by Sam Blake
Taking the cigarette from between her lips, Trish laughed in Emily’s face.
‘How dare I? She was a little tart, didn’t she tell you?’
Emily delivered the slap before any of them anticipated it, least of all Emily, who took a step back, watching Trish recoil, her hand covering the red mark on her cheek. For a second Emily looked like she was about to follow it up with a comment, but then, with her point made clearly enough, she sat down again beside Mary, catching Cathy’s eye, wide open with surprise.
‘You can’t just sit there and let her do that – that was assault!’ Trish’s voice was shrill. Her hand still at her face, she looked angrily from Cathy to Emily. Cathy shifted her position on the arm of the chair, silently considering her options. If the truth were told, that slap was long overdue.
‘Thanks, Trish.’ Cathy’s tone said it all: that’s enough. ‘I think we all need to calm down, don’t you?’ Cathy managed to include Emily in the statement without actually looking at her. ‘Try and keep this polite. How do you know this lady, Trish? How did she end up homeless?’ Cathy glanced at Emily for confirmation. ‘In London?’ While Lavinia stacked up the cash in Dublin . . . Cathy was sorely tempted to say it, but bit it back.
Still stunned, Trish shook her head. ‘Why the hell should I tell you anything? You saw what she did.’
‘You’ll tell us because I asked. If you’d prefer to talk to DI O’Rourke down at the station, under caution, that’s fine by me.’
‘Me under caution? What about her?’ Trish pointed an accusing finger at Emily, who looked like she wanted to bite it off. Emily’s face was set, eyes flaming, but Cathy could tell she knew she’d already overstepped the mark, was working hard to keep quiet.
‘Would you like to file charges, Trish? Explain to the court exactly what is going on here? I think we’d all like to know.’
Trish stubbed out her cigarette, reached for another one. She took her time lighting it. When she finally answered Cathy’s question, nodding towards Mary, her voice was bitter. ‘She left. Got a job as a governess and went. She always was headstrong, did what suited her without a thought for anyone else, left Lavinia to pick up the pieces.’
‘When would that have been?’
Trish shook her head like the date was irrelevant. ‘Late forties, early fifties? I don’t know.’
‘Around the time that Lavinia got married?’ Cathy kept her tone innocent. Now that was a coincidence.
‘Around that time.’
Mary drew in a ragged breath, a tear spilling from her eye, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘It’s lies. It wasn’t like that . . .’
‘Come here, pet, I’ve a tissue . . .’ Emily bent down to pull a tissue from her basket, but Mary pushed her hand away, looked up at Trish. ‘Is he here?’
Behind her Cathy heard the door open and O’Rourke slipped into the room. She knew Thirsty had briefed him. Now, catching Mary’s question, he raised a questioning eyebrow to Cathy. How’s it going? Her nod was almost imperceptible.
The others hardly seemed to notice his arrival, their focus on Mary.
Trish snorted and threw her head back like she was trying not to laugh, like the whole situation was farcical. ‘Who? Charles? He died, Grace. Went back to France and got killed in a road accident years ago.’
Mary grasped Emily’s hand.
‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me he was dead? I’d never have come back . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Mary, really I am, I didn’t know.’ Emily smoothed the back of Mary’s hand.
‘Why not, why didn’t you know? Lavinia sent you, didn’t she? She must have told you where to find me.’
‘I didn’t know Lavinia, Mary . . .’ Cathy could tell Emily was fighting to keep her voice level.
But Mary wasn’t having any of it. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, she was your guardian, wasn’t she? Of course you knew her.’
Emily glanced anxiously at Cathy again, noticed O’Rourke standing behind her leaning on the wall. A glimmer of recognition passed across her face and Cathy could tell Emily knew he was a senior officer. But now wasn’t the moment for introductions.
‘Mary – sorry, Grace – you’re getting a bit confused. It’s all been a shock. I think maybe we should come back tomorrow when you feel a bit better.’
Trish’s words cut across her before Mary could reply. ‘This woman’s not Eleanor, Grace. She didn’t know Lavinia.’ Her voice was harsh.
Mary shook her head, glaring at Trish. ‘I don’t believe you. You always were against me. You and Lavinia. Always against me . . .’
‘She’s right, Mary, I’m Emily – Emily Cox, from London. Who’s Eleanor?’
The old lady sobbed, the sound raw, uncontrolled, her shoulders shaking violently. ‘Eleanor’s my daughter.’
Stunned, Cathy and O’Rourke exchanged glances.
Emily pulled Mary to her, hugging her tight, her eyes meeting Cathy’s over her head, beseeching. But O’Rourke had already read the situation. He stepped forward, throwing a hard look at Trish. Christ, she had some explaining to do.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Dawson O’Rourke. We’re in the middle of an investigation here that you might be able to help us with, Mary – sorry, Grace – but I think you’ve had enough for one day, there’s a lot to take in.’ He’d said it. Cathy stood up as he continued, ‘I think Mrs Cox is right, it would be wise to adjourn until tomorrow. Will we say 2 p.m.?’
Cathy bit her lip. She was desperate to find out more but Grace obviously had a fragile grip on reality, and they couldn’t afford to lose her now.
37
In a third-floor suite in the Shelbourne Hotel, Tony Cox was standing in front of a huge walnut armoire, flipping his tie into an Oxford knot. It was 7 p.m. Emily was stretched out on the bed beside him, while Mary had a lie-down in the adjacent room.
‘Have you got your speech?’
‘In my briefcase.’ He grinned over his shoulder at Emily. ‘Honestly, you don’t have to worry. I’ll be fine. There’s not much they can throw at me that I can’t handle . . .’
‘I know.’ Emily wrinkled her nose apologetically. ‘Do you mind me not coming to the dinner? I really don’t think I’ve got the energy.’ Glancing over at her, he shook his head as she continued, ‘Will you be tied up all day tomorrow?’
‘I guess so. But you’re going to be busy now. You won’t need me.’ Tony grimaced, double-checking the navy silk knot, easing out his collar. The tie looked good. The suit looked good. And the line-up for the conference looked even better. When he’d finally had a chance to read through the paperwork, he’d spotted some big hitters he really wanted to meet. Which meant, thankfully, he really would be tied up all day.
Tony smoothed his shirt into the top of his trousers and turned to face her as she spoke.
‘I still can’t believe it all came back so fast. Dear God, if we’d come by plane we might never have known.’
Tony shook his head, disagreeing. ‘No, it was inevitable. You had an idea she was from Dún Laoghaire – you would have taken her out there. The memories started coming back as soon as she saw those mountains, then with the yacht clubs, the boats . . . I guess, leaving like she did, she held on to her childhood memories – they grew in her mind, images became cemented if you like. Seeing the place where she grew up brought all the missing bits back.’
Emily nodded, hitched herself up on one elbow.
‘You’re right. She was just so upset. Thank goodness that inspector stepped in– I don’t think she could have taken much more of that awful woman.’
‘Just keep an eye on her and call me if there are any problems. It’s all coming back a bit too fast for my liking. Mary’s been through a lot over the years, and now when she finally finds her family, her sister’s dead and the cops are all over her house.’ Tony paused, frowning, his hands on his hips in an unconscious medical-practitioner stance. ‘I reckon Mary gave a false name way back when becaus
e she was trying to disassociate herself from the real Grace, from whatever trauma made her leave. She may have been Mary for years, it’s only now the memories are surfacing.’
‘I’m really worried about her,’ Emily said. ‘She seemed more mixed up than ever – it was like everything was scrambled in her head.’
‘Exactly. She found herself face to face with everything she’d blanked out.’ Tony paused. ‘At least she isn’t hallucinating any more, that’s something. But remember there’s a strong possibility that she’s suffering from the onset of dementia as well as everything else. It’s only when we’re controlling one psychosis that we’ll be able to distinguish the symptoms of the other.’ Emily nodded, sighing, as he continued, ‘So what’s your plan?’
‘To go back to the house tomorrow like the inspector suggested. They need to talk to Mary – I mean Grace – I can’t get used to calling her that – some more. I know they’ll be gentle with her; that young Guard is very nice. I’m sure Mary wants to find out exactly what happened to her sister, and there may be other family members still alive.’
‘Watch that Trish O’Sullivan if you meet her again. I still can’t believe you slapped her.’ Tony smothered a grin. He’d been amazed when Emily had slightly sheepishly explained what had happened. Emily drew in a sharp breath, her face flushing. ‘I felt like taking her bloody umbrella and bashing her over the head with it – I couldn’t believe anyone could be so rude.’
‘The bit about the Virgin Mary? No love lost there. But remember Mary is your first priority. Antagonising her family probably isn’t the best way forward.’ Emily rolled her eyes pouting, as Tony sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Just go easy–whatever’s been going on in that house, you don’t want to get involved.’
‘I think we already are. What did the Garda say to you when she called? That they’d found the bones of a baby and were looking for the rest of the corpse? Dear God . . .’ Emily shivered, paused for a moment. ‘Mary couldn’t have had anything to do with that, could she?’
Bile burned the back of Cathy’s throat as she heaved again. Surely her stomach had to be empty by now . . . and what the feck was it with ‘morning’ sickness that she puked almost every bloody evening?
She pushed her hair back out of her face, hooking it behind her ears, hastily rubbed the tears from her cheeks with the palms of her hands, her stomach curling again. Oh God, how long was this going to last? But the last retch was dry, a reflex action. Both hands on the edge of the toilet seat, she hung her head forward and breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. Thank God it was over.
Cathy took a moment to breathe, the taste of vomit bitter, overwhelming, reached for the flush, banishing her misery in a cascade of lurid blue. The water in the glass balancing at the back of the tiny bathroom’s single basin was tepid but she didn’t care. Swishing it around her mouth, Cathy turned the tap on full, the jet of water loud in the silence of the empty house, refilled the glass, leaning heavily on the basin’s cold hard edge as she did so. Her knees were wobbly. Another sip and Cathy straightened, caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. Jesus.
She looked like a macabre Pierrot, her skin alabaster against the black of her hair, half of it dragged back into a ponytail, the rest hanging around her face. Two long black streaks of mascara bisected her cheeks like scars. She looked like shite.
What a day.
The whole scene at Oleander House played out in her mind again. O’Rourke had been right to intercede – they really couldn’t afford for the trauma to unsettle Grace’s mental stability – but, boy, Cathy had so many questions jumping around her head she’d have to write them down. But at least now she’d be going into tomorrow’s interview fresh. And she wanted to have a chat with Zoë first, would have loved to have called over to her this evening, but O’Rourke had been right (again) – they needed a break to work through the new information and she’d needed a workout and a good night’s sleep.
It had been worth the trip over to Ballymun. It didn’t matter how bad or tired she felt going into a session, she always felt better coming out. Although she’d feel a damn sight better if she could stop puking.
Jesus, this was crap.
And this was just the start.
Cathy knew now, for sure, that this was just the start. Booking the appointment at the Well Woman Clinic had given her the space she needed to stop panicking and get her head in gear. And as she’d pounded the bag this evening she’d realised that whatever happened when she talked to the doc, she knew she couldn’t have an abortion. Had known it from the start if she was honest with herself. It had just taken her a while to face it, to recognise it. She had one option and one option only – to have the baby. What happened after that was a whole different problem.
She had no idea how the hell she was going to explain going from a size ten to a . . . God only knew what. Whatever about morning sickness, a bump couldn’t exactly be passed off as food poisoning. Even if she wore baggy tops – which she never did, so that would arouse suspicions for a start – Cathy knew she couldn’t hide it. She stared at the ceiling, at the spiky white peaks of Artex coating it. Maybe she could leave the country – take all her leave in one chunk and some unpaid, tell everyone she needed to go on kibbutz or picking grapes or something. The idea appealed for a moment. But where could she go, where could she afford to go, for how long? Months. And then what would she do? Turn up at her mum’s with a baby in her arms and pretend she’d found it on the doorstep?
Jesus. One night. One fecking red dress. One too many glasses of champagne. Or maybe bottles, it was hard to be entirely sure. Memories of the night flashed through her mind yet again – Steve’s cheeky grin, his hair dark blond, tousled like he’d just got out of bed, her brother Pete’s dark head bent over the bar, deep in conversation . . . There would be time to work it all out, had to be – but right now, more than anything else, she needed to get to bed before she collapsed.
38
When she arrived at the station the next morning, fresh from the gym, O’Rourke looked almost as bad as Cathy had felt the previous evening.
Staring blindly out of his office window, he acknowledged her arrival with a nod at her reflection in the glass. His own reflection was pale, strained.
‘Were you here all night?’
‘Does it look like it?’
‘Same suit, same tie, same creases. ’Fraid so.’
He turned, a stoic smile flitting across his face.
‘No flies on you, Detective.’
She shot him a one-eyebrow-raised attempt at a withering look. ‘Any news on Hierra?’
O’Rourke sighed, ran his hand over his eyes. ‘A couple of techs up at the Park have been updating his mugshot. They’ve taken off the beard, given him a good haircut – I’ve got a copy for you to show to Zoë.’ Cathy sat down on the edge of his desk, one foot on the visitor’s chair, as he continued, ‘We’re circulating the new photo to every Bus Éireann driver and all Iarnród Éireann employees. If he tries to catch a bus or a train we should be covered. And it’s going out to all the cab companies in a twenty-mile radius. And’ – he paused – ‘I’ve called a press conference for lunchtime. We know for sure he’s here now and we need to get him before he makes any more house calls.’
Cathy nodded, contemplating the toe of her boot. She felt she should say something intelligent. Or helpful. Neither came. She’d slept well, felt a damn sight better than she had all week, but realistically nothing she could come up with was going to solve the Hierra problem or make O’Rourke feel better. Sometimes it was better to keep your mouth shut.
‘So you’re going to talk to Grace again this afternoon?’
Cathy nodded; safer ground. ‘Yes, all organised.’ She paused. ‘Emily Cox is bringing her back to the house. I can talk to them in the front room again.’
‘With Trish there?’
‘Christ, no. Emily Cox’s husband is a doctor, Tony Cox, he’s an American, a consultant psychiatrist, he
wants us to keep things as calm as possible.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘I called to check on Grace last night and spoke to him at the hotel, outlined what had happened, that we’d found the bones and about Lavinia Grant croaking. Not in those exact words obviously.’ O’Rourke smiled, his amusement lifting the fatigue in his face for a moment. Encouraged, she continued, ‘He’s pretty sound, he’s the main speaker at some international psychiatrists’ conference on in town. They’re staying at the Shelbourne.’ Cathy paused, playing with her chain, running the flat oval pendant across the bridge of her nose. ‘Trish was a real bitch to the old lady last night. I think it’s better to keep them apart for the moment. Trish might be tempted to hit back next time and then we’ll have a fight on our hands.’
‘And the old woman definitely said she was Lavinia’s sister, and Trish didn’t dispute that?’
Dropping her pendant, Cathy nodded, picked up his pen from the desk, began playing it through her fingers.
‘You OK?’
‘Me? Yes, why?’ Cathy looked up startled.
‘You’re very fidgety, don’t seem quite yourself. Did you sleep properly?’
Cathy nodded. ‘I did.’ She put the pen down, patted it, smiled at him. ‘Sorry, lot on my mind.’
O’Rourke nodded, watching her. ‘Join the club. But you’re right, it’s one of those cases.’
Missing the calculations going on behind O’Rourke’s sharp blue eyes, the expression of concern that crossed his face, Cathy screwed up her nose, picked up her pendant again, running it along the chain, said, ‘Trish made some crack about Grace pretending to be the Virgin Mary. Talk about vicious. That was when Emily whacked her. Then the old lady got all mixed up. She started saying that Emily Cox knew Lavinia, that Lavinia had sent her – Emily, I mean – to find her.’
O’Rourke moved over to his desk, collapsed into the chair. ‘I caught that bit. So Eleanor was her daughter. Not Lavinia’s.’ He reached for the pen and rolled it slowly across the desk, deep in thought. ‘Sounds like she may have had an unplanned pregnancy, and because she wasn’t married, Lavinia stepped in to take the child.’
