The Dark Divide

by Jennifer Fallon

  ‘Are you … close … with this Mademoiselle … Maybe?’

  ‘Is it possible to ever have a conversation with you that doesn’t end up with you asking if I’m getting laid?’

  ‘You should let me introduce you to some of my girls, cherie,’ she laughed. ‘Come down to the office sometime, and I’ll let you browse my portfolios.’

  ‘You sound like a madam running a very expensive line of hookers when you say that, mother,’ he warned, smiling. ‘And if you don’t mind, I’m quite capable of finding my own … portfolios.’

  She laughed again, placing the tray on the small telephone table near the door. She opened her arms to her son. ‘Then get a move on, cherie. Your Mamó wants more great-grandchildren. I want grandchildren.’

  ‘Mamó has plenty of great-grandchildren already,’ he reminded her, lowering the roses as she hugged him. ‘My female cousins seem to be single-handedly trying to over-populate the planet. Why does she need more?’

  ‘She is greedy, cherie,’ she told him, squeezing him tight. ‘And it’s time for you and your brother to do your part. You and Logan are special. You owe it to the human gene pool to continue your line.’

  ‘No pressure then.’

  She squeezed him affectionately and stepped back from the embrace, holding Pete at arm’s length for a moment, which allowed his mother a clear view of his face. Her eyes widened with concern when she saw his bruises. ‘Mon Dieu! What happened to you?’

  ‘Perp got outta hand. I’m okay.’

  She frowned, eyeing him with a worried expression. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive. I’ll be fine. I might even be the family hero for a day or so.’

  ‘I’d not count on that, cherie,’ she warned. ‘While you are being beaten up by out-of-hand perps, Logan’s been investigating that business with the actress’s boy. You know? The one they want for burning down that warehouse and murdering that homeless man. I believe he has some amazing exposé lined up that is going to make him famous.’ His mother smiled, used to her son’s flair for the dramatic. ‘He’s in there telling everyone about it.’

  ‘Knowing Logan, all he’s found out is where Kiva Kavanaugh gets her nails done,’ Pete said, rolling his eyes. Jesus, I was the one who interrogated Ren Kavanaugh! If I wanted to big-note myself, I could blow Logan out of the water.

  Stupid bastard didn’t even get past the barricades at the golf club, he was tempted to tell his mother.

  He doesn’t know the first thing about the Kavanaugh case.

  But he said nothing. That was the difference, he supposed, between being a cop and a TV reporter.

  ‘Need a hand with that tray?’ Helping his mother with the drinks seemed like a much better idea, right at this moment, than watching everyone go all doe-eyed about Logan rubbing shoulders with celebrities.

  ‘It’s okay, Pete,’ she chuckled and she picked the tray up. ‘Go in there and give your Mamó her flowers. She’s been asking where you are.’

  ‘Better get it done, then,’ he said. ‘Sure you don’t need a hand?’

  ‘Go!’ his mother ordered, fully aware of why Pete was stalling. ‘Get it over with.’

  Pete opened the kitchen door at the end of the hall for his mother before he turned, squared his shoulders and opened the door to the living room. He was met by a wall of laughter and warm air. Mamó liked to keep the heating on, even when it wasn’t cold, and there was an Elvis song playing in the background. Today was his grandmother’s eighty-seventh birthday, and like everyone else in the family, Pete was of the opinion that if she wanted to heat the place up until it felt like downtown Cairo, she ought to be allowed to do it.

  The room was crowded to overflowing. Logan was standing near Mamó’s chair with a drop-dead-gorgeous redhead on his arm. Pete thought she looked vaguely familiar, but he didn’t watch enough TV to be certain. Logan was holding court about his latest exploits. The young woman seemed content to smile and nod and not add anything substantive to the conversation. Clustered around them were Pete’s aunt, Maureen, her husband, Sean, his twin uncles, Liam and Gerald, his grandmother’s younger sister Aileen, and a few distant cousins visiting from Belfast, whose names he couldn’t immediately recall. And that was just the adults. There was another cluster of nieces, nephews and younger cousins crowded around the coffee table, doing their best to devour every chip and dip platter as fast as was humanly possible.

  On the table under the window, behind his grandmother’s throne-like floral armchair, was a crystal vase filled with three-dozen spectacular red roses that must have cost what Pete earned in a week. His own supermarket-bought dozen roses seemed paltry by comparison.

  ‘Peter!’ his grandmother cried happily when she spied him. ‘You came!’

  He smiled and made his way to her chair, stepping over children and a rather put-upon tabby trying to flee the smothering attentions of his cousin Kelly’s four-year-old daughter, Siobhan. When he finally made it to her chair, he leaned over, kissed Mamó’s wrinkled cheek, and presented her with the flowers. ‘As if I wouldn’t be here for your special day, Mamó,’ he said loudly. She was going deaf and the ambient noise in the room meant she’d barely be able to hear a word he said. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ she said, smelling the roses as if she had never seen anything more wonderful. Mamó was good like that. She never treated any gift — no matter how valuable or insignificant — any differently from another. ‘They’re lovely. What happened to your face?’

  ‘Got hit by a girl,’ Pete said. He’d learned long ago that telling the truth in this family was sometimes a better way to lie than making something up. ‘Laid me out cold, she did.’

  Mamó laughed. ‘All right then,’ she said, patting his cheek. ‘I understand. It’s a police thing. You’re not allowed to tell me what really happened, are you? Why don’t you get a safer job, darling? Like Logan?’

  Wow … that only took about a minute. That’s a new record.

  ‘I like having a real job,’ Pete said loudly, glancing up at his twin with a grin. ‘Hey, Logan. Didn’t notice you standing there.’

  ‘Sure you didn’t,’ Logan laughed. ‘This is Tiffany. She’s a model-slash-actress.’

  ‘Really? Fancy you dating a model.’ He smiled, shaking the young woman’s proffered hand. ‘Hi, Tiffany, I’m Pete.’

  Tiffany smiled at him, her eyes wide. ‘Hi, Pete. God, you look so much like Logan.’

  ‘I get that a lot,’ Pete said, glancing at his brother.

  ‘Tiffany is signed with Mum’s agency. You got a minute?’

  ‘Sure,’ Pete said, glad he wasn’t required to comment on Tiffany’s modelling career.

  ‘Mamó?’ Logan said loudly. ‘Pete and I are going to help Mum with the drinks. Will you look after Tiffany?’

  The old lady looked up at him. ‘Eh?’

  ‘We’re going for drinks.’ He turned to Tiffany. ‘Do you mind? I need to talk to Pete about something.’

  Tiffany shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  Before Pete had a chance to object, Logan had him by the arm and was dragging him out of the living room. Pete waved to his heavily pregnant cousin as they passed her, but Logan never gave him the chance to stop and say hello or inquire how long it would be before he had another cousin whose name he’d have to remember at family gatherings. A moment later they were in the hall, holding the door open for their mother as she returned with the drinks tray.

  ‘Can you bring your grandmother’s tea in with you?’ she asked her sons as she passed them. ‘It’s on the counter.’

  ‘Be there in a minute,’ Logan promised her, before hustling Pete into the kitchen. Logan finally closed the door on the noise from the hall and turned to look at his brother. ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘Love you too, brother.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  Pete flexed his fist for a moment and eyed Logan’s face thoughtfully. ‘Wanna find out?’

  Logan grinned. ‘No, I’m good. Are
you still working the Kavanaugh case?’

  ‘Is that what you wanted to see me about?’ Pete asked, shaking his head. ‘Jesus, Logan, you know I can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘That’s not why I’m asking,’ Logan said. ‘I might have something for you.’

  ‘Like what?’ Pete asked suspiciously, knowing Logan would want something in return.

  ‘We’ve been going through some of the CCTV footage they have of the Kavanaugh kid, since he popped up on the radar again the other day.’

  ‘Shouldn’t the Gardaí be doing that?’

  ‘Well, you are,’ Logan agreed, pushing aside the steaming cup and saucer on the small table that reeked of Earl Grey with a healthy dash of Irish whiskey awaiting delivery to their grandmother. ‘But some of the good citizens of Dublin like to get paid for their efforts …’

  ‘You mean you paid someone for evidence?’

  ‘You call it evidence, I call it spectacular investigative journalism,’ Logan said with a shrug.

  ‘Chequebook journalism,’ Pete corrected.

  ‘Whatever you call it, it works. The Gardaí don’t have all the tapes.’

  Pete sighed. ‘What did you find?’

  Logan reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a folded envelope. He opened it and pulled out a grainy ten by eight black and white photo and laid it on the table, using their grandmother’s cut glass salt and pepper shakers to hold down the edges. The photo was of Ren Kavanaugh, the shot taken inside what appeared to be a cluttered antique shop. ‘Seems your boy has an interest in art-deco crystal.’

  ‘When was this taken?’ Pete asked. They knew almost nothing about where the Kavanaugh kid had been in the past few weeks. ‘And where?’

  ‘It was taken in a suburban antique shop a few hours before Ren Kavanaugh appeared at the St Christopher’s Visual Rehabilitation Centre to kidnap Hayley Boyle.’

  ‘What’s he doing in an antique shop?’

  ‘Buying a salad bowl, according to the store owner.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A salad bowl. He insisted on crystal. The girl claiming to be Jack O’Righin’s granddaughter was with him.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Pete muttered. ‘Does Duggan know about this yet?’

  ‘Not yet, but that’s not what I wanted to show you.’

  Logan pulled out another photo of Ren Kavanaugh and placed it on the table. This one had been taken on the red carpet in London a few weeks ago. Ren was wearing a tux and looking rather glum.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The London premiere of Rain over Tuscany.’

  ‘Is that you in the background?’

  ‘I was there. With Tiffany. Don’t you ever watch the news?’

  ‘Not the sort of news show that thinks you walking down a red carpet in London with some model-slash-actress Mum fixed you up with because you can’t get a real date is actually news … no … not as a rule.’

  ‘You think you’re so funny, don’t you?’

  ‘Hilarious. What’s this photo got to do with the other photo?’

  ‘Look at his hands.’

  Pete took the second photo and placed it beside the one of Ren in the antique shop. In the shop, Ren’s right hand was extended, palm up to collect his change. In the second photo, Ren’s left hand was raised to shield his eyes from the lightning storm of flashbulbs.

  Both hands were tattooed with the strange and inexplicable triskalion the boy had been found with when he was barely more than a toddler.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Christ, Pete! Aren’t you supposed to be a detective? Take another look!’

  Pete examined the tattooed hands again and then shook his head. ‘They’re on opposite hands. I see that. But that’s probably just a flipped negative.’

  ‘There’s no flipped neg, Pete,’ Logan assured him. ‘These are both digital images. Besides, if you look at the exit sign over the door in the shop and the advertising banners at the film premiere, they’re both the right way around.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘That there’re two of them.’ Logan waited for a moment, as if expecting his revelation to have a fanfare attached. When Pete didn’t visibly react, he said, ‘And yet you don’t seem surprised.’

  ‘It’s because I know there’s two of them. I’ve seen them,’ Pete said, staring at the photographs. ‘Side by side.’

  Logan looked more than a little disappointed. ‘Duggan never said anything about Ren Kavanaugh having a twin at the press conference.’

  ‘That’s because she doesn’t believe it. I tried to tell her, but she thinks I’m concussed and seeing double.’

  Suddenly his brother beamed at him and pointed at the photos. ‘For an exclusive, I’ll give you proof.’

  Pete shook his head. ‘I can’t make that sort of deal with you.’

  ‘I figured as much,’ Logan conceded. ‘Who else suspects the Kavanaugh kid has a twin besides you?’

  ‘Nobody,’ Pete said. ‘At least nobody I’ve spoken to. Why?’

  ‘What about the owner of the Audi?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Call it a wild guess. Reporter’s intuition, if you like. Or maybe it’s just screamingly bloody obvious, Pete.’

  Pete stared at him in confusion.

  ‘God, you really are concussed, aren’t you? They weren’t fingerprinting that Audi in the car park of the Castle Golf Club to check if it had been cleaned well enough. There were cops crawling all over it.’

  Pete shrugged. ‘The car belongs to some financial analyst who lives nearby. Claims he was too pissed to drive Wednesday night, so he left his car at the club and walked home across the course. When he went back to get it on Thursday the car was gone. His wife reported it stolen a couple of hours before Kavanaugh turned up at St Christopher’s.’

  ‘Do you think Kiva knows her boy has an evil twin?’

  ‘Evil twin?’

  ‘The other twin is always evil,’ he chuckled. ‘I mean … look at you and me.’

  Pete studied his brother for a moment, recognising the look in Logan’s eye. He was bursting to tell him something, at the same time feeling insufferably smug that he knew something Pete didn’t.

  ‘What are you going on about?’

  Logan pulled another photograph out of the envelope and slammed it dramatically on the table in front of Pete. ‘I lifted this frame from the footage we shot at the golf course yesterday morning.’

  Pete stared at the photo, not sure what he was supposed to be seeing. It was a blow-up of Kiva Kavanaugh’s Bentley, parked under a tree near the rough opposite where the action had taken place last night — just before someone fired shots at Ren Kavanaugh and he had vanished into thin air.

  The trunk of the car was open. Kiva’s chauffeur was standing at the back, looking over toward the car park where the press had gathered en masse.

  Pete leaned in closer. ‘Is that …?’

  ‘Looks like,’ Logan said, grinning.

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Now do I get my exclusive?’

  ‘I have to show these to Inspector Duggan,’ Pete said, gathering up the photos. ‘Now.’

  Logan nodded. ‘I’ll get my coat.’

  ‘I didn’t say you could come.’

  ‘No chance those photos are going anywhere without me,’ Logan told him as he snatched them out of his brother’s hand. ‘Do you want to tell Mamó we’re leaving, or shall I?’

  ‘You tell her,’ Pete said, figuring he was better off with Logan on his side than working against him. ‘You’re her favourite. What about the redhead?’

  ‘Who? Tiffany? I’ll give her a cab fare home.’

  Pete raised a curious brow, smiling. ‘So she’s not the future Mrs Logan Doherty, then?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Logan laughed. ‘When I finally get married, she’s going to have a brain that’s not pickled in champagne and nail polish remover. The lovely Tiffany has only three topics of conversation, I’m afraid —
me, me and me.’

  ‘So why did you bring her home to meet the family?’

  ‘To impress Mamó. And keep Mum off my back about grandchildren.’

  Pete wished he’d thought to do the same. ‘You sleeping with her?’

  ‘No, Pete. We share a mutual love of needlepoint.’

  He grinned. ‘Ask a stupid question …’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Logan assured him. ‘You can’t help it. You’re the stupid twin.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’

  ‘Which one of us got the why-haven’t-you-met-a-nice-girl-and-given-me-grandchildren lecture tonight?’

  Pete bowed to his brother, conceding defeat. ‘Point taken. You are the smart one.’

  ‘The good-looking one, too,’ he added, sliding the photos back into the envelope. Then he picked up the steaming cup of whiskey-laced tea. ‘I’ll meet you out front. We’ll take the Porsche. It’ll be faster.’

  ‘You only want to do that because with me in the car, if you get pulled over for speeding, you think I’ll get you out of a ticket,’ Pete accused.

  ‘Better make sure we don’t get booked, then,’ Logan said, fishing his keys out of his pocket with his free hand and tossing them to Pete. ‘You’re driving.’

  CHAPTER 14

  The following evening, after Ren spent an interesting — if entirely wasted — day, being shown around the Ikushima fireworks factory, he was invited to dine with the family. This time, however, Aoi insisted on escorting Ren back to his room after dinner. Namito didn’t seem to mind, saying he and Daichi had business. Masuyo claimed she was tired and intended to seek her bed, and ordered her younger granddaughter to do the same.

  That left Ren with only Aoi for company and the distinct feeling that this was some sort of set-up.