In Deep Water

by Sam Blake

  O’Rourke’s tone was curt. ‘Can you just run through the last time you saw her for us? Take us through Sunday from when she arrived.’

  ‘Goodness, of course—’

  O’Rourke cut in, ‘Did she appear agitated at all, upset?’

  Billy opened his eyes wide and, shaking his head, reached to straighten the already perfectly aligned pot of pens on his desk, ‘Not at all. She was a bit under the weather when she got here actually, at what . . .’ his eyes searched the ceiling for the answer, ‘about eleven forty-five in the morning? She’s always a bit early for her shift, starts at twelve.’ He paused, ‘We had a party booked in for five o’clock so we were really busy, but around four I could tell she was really starting to flag. She looked peaky, you know?’ Billy pursed his lips like he didn’t approve, ‘She kept telling me she was fine, but she wasn’t.’ He was emphatic, ‘I could see she wasn’t feeling well, sometimes I just know.’

  Cathy pulled her chain from inside the neck of her hoodie and ran the oval silver dog tag along it. It would be just like Sarah Jane to come into work if she wasn’t feeling well, her sense of duty overriding common sense. She hated letting people down.

  Billy continued, ‘She’s fabulous, but nobody can work if they’re not feeling the best – it’s tough out there, you have to keep smiling. She looked pale so I pulled her off the floor. She kept saying she’d be OK in a bit, so I got her to sort out the linen room, then she did some paperwork, but even sitting in my office she seemed to be struggling. So then I said I’d get her a cab. She needed to be in bed, not serving aperitifs.’ Billy stopped as if that was the end of the story.

  There was a pause. Cathy got there before O’Rourke. ‘And . . .’

  She felt like rolling her hands for emphasis but instead raised her eyebrows and tried hard not to sound like she was talking to a child.

  ‘Oh.’ Billy looked surprised that there might be any more to the story, ‘Well, I gave the driver her address in Dún Laoghaire, and off they went. I haven’t heard from her since.’

  ‘You didn’t think to check that she’d arrived home OK?’

  Billy shrugged, slightly affronted, ‘She’s a big girl, she has a mobile phone – I didn’t think she needed a babysitter. And with one body down we were pushed here. Like I said, it was busy.’

  ‘So what time precisely did you put her in the cab?’ O’Rourke’s turn. He still had his coat on, had shoved his hands deep in the pockets – probably, Cathy thought, to stop himself leaning forward and grabbing Billy Roberts by his strangely tanned neck.

  ‘Eight thirty.’

  ‘What company do you use?’

  ‘We use a limo service for clients but I flagged this one down, it’s quicker than calling one. Dublin’s awash with taxis these days.’

  ‘So you don’t know who the driver was or what company he worked for?’ O’Rourke’s tone was clipped, a sure sign he wasn’t impressed.

  Billy shrugged, ‘I’ve got a receipt – presumably it has his number on it. It was the end of the roll, though, the ink’s really faded.’ Before he could continue Cathy cut in, pushing herself off the wall with her foot, ‘Have you got CCTV cameras on the street? If there’s a clear shot we can run the plate and find the driver.’

  8

  The Rookery CCTV wasn’t nearly as revealing as Cathy and O’Rourke would have liked – the picture was great but the angle was wrong and the camera was trained on the front door. In a state-of-the-art CCTV viewing room that rivalled any of the Garda stations, Billy Roberts switched on a bank of flat TV screens and fiddled with a remote control.

  The system seemed to be pretty full on for the size of the building, but as Billy had explained as they’d come in, The Rookery had a lot of very high-profile customers, and couldn’t risk anyone getting their pocket picked or paparazzi taking sneaky under-the-table shots. The cameras were a discouragement.

  Standing behind Billy’s chair, Cathy and O’Rourke stood side by side, straining to see the images of the street. The shot was focused on the front-door steps and part of the pavement, with a slither of road showing in the periphery. People walked past, their faces picked up by the arc lights that lit the front of the building. A group of three lads went by, jostling and joking, then two Gardaí, their fluorescent jackets bright in the early evening darkness. Cathy recognised one of them from a Taser course she’d been on.

  ‘Just run it again.’ She could feel O’Rourke tensing beside her. ‘The picture’s so clear you can see the reflection on the door and the door plate . . . look, you can see the taxi draw up.’ Cathy bit her lip as, peering into the screen, two figures appeared on the pavement partially reflected, hazy like ghosts. Even in the yellow of the brass Cathy caught a flash of blond hair.

  ‘This confirms your timing.’ O’Rourke glanced at Billy, ‘We’ll see if there’s more CCTV on the street and cross-reference. Can we take this? Our people may be able to get more if they blow it up.’

  Billy held out his hands, ‘Of course, whatever you need.’

  Cathy dragged her eyes away from the image on the screen. ‘Can we have a look in her locker, please? I presume you’ve a master key?’

  Billy pursed his lips for a moment, his forehead creased in a frown. ‘I’m sure we do. Give me a minute and I’ll look in the office.’

  It took Roberts more than a minute to find the key, but when he reappeared he directed them down the corridor to what appeared to be a staff changing room. He flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights. Tall grey steel lockers lined the walls, two high, reminding Cathy of the ones they’d had in school. A long mirror separated the banks of lockers opposite the entrance, and there were staff toilets at the far end of the room.

  ‘Now, here we are . . .’ A bunch of keys in one hand, a scruffy piece of A4 paper in the other, Roberts scanned the numbers on the doors looking for Sarah Jane’s. ‘This is it. Fourteen.’ Cathy stood right behind him as he slipped in the key and turned the lock, pulling the door wide.

  It wasn’t exactly overflowing. A clean white shirt hung from a pole, its tails brushing a pair of trainers and a bright pink make-up bag. Unmistakably Sarah Jane’s.

  ‘That hers?’ O’Rourke came up behind her to take a look.

  ‘It is.’ Cathy turned to him and he produced a pair of blue latex gloves from his jacket pocket like a magician. Pulling them on, Cathy reached inside to slide the shirt across, lifted out the trainers to see if there was anything behind them. The back of the locker was empty. She glanced at the soles. Clean. ‘That’s her back-up make-up bag – she uses a different one for every day.’

  ‘No handbag or keys?’

  Cathy shook her head, ‘Nope, or laptop.’

  *

  Outside on the pavement O’Rourke checked his watch. It was almost midnight.

  ‘Let’s see if we can identify some cameras pointing this way and we’ll check their tapes first thing. We’re not going to get anything else until the morning.’

  Cathy thrust her hands into her hoodie pockets, staring at the spot where the taxi had pulled up in front of The Rookery. Deep in thought, she hardly heard him. She pursed her lips and looked up, scanning the buildings, then looked across the road.

  ‘The newsagent’s. It’s twenty-four hours.’ She indicated the shop about four doors down on the other side of the road. ‘Bet they’ve got CCTV. Must have. They do MoneyGram transfers, they’re a target.’

  ‘Well spotted.’ O’Rourke followed the direction of her gaze. The lights were dimmed but definitely on, an illuminated OPEN sign prominently displayed in the window. There were shops like this dotted all over Dublin city, everything stores that provided money transfer services like Western Union or Ria. Not everyone worked nine to five, or had a bank account. Night shift workers needed coffee and sandwiches and services just like their day shift counterparts. Her voice sounded loud in the quiet street, ‘Come on.’

  Stepping into the road he was ahead of her, across it in three strides. Behind
her the front door of The Rookery rattled as if it was being locked from the inside.

  Outside the newsagent’s Cathy silently pointed to two cameras that criss-crossed the front door. The one on the left was angled more out into the road. ‘I think we could be in luck.’

  O’Rourke pushed the door open, holding it wide for her to enter, ‘After you.’

  The shop’s interior was cramped, every available space taken up with the type of things you run out of and need in a hurry – everything from sandwiches to washing powder, tins of coconut cream, kidney beans, bags of rice piled beside toilet rolls and spices. The man behind the counter was young, Asian, had a pile of text books open beside the till. He looked up as they entered, smiled, nodding a greeting. O’Rourke pulled out his warrant card.

  ‘We’d like to see your CCTV for yesterday evening, around eight thirty?’

  ‘No problem, what are you looking for?’ The man had movie-star looks: tall, clean shaven, jet-black hair cropped short, wearing a navy sweater over a white button-down shirt. Very nice. He was wearing jeans, but looked too smart somehow for an all-night grocery store.

  ‘A cab pulled up here last night, collected one of the staff from The Rookery and took her home. She’s disappeared. We want to see if you’ve got a shot of the cab and the registration plate.’

  The man’s mouth fell open. ‘Not Sarah Jane?’

  It might have been because it was so late but O’Rourke looked at the man blankly for a minute. Cathy mentally shook her head. What did they say about Ireland, about everyone knowing each other? He had to be the guy Sarah Jane had been going on about that she fancied who worked near The Rookery. She’d said he worked in one of the shops, but not which one. Cathy took a step forward. ‘Do you know her?’

  The man nodded, ‘She works over there part-time, she’s studying journalism at DCU. Always comes in here for Polos. I’m in the College of Surgeons,’ he added, indicating the books. ‘Vijay Khan – nice to meet you.’ He held out his hand. O’Rourke returned his handshake. Cathy leaned forward and followed suit as Vijay continued, ‘I studied in New York for a year. Heard her accent and we started chatting.’

  ‘You’re Anadin?’ Cathy smiled. Ever since she’d met him, Sarah Jane had been full of this gorgeous guy she’d bumped into who was studying medicine, had thought his nickname was hilarious. He’d told her it had started as an autocorrect in one of his friends’ texts, and had stuck, bearing in mind his choice of career. Although you’d need more than Anadin for pain relief if you were under Vijay Khan’s care; he was specialising in surgery.

  Vijay looked surprised, ‘Yes, how do you know?’

  ‘She mentioned you.’

  His blush was hot, ‘Really?’ Then, embarrassed, he glanced out of the window, ‘I was here last night. I was busy, but I saw the manager over there putting someone into a cab. I didn’t realise it was her. Is she OK?’

  ‘We don’t know.’ O’Rourke’s tone was serious, ‘She’s disappeared.’

  His mouth dropped open, ‘You serious? You’d better look at the tapes. She’s always in here, was in on Friday too.’

  Cathy smiled, ‘You’ve got a good memory.’

  He blushed again, ‘She’s pretty easy to remember.’

  ‘Did you speak to her on Friday?’ O’Rourke’s tone was probing.

  ‘She was on her way into work – she usually says hello if she sees me. I work part-time too so I’m not always here. I hadn’t seen her for a few weeks, but it was busy when she called in, we were stocktaking, so I didn’t get a chance to chat for long.’ He paused, ‘I was hoping she’d drop in again when she had her break. Come through to the back and I’ll show you the security tapes. I can keep an eye on the door from inside. The video is an old system, but the recording is pretty clear. My uncle’s just got a quote for a new digital system – he’s finally realised videos are obsolete.’ Vijay held the door open for Cathy, ‘The camera angles are pretty comprehensive, though – he’s fanatical about shoplifters.’

  *

  ‘There she is.’ Cathy felt a jolt, like a bullet hitting her right in the gut. They were huddled around a dated TV in the back room of the shop. It was a tiny space – part store room, part office – and smelled strongly of aromatic spices. Vijay had pinned the door open so he could keep one eye on the street door. He scrolled back to 8.25 p.m. on Sunday. The time stamp glowed orange in the top corner of a four-way split screen giving four different camera angles criss-crossing the shop’s interior and the street outside. The images were black and white and a bit fuzzy, but clear enough to see what was happening.

  In the bottom right of the screen on the external camera, they watched a figure who could only be The Rookery’s manager, Billy Roberts, come out from under the arch. Walking around the side of The Rookery, he waved down a taxi which drew up alongside the pavement. He spoke to the driver for a second and went back in under the arch into the car park. A few moments later two figures could be seen coming back around the corner. Billy had his arm around Sarah Jane’s shoulders. Her head was bowed, her distinctive hand-knitted cowl scarf wrapped around her hair and neck, keeping the night chill out. They couldn’t see her face, but from her walk Cathy could see something was wrong. Sarah Jane was tall, held herself like a dancer, but on the camera she was hunched, like she had a bad stomach cramp. They watched as Billy Roberts pulled the back door of the taxi open and she climbed inside. He closed the door and a movement on the other side of the vehicle suggested that he was speaking to the driver for a moment. Then he stood back and tapped the roof of the vehicle, glancing into the back window as it pulled away, the rear registration plate clearly visible. O’Rourke had his phone out before Cathy could speak. Squeezing past Cathy back out into the empty shop, O’Rourke relayed the information to base.

  Cathy turned to Vijay. ‘Can we see the tape from Friday?’ Part of her wanted to see Sarah Jane again acting normally, to remind herself of what that looked like. Vijay picked up a video tape from the pile he’d taken off a shelf above their heads. A white strip down the side was marked with the date in felt pen. ‘Here we are, she came in about eleven thirty, I think.’ He slipped the tape into the machine and rolled the footage, watching the time stamp scroll as he fast-forwarded. ‘I was having a cup of coffee out the back . . .’

  At eleven forty a guy in his twenties in a safety vest and hard hat came in and grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of Coke from the fridge. He spoke briefly to an older man behind the till. Vijay paused the recording, ‘That’s my uncle, he owns this place. I just help out.’

  ‘I hope he pays you.’

  Cathy half smiled at Vijay’s shrug. ‘It’s family.’

  The builder moved to the door, opening it to let a girl in a denim jacket into the shop, her blond hair knotted on the top of her head. She was followed closely by a pumped-up looking guy in a black leather jacket. The builder had a quick glance at the girl’s butt and, nodding to Vijay’s uncle, threw him a grin and slipped out the door.

  ‘I think she comes in next.’ Vijay sat patiently as the digital clock on the screen flickered through tenth-of-a-second increments. ‘Here she is.’

  On the external screen, Sarah Jane came into view walking along the pavement. Inside the shop, the guy in the leather jacket rubbed his face and Cathy saw prison tattoos across his knuckles. They were unmistakable – in any language they meant gurrier. If he had those tattoos, he had a record.

  They watched as the guy in the jacket appeared on another camera in a different corner of the screen, browsing the magazine shelves. Then, in the top right-hand corner of the screen, Sarah Jane walked in.

  Cathy started, her focus now fully on the interior of the shop, on the video as it played out in each corner of the screen. The girl already in the shop said something to Vijay’s uncle, and put a light-coloured suede fringed bag on the counter, pulling out a pile of papers from it and passing them to him with a thick envelope. Standing behind her, waiting, Cathy could see Sarah Jane was wearing h
er long black coat, the ultra-fluffy pink scarf her mum had made wrapped around her neck, her plait snaking out from under it. She was always cold. Behind the counter Vijay suddenly appeared from the back room. Cathy kept her face straight – he’d obviously spotted Sarah Jane on the live camera footage being relayed into the stockroom.

  Cathy knew Sarah Jane well enough to see that the smile she threw at him was special. It lit up her face.

  On screen, Sarah Jane came up to the counter, standing just behind the other girl, and reached for a packet of Polos from the display stand that dominated the counter, throwing them playfully to Vijay to scan into the till. She pulled her wallet from her coat pocket, paid him and stood for a moment saying something to him.

  Vijay paused the tape, answering Cathy’s unspoken question, ‘She was slagging me, I just got my hair cut.’

  Cathy smiled to herself. She could see the chemistry between them even on the tape – Sarah Jane’s confidence, Vijay’s shyness. He hit the play button again and Cathy watched as his uncle nudged him, passing him the paperwork and envelope. Vijay rolled his eyes to Sarah Jane and vanished through the door to the stockroom just as the girl at the counter straightened and passed whatever she had been writing on to Vijay’s uncle. As he was looking at it, she glanced quickly behind her and placed her hand on Sarah Jane’s arm. Obviously surprised, Sarah Jane turned to her, smiling. As Cathy watched the screen, the girl said something quickly that made Sarah Jane frown.

  Whatever she had said, Sarah Jane didn’t get a chance to reply. Cathy leaned nearer to the screen, watching closely as Vijay’s uncle interrupted them. It looked like there was some problem with the paperwork the girl had given him.

  Sarah Jane reached for a lottery slip from the pile on the counter, used the pen that was attached to the stand by a long piece of hairy string to scribble something on it, folding and slipping it under the girl’s fringed bag. The girl glanced anxiously behind her, checking what the guy in the jacket was doing, but he was absorbed in one of the magazines from the top shelf, and was slowly flicking through the pages. The girl glanced quickly at Sarah Jane, flashed her a smile and stuffed the lottery slip into her handbag.