by Sam Blake
‘Such an elegant turn of phrase for a young lady.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I do, I know exactly what you mean. I think Ms O’Sullivan has a lot of explaining to do. Aren’t you going to drink that coffee? Whatever about not eating, you’ll get dehydrated if you don’t drink something. How are you feeling, anyway?’
Cathy grimaced. ‘Grand, not a bother.’ She shrugged like she got into a scuffle with an armed suspect every day, like it wasn’t a problem.
O’Rourke nodded slowly, watching her as he took another bite.
‘Do you reckon Lavinia told Trish to kill the baby? Maybe she didn’t think she could cope with two.’
He replied with his mouth full, ‘One of them stitched the bones up in a dress, so, really, I’d believe anything.’
Cathy shivered. ‘Any joy on the sewing thread?’
‘They’re confident. The dress was dry, no mould, so there should be something with a bit of luck – DNA from saliva if the dressmaker licked the thread. My gran always did that when she was threading a needle. Or skin cells. We’ll see. They can be fairly quick when there’s no backlog.’
‘But there’s a backlog.’
‘Isn’t there always?’
‘If this was CSI we’d have had it weeks ago and wrapped all this up.’
O’Rourke shoved the last of the sandwich into his mouth, spoke with his mouth full. ‘Time for a chat with Trish O’Sullivan, don’t you think? See what she has to say about Hierra’s evidence. Here this time.’ He swallowed hard. ‘We haven’t got enough to arrest her yet, but it’s only a matter of time. You better tell Emily Cox that you’ve been held up again, reschedule your chat with Grace for tomorrow – they’re here for a while, aren’t they?’
‘Yep.’ When Cathy had spoken to Emily this morning to change their meeting she’d sounded relieved, had been worried about Grace getting upset again. Cathy was sure another delay wouldn’t be a bad thing. ‘You going to get the lab to test the scarf in the suitcase for Trish’s DNA as well?’
O’Rourke nodded. ‘The tech boys have it in progress – they got some good samples from a hairbrush in her room at Oleander House and a pile of cigarette butts. She’ll probably admit it was her scarf but claim that anything we find is circumstantial, but you never know, it might spook her into a confession. Stranger things have happened.’
45
‘Can you please state your full name?’
Sitting opposite them with her arms crossed tightly, Trish O’Sullivan rolled her eyes and sighed theatrically like this was all a waste of time. Cathy could feel O’Rourke tense beside her, coiled like a panther about to pounce. They’d had enough trouble bringing her in; she would have slammed the door of her apartment in their faces if O’Rourke hadn’t wedged his foot in it.
‘Why the hell would I want to talk to you lot? I’ve told you, I don’t know how many times, I can’t help you.’
‘We just have a few small ends to tie up and then we can release Lavinia Grant’s house . . . if you could come down to Dún Laoghaire for a quick chat it would be most helpful.’
Cathy had almost laughed – despite having his foot in the door, O’Rourke had managed to make it sound casual, like it hadn’t occurred to him that Trish might be desperate to get back into the house. He knew how to push everyone’s buttons. What did they say, possession was nine-tenths of the law? The look of realisation on Trish’s face, the subtle change in her attitude as she realised what he’d said, was a classic. Cathy could almost see the cogs in her head whirring – Lavinia’s will would take at least a year to go through probate and who knew if she’d even left a proportion of her estate to Trish? If Trish moved back into Oleander it could take Zoë years to get her out, indeed she might not even bother.
And some people just didn’t think the law applied to them.
‘This is utterly ridiculous. My name’s Patricia O’Sullivan, as you well know, and I have things to do, Inspector.’ Cutting through Cathy’s thoughts, Trish glared at both of them. O’Rourke didn’t reply, instead tapped the end of his pen on the corner of his pad, his eyes on the typed pages in front of him. The main file on the Grant family was at least two inches thick. The team had been thorough, as far as was possible, ferreting into Trish’s past as well as Lavinia’s, Eleanor’s and Zoë’s. So they knew Trish was an only child, that her parents had both lived to ripe old ages, that her father had been first a journalist and later the editor of a provincial newspaper. That she had a creative approach to the truth.
‘I’m afraid it is far from ridiculous, Ms O’Sullivan. As I explained, we have a few last issues to wrap up before we can release Oleander House.’ Cathy bit her lip as he paused, his voice deliberately relaxed, the George Clooney charm turned up to full blast. They didn’t have enough evidence to arrest her, yet. But she didn’t know that. If he was clever he might get her to trip up. And one thing Cathy knew about O’Rourke was that he was clever.
‘We have reason to believe’ – Cathy could feel him choosing his words, drew in her breath sharply as she realised that he was going to go for it – ‘that you concealed the death of an infant and that you played a part in that death. At the very least that you are an accessory in the instigation of that death through wilful neglect. It is also a criminal offence in this country to conceal the birth of a child.’ O’Rourke’s voice was clear, precise.
Trish’s mouth dropped open. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean – wilful neglect?’
‘Assuming the child died of natural causes, it was born without medical intervention and as a result died. If that is the case, at some point shortly after its birth it must have become distressed and yet no doctor was sought. We must also consider the possibility that the child may have been smothered – wasn’t that a common method of disposing of unwanted children in the 1940s and 50s?’
Cathy shifted in her seat. Whatever about them knowing that Trish had lied to them about Charles being dead, about Eleanor’s disappearance, whatever about them knowing that the baby was a boy, they had nothing to substantiate Charles Valentine’s claim in the letter. And his statement to Angel Hierra, most likely with a gun to his head, would hardly stand up in court . . .
‘Oh please, Inspector. You have evidence to support this supposition, do you?’ As Trish recovered, shaking her head, her upper lip curled in a look of disgust. ‘It’s guesswork, Inspector. Absolute guesswork. And if I decided to leave right now you’d have no evidence to keep me here, would you?’
O’Rourke looked straight at her, meeting her eye.
‘We have arrested a man named Angel Hierra. I believe you knew his father – Charles Henry Valentine? We had a very interesting conversation.’
At the mention of Charles’s name Trish went white, licked her lips quickly. It took a moment for her to gather herself.
‘You’ve spoken to Charles?’ Leaping to her own conclusion, Trish looked at them in disbelief, then snorted. ‘And you believed what he said? Good God, he’d say black was white if he thought he could make a few pounds out of it.’ She paused, her eyes flicking from O’Rourke to Cathy and back again. Cathy stared back, she wasn’t about to put Trish right, to tell her Charles had died. Almost sneering, Trish continued, ‘Did he tell you how he convinced Grace and half of Dublin that he was a French count? Had the accent and everything, the cigars, the stories. The poor girl was completely infatuated. He was after her money, you know, thought she was a soft touch. He hadn’t anticipated Lavinia. But she saw through him pretty quickly, found out he was some East End wide boy, a spiv on the run.’
‘Thank you, we know.’
‘Oh, excuse me.’ Pretending to be affronted, Trish fired O’Rourke a scowl designed to wound.
‘What we’re interested in is why you lied about his death, and the death of Eleanor Grant.’
‘Charles left, ran off with half of Lavinia’s jewellery box. There was no way he was coming back. It wouldn’t have looked good if people knew he was a
crook. She had a reputation, Inspector.’
O’Rourke deliberately ignored the implication that he didn’t have a reputation. ‘And Eleanor? I seem to recollect you told us she had disappeared as well, had gone to France. I believe you told Zoë Grant something rather different this morning. Why did it take you so long to remember?’
Trish’s hand fluttered to the chains at her neck. She was wearing a silk trouser suit, a murky no-colour somewhere between vomit and peanut butter, a cream silk T-shirt underneath it, her hair lacquered so heavily that each hair appeared to be glued in place. And she was still wearing the huge solitaire diamond earrings that had turned Cathy’s stomach the first time they had met.
‘Well, what was I supposed to say? Eleanor had gone, hadn’t she? Did it really matter where to?’ She paused. ‘With Grace coming back it was time she knew. I couldn’t have Grace spreading lies about Lavinia. She needed to hear it from me.’
There was a pause. When O’Rourke spoke his voice was low, a rumble like a dog growling.
‘The truth, Ms O’Sullivan, isn’t always nice, but it is nonetheless the truth. Knowing the truth mattered to Zoë Grant, don’t you think? It took you a long time to tell her.’
The truth . . . Cathy shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He was right. The truth wasn’t always nice, but striving for the truth was what it was all about, wasn’t it? That’s why they came into work every day, why they sifted through other people’s shit. To find the truth . . .
‘We couldn’t tell her before.’ Trish interrupted Cathy’s thoughts, looking at O’Rourke like he was stupid. ‘She was too young to understand, would have blurted it out somewhere. She was traumatised after it happened, kept asking where her mother was. So we told her Eleanor was fine, that she’d been playing a game, that she’d had to go away for a while. Lavinia gave her birthday cards, Christmas cards the first couple of years, so she wouldn’t miss her.’
So she wouldn’t miss her? Cathy felt her face form a look of horror, would have interrupted if she’d been able to think of anything to say, but Trish continued like it was all fine. ‘Zoë was three or four, her mother was gone. She accepted it in the end, stopped asking.’
If O’Rourke shared Cathy’s revulsion at this statement he didn’t show it, concentrated icily on the facts. ‘She was traumatised? So tell us: what happened to Eleanor exactly?’
Trish shook her head like it was irrelevant. ‘I was at the office. Lavinia called to say that they’d had a row, that Eleanor had taken something, pills or booze, and that Zoë had found her in the bath. She must have fallen asleep.’
‘Eleanor and Lavinia had had an argument?’ O’Rourke kept his voice calm.
‘They were always arguing. Eleanor was very difficult, up and down. She’d stay out all night, going to parties with the layabouts she’d met at art school, then when she eventually came home, she wouldn’t come out of her room for days. And then she got pregnant. Christ, the rows then . . .’ Trish paused, let out a sigh, a blast of irritation and anger. ‘It was Grace all over again. The stupid girl. We ended up looking after Zoë more than Eleanor ever did. She never seemed to connect with her.’
‘And Zoë’s father?’
‘God knows. Probably some doped-up student. Eleanor was the one who wanted to go to art school, said she needed to express herself, although I don’t remember her ever actually painting anything. Lavinia thought it was all ridiculous. Eleanor could draw all right, had a great eye for colour, but it was all peace and love and free sex then. She wasn’t able for it.’
‘So Eleanor argued with Lavinia and then took her own life?’
‘It was an accident. She fell asleep.’
‘Right. And who certified the death?’
‘The family doctor.’
‘He understood the situation, did he? Looked after everything.’
Trish rolled her eyes like it was obvious.
‘You understand that when Eleanor’s death occurred it was also an offence to conceal a suicide.’ Trish didn’t respond, instead focused on her nails, looking at them speculatively like she was considering whether she needed a manicure.
‘Why the lies, Trish?’ Cathy sat forward, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. ‘Why didn’t you tell Zoë what happened when she was older? Attitudes have changed to suicide. Surely Zoë had a right to know.’
‘It was an accident.’
There was something about the way Trish’s face had shut down, about the way she had moved from her nails to start playing with her rings, twisting them straight until the gemstones caught the light, that made Cathy’s skin crawl, a shiver shoot up her spine. What if it wasn’t an accident, what if Lavinia had held her under the water? Would they ever know?
O’Rourke cleared his throat. ‘Let’s just backtrack a bit, can we, and ask you about Grace. What exactly happened there?’ O’Rourke voice was tense. Trish seemed to have forgotten that she was here voluntarily, but he hadn’t.
The sigh again, but this time Trish’s jaw was set. Had they hit a nerve?
‘It was a long time ago. What does it matter now?’
‘Let us be the judge of what matters, Ms O’Sullivan.’ O’Rourke shifted in his seat, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, his cufflinks blue and gold, the Garda crest. ‘We have evidence that that you were present the night Eleanor was born, and that Charles Valentine was also present.’
There was a short pause, the silence laden with half-truths. Then Trish snorted like a horse refusing to go into the stalls. ‘I’m surprised Charles can remember.’
‘Why would that be, Ms O’Sullivan?’
‘Because he got hold of a bottle of vintage brandy, Inspector, several bottles in fact. He passed out.’
O’Rourke nodded silently. ‘Apparently he was able to remember enough.’ He left it hanging out there. ‘So, tell us what happened. Let’s start with how Charles and Grace met.’
‘It was at some dance at the Gresham. He was very attractive, I suppose, suave. Once he realised that Grace and Lavinia were living on their own, that their father was dead, he thought all his Christmases had come together. He seduced her, Inspector. She was a silly girl, flighty, easily led.’
‘So Grace discovered she was pregnant, and . . .’
‘She thought Charles loved her, thought he was going to marry her – well he might have done if Lavinia hadn’t found out the truth about him. She told him if they got married she’d cut Grace off without a penny. That changed things a bit.’
‘And then, despite his background, she decided to marry him herself?’ Even with Hierra’s version of his father’s story it sounded nuts. But, Cathy knew, Ireland in the 1950s was a very different place from today; society had very strict rules about what was acceptable and what wasn’t, found ways around the issues that defied belief.
Trish’s face twisted like there was a bad smell in the room.
‘It wasn’t that simple. He was useful to Lavinia – he had a name, a title, even if it was in his head. Married to her, he gave her business huge credibility; married to Grace, he was a total liability – he could have talked the stupid girl into anything.’ Trish paused for breath, waiting for O’Rourke to speak. He didn’t, continued to look like he thought she was making it all up.
‘Look, Lavinia worked really hard after their father died. She had dreams, she couldn’t risk Charles taking it all away if he married Grace. She wanted to open a shop, to build the business, but it wasn’t easy for a woman on her own back then. She needed finance, needed the bank to take her seriously.’ Trish paused. ‘And we had to do something about the child, couldn’t have it leaking out that there was an illegitimacy in the family. It made sense all round.’
To everyone except Grace.
There was a pause. A long one.
‘So take us back to the night Eleanor was born.’ O’Rourke was frowning, obviously trying to get his head around the logic . . .
Trish’s voice was hard. ‘Nothing to tell. Grace went into l
abour.’ She shuddered. ‘Lavinia delivered it.’
‘The doctor wasn’t called.’
‘Of course not. Women gave birth at home all the time back then, without doctors fussing about.’
‘And many of them died.’ Trish shook her head like O’Rourke was being ridiculous, like it wasn’t relevant. ‘And was Eleanor a healthy baby?’
‘I suppose so. She screamed a lot, but don’t they all?’
‘And the boy?’ O’Rourke’s tone was light, conversational. Beside him Cathy froze. He was fishing, but it was slick, calculated.
‘What boy?’ Trish tried to look mystified, but she had paled several shades, reached up to twist her earring. The tell. It was a good act but not quite good enough.
‘The boy, Ms O’Sullivan. We know about the boy.’
O’Rourke let the silence between them grow, sat back waiting for Trish to speak. Eventually she shook her head, her face angry.
‘Look, he died. So what? He was too small. Grace wasn’t cut out to carry twins. And Lavinia could never have managed two of them.’
O’Rourke nodded, continued, his face deadpan. ‘Is that what happened? Really? He was too small?’
‘We didn’t even know Grace was having twins. Eleanor came first. Lavinia thought she was finished and then there was this other one.’
‘Did he breathe, Trish? Did you hear him cry?’
‘I was downstairs.’ Her voice was hard, razor-sharp.
‘Really? We have reason to believe that you were in the room, Trish, that you held the child.’ Trish blanched, her eyes flicking between them as he continued, ‘We have evidence to suggest that you were helping Lavinia, that Charles didn’t start on the brandy until much later that night, that he went up to see Grace, to see his baby, and he saw everything. Did you know he was there, Trish? Did you know he was right behind you?’
‘It’s lies, it’s all lies.’ She spat the words across the table, her voice rising to a scream. ‘Charles is a liar. I was downstairs.’
O’Rourke raised his eyebrows, but kept quiet. Waiting to see if she would say more? She didn’t. The outburst seemed to have exhausted her. The silence grew, filled with disbelief.
