Danny stepped off the footpath to let a woman pushing a buggy by, then continued. ‘Lorna went to college in September, in Dublin. She’s been living with my mother’s sister. For reasons known only to herself, Lorna set about convincing my aunt that she’s been treated badly, and now my aunt and my mother aren’t talking.’ Danny shook his head. ‘It probably didn’t take much. Mam and Caroline – that’s my aunt – never really got on.’
‘And the poster?’
‘Dublin was obviously a bit tame for her. She fecked off last weekend to see friends of hers, and didn’t come back. She hasn’t bothered her arse to call my aunt, or my mother, or anyone else, and Caroline reported her as a missing person.’
It started to drizzle just as they reached the pub. Danny pushed the door open and they paused at the threshold and looked around. The tables were all taken but there was space at the far end of the bar. They took two stools, ordered, then waited for the barman to drift to the other end of the bar before Danny told him the rest. Danny had been tipped off about the missing person’s report on Monday, the same day it came in. He’d called home first, then called his aunt. After that he’d made more calls, tracked down a friend who eventually admitted that Lorna had been talking about a music festival in Wales. A gang had taken the ferry over, weren’t due back ’til Monday. Danny’d spent the last three days trying to ensure that Garda resources weren’t wasted trying to find his party loving little sister, who would undoubtedly show up when she felt like it and not before. The missing person poster, which he’d discovered hanging in the public area of the station, had been a surprise.
‘So what’s the story with O’Halloran?’ Cormac asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Danny said. ‘We don’t get on. I can’t figure out if it’s because I’ve transferred in and she sees me as a threat, or if it’s just because I’m a man.’
Cormac raised an eyebrow.
‘Yeah, I know,’ Danny said. ‘But if you knew the Domestic Violence crowd you wouldn’t think it sounded so stupid. They’re all man-hating nut-jobs and Carrie O’Halloran is the worst of the lot. I think she did women’s studies or some shite before she went to Templemore.’
Cormac was almost sure he had heard someone say that O’Halloran was married. He opened his mouth to say so but Danny anticipated him.
‘Can you believe she’s married? He’s probably a kale-eating, preachy vegan fucker. Every word I said to her about Lorna she threw back at me. I said Lorna liked a drink and she asked me if I thought drinking was unfeminine. I told her that bloody hippy friend of Lorna’s told me she’d gone to Wales, to that festival, that it wasn’t the first time Lorna’s gone on a bender and it won’t be the last. She said my Aunt Caroline had a very different view of things. She listened to everything I said, then she escalated the case instead of calming it down. She’ll have them out doing a man hunt before long.’
Something about that idea – maybe the image of O’Halloran out searching a bog while Lorna was living it up at a music festival – finally punctured Danny’s frustration and he laughed, in one of those mercurial changes of mood that Cormac had come to expect from him. ‘Nothing I can do about it now anyway, at least not until Lorna decides to come home, or answer her bloody phone.’
Cormac thought about the tension he’d seen between Danny and Healy, wondered if there might be something more to O’Halloran’s hostility. Station politics maybe.
‘What’s going on with you and Healy?’ Cormac asked.
Danny looked taken aback. ‘What? Nothing.’
‘It seemed to me like there was some tension there. You don’t think there could be a connection between that and this trouble with O’Halloran? Are they friendly?’
Danny hesitated, but looked thoughtful. ‘I didn’t think so. Maybe I’ve missed something.’
The barman returned with their sandwiches, and a couple of office workers took the vacant seats to Cormac’s right, putting an end to the conversation. But Danny seemed distracted for the rest of lunch, apparently thinking it through.
CHAPTER FIVE
Aisling really didn’t want to be late, but it was one of those mornings where little things kept going wrong. The water temperature plummeting when she already had shampoo in her hair. A stain on the pants she’d been planning to wear. Then the fuse blew in her hairdryer, and she ended up wasting ten minutes trying to find a hair tie so she could put her half-dry hair up. The bloody things were never to be found when you needed one; then you’d put your hand in your jeans pocket and come out with three. Which was more or less what happened when she gave up on the pants, and pulled on her jeans instead. That made her feel better for a few minutes, particularly when she found one of her favourite jumpers – a pale blue cashmere that Jack had bought her for Christmas – lurking at the back of their wardrobe. But then she had to face the shitty weather, and driving the car.
Driving the car always made her think of Jack. He’d been the one to drive it most days, as she preferred to walk to work. He’d driven it on the night of his death, had parked it only a few streets from their house, down by the water. He must have parked the car, then walked up river until he reached O’Brien’s Bridge. The gardaí had found the car a few days after Jack’s death, had called her and asked her if she wanted to pick it up. She’d had to find their spare key, then walk over to find the car. And she’d sat in the driver’s seat, looked out at the water, and cried and cried. Why hadn’t Jack come home? He’d been so close to home. The memory of that day flooded back as she turned the keys in the ignition, saw the warning light, and realised that she’d have to get petrol on the way. Shit. Walking would be faster, but it was pissing rain. Aisling shoved the Jack memory aside, concentrated on getting through the traffic, and was still ten minutes late when she pushed through the double doors into the police station.
There was a queue at both reception points, three people deep, and Aisling’s heart sank. She took her place at the end of a queue, and started to flick through web pages on her phone, searching for distraction. What was the point of this meeting? Jack was buried, it was done. Nothing the police could tell her now would change anything. She could be studying, or better yet, at the hospital. The line didn’t move. Two Italian girls at the front were trying to explain the theft of their phones in broken English to a clearly uninterested garda in uniform. He kept pushing a form at them, and they kept talking. After the Italians there was a young guy, headphones on, head bent over his phone, and then immediately in front of Aisling a harried mother with a toddler asleep in her arms. Aisling made the mistake of catching the woman’s eye as she cast about for someone to complain to.
‘Isn’t this ridiculous,’ the woman said, in a sort of a hiss. ‘You’d think they put a few more on. I’ve only to get a passport application signed, and I’ve been here for twenty minutes.’
Aisling gave her a nod of sympathy, joined her in an eye-roll at the Italians, and returned her attention to her phone. What could this meeting be about, anyway? Probably paperwork. She’d done nothing but fill in forms since Jack had died.
‘Aisling.’
Aisling heard a voice call her name and turned to see a female garda she recognised. Ceri – she’d forgotten her surname – one of the gardaí who’d come to tell her about Jack. She’d sat with Aisling that day, had made her tea and asked a few gentle questions. She’d even come to the funeral, which, Aisling supposed, was above and beyond the call of duty.
‘Sorry, weren’t you told?’ Ceri asked. ‘There’s another window, for appointments. Come through.’ She handed Aisling a visitor’s pass, then swiped them through the security doors and walked along the corridor beyond.
‘Jack’s parents not coming today?’ Ceri asked.
Aisling shook her head. ‘They’re not up to it. They asked me to let them know if you need anything more from them. And they wanted to know when you’re going to release Jack’s personal effects. Aggie would really like to have Jack’s watch.’
Ceri turne
d her head. ‘You don’t want it yourself?’
‘It was a gift from his parents. It’s only right they should have it.’ It was his clothes that Aisling wouldn’t be able to give up. His old shirts, his wool jumpers. She’d taken to wearing something of his whenever she was home. A T-shirt to bed. One of his jumpers, sleeves rolled up, over her tank top and jeans.
‘Well, I know we have his wallet and his watch. They’re held in evidence at the moment, but I expect they’ll be released as soon as the coroner gives his formal verdict.’
‘Not his phone?’
Ceri shook her head. ‘It wasn’t found, I’m afraid.’ She hesitated. ‘Did you know that you won’t be the only family member attending today’s meeting? Jack’s sister has already arrived.’
‘Jack doesn’t have a sister,’ Aisling found herself saying; knowing even as she said it that that wasn’t true, exactly, that Jack had had a sister once.
Ceri was watching her.
‘I mean,’ Aisling stopped, stuck. Then, after a long pause, ‘She’s alive?’
Ceri nodded. ‘It seems so.’ She waited, giving Aisling a chance to respond, but Aisling had nothing at all to say. It seemed so improbable. Could this person be some kind of fraudster? But she dismissed the thought. No one in their right mind could think that they would benefit by pretending to be a surviving relative of Jack’s. Twenty-five-year-old engineers weren’t generally assumed to be rolling in it. Ceri gave up waiting for a response and gave her what might have been intended to be an encouraging smile, then continued on down the corridor.
Aisling barely had time to think before Ceri opened the door to the meeting room and she had her first – or rather her second – look at Jack’s sister.
‘You were at the cemetery,’ Aisling blurted.
The woman nodded.
‘God. I should have realised. You look like him.’
The woman flushed, an almost instant spread of colour staining her cheeks. ‘Do I?’ she asked.
‘You didn’t know?’ It was true. The woman had much darker hair than Jack, who had been a sort of sandy blond, but she had the same very dark eyes, and something else that was more indefinably Jack. Oh God. What was her name? Was it Maeve? No, that wasn’t right. Damnit. Something else, something more English sounding.
‘Can I get either of you a cup of tea? Coffee?’ Ceri asked.
Both women shook their heads, and Ceri told them she’d be five minutes, then shut the door, leaving them alone in the room.
Bloody hell. This was awkward. Worse than awkward. What could she say? Aisling opened her mouth twice to start, and closed it again both times. Eventually she took a seat at the table. The room was too warm, so she unbuttoned her coat, but noticed that Jack’s sister –– God, what was her name? – kept hers on.
The door opened again before either of them spoke. Ceri held the door for another garda, an older man. He came into the room in an unmistakable bustle of self-importance, without acknowledging Ceri. He carried a thin manila folder in one hand, and when he sat, his stomach pressed against the table.
‘Ladies,’ he said, opening the folder and giving each of them a nod, before lowering his head to the file. He ran his finger along the text as he read. ‘You’re Aisling Conroy, and you were the deceased’s girlfriend, is that right?’
Aisling nodded. ‘His partner,’ she said. She felt a surge of irritation. This was definitely the same man who came to the house the day Jack died. Did he really not recognise her? He asked her to confirm her place and date of birth, her home address and telephone number.
‘And the deceased’s parents aren’t joining us today?’
Aisling shook her head. ‘Jack’s dad isn’t well. They’ve asked me to pass on any information to them.’
‘Grand, grand. Well if they’d like a home visit tell them to call Ceri here. We can certainly arrange that.’ He wiped at his nose with the palm of his right hand, before rubbing his hand on the leg of his trousers. ‘I’m Garda James Rodgers. I’ll be your family liaison officer.’ He looked at them unsmiling, paused as if waiting for thanks. ‘It’s my job to explain all the processes and procedures to you, in this situation.’ He checked something in his file, frowned and looked at Jack’s sister. ‘You’re a friend of Aisling here?’
Aisling caught a fleeting expression on Ceri’s face, and it occurred to her that Rodgers knew very well who Jack’s sister was.
‘I’m Maude Blake. Jack was my brother.’ Maude. That was it. How could she have forgotten?
Rodger’s frown deepened. He turned a page in his file, turned it back. ‘Right. Well, I wasn’t expecting you, Maude,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you’re very welcome. I’ll need to confirm your details before we can proceed.’ And he started to write, laboriously noting down Maude’s name and date of birth. ‘Home address?’ he asked.
‘I’m staying at the Radisson.’ Maude’s voice was low, a little rasping in a pleasant sort of way. Aisling wondered if she had been crying.
‘I need your home address.’
‘Do you?’ Maude raised an eyebrow. She waited until Rodgers opened his mouth to speak again, then said, ‘I don’t have a permanent home at the moment. If you need to contact me for any reason you can use email.’ And with that Rodgers had to be content, it seemed. He took the email address, turned the page on his file, and cleared his throat.
‘As you know Jack Blake was seen entering the River Corrib at O’Brien’s Bridge a little after eleven p.m. on Friday night. He was seen by a passer-by who called the gardaí shortly after. A car was dispatched and it reached the bridge approximately eight minutes after the call came in.’ He raised his head from the file. ‘I think we’d all agree, that’s a very fast response time.’ He gave a nod, as if both women had agreed with him with enthusiasm, instead of looking at him blankly.
‘Garda Michael Smith and Garda Jane Keenan searched the area immediately around the bridge but found nothing. They radioed the station and a call was put out to the coastguard. Four more officers were dispatched and teams searched along the river bank down to the coast. A search and rescue boat reached the area a little after three a.m. The deceased’s body was found at seven-thirty a.m. He was declared dead at the scene and brought to the morgue, where he was identified by his girlfriend later that day.’ He paused and bowed his head slightly for a few seconds, then closed his file with deliberation.
‘There will be an inquest, I’m sorry to say. It will just be a formality in this case, as you know, but it’s required in all cases of sudden death. You don’t have to attend if you find it bothersome, although the coroner may want to hear from Jack’s parents. Family members are sometimes asked to give evidence, but I doubt that will be necessary in this case.’ He wiped at his nose again with the back of his hand, then pulled a small booklet from his file. It had a plain navy cover with the garda emblem in the bottom left corner, and an image on a small rainbow on the right. The title read Inquests – Support after Suicide. Rodgers pushed the booklet across the table to Aisling, who didn’t react.
‘This is for you. It explains the whole process.’ His expression was that of a man vaguely put out. ‘I only have the one, but maybe you can share?’ Aisling glanced involuntarily at Ceri, but she was staring fixedly at the table, avoiding eye contact. Rodgers stood up. ‘There’s no rush now, if you’d like to stay here for a while. I’m sure Ceri can get you a cup of tea. And if you’ve any questions, Ceri will give you a number you can call. Details of some grief counsellors and such.’ He stepped back from the table.
Aisling picked up the sad little booklet, and felt the last of her energy seep through her feet and into the floor. She wanted to go back to bed. That dead tiredness pulled at her. She could sleep again, seemed to have endless capacity for it.
‘Wait.’ Maude spoke sharply, puncturing Aisling’s reverie.
Rodgers stopped and turned towards Maude.
‘I have some questions. I have a lot of questions.’
He stared at her,
but made no move to return to the table. Aisling looked from Maude to Rodgers and back. Maude’s face was set, determined.
‘You mentioned an anonymous call. When you say anonymous, do you mean untraceable?’
‘I mean that it was anonymous. In that the caller did not give his name.’
‘Yes,’ said Maude. ‘But couldn’t you trace it?’
He looked at her blankly. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
Rodgers took a step back towards the table. He didn’t sit, but rested his hands on the back of the chair he had vacated. His manner was sympathetic, his tone that of a patient teacher reassuring a bright but overly anxious student.
‘Maude, I’m very sorry for your loss, but I think it’s clear that your brother was a disturbed young man, no fault of his own to be sure. But you know, we’ve had a lot of suicides this year. Very tragic certainly, but we have men out to the bridges more than we should, and most of the time there’s nothing we can do.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘I wish the bloody media would stop reporting it, it’s only giving these young fellas ideas.’
His manner pissed Aisling off. He hadn’t known Jack. He didn’t know the first thing about him. ‘How do you know he was disturbed?’ she asked.
Rodgers straightened and turned a little in her direction, tucking his hands into his pockets. ‘Well, I suppose it’s obvious after the fact, isn’t it? Now you shouldn’t blame yourself, Aisling. I’ve met any number of families that had no idea something like this was coming their way. We all get caught up in life and get so busy and you know these young fellas aren’t great at talking about their feelings and the like.’
‘No,’ Aisling said. ‘That’s not right.’ The whole thing just felt wrong. Jack hadn’t been disturbed. He’d never shown any signs of depression. Yes, he had nightmares sometimes, but he was happy. She knew he had been happy. ‘Jack was only twenty-five. He had a good job. Good friends. He had me.’ She stopped, swallowed. ‘We were very happy. He wasn’t a bit depressed.’
The Ruin Page 6
