Jo motions to Esther.
‘And an Americano,’ the waitress says, clinking the second cup down in front of Jo. ‘And your scones, ladies.’
‘Thanks,’ Jo says, holding the chit up to her face to make out the cost. She hands over a note.
‘It’s true she owed money,’ Esther continues. ‘Maura was useless with money – impulsive, reckless even. If she saw something she wanted, she got it, end of story. The fact that she couldn’t afford it was lost on her. But it was never material stuff, you know what I mean? Not clothes or cars or the like.’
Jo sips her coffee. ‘What did she spend it on then? She owed €15,000, didn’t she?’ Jo asked.
‘And the rest,’ Esther says, ‘when you add in the interest she was being charged. She’d borrowed it from loan sharks. Those animals pick their interest rates from the sky, as far as I can see. She owed more than €100,000 when she died. She was spending it on the next phase of her life.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Jo says.
Esther leans in and lowers her voice. ‘Maura bought her own headstone. When Gavin asked me about it, I had to pretend I didn’t know anything about it, because I knew that’s what Maura would have wanted.’
Jo tilts her head. ‘What?’ Maura’s suicide note had been signed off with the name Patricia, which was also the name on the gravestone, which had been commissioned by an unknown party, adding to Sexton’s suspicions about her death.
‘Maura paid for it herself,’ Esther says.
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Patricia was her middle name. She’d been using it because the banks wouldn’t touch her. She was trying to dodge the Irish credit-check searches to raise more funds. She’d created a whole new identity for herself.’
Jo blows the coffee in her cup. ‘But why buy a gravestone for herself?’
‘She was going to fake her own death … for the life insurance,’ Esther says. ‘She’d told me all about it. She was going to leave Gavin, but she didn’t want to hurt him. If you’d known her well, you’d understand. She didn’t do confrontation. That’s how she’d hidden her debts for so long. She found it easier to construct this whole alternative scenario she was going to give him, involving her dying, which would allow her to leave him without a big row. She’d bought a memorial stone. When the time came, she wanted me to have it erected to give him a sense of closure. But because she’d paid for it from her Patricia Sexton account, the inscription was messed up. The stonemason rang me when it was ready for collection and I asked him to have it put on her grave. I didn’t see it before it was erected or I’d have stopped it.’
‘But Sexton said you didn’t know anything about it.’
‘If I’d told him, it would have felt like a betrayal of her.’
‘Maura is gone,’ Jo says crossly. ‘Don’t you think it would help Gavin?’
‘She didn’t want him hurt, that was her last wish.’
‘But he has been hurt, terribly. If Maura had it planned, it changes everything.’
‘She couldn’t fake a hanging,’ Esther snaps. ‘She was going to leave a note, drive to Howth Head and leave her clothes on the cliff. That was her plan. She wanted that baby so badly.’
‘Yes, Sexton did too,’ Jo cuts in. ‘He only found out Maura was expecting after the post-mortem.’
Esther nods rapidly. ‘They’d been trying for so many years and nothing had happened. She knew, if Sexton found out about the pregnancy, he’d be in her life for ever.’ She pauses, before adding bitterly, ‘Ironic, isn’t it, that everyone thinks she did it?’
‘I have to tell him,’ Jo says.
‘He’ll never forgive me,’ Esther says.
‘He needs to know. And I think you need to accept the possibility that the stress of everything was getting to Maura. She must have been a little unhinged to have come up with the idea of faking suicide in the first place. And suicide has become … so common. Look at all the kids doing it at the moment. It’s an epidemic.’
‘What do kids these days know about anything?’ Esther asks. ‘They think life is something you can throw away in a fit of pique. They haven’t lived long enough to appreciate life. Maura wasn’t serious about it. She was a grown woman. She was about to have the baby she longed for. She thought she was getting a second chance to start again.’
‘Did you ever think it’s possible that …’ Jo starts.
‘I’m in denial?’ Esther finishes. ‘Of course. But I knew my own daughter. She wanted to live. She had a hair appointment on the day she died,’ Esther says. ‘Do you really think she’d have bothered to book if she was thinking that way?’
Jo shakes her head. ‘I just don’t know. One other thing. Why are you telling me all this now, when you didn’t tell Sexton all this time?’
Esther leans across the table and clutches her hand. ‘I heard about that man he attacked. I want him to let Maura go before anyone else gets hurt.’
17
St Benedict’s College is located on St Stephen’s Green. Sexton walks past groups of girls in uniforms – navy tartan skirts, V-neck jumpers and white shirts – and into the headmistress’s office.
Bronwyn Harris’s white shirt has that blue glow that comes with a first wear and she plays with a string of pearls hanging over her ample breasts as she speaks.
‘We’re all devastated by events, as you can imagine,’ she says, pouring Sexton a cup of tea from a china set that her secretary has left on a tray at the edge of her desk. ‘It’s a total nightmare. Sugar? Milk?’
Sexton shakes his head.
‘Something like this throws a shadow over the whole school. Did you notice how many girls are still outside? We didn’t even have classes today, but it’s as if they’re afraid to leave each other in case … well. You can’t go through the day without passing at least one huddle bawling their eyes out together. It’s awful. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever experienced in my life, and I’ve lost two sisters to cancer.’
Sexton takes a sip and keeps his eyes on the principal.
‘It’s hard to explain to people outside the school. But for many of the kids it’s their first experience of death. The fact that it’s a tragic, entirely preventable death adds to the intensity of the grief, which is just flooring them. The most terrifying thing about it is that the energy in this wave is like a tsunami. It keeps building as it moves. If we thought it was over, we could try to get on with it, but we’re constantly waiting for the next one. We’re barely coping since we were last hit, and now this – it’s horrific.’
Sexton mutters the cardboard condolences she is waiting for. He’s always been useless at polite civilities uttered for the sake of it. Of course, he’s sorry about the deaths. You’d have to be made of stone not to be sorry.
‘We’re on high alert, of course, as is every school in Dublin,’ she goes on, apparently not noticing his discomfort.
‘We’ve a counsellor available 24/7. We are keeping the school open tonight so if young people want to be together they can. We’re doing everything we can think of, and more. We’ve had meetings with journalists to appeal to them to stop publicizing the deaths in case the publicity is giving the impression that suicide is something heroic, or something that makes you famous, but the teenagers have their own way of communicating through the Internet. A lot of them don’t even read newspapers. We’ve also had meetings with the social-network providers about how to cut off access to Facebook and platforms, but you’re talking about taking their smartphones, computers – it’s just not workable in today’s world.
‘The terrible reality is that we believe, based on the experience in Bridgend in Wales, that it’s only a matter of time before this thing spreads to other counties. Twenty children have taken their own lives in sixteen weeks …’ Her façade cracks. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just too much to bear. Most of the time anger keeps the tears at bay. I am so bloody angry with them for being so reckless, for doing this to the others.’
She knits her fi
ngers around her cup and regains her composure. ‘Our school is not the worst hit, believe it or not, and we’ve lost four girls.’
‘Can you give me their names?’ Sexton asks, lifting his pen over his notebook.
‘Amy Reddan was the first. She died in November. She was fourteen. As a matter of fact, all the girls were fourteen, they were all in the same class – 2B. Melissa Brockle and Lucy Starling were next, they’re the two I mentioned from ten days ago. Lucy survived, but only just, after stealing her mother’s car and crashing into a truck. And the latest one is poor Anna Eccles. Gone.’
‘What were the girls like?’ Sexton probes. ‘Did any of them have any history of mental illness or drug taking?’
Bronwyn takes a deep breath and sighs heavily. ‘Nothing that doesn’t go with the teenage territory. Just Lucy. She had OD’d shortly after Amy died.’ Another sigh. ‘Amy was the most withdrawn of them; she wanted to be a songwriter. Lucy had lots of friends, but would have self-harmed in the past. It was her second suicide attempt – parasuicides they call them, a cry for help – she took her mother’s car and crashed it. Melissa was a talented singer too, and the most strident personality. Of all of them, she was the least likely. Anna was still more girl than woman – I doubt puberty had even started, she was just a child. She was shy, but always smiling, and had lots of friends. She wanted to be a journalist and had written an excellent review of a musical for our school newsletter.’
She pulls open a drawer in her desk and takes out an annual with the school’s crest on the front. Flicking through the pages, she stops at one and bends back the spine, pushing the book across the desk.
‘This is the class of 2B as first-years,’ she says, of a group of thirty-odd girls standing in three staggered rows. A red nail points out the faces of the dead. ‘That’s Amy …’ she continues, indicating a girl with a big mane of hair and hunched shoulders. Her finger moves to a girl with blonde hair, dark at the roots, who’s standing beside her. ‘Lucy,’ she taps. Her finger slides to the front row. ‘Here’s Anna …’ she sniffs, pointing to the petite girl with wispy hair. She sighs, and points to a pretty girl in the back row, ‘And this is Melissa …’
Bronwyn turns to a bookshelf and selects another annual, turning the pages and then showing Sexton. ‘This is the class shot this year. Amy is gone. In next year’s shot we’ll be missing Lucy, Melissa and Anna, and who knows who else …’
She blows her nose into a tissue and pulls herself together.
Sexton studies the most recent picture. There is something sadder about the whole class; few of them are now smiling. Melissa looks like a cancer patient, Sexton notes.
‘Was Melissa sick?’
‘No, that’s alopecia.’ She hesitates. ‘It struck late last year. They do link it to stress.’ She takes the annuals and closes them, putting them back in the drawer together. Sexton senses she’s holding back on him.
‘Can you tell me more about Melissa?’
‘I’ve been advised not to, I’m sorry.’
‘Advised? What does that mean? Do you mean you’ve taken legal advice? Hang on – has this something to do with bullying? The Eccleses mentioned it. Was that why Melissa was so stressed her hair was falling out? Had she spoken to you, or any of the teachers, about being bullied?’
Bronwyn puts her palms up. ‘It’s a very sensitive issue. It could have a major impact on enrolments. Our numbers are already right down.’
Sexton slaps a hand on the desk. ‘Yeah, well, four girls killing themselves might impact your cash flow too. Answer the question, please. Now: Was bullying a problem in the school?’
Bronwyn fidgets with her necklace. ‘It’s such an abstract word, you see, and so loaded. But, to answer your question: Yes, Amy had complained to me about being bullied.’ She looks relieved.
‘Amy?’ Sexton pushes.
‘Just Amy,’ she states. ‘She said Melissa was targeting her.’
‘But I thought Melissa was the one suffering.’
‘Yes, because of what had happened since. But Melissa was no wilting lily. She was a force of nature, for want of a better expression. I had spoken to her about it, especially after Amy’s death, for the sake of Amy’s father, but to tell you the truth, given the speed of developments, and the rate of suicides hitting schools, I became very reticent to pursue it. I was too frightened of the repercussions for Melissa, all of which did come to pass, as it happens.’
‘In what sense?’ Sexton asked.
‘After Amy died, the girls blamed Melissa, and there were incidents at her home – the windows were broken and several times the emergency services were sent to her door falsely. An undertaker was sent once too, in a horrible and poorly veiled threat. I have tried to keep a lid on this, but Melissa was the author of some vile Ask.fm questions that were sent to Amy before her death. The IP address came back to the school and I was able to trawl through the CCTV footage to pinpoint her on the computer at the specified time. It probably seems Big Brotherish to you, but we keep the room under surveillance because it’s our only way of completely protecting the girls and the school.
‘So Melissa was the bully turned victim?’ Sexton asks.
Bronwyn nods. ‘Yes, that sounds so harsh, given that she’s the one lying cold in the grave now. But the truth of it is that nobody ever bullied Melissa, at least not before Amy died. It was jealousy, you see. Melissa was very interested in music and was talented in her own right, but, compared to Amy, she couldn’t compete. Amy was in a league of her own.’
‘What about Anna? If she was reviewing musicals, maybe she fell foul of Melissa too?’
‘I never heard about there being any incident.’
‘Ever hear anything about a suicide “how to” video being circulated? I understand one was sent to Anna. That would suggest she was being bullied.’
‘What?’ Bronwyn is appalled. ‘I’ve never heard anything about it. But if you know something, please tell me …’
‘It may just be an urban myth,’ Sexton says. ‘But perhaps you could make some discreet enquiries and get back to me.’
‘Of course.’
‘OK,’ Sexton says, ‘so Amy’s the shy musician … Melissa is the confident singer … there is jealousy, rivalry … how am I doing?’
‘That’s it in a nutshell.’
‘Melissa bullies Amy to intimidate her,’ Sexton goes on. ‘Amy takes her own life and then Melissa is bullied and she takes her own life. And Anna shares an interest in music with both the girls. What about Lucy?’
‘Lucy was Amy’s best friend, but she was a different kettle of fish, not the most academic but certainly someone who seemed to enjoy life, a little too much sometimes, admittedly …’
‘What does that mean?’ Sexton cuts in.
‘This isn’t for anything official, right?’ Bronwyn asks.
‘It depends on what it is,’ Sexton says impatiently. ‘We may need to return to it when I take your statement.’
‘Then perhaps I shouldn’t say it at all.’
‘We need all the information at our disposal …’
Bronwyn puts up her palms. ‘Fine, I just wouldn’t want her parents to suffer any more than they have. Lucy was, shall we say, a lot more grown up than her years. One of the teachers spotted her in a nightclub she was attending herself. The teacher said she seemed inebriated. She’d also started to answer back in the classroom. It’s a very difficult age. And, as I said, prescription drugs were found in her system when she tried to OD. Her stomach had to be pumped.’
‘Any idea what kind?’
‘Serozepam was mentioned.’
‘What’s that?’
‘An anti-anxiety drug, like Xanax, I believe. Serozepam is a drug that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, detective. We’ve made several seizures from girls in the school.’
‘What happened to hash, space cakes, or magic mushrooms?’
‘It’s a different world for teenagers today, Detective. You have no idea.’
‘Still, seems an odd friendship,’ Sexton comments. ‘Why was a worldly girl like Lucy drawn to someone who sounds introverted and withdrawn, which, if I’m taking you up right, sums up Amy?’
Bronwyn sighed, ‘Yes, that’s about the sum of it. Amy was an introverted girl who found it hard to make friends, and Lucy hardly knew anyone. That’s what they had in common.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, as you’ve gathered, Amy hung back when it came to joining in; she was on her own a lot. When Lucy joined the school, she didn’t know anybody. I presume it was easier to befriend a girl like Amy than take on a group. Lucy only joined the school a little over a year ago, you see.’
‘What secondary had she previously been in?’ Sexton asked. ‘Was there some issue in her leaving?’
‘If there was, I’m unaware of it. The family had moved over from Wales, and that’s why she joined us. From the get-go they said the school wasn’t ideal for them in terms of their faith, but they wanted somewhere with a strong moral code and a convent school was the closest they could get to that. Lucy was determined to defy all that, at least that’s the way I see it …’
‘I’ll get on to her previous school myself. You said they lived in Wales – any idea what part?’
‘Yes, actually,’ Bronwyn said, giving him a funny stare. ‘Bridgend. Horrible coincidence, isn’t it?’
18
Lucy is lying prone in the high-dependency unit, with an oxygen mask over her mouth and a nurse entering her vital statistics on a chart at the end of her bed. Nancy sits on a chair beside the bed, holding her daughter’s hand. Nigel stands behind the chair. The nurse taps Nancy on the shoulder and hands her a leaflet.
Nancy stares at it for longer than it takes to read the words printed large on the front: ‘Coping With Suicide’.
‘It was an accident,’ Nancy says.
Nigel puts his hand on Nancy’s shoulder and gives it a comforting nudge.
‘It’s an epidemic with teenagers,’ the nurse says softly.
Nancy snarls. ‘My daughter is still alive.’
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