by Sam Blake
Bastard. That last win had been a big one, and the old man knew Kuteli was turning up the heat, calling in his loans. He knew them, could have helped him out, could have made the payment, bought him some time.
But he hadn’t. Hierra felt a surge of anger building all over again. Why had he been surprised? His father had let him down all his life; why when his son’s life was threatened should it be any different?
Hierra stuck his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and headed away from the car, his shoulders tense. His father had asked for it. Asked for everything he’d gotten, and then some. And he, Angel Hierra, was going to get the last laugh. After everything, after all the years of shit, Angel Hierra was going to get himself sorted. The sins of the father. He almost laughed out loud. Now it was time to cash those sins in.
10
In the studio, Zoë reached for a walkabout phone. O’Rourke’s tone hadn’t left any room for discussion. ‘Can we call your grandmother perhaps? I think we need a quick chat with her as well.’
‘She’s still not answering.’
Cathy detected a hint of irritation in Zoë’s voice as she clicked off the phone and laid it back down on the desk. It had taken a while for Zoë to fully understand that they needed to speak to Lavinia Grant about the wedding dress and that she wouldn’t be able to stay in her house tonight, would need somewhere else to go.
And now, after all the effort, Lavinia Grant wasn’t answering.
In the heat of the studio Zoë had taken off her blue velvet coat, hanging it over the musical instrument case leaning in the corner; Cathy wasn’t sure what sort of instrument it was, but it was almost as big as its owner. Now Zoë ran her slim fingers along her collarbone, an unconscious movement that made her silver bangles play down her bare arm, the sound like the high notes on a keyboard.
‘Is your grandmother normally at home at this time?’ Cathy asked.
‘She usually has a rest in the afternoon, says she can’t sleep at night. She’s an insomniac; she just won’t admit it to herself.’
‘Does she have a mobile you could try?’
‘She doesn’t even have an answering machine.’ Zoë laughed sardonically. ‘She reckons mobiles are all bugged by the media, that if you need her badly enough you can seek an audience by making an appointment with her secretary.’
‘Not to worry.’ O’Rourke stood up decisively. ‘We’ll try her again in a few minutes. She might have popped out for a pint of milk or something.’ Before O’Rourke could continue, Zoë interrupted him, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘She has a housekeeper for that type of thing.’
Cathy couldn’t tell if the tone was directed at O’Rourke or at Lavinia Grant, but it sure as hell didn’t improve his mood.
‘Naturally. We’ll need to speak to her too.’ O’Rourke forced a smile. ‘Now while we still have the scenes-of-crime lads here I’d like to get some samples from you.’ His tone was matter-of-fact, his steady blue eyes meeting Zoë’s like she was an errant child brought in front of the headmaster. ‘For elimination purposes.’
‘I, er, I’m not sure . . .’ Zoë paled, her eyes darting between them, her hand frozen at her throat.
‘It’s quite simple. Just fingerprints and a sample we can use so we can distinguish your DNA and eliminate it.’ Cathy could see Zoë didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. ‘We can take a couple of hairs, or a blood sample, but the simplest is a small scraping from the inside of your mouth.’ She summoned every remaining vestige of patience she had. ‘It’s called a buccal sample – it’s Latin for cheek – and it really doesn’t hurt at all.’
‘I . . .’ Obviously unable to think of a reasonable objection, Zoë nodded slowly, her hand fluttering, fussing with her hair, with the ribbon on her blouse. Before she could change her mind, Cathy had the studio door open, was breathing in the cold night air.
‘I’ll give Thirsty a shout, he’s very nice. Won’t take a minute. Do you want to try your grandmother again?’
Despite Cathy’s assurance that the procedure was painless, Zoë winced as Thirsty scraped the inside of her mouth. In the close confines of the studio, Cathy could hear the rasp of Thirsty’s breath, the rattle deep down in his lungs as he added the details in his notebook and slipped the sample into the job bag.
Sometimes she felt like stealing his fags and putting them through the shredder. He wasn’t the only one who smoked; when you stumbled out of a crime scene, flashbulbs going off in your face, or had to witness the post-mortem on a child, those who smoked did so with gusto. But as Thirsty regularly pointed out, it was his only vice. He’d earned his nickname drinking orange juice, had joined the teetotal Pioneers group when he was eighteen, resoundingly making the decision to renounce alcohol around the time, Cathy reckoned, that he’d got married. Now he had four daughters, all settled down, none of them running around in the middle of the night getting shot at – or stupid enough to get themselves up the duff. Cathy rapidly curtailed that line of thought as Thirsty gave her one of his grins, a look loaded with experience and encouragement and I know you’re grand but look after yourself, lass, and flipped the lid of his box closed, the catches rattling.
‘That’s me done.’
‘Thanks, Thirsty.’ O’Rourke said, ‘It’s getting late, so I think we need to pay a visit to your grandmother’s house, Zoë.’ He glanced at the battered diving watch that never left his wrist. It was way too big to be practical, gave pressure readings down to a hundred metres as well as about a million other things apparently. When they’d been in the car together Cathy had slagged him mercilessly over it, continually asking what the wind speed was, whether it gave the suspect’s full name and address or just his date of birth. ‘We need to talk to her. Let’s see if she’s in and just not answering the phone, will we?’
A shadow passed across Zoë’s face. Cathy wasn’t sure quite what it was – fear? There was definitely something amiss with Zoë’s relationship with her grandmother. And by the sounds of things, her mother too. Zoë looked unsure. ‘She hates people calling on her.’ Then, as if the solution to the whole problem had suddenly presented itself, her face brightened. ‘I could try Trish. She’s Lavinia’s friend. She lives at Oleander most of the time – Lavinia doesn’t like being on her own.’ Zoë paused. ‘She’s got a mobile. Her number’s in my phone, in my bag.’ She looked confused for a moment. ‘I think I left it in the car.’
O’Rourke picked up her coat, handing it to her, and opened the studio door ceremoniously, his eyes cold, winter blue. ‘Lead on.’
Cathy moved to follow Zoë but O’Rourke caught her arm, his voice low.
‘Keep an eye on her. I want to catch up with the boys. Let me know what’s happening.’
Cathy nodded wordlessly and, crossing her arms to fend off the chill, stepped out of the heat into the night.
The car was right where Zoë had left it, a patrol car now behind it, the Technical Bureau van still wedged into the mouth of the drive in front. Squeezing past the van’s pristine white sides, her feet crunching on the gravel, Zoë headed straight to the passenger door, leaning into the front seat, searching through her handbag. It took her a few moments. A few moments in which Cathy exchanged glances with the guy stationed on the door, stamping to keep his circulation going. A few moments in which she heard a voice that lifted her right out of the darkness.
‘Jesus, Cat, what are you doing here?’
What the . . . ? In a flurry of loose shale Steve Maguire had skewed his bike to a halt only feet away from her, his face blazing red. So it should be.
Jumping back out of the way, Cathy steadied herself on the stone gate pillar, her right hand flying to her hip, a reflexive action. Surprised by the suddenness of his arrival, and just a tiny bit shocked, it took Cathy a second to recover. It was six weeks since she’d last seen him, the night when . . . Christ, why did life have to be so complicated? She could feel herself starting to blush. Her rebuke was fast and acerbic.
Steve looked back at her and stuck out his tongue, any confidence he’d lost from the surprise of seeing her returning with a vengeance.
‘Don’t be such a stuffed shirt, Cat; what are you doing here anyway?’
As Steve spoke, Zoë emerged from the car, her phone in her hand, and he shot her one of his devastating grins, one Cathy was very familiar with, a heady blend of little boy lost and successful magazine entrepreneur.
‘Zoë.’ He switched his tone, his voice caring, concerned. ‘I thought I’d better check on you and see if everything was OK – you had to rush off so quickly.’
Zoë’s hand flew to her mouth, her voice betraying her surprise at seeing him. ‘I didn’t get back to you. I’m so sorry. The Guards have been here all afternoon.’
‘No problem, you’ve other things on your plate. Max said you can drop in when you’re free to work out the agreements. He’s planning to get the exhibition up at the end of the month – so there’s no panic.’
So that was what he was doing here – he knew Zoë. Through Max and the gallery. Cathy inwardly rolled her eyes. That would be right. There were some days when Dublin was just too small.
Best pals since school, Max and Steve were her brother Pete’s best friends, serial entrepreneurs all of them, who saw obstacles as challenges, who didn’t take no for an answer. As Steve was always saying, quoting Dr Seuss, ‘You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And you’re the one who’ll decide where to go.’ They were well suited. ‘The three stooges’, her big brother Aidan called them. And in that moment Cathy found herself back in the seemingly endless summer holiday at the end of her first year in senior school, to them all hanging out by the river. Half-eaten orange ice lollies falling off the stick; red lemonade and ham sandwiches; flip-flops and cut-off jeans; sunburn; the rope swing; shrieking at the ice-cold water. Steve Maguire’s fringe flopping into his eyes and her first kiss. Oh Christ.
‘So you two know each other, do you?’ Sitting up, his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, Steve looked innocently from Zoë to Cathy and back again.
‘We just met today,’ Cathy said. Then, speaking to him as if she was addressing a rather dim child, she jerked her head to indicate the Technical Bureau van behind her. You could hardly miss it. ‘I’m working.’
Steve slapped the side of his head theatrically. ‘Of course.’ He ran his hand through his hair, ruffling the spikes, then, hanging over his handlebars again, grinned mischievously, blue eyes twinkling. ‘So how’s it going, Garda Connolly?’
‘Grand, thanks, but we’re a bit busy here right now.’
‘Work away, don’t let me stop you. I’ll just have a quick word with Zoë and I’ll be off. I need to set up an interview. She’s going to be the next big thing this Christmas, trust me.’
‘I’m afraid Zoë’s not going to be available for a chat for a bit longer.’ Cathy turned her attention back to Zoë. ‘Your grandmother’s friend? Will we try her now?’
‘Maybe we can talk later?’ Apologetically Zoë turned to Steve before she glared back at Cathy. ‘If I’m allowed.’ Then: ‘Trish’s a journalist; she always has her phone on.’
As Steve leaned over his handlebars fiddling intently with the brakes or something, like he wasn’t listening in, Cathy tried to focus on Zoë Grant, on the reason why they were all there. Maybe Zoë really didn’t know anything about the bones, or maybe she knew all about them but somehow didn’t see that she’d committed a crime – concealing a death at the very least, infanticide at worst. The thought sent Cathy’s hand to massage her stomach, a quick unconscious movement. Being a mother so wasn’t part of her master plan, easily rated as the biggest shock of her life, and right now it was a shock Cathy wasn’t sure she’d ever get to grips with – but there were ways of dealing with an unplanned pregnancy that didn’t include stitching the bones of your baby in the hem of a dress, a wedding dress at that.
Cathy felt an unexpected stab of pity as she looked at Zoë Grant. She seemed to have everything: incredible talent, looks, money, a fabulous house; but teasing the ground with the toe of her boot, her free hand plucking at her blouse again then tucking her long hair behind her ear, she looked lonely and isolated.
‘It’s ringing.’ Interrupting Cathy’s thoughts, Zoë crossed her arms, pulling her coat around herself, leaning back on the side of the car, her grey eyes flicking over towards Steve, then back to the ground.
‘Trish? It’s Zoë.’ Zoë’s posture changed as she spoke, her face becoming animated. ‘I need to speak to Lavinia. She’s not answering her phone; do you know where she is?’
Listening for a moment, Zoë put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Cathy. ‘She’s at Lavinia’s house now. Just got out of a cab. She’s been out to lunch.’
‘Would you mind if I had a quick word?’ Cathy moved towards Zoë, her blue eyes questioning. Zoë frowned, then said into the phone, ‘Trish? There’s a girl here who needs to talk to you. She’s a Guard. Yes, a Guard.’ Zoë held out the phone to Cathy. ‘She’s had a lot to drink, you might get more sense out of her.’
Steve was still leaning on his bike, one foot on the ground steadying it. Straightening up, he raised his eyebrows, his face concerned. ‘Was there much taken? In the breakin?’
Zoë shrugged, standing uneasily biting her lip. Cathy didn’t catch what she said but Steve nodded as if he understood.
‘Trish? This is Detective Garda Cathy Connolly. We need to speak to Lavinia Grant rather urgently. Is she at home?’ Glancing over at Zoë, Cathy raised her voice, repeating herself, this time trying to say every word as clearly as possible. The voice on the other end was slurred. Obviously it had been a very long lunch.
‘Course she is, my dear. Place is lit up like a bloody Christmas tree. Didn’t bloody answer the door though, the silly cow. I’ve forgotten my keys . . . I’m just looking for the back-door key.’ There was a pause, the sound of scrabbling. ‘Here it is. Be in in a mo.’
Cathy could hear the door being opened, had to hold her phone away from her ear as the next comment was shrieked.
‘Lavinia? Where are you? Lavinia, PHONE!’ There was a pause. ‘Can’t find her. She must be upstairs. LAVINIA!’
Cathy could hear the crash of a door opening and closing.
‘LAVINIA! I know you’re in,’ then to Cathy, ‘Maybe she’s upstairs.’
A clicking sound, something banging on wood as Trish struggled up the stairs, her breath laboured.
‘LAVINIA? Where are you? There’s a girl on the phone . . .’ More puffing. ‘Bugger these stairs.’ A door banged. ‘She’s not in her room, Christ, she must be at the top. Do you really need her now?’
‘I’m afraid so . . .’
‘Just call the Guards if I have a heart attack.’ Trish began to giggle at her own joke. ‘Here we are, almost there . . .’
Cathy was about to speak when there was an animal shriek from the phone.
‘Trish, are you OK?’
Another shriek. Choking, gasping for breath. Then hysterical sobbing. Pain, raw and pure. Even Steve looked taken aback. ‘Jesus, what was that, a banshee?’
PART TWO
Adjusting the Tension
Tension refers to the pressure being placed on the needle and bobbin thread by the sewing machine. When the tension is correct the stitches will be even and neat. Your sewing machine manual will show you the appropriate settings and examples of what the threads should look like on the right and wrong sides of your stitching when the tension is correct, and what happens when it is incorrect.
11
It didn’t take them long to find the body.
A patrol car and ambulance had already arrived outside Lavinia Grant’s impressive Georgian end-of-terrace house when O’Rourke pulled up. One of the uniformed Gardaí, getting no response at the front door, had acknowledged O’Rourke’s arrival with a wave of a long bla
ck torch, flicking the beam on as he skipped down the broad granite steps and disappeared out of sight behind a dense bush, heading for the back door. The two paramedics followed.
O’Rourke turned to Zoë Grant and Steve Maguire, huddled in the back seat of the car. ‘Stay here, both of you, don’t move until someone comes to get you.’
Steve had nodded silently. Zoë didn’t appear to hear him; she was staring up at the house. She had been monosyllabic on the way to Monkstown, her grey eyes unfocused: her grandmother lived alone unless Trish was staying, the housekeeper left at three; Lavinia hadn’t mentioned any appointments today.
Cathy had been surprised when O’Rourke had bundled Steve into the car along with Zoë, but his explanation made sense: ‘He’ll keep her entertained while we find out what’s going on. I don’t want any loose strands on this investigation, and we don’t know what he knows.’
Cathy had nodded. He had a point. Zoë and Steve obviously knew each other – quite how well, they’d find out later.
Cathy pulled the collar of her jacket up against the chill as she got out of the car. Across the road a man slowed as he walked past, hands thrust into his overcoat pockets, hat pulled low over his eyes, looking at them curiously. Cathy half-glanced at him, would have moved him on if she had had time; they all hated rubberneckers.
As Cathy followed O’Rourke through the side gate, the sound of her heels bounced off the walls of the passage running to the back of the house like bullets ricocheting off a target. The bulbs had blown in the security lights along its length, the last one struggling to produce a weak pool that illuminated the gate at the end. The smell of cats was overpowering, dizzying, and for a second Cathy wondered if this was what dying was like.
They said you could see a light at the end of a tunnel.
The darkness whirling, Cathy reached for the wall, shutting her eyes, the raw stone cold and sharp against her palm. No one had mentioned if the tunnel to the afterlife stank like this one, but she could feel the hair standing up on the back of her neck. She’d been there once – almost. The pain. The sound of shots bouncing off the walls like the sound of her boots on the concrete. Darkness and cold and pain. More pain. O’Rourke’s voice calling her, then slowly fading. Memories normally pushed to the deepest recesses of Cathy’s mind bubbled to the surface like methane.
