by Sam Blake
Cathy felt herself nodding. She’d been there before, could still hear his voice on the radio, ‘Assistance required, member shot. Urgent assistance required.’
What could she say?
O’Rourke let out a sigh like a steam valve opening. ‘You aren’t a one-woman army. Don’t do it again.’ Then more softly, ‘But well done, girl, you played a blinder.’
40
‘What are the red dots for?’
Standing beside the reception desk in Max Igoe’s brilliantly lit, airy gallery, Zoë pointed to the vibrant wooden frame of one of her pictures, a small circular red sticker in its bottom left-hand corner. The picture looked fantastic on the rough white stone wall, the lower half panelled in pine, also stark white. Above them, bright spotlights were angled to illuminate the cobalt blue of the sea raging in the painting, the light drawing out the movement, the hidden depths of the subject. Classical music was playing from hidden speakers, making the whole thing . . . exactly as Zoë had dreamed it would be . . .
But what were the red dots all about? Zoë knew Max was smiling at her like she hadn’t a brain in her head, but she just wasn’t getting the red dots. Steve had laughed when she’d confessed she was just a little bit frightened of Max. Well maybe not frightened, but completely in awe of him. He was just so sure of everything, so confident, so successful, and Zoë didn’t want to make a huge blunder on the opening night.
‘The dots show it’s sold.’
‘What, already?’ Looking at Max in amazement, Zoë opened her mouth, forgetting completely about trying to look professional and confident. ‘It couldn’t be.’
Throwing his head back, Max laughed, shaking his head. Then putting his arm around Zoë’s shoulders, said confidentially, ‘It’s a trick of the trade, makes people think that they have to buy fast before everything is sold.’
‘But what happens if someone really wants that one?’ Zoë’s thick eyebrows knotted; Max chuckled, charmed. ‘Sales fall through . . . maybe an interested party can’t come up with the finance . . . and then it’s back out on the open market.’
Zoë nodded, like it was making sense, but her eyes were still puzzled.
‘Let me worry about that end of things. You just have to circulate and chat and smile for the cameras. If anyone looks like they want to buy, pass them on to one of the girls. OK?’
She tried not to grin. ‘OK, got it . . .’
‘Now come and have a look at the end wall, it’s pretty impressive.’ Steering her towards the back of the gallery, where the triptych was hanging, Max watched her face. It was the first time Zoë had seen everything in place, the first time she had seen the collection hung together.
‘How do you think it looks? Pleased?’
‘It’s fantastic. Really, it is.’
The show brochure in her hand, Zoë looked around, mesmerised, so absorbed in fact that she was oblivious to the commotion erupting behind her.
‘I’m sorry, madam, but we’re closed. The private viewing for the press is tomorrow evening.’
One of Max’s staff, a tall willowy girl with pink hair and a turquoise knitted dress that barely skimmed her behind was at the glazed door, trying to block a woman in black from entering. Obviously not prepared to wait, the woman was about to push her physically out of the way when Zoë turned around. And realised who it was.
‘Trish!’
The girl turned to Zoë in surprise, dropping her arm to allow Trish to enter. Straightening her jacket, throwing a barbed look at the assistant, Trish marched into the middle of the shop like she owned it.
‘I need to speak to you.’
‘Now?’ Glancing anxiously from Max to Trish, Zoë looked for a moment like a deer caught in the glare of a high-power lamp. Max stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, regarded Trish with one eyebrow raised, waited for Zoë to speak. ‘Trish, I’m busy. We’re getting ready for the press viewing tomorrow. Everything needs to be right.’
‘I’m well aware of that. This won’t wait. Not now.’
Confused, Zoë looked at Trish, waiting for her to continue. ‘It’s private.’
Seeing Zoë’s discomfort, Max stepped in. ‘Why don’t you use my office? I’ve some calls to make. I can do them down here.’
‘Thanks, I’m sorry . . .’ Realising she hadn’t introduced them, Zoë shot him a grateful look. ‘Max, this is Trish O’Sullivan, Trish, Max Igoe.’
Trish nodded curtly. ‘I don’t have much time.’
His eyes steely, Max made a sweeping gesture towards the door to the office. ‘It’s all yours, call me if you need anything.’
Zoë strode up the stairs, waiting at the top for Trish to catch up. She had gone from mildly irritated to annoyed, very annoyed. How could Trish just barge in like this . . . Who did she think she was?
‘What’s happened that’s so important we need to discuss it right now? I told you this morning that I’d be home later, that I’d be able to talk then.’
Slightly out of breath, Trish reached the top step and put out her hand to take the door. ‘It won’t wait.’
‘Will we sit down?’ Moving inside, Zoë pointed to the sofa, taking a step back, her arms folded. Trish shook her head. ‘I think you’re the one who needs to sit.’
‘Why?’ Zoë marched over to the sofa and plumped down in the middle, making no attempt to hide her irritation. ‘What can possibly have happened now?’
Taking a moment to scan the office, the bright white walls, the untidy desk, Trish bit back the retort that leaped to her mouth. Instead she pursed her lips, adjusted her handbag on her shoulder and coiled her arms together protectively like she was cold.
‘A lot has happened this week. Things have changed. Changed a lot. I’ve got some news for you. There’s no easy way to say this, so, well . . .’ Trish paused for a split second, but the hesitation didn’t last. ‘Look, Lavinia had a sister. I should say, has a sister. She ran away to London years ago – to be honest I thought she’d died years ago, but . . . well . . . she’s come back.’
Zoë’s mouth dropped open. ‘A sister . . . how . . . why did she never say?’
‘They had a falling-out.’ Trish pursed her lips again, then focused on a point on the floor like something foul was crawling towards her. ‘The thing is, she’s actually your grandmother. I mean, she was Eleanor’s mother, not Lavinia.’
Falling back on the sofa, Zoë looked at her stunned. ‘What? What do you mean?’
Trish smoothed the polished boards with the toe of her boot as if she was trying to rub something out.
‘She is. She just is. It’s a long story, she . . .’ Trish sniffed, screwing up her nose. ‘She got herself pregnant and, well obviously, you just didn’t do that then. She couldn’t bring the child up, she wasn’t married, so either Lavinia brought Eleanor up as her own or the child would have gone to the Sisters of Charity.’
Lavinia wasn’t her grandmother.
It took a while for the information to register with Zoë, and even after she’d said the words to herself a few times, it still didn’t make any sense. Except, except . . . one thing Trish had said struck home. As swiftly and surely as if she had stuck a knife in her.
‘Does she know where Eleanor is? Does this woman know where my mother is?’
Trish sighed, rolled her eyes to the ceiling like Zoë was being stupid.
‘Now how would she know that? She’s been gone for sixty years.’
‘How do you know Eleanor didn’t find out all this and go and look for her?’ Zoë’s voice rose a notch, her face flushed. ‘And don’t look at me like that. How do you know what happened?’
How dare Trish treat her like a complete idiot – how dare she? It wasn’t her mother that had gone missing . . .
Zoë stood up, took a step towards Trish, her hands outstretched, begging her to understand. ‘I want to find her. With the exhibition and everything, I need to find her . . .’
There
was a pause. A pause in which Zoë could hear a clock ticking somewhere over by Max’s desk, heard a jet engine, its roar softened by the distance, pass overhead.
‘You won’t find her.’ Trish spat the words out.
Shocked, Zoë took a step backwards towards the sofa. ‘What do you mean, I won’t find her? Have you heard from her? Do you know where she is?’ Zoë almost whispered, her eyes wide open in horror. Had Trish known all this time where Eleanor was? Had Lavinia kept in touch with her after all?
‘She’s not coming back.’ The words were final, spiteful. Zoë opened her mouth to speak but before she got the words out Trish said, ‘She’s dead. She died years ago.’
‘What?’ Zoë’s voice wavered. Her knees giving way, she sat down with a thump on the sofa. ‘What do you mean she’s dead?’
‘You heard me.’
‘But how? How did she die? Why didn’t Lavinia tell me?’
Trish shook her head like it didn’t matter. ‘It was an accident. She drowned. Maybe she drank too much, or took some pills, I don’t know. She had a row with Lavinia and then the next thing you were running down the stairs screaming . . .’
‘Me?’
It took a moment to sink in, then Zoë’s face drained of colour. She clamped her hand to her mouth, the need to retch overpowering. Trish didn’t appear to notice, or just didn’t care.
‘Yes, you. You found her. She was in the bath. You couldn’t wake her, you –’
Trish didn’t get a chance to finish. Bolting from the sofa through the door into Max’s private bathroom, Zoë reached the toilet just in time, bent over the white porcelain, her stomach muscles screaming as she vomited over and over again.
A girl lying in a bath . . . her hair like seaweed, soft fronds floating around her face. Her skin wrinkled . . . one arm limp over the side. The water was cold, so deep, so cold . . .
Zoë heaved again, tears streaming down her face, nose running, her hair falling into her eyes. Behind her she heard the door slam.
Downstairs Max was leaning on the reception desk, his mobile to his ear, as Trish barrelled out of the door to the office. Alarmed, he looked up.
‘She’ll need something stiff to drink. She’s had a shock.’
From above them a scream of pain ripped through the calm of the gallery, through the classical music, bouncing off the pure white walls, off the polished boards.
Max didn’t hear the door close on Trish, was already taking the stairs two at a time.
41
‘It seems you’re much sought after, Mr Hierra.’
In the small cream-painted interview room in Dún Laoghaire Garda Station, Angel Hierra leaned back in his chair and cocked his eyebrow as if O’Rourke was confusing him with someone else. His smile was charming, teeth unnaturally white, grey eyes twinkling like this was all some sort of joke. Like he’d been in an interview room before, and wasn’t fazed in the slightest.
Cathy had caught his aftershave as she came into the room. She noticed now that despite their scramble in the mud, his nails were clean, manicured, his hands soft. The duty doc had strapped up his injured wrist, leaving his fingers free. He was wearing a black roll-neck and cords. And a heavy gold wedding ring. Cathy didn’t remember reading anything on his sheet about him being married.
O’Rourke straightened the papers in front of him as he spoke, meeting Hierra’s eye.
‘Indeed, Angel, much sought after. There are two FBI agents on their way right now who are very interested in having a chat with you.’ O’Rourke checked his watch. ‘Their plane lands in four hours.’
Hierra paled, but keeping up the pretence, said, ‘So?’
All innocence. Jesus he was good. Cathy had to give him marks for his acting skills.
‘So? So there is the small matter of a man being shot dead at the Holiday Inn near JFK, and his credit card being used to hire a car at Dublin airport. And the murder of your father with a bullet from the same gun.’ As soon as the words were out of O’Rourke’s mouth, Hierra was shaking his head like it was all a big mistake. O’Rourke ignored him, continuing, ‘And before our friends from the FBI arrive, there are a few things we need to discuss.’
‘Not me, you’ve got the wrong guy. I haven’t shot anyone.’
‘Angel, crimes committed in the United States are really not my problem. What interests me is what you were doing coming out of Zoë Grant’s house with a valuable oil painting rolled up in your coat, and then assaulting one of my officers, so let’s get on with the interview, will we?’
It only took a few seconds for O’Rourke to load three DVDs into the recording unit on the wall between them. He glanced up to check the video camera was functioning as he began.
‘For the purpose of the recording, those present are DI Dawson O’Rourke and Detective Garda Cathy Connolly. Can you confirm your full name and home address for us, please?’
‘Angel Hierra, 221 Golden Sands Apartments, South Bay Street, Las Vegas.’
‘You are aware this interview is being recorded and that 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?’
Hierra nodded.
‘For the recording, please.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it.’
‘So can you tell me why you are here in Ireland?’
‘Business.’
O’Rourke nodded slowly. They had been a long time getting to this point and Cathy could see he wasn’t in the mood to be messed about. There was something about Hierra that rubbed him up the wrong way.
‘And what sort of business would it be that brings a man like yourself from Las Vegas, Nevada, to South County Dublin?’
There was a pause before Hierra answered. Cathy watched him closely. Was he getting O’Rourke’s measure, seeing how far he could push him? Then the answer came, surprising them both.
‘Family business.’
Family business?
‘More specifically, Angel?’
Rubbing his forefinger and thumb together, Hierra looked from one of them to the other, buying time? When he spoke, it was offhand, like the answer was obvious.
‘Like I said, it was family business. Lavinia Grant owed me.’
Cathy caught her breath. Lavinia Grant? How the hell was he related to Lavinia Grant?
‘How did she owe you exactly?’
Cathy tucked a stray curl behind her ear, shifted slightly in her seat, keeping quiet as O’Rourke spoke.
Hierra shook his head like it was simple mathematics. ‘My father knew her, she owed him. It was time to get things settled.’
‘You’re going to have to paint the picture for us here, Angel.’ O’Rourke made it sound like he was talking to a child. ‘How did your father know Lavinia Grant exactly?’
‘They were married.’ Hierra looked at them like it was obvious. ‘She made it. He gave her his name and she made it.’
Jesus Christ. Cathy felt her jaw drop, closed her mouth as fast as she could. But it didn’t make sense – everyone they had spoken to had said Lavinia’s husband had been killed in an accident in France. Unimpressed, O’Rourke checked his notes.
‘Your father’s surname was Henry, Angel. I’m not seeing the connection.’
‘My father’s name was Charles Henry, Charles Henry Valentine. When he got to the States he dropped the Valentine – it’s not helpful having a memorable name, in his line of business.’
That was for damn sure.
‘So your father was French?’ O’Rourke sounded like he didn’t believe a word Hierra was saying.
‘No, he was British. Deal went sour in London and he came here. Met the Grant sisters. Suited him to tell them he was French.’
‘He told you this, did he?’
There was a pause. ‘Eventually. He told my mom. When she died I wanted to find out if it was true.’
‘And how did Lavinia Grant owe him exactly?’
Hierra sat back, folded hi
s arms like he wasn’t prepared to discuss anything to do with Lavinia Grant. O’Rourke took it in, changed his tack fractionally.
‘You might as well tell us. We will find out, one way or another.’
‘My mom was a croupier at a casino, Inspector, my dad was thirty years older than her. He had this big win and convinced her he was the business, but he was a lowlife piece of shit. We lived in a trailer. There were nights when I went to bed hungry.’ Hierra drew in a breath. ‘Lavinia Grant used my father’s name to help build her business, Grant Valentine, a business that is worth, what, fifty mil today, a hundred mil? Shops in Toronto, New York, London. He married her so she could get her first bank loan. They never divorced. So he was her next of kin, and I’m his. She owed him. She owed me. Period.’
O’Rourke nodded like he was taking it in. It was a lot to take in.
‘You arrived in Ireland the day before Lavinia Grant’s sudden death. Can you tell us anything about that? It seems rather coincidental.’
‘Story of my life. It was a bad beat.’
Hierra made it sound like a joke. As if he was in a position to be funny.
‘A what?’ O’Rourke picked up his pen, began feeding it from one hand to the other.
‘That’s a card player’s term, isn’t it?’ Cathy leaned forward. A bad beat. She’d heard that before from her brother Tomás. He was poker mad, had played his way through college. Which was just as well – he’d done a lot better at the card table than in his exams.
Hierra smiled at her like she was top of the class. Lots of teeth. ‘I suppose it is.’
‘And it means . . . ?’ O’Rourke’s irritation flared.
‘It was bad luck. I should have gotten here sooner. Would have liked to have got to know the old bird better.’ Hierra checked out his nails for a moment, twisted his ring straight. ‘It’s the way the cards fall.’
‘I bet. So you reckon you’re due part of her estate, do you?’
‘Obviously.’
Cathy could see that O’Rourke had his own thoughts on that. His tone said it all. ‘And how were the cards falling this morning exactly? When you sliced that oil painting from its frame in Zoë Grant’s living room? An oil painting valued conservatively at a hundred and fifty thousand euro?’
