by Sam Blake
‘Who were you with, Mary?’ Emily’s tone was gentle, coaxing. Were they getting closer to finding out where she had come from, who her family were?
‘Connie.’ The name was crystal clear, no hesitation, the memories coming now like the tide, each wave gaining strength. ‘She was a devil, it was her idea. We left our bicycles on the pier. It was such a long drive, right up to the mountain. The boys had a picnic. We took the basket up along the path.’ Then, Mary’s face creasing with a smile, mischievous, she lowered her voice. ‘And do you know, Connie took off her stockings and went paddling with him. Can you imagine? The water was crystal clear, beautiful. We got into terrible trouble, we were home so late.’
‘Who was Connie, Mary?’
Emily had inched to the edge of her seat, could feel the hard-lipped edge of the table cutting into her stomach as she leaned forward.
‘Connie was my friend. We were like two peas, everyone said. We met the first day at work. Hadn’t she forgotten her gloves, but I had a spare pair in my bag. She was always in trouble – so bold. Always late for work, ready with a string of excuses, you should have heard them . . . She could have written a book.’
Mary trailed off. Itching with questions, Emily waited to see if she would say more, but Mary was looking out of the window at a point far out to sea, her eyes glazed, enjoying the memories.
Emily glanced at Tony, her eyes anguished, eyebrows raised in question. Tony looked around the boat. People were gathering their possessions together, but looking at the distance they were from land, he was sure they had a few more minutes. Enough time for Mary to talk without them having to interrupt her and bustle her out. He gave Emily a discreet nod.
‘Where did you work, Mary?’
‘Oh, at Arnotts. On the Estée Lauder counter.’ Mary’s voice was warm. ‘Goodness, I couldn’t believe it when I got the job. Everyone wanted to work for them. It was so glamorous. They only took girls from good families, you know, it was nearly as hard as getting into the bank. Connie always said I got in because I looked like Olivia de Havilland . . .’
‘Arnotts, the department store? On O’Connell Street?’
‘Oh yes. We had to go on a training course, find out what colours suited different complexions, find out how all the products worked. We quite often got actresses coming in, real film stars. Goodness me, it was fun.’
Emily drew in her breath, stole a look at Tony. He was nodding to himself, listening intently. Emily crossed her fingers under the table.
‘And did you live nearby? Did you live in Dublin?’
Emily’s mind was working fast. Mary had said she could see the mailboat coming in from her house, but the curve of Dublin Bay was huge, ran from the south side of the city right around to the north. She could have lived at any point along the bay and still have been able to see it.
‘Live near?’ Mary shook her head. ‘No, I had to get the bus to work. Connie lived nearer, in Ballsbridge. We always went to her house when we went out, to get changed and do our hair. Much closer.’
Closer to Dublin. And Mary got the bus to work. And she’d taken her bicycle to the yacht club regatta. Emily was beginning to feel like Miss Marple. She was sure the yacht clubs were all in Dún Laoghaire, on the south side of the city. So had Mary lived between Dún Laoghaire and Ballsbridge?
‘Where did you go out? To the dances you told me about?’ Mary nodded. It was all flowing freely now, happy memories. ‘What was the name of the hotel?’
It took Mary a moment. ‘The Gresham. That was it. We went to the Gresham. There were always dances on. The university boat club or something like it. They all had committees to organise the dances. Connie’s sister was doing a line with a lad in the boat club so we were invited to everything.’
Mary half-smiled to herself, looked out of the window. The mountains were clearer now, shaded in purple, sharp against the sky.
‘That was before . . . It was a long time ago.’ Like a bubble had burst, Mary gave a sad half-smile, the happy memories washed away. ‘Before . . .’
Emily opened her mouth to ask another question, but caught a warning look from Tony.
They were out of time and Mary was heading into dangerous waters. Her whole manner had changed, the smiles gone. Tony didn’t want Emily to push Mary any more – they’d learned a lot, and he was sure they would be able to coax out some more when they got her settled in the hotel, but right now it was time to stop. As if agreeing with him, a disembodied voice came over the tannoy: Would all drivers please return to their cars.
‘Time to go, ladies.’ Tony stood up, stretching, stiff from sitting for so long. He picked up his coffee cup, knocked the last of it back. Behind him the high-school group were grabbing their backpacks, jostling into line to head for their bus. Tony glanced ahead – the mother and child had disappeared, gone to find their bags perhaps, to head for their car. He caught Emily’s sigh of frustration as she reached for her basket, put out her arm to help Mary up. Tony knew what she was thinking – they had come so close. Mary had said before, all the happy memories had been before . . . before what?
33
‘Steve?’
It took Zoë a moment to realise that she was speaking to the answer service. She hesitated, unsure whether she should leave a message, then, as his recorded voice was followed by a sharp pip, said, ‘Hi. It’s me, Zoë. I’m back at home. They’ve finished . . . so I’m back. Give me a buzz if you get the message . . . I wondered if you’d like to come over.’
Ending the call, Zoë put the phone down on the kitchen counter and pulled her hair back out of her eyes, rotating her neck. She was tired. Exhausted. It had been an utterly draining week. Thank God the Guards had gone and she was home.
Turning her back on the kitchen window, on the night creeping in, Zoë sighed, the sound loud and ragged. She might be home, but it wasn’t quite the same as the home she’d left when she’d packed her paintings into the back of her car and headed into Temple Bar and Max’s gallery. When the Guards had finally called to say she could come back, she’d naively assumed that they had tidied up. Well they had – a bit. They’d tidied up their stuff, but when Zoë had arrived and gone upstairs to unpack, the reality had hit her smack in the face, together with the realisation that it wasn’t the Guards’ job to tidy up the mess the burglar had left behind, to pick her clothes up off the floor, to tidy her make-up back onto her dressing table.
That detective, Cathy, had tried to prepare her, Zoë knew, had explained that whoever had been here had gone right through her bedroom, but it didn’t stop the shock bouncing around Zoë’s head like a wasp in a jar.
Even with all the lights switched on upstairs, Zoë felt a shiver run up her spine at the sight of the room. Whoever had done this had literally chucked her things out of every drawer, had taken every neatly folded garment and slung it across the room.
Why? Why had someone broken into her house and gone through her things? What could she have possibly have done for this to happen? Had it been the man she’d seen in the garden?
Zoë had always felt safe in this house, safe and secure even though she lived alone. She’d shared a house when she was at college, had needed to get away from Lavinia’s constant interference in her life. Lavinia had let her do the textiles course, expecting her to come back full of ideas, ready to slip into the family business. When she had realised that Zoë wanted to be an artist, that she wasn’t interested in fashion design, or business, or running shops, that all she wanted to do was paint, she was furious. There had only been one word – apart from ‘ridiculous’ of course – that seemed to apply to everything Zoë did, and that was ‘failure’. Zoë was a failure to her family, a failure as a granddaughter and, in fact, as far as Lavinia was concerned, a failure as a human being. And getting the job in the florist’s had been both degrading (apparently) and another sign of her failure – Lavinia hadn’t wasted any time connecting Zoë wanting to work, to actually communicate daily with the outs
ide world, with her failure to be a successful artist.
In fact, the only places where Zoë didn’t feel like a failure were the studio and at work, where she could create beautiful displays that her clients loved. They didn’t think she was a failure. And Phil didn’t either – he had been telling her for years that she should have a solo show, that her work was good enough.
But now the excitement of the show, of Max loving her paintings, was tainted by the breakin, by someone coming into her space.
How could so much happen in such a short space of time? It was like she’d been safe in the calm eye of a storm when she was at the gallery with Steve and Max, while everything else outside, her house, her family, had been pounded with rain, rattled around. Hard. Till they shattered. The breakin. The dress . . . The bones.
No matter how much she thought about it, she couldn’t work it out, work out how they had got there, let alone who they belonged to. But then there were often times when Zoë felt like she was living her life by candlelight, that there were things in the corners hidden in the shadows, that, no matter how hard she tried, how hard she strained her eyes, she couldn’t see.
And then Lavinia . . . Zoë felt a fleeting sense of loss. Lavinia Grant. Her grandmother. More like her governess. In the past few days Zoë had tried to remember a time when she’d loved Lavinia, a time when her grandmother had loved her, taken her in her arms and hugged her, or even given her a peck on the cheek, a smile of encouragement . . . She’d had more warmth for Trish than she’d ever had for her own flesh and blood.
Looking around her at her bedroom, Zoë wondered where she should start. There was so much mess. She suddenly felt panic pricking at her. Someone had been through her things, had touched her stuff, her clothes, her underwear. The solution came faster than Zoë expected, swift and sure. She’d put everything through the wash. Everything. Every last thing that was out of place, that had been moved, she’d wash, dry, iron and fold back into its place, as if nothing had happened. Perhaps it was time to have a really good sort-out.
Leaning over the bed, Zoë scooped up an armful of clothes and dropped it into the tall laundry basket beside the door, reached for another, bundling everything in, bent to pick up a shirt from the floor.
Even from the road Angel Hierra could tell Zoë Grant was back home. The cottage blazed with light in the gathering dusk. Walking up the last of the hill, his loafers crunching on the uneven surface, Hierra pulled a box of matches from his pocket, paused to light up. The match flared, lighting his face for a moment. Shaking it out, he took a drag on the cigarette. It was time to get things sorted. He put his free hand into his coat pocket and felt for the key: cold, smooth, its edges still sharp.
Struggling down the hall with the laundry basket, Zoë didn’t hear the handle on the back door easing down or the squeak of the hinge as the door opened. Didn’t hear footsteps crossing the kitchen. But she did feel a rush of cold air around her ankles as the door was opened, and for a moment was sure she caught the sound of the waves pounding at the end of the garden.
Zoë stopped, listened, the ticking of the hall clock suddenly loud. Had she left the back door open?
A whiff of cigarette smoke.
Her mouth dry, heart drowning the sound of the clock, Zoë put the washing basket down as gently as she could, and peered down the narrow hall, trying to see into the kitchen. She’d left the door to the hall open, all the lights on, but the room ran into the extension at the back – Zoë couldn’t see much more than the narrow strip of terracotta tiles running away from the door, the corner of the kitchen table. Maybe Steve had got her message and dropped in after all, was waiting to surprise her?
But surely she’d locked the back door?
Edging up to the kitchen door, Zoë put her hand out to push it wider. The tang of smoke grew stronger. Bitter. Acrid.
She’d definitely locked the door. She remembered throwing her keys onto the counter, her bag in her hand. Her head had been full of what she might find upstairs, with the relief at finally getting back inside. But she was sure she’d locked it.
Taking another step forward, she pushed the kitchen door further open.
‘Good evening, Zoë.’
The cry escaped before she had time to call it back, her hand flying to her mouth. Who was there?
Zoë pushed the door wide until she could see the whole room.
Leaning casually on the counter opposite the back door, Hierra took another drag on his cigarette, blew out the smoke with a twisted grin. Zoë felt her mouth drop open, fear clutching at her chest. She took a step backwards, grasped the door frame for support.
There was a strange man in her kitchen. In her kitchen. Her mind slowed by shock, Zoë grasped at details. She noticed his coat first. It was long, dark grey, good quality. He was young, tanned, hair cropped tight to his head. He raised his eyebrows, thick, expressive, his eyes amused.
Payne’s grey.
His eyes were grey.
‘Who –?’
Hierra interrupted her, his smile revealing sparkling white teeth. ‘Who am I?’
He had an American twang to his accent, but it wasn’t pure American, had something else blended in, she wasn’t sure what. He waited to see if she would reply, took the cigarette out, flicking the ash into the sink. He was wearing latex gloves.
Zoë watched him like it was happening in slow motion.
Then she nodded, tried to speak, tried to look like she wasn’t scared witless, pulling her cardigan around her with one hand, the other plucking at her necklace. The phone was on the counter on the other side of the kitchen.
‘You don’t need to know who I am.’ The man’s voice was relaxed, calm, like walking into someone’s house through a locked door was the most natural thing in the world. Zoë shook her head, too hard, her earrings swinging with the movement, catching in her hair. ‘What do you want?’ The words finally came out as a croak.
Zoë felt her knees wobble, steadied herself against the door frame, her back to the sharp edge of the architrave.
‘I was doing some business with your grandmother. She wasn’t able to complete it.’
For a moment Zoë thought she was going to be sick. She felt cold even though sweat was forming under her arms, sticky, unpleasant. Who was he?
‘What business?’ She could hardly hear herself.
‘Business that, if it’s not settled, will cause you problems. A lot of problems.’
She could feel his eyes boring into her as he left the words hanging there like a flag waiting for a gust of wind to lift it.
‘I don’t understand –’
‘Look, you’re a pretty girl . . .’ Before she realised what was happening, he was standing in front of her, too close, running his fingertip down her cheek. His touch was icy even through the glove. She tried to pull back, but the wall was in the way – she flattened herself against it as his finger continued slowly along her clenched jaw, down her neck towards her breast. ‘You’ve got a lot going for you.’ Shuddering, she didn’t dare meet his eye, could feel his gaze burning her, stripping her naked. ‘Your grandmother owed me. We were discussing a down payment. A hundred k.’
Terrified, Zoë opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out. She tried again, her senses overloaded: his breath hot on her face, the sound of her heart thumping in her ears, his aftershave strong, spicy, catching in her throat. Her voice came out in a whisper. ‘I don’t have that sort of money.’
He grabbed her jaw, his fingers pinching hard, hauled her face around until she was looking him in the eyes.
‘Get it, honey. Sell the painting in the front room, if you have to. The one of the boats. We both know it’s worth at least 100k. You’ve got twenty-four hours.’
‘I can’t . . .’
‘You can.’
Her face still in his grip, Zoë suddenly saw a flash of steel, recognised the shape of a blade. She drew in her breath, her eyes widening.
‘A hundred k. In used no
tes.’ Her eyes fixed on the blade, she missed his smile, the dead look in his eyes.
‘No cops. Do I need to say that?’
She shook her head, winced at the pain as he tightened his grip. She felt the prick of the knife, heard something skitter to the floor.
‘You don’t want the cops, do you understand?’
She nodded, tried to at least.
Hierra smiled, a half-smile, released her face. The blade vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Zoë fell to her knees, her hair tumbling over her face. He’d cut her. The top button of her blouse was gone, revealing the satin edges of her pale pink bra, the curve of her breast. A pinprick of blood oozed where the tip of the knife had nicked her skin. Pulling her cardigan across her chest, she looked up as he spoke again.
‘Good. We don’t want anything to come out in the papers, do we? The shit would certainly fly. And there’s plenty of it, let me tell you, plenty. You wouldn’t want that exhibition of yours to be trashed by the tabloids, would you?’
‘What do you mean? What would come out in the papers?’ It came out as a whisper. Did he mean the bones?
‘You’ve a very interesting family. And a very helpful neighbour. Stupid but helpful.’
Zoë didn’t speak, couldn’t move, felt her stomach constrict. What did he know about her? About her family? But she didn’t get time to find out. He was on his way to the door.
‘You just worry about the cash, darling. I don’t have much time. Got a plane to catch, as they say. I’ll be in touch to collect it.’
