Impostor

by L. J. Ross

  Unable to settle, he picked up the case file which still sat on his desk. He’d remember to take it back to the Garda the following day but, until then, it couldn’t do any harm to thumb through the old paperwork, one more time.

  When he looked again at the crime scene photographs of Claire Kelly, he found himself thinking of the precise location of the Kelly house. He recalled seeing the entrance to one of the woodland pathways that ran down to a jetty by the lough, and realised that the lough trail which ran all the way around the water must also pass by the bottom of the dead woman’s house.

  It was the same route taken by Tom Reilly to get to the shoreline where he’d been seen by Padraig—and the same route he could have taken back into town, passing close to Connor’s hut. It must have taken at least an hour to jog the full circuit; more, depending on his level of fitness.

  He sat perfectly still for all of five minutes, and then made a grab for the phone.

  But the number he dialled was busy, as was the next.

  He tried the Garda Station in Ballyfinny, but there was no answer. It was after six, and their out-of-town officers had been told to go home early, in light of the yellow weather warning. They’d taken the time to leave an answer machine message, which told him cheerfully to ‘leave a message after the beep’. He tried all the numbers again and, when there was still no reply, decided there was no time to lose and slammed the phone back into its cradle.

  He made for the door at a run.

  CHAPTER 37

  When Gregory stepped outside the hotel, the wind hit him like a slap in the face.

  He ran full pelt across the lawn towards the trees on the far side, feeling the air sting his skin, so cold it burned. Fear was a living, breathing thing inside him, and he battled to keep it at bay as he dived into the trees and made for the pathway that would take him past the tennis courts and towards the town centre. Pine cones scattered as he half-walked, half-ran through the forest, keeping to the worn pathway. The trees rose up all around him, like silent sentinels that seemed to contract and move.

  It’s only your mind, playing tricks again.

  There, beneath the forest canopy, he could have been anywhere in the world. With only Nature as his companion, it might have been ten, twenty or even a hundred years ago, and the landscape would have looked much the same as it did then. It was as though Alex had stepped into a kind of ether; a halfway place, or No-Man’s Land, with only himself and his demons as a guide.

  They’re only projections, he told himself. Not real anymore.

  He heard his breathing quicken and saw it cloud on the air before disappearing again, swallowed up by the surrounding darkness.

  Suddenly, there came a flash of lightning piercing the sky, followed immediately by a deafening rumble that seemed to shake the very foundations of the trees.

  The storm had come.

  * * *

  Thoughts of the red-headed woman were all consuming, now.

  For a long time, it had been possible to think of other things; to imagine other women.

  Other mothers.

  But that time had passed, and it was impossible to imagine anyone else. Nobody else would do.

  Closing their eyes, they could picture her in the house by the water, reading by the fire. She liked to do that, more often than television these days, and chose a book for herself from the pitiful selection at Ballyfinny Library most Saturdays. They were always the same, too; thin, romance volumes with pictures of men and women on the front, lost in the heat of passion.

  Lies, lies, lies.

  She enjoyed living the lie. She liked to pretend, just as much as they did.

  * * *

  Maggie had never felt so tired.

  It ran all the way through to her bones, as she moved slowly around the cottage, without energy or purpose. When she’d lost Aiden all those years ago, and cried until there were no more tears left, she’d kept going because there had been Niall and then Connor to think of. She’d carried on taking air into her lungs, breathing in and out, putting one leg in front of the other all the hours of the day until night came around again, and the empty space beside her on the bed beckoned her to a restless, lonely sleep. Each day passed the same way, until they rolled into weeks and then months, and her children grew so tall and strong, they no longer needed her to hold their hands or fight their battles. She’d woken up to find herself a woman of sixty, with lines on her face and hair that was no longer auburn but steel grey.

  She hardly recognised herself, this pale imitation of a woman she’d once known.

  That had been three years ago. Since then, she’d vowed to make every year count, and had thrown herself into civic duty and caring for her grandchild with the kind of gusto that would have made Aiden’s head spin.

  “Go easy, girl,” he used to say. “We’ve all the time in the world.”

  But, in the end, there had been no more time for him; just as there was no more time for Claire Kelly, nor Aideen and Colm McArdle.

  Perhaps, soon, there would be no more time for her.

  * * *

  Gregory was shivering badly. The weatherproof jacket he wore was not thick enough to shelter him from his own nightmares, which rose to the surface of his mind to taunt him as he hurried onward through the trees.

  Where are you going, Alex?

  “To help,” he muttered.

  You can’t help them all, the voice whispered. You couldn’t help me.

  “I’m trying,” he said. “I’m trying to help you.”

  He thought he caught a glimpse of a woman walking up ahead, just the flash of a face, and he began to run—harder, faster, until his muscles ached, and the wind screamed in his ears.

  You’re too late again.

  He heard the voice and wanted to stop, but he didn’t. He couldn’t stop now.

  He knew who was going to be next.

  * * *

  The red-headed woman would still be reading, at this hour.

  She’d be sitting in her chair by the fire or getting into the fancy little roll-top bath she liked so much. They’d seen her, getting undressed and looking at herself in the mirror, prodding her hips and patting the loose skin of her belly, where a child had once been.

  She’d climb into the bath and pick up her book again, escaping into a world of make-believe where she could pretend to be the heroine, the saviour, the lover.

  But never the mother.

  Never that.

  * * *

  When Alex reached the edge of the forest, he sucked great, gulping breaths of air into his lungs. The rain beat more heavily against his brow without the trees to shelter him, but he welcomed the deluge and held his face up to the eye of the storm, letting it cleanse his skin and his mind before hurrying onward.

  Not far now.

  Thunder rocked the small town as he ran through its empty streets and, when he reached the hilly incline leading up to Maggie’s cottage, he raced upwards, never stopping until he reached her door.

  CHAPTER 38

  The loud banging at her front door made Maggie jump, spilling hot tea over the back of her hand.

  “Bugger and blast,” she muttered, and rinsed it beneath the cold tap as the banging grew even more insistent. “I’ll be there in a minute!”

  Emma was at home with Declan, and Niall had stayed on at Castlebar while Connor was held for further questioning. Seamus was unlikely to leave the hotel, nor Padraig in the bad weather. That only left—

  “I might have known it’d be you,” she said, when she opened the door to find Alex standing there. His clothes were soaked through and he had a wild, urgent look about him.

  He didn’t wait to be asked, but barged straight in, where he began to roam through the downstairs rooms.

  “What the—hey! Hold up a minute, there, lad. Niall isn’t here, if you’re looking for him. He’s on his way back from Castlebar. He’s taken the longer road, most likely, with the weather being as it is. I can make you a cup of tea, if you want t
o wait.”

  Alex was troubled.

  “It isn’t him I’m looking for,” he muttered. “Where’s Emma?”

  “She’s at home, looking after Declan,” Maggie said, in confusion. “What can you want with her?”

  “Is she on her own?” he asked, ignoring the question.

  Maggie nodded.

  “As far as I know,” she said. “Why?”

  Gregory ran a hand over his face and came to a quick decision.

  “I need the truth from you, Maggie. I already know that, on Friday nights, you look after Declan. You usually have him on Saturday mornings, too. But I need you to tell me where Niall goes.”

  “I don’t—” she began.

  “It’s important.”

  Something in his eyes must have convinced her.

  “He goes to Alcoholics Anonymous,” she said, and was glad to get it off her chest. “He didn’t want anyone in Ballyfinny or Castlebar to know, so he goes across to Galway instead. Sometimes, Connor drives him down. Niall only told me last night. There’ll be no more wine at my dinner table from now on, I can tell you that.”

  Gregory closed his eyes, as the final piece slotted neatly into place.

  “Call him now, Maggie. Tell him he needs to go straight home.”

  “He’s already on the road,” she said. “That’s where he’ll be heading, anyhow.”

  “Where do Emma and Niall live?”

  She gave the address to him and, seconds later, he was heading for the door.

  “Wait! Where are you going? What’s all this about?” she demanded.

  “We need to get to Emma and Declan, as quickly as we can.”

  Maggie didn’t need to be told twice. She shoved her feet into a pair of old slippers and grabbed her coat from the peg.

  “I’ll drive,” she said, and they hurried back out into the rain.

  * * *

  Niall and Emma Byrne lived in a converted barn, only a couple of streets away from the McArdle house. When Maggie’s car pulled up outside, they found the curtains drawn at each of the windows.

  “Do you have a key?” Gregory asked, and was already out of the car before she’d pulled the hand brake.

  “Yes, I’ve got one, here,” she said, hurrying around the other side of the car. “Try ringing the bell, first.”

  He rang the bell and, when there was no answer, hammered the painted wood with his fist.

  “Dear God, you don’t think—”

  Gregory hammered again, harder this time.

  When there was still no answer, he peered through the letterbox to the dim hallway beyond, then stood back to allow Maggie to open the door.

  Once they were inside, Alex held up a protective hand to indicate she should stay well back. He cursed himself for not thinking to bring anything he could use as a weapon, before remembering that his words were his greatest weapon of all.

  “Be careful,” he told her, and took his first step into the unknown.

  * * *

  Around now, she’d be sitting on the sofa, smiling at something she’d read in her book, while the light from the fire picked up the copper tone of her hair. It wasn’t natural, of course; not any more. But, once, it had been.

  Once.

  That was a funny word; something had happened once, and they remembered being told never to repeat it to another living soul.

  But it was never just the ‘once’.

  It had been every week, then every other night.

  And it was always while the woman with the red hair read her romance stories on the sofa by the fire.

  * * *

  Alex and Maggie made a full search of the downstairs, but found nothing.

  The lights were on, but nobody seemed to be home.

  “She might have popped out somewhere, with Declan,” Maggie offered, but the sense of panic was rising sharply in her chest.

  It was not like Emma to take Declan anywhere so late.

  “I’ll check upstairs,” Gregory said.

  Maggie followed behind him and they mounted the creaking staircase with its gallery wall of family photographs, all carefully arranged in different sizes.

  We’re a happy family! it screamed.

  At the top of the stairs, Alex checked every room, until he came to the one at the end of the corridor. It was painted white, as they all were, and had a small hanging sign that said ‘DECLAN’ in the shape of a dinosaur. It stood ajar, and they could see the swirling colours of the little boy’s night light projected against the ceiling, as it played a soft lullaby.

  Gregory’s stomach trembled as he approached the doorway, never more afraid than he was then. Maggie’s breath was coming in short pants as she fought to stay calm, and he deliberately angled his body so he would be the first to see whatever lay waiting for them.

  He pushed open the door.

  Declan lay sprawled on his bed, one arm hanging off the edge, his face turned into the pillow.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus!” Maggie cried out, and Alex ran inside to check for a pulse. “Is he dead? Oh, God, please, no—"

  He found a pulse, but it was thin.

  “He’s alive.”

  Maggie sank to her knees and laid a shaking hand on her grandson’s hair, murmuring a prayer of thanks.

  “Why—why isn’t he waking up?” she asked, and wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

  “I don’t know,” Gregory said honestly, still checking the boy’s pulse against the watch on his wrist. “He’s breathing, but seems to be comatose. He may just be in a deep sleep. Is it hard to wake him, usually?”

  “No, never,” Maggie replied. “He’s a light sleeper, as a rule.”

  “It may be drug-induced,” Gregory said. “Sleeping pills, cough medicine, or something of that sort.”

  That had been Cathy Jones’ favourite medley, he recalled. The toxicology report following the death of her baby girl had eventually thrown up a cocktail of ingredients to make her permanently drowsy, usually found in high street cough medicine. Mix it with a soupçon of table salt, and you had quite a recipe for disaster.

  He looked down at the boy’s sleeping body and felt something lift inside his heart.

  You could save some of them, after all.

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” he said. “You stay with him, and—”

  He fell silent as he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock downstairs. He exchanged a glance with Maggie, who lifted her grandson in gentle arms and held him against her chest.

  If anyone had come to hurt him, they would need to get past her, first.

  CHAPTER 39

  Inspector Niall Byrne let himself into the house, but didn’t bother to announce it. There had been a time, years ago, when he’d have called out to Emma and Declan, and she’d have called out a cheerful ‘hello’ and come to the door to greet him—but not now. Things were different, and it was hard, so hard, not to remember how things used to be.

  Being married to a police detective was no walk in the park. There were long hours and late nights to contend with, and, even when he was at home, it was hard not to bring some of the job home with him. How could he make light and chat about everyday nonsense, when he was faced with the very worst of society each day? Until recently, the people of Ballyfinny had been unaccustomed to violent crime, and the worst they ever needed to contend with was the occasional bit of petty theft, or light assault between a couple of old duffers down at O’Feeney’s on a Friday night. Connor managed the town well, and he respected his brother for the efforts he made to use the law proportionately. A young person might wind up in jail, otherwise, and then all hope would be lost. But, at divisional level, he was faced with more serious crime—more drugs-related theft and violence, more prostitution, rapes and murders.

  And then, he came home to Ballyfinny and was expected to talk about parking misdemeanours.

  In Dublin, Emma had understood. She had her own circle of teacher friends, and her own life, so he never had to hide the d
arkness he sometimes saw in his. They had been evenly matched. He couldn’t tell precisely when things had begun to go wrong, but perhaps it had been the move home to Ballyfinny. Rural life was not for everyone, and some preferred the bright lights of the city. She was still grieving the death of her father, as well as being on hand to help her mother to come to terms with the loss, which took its toll.

  There was no intimacy any more.

  At first, he’d believed the excuses about her being tired, or having headaches, and because he loved her, it would never occur to him to push or pressure her. He’d tried to help her through the grieving process, to offer his shoulder if she needed it, but Emma preferred not to talk about it.

  It was as though she had completely closed in on herself.

  The only time he saw a spark of the woman he’d married was when she was with Declan. There was never a gentler, kinder woman than Emma, when it came to their son. It gave him some comfort to know that, but he couldn’t help the small darts of jealousy he felt, watching them together. It made him ashamed to admit that, even to himself.

  And then there was his drinking.

  At least that was something he was trying to change. Maybe, then, Emma might look at him the way she used to.

  Even the thought of alcohol made his throat dry, so he busied himself taking off his jacket and tie, and was about to go off in search of his wife when he heard a creak on the stairs. However, when he looked up, it was not Emma who joined him in the hallway, but Doctor Gregory.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Alex held his hands up, and answered quickly.

  “Your mother’s upstairs, with Declan,” he said. “Niall, I need you to stay calm. Declan is unwell, and we’ve called an ambulance. Emma isn’t here.”

  The inspector turned pale, and looked over Gregory’s shoulder, towards the stairs.

  “God, no—don’t tell me?”

  Niall pushed past Alex and took the stairs two at a time, calling for his wife and child. Gregory left the front door ajar for the paramedics and then ran after him, to find Niall crouched beside his son’s bed. Maggie still lay with Declan in her arms, stroking his sleeping head with a gentle hand, and Gregory held back while the man leant across to kiss his son’s cheek. Niall swiped a shirtsleeve over his eyes and pressed his face to his mother’s shoulder, who rocked them both and sang an Irish love song beneath her breath.