‘Mrs Riordan, I’m Detective Superintendent Dunne, and I see you know Sergeant Collins.’ Linus smiled and held out his hand. Brid shook it, her eyes glancing nervously at both men.
‘Please have a seat. Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?’
‘I’m grand, thanks,’ Linus said as he sat down and took out a notebook.
PJ had planned to say, ‘Nothing for me, thanks,’ but what actually emerged was a dry cough. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘No thank you.’ It felt strange to be back in this room. Everywhere his glance fell caused vivid flashbacks to crowd his mind: himself and Brid crashing against the furniture or rolling on the floor. Over the months he had thought about that night often. He had turned it into a sort of erotic fantasy, and to be back sitting in the brightly lit reality made him feel grubby and small. The room felt warmer, more lived in. The weighing scales along with the bags of flour and sugar surprised him. He hadn’t thought Brid was the sort of woman to bake, but then he didn’t actually know her at all. A sadness crept over him and he slumped into his chair. Linus was staring intently at his notebook.
Brid couldn’t stand the silence. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked. ‘If it’s some sort of bad news, please just tell me.’ By now she had added the safety of the kids to her list of concerns.
‘Oh no, Mrs Riordan. Sorry if we worried you. It’s nothing like that. We just have a few more questions for you, that’s all.’ Linus smiled in an attempt to reassure her.
PJ couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Would you mind if I used your bathroom?’
Brid, relieved that all was well, smiled at him. ‘Of course.’
PJ headed towards the door, but before he escaped to the toilet, he clocked the expression on Linus’s face. Shit. He shouldn’t have made it so obvious that he was familiar with the house. Oh well. Too late now, and besides, nothing mattered quite as much as his full bladder.
Once he returned, the interview began, playing out in a similar fashion to the one they had conducted in Ard Carraig. Brid knew nothing about a baby, and had no idea who might have been the mother. Tommy had simply vanished into thin air.
This time Linus felt confident that the woman in front of him was telling the truth. He decided he liked Brid. There was something open and warm about her. This was a woman who had got on with her life, or perhaps it was just that it was a life he recognised. The strange domestic arrangement of the Ross sisters made him feel uneasy. Maybe it was because they reminded him of nuns. Linus hated nuns.
5
What a difference a day made. Twenty-four hours earlier, PJ had been sitting in on interviews with people connected to a murder inquiry; now, here he was directing traffic.
The Church of Ireland fete happened every spring, but this year, what with the distractions of the discovery, PJ had managed to forget all about it. His job was to prevent people parking on the narrow tree-lined road that led up past the church towards the entrance to the old rectory, where all the stalls were erected in the large gardens. Instead they were encouraged to park up in the GAA grounds or, if they could find a space in the village, to just walk to the main attraction.
The crowds of people who came every year suggested to PJ that this fete must be something very special indeed, but when he finally made his way inside he discovered it was just like every other fete he had ever been to. Small white marquees stood on the lawn at various drunken angles while crowds milled around peering at trestle tables laden with home-made jams, piles of unread books and dusty bits of broken bric-a-brac. At the front of the rectory several plastic garden tables were provided for those in need of tea and cakes. People sold raffle tickets; children queued impatiently for their turn on the small bouncy castle. Everyone shuffled.
Knowing what was going on behind the high hedges made PJ’s job even more difficult. There was important police work to be done, but no, he had to stand out in the street in a high-vis jacket that was too big even for him. Jesus, he thought as he unpacked it from the boot of the car, it could be one of the marquees. What made it worse – if this menial task could ever be considered worse – was that this year the weather had not favoured the Protestants. Easter had failed to deliver any spring sunshine and a fine misty rain hung in the air, while a chill wind slapped at the tents. PJ desperately wanted to leave the job to the few volunteers from the church but knew that he couldn’t. The organisers had made their application for traffic control and paid their fee. He belonged to them till five o’clock that afternoon.
Most of the morning had been taken up with getting various vans on and off the site, and letting the cars drop off their precious cargoes of unwanted jumble at the rectory gates. At twelve the high-pitched howling sound of the precariously erected public address system informed people that the fete was now officially open. Let the fun and fundraising commence!
A steady stream of traffic came and went, but PJ left the volunteers to do most of the directing. He stood back from the road slightly, sheltering from the weather under an old horse chestnut tree that leaned out, heavy and weary, over the wall. He kept checking his phone to see if there were any updates from Linus, but he didn’t have a signal. Fucking Duneen! He turned it off and on again and stared hopefully at the small screen, but nothing. He shoved it angrily back into one of the giant patch pockets on the side of his jacket. The raindrops landing on his cap sounded loud and dull. He gave a long sigh.
An orange umbrella sailed in front of his face and was lifted high.
‘Hello, Sergeant!’
PJ controlled the groan that threatened to escape his mouth. It was Susan Hickey and another woman he didn’t know. They were both dressed in an odd assortment of heavy-duty rain gear and brightly patterned headscarves, as if they were going to do a little gardening up a mountain.
‘Nice to see you. Shame about the day,’ he said in a tone of voice he hoped came across as both polite and off-putting.
Susan Hickey was not skilled at picking up on tone.
‘This is my little sister, Vera. She’s back from the big smoke to see us.’
‘London,’ said the other woman. ‘Well, a bit outside. Do you know England at all?’
PJ’s inner voice wondered why she thought a rain-soaked guard at the side of a road in Duneen would give a flying fuck where she lived, but he managed to say through slightly gritted teeth, ‘Where it is, that’s about it for me. Well, enjoy your stay.’
The umbrella didn’t move.
‘Exciting times in Duneen! It was never like this when I was a girl.’
‘Now, Vera, there was always plenty going on in the village. Any news, Sergeant, about the …’ Susan paused, wondering how to express it. She lowered her voice and her mouth formed the words as if she was discussing a venereal disease. ‘Dead baby?’
PJ used his professional voice. ‘The investigation is ongoing. Forensics should shed some light on the matter shortly.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Terrible to think of a little—’
‘Susan,’ interjected Vera, ‘I’m sure the guard is very busy. We should go.’ She smiled at PJ and nudged her sister in the direction of the rectory gates.
‘Goodbye, Sergeant!’ their voices called from beneath the orange umbrella that had lowered to envelop them both.
PJ took out his phone. Still nothing.
Across the road three familiar figures approached carrying small cardboard boxes filled with pot plants. They walked in single file like the three wise men bearing gifts. PJ knew at once despite the large rain hoods that covered each head that it was the Ross sisters. As the others continued on to the rectory, the sister bringing up the rear crossed the road towards him. It was Evelyn.
‘Sergeant Collins.’ She looked out from under the dripping fabric of her hood and smiled. ‘PJ. I just wanted to apologise for yesterday.’
‘Apologise? For what?’ PJ was struck by the scent she was wearing. She smelled like summer. There was a thin strand of damp hair clinging to her cheek. She really was a very a
ttractive woman.
‘I didn’t want you to think I was being unfriendly. I just found that other policeman a little off-putting, that’s all.’
PJ gave a small grin. ‘I know what you mean, but he’s not the worst. He’s good at his job, I think.’
‘Well I consider you a friend, PJ.’
Their eyes met for a moment and neither of them was sure what would happen next. PJ’s heart was beating a little faster.
‘Can I help you with that box?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m fine. It’s light. They’re just a few cuttings that Abigail grew for the plant stall. We should have been here much earlier but Abigail wasn’t feeling well. I’d better try and catch them up. Will you be popping into the fete later?’
PJ was surprised to find that not only did he say yes, but he was actually looking forward to it.
6
It was too much. The absurdly high heels, the dyed hair swept up into a sort of loose bun, the lipstick, the white blouse revealing a generous amount of cleavage. Linus understood that she was trying to make a point – it was a man’s world and she was a woman – but surely a simple pair of earrings would have had the desired effect?
Norma Casey was indeed the only woman working in the technical bureau, and at the age of forty-nine she was now the most senior member of the team. She had decided early on in her career to embrace her femininity. The heels and high hair made her feel strong. She towered over her colleagues, and as she strode along corridors with her unbuttoned lab coat flapping behind her like a flag-bearer heading into battle, she somehow knew that she was destined to be in charge.
Linus and Norma had only met a handful of times, and there was a mutual sense of distrust. Today, however, there was also an air of irritation. Linus had insisted that Norma come to his office to go over the DNA results from Duneen face to face.
‘I just thought it was easier,’ he was saying, ‘rather than try to figure all this out.’ He brandished her meticulously prepared report.
Norma bit her lip. Easier for who? If he was too thick to interpret data, how was that her fault? She sighed.
‘Right, what do you want to know?’
‘Well, the baby’s DNA is a match for the Burke parents, right?’
‘Yes.’ That was detailed in the opening paragraph of her report, but Norma had resolved not to snap at the superintendent.
‘So does that mean Tommy Burke could have been the father of the baby?’
‘The younger Tommy?’
‘Yes.’
‘No. He’s not the father.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because the DNA is a precise match to the bodies that were exhumed. If Tommy was the father, that would only be half of the make-up. Besides which, the timeline makes no sense. The infant remains had been buried far longer than those of the young male. This is Tommy Burke’s brother. We can’t be exact, but he was certainly only a year or two older or younger. It might even be his twin.’
‘Twin? Is there any way of knowing that for certain?’
‘Only if you get me Tommy’s DNA, and even then it wouldn’t be definitive if they were only fraternal and not identical.’
‘OK. So just to be completely clear: Mrs Burke had two babies?’
‘Yes!’ Norma found she had snapped after all. She stood up. ‘Look, if that’s everything, I’ve got things to do.’
‘Of course. Thanks for coming down to see me. I’m not the brightest when it comes to this stuff.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She smiled. He was forgiven.
Once Norma was gone, he left the door of his office open to let the residue of her perfume escape, and got on the phone.
Sergeant Sumo didn’t answer. He left a voicemail message.
‘Hello, it’s Dunne here. I want you to see how far back the medical records go for Mrs Burke. Try the hospital in Ballytorne, local doctors, that sort of thing. Let me know how you get on.’
He hung up and bowed his head low over his desk. He turned his wedding ring round and round. I should really take this thing off, he thought. But he liked how it felt.
He forced his mind back to the case. A stillborn twin. It could be as simple as that. It would shed no light on the other body after all. But then why was the baby buried in a field? The priest would surely have come and it could have been placed in the cemetery. The Burkes were a married couple. There was no cause for secrecy or scandal. It made no sense.
The wedding ring went round and round.
7
She had never felt pain like it. A small crowd had gathered around her where she had fallen to her knees, her face pressed against the wet grass. The damp earth felt good against her cheek and yet the intense shooting pain continued to claw at her back.
She could hear voices.
‘Are you all right, Miss Ross?’
‘Would you like a glass of water?’
‘Should we phone for an ambulance?’
Suddenly she was aware of Florence kneeling beside her.
‘Oh Abigail! What is it?’ Her voice seemed to come from far away, small and frightened.
Abigail tried to answer but another sharp pain meant all she could do was groan.
Florence stood up. ‘Evelyn! Has anyone seen my sister Evelyn? Evelyn!’ She was shrieking now.
‘She was down having tea with the guard.’
‘Get her, can you? Please go and get her!’
A young woman in wellington boots ran awkwardly in the direction of the plastic tables and Florence rubbed her sister’s back, making soothing sounds as if she was tending a sick animal at the side of the road.
Evelyn and PJ had finished their tea and she was showing him pictures of Bobby on her phone. It was hard not to smile at the images of the puppy in various cute poses, and PJ was also enjoying how their fingers touched as they shared the small handset.
Evelyn noticed the anxious-faced young woman running around the side of the rectory and wondered what was wrong. Then she realised the woman was heading straight for their table. She just had time to say, ‘PJ …’ because she assumed the emergency had something to do with the policeman, when the woman cried out, ‘Evelyn Ross! Your sister is very sick. She needs help.’
‘Oh God. Oh God.’ Evelyn jumped to her feet and looked left and right as if searching for some explanation for what this woman was saying.
The young messenger was leading the way. ‘She’s round the front.’ Evelyn and PJ jogged behind her.
When they got to the group of people standing in front of the bottle stall, Evelyn could see both her sisters on the ground. She felt sick. PJ held back, trying to disguise his panting. He didn’t like the look of this.
Florence jumped to her feet. ‘Oh Evelyn. It’s Abigail. She’s in awful pain. We must get her an ambulance.’ Evelyn turned to look at PJ. She felt confident he would know what to do.
The way she looked at him was how he had once thought being a guard would be all the time. He put his cap back on, ready for action.
‘Are you sure you want to wait for an ambulance? It could take a long time. The squad car is just down by the bridge and with the siren we could have her at the hospital in about twenty minutes.’
Evelyn looked back at Florence. ‘Oh Sergeant Collins, that would be marvellous. Thank you so much.’
‘Thank you, PJ,’ added Evelyn. He felt as if she had just cooed ‘My hero!’ into his ear.
He peered down at Abigail. She was trying to take long, slow breaths. ‘Miss Ross, would you prefer to wait for the ambulance?’
Abigail stuck her arm up in the air and waved her fingers from side to side as if an invisible sock puppet was saying ‘no’.
‘Right.’ He turned back to her sisters. ‘Keep her warm and I’ll be back in five minutes.’
The journey was a blur, but PJ did as he had promised and got them into the hospital in under twenty minutes. He was now sitting with Evelyn and Florence on a row of orange plastic chairs outside the small A&E de
partment where Abigail was being examined. Three Styrofoam cups of milky tea had been produced. Evelyn and her sister worried over the warning signs they had missed when Abigail had first mentioned feeling ill; if only she’d seen the doctor, they said. They talked in circles of concern while PJ looked around.
The corridor where they sat was cut in two by a pair of swinging green doors that didn’t appear to serve any purpose. The cream walls were mostly bare apart from one or two paintings that he assumed had been donated by grateful patients. Plastic bilingual signs indicated the direction of the various departments. Occasionally a nurse walked by, her shoes squeaking against the light green lino. The only voices that could be heard were hushed and very far away. The whole building seemed like it was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The tension was abruptly interrupted by a loud electronic beep. PJ realised it was his phone and wondered if the hospital was like a plane. Could his handset have interfered with life-saving equipment? Glancing at the screen, he saw he had a new voicemail. He listened to the message as he looked across at the two sisters. They had stopped speaking. Evelyn was staring at her shoes, while Florence had her eyes fixed on the door to the A&E department. She looked like a dog that had been tied up outside a shop.
When he heard what Linus wanted, he couldn’t quite believe it. So little in his life went according to plan; he wasn’t used to smooth coincidences like this. He needed medical records and he was sitting in the hospital. He leaned over to Evelyn and whispered, ‘I’ve got a little bit of work to do. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll see you back here.’ She nodded and he made his way back to reception, the squeaking of his shoes announcing his progress.
He was directed to a small suite of offices on the first floor. Slightly out of breath from the stairs, he opened the door cautiously. A lady in her early sixties with glasses that took up most of her face was sitting behind a desk, tapping furiously at her keyboard. PJ cleared his throat and she looked up, giving him a perfunctory smile.
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