by Val Collins
Now the weather had cooled again, Orla had commandeered Cian’s office. It was empty when Aoife entered, so she left the ticked list on the desk. “Contacted everyone on list,” she scribbled at the bottom of the page. “No information.”
*
On her way back to her office, Aoife stopped off in the kitchen to refill her water jug.
Cian was sitting there working on his laptop. ‘Orla threw me out.’
Aoife nodded and offered to make him a cup of tea. Cian declined. He worked in silence for a few minutes, then stopped and indicated that he wanted Aoife to sit beside him.
‘Can I trust you to tell me the truth, Aoife?’
‘Of course. What do you want to know?’
Cian leaned forward and stared at Aoife intently as if determined to read the truth in her expression.
‘Were Tadhg and Orla an item?’
This was what happened when your friend was in a relationship with your boss. ‘No.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘Yes.’
Cian leaned back in his chair. ‘She’s taking his death harder than I would have expected.’
‘She is.’
‘And you’re sure that’s not because she loved him?’
Aoife hesitated. ‘Tadhg loved Orla. It was written all over him. I mentioned it to Orla. She said she had explained to Tadhg that she could never go out with somebody younger than her.’
Cian nodded. ‘You think she feels guilty because he loved her and she was the one who stopped them from being a couple?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Aoife. That’s put my mind at ease. Now I want to talk to you about the investigation. You’re not—’
Orla burst into the kitchen.
‘Cian, why did Tadhg phone you the night he was murdered?’
THIRTY-FIVE
Cian frowned. ‘Tadhg didn’t phone me.’
Orla held up the phone list. ‘Yes, he did. He phoned this landline around eight p.m. The call lasted ten seconds. What did he want?’
Cian looked at her blankly. ‘I don’t know. There’s absolutely no reason Tadhg would phone m—’ He paused. ‘Oh yeah, I remember now. He did ring. He was looking for you. He said you weren’t answering your mobile.’
Orla leaned against the kitchen table. ‘Oh, please God, no!’ She hurried out of the room. She returned with a copy of the list of calls Aoife had checked.
‘Mine is the very first number on your sheet, Aoife. It’s my fault Tadhg died. Whatever was wrong, he wanted to tell me and I didn’t take the call.’ The colour had drained from her face and she sank down onto one of the kitchen chairs. ‘It’s my fault he’s dead.’
Cian knelt down on the ground beside her. He put his arms around her. ‘Darling, it’s not your fault. Tadhg was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing you or anybody else did or didn’t do could have changed that.’
Orla pushed her chair away and stood up. ‘Haven’t you been listening? Tadhg wasn’t murdered in that alley. He wasn’t killed by any drug dealer. Somebody deliberately murdered him, and Aoife and I seem to be the only people who care.’
‘Of course I care, darling.’ Cian tried to pull her into an embrace, but Orla stepped out of his reach. ‘Leave me alone, Cian. There’s no point talking to you. You don’t understand.’
*
As soon as Orla had left, Cian rounded on Aoife.
‘This is your fault. You should never have agreed to help her. You’re not a detective, Aoife. Can’t you see you’re making everything worse? Do you want Orla to get sick?’
‘How is any of this my fault?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Aren’t either of you capable of a sensible conversation?’
He stormed out of the room, banging the door behind him.
*
It took Aoife ages to get to sleep. It felt like a mere fifteen minutes had passed before she was woken by Amy crying. She went into Amy’s room to find the child covered in sweat and complaining that she was thirsty. When Aoife had taken her temperature, changed her clothes, given her medicine, got her to take as much liquid as possible and settled her back in bed, she checked her watch. It was 5 a.m. Jason had been talking all week about the important meeting he had this morning, so she couldn’t suggest he take the day off. Maura was working. The crèche wouldn’t accept sick kids and it would be unfair to ask Alison to take a sick child into her home. She was going to have to tell Cian she couldn’t come to work today. The mood he was in, that wasn’t going to go down well.
She took her laptop downstairs and checked her work diary. The only urgent thing was Cian’s report, but there were hours of research involved and she had barely started. She’d begin working on it now. At 8:30 she phoned him.
‘I’m really sorry, Cian, but I don’t have anybody to take care of her.’
‘What about my report? I checked and you’ve barely started it. I told you I needed it yesterday, but you were too busy playing detective.’
‘I can do the report from home. I’ll email it to you by ten a.m.’
‘It can’t be any later, Aoife.’
‘Ten a.m., Cian. I guarantee if you check your email, it will be there.’
She felt safe making the promise because the report was almost complete, but ten minutes later Amy began crying again. There was fifteen minutes to spare when she got back to her laptop. The stupid password wouldn’t work. Why the hell did she have a password on her home computer? ‘Okay, stop panicking,’ she muttered. ‘You know your own password. Concentrate.’ There was five minutes to spare when she eventually got in. She worked like a maniac and e-mailed the report at 10:07. At 10:10 her phone rang. It was Cian. Before she could answer, he hung up. Her email must have arrived in his inbox while he was phoning her. There were beads of sweat running down her back and she wondered for a minute if she might have caught Amy’s illness. It was several hours later before she realised that, as far as Cian knew, she had completed a half day’s work in one hour. He obviously thought that was a realistic expectation and that Aoife’s achievement didn’t even deserve a ‘thank you’.
*
Aoife was due to work in the halfway house the following day. That evening, she phoned Jack to say she wouldn’t be able to make it. She was quite touched by his reaction. ‘That’s fine, Aoife. Of course you must take care of your daughter. I remember my own mother getting into a state any time I was ill. Her employers weren’t very nice. By the time I was old enough to understand, I used to insist I was well no matter how bad I felt. You take all the time you need.’
Aoife had already booked the Friday off as annual leave. She had intended to do something special with Amy, but although Amy now seemed fully recovered, it was better not to take her outside, especially as it had been raining for the last few days. She would leave her with Alison, go to the halfway house and make up for the day she’d missed. When she arrived at the halfway house, she found Maura had everything under control. There had to be something she could do.
‘Maura, do you think we should clear out Tadhg’s room? I’d like to do something to thank Jack for being so understanding, and I’m sure it’s a job he’s dreading.’
‘You’re probably right. Can you remember where we put the skeleton key?’
Aoife stood up. ‘It’s in the petty cash box. I’ll get it. Come on. We might as well get it over with.’
*
Twenty minutes later they had all Tadhg’s worldly possessions piled into two boxes.
Maura wiped her eyes. ‘So little. That’s all his possessions in the entire world.’
Aoife nodded. She felt like crying herself. ‘What are we going to do with them?’
‘Better let Jack make the decision. I suppose Tadhg’s personal belongings will be divided between the lads, and Jack probably knows somebody who could use the textbooks. I’ll keep the art books in the office. Maybe someday some other young lad will read them.’
Aoife fingered the sketches they had
found in Tadhg’s desk. Not surprisingly, most of them were of Orla. ‘Ask Jack if we can give the sketches to Orla. They’d mean a lot to her.’
*
Orla made a small choking sound when she saw the sketches. She reached out and touched one with her index finger, then pulled it away. ‘I don’t want them. Get rid of them.’
‘Tadhg drew them. He’d want you to have them.’
Orla glared at her. ‘What do you know about what Tadhg wanted? What do any of you know? You didn’t care about him. Not really. And as for Cian, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was secretly delighted Tadhg’s out of the picture.’ She looked at the sketch pads and her voice wavered. ‘Take those away. It hurts just to look at them.’
‘Oh, Orla!’
‘What do you mean “Oh, Orla!” Get away from me. Go back to your work.’
*
Aoife put the sketch pads on her desk. Cian rushed in, face pale. ‘What now? I heard Orla shouting.’
‘I found some of Tadhg’s sketch pads. I thought Orla would like them, but she got a bit upset.’
‘These are Tadhg’s?’ Cian flicked through them. ‘They’re good. He really captured Orla’s essence, didn’t he? Can I keep them?’
‘If Orla doesn’t want them, I’d rather keep them myself.’
‘Could I have just one?’
Aoife shook her head. ‘I can’t part with them. Sorry.’
‘You surprise me, Aoife. I know you liked Tadhg, but it was obvious you weren’t close. Why are you so determined to hang on to all his sketches?’
‘I think they’re very good.’
‘No, you don’t. You always said you had no appreciation of art. Are you planning to sell them? I’d gladly pay you. I’ve been wanting to get Orla’s portrait done, but she says she won’t have time to sit for it until the summer holidays.’
‘They’re not for sale, Cian. Not now, not ever.’
*
That evening Aoife examined the sketches. Orla from every angle imaginable. In a few she was smiling, but in most she looked wistful, almost hungry. Towards the back of one of the sketch pads were seven drawings of a rectangular box, shaded in with a dark pencil. Aoife shivered. They reminded her of Tadhg’s coffin. She put the sketch pads in a plastic bag, got a stepladder and put them on top of the kitchen cabinets, where Amy would never find them. She didn’t know enough about art to judge how good they were, but she didn’t believe Cian thought they captured Orla’s “essence”, whatever that meant. If Aoife had given the sketches to Cian, most likely they would have ended up in the bin. She was pretty sure Cian’s only concern was making certain Orla never laid eyes on the sketches again.
THIRTY-SIX
It had been a tough few weeks. Cian made several attempts to talk Orla into dropping the investigation. They did not go well. Then he made the mistake of asking Orla about the arrangements for his dinner party. Orla screamed so loudly, Aoife heard every word from her office at the opposite end of the corridor. ‘Tadhg’s dead! We don’t even know who murdered him and you’re worrying about dinner parties?’
Before Tadhg’s death, Orla had never screamed at anyone. She never needed to. By the age of twelve, Orla had figured out that a display of charm could almost always be guaranteed to get her everything she wanted. Tadhg’s death had affected her more than Aoife would have believed possible. But something changed after that last fight with Cian. All Orla’s aggression seemed to have drained away. Now she spoke only when spoken to. Sometimes not even then. In an effort to get the old Orla back, Cian asked Aoife to organise a two-week holiday in Italy. Orla didn’t even reply when he told her about it.
The tense atmosphere was getting to Aoife. She was so exhausted each evening, she barely had the energy to play with Amy. Jason had headed off to Galway full of holiday spirit, assuring Aoife this break was what they needed to repair their relationship. Aoife was so stressed, she barely noticed his absence. She was quite shocked when Jason phoned to say he was on his way home and would see her that afternoon.
She was thinking about Jason’s return as she reached the crèche. One of the crèche mothers, whose name Aoife couldn’t remember, waved as she closed the passenger door and ran around to the driver’s side. ‘Sorry. Can’t stop. I’m running way behind.’
Aoife returned the wave and only barely managed to sidestep a red-headed kid who appeared determined to crash his tricycle into everyone who crossed his path. ‘Hi,’ she said to a young girl she hadn’t seen before. ‘I’m Amy’s mother.’
‘Who?’
‘Amy Walsh.’
‘Oh! She’s gone. Her dad collected her.’
‘Her dad? He’s in Galway. You’re new, aren’t you? You must be mixing her up with someone else.’
‘No, I know all the kids and there’s only one Amy. Her dad collected her around twelve-thirty.’
‘He phoned me from Galway at noon.’
‘Are you sur—I mean—God!—I’ll get Mrs Weston.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
‘Did you check his ID?’
‘Yes, Mrs Weston. He showed me a photo with “Jason Walsh” written on it.’
‘Was it a driver’s licence?’
‘I don’t know. Robbie had just driven his tricycle through a group of kids, and they were crying and one of them was bleeding.’ The young girl bit a trembling lip. ‘I remember he was holding a balloon and Amy ran to him.’
‘What did he look like?’
The girl sniffed. ‘I only checked his name. When the kids started screaming, I got distracted.’
‘You’re certain the name on the ID was Jason Walsh?’
The girl nodded several times. ‘I read it carefully. It definitely said “Jason Walsh”. I’m positive.’
‘Aoife, is it possible you misunderstood your husband? Are you certain he said he was in Galway?’
‘Yes, of course I’m certain. Who was this man? Why would he take my daughter?’
‘Okay, there’s probably a simple explanation for all this.’
‘A simple—what are you talking about? My daughter is missing!’ She pointed at the young girl, who was now crying openly. ‘That girl let a strange man walk out of this building with my baby. What kind of an explan—’
‘Aoife, this isn’t helping. I’m going to call the police and then I’m going to make you a cup of tea. We’ll—’
‘Tea! Are you out of your mind? I’m going home. Tell the police where I am.’
Aoife raced outside and ran the entire way home. The house was empty. She phoned Jason, but again, there was no answer. She ran next door to Alison.
‘Have you seen Amy or Jason?’ she panted.
‘No. Why?’
Aoife had to grab on to the wall to steady herself.
‘Oh my God!’ Alison helped her to a nearby chair. ‘What’s wrong, Aoife? Are you sick? Should I call a doct—’
‘Amy’s missing. Someone took her from the crèche. A man.’ Aoife put a hand on her chest. She tried to take deep breaths. ‘A man—his ID—his ID said he was Jason Wal—oh, Alison, I don’t know what to do. I was hoping—hoping Jason would be here, but I know he—he’s in Galway.’
‘Dear Lord! Have you called the police?’
‘The crèche phoned them.’ Aoife jumped up. ‘Moaney! I’d forgotten about Detective Moloney.’ She grabbed her mobile and searched her incoming calls until she found his number. The phone rang and a few seconds later a deep voice said, ‘Detective Moloney.’
‘Thank God! Amy’s missing. I’m sorry, this is—’
‘Amy’s missing? How long?’
‘About a half hour. A man took her from the crèche.’
‘Are you at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m on my way to Cork. I’m almost in Naas. Text me the address of the crèche and I’ll call in there. Try not to panic, Aoife. We’ll find Amy.’
*
Two policemen and a woman in plain clothes were in her kitchen. Alison had insisted on phoning Orla and t
hey were both making sandwiches and tea for everyone. Aoife did a circle from the kitchen to the sitting room, into the hall and back to the kitchen again. Every couple of minutes she phoned Jason. Why hadn’t they ever got Bluetooth? What a stupid thing to economise on! Jason would never hear the phone over the noise of the car engine. He probably had music blaring as well. She checked her watch. They’d spoken at noon. If he’d left Galway at 12:30, he should be home in about twenty minutes. Twenty minutes? Amy had been missing for almost two hours. Two hours! She felt a hand on her shoulder and shrugged it off. Everyone kept trying to get her to sit down. She didn’t want to sit down. She wanted to be left alone. No, she wanted Amy. That was the only thing she wanted. The police could set up a permanent headquarters in her kitchen for all she cared once they’d found Amy. Why were they all hanging around her house? Why weren’t they looking for her baby? Aoife passed through the hall again and into the kitchen. She stopped. Amy’s painting was lying on the floor. It was the last straw. Aoife picked up the painting. She touched Amy’s little palm print, then clutched the painting tightly against her chest. Raising her voice to be heard over the chatter, she said, ‘Everyone, get out of my house.’
All talk stopped.
‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you looking for my daughter? Put down your tea and go out there and search for her.’
‘Mrs Walsh, we are looking for Amy. Right now there are police—’
‘Right now there are police in my kitchen, eating my food and drinking my tea. If Amy walked by the front gate you wouldn’t be any the wiser. She’s not in my kitchen, is she? So what are you all doing here? Go look for her. Now!’
