by Sam Blake
O’Rourke paused, letting his words sink in, looked around the room making eye contact with every single officer. He’d chosen them carefully, brought in the guys who had been at the scene yesterday, had done some digging and found other locals familiar with the Murphy case who were just as sick about the outcome as he was; supplemented by lads who wanted to make something of their careers, who were serious police officers on the fast track. Members who didn’t want a fuck-up on their record.
‘There will be comparisons when it all comes out, it’s inevitable. But there will be no questions asked about the way in which we conducted this investigation. It’s by the book. Anyone who can’t manage that is off the team. Is that understood?’ The ripple of nodding heads was like a Mexican wave. Cathy focused on her pen, on a doodle she was drawing on the pad in front of her. O’Rourke sounded bloody good. In control. In command. Even the smart-arses were like pussycats when he was in charge. He quickly outlined the facts of the case.
‘Professor Saunders is doing Lavinia Grant’s PM this morning.’ He paused, leaned over to take a slug of the coffee cooling on the desk beside him. ‘Our priority is to establish Zoë Grant’s mother’s whereabouts, talk to her about the dress, find out where it’s been since it was made. The boys in the Park are examining it this morning, so we should get some initial feedback from them around lunchtime.’
O’Rourke looked around the room, taking in the whole team. ‘I want to know what happened to that child and how it ended up in the hem of a bloody dress.’
17
Oleander House was in darkness when Zoë arrived.
It was almost ten o’clock but she had expected the Guards to be still here, someone at least to be minding the place, waiting for her, but the house looked abandoned, curtains open, the windows unlit, like the soul of the building had left it. It was strange seeing it unoccupied. As she paid the taxi driver, Zoë realised that she couldn’t remember a time when the house had been empty. Even as a child, when a driver had collected her from school and dropped her home, if Lavinia and Trish weren’t in then the housekeeper had been, lights on throughout the house, the old building warm and welcoming, often more so than the two women who lived there.
Slamming the car door, Zoë shivered. The rain had stopped but the sky was steel grey, the clouds hemmed seamlessly, meeting the sea on the horizon in a line so sharp it could have been drawn with a pencil. She hoped the house wasn’t too cold, that someone had left the heating on. She was sure that Trish would be back the minute she picked up Zoë’s message that the Inspector had phoned, and if the place was cold, that would give her something else to complain about.
Would Trish expect to stay now Lavinia was gone? Who even owned Oleander now? Zoë had no idea what was in Lavinia’s will, had never thought to ask. She wouldn’t be surprised if Lavinia had left the house to Trish.
Lifting the latch on the gate, Zoë sighed. She really should be feeling sad about Lavinia’s death, but all she felt was numb. Numb and confused about, well, just about everything.
Pushing open the front door and flipping on the light switches in the hall, Zoë threw her handbag on the spindly-legged chair that stood between the dining room and the study and headed for the kitchen, her footsteps silent on the deep carpet. In Lavinia’s study the mantel clock began to chime, the sound familiar but somehow hollow, lonely.
Reaching tentatively in around the heavy kitchen door, Zoë felt for the brass panel of light switches. There was something about a dark room that totally spooked her, and the kitchen was at the back of the house, the two windows that opened onto the garden shaded by shrubbery. A moment later the electric strip lights flickered into life and Zoë breathed a sigh of relief.
Filling the kettle, she turned and looked around the room while it boiled, steadying herself against the counter. It had looked exactly the same for as long as she could remember, the floor a chequerboard of black and white tiles, cupboards painted a dull orange, their long perspex handles catching the light from the fluorescent tubes overhead. She’d sat here at the scrubbed pine table to do her homework, listening to the housekeeper humming along to the radio as she prepared dinner. She had opened her exam results here. Had waited here, listening out for the postman, hoping one day a letter from her mother would come.
But now black footprints trailed across the tiles where the Guards had been backwards and forwards to the back door, and even in the short time that they had been out of the house a fine layer of dust had formed on the Formica counters. Everything was changing. Zoë hooked a long strand of hair behind her ear, trying to focus. She’d thought she’d feel better coming back here but right now she felt like everything was swirling around in her head like a winter sea, cold and threatening to overwhelm her. She didn’t know what she should be worrying about first.
There was just so much happening. Her exhibition, and the bones, and Steve and now this, now Lavinia. And then there was the man in her garden. Had he been the one who had broken into her house? She hadn’t been able to get him out of her head, his shadowy figure growing in her imagination last night as she’d tossed and turned in Steve’s spare room. What had he wanted? Zoë shivered, crossing her arms tightly around herself.
Out in the hall her mobile began to ring and Zoë’s heart sank a bit further. It couldn’t be Steve. His note had said he had a meeting around now. Was it Trish? She hoped not. Zoë needed a few minutes on her own to, well, just to try and get her head around everything. Steve’s face appeared in her mind, full of concern. He’d been so lovely last night, and even this morning had had to go out but had left her a note with a Belgian chocolate beside it – as if chocolate was the solution to all her problems – but it had made her smile, made her feel so grateful that someone cared. The phone stopped as the kettle came to a boil noisily behind her and Zoë turned to pull out the teapot. But before she could make the tea it began to ring again, the ringtone, an old-fashioned telephone bell, insistent, demanding attention. She had better answer it.
By the time she got into the hall and found it in her bag, it had stopped once more. Checking the screen, she sighed with relief. It was Phil. Silly, lovely Phil. She hit the dial button.
‘Zoë, pet, I was just leaving you a message – how are you? We saw the news about Lavinia.’ Before she could answer, the line cracked with static. ‘Hang on a minute, is that better? The reception is terrible here. You’d think we were in Outer Mongolia, not Donegal. We have to walk up the lane from the cottage to even get a signal.’
Zoë smiled; Phil might spend his holidays looking for driftwood to make beautiful picture frames, but he was a total techy, got twitchy if he couldn’t check Facebook at least twenty times a day. It was good to hear his voice.
‘I’m fine, really. It’s a shock but –’
‘I know,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s Lavinia. Selfish to the end. It’s like she planned to go out in a blaze of press speculation.’
‘Phil!’ Zoë almost laughed. Lavinia had been so incredibly rude to him the first time they’d met, Phil had never forgiven her.
‘We’re coming back, Dan and me, we’re taking you out to dinner –’
It was her turn to interrupt him. ‘I’m at Oleander, Phil, there was, there is . . .’ How did she say it? ‘I left a message on your phone. My house was broken into. The Guards found . . . some . . . well they found some stuff they had to examine so I can’t go back yet.’
‘You left a message? Damn the reception here.’ Then Zoë heard him turn away from the phone. ‘I told you there was a message, Danny, didn’t I say?’
Dan muttered something Zoë didn’t catch. They were totally inseparable but were always fighting, didn’t seem to agree on anything, even had different sorts of milk in their coffee.
‘That’s terrible, was much taken? Do they know who did it?’ She could feel his concern coming down the phone line, his voice as anxious as she was.
Zoë shook her head. ‘I’m not sure if anything was taken. I can�
��t go in to see yet, but there was a man in the garden.’ As she said it, she felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. ‘I don’t know . . .’
‘We’re coming. We’ll be back in Dublin by tonight. I’ll ring you then, babes.’
Before Zoë could answer, the front door opened behind her, a gust of chill sea air billowing into the hall. She spun around to find Trish standing in the doorway.
‘There’s a taxi outside with your cello in it, you better go and pay him.’
18
‘This is totally ridiculous. We can’t keep her here.’ Tony Cox put his empty mug down on the granite counter too hard, the sound ringing across the kitchen, and hauled the fridge door open, searching for the milk. He could hear the kettle bubbling to the boil and with it, he was sure, Emily’s temper. He’d nipped home mid-morning but was due back for his rounds soon – but not before he’d sorted out the almighty mess Emily had created. How could she have invited this mad old woman – Tony hated the term, but let’s face facts – into their home? He closed his eyes, summoning reserves of patience from the tips of his toes, battling to keep his own temper under control. He already didn’t get to spend half as much time with Emily as he wanted to, and now this?
Behind him, Emily had gone quiet. Not a good sign. Suddenly realising that he was clenching his teeth, Tony consciously tried to relax his jaw. Sometimes he wished Emily was more like his mother. Just plain loud. But Emily was so different. She turned everything inward. Everything.
The fridge started to peep loudly, its alarm telling Tony he’d had the door open too long. But he still couldn’t see the milk, and realised that he wasn’t actually looking for it. Every argument he came up with, every reason he had for Mary not staying made him sound like the Grinch who stole Christmas. And Tony already felt like a total shit, his guilt sharp, like someone was prodding him with a pitchfork, whenever he disagreed with Emily. She had been through so much . . .
Emily’s voice cut into his thoughts, low but forceful: ‘There was no way Mary could go back to that flat on her own after spending half the night wandering the streets, and well you know it, Tony Cox.’
Tony took a deep breath and, giving in to the fridge’s manic insistence, let the door fall shut as he turned to face his wife.
‘Emily, it’s Thanksgiving.’
Leaning on the counter, her hands thrust into the pockets of her jeans, shoulders squared ready for a fight, Emily glared back at him.
‘Exactly. Thanksgiving. When families get together to give thanks for the harvest and for the safe delivery of the Pilgrim Fathers. Your mother –’
‘Oh my God.’ Tony held up his hands in surrender, a partial one at least, his tone incredulous. ‘Do we have to bring my mother into this?’ Tony deliberately opened the fridge again and peered inside.
‘Your mother says it’s a time for family, for thankfulness.’
Family.
The one thing Emily wanted more than ever. The word was like a kick in the gut.
He turned to face her, conscious of the tension radiating between them across the terracotta tiles. He felt an overpowering urge to hug her, wanted to close the gap yawning between them. Then he realised that the fridge door was still open, and it was peeping again. He slammed it shut and cleared his throat.
‘So, what are we going to do with her?’
‘Can’t we just keep her until after Thanksgiving? It’s not as if she’s your patient – she’s our house guest. And can’t you have a word with one of your colleagues and get her assessed? I’m sure she’ll be better if she gets some medication.’
Emily’s voice was imploring, tugging at Tony, notes of the same tune that went around his head every day. Every single day. It was his fault she couldn’t have children, his fault she’d been attacked. If only he hadn’t been late. If only he hadn’t taken that call – if only he’d been there. He should have been with her sitting in the park on their bench, sharing coffee and bagels, swapping hospital gossip like teenagers. But instead he’d been on the phone in his office arranging a meeting that could have waited, and Emily had been alone, wandering aimlessly as she waited for him. The shock of getting the call from the cops had made his world stop turning. He’d thought he was going to lose her, and at that moment he’d realised he couldn’t live on without her.
‘OK, OK. I’ll ask Singh to assess her. He can organise an MRI scan, but you know it could take a while to get a positive diagnosis.’
‘Do you really think she’s got time to wait? She’s started wandering. You know it’ll only get worse. Would he not make an educated guess?’
Tony looked at her despairingly. She knew as well as he did that that was a ridiculous question. ‘He can guess lots of things, but without monitoring we can never be sure the prognosis is correct – it’s hard to be definitive in cases like this . . .’
‘But she’s rambling, hallucinating – she’s hearing voices and keeps saying she can smell cigars, for goodness’ sake. And she’s disassociated, emotionless, seems to have retreated deep inside herself.’
Tony picked up his cup. ‘I know, I’ve seen all of that, but it could still be Alzheimer’s. There’s a fine line between a psychiatric disorder and dementia. And late-onset schizophrenia is relatively rare.’
‘What if it’s not late-onset, what if Mary’s been like this her whole life, but no one has noticed?’
‘Is that likely? Irrational behaviour, disassociated thoughts, depression? I think someone would have noticed that.’
‘Not necessarily. Mary’s been on her own for years. She said something about being a governess. I mean, when did people last have governesses?’
‘OK, OK, I’ll ask Singh to check her out. There are a few things he can try that might help bring her back.’
Emily’s smile was warm, like the sun coming out, lighting her face.
‘Thank you. We’ll let her get over the shock and then I’ll take her home. She’s so bewildered, she’s like a child.’
Like a child. Tony looked at Emily, stunned. It had popped out before she’d even known she was saying it. The words stung, left a dark hole of silence in their wake.
Realising what she’d said, glancing at him, Emily continued hastily, papering over the cracks as fast as she could.
‘I don’t mean that, I mean she’s vulnerable, and she’s been alone for so long . . .’ She tried to backtrack, but the damage had been done.
Tony came over to her, enveloping her in his arms, pressing her face into his broad chest, resting his chin on her head.
‘One day I’ll get my hands on that kid and I’ll kill him.’
Tony could feel Emily’s tears through his shirt, her voice already husky, trying to sound bright.
‘That’s mad, Tony Cox. It wasn’t his fault. He was doped up, probably never even realised he’d cut me.’
It wasn’t the mugging that was the problem. It was the infection that had caused the damage. Irreparable damage. Damage so severe that Emily might never be able to have what she wanted so desperately – a child of her own. They’d talked about it so many times, going over and over the same ground, so many rounds of IVF, so many failures. And after the most recent one, just before they left America, she’d begun to talk seriously about adoption. The one thing Tony really couldn’t get his head around. It might be for others, but not for him. He wanted above everything else for their child to be a part of them. He’d been so sure IVF would work eventually.
He knew Emily couldn’t understand his worries that an adopted child might turn out to have deep-rooted psychological problems that none of them could have foreseen, and of the heartache that might bring. Perhaps he was being irrational, but he saw it every day in work, and it nagged at him like toothache whenever they discussed it. There were so many behavioural difficulties that couldn’t be detected with genetic screening, and were they ready for that? Would he, at his age, be able to cope? Would Emily? Would he end up resenting the fact that someone else’s ch
ild was taking all of Emily’s attention?
Without adoption as a possibility, surrogacy was looking like the only alternative, and that was fraught with difficulty, quite apart from the legal issues.
‘I know, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Really, I know. So I guess we’ll keep Mary? As a house guest?’
19
‘What are you doing here?’
Cathy hastily shoved her phone back in her pocket and swung around to find Steve Maguire behind her, the wheels of his bike hissing to a stop on the glistening pavement outside Oleander House. He was shaking his head. ‘Haven’t seen you in months, and here you are for the second time in two days. Anyone would think you fancied me or something.’
Had he heard her on the phone, making the appointment? She tried to hide her anxiety with a glare.
After the briefing this morning, O’Rourke had summoned her to his office, had stood staring out of the window, hands deep in his pockets.
‘Zoë Grant knows something about all this, she must do. I want you to go and see her this afternoon. Find out about her mother. Saunders reckons Lavinia Grant’s death is from natural causes. A massive heart attack. The bash on the back of her head is consistent with a fall and he’s found no evidence to suggest interference.’ He didn’t sound like he believed Saunders for one minute. ‘Though what caused her heart to fail so dramatically on that day of all days remains an issue in my mind.’ He’d paused. ‘We’ll have to release the scene. I’m going to ring Trish O’Sullivan and Zoë now to let them know they can go back to Oleander House. I want you to meet Zoë there later, ask about the mother. Watch her reactions. And have a good look at that house while you’re at it.’
