workspace. Josep the security guard let Cormac into the foyer, where he had to wait while arriving employees divested themselves of coats and bags and swiped their way in to work. He could see the corner of Emma’s coat – bright green – poking out of one of the lockers. As the last employee disappeared through the staff door with a curious glance in Cormac’s direction, Josep turned to him with a smile.

  ‘What can I do for you today, detective?’ he asked.

  Cormac took the photograph of Della Lambert from his pocket, unfolded it, and put in on the desk in front of him. ‘Do you recognise this girl?’ he asked.

  Josep barely looked at it. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘But I see many young people at the college. I do not remember them all.’

  ‘Not at the college, Joe,’ Cormac said. ‘Here at the lab. Have you ever seen this girl at this laboratory? Ever signed her in to work?’

  The security guard glanced at the photograph again. ‘I don’t believe so,’ he said. He shifted his weight on his feet, all hint of a smile gone.

  Cormac let the silence sit, let Josep’s obvious discomfort grow. He was clearly lying. But he couldn’t have thought things through. If the girl had been here, and here many times according to Emma, many of the other employees would have seen her. They would hardly all be willing to lie about it.

  ‘She has been here, Joe. She’s been here many times. It’s hard to believe that you don’t remember her.’

  ‘I just … I’m not sure,’ Josep said. ‘She may have been here. But, you know, there are many employees of the laboratory. I do not know all of them well.’

  More bullshit. The lab was too small to employ more th
an thirty or forty people. Not difficult to get to know the faces if you saw them at least twice a day. But if Josep had been allowing her in as a favour to Carline Darcy, despite knowing she didn’t belong, he wouldn’t be in a rush to confess it now.

  The door behind him opened, and another two employees entered the room, greeting Josep loudly and continuing their conversation as they opened lockers, hung up coats and bags.

  ‘I’m told there was a break-in here on Tuesday night,’ Cormac said, making no effort to keep his voice down.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Josep, eyes flicking to the left. ‘A very little one, and they took nothing. Professor Murtagh thinks it was probably students. Drinking too much and doing stupid things.’

  ‘You didn’t report it?’ Cormac asked.

  ‘It did not seem important,’ Josep said, his eyes wide and guileless. ‘It was not my decision of course. The professor did not think it was necessary.’

  Cormac asked to see James Murtagh, and Josep’s relief that his questioning was at an end was all too obvious. He escorted Cormac back to the office, handed Cormac off to the professor without a backward glance.

  Murtagh was buried in some paperwork, an empty coffee cup beside him. ‘Sit down, detective,’ he said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Have you seen Carline Darcy today?’ Cormac asked. ‘Is she working?’

  Murtagh shook his head. ‘Exam season,’ he said. ‘Not that she needs to worry, of course, but even Carline would surely take the time to look over a few notes.’

  Cormac caught a note in Murtagh’s voice, a hint of resentment, and he looked at him sharply. Murtagh was sensitive enough to notice. He waved a hand in front of his face.

  ‘It’s been a long week, detective,’ he said. ‘I think perhaps I’m feeling my age.’

  ‘You had a break-in, Professor. That may have added to the stress.’

  Murtagh betrayed no surprise at Cormac’s knowledge. He sat back in his chair, glanced over his shoulder to the vast window behind him. ‘They came through there. I’ve always said that those windows are very impractical from a security point of view. No one can see what’s happening on this side of the building, unless they just happen to be boating down the river. Whoever it was just threw a rock through the window, messed some papers around a bit, and wandered off home. Almost certainly an idiotic student who drank too much Buckfast Tonic Wine. I can’t quite believe they drink that stuff. A university tradition, I’m told.’

  ‘You didn’t report it,’ Cormac said.

  Murtagh widened his eyes. ‘Didn’t seem much point. Nothing was taken. We had something similar happen a few years back. We did report it that time and to be candid, detective, your colleagues didn’t seem particularly interested. So, I just called and had the window repaired. Got the cleaners in to get rid of the broken glass and give the place a proper spruce up, then got back to work.’

  It was all very reasonable, but there was a discordant note in Murtagh’s response. It was too glib. Murtagh spoke as if tidying up after a break-in were a standard part of his day, as unremarkable as picking up his morning coffee. Cormac took the photograph of Della from his pocket for a second time that day, placed it on the table.

  ‘Have you seen this girl?’

  Murtagh picked up the paper, examined it carefully, put it down. ‘It’s not a great photograph,’ he said. ‘But I don’t believe so. She doesn’t look familiar, but I don’t pay a great deal of attention to the students, to tell you the truth. Who is she?’

  ‘Her name is Della Lambert. She was a student at the university at one time, though not recently. She’s also the young woman who was killed last Friday night, and she died with an access card for this laboratory in her pocket.’

  Murtagh looked at the photograph again, studied it more carefully, then shook his head. ‘She must have picked it up from somewhere.’ Then realisation dawned. ‘It was Carline’s card, wasn’t it? That’s why there was a mix up in identification. This young girl was carrying Carline’s access card.’

  Cormac took the photograph back, put it away. ‘If Della had been in the laboratory, if she had spent time here, would you have known it?’

  Murtagh thought for a moment. ‘I’d certainly like to think so. But really, I’m holed away in my little cave for much of the day. If I do venture into the lab it’s into what I like to call the inner sanctum. The internal laboratory that the students are not permitted to enter.’

  ‘Not even Carline?’

  Murtagh smiled. ‘Not even Miss Darcy. There is valuable intellectual property on these premises.’

  Cormac paused, decided to take the conversation in another direction. ‘Tell me, professor, what’s it like, teaching a genius?’

  Murtagh’s expression settled back into tired patience. ‘I’m not precisely her teacher, you know. Carline Darcy has worked as a research assistant in the outer lab from time to time during the year, when her timetable allows. But I have very little to do with the students. My own work demands too much of me.’

  ‘But you’re her supervisor too, aren’t you? For her thesis.’

  When Murtagh’s face wasn’t animated by speech or a particular expression, his mouth fell into a downward turn, deep grooved lines either side of his mouth emphasising the downward curve. Resting old-and-pissed-off face. ‘I was a member of the panel that assessed Carline’s thesis proposal. That is not quite the same as a teacher-student relationship. Assuming her proposal is accepted, I will be her supervisor and we will likely spend more time together as the work progresses.’

  ‘There’s a possibility her proposal won’t be accepted?’ Cormac didn’t try to hide his scepticism; he wanted to see if a light needling would provoke some honesty. With the amount of money Darcy had donated to this university, if Carline Darcy wanted to do a degree in knitting they would have created one for her.

  Murtagh sighed, shook his head. ‘The early work is very exciting, detective. If Carline wants to continue her studies here then I’m sure that’s what she’ll do. She does, however, have undergraduate exams to complete. Even Carline Darcy has to graduate first.’

  The interview went downhill from there. Murtagh didn’t move from his position that he had never seen Della Lambert, and Cormac didn’t have much more to ask him. They would need to interview every employee of the lab, find out who remembered seeing Della and where, then confront Carline with that evidence. Confront Murtagh too, and Josep Zabielski. Josep was clearly lying. Murtagh was harder to read but it felt like he was holding something back. Josep’s motivation for lying seemed obvious – if he’d allowed Della to access the lab knowing she didn’t belong there, his job would be at risk. Murtagh’s motivation was less clear. Was he trying to protect Carline? Protect the Darcy name, the Darcy money? It was all possible.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Cormac left the lab and walked to the concourse. He wanted coffee before he went back to the station to pick up the threads of the investigation. He found his way to the coffee shop, ordered it black, added two sugars. The place was packed, students loading up on caffeine. They looked very young to him, despite their air of serious endeavour, like children playing shop. He took his coffee and left the building. The day was warming up, and Cormac shrugged off his jacket as he went down the steps outside the library. Some of the students had taken their books and tablets and set up in a small park between the library and the engineering building. They were lying in the grass. Not a smart move, there was no way in hell that it had dried since the rain the day before. The influence of American movies. They all thought they were going to Yale or Harvard and studying in the sun-dappled shade of east coast North America. Cormac watched, amused, as students arrived, sat, checked out the talent around them, realised the damp was rapidly seeping through the arse of their jeans, and stood again, trying to look like that had always been their plan.

  Cormac walked past the little park and on towards the chapel car park. He’d parked the squad car
midway between the library and the chapel, and as he drew closer he saw a young man loitering on the footpath near the car. He’d clearly noticed the marked car. As Cormac drew nearer the loiterer turned in his direction, and he realised it was Mark Wardle, Carline Darcy’s roommate. Mark froze when he saw Cormac approaching, looked for a moment as if he might make a bolt for it, then stood his ground.

  ‘Detective?’ he said, as Cormac drew near. ‘Were you … you were looking for me?’

  There was anticipation in Mark’s eyes. Nervousness too. He had something he wanted to share but he was conflicted about it.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Cormac said. ‘Were you for me?’

  ‘Oh God. No,’ said Mark. He shook his head, raised his hands in a mock warding off gesture, and Cormac suppressed a sigh of exasperation. Mark wanted to talk all right, but he was the type who wanted a push first.

  ‘Walk with me, Mark,’ Cormac said, and he turned in the direction of the car park. Mark fell into step beside him, and they walked in silence. Cormac stopped at the spot where a week earlier he had first seen Della Lambert’s broken body. The crime scene tape was gone, whatever blood had been left after the scene of crime lads had done their job now washed away by the rain. It was as if it had never happened. As if she had never died.

  ‘When did you meet Della, Mark? For the first time I mean.’

  He kept his eyes on the road, until he heard Mark speak, a stuttered ‘Sorry?’ Then he turned his gaze to the younger man and his eyes said don’t bullshit me and I know so much more than you think I do and you are a boy and I am a man, and that you don’t know the difference proves it. Mark held his gaze for a minute, then looked away.