The Scholar

by Dervla McTiernan

  Cormac pointed at the photograph. ‘That’s not her college ID, it’s a copy of an access card she was given for the lab, but what are the chances she used the same photo for her other ID?’ Cormac didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Della Lambert dyed her hair blonde,’ he said. ‘She was a similar height to Carline, similar weight. Examiners … what did you call them? Invigilators? If they have two to three hundred IDs to check and they’re in a hurry, they’re not going to do much more than glance at them.’

  ‘What are you suggesting? That Della Lambert sat Carline’s exams for her? Why?’

  ‘Just think about it for a moment. Carline Darcy must be very bright. Has to have been. She got a great leaving, got into her course at the university. But everyone keeps telling me that there is a difference between very bright and extraordinary. And when you get to the sort of level Carline was aiming for, the level John Darcy operates at, what you need is genius.’

  Emma, who had had her name on two major patents by the time she was twenty-five, nodded slowly.

  ‘Imagine that Carline is bright and works hard. She got through her leaving cert with all A’s or close to it. Then she gets to university. A selective programme. Bio-Pharmaceutical Chemistry. Only twenty-five students, all of them bright, a few of them more than that. And then there was Della. A bright, shining light. Something special. And Carline can see it. She can see the gap between what she can do with hard work and perfectionism, and what Della just is, naturally. How does someone like Carline react to that?’

  Emma shook her head. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I think she saw an opportunity. I think she saw Della Lambert, a genius, but naive, broke, living at home with a mother who hated her and an absent father. She paid Della a ton of money – something close to half a million euro – and in return Della agreed to do her work for two years. To sit her exams for her, write her papers, her thesis for her PhD. Solidify Carline’s reputation as the next John Darcy. I think Carline Darcy wanted to show she wasn’t like her playboy father – bright, charming, but a lightweight. Certainly not like her mother. No. Carline wanted to be like her grandfather. A heavyweight intellectual who could be, should be, heir to the throne of Darcy Therapeutics.’

  ‘But what would she do then? What’s the point of it all? Once she finished the PhD and went to work in the lab, she would be exposed.’

  ‘But would she have worked in a lab? Once her reputation was in place, couldn’t she have chosen to work in other areas of the business, areas where she didn’t need to be as hands on with the technical work? And come to think of it, why not hire Della? I wouldn’t be surprised if the plan was for Della to re-enrol, at Galway or better yet some other university. Della could blast through another four-year degree program in two, or even shorter. Carline hires her for a high-level technical position somewhere within the company, keeps her close. Della gets money and a fast-tracked career, Carline has her go-to girl for anything that she can’t grasp without help.’

  Emma was quiet for a long time. Something about the set of her shoulders told Cormac that her earlier tension had returned. Her brow was deeply furrowed when she spoke again. ‘I still don’t see why she would do that. Carline, I mean. She has money. Her father had shares in the company, and she got them when he died. She has access to plenty of money. Why would Carline go to all that trouble?’

  ‘I think only Carline can tell us that.’ He had his own ideas about what had motivated her to take such risks, what might have motivated her ultimately to murder, but he was distracted by the cloud in Emma’s eyes.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Cormac asked.

  Emma shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said. Then, when he wouldn’t let it go, she answered, without looking at him, ‘I just can’t help but wonder. If what you say is true – who else at the lab knows?’

  Friday 2 May 2014

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Carrie O’Halloran took Friday off work and it felt good. The girls’ school was closed for a teacher training day, would be closed on Monday for the public holiday, and Ciarán had even started making noises, late on Thursday night, about possibly heading away for the weekend to West Cork, as a family. Carrie had been awake since six, and that was actually okay. More than okay. She’d been woken by chilly little five-year-old fingers, lifting one eye-lid then the other, followed a hoarse whisper of, ‘Mum. You awake?’ It was after ten now. Ciarán was still asleep upstairs, and she was in the kitchen with the girls, messily making pancakes. She felt absurdly happy. The web of responsibilities she wove every day had for once settled into a harmonious pattern, instead of the usual tangled mess. The girls had dawdled off in the direction of the TV after early morning toast, which had given her time to sort out the kitchen, put on some washing, and even a glorious five minutes alone with a cup of tea and a magazine. She hadn’t even minded the inevitable call of ‘Mum, I’m staaaarving’ when it started again ten minutes later.

  So now she was making pancakes. Lainey was still plonked in front of Inspector Gadget and Miriam was hanging out with her in the kitchen, glancing at her from time to time from the corner of her eye in a way that let Carrie know she had something she wanted to ask her mother. There was something lovely about that, about her daughter lingering in her presence, handing her flour and eggs, debating the wisdom of adding leftover chocolate chips to pancake batter, all the while sneaking looks at her mother’s face, building up the confidence to ask whatever was on her mind. Carrie smiled at her daughter, reached out and smoothed back her hair, then moved to the hob and the waiting frying pan. Ciarán arrived just as Carrie poured the first pancake into the pan.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. He was leaning against the kitchen door jamb, watching her.

  ‘We’re making pancakes,’ Miriam said, smiling at him. ‘Mum’s added chocolate chips.’

  ‘Wow.’ He smiled at Carrie, a slow smile she hadn’t seen in a while. It tugged at her, somewhere deep inside.

  ‘It’s not in the recipe, but we said we’d risk it.’ Carrie looked down at the pancake, watched the chocolate chips disappear from view to the bottom of the pan. She loved Ciarán really, sometimes could even believe that he loved her. He was a decent man, a good dad, and he deserved to be happy. She believed that. She just wished he didn’t see it as her responsibility to deliver that happiness, preferably wrapped up in a bow and delivered by a smiling 1950s housewife along with a 1950s dinner on the table. But all that was for another day.

  Ciarán started the coffee machine. Miriam was looking at the pancake, a doubtful expression on her face. ‘Mum …’ she said.

  The doorbell rang. Miriam looked at her. Carrie’s stomach tensed.

  ‘Will you get it, love?’

  Ciarán left the room and Miriam followed him. Little bubbles expanded in the pancake, the batter solidified at the outer ring. Carrie waited for it to cook through, listened to the voices at the front door. Her phone was sitting on the counter, switched off. Maybe it wasn’t for her. She tried to turn the pancake, but the chocolate chips had melted and were sticking to the bottom of the pan. The whole thing creased and stuck together in a half-cooked mess. Shite.

  ‘Carrie,’ Ciarán said. He nodded towards the front door. ‘You need to go out there.’

  Carrie turned the heat off, pushed the pan aside, went to the door. Put her hand on Miriam’s shoulder. The little girl was standing in the doorway, stance wide, arms crossed. Moira Hanley stood at the threshold.

  ‘Go in Mir, love. Help Daddy with the pancakes.’ Miriam left, dragging her feet and looking over her shoulder, a ten-year-old’s protest.

  ‘Moira,’ Carrie said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Moira said. ‘Cormac Reilly’s been taken off the Lambert case. Someone else needs to run it and Murphy says it has to be you.’

  For a moment Carrie hated her. Moira who had no kids, and had once confessed to Carrie that she didn’t particularly like them.

  ‘What are you talking about, he’s off the case?’


  Moira sniffed. ‘Internal Affairs got wind of what he’s been up to. Running the case when his girlfriend is a possible suspect. They stepped in.’ There was a lurking triumph at the back of Moira’s eyes.

  ‘What do you mean, suspect? Emma Sweeney’s not a suspect.’

  A shrug. ‘Maybe she should be.’

  Carrie felt a flare of anger, and she didn’t bother to mute it. ‘This is your doing, isn’t it, Moira? You’ve decided that you don’t like Reilly, for whatever reason, and you’re determined that he’s going to pay a price for that, aren’t you? What did he do to piss you off?’

  Moira’s face reddened, and she started to splutter a reply.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Carrie said. ‘I have a fair idea.’ She paused. ‘You should choose your enemies more carefully. Reilly’s no fool. He’s survived much worse than you, and the last man to take him on is dead and buried. You might want to give that some thought. Now, it’s going to take me a few minutes to get ready. You can wait in the car.’

  She shut the door on Moira Hanley’s red face, and headed up the stairs, swallowing back tears of anger and disappointment. It took her ten minutes to find clothes, throw some water on her face, tie up her hair. By the time she came down again Ciarán was in the kitchen, had scraped clean the mess in the pan, was starting again with the pancakes. Both girls were watching television now. She went to kiss their heads, got a cuddle from Lainey, averted eyes from Miriam. Ciarán was watching. He came forward, gave her a one-armed hug.

  ‘Never mind it,’ he said quietly. ‘I heard her boasting to her friends the other day about her mum who catches the bad guys.’

  And Carrie had to blink her eyes against sudden tears at the unexpected support. Christ. She was getting soft. She hugged him back, grabbed her jacket, and made for the door.

  Moira drove the car in resentful silence. Carrie stared out of the window, in no mood for conversation or conciliation. They were at the lights at Doughiska when she finally spoke.

  ‘What’s the urgency about?’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Moira.

  ‘The urgency,’ Carrie said. ‘So I’m taking over the case. Why does it have to be right now, on my day off?’

  ‘There’s been a development,’ Moira said, sulkily.

  ‘Well?’ Carrie asked. She resisted the urge to reach out and smack the other woman.

  ‘There’s been a death.’

  ‘Who died?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Moira said. She shifted gears, badly.

  ‘Who died, Moira?’ Carrie’s tone was ice-cold.

  ‘Carline Darcy,’ said Moira. The lights turned green, and she put her foot on the accelerator.

  It took twenty minutes to drive into the city, and a couple more to get to the docks. There were three marked cars parked outside the modern-looking apartment building, an ambulance alongside them. Moira Hanley and Carrie O’Halloran rode the lift in silence. The apartment door opened to a scene of some distress. Carrie stood in the doorway and took it all in.

  A beautiful dark-haired girl sat shivering on the couch. She was wearing pyjama shorts and a T-shirt, and as Carrie watched a young man came from a room behind her, carrying a quilt, which he spread over the girl’s shoulders and tucked around her. There were two uniforms in the room, hovering uselessly, their attention focused on an open door at the other end of the room. One of them turned and caught sight of Carrie.

  ‘Sergeant …’

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ Carrie said.

  ‘Uh … we received a report of a death by suicide.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the open door. ‘Paramedics have been and gone. There was nothing they could do. We’re just waiting on the scene of crime lads. They’re running a bit late.’

  ‘Suicide?’ Carrie asked.

  The uniform glanced towards the pair on the couch, and shook his head. He lowered his voice. ‘Paramedic didn’t think so, and I don’t either.’

  ‘Why not?’ Carrie asked.

  ‘Because she’s got a bloody great lump on the back of her head,’ the garda said. ‘Blood all down the back of her neck.’

  ‘You’ve been in there?’ Carrie asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Paramedic told me. We’ve stayed out here. Preserved the scene, like.’

  Christ. ‘This place is all scene, you great, gormless eejit,’ Carrie said. She ignored his flush of embarrassment and nodded towards the couch. ‘Get her roommates out of here. There must be a neighbour who can take them in for a few hours.’

  The dark-haired girl looked up. ‘We have names you know.’ She jerked her thumb towards herself. ‘Valentina.’ To the young man. ‘Mark.’ Valentina stood up and dropped the quilt on the couch behind her. ‘I want to see her,’ she said. She started towards the open door.

  ‘Stop.’ Carrie’s voice was sharp and the girl – Valentina – stopped. There was a faint smear of something dark on the pale limed floorboards beside her right foot.

  ‘What is that?’ Valentina asked, her voice rasping. ‘Is that her blood? How …?’

  ‘You need to leave. Right now,’ said Carrie. ‘You too.’ Mark stood up from the couch, was staring at the stain now too. Carrie nodded to the uniforms who finally stepped forward and started to usher the two roommates from the room. To Moira Hanley she said, ‘Make sure that scene of crime are on the way. Keep everyone else outside – they can wait downstairs in the foyer if need be.’

  Carrie walked towards the bedroom. She didn’t enter, just stood on the outside and tried, as she always did, to shut down her emotional response to what she was seeing, to consider the scene with a dispassionate and professional eye. It wasn’t easy. The body of a young woman sat, hunched over, at the foot of the bed. She would have slumped to the floor, if it weren’t for the fact that someone had tied her by the neck to the bedpost, using what looked like a dressing gown belt. Carline’s blonde hair was loose and had fallen forward, obscuring her face a little, but not enough to spare Carrie the sight of her bloodied, swollen mouth, and an open, staring eye. She was fully dressed except for her feet, which were bare, and her white T-shirt was stained red with blood. Nothing about the scene suggested suicide to Carrie. There was more blood inside the room – not a great deal, but there were spots on the quilt that had half-fallen to the floor, more on the floor between the bed and the door, a smear where someone had stepped on it.

  Carrie retraced her steps as carefully as possible away from the bedroom, then from the apartment. The lift opened and she saw the first white-shod foot of a scene guy step out. Scene of crime, with Yvonne Connolly, the pathologist, hot on their heels.

  Carrie shook the pathologist’s hand, gave a nod to the officers with her. ‘She’s inside,’ Carrie said. ‘The middle bedroom. There’s a smear in the living room that looks like blood.’

  Connolly nodded. ‘We were delayed,’ she said. ‘Three car pile-up on the M6.’ She was pulling on gloves, then a hair cover handed to her by one of the men. ‘Much contamination of the scene?’ she asked.

  ‘Inside the bedroom we’re talking one paramedic, and the roommate who found her. The living room had both roommates, myself, and three other gardaí.’

  Connolly rolled her eyes but chose not to say anything. She snapped on her second glove, gave Carrie a nod, and walked past her towards the apartment.

  ‘Dr Connolly,’ said Carrie.

  The pathologist turned.

  ‘I know you don’t like to be prejudiced before you view a scene, and I’m not trying to do that, but … you know who it is you’re going to find in there.’

  ‘I got a phone call,’ said the doctor, her tone very dry.

  ‘Look, you’ll make your own mind up. It was called in as a suicide, but to my view it’s definitely not that.’

  Connolly had drawn her eyebrows together and was looking at Carrie as if reassessing her formerly positive opinion of her.

  ‘The politics of this thing are all over the place. If you are satisfied that it’s not a suicide, if you could call that in soone
r rather than later, it could make this day easier for everyone.’

  Connolly snapped the elastic at the wrist of one of her gloves in an unnecessary adjustment. ‘I’m not here to make the lives of the gardaí easier, sergeant. And I’m certainly not here to concern myself with politics, no matter who the victim is. That’s a policy you may wish to adopt for yourself.’ She gave Carrie a last cold look, then turned to the apartment.

  Carrie stood still for a moment, then raised a finger at Connolly’s departing back.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Carrie made for the lifts again, checking her watch on the way. It was 11.30 a.m. She couldn’t let time get away from her. She wondered briefly where Cormac Reilly might be, and if the news had reached him yet. Carrie took the lift to the ground floor, was redirected to the second by a uniform waiting for her below. Mark and Valentina had gone to Apartment 22B. They were waiting for her there. Carrie found the apartment and knocked. Mark opened the door wordlessly and stepped back to allow her to enter.

  God, what a contrast between this place and the Grand Designs nirvana on the top floor. For starters, the kitchen-living area was about a quarter the size. Same view, if from a lower vantage point, but here obscured by the grubby guard wall of a small balcony. The room was cluttered too; a pile of laundry sat on one arm of the couch and the sink was filled with dirty dishes and more than your average number of empty beer cans.

  Mark took a seat on the couch, turned anxious eyes to a pacing Valentina. A gangly-looking youth, wearing boxers and a T-shirt, hovered anxiously in the kitchen.

  ‘I can make tea,’ he said. Carrie got the impression it wasn’t the first time he’d offered. ‘I’m sorry about the gaff. We had a party last night … weren’t expecting …’

  ‘You’re always having bloody parties,’ Valentina snarled at him. Then she turned on Carrie. ‘Someone killed her,’ she said. ‘They must have done. There’s no way Carline would kill herself. She isn’t the type.’