In Deep Water

by Sam Blake

  The success she’d had was nothing like the success that, if she played her cards right, lay before her. She just had to take one step at a time.

  11

  The pool was empty when Cathy arrived at six the next morning, the gym she and Sarah Jane were members of in Dún Laoghaire only just open. The staff were used to her being their first visitor of the day, understood her training regime and left her alone to focus on a hard workout, whether that was with the weights in the gym itself or in the pool. This morning, as she rolled up her black polo neck sweater and camouflage combats, stuffing them into her kitbag, she could feel the worry of yesterday weighing heavily. She pulled on her black Lycra swimsuit and dragged her hair back tight into a ponytail.

  The last thing she felt like right now was a thirty-minute hard swim. She’d prefer to be heading straight for the station to see if any news had come in overnight, talk to O’Rourke, find out what his plan was, review the leads, go back over the CCTV footage they had. But she knew she’d feel so much better after training, she’d be fresher and energised, her head would be clear and she’d be a whole lot more useful. Getting match fit for the national heats would normally be top of her agenda right now, but since last night that had become the least of her problems. Jordan Paige might be her only serious opponent, but winning was as much about focus as fitness, and right now she couldn’t focus on anything except finding Sarah Jane – the only win she was interested in at the moment.

  And she knew O’Rourke was as worried as she was. She was pretending to him that it was all fine, that she was fine. She wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all herself, but she knew that keeping everything moving forward as fast as possible was the only way they could keep their minds busy and not think about the alternative – about what might be happening, or might have happened, to Sarah Jane. They had both been in this job a long time, had seen more than anyone who lived in Normal Street could imagine in their worst nightmares. That was just the way it was. You coped.

  Until it got personal.

  She felt a gnawing in her stomach. When she was a child she hadn’t known what this feeling was, this feeling of sickness. Then one day out of the blue she’d realised it was worry – she had no idea how it could be a physical thing, but it was, and right now it was real.

  Cathy sat down heavily to pull on her swim hat, trying to cram her hair into it. It had been about one in the morning when they’d got back to Dún Laoghaire. O’Rourke had given her a hug as they parted in the station car park, resting his chin on her head for a moment, telling her to go home and get some sleep. He was right, they were both more use to Sarah Jane rested, but as she’d pulled out of the car park, the heater in the car on full, she’d seen the light go on in his office.

  The pool area smelled strongly of chlorine as Cathy padded through the showers, the water undulating to its own beat, lit from below the waterline by hundreds of concealed bulbs. As she stood ready to dive, one of the staff switched on the sound system and Katy Perry’s ‘Firework’ burst into the heavy, centrally-heated air.

  Cathy could feel tears, pricking at the back of her eyes. This was Sarah Jane’s song. It was like it was written for her. She was the spark, she was original. She shone like the Fourth of July.

  Cathy dived, cutting cleanly through the water, powering into the butterfly. She needed to clear her head, to get the adrenaline pumping, to stay on top. Sarah Jane needed her to hold it together. Like O’Rourke had said last night as he’d wrapped her in his arms, they’d find Sarah Jane – if it was the last thing they did.

  *

  Cathy’s hair was still wet as she walked into the station, punching her pass code into the key pad on the internal door and taking the steps two at a time towards O’Rourke’s office. Her phone rang as she swung around the top of the stairs: Sarah Jane’s mum, Oonagh. She sounded breathless, the line bad.

  ‘Cathy, I got your messages. I’m sorry the mobile reception’s terrible here, it’s better to call this number, my landline . . . Have you found her?’

  Leaning against the banister Cathy chose her words carefully, ‘Not yet, but . . .’ How could she put this tactfully without sending Oonagh into a total spiral of panic? ‘My DI is on it now. He’s doing me a favour – it’s too early to classify her as missing – she’s an adult and there’s every chance that she’s bumped into an old friend and just hasn’t thought to call anyone because there’s absolutely nothing wrong. But . . .’ Cathy paused, ‘he knows her too and he’s very concerned. We’re talking to the people who saw her last.’

  ‘And you said she went home in a taxi on Sunday, so that’s good. She can’t be far from home, can she?’

  Cathy stuck her hand into the pocket of her combats, ‘That’s what we’re working on. I’ll let you know as soon as we know anything, I promise.’

  Cathy could hear Oonagh Hansen’s voice crack, ‘I know you will. I’m going to stay by the phone here in case she calls. And I’ve left messages all over the place for Ted to call. If we could find out what they were talking about I’d be less worried.’

  That was for sure. ‘I’ll keep in touch. Don’t worry, you’ll be the first person I call when I know anything.’

  *

  Cathy tapped the edge of her phone on her teeth as she headed down the corridor to O’Rourke’s office.

  Pushing the door open, Cathy hesitated for a moment. J.P. was already there, leaning on the window sill, the fluorescent light reflecting off the silver numbers on the epaulettes on his pale-blue shirt. His hands stuck in the pockets of his navy trousers, he threw her a rueful smile. There was no need for words. She threw her kitbag into the corner as O’Rourke walked in behind her.

  ‘You should dry that hair before you come in, you’ll get pneumonia.’ He headed for his desk, a pile of printouts in his hand. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, his pale pink shirt crumpled, tie abandoned somewhere. He’d obviously been here all night.

  Behind his back, Cathy pulled a face at the hair comment. He wasn’t her mother. ‘Anything new?’

  Throwing the pile of paper onto his desk O’Rourke put his hands in his trouser pockets and turned to her, ‘I’ve had our taxi driver checked out – no previous, seems reliable. Popular guy. Not the brightest button, but a hard worker.’ Pursing his lips, he scowled at the wall for a moment, ‘We’ll get the rest of the security footage from the shops and business premises around The Rookery this morning.’ He rattled the change in his pocket as Cathy crossed to sit next to J.P. on the window sill. She hopped up and tucked her hands under her thighs, ‘So now we need to establish whether Sarah Jane actually went into her house when she was dropped home or not. And whether she was present when her room was broken into.’

  O’Rourke transferred his gaze to a spot on the floor and nodded slowly, ‘I’ve got uniform checking with the neighbours this morning. We’ll try and catch them before they leave for work.’ He grimaced, ‘It was Sunday evening, dark, there’s no guarantee anyone was looking out of their windows, but you never know.’ He turned to look at Cathy, ‘A media release has gone out, though, so we might get some feedback from this morning’s news reports.’

  Cathy shifted to get more comfortable, ‘We need to find her car.’

  ‘We do. Her registration plate has been circulated. If it’s in the city it should turn up.’

  A soft knock at the door announced the arrival of Detective Sergeant Frank Gallagher and Detective Garda Jamie Fanning, both from Dún Laoghaire’s district detective unit, both looking worried.

  ‘You wanted us, Cig?’ The Irish term for inspector.

  ‘Thanks, gentlemen.’ O’Rourke invited them in with a sweeping movement of his hand, ‘This is still unofficial, so we’re keeping it close, but we’ve got a possible missing person, Cat’s friend Sarah Jane Hansen.’

  Gallagher nodded curtly and Cathy could see he’d heard. Nothing stayed under wraps for long in the station.

  Gallagher and Fanning were a strange double act – looke
d more like father and son than colleagues, but perhaps that’s why it worked. Tall and wiry, his grey hair cropped short, Frank Gallagher had been married for more years than Cathy had been on the planet, his wife a local councillor. Despite so many years in the job, he always looked to Cathy like a bank manager about to go for a game of golf. He was one of those guys who took everything in his stride, which was why his expression today made her bite her lip. Jamie Fanning, known as 007, was the complete opposite – early twenties, hair an expensive blond, most of the time he looked like he’d stepped out of a Ted Baker ad. He reckoned he was a player – as far as Cathy was concerned the jury was definitely still out on that – but he was OK, when he wasn’t being a twat. He’d earned his nickname from his jackrabbit tendencies, trying to bed every girl he ever met. He’d been trying to score with Sarah Jane from the first time he’d met her, but his reputation preceded him. He just wasn’t the type to cotton on to the fact that he didn’t have a chance.

  ‘What’s the latest?’ Frank Gallagher exchanged glances with O’Rourke as Fanning came into the office and play-punched Cathy on her shoulder. His blue eyes were concerned, she had to give him that. She flashed him a smile.

  ‘That’s better, champ.’ He pretended to shadow-box with her, his fists under his chin, reaching for a hook.

  ‘Feck off, you eejit.’ Cathy didn’t even rise to it, knew she’d have him KO’d on the floor in less than sixty seconds. And she was sure he wouldn’t appreciate a broken nose.

  Fanning grinned, about to say something else when O’Rourke’s phone rang. Cathy pushed him out of the way so she could see O’Rourke’s face, but he wasn’t giving anything away as he listened to the caller, his frown deep.

  ‘Thanks, we’ll get someone down there.’

  Cathy slid off the window ledge, ‘What?’

  O’Rourke slipped the phone back into his shirt pocket, ‘Her car’s in the Drury Street car park. Attendant has just called it in to Pearse Street. Do you and Frank want to get over there, Cat? Thirsty will be over to process it as soon as he’s free. Call in as soon as you have news.’

  *

  They made good time into town, the unmarked Vectra’s blue strobe headlights clearing the bus lane. Cathy jumped out of the car before Frank Gallagher had even had a chance to turn off the lights. The third floor of Drury Street’s modern car park was well lit, Sarah Jane’s car parked in a central bay.

  Frank reached into the glove compartment for a box of latex gloves and passed Cathy a pair through the open window, ‘Here, put these on. Thirsty will be here in a minute.’ Glad to be out of the car, stinking of stale coffee and vinegar, the floor in the back littered with fast-food wrappers and styrofoam cups, a by-product of too many hours on surveillance, Cathy snapped the gloves on and rolled her eyes at him.

  Her shoulders hunched against the morning chill, Cathy threw up her hood, pulling her leather jacket around her. It was a padded motorcycle jacket, a gift from the team when her last one had been destroyed by the explosion, the thick leather taking the brunt of the flying glass and shards of metal and, she was sure, saving her life. When she’d left the pool this morning she’d thrown a hoodie over her roll neck sweater, but the extra layer didn’t seem to be helping a whole lot.

  But Cathy realised that she wasn’t just shivering because of the weather. What would they find inside the car? Sarah Jane’s laptop, her diary? Or worse?

  Glancing at Frank for reassurance, Cathy could feel her stomach clenching as she walked towards Sarah Jane’s Micra. As she got close enough to take a look inside, Gallagher switched on the powerful torch he’d pulled from the boot, shining it into the tiny car’s interior. The inside of the car was in shadow. It was hard to see, their own images looming in the window glass like Dementors.

  One thing was for sure – Sarah Jane wasn’t in the car. That was good. Was that good?

  ‘Try the door?’ Gallagher held the torch up, shining it into the back seat. ‘I’d need a warrant to open it, and we’ll never get that.’ Cathy could feel her stomach turning as she walked around to the driver’s side. He was right, even the Guards couldn’t go around breaking into people’s cars on a hunch. But a friend could try a friend’s car door. Cathy pulled the handle, expecting it to be locked.

  It wasn’t.

  Cathy glanced back at Gallagher as she swung the door open. On the other side of the car, Gallagher opened the passenger door and pulled open the glove compartment.

  ‘That her phone?’

  Cathy grimaced and leaned in to take a better look – a phone in a bright pink case lay on top of a pile of car manuals and a paperback book, its spine hidden, well thumbed pages facing them.

  ‘Yep.’ Her voice came out louder than she expected, croaky. She cleared her throat self-consciously, thinking for a moment. The black hole of worry that had opened as she’d stood at the side of the pool this morning suddenly yawned wide and flashed its teeth. Sarah Jane always felt lost without her phone, even if the battery was low, which it usually was. Maybe she’d been late and had forgotten it – it wouldn’t be the first time – but why hadn’t she locked the car? What had she been thinking about as she’d parked to make her forget basic stuff like this?

  ‘Her phone’s always running out of battery, but if she’d forgotten it, why didn’t she get the cab driver to swing past here on the way home? It’s only a few minutes from the restaurant, and the manager had already paid him.’ Cathy spoke as the sound of wheels on the ramp beside them announced Thirsty’s arrival in the scenes-of-crime van. He pulled up across the end of the car and climbed out of the van, his thick-soled boots sucking on the damp concrete of the car park. A life-long Pioneer, Dún Laoghaire’s main Scenes of Crime officer had renounced alcohol long before his four now grown-up daughters had arrived, and was nicknamed for his affinity to orange juice. Now nearing his thirty years’ service and retirement, his dark hair was peppered grey, his lungs constantly protesting against his fifty-a-day habit. He’d looked out for Cathy from her very first day in Dún Laoghaire.

  ‘Hand it over here, lass. I’ve got a friend in headquarters who’ll be able to download her call activity directly from the phone. Until this is a case on the radar with just cause we can’t be looking for a warrant for call records.’ Thirsty held open a brown paper evidence bag for her to drop Sarah Jane’s phone into.

  Cathy nodded, ‘You going to give everything the once over?’

  ‘That’s for sure.’ Thirsty turned to Gallagher, ‘You have a word with them to make sure it’s not towed? We can’t take it back to the station in case she comes back for it and her parking’s going to have expired by now.’

  Gallagher nodded curtly, his face puzzled, ‘Doesn’t make any sense does it? Leaving it unlocked?’

  ‘Just as well she did, though.’ Thirsty turned to open the back doors of his van.

  *

  Watching Thirsty approach the car, suited up in his white paper overall, made Cathy feel sick. He flashed her a sympathetic smile as he paused for a second before reaching to pull open the boot.

  It gaped wide and black. And empty.

  Thank God. Standing back, giving him space, Cathy pulled out her necklace. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him at work a thousand times before, but this was different.

  Cathy knew she just needed to focus, to see if there was something she’d forgotten, some tiny detail that would come back to her if she could lighten up a bit and allow all the areas of her mind to synchronise. She needed to use all her experience to help Sarah Jane. For feck’s sake, it wasn’t like she was a receptionist in a call centre. This is what she did, this was her world, and Sarah Jane was her friend. Sarah Jane would know one hundred per cent that Cathy was pulling out all the stops to find her. That’s what friends did, that was the way Cathy was made. Behind her, Cathy suddenly tuned into Gallagher giving O’Rourke an update over the phone. He was back in the driver’s seat in the front of the DDU car, had the engine running and the heater on despite having the w
indow open. Realising that she was really cold, Cathy pulled open the passenger door and climbed in. But her head was too full to worry about being cold now. She knew there had to be something they were missing here. Women were randomly attacked, granted, but in the vast majority of cases they knew their attackers. Had Sarah Jane been attacked, or had she vanished deliberately because something had frightened her? What had she been working on that her dad had thought was dangerous?

  Sarah Jane disappearing voluntarily didn’t make any sense, Cathy knew, and she discounted the thought almost immediately. If something or someone had frightened her, she would have called Cathy straight away, wouldn’t she?

  Cathy shifted in the car, pulling her still damp ponytail away from the back of her neck. She needed to get her act together and use the stuff she was learning studying for her masters in forensic psychology, as well as the experience on the street, both personal and professional.

  Cathy had always been fascinated by motivation, by what made people act in the way they did, and by body language, the unspoken ways people communicated. What made a lad watch women through their windows at night? How did a gang member sleep knowing he’d killed, knowing that he could be next on a hit list? It was as much about psychology as it was about criminality, and the lecturers on her course had little idea of what it was like out at the sharp end, what it was like to spend endless nights out in a patrol car where you never knew what could happen next.