by Sam Blake
He held his hands up, stopping her. ‘Pays to be cautious. It’s our home, we need to be careful.’
‘Mary’s mind might be wandering but she’s hardly going to turn into a serial killer. She was talking about Dior yesterday, the New Look. She was really sweet, laughing like a teenager, telling me all about the dances she used to go to.’
‘The New Look, that was the late forties wasn’t it?’ Tony thought for a moment, his mind ticking through his school history. ‘If she was in her teens then, that would put her in her late seventies now. I thought she was older.’
Emily smiled, distracted momentarily from the baby debate by her new charge. ‘Mary said she had a dress made of saffron silk with puff sleeves and a huge skirt that twirled when she danced. And she wasn’t allowed out in the street without her gloves and her hat, and even if it was boiling she had to wear stockings. Sounds so formal now, doesn’t it? She was telling me how they had all their outfits tailor-made.’
‘You forget about that in these days of mass production. Had to get everything made then.’
‘My family didn’t. I don’t think my father had new shoes until he was nine and he certainly never had a new pair of trousers until he went to college.’ Emily paused. ‘From what she says I’m sure Mary is from Dublin, from a well-off family. She said she remembers women coming from the States to buy their dresses, that it was quite a fashion capital.’
‘And no rationing.’
Emily sighed. ‘It’s so sad. She really lit up when she was talking. I could almost hear the chink of the champagne glasses, see the jewels. And here she is with only the clothes she stands up in.’
21
‘Zoë’s inside, making a load of bloody awful noise.’
Speaking through her cigarette, Trish O’Sullivan pulled open Oleander’s black wrought-iron gate with one hand, fumbling in a huge lizard-skin shoulder bag for her car keys with the other. Finding them, hauling them out, she looked from Cathy to Steve, her eyes red-rimmed, spitting contempt. ‘You two know each other, do you? Might have guessed.’ She looked disdainfully at Steve. ‘Zoë told me all about you.’
Cathy held her ground but felt herself retreating inside, shrinking physically. Trish’s breath smelled foul, rank with alcohol and nicotine. And the rest of her wasn’t in much better shape, her perfectly coiffed hair squashed to one side where she’d slept on it, and in the stark light of day, the blonde was dusted with grey. From a distance she had looked smart in a navy trouser suit, but close up Cathy could see it was creased, like it had been tossed on the floor the last time she wore it.
‘We’re back in the house anyway, no thanks to your Inspector. I hope you don’t want to speak to me, I’m off to the hairdresser’s.’ Trish paused. ‘When do you think we’ll be able to bury Lavinia? I need to make the arrangements.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be long –’
Trish cut Cathy off. ‘Find out. Sooner rather than later. It’s utterly ridiculous that the pathologist should be involved at all. Undignified. We’ll have the press all over us.’
With that she pushed past Cathy and strode off down the road, almost colliding with Jamie Fanning who had appeared around the corner juggling two takeaway coffees, a cellophane bag of pastries and his mobile phone, which was clamped to his ear. At last, she needed that coffee now.
Steve watched Trish go, his eyebrows raised. ‘Whew, spiky.’
‘Sudden deaths are always a shock. People react in different ways.’ It sounded more generous than Cathy felt.
‘Don’t see any sign of the media myself. Reckon she’s as bad as it’ll get. I’m sure with her contacts she’s burying the story . . . Max reckons she’s only still working because she’s got the dirt on every big player in the country. No one dares suggest she retire.’
Steve paused as Fanning arrived beside Cathy, still on his phone, mouthing the words ‘Who was that?’ at her and nodding in Trish’s direction.
‘Trish O’Sullivan. She found Lavinia Grant’s body.’
Fanning raised his eyebrows and nodded, his attention back on his phone. ‘Cool, talk to you later.’ He flicked it off, handing Cathy one of the cups. ‘Latte for madame.’
‘Thanks.’ She took a long sip. Lukewarm: he’d obviously found someone to talk to. Then Cathy realised he was looking at her expectantly, his chocolate-brown eyes wide. It took her a moment to work out what his problem was. ‘Sorry, this is Steve Maguire, friend of Zoë Grant’s.’
‘The suspect we’re going to interview?’
Tactful. Cathy rolled her eyes. ‘The one I’m going to interview. You’re taking the notes.’
They could hear the haunting notes of a cello from the doorstep, the sound fluid and beautiful. Steve reached for the polished brass knocker, the head of a serpent, and rapped twice. Moments later Zoë answered the door, her hair pulled into a wispy tumble on the top of her head, long filigree earrings set with moonstones jangling from each ear. She was wearing a long grey skirt the colour of her eyes, velvet, embroidered in a vivid purple with an intricate pattern of flowers and butterflies soaring up from the hem; a soft purple mohair sweater, sloping off one shoulder; beneath it a white linen shirt. Cathy could feel Fanning react beside her, straightening up, putting on his legendary James Bond smile. That was all she needed.
‘Steve.’ Taking in the group on the doorstep, Zoë said his name with an unmistakable sense of relief. ‘Did you get my message? The Inspector called to say we could come back so I got a taxi over – I knew you’d be busy. How did your meeting go?’
‘Cool, got the last of the advertising stitched up.’
As Steve stepped into the hall, Cathy lagged back on the broad granite step. Zoë spoke before she had a chance to, her voice suddenly cold.
‘You’ve just missed Trish.’
‘It was you we wanted to talk to, actually.’
Zoë’s thick eyebrows met in a frown. ‘Why?’
Why indeed. Cathy tried to look as warm and relaxed as possible. Because a baby’s bones were found in your bedroom the same day your grandmother was found dead? Tempted though she was, she didn’t say it, instead kept her professional smile in place.
‘Would you mind if we came in?’
Cathy was across the threshold before Zoë had a chance to say no, Jamie Fanning right behind her.
In the hall, Cathy could see that Steve was looking for a way to defuse the tension. Putting on his casually sexy grin – the slightly vacant one that made him look like he needed mothering – he slipped his arm around Zoë, giving her a brotherly hug, his tone deliberately cheerful. ‘I’d murder a cup of tea.’
Cathy would have found the whole scene – including Steve’s choice of words – hilarious, if she hadn’t, at that moment, felt a real spike of jealousy. Why the hell was she jealous? The mad Miss Grant was welcome to Steve Maguire, to his Dr Seuss quotations and intensely irritating PR power talk . . . She tried to pull herself together, to focus back on the job. Then Jamie Fanning interrupted her thoughts.
‘That sounds like a great idea.’ He’d managed to lose their empty takeaway cups outside somewhere, had his hands casually stuck in his jeans pockets like this was a social call, his devastating smile firmly in place. Zoë looked from Steve to Cathy and Fanning, obviously unsure whether she really wanted them as guests. Then, grudgingly, she gestured towards the end of the hall. ‘Of course, come through to the kitchen.’
Following them, Cathy threw a look at Fanning, her eyebrows arched. He grinned back, knocking his highlighted fringe out of his eyes, and shrugged, his ‘I can’t help being amazing’ gesture. Amazing. Right.
Blocking him out, Cathy took a moment to glance around the hall. Every light was on, including, totally unnecessarily it seemed, the chandelier on the half landing. The house was stiflingly warm and all the doors leading from the hall were open. In the dining room, she could see that the polished mahogany table was covered in papers, a box file flung open. Opposite it, the living room was meticulously tidy, the cello leanin
g against a carved mahogany dining chair, a music stand beside it.
In the kitchen the story was the same. Lights on. Fluorescent tubes, sidelights, under-counter lights all bouncing off the polished melamine surfaces and orange cupboards, off the linoleum on the floor. A spray bottle of kitchen cleaner stood on the counter, a sponge beside it, the smell of bleach hitting Cathy hard in the gut, her hand instinctively flying to her mouth. She hid it well, rubbed her nose, coughed like she was starting a cold, tried to filter the air through her mouth as she breathed.
Steve hauled his bag off over his head, dumping it on the table, and headed for the counter.
‘I’ll make the tea, you guys sit down. That cello sounded great. Have you been playing long?’
Picking up the kettle, he filled it noisily, deliberately creating a distraction with hustle and bustle and jollity.
Fanning pulled out a chair from the scrubbed pine table and sat down. Zoë hovered for a moment, unsure whether she should sit; her hand fluttered to one of her earrings, the other crossed protectively across her waist. Cathy pulled out a chair opposite Fanning and sitting, rubbed her hands together, blowing on them. Hiding her nausea. ‘Whew, it’s cold today.’
‘Tea’s on its way. Warm us all up a bit.’
Sinking down into a pine carver, pulled out from the head of the table like it was waiting to receive her, Zoë turned to Cathy.
‘When can I go home?’
‘We’re moving as quickly as we can.’
Her hand back at her earring, a smile flicked across Zoë’s face. ‘I wasn’t expecting to be staying away for more than the night.’
‘Here we are.’ Steve brought a huge bone-china teapot to the table and poured the tea. Cathy played with her cup, weighing up whether she should plunge straight in or pussyfoot around the issues for a few more minutes – it didn’t take her long to decide. Zoë Grant gave her the creeps almost as much as this too clean, too bright kitchen. Sitting forward in her chair, Cathy hooked her hair behind her ear as she spoke.
‘Zoë, what can you tell me about your mother? Did you say she was living in France?’
Across the table 007 finally stopped gawking at Zoë long enough to pull out his notebook.
Zoë put her cup down carefully, angling the handle to her right like the position was important, would make a difference to the outcome of their conversation.
‘Why do you need to talk to her? She hasn’t been in Ireland for years.’
Cathy kept her voice level. ‘It was her dress, wasn’t it, in your room?’
‘Yes but I don’t see –’
‘It’s just that if you don’t know how the bones came to be in the hem, perhaps she can tell us. It’s important that we get as much information as possible, as quickly as we can. Then you can get back home and we can tidy everything up.’
Zoë took another sip of her tea, nodding, glancing anxiously at Steve. He put his hand out across the table, rubbed her arm like she was a pet dog. Out of the corner of her eye Cathy could see 007 watching them closely. Maybe he wasn’t a complete waste of space.
‘It’s OK,’ Steve said, ‘you can tell her. I’m sure she can help.’
It still took Zoë a moment to answer, and when she did, Cathy could hardly hear her.
‘We’ve lost touch. I really don’t know where she is.’ Then, louder, ‘Lavinia said she had made her decision to leave and that was that. I want her to come to the exhibition but now I need to find her to tell her about the funeral.’ It was like a confession.
Fanning opened his mouth to speak but Cathy threw him a glare before he got a chance. She nodded to Zoë, sympathetically, she hoped.
‘Do you have her last known address? Any information at all? I’m sure we can find her.’
Zoë shook her head, a tear forming in her eye. She brushed it away like it was a speck of dust.
‘I don’t have one. She sent me some birthday cards when I was younger and a couple of Christmas cards but they didn’t have a return address . . .’ She paused, struggling with the truth. ‘I think Lavinia must have burned the envelopes.’
Burned the envelopes? Why? Cathy fought the urge to ask, moving on, her tone deliberately gentle. ‘Would Lavinia have kept in touch with her, do you think? She must have had some point of contact in case of an emergency?’
Zoë shook her head helplessly like the whole thing was becoming too much for her to cope with. ‘I had a look in her study earlier but I couldn’t see anything. And then Trish came in and started shouting, said Lavinia’s affairs weren’t anything to do with me.’
‘Did you tell Trish what you were looking for?’
Zoë nodded. ‘She said that my mother wanted to leave, that it wasn’t for me to start raking up the past.’
OK . . . Cathy nodded, sipping her tea, said in her ‘not a problem’ voice, ‘If you can tell me your mother’s date of birth and full name, it’ll speed things up. We’ll see what we can do.’
It took a moment for Zoë to reply.
‘Her name is Eleanor, Eleanor Grant. I don’t know her full date of birth. It must be in Lavinia’s papers somewhere.’
Great. ‘And why did she go to France?’ Cathy tried to sound relaxed, interested but offhand.
‘To be with my father. I don’t know anything about him except that he was French and Lavinia didn’t like him. My mother must have loved him though – she chose to leave me behind and go to him.’
Whew. Silence yawned uncomfortably between them. Cathy could see Steve was trying to think of something to say, something that would make a mother abandoning her child better. Not surprisingly, he wasn’t having much luck. And 007, his pen poised in his hand, was keeping his mouth shut – thank God.
Giving the statement a dignified amount of time to mature, Cathy said softly, ‘How old were you?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t have many clear memories of her.’ Zoë sipped her tea, her face screwed up clawing for the half-forgotten pictures in her head. ‘I can remember a really hot summer, playing in a paddling pool in the garden. I had this swimming costume with a frilly skirt, bright pink. And a woman with long hair and a patchwork skirt. I remember she was pretty, beautiful, and she gave me ice cream. She had a butterfly necklace. Silver with enamel on its wings, turquoise and pink. I loved it. And a clip in her hair. But something about her was sad. I don’t remember her smiling.’ Zoë stopped for a moment, her gaze fixed on her cup. ‘It’s all a bit hazy.’
Cathy nodded again. ‘Did Lavinia ever tell you anything about your father?’
Zoë shook her head. ‘She never spoke about him – I’ve never even seen a photograph of him. Lavinia didn’t like photos. There aren’t any in the house. She probably burned them.’
‘Did she burn a lot of things?’ Cathy tried to sound casual, to keep the incredulity from her voice, suddenly seeing an image of Lavinia Grant stirring a brazier like something out of Macbeth.
Zoë shrugged. ‘She was worried the press would go through the bins. Being the head of Grant Valentine has its downside – she didn’t want the press knowing anything about her private life. She was always saying to remember what happened to Diana.’
‘Diana?’ Cathy was beginning to lose the thread.
‘The Princess of Wales. Remember what happened with the paparazzi.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Cathy took a hasty sip of her tea. Surely Lavinia Grant didn’t seriously compare herself to Lady Diana? She might be one of the in-crowd but she was hardly royalty. And wasn’t her best friend a journalist? But perhaps that was the relationship she didn’t want the press exploring.
Before she could think of anything intelligent to say to follow that one, Cathy felt her phone vibrating in her pocket.
‘Sorry, excuse me.’ She pulled it out, checked the screen. O’Rourke. You had to give him full marks for timing.
‘Excuse me.’ Throwing a stern glance at Fanning, willing him not to speak, she slipped out from the table and headed for the tiny hall that li
nked the kitchen with the back door. Behind her she could half-hear Steve murmuring something sympathetic to Zoë.
‘How’s it going?’ O’Rourke’s tone was loaded.
‘Tricky, but we’re getting there – 007’s playing a blinder.’ Cathy kept her voice low, her lips grazing the mouthpiece of the phone. She was sure she was out of earshot, but she wasn’t taking any risks.
‘Good.’ She could hear him smiling. ‘I won’t keep you. We’ve had a development.’ O’Rourke paused. ‘The techs have had a look at those bones and the dress.’
‘And?’ Cathy could feel his excitement radiating down the phone, cursed him for keeping her on tenterhooks. If she’d been standing next to him she would have poked him in the ribs.
‘I need to know if there’s anyone out there who might have a grudge against Zoë, an old enemy maybe, someone who doesn’t like it that she’s finally getting a break with this exhibition of hers.’
‘Go on.’ Why? Cathy felt like shouting it down the phone. O’Rourke could be a pain in the arse when he was being clever, going all mysterious.
‘Some of the clothes on the floor in Zoë’s room had been slashed, including the wedding dress. That’s why it caught on the nail and you found the bones. Someone ran a knife through the skirt from the waistband to the hem.’
Jesus. ‘Nice. Anything else?’ Cathy knew there was, could tell from his voice. O’Rourke paused before he answered.
‘They’ve found soil traces. In the hem and on the bones. Looks like the bones could have been buried before they ended up in the dress . . .’ She could hear him moving, like he was bending over to polish his shoes or dropping something in the bin. ‘So we’re digging up the garden, see if we can find the rest of them.’ It was blunt, no-nonsense. ‘You better tell Miss Grant that she’s not going to be going home for a while.’
22
The Angelus bell was striking as Cathy headed back into the station, her heels rattling off the chill grey paving stones into the even chillier grey air. She’d walked briskly from the DART station, weaving through office workers heading home, teenagers beginning to gather around the grim 1970s hulk of a shopping centre that dominated the otherwise elegant Victorian seaside town. She could have caught a lift from Monkstown but she’d felt like the walk, had hoped it would clear her head, give her some time to arrange her thoughts. It hadn’t helped.
