‘Well, I don’t,’ she snapped. Then, feeling tears welling again, she said quietly, ‘What am I going to do?’
Grady scratched his head, and then ran a hand over his face and looked at her intently. ‘What do the gardai say?’
She shook her head angrily. ‘I’m not involving the gardai.’ She waved the photographs. ‘You think I want those spread about. It’s bad enough that you and Hugh have seen them, never mind how many people at Books Inc. But it stops there. Anyway,’ she said, putting the envelope back into her handbag, ‘I think I know who might be responsible.’
Grady’s eyes widened. ‘You do?’
She ignored his question. ‘If I can sort it out? Prove it isn’t me in those photos, can I recover?’
Grady sighed. ‘I might be able to get you a publishing contract for your new book,’ he said, and then stressed, ‘only might.’ He picked up his pen and drummed it on the desk. ‘If you can prove you’re innocent, we can definitely reduce the damage, but it better be soon.’ He bit his lower lip. ‘I think it will be a difficult proposition with your children’s books. Books Inc aren’t going to take the risk. It might be wise to withdraw them for a few years and then republish them under a pseudonym.’
Much as she disliked the idea, it made sense.
Seeing her accept the necessity, the agent pushed a little more. ‘It might be as well to approach a different publisher with your new novel under a pseudonym too,’ he continued. ‘They’ll have heard the gossip, of course, it’s too small a business not to, but under a different name, they could brush that aside.’
For a moment, Kelly agreed, and then Simon came into her head. He’d used a false name to trick so many people. Pretence. It was a trap for the foolish. ‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘on second thoughts I won’t use a pseudonym, not for my children’s books, not for my saga. I’ll clear my name and I will fight for the right to be published under my own name.’ The corner of her mouth lifted in an attempt at a smile. ‘After all, what is it they say about there being no such thing as bad publicity?’
Grady tried to persuade her but she wouldn’t budge. ‘Ok,’ he said, holding up his hands in defeat. ‘If you clear your name, I’ll see what I can do, but there are no guarantees.’
She picked up her bag and stood. ‘There rarely are, Owen. But I can give you one. I will clear my name.’
Her head held high, she left the office and headed back down Earlsfort Terrace. She’d only gone a few steps when something struck her and her pace slowed until she stopped completely. Turning, she looked up at the office she’d just left. Owen Grady was looking down at her. She held his gaze for a moment before raising her hand in farewell as if it was the most normal thing in the world to do. Then she walked on.
She didn’t stop until she was back inside Stephen’s Green. Then she sat on the first bench she came to and drew a ragged breath. I’m sure Mike wasn’t too happy. How did he know his name? She’d never mentioned him. She was sure of it.
Hadn’t she felt railroaded into taking Grady on as an agent? Maybe he was the one who sent the photographs?
Aidan had recommended him. Were they in it together? Mike was right; she should report it to the police. She went as far as taking out her phone before she bit her lip and put it away again. She’d wait until after she’d seen the editor.
Then she’d decide what to do.
18
It was early so she did what she’d been promising herself for a long time. She went to Brown Thomas and shopped.
The beautiful clothes, the fragrance of perfumes and the smell and feel of good leather handbags and shoes should have lifted her spirits, but they didn’t. She tried on a number of garments but nothing looked good on her. Finally, she gave up and went for coffee to sit and wait until the appointed time to meet Aidan.
She went over her conversation with Owen, trying to remember the tone he’d used or whether he’d looked uncomfortable at any time. But she had to admit that he’d looked relaxed the whole way through.
At ten minutes to two, she headed back down Grafton Street and skirted alongside Steven’s Green onto Harcourt Street. As she walked she tried to keep her focus on three things. Aidan made her feel uncomfortable, he’d suggested Owen Grady as an agent, and Owen knew something about her that he shouldn’t.
The Coffee Pot was busy. According to her phone it was exactly two o’clock but there was no sign of the editor. Having had more than her fair share of coffee already that day, Kelly bought a herbal tea and looked around for a seat. There wasn’t a table free but she quickly and surreptitiously weighed up the various customers and approached a table where a lone woman sat in front of a nearly empty cup.
‘Would you mind if I sat here,’ she said with a smile, indicating the empty chair.
The woman returned the smile and shook her head. ‘I was just leaving anyway,’ she said, lifting her cup and draining it. With a friendly nod, she stood and left.
Kelly took off her jacket, dropped it on the vacant chair and sat back with her eyes fixed on the door. She checked the time. He was late.
It was fifteen minutes later before he arrived. Not hurrying, Kelly noticed, annoyed.
‘Sorry,’ he said, approaching her table. ‘A meeting ran later than expected. Can I get you something to drink?’
‘I’ll have a double espresso,’ she said, pushing her empty cup away. There were times when a strong coffee was essential. This was one of them.
The queue at the counter was slow, giving her time to observe him as he stood waiting to be served, hands plunged deep into his expensive-looking leather jacket. Everything about him was overdone. His clothes, the impeccably shiny shoes, and hair that she guessed wouldn’t move in a hurricane.
She quickly pasted a smile in place when he looked over and caught her staring. He returned the smile, adding a what-can-I-do shrug at the slowness of the queue.
‘I think the barista is new,’ he said when he finally returned bearing her espresso and a macchiato.
‘Thanks,’ she said, adding two packets of sugar to her coffee and stirring briskly.
Neither spoke for a few minutes and then they both started together
‘I’m sorry...’
‘I’m determined...’
They stopped and both gave an embarrassed laugh. Aidan said, ‘You first.’
Kelly took another sip of her coffee, put the cup down and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I’m determined to find out who is doing this to me,’ she said.
He looked away. Crossing one perfectly creased trouser leg over the other, he picked up his coffee and proceeded to sip in a dainty fashion, pausing as if to savour the taste between each sip.
Kelly clenched her hands. Losing control wouldn’t help, she could wait him out. She took a deep breath and looked around the small coffee shop. Couples, singles, workers, shoppers, tourists. They were all here, dealing with whatever life threw at them. Letting her breath out slowly, she relaxed.
‘Hugh was really shocked,’ Power said, drawing her attention back to him.
She met his gaze. ‘He really thought the photos were of me?’
‘Weren’t they?’ Aidan said, his voice cold.
Her audible gasp wasn’t due to what he said but to a sudden revelation. The admiring looks he’d sent her way, the flirtatious remarks he’d made, they were a lie. It was there in the sneer, in the derisive look he gave her. He didn’t like her. She closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them he was staring at her, much as she had been staring at him a few minutes before.
‘Why do you dislike me?’ she asked, deciding she had nothing to lose.
‘What’s to like?’ he said, looking at her as if she were something he’d scrape off his shoe. ‘You’re not nearly as good a writer as you think you are, and now it seems your morality leaves a lot to be desired.’
Shock left her incapable of words. It was tempting to get up and run from the cafe but she refused to give him that satisfaction. All veneer of frien
dliness had gone and all she could see was contempt and dislike...no more than that, disgust...on his face.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said, hating the plaintive quality in her voice. She cleared her throat and continued, ‘Why did you agree to meet me?
He shrugged. ‘I thought it might be fun.’
Fun? She put a hand over her mouth as her lower lip started to tremble. She wasn’t going to cry, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Dropping her hand, she lifted her chin. ‘You sent those photographs, didn’t you?’
His laugh was unexpected, the look of disgust on his face replaced with one of genuine humour. ‘You see, I was right. This is fun,’ he said.
‘But you did send them? I don’t want to go to the gardai but I will if you don’t admit it and tell me why you would do such a thing.’
He finished his coffee and pushed the cup away. ‘It’s getting boring now. Women always do, you know that?’ When she sat silently looking at him, he sighed loudly. ‘No, you stupid bitch, I didn’t send the damn photos. Why would I? If you want to spread your legs for every cock in Dublin, why should I care?’
She was taken aback. She’d been so sure. But despite the crudeness of what he’d said, she believed him.
Hurriedly, she gathered her thoughts. If it wasn’t him? ‘How well do you know Owen Grady?’ she asked.
‘Hardly at all,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘Anyway, much as I’m enjoying our little chat, I have a meeting to get to.’ He stood and without another word or look in her direction, left.
Kelly watched him go, her eyes narrowed. It was obvious he’d lied about how well he knew Owen? Why?
She smiled. It was time to put the real detectives on the case. Taking out her phone, she pressed the speed-dial button for Mike.
19
West had other things to worry about that morning. Morrison was demanding results. Where he was expected to get them, he wasn’t sure.
‘IT couldn’t do anything with the disc,’ Andrews told him over the rim of his coffee mug.
‘At least you had the good sense not to say I told you so,’ he growled.
Andrews smiled. ‘There is some good news,’ he said, shaking his head when West’s frown vanished. ‘Don’t get too excited, it may not go anywhere,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Jarvis spoke to one of Ollie Fearon’s mates who told him he should speak to a guy he’d done some work with recently, name of Richie, no surname but he told Jarvis where he’d find him. He and Allen have gone to talk to him.’
‘Good,’ West said, ‘let’s hope this gives us something. Morrison is nagging me for results.’
‘You’re spoiling his solve-rate averages,’ Andrews said with a grin.
‘Is Baxter here?’ West said, ignoring his comment.
‘Sure, he’s in the office. You want me to get him?’
West sat for a moment. Unofficial or not, once he started a search it was garda business. ‘I want to do some digging on some new men in Kelly’s circle,’ he said slowly.
‘Unofficially,’ Andrews guessed seeing the grim line of the sergeant’s mouth.
He nodded. ‘She doesn’t want to make an official complaint in case the photographs fall into the wrong hands.’
‘Sounds like they already did,’ Andrews said reasonably.
‘I think she was afraid of a bunch of lecherous gardai drooling over them.’
‘Well, if you give me the names you want checked out, I’ll give them to Baxter, tell him to be discreet.’
‘Discreet but thorough,’ West said, taking a piece of scrap paper and scribbling the names down before handing it to him.
‘I’ll get him on it straight away,’ Andrews said and left the office.
West spent the next hour answering emails from the various agencies he’d asked for help in identifying the suitcase child. None offered any assistance or told him anything he didn’t already know. It was a cold case and getting colder. They’d nowhere to go with it. Regretfully, he knew they’d have to put it on the back burner unless something turned up within the next couple of days.
Emails dealt with, it was tempting to go and ask Baxter if he’d made any headway with the names, but it was also a waste of time. If anything interesting turned up, Seamus would let him know. Instead, he rang the head office of Books Inc and asked to speak to the managing director, Elliot Mannion.
‘This is Garda Sergeant West from Foxrock,’ he introduced himself when he was put through. ‘I believe you received some pornographic photographs in the post yesterday.’
There was a moment’s silence before a quiet voice said, ‘I didn’t contact the police.’
‘No, I’m aware of that,’ West said, and wondered for the first time why the man hadn’t. ‘I’ll explain if I may, but not over the phone. In your office, perhaps, or maybe,’ he said when there was a further protracted silence, ‘you’d prefer to come here?’
It always worked. Mannion quickly agreed to see him. ‘I’m assuming discretion will be offered,’ he said.
Discretion? It was a book wholesaler, not a bank. But what did he know; maybe the corporate world of book selling was cutthroat. Anyway, there was no point in antagonising the man. ‘I can assure you of our full discretion, Mr Mannion. I’ll see you in about an hour.’
He slipped on his jacket and headed out to the office. Baxter was tapping away on the keyboard with his left hand, and scribbling furiously with his right. He smiled. If there was something to be found, he was the man to find it.
Andrews, he could see, was busy doing the rota, a job he proclaimed to hate but which he did with incredible diligence. Nobody complained about their shift patterns in Foxrock.
‘I’m heading out for a while,’ he said to him, watching as he put his finger on the line he was checking before looking up.
‘You want me to come with you?’
‘And take you away from that,’ he said, nodding toward the sheaves of paper on the desk before him. ‘No it’s ok.’ He moved away and then, hesitating, went back. ‘I’m heading out to Books Inc. I’m going to pick up those photographs and take them out to Fiona. We might get lucky this time.’
‘We’re due some luck, we haven’t had much recently.’
Luck, so much of their job depended on it. They could work all hours, question everyone under the sun and it still came down to one four-letter word. Shaking his head at the thought, West left.
The head office of Books Inc was located in the seaside town of Bray, its offices in a huge Victorian building overlooking the sea. There was limited parking in front so West double-parked, leaving a note on his windscreen.
Granite steps led up to a heavy wooden door. A neat sign, positioned dead centre, asked customers to use the doorbell to gain access. West fingered the brass doorknocker beneath the sign with a hint of regret before pressing the indicated bell.
Immediately, a light, friendly voice answered. ‘Books Inc, can I help you?’
West bent his six-foot frame slightly to speak into the intercom. ‘It’s Mike West, here to see Elliot Mannion.’
A buzzer sounded and he automatically pushed the door open and stepped into a small, poorly lit hallway. Light came from the open door on the right. He headed toward it and stepped into a modern office where a plump young man sat behind a desk crammed with three computer screens.
‘Mr West,’ the same light friendly voice greeted him, ‘come in and take a seat. I’ll let Mr Mannion know you’re here.’
The chairs were comfortable. West sat and crossed his legs. In his experience people liked to do one of two things. Play the power game and keep him waiting, or betray an inherent nervousness in being questioned by the gardai by seeing him immediately. It amused him to try to anticipate which it would be.
Guessing from his brief conversation with the man that he’d go for the power play he was surprised when, less than a minute later, the receptionist came over to him. ‘Mr Mannion will see you now,’ he said, and then pointed back into the hallway. ‘If you go up t
wo flights of stairs, it’s the first door on the right.’
The stairway had an elegant curve that West admired as he took the two flights with ease. He stopped outside Mannion’s office, shaking his head a little when he noted the imposing sign stating Managing Director. ‘A man who knows his own importance,’ he muttered before knocking smartly.
The come in came immediately and he pushed the door open into a large office. It had a corner aspect with windows on two sides making it very airy and bright. Winter sun flooded through causing him to squint slightly as he looked over to where Mannion remained seated behind a modern steel and wood desk.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ West said.
‘It didn’t look as if I was being given a choice. Have a seat.’
The chair he indicated matched the desk and was surprisingly comfortable. ‘Very nice,’ West said, sitting back and resting his hands on the broad armrest, his fingers automatically moving to feel the smoothness of the wood.
‘Timothy Higgins. Cork. I like to support young designers when I can,’ Mannion replied, sliding an appreciative hand along the top of his desk. ‘But you haven’t come here to talk about modern design, have you?’ He slid open a drawer and took out an envelope, holding it firmly in his hand. ‘I’d be interested in knowing how you found out about them.’
West smiled. ‘And if I don’t tell you?’
‘Well, I suppose I could just drop this back in the drawer, but,’ he said with a sigh, ‘it’s not really the kind of artwork I like to have around me.’
West’s smile faded. ‘They’re photographs of my partner, or at least that’s what they’re purporting to be. They’re not, but they are good composites.’
‘Kelly Johnson is your girlfriend?’ Mannion’s voice was part shock, part surprise.
‘Yes. I was sent similar photographs, as was Hugh Todd. Someone is trying to destroy Kelly, personally and professionally. They’ve already done a fairly good job on the professional end of things.’
Death in Foxrock Page 14
