by Sam Blake
‘And what did you and Lavinia Grant do with the body?’
‘I don’t know what Lavinia did with it – I was downstairs. I expect she buried it, what else could she do?’
‘Before she buried it, what did she do with it, Trish?’
Trish looked noncommittal, like she wasn’t sure. ‘Wrapped it in a scarf, I think . . .’
‘A purple scarf?’
Trish’s face froze. She opened her mouth to reply but nothing came out.
O’Rourke continued, ‘And concealed it in a suitcase, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know, I wasn’t there.’ Stubborn, not moving. But she knew about the scarf.
Transfixed, Cathy had to clear her throat to speak. ‘Where did she bury it, Trish? Where did she bury the body?’
‘In the garden.’ Like it was obvious.
So why hadn’t they found anything yet? And how the hell had the bones ended up in the dress?
‘Can you tell us exactly where? It will save our lads digging the entire place up.’ There was a hint of sarcasm in O’Rourke’s voice.
‘I don’t know exactly. It’s changed a lot over the years.’
A light went on in Cathy’s head. ‘Lavinia had it landscaped, didn’t she?’
‘We were in Italy. When we came home the gardener had half of it dug up. A surprise for her, he said. Lavinia went nuts but he had to finish the job. All the neighbours were calling in to see what we were doing – she couldn’t stop it in the middle.’
‘Did one of you move the bones then? Did Lavinia dig them up?’ Cathy knew she was on to something. In the photo they’d found of the man in the straw hat, the garden had looked totally different, but the monkey puzzle tree had been there . . .
‘I don’t know. The next day the whole business with Eleanor happened. It was all a bit fraught. She was such an inconsiderate little bitch; honestly, we were only just back from our holidays. Lavinia was devastated.’
Eleanor died the next day? Had Lavinia and Eleanor argued about the bones? Had Eleanor seen her dig them up, challenged her? Cathy’s mind was racing. If Eleanor was unstable, erratic, had this pushed her over the edge? Or had Lavinia lost her temper and held her under the water?
Before Cathy had a chance to say anything, a tear rolled down Trish’s cheek. ‘They all let her down. All of them.’ Suddenly she sobbed. ‘I was the one who loved her, who stuck by her. They all let her down. I was the one who was there for her.’
Cathy could feel an anger growing inside her, an anger that had started that first day, and now, with Trish snivelling in front of her . . . As if he could sense it, O’Rourke cut in.
‘And the dress, Trish. Tell us about the dress.’
Trish was crying hard now, was difficult to understand through the tears. It took her a moment to find the words.
‘It was Grace’s. It was made for some woman whose wedding fell through – she never collected it – but Grace always loved it. Lavinia gave it to her years before Charles even appeared on the scene. It was beautiful, the best silk, French lace, had taken days to make.’ Trish drew in a breath, rough, torn at the edges. ‘Then with everything, it seemed stupid to leave it hanging there and for Lavinia not to wear it herself – Grace certainly had no use for it. Afterwards Lavinia kept it for Eleanor, thought she’d wear it.’ A sob ripped through her. ‘They all let her down. Lavinia had such hopes for Eleanor, hopes for a good marriage, hopes that she’d be able to take over the business, to continue everything she’d started. Then Eleanor . . . the stupid girl.’ Trish’s eyes glazed over. ‘It was that night, the night Eleanor died. I couldn’t sleep, came down for a glass of whisky. Lavinia hadn’t even gone to bed, was still dressed. She had the dress spread over the dining table, had her workbox beside her, her scissors out. She said the dress had brought her nothing but bad luck – I thought she was going to cut it up but she told me to take it to the undertakers, to have Eleanor buried in it.’
Cathy realised she’d been holding her breath, let out a silent sigh. She could feel the sweat breaking out on her palms. Was this the truth? At last? Had Lavinia Grant been forced to move the bones from the garden, then, with Eleanor’s death, come up with the perfect hiding place? Burying the baby boy with his sister . . . like there was some sort of symmetry in the madness of it all . . .
‘So you took the dress to the undertakers?’ O’Rourke kept his voice practical, conversational.
‘I planned to, but so much was happening. We’d managed to get Eleanor’s body out of the house into the doctor’s car earlier in the evening. He took her to the undertakers, sorted it out with them. I put the dress into the car but just as I was going out the next morning the bloody priest turned up on the doorstep, asking how our holiday had been, asking about the plans for the garden. I couldn’t get away. When I finally got there the undertaker was busy with some other family. Lavinia had made me promise to be discreet – I couldn’t just waltz in with it.’ Trish shook her head. ‘I meant to take it back later but then Lavinia told me they’d done it – they’d cremated her, I mean. I didn’t know what to do with the bloody thing then – I couldn’t tell Lavinia I hadn’t got it to the undertakers, so I shoved it in the back of a wardrobe and . . . and forgot about it.’
‘Didn’t Lavinia realise? Didn’t she notice that Eleanor wasn’t buried in it?’
‘We didn’t go to the funeral. We couldn’t. And Eleanor was cremated anyway. Nothing to see.’
There was a pause. O’Rourke broke it, his voice low. ‘And then what happened to the dress?’
Trish shook her head like it didn’t matter.
‘It was years later. I was having a clear-out. I’d forgotten all about it – it was in a cupboard under a load of other stuff. Zoë had just bought her own place so I gave it to her, told her Lavinia wanted her to have it but never to discuss it, that it would upset her too much . . .’
46
‘How are you feeling?’ Steve glanced at his watch, one eye on Zoë. She looked pale, was a bit distant, but seemed to have brightened since they had arrived at the gallery. Max was upstairs trying to get more wine delivered and finding out what had happened to the champagne, giving them a welcome few moments to themselves.
‘Grand.’ Zoë flicked him a smile, pulled her hair back over her shoulder, took a deep breath.
‘You look fabulous, you’ll knock them dead.’ Steve leaned over to kiss her, pulling her towards him, running his hand around her waist, the velvet of her dress rich purple, soft, sensuous, her cleavage emphasised by rows of sparkling sequins and crystals, sea green, turquoise and silver. Made her look like she’d just risen from the depths.
Zoë took a short quick breath. ‘What time did Tony and Emily say they’d be here?’
Steve hugged her again. Finding out about Eleanor, about Grace, had been more than he’d thought Zoë could cope with, but meeting Emily and Tony had helped smooth the waters. When Cathy had introduced them it had been like they each held part of a puzzle – only when they brought them together had they been able to find the whole. And Zoë had connected with Emily from the moment they’d met.
‘Around now. They’re staying to eat with us and Max, and Phil and Dan, after we wrap here.’
‘I hope Grace isn’t too tired. It’s been a terribly traumatic time for her too.’ A sad smile passed across Zoë’s face as if blown by the wind. ‘I still can’t believe it. Hearing everything . . . I can’t believe that Lavinia didn’t tell me about Eleanor, about Grace.’ Steve nodded again, right now they were all dealing with the unexpected . . . He’d never felt about anyone the way he felt about Zoë and part of him had been shocked when he’d realised that he felt a tiny bit disappointed that she wasn’t pregnant. In a very short space of time he’d been doing more serious thinking than he had ever done in his life before. ‘And Trish knew all the time. I’m glad they’ve arrested her. I don’t think I ever want to see her again.’
Zoë had said it a hundred times tod
ay already, but she was working through it.
Steve said nothing – they might have arrested Trish as an accessory, for not informing the authorities about the death of the baby, but after all this time he wondered if they’d be able to prosecute, if her confession to being in the house that night was enough. He knew that they were waiting for DNA results, that Cathy was hoping when they questioned Trish again that she’d confess to her true part in the whole mess. He knew Trish would get a lighter sentence with a guilty plea – which would keep the whole thing much simpler all round. Zoë hadn’t thought about it yet, but if Trish didn’t plead guilty, she might have to give evidence, to tell the whole story to the media. And he didn’t know if she was up to that.
‘She’s going to need some professional help; I’ll get a name for you. I can brief them.’
Tony Cox’s words lingered in Steve’s consciousness. Despite being the keynote speaker at the conference, he’d managed to escape from his duties, albeit briefly, to join them for lunch in the Shelbourne Hotel’s bistro. A chance for Grace and Zoë to get to know each other. It had been busy, a hubbub of voices punctuated with the tinkle of china, with refined laughter, but they’d managed to get a table beside the window overlooking Kildare Street.
After lunch, Zoë and Emily had vanished to the bathroom with Grace, one of them on each side of her, both mothering her, holding open the double doors, making sure she didn’t slip on the marble floor.
‘Zoë’s going to need some professional help; I’ll get a name for you. I can brief them.’
Nodding towards Zoë, Tony had reached for the milk jug, topping up his coffee. Sitting forward in his seat, Steve had been nursing his own coffee – black. He needed it.
‘It’s the betrayal that’s the worst, all the lies. It’s like her entire childhood has been washed away, all her points of reference gone.’ His face serious, Steve kept his voice low.
Tony rolled his eyes as he spoke. ‘That Lavinia Grant sounds utterly charming.’ He grimaced. ‘But looking at Grace, hearing what you guys are telling me about Lavinia’s paranoia about the press, the highs and lows, I’d guess Lavinia was bipolar – a manic depressive. A lot of her behaviour would be symptomatic of the condition. It fits with Grace’s psychosis, the schizophrenia. The two are closely related, have common traits. And Zoë’s mother Eleanor, too – if it was suicide as the cops are suggesting . . . it all fits.’
‘Do you think Eleanor was bipolar?’
Tony grimaced again. ‘Impossible to say for sure. I’d guess it was more likely she shared Grace’s symptoms, was schizophrenic. There’s a strong genetic link in these illnesses.’
A strong genetic link?
Steve had felt his train crash, the carriages concertinaing into each other, glass shattering. Whoa . . .
Unaware of the impact of his words, Tony continued, ‘Zoë should be assessed. I’m sure some of the issues she’s struggling with could route back to a diagnosis similar to Grace’s. She mentioned feelings of isolation and depression, her need to be in control over her surroundings. She’ll feel much more level once she’s taking the right medication – at least we know what we’re dealing with.’
‘We do?’ Steve had stopped himself, then repeated it, trying to sound positive. ‘We do.’
‘And it will be great for Zoë to have Grace near her; they’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I was a bit concerned initially that the negative associations Grace has with that house would throw her off track, but she seems very happy at the idea of moving back home. And Emily’s going to stay as long as she can, help smooth things along. I’m sure she’ll be backwards and forwards checking on them both.’
Steve nodded. Zoë had been the one to suggest Grace move back to Oleander House, had just sort of assumed that she would want to, pointing out that by rights the house was hers. It would take the solicitors months to sort out Lavinia’s will, but one way or another Grace would be looked after for the rest of her days, Zoë had assured Tony she would see to that. Steve grinned. ‘The housekeeper will probably find Grace a walk in the park after having to look after Lavinia for so many years. From what Zoë said, she was pretty difficult.’
‘You could say that. She was a classic case from the sound of things.’ Then Tony’s voice brightened. ‘Here they are, back again.’
Tony stood up, grabbing his napkin to stop it from falling off his knee, pulled back Zoë’s chair to let her sit. She was smiling.
‘Emily just told me your news. It’s great.’
Tony rolled his eyes, smiling, threw Emily a look as she slipped into her own seat.
‘I couldn’t keep quiet, sorry.’
He shook his head, like it didn’t matter, a smile creeping onto his face. ‘We’ve left it a bit late to start a family, my fault entirely. But we should be OK if we get a reputable agency to help, look to adopt in China or Russia maybe.’
‘It’s a wonderful thing, giving a child from somewhere like that a home, a future.’ Zoë sounded almost wistful.
‘I hope so.’
Emily met his eye. ‘It is. It’s a wonderful thing.’
‘Here they are.’ A knock on the gallery’s street door jolted Steve from his thoughts. He put down his glass on the reception desk beside a pile of copies of Scene, Zoë’s face smiling from the front cover. With everything going on it was a miracle they’d got it out in time, but the girls in the office had been great, had got the whole issue to print pretty much on their own, had thrived on the challenge, showed just how good there were. Which was a total blessing. Looking at Zoë’s face on the cover, Steve knew that from now on he was going to have to get serious, was going to have to start running the magazine like a real business, a business that could support both of them.
The girl with the pink hair was already opening the gallery door when Steve felt Zoë hesitate.
‘What’s up?’
‘Will it be OK? Tonight . . . everything . . . will it be OK?’
He put both hands on her shoulders, kissed her forehead. ‘It’ll be fine. You’ve got your friends all around you.’ He nodded to the back of the shop, where Dan had his arm around Phil’s shoulders as he pointed out something in one of the paintings. The pair of them had been beaming since they arrived. ‘This is your day. Trust me. Everything will be fine. Everything.’
Zoë’s smile was like the sun coming out. She put her hands on Steve’s arms, still resting on her shoulders.
‘I love you.’
Steve kissed her again, this time on her lips. ‘Good, cos I think you’re pretty wonderful yourself. And you’re going to be seeing a lot of me.’
The drizzle was clearing as Cathy headed out of the car park into Temple Bar. Dublin was busy, early-evening Christmas shoppers mingling with students and the occasional out-of-season tourist. She zipped up her leather jacket, glad of its thick lining. She felt cold, uncharacteristically nervous. Passing into the cobbled pedestrian area, she glanced upwards at the Christmas lights glittering in the darkness, chains of stars, blue and white, this year’s colour, guiding her towards the gallery. Christ, why was she here?
Outside the gallery a crowd was already beginning to gather, women in high heels and expensive coats, men in blazers and tweeds trying to look like they weren’t cold, several photographers, their cameras swinging from their shoulders. Cathy hesitated for a moment. The timing was crap . . . worse than crap . . . but she was here and there was a chance that she might not have the courage to get here again . . .
In the depths of her pocket her phone rang. Cursing, fumbling for it, she checked the screen as she answered. Number withheld. The voice on the other end was male, heavily accented.
‘We don’t like –’
‘Feck off Decko, I’m busy.’ Cathy ended the call. Decko was still in Templemore on the training course. No doubt he was in the bar bored out of his brain but she really wasn’t in the mood right now.
Slipping through the knot of expectant guests outside the gal
lery, Cathy rapped on the door with her car keys. Thick blackout blinds had been pulled down on the inside of the door; opposite the window, one of Zoë’s canvases dominated the display space, brilliantly lit – a splash of colour in the darkness of the street. The blind didn’t quite meet the edge of the door and through the gap Cathy could see flashes of movement, of light and colour. She rapped again, harder this time, more insistent. A moment later a girl with pink hair and a ring through her nose pulled back the blind, drew back the bolts, opened the door an inch.
‘We’re closed; Zoë Grant’s opening is at seven o’clock.’
Cathy flipped open her badge. ‘Gardaí, I need a word.’ Reluctantly the girl pulled the door wide. ‘Is Zoë here?’ The girl nodded but Cathy had already spotted her, willowy and elegant at the back of the gallery talking to Grace, Steve’s arm protectively around her. Emily and Tony Cox were looking at another painting, holding hands like love’s young dream. ‘I need a word with Max Igoe.’
‘He’s upstairs in the office, he’ll be down any minute.’
Cathy smiled, the muscles in her face working but leaving her eyes cold. ‘It’s private. Show me the way, I can go up.’
Steve glanced over his shoulder as the door closed behind her, raised an eyebrow, was obviously about to say something when Cathy shook her head. He got the point, turned back to the painting Zoë was explaining, slipping right back into the conversation, waving the glass of wine in his hand towards it. The girl with the pink hair opened a door concealed in the panelling, curiosity written all over her face. ‘It’s straight up.’ Behind her the phone started ringing.
‘Thanks. You better get that.’ Cathy looked up the stairs, steep and narrow, dark after the bright lights of the gallery.
It was a long climb.
At the top, Cathy paused, her hand on the door handle, taking a moment to breathe, to gather her wits. She could hear Max on the phone, smell the unmistakable tang of paint – the same smell she’d got in Zoë’s studio that had made her stomach churn. But she couldn’t puke now.
