by Sam Blake
An unplanned pregnancy . . .
‘Something like that.’
O’Rourke didn’t appear to notice her blanch, continued, ‘It happened more than you think. Do you know some convents used to have a slot in the wall for unmarried mothers to leave their babies in?’ Cathy shuddered – she’d seen the movie about the Magdalene laundries, knew how ‘fallen’ women were treated right up to the seventies: incarcerated, abused, their babies taken from them. O’Rourke kept going, warming to his theme. ‘Having a baby out of wedlock was about as bad as it got.’
Cathy nodded, trying to move on, to shift up a gear, didn’t she know it? ‘It all seems to tie in. We know Eleanor was born the year Lavinia got married.’
O’Rourke grimaced. ‘And Trish reckoned this old lady, Grace, went off to London around that time? Was sent there, probably, as her punishment for bringing disgrace on the family. Wouldn’t have been the first time.’ He paused. ‘I still don’t know how it helps us with the bones. Could Lavinia have had a child as well? Maybe she got pregnant while Grace was pregnant, realised someone would smell a huge rat if she supposedly had two children a couple of months apart.’
‘That would be some rat. Do you think she’d murder her own child over the other one?’
O’Rourke shrugged. ‘To save the family name, who knows? . . . She was prepared to send her sister away, sever all ties apparently . . . It does all keep coming back to Lavinia.’
‘I still think Zoë could be good for it. We know her mother wasn’t married, but she didn’t know that. As far as she’s concerned the family are paragons of respectability. Maybe Zoë got pregnant and she was terrified of what Lavinia would say if she found out, thought she’d cut her out of the Grant Valentine fortune?’
Before O’Rourke could comment, the phone rang on his desk. He looked at it for a moment as if he was hoping it would ring off. It didn’t. He picked it up.
‘O’Rourke.’ He paused. ‘Hallelujah. Put him through.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s the lab in the UK – the one we sent the bones to.’ Cathy hopped off the desk and pulled the chair around so she could sit facing him as he spoke on the phone. A moment later he hung up, frowning.
‘Come on, out with it, don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘It was a boy. They can’t say conclusively at this stage that Zoë Grant is the mother, but’ – he paused – ‘there is a very close familial relationship; they share mitochondrial DNA.’ Cathy nearly said told you so, but held it in. ‘So’ – O’Rourke pulled a face – ‘that puts the whole lot of them into the picture, Grace included.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I had rather hoped it would clear things up a bit.’
‘How about the timing? Can they give us an idea how old the bones are? That would move us along.’
‘They’re still working on it. The process is called carbon-14 dating and they reckon they can be pretty accurate if the bones are from the nuclear age . . .’
Cathy raised her eyebrows, her face sceptical. Like he knew what he was talking about.
O’Rourke smiled, caught out. ‘The bones have been sent up to Oxford University. Their expert is on holiday so that’s holding things up a bit, but he’s the best, so we have to wait for him. Don’t want the evidence blown apart in court. And until we hear otherwise, we do have to assume Zoë is still in the frame.’ O’Rourke leaned back in his chair, made a pyramid with his fingertips, his forefingers resting on the end of his nose. Then he said decisively, ‘You’d better get down to Zoë’s place now, show her some mugshots, see if she can pick Hierra out of a line-up and tell her about this Grace one turning up. She’ll want to meet her, presumably. Get Zoë to call over to Oleander House after you’ve spoken to the old lady. We’re going to have to give them all a bit of a shake. Someone in that house knows what happened, how those bones ended up in that bloody dress.’
39
‘So do you train every day, or were the lads winding me up?’
Cathy threw Jamie Fanning a withering look, wondering why she’d thought it was a good idea to catch a lift to Zoë’s house with him. ‘Twice a day when I’m coming up to a tournament. You have to, to stay on top.’
‘Like in the gym?’
‘Gym or pool every morning, sparring and training at the club about four times a week, more if I can get there.’
‘Impressive.’ It was the way he said it. He’d been trying to chat her up since they’d interviewed Zoë Grant, was failing miserably, not that he’d noticed. Thank God it was a short trip. He was good to look at, but she had some serious doubts about his morals. The word ‘jackrabbit’ sprang to mind. But what was she worrying about? She might be the Women’s National Full-Contact Kickboxing champion but she’d bet she wouldn’t see him for the dust if he knew she was pregnant.
Feck. Pregnant. The word still made her want to curl up and hide. Whatever about deciding she was keeping this baby, she knew she still had a long way to go before she accepted the cards fate had thrown her way.
Pulling up outside the neighbour’s house, Fanning let the car roll towards the corner of Zoë Grant’s property, stopping short of it by a whisper. Why couldn’t he just stop outside?
‘Want me to wait?’
‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks.’ Cathy’s sarcasm was wasted on him. ‘I’ll walk back to the station.’
Fanning tipped his forehead in a salute. As she slammed the door of the unmarked Mondeo, he took off into a spin, turning the car around in the narrow lane in a shower of dirt. Cathy brushed down her jeans, drew in a deep breath, looked over at Zoë’s house and felt her spirits sink another notch.
Zoë’s car wasn’t in the drive and the house looked empty. She checked the road. No sign of the surveillance team.
Why the feck hadn’t she rung to say she was coming, to check Zoë was in? There were times when her brain just didn’t work. And she could have checked with the surveillance team. Jesus. She just had too much going on in her head. It was only a fifteen-minute walk down to the DART station, but there was no way she could go back to O’Rourke without at least trying the doorbell.
Cathy heard the door chime echo through the house. She could almost see the sound bouncing off the black and white tiles in the hallway, heading up the narrow stairs, echoing into the back kitchen. Maybe Steve was here and they were in bed . . . Maybe they’d been out last night and decided to leave the car in town, got a cab home . . . Maybe the surveillance team had followed her to work or sloped off for a piss. They definitely weren’t around now. Cathy stuck her hands in her pockets and waited. It was cold. Even wrapped up in her leather jacket with its thick down lining, she still felt chilled. She rang again. Waited. Was anyone there?
Still nothing.
Cathy took a step back from the front door, had another look at the expressionless windows. About to bend over to get a look in the letter box, Cathy caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, a shadow, something reflected on the inside of the living-room window. Someone was in. At last. She wasn’t in the mood for a wasted trip today.
But a moment later the front door was still firmly closed. Where the hell was Zoë Grant?
Climbing into the flower bed under the living-room window, Cathy leaned on one of the small glass panes, put her hands around her eyes so she could see into the gloom. There was no one in the room – it looked pretty much the same as the last time she’d seen it. A rug was screwed up on the easy chair, like someone had meant to come back to straighten it, a cushion tossed on the floor. Cathy strained her eyes trying to see into the hall. Nothing.
She was just pulling away when she noticed something.
Her hands back around her eyes, Cathy took another look. The last time she’d been here, there had been a huge oil painting leaning against the wall, a dust sheet or something half-hiding a marine landscape. Was that the bloody painting that everyone kept going on about? The one of the yachts in the harbour that Grace had asked about? Now the heavy gilt frame was leaning against th
e sofa, the bit she could see. But it was empty.
Jesus, what the hell? What had Hierra said to Zoë? Sell the painting . . . but surely Zoë would have taken the frame as well . . . The spectre of worry, like a sleek black cat, stretched inside her, sharpening its claws. The picture had gone. And if he had come back for it and Zoë had been in . . . What the hell had happened? Could he have got past the surveillance guys?
From the rear of the cottage, Cathy heard the crunch of gravel.
Holy feck.
Cathy crept to the corner of the house, her hand on her gun. Hanging back, using the wall as cover, she took a look down the side towards the studio and the garden. Nothing. Was the back door open? Cathy couldn’t tell from this angle. She bit her lip . . . She’d definitely heard something – someone – a footstep on the gravel. Maybe whoever it was had come out and then gone back into the house?
A second later she heard the back door close and the crunch of footsteps. She peeped again. A clean-shaven guy with a tan. Six foot, hair close-cropped. Glancing furtively towards the road, he turned, tugged the back door closed, one hand up against it like he was trying to deaden the sound. Cathy dipped back behind the wall, her heart racing.
Cathy knew exactly who the man was – he answered Zoë’s description precisely, was the dead spit of the mugshot the techs had dickied up. Angel Hierra. Cathy drew in her breath. She was on her own, and there was no way she could make a call for backup without him hearing her. And he must have heard the doorbell, knew someone was standing on the doorstep. Cathy thought fast. She didn’t have a lot of choice – she’d just have to create her own surprise and keep her fingers crossed. With any luck he’d be expecting the busybody from next door, or the postman . . .
A moment later she heard Hierra’s footsteps on the gravel, this time heading towards her. Walking briskly like he had somewhere to go. Cathy pressed her back hard into the wall of the cottage, grateful for the creeper that was growing up the corner, its foliage pulling at her hair, offering cover. What the feck was she doing?
As Hierra appeared around the side of the house, he seemed to be adjusting his overcoat, getting it settled at the front.
‘I knocked. Nobody’s in . . .’ He grimaced like they were both inconvenienced, like he had every reason to be there.
Cathy cut across him. ‘Armed Gardaí, stop right –’
Hierra reacted even before the words were fully out of Cathy’s mouth, broke into a run, dipping left, out of the drive, heading for the woods and the narrow footpath leading up to Killiney Hill.
Jesus. Cathy set off after him, her boots slipping on the mucky ground, wet from the rain, the gravel churned to mud by the vehicles that had been parked there.
This was not part of the game plan.
Pregnant women weren’t supposed to chase suspects up muddy paths. Keeping his back in sight, Cathy did her best to watch her footing, terrified she might trip over a root or a rock. Mud splashed up her jeans as her foot landed in the centre of a puddle, brambles clawing at her jacket, scratching at the thick leather as she pulled away. The path was slick with fallen leaves, rotting in drifts at the sides. She was sweating, breathing hard, the loamy scent of the place catching in her throat. Her arms pumping, she used her whole body to get herself up the incline.
Ahead of her, Hierra rounded a bend in the footpath, disappeared behind the bushes for a moment. Christ, he was fast, but she was closing the gap on him, her circuit training paying off. Panting, her feet flying, she leaped from dry patch to dry patch, trying to avoid the slippery puddles. He had to stop soon, was wearing loafers, had to be struggling with the mud. Cathy knew she was fit but Hierra had the advantage and was moving like his life depended on it.
Suddenly Hierra broke out of the woods at the top of the path, slipped, went down on one knee. It was all the break Cathy needed. Puffing up the last few feet, her sides splitting with the effort, Cathy came up behind him, grabbed his arm, twisted it up behind his back.
‘Gardaí, stop!’ Out of breath, it didn’t come out as loud as she hoped. Cathy fumbled for the handcuffs on her belt. Hierra yanked his arm free, scrambling away from her, slipping in the mud. She reached out for him, tried to grab his coat, but whipping around, he threw a punch up at her, catching her shoulder, the impact sharp, hard, knocking her back, knocking her off balance. Using the second he’d gained to pull away from her, Hierra was off again. Cathy lunged for his wrist, missing it. Then he slipped again, landed on his knees in the mud with a grunt of pain. Cathy registered a flash of silver at his ankle.
Feck, a knife. This wasn’t funny.
Taking a step back to steady herself, Cathy drew her gun, holding it two-handed. She was breathing so hard she almost couldn’t speak. Only draw when you intend to fire. And remember, you shoot to stop, there are no second chances. The instructor’s words went through her head like a flash of light. Fecking right she intended to fire.
She caught her breath. ‘Armed Gardaí. Drop your weapon.’ The words were clear.
Hierra hesitated for a split second, moved his left hand away from his leg, raised it, turning to face her as if he was about to stand up, to surrender. He smiled, his grey eyes meeting hers, and in less than a beat his right hand was at his ankle, the knife was out of its sheath, sweeping for her thigh. Skipping out of his range instinctively, in one fluid movement Cathy was back with a powerful snap kick, her boot connecting with the bones in his wrist. With a sharp crack the knife flew from his hand and Hierra collapsed to the ground with a cry of pain, cradling his arm, his eyes spitting.
‘Bitch, it’s broken. I’ll wipe you.’
Cathy could feel the blood pounding in her ears, hardly had the breath left to speak.
‘Face down. Hands behind you.’
With her gun still trained on him, it took Cathy a moment to pull out her handcuffs. Hierra moaned again.
‘It’s broken. You’ve broken my arm, you fucking bitch.’
Cathy glanced at Hierra’s wrist. It was starting to swell all right, but she hadn’t hit him that hard. In training she went in harder than that and there was no damage. Admittedly she didn’t wear leather boots, but Hierra was lying, had to be. Ignoring his protests, she clipped the steel handcuffs onto his wrists, took a step back, her gun trained on him.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement in the trees, took a sharp intake of breath. All she needed now was a do-good dog walker barging in on things . . . at least she hadn’t shot him. Cathy delivered the caution, loud and clear. Loud enough for anyone on the hill to hear it, to make it perfectly clear that this wasn’t a gangland hit or a drug deal going bad.
‘You are under arrest. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’
The trees were silent. Maybe she was imagining it. Her knees trembled with the exertion, with the adrenalin pumping around her body. Pulling out her radio, Cathy hit the call button.
‘I cannot believe you did that.’ O’Rourke shook his head slowly. He was so angry he could hardly speak, had been glaring at Cathy for what felt like half her life, trying to find the words to express himself. The door to his office was firmly closed but she knew, if he yelled, half the station was going to hear what a fecking idiot she’d been.
Cathy took a breath, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘I didn’t have time. He was coming out of the house. He’d already heard me at the door. I must have spooked him.’
‘You spooked him all right. Then you chased him halfway up Killiney Hill on your own.’
Cathy winced. He was right. She should have called for backup, but . . .
‘Didn’t you learn anything in Templemore? How can you not have had time to make the call? You could have pretended you were canvassing for the election, smiled sweetly and followed him AT A SAFE DISTANCE down the road. You could have pulled out your mobile and CALLED ME.’
O’Rourke was yelling n
ow. Cathy could feel the whole floor stopping what they were doing to listen in. She drew a breath, the urge to defend herself almost as strong as the urge to chase Hierra had been.
‘I would have lost him.’ But Cathy knew she sounded stubborn, petulant. Stupid.
‘And we could have lost you. Did you think about that?’ O’Rourke paused, cleared his throat, conscious of the tremor in his voice, trying to hide it. ‘What if he’d turned on you halfway up the hill? He’d have had the advantage, been above you, could have stabbed you and left you there and when would we have found you, hey? An hour later, maybe two. How long do you think it takes to bleed out from a stab wound? He’s killed two people already, do you think one more would trouble his conscience?’
Christ, he was right. Why was he always right? Suddenly O’Rourke wasn’t her superior officer any more, he was Cathy’s friend, and she’d got it wrong, and she felt like shit.
‘You’re not made of Teflon, Cat, you were fucking lucky the last time. You don’t have nine lives.’
O’Rourke was leaning forward on his desk now, his knuckles white. Cathy could feel the tears pricking at her eyes. She wanted to scream at him, I know, I was a fecking idiot, how do you think I feel? She took a deep breath but before she could think of anything sensible to say, O’Rourke shook his head like he didn’t know what to do with her.
‘I can’t do this without you, Cat.’ He said it under his breath. Cathy almost missed it. O’Rourke paused like he was struggling with his own emotions, then said louder, like he was trying to qualify it, ‘I need to be able to trust you. I need you on the team.’
Her eyes on the floor, Cathy nodded.
‘I got it wrong.’ She could feel her face flushing. ‘I know I got it wrong. We never go in without backup, I know.’
‘Urgent assistance required. Three small words.’ O’Rourke paused, a hint of desperation in his voice. ‘You give your location, and urgent assistance required. And do you know what happens?’ O’Rourke could see Cathy was cringing but he paused again, driving his point home. ‘Do you? We come. All of us. Every uniform, every detective in the area. All of us. A member in danger is absolute priority.’
