In Deep Water

by Sam Blake

  She hesitated. She wanted to go over what Rebecca had told her, but something was really niggling her about the girl she’d seen speaking to Sarah Jane in the shop. Cathy had looked through the MoneyGram dockets, and with the help of Vijay’s uncle, found the one the girl had signed herself. The only problem was that her name was illegible and the address she’d given was an office building in the city centre with about two thousand staff. Cathy had tried the phone number she’d listed as her own, but it rang out. The money was being wired to a mobile phone account, and she knew it was a shot in the dark, but maybe, if Aleksy could talk to the person who owned the phone, they would be able to tell her who the girl was. Then Cathy might have half a chance of finding her . . .

  Cathy could smell something delicious. She wasn’t sure what it was, but her stomach was reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  ‘I don’t have much time but . . .’

  ‘We’ve a bar menu in here or,’ the barman jerked his head behind him, indicating a raised area separate from the bar, ‘there’s a better choice in the restaurant.’

  ‘Restaurant would be great, thanks.’

  Heading through the main bar to the cosy, dimly lit restaurant above, Cathy was impressed by the leather bucket chairs surrounding highly polished tables, tea lights flickering in the middle of each one. The last time she’d been here it had been stuck in a 1970s time warp – she had an overwhelming memory of everything being yellow.

  Aleksy headed for a table in the corner out of sight of the main bar and shrugged off his khaki jacket, slinging it around the back of the chair. He was wearing a bright white T-shirt underneath it. A very fitted T-shirt. He definitely worked out.

  ‘Come and join me.’

  Cathy drew in a sharp breath. The way he said it. Was he hitting on her? How out of practice at this dating thing was she? ‘Thank you.’

  She pulled out the chair opposite him, unzipped her jacket and slung it around the back of the chair. When they’d left the shop she’d only intended to stop for fifteen minutes, to have a quick drink and see if he could help her, but maybe taking her mind off the investigation for half an hour was what she needed to get her thoughts straight, like when you’ve forgotten someone’s name but it comes straight back to you when you start thinking about something else. She reached for her phone. ‘Sorry, I just need to . . .’

  She quickly texted J.P.: Will b a bit longer. Can u update O’R? C u later.

  A waitress appeared and placed menus on the table as he said, ‘So how can I help you, you wanted a chat?’

  How much could she say? Cathy kept her voice low, choosing her words carefully, ‘I’m working on a case – a girl who has gone missing, Sarah Jane Hansen. She was seen in town, in Dublin city, in a newsagents that’s an agent for MoneyGram. She spoke to a girl in the shop who was transferring money to a mobile account in Belarus, and I want to find out who that girl is. The MoneyGram form she filled in isn’t giving me any clues, so I thought if we could contact the people she’s sending the money to, they might be able to help.’

  Aleksy’s face creased in a frown. She could see from the expression on his face that he understood how tricky the legal issues around getting that information were. ‘It will help your investigation?’

  Cathy grimaced, ‘Sort of. My inspector thinks I’m wasting my time, but there’s something . . .’ She continued quickly, ‘I want to get a full picture of all Sarah Jane’s movements before she disappeared, to make sure we’ve got all the information.’

  ‘Your inspector isn’t ready to bring in an interpreter?’

  He was quick, but perhaps she had it written all over her face. ‘Not exactly. I’m sort of looking for a favour, really.’

  ‘So have something to eat with me and I will owe you a favour.’

  An hour later they were still the only people in the restaurant, although the bar below was beginning to fill, the sounds of a football match on Sky Sports and the low rumble of men talking reaching them at their corner table. Their conversation had been easy.

  ‘So I have been in Ireland for just over six months and all I have seen is Dublin airport, the Phoenix Park, several Garda stations and here, Enniskerry, with the terrible roads. I only get out of the city when I’m running an errand like collecting these suits – I’m working as much as I can while the work is there, but that doesn’t leave room for pleasure.’ Aleksy took a sip of his coffee, the cup small in his strong and broad hand. He wasn’t wearing any rings. Cathy deliberately looked at her own coffee, swirling the froth with a spoon. She’d hardly noticed the time pass. It turned out he was Polish, but spoke fluent Russian and several other Slavic languages, which was why he was so useful as an interpreter. They’d chatted about university, his military service, about life in Poland, about how he could work for a year in Ireland and earn enough for a deposit on an apartment back home. He was bright and interesting and very good company. As well as being very good to look at.

  But right now she had a case to focus on. She needed him to agree to help her and see if finding the girl in the shop would bring her a step closer to finding Sarah Jane.

  ‘Enniskerry is a very nice village – it feels like it’s right out in the country but it’s much closer to the city than I expected.’

  ‘They call the road up here from the motorway the twenty-one bends.’ She looked up, catching him looking at her.

  He said quickly, ‘I didn’t count them, I was too busy trying to stay out of the hedge.’

  ‘Ditch.’ Cathy put her spoon down in her saucer and took a sip of her coffee.

  Aleksy’s forehead crumpled as he shook his head, confused, ‘I don’t remember a ditch, just a very thick hedge.’

  ‘The Irish call a hedge a ditch. In Wicklow, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, nodding his head like that made perfect sense. ‘But I thought a ditch was a gully in the ground, a trench for drainage, like in Holland.’

  ‘Well that’s a dyke, but in Ireland a hedge is a ditch. A ditch is a ditch too, but sometimes it’s a drain.’ She fought to keep her face straight. He was looking really confused now. He shook his head.

  ‘Your language is different from the English they taught in school at home. I have a lot to learn if I want to be a good interpreter.’ His smile was genuine, warm. ‘So where else should I see while I am in Ireland? I need to work as much as I can while I’m here, so I need to make the most of my time off when I have it. I heard the highest pub in Ireland is near here?’

  ‘It is.’ Cathy turned to look over her shoulder. Beside the restaurant’s main street door was a rack of tourist guides. Pushing her chair out she stood up stiffly, the muscles stretched in her training session this morning starting to tighten. Heading over to it, browsing for a moment, she selected a handful and, returning to the table, fanned them out.

  ‘These are all fairly local and good places to visit. The pub is called Johnny Fox’s, but next time you have a day off you should go to Powerscourt House – it was destroyed in a fire, but the gardens are gorgeous.’

  ‘There seem to be a lot of things around here that are gorgeous.’

  Cathy felt her face heat instantly, opened her mouth to say something, but Aleksy was already looking at the brochures as if delivering high-voltage compliments was the most natural thing in the world to him.

  ‘And is this Johnny Fox’s really the highest pub in Ireland?’

  Cathy smiled, in part thankful that the conversation had moved on.

  ‘Supposedly. It’s years since I’ve been there, but they’re famous for their Irish shows, and they have musicians in the bar most evenings playing traditional music.’

  ‘I have never heard proper Irish traditional music. Is it good? Do they have leprechauns too?’

  Now he was teasing her, his eye meeting hers with a wicked twinkle. She shook her head, laughing. ‘No, of course not. I’m not mad about traditional music, but in the right place with a fire lit and a few pints, it
’s great.’

  ‘Show me?’ Show him what? ‘Now, will we go up to Johnny Fox’s? It’s still early.’ He glanced over at his phone, checking the time. It was only just six o’clock. ‘How far is it?’

  Cathy hid her surprise. She really wasn’t in the mood for a date with a complete stranger, she’d too much on her mind, and she was due back at the station at some stage. Although he was totally gorgeous, and they’d established that they knew people in common, people they’d both worked with, so he wasn’t really a total stranger but still . . .

  Cathy opened her mouth, waiting for her brain to work out how to refuse without offending him, but a voice interrupted her, ‘Can I get you anything else?’ Another waitress appeared behind her, her accent different from the one who had served them earlier.

  ‘The bill would be great.’ Aleksy got there first, speaking as Cathy turned around, smiling. But her smile didn’t last long.

  ‘Two bills, please.’ Working hard not to react, the words stuck in her throat.

  This woman was pregnant. Very pregnant. Glowing and cheerful and expecting a baby. Cathy felt her stomach fall. Most of the time she could cope with seeing other women pregnant, but she’d had a tough few days, and when she was tired and emotional her own loss became physical, tangible.

  Unaware of the impact she was having on Cathy, the waitress reached awkwardly over to collect their plates, her voice warm, friendly, ‘Are you going into the bar?’

  ‘No, no. We’re heading up to Johnny Fox’s.’ Cathy’s tone was definite. He might have said he’d owe her a favour if she kept him company in the restaurant, but he hadn’t agreed to help her yet. This could be the break she needed, and right now she wasn’t in the mood to let that chance slip. There had been too many lost chances in her life already.

  Cathy stood up and grabbed her jacket.

  ‘Where are you parked? You can follow me up.’

  *

  Cathy had forgotten how narrow the road up to Johnny Fox’s pub was. With only the cat’s eyes as guidance, she drove carefully as the road twisted steeply up into the mountains, hair-pinning twice around an ancient granite garden wall that leaned drunkenly into the road. You’d know the Romans were never in Ireland.

  Taking it slowly, she glanced into her rear-view mirror to see that Aleksy was following. She needn’t have worried, behind her his headlights were glued to her tail, the Audi he was driving was jet black, new and sporty. It probably wasn’t his, but it was exactly the kind of car she’d have expected him to drive.

  A moment later she was bumping into the field across the road, a stiff wind buffeting the Mini as it gathered momentum crossing the open hillside.

  The overflow car park was literally a field and unlit. With only a few cars parked in it, Cathy pulled in close to the gate, hopping out as Aleksy pulled in beside her. Her arms crossed tightly against the chill, she leaned on the side of her car, waiting as he swung open his door, reaching into the passenger seat for his heavy combat jacket.

  ‘My God, it’s freezing up here – quick, let’s get inside.’ Her dark corkscrew curls whipping across her face, Cathy pulled her hair out of her mouth as she spoke.

  ‘Show me the way.’

  Even in the dark she could feel the heat from his smile. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had. She didn’t want to lead him on – well . . . but she did need his help, and she wanted to find out more about him. Purely professionally, of course. She really couldn’t think about starting a relationship now.

  But Cathy knew what she was telling herself in her head and what her heart was saying were two very different things. She felt like she was being physically tugged in two different directions between finding Sarah Jane and getting to know Aleksy. Well three, if she was honest. O’Rourke was never far from the centre of her world either. Christ, why was she such an emotional wreck?

  Across the road, possibly the most famous pub in Ireland looked warm and welcoming, an old bicycle leaning against the wall, an even older car parked near the door, battered tin signs for Gold Flake cigarettes between every glowing window. Cathy glanced at Aleksy from under her eyelashes as they headed across the narrow road. He had his hands thrust into his jeans pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, looking her way. She quickly averted her eyes, but felt the warmth of his gaze on her. After everything that had happened this week, this year, his attention felt like the glow from the evening summer sun, unexpectedly warm. But she couldn’t let him distract her from the job. Not now. This was about Sarah Jane. She needed him to help her with the case, with contacting whoever was receiving the money transfers.

  Skirting a milk churn, Cathy pushed open the split stable door of the porch and was hit with a wave of wood smoke-scented heat as a woman pulled open the glazed inner door of the pub. The woman was too busy talking to her friend over her shoulder to notice Cathy, who stopped suddenly to allow her through. Behind her Aleksy bumped into her, his hand automatically moving to her waist, his body hard against hers.

  20

  Sitting behind his desk, the morning light chill, Dawson O’Rourke leaned back in his chair and twirled his gold Cross pen through his fingers, staring intently at it.

  Cathy shifted position, easing the tired muscles in her butt off the sharp edge of the window sill, and stifled a yawn. Her movement seemed to bring him back to the here and now.

  ‘Late night? You couldn’t sleep?’

  Cathy could feel a blush rising before she could stop it. Why the feck did she blush so much? It wasn’t like she had red hair or anything. She must have a red hair gene somewhere; that would be about right, McIntyre was always telling her she was too hot headed.

  It hadn’t been a late night as it turned out, just a bit unexpected. The memory of Aleksy catching her as she had slipped in the mud on the way back to the car came back with a jolt – that and the feel of his arms around her and the softness of his lips as he’d kissed her. Well maybe she’d kissed him, she wasn’t entirely sure.

  Cathy cleared her throat, self-consciously rubbing her nose, hoping the layers of make-up she’d lashed on after her swim this morning hid the stubble burn. The kiss had gone on a bit longer than it should have done before she came to her senses.

  ‘Not too late. I went up to Johnny Fox’s.’

  There was no point in pretending she hadn’t, O’Rourke seemed to have an uncanny knack for knowing more about her life than she did. If she didn’t mention it he’d find out and then he’d give her the third degree. Not that she had anything to hide – well not much anyway. He’d told her to leave the translation thing alone. But she wasn’t good at leaving stuff that was niggling her. Aleksy had explained that they spoke both Polish and Russian in Belarus, plus Belarusian and a Polish Belarusian dialect – he reckoned he shouldn’t have a problem speaking to whoever was receiving the money. But whether they’d talk to him or not was a different matter.

  ‘Johnny Fox’s was the last place Annie McCarrick was purportedly seen.’ O’Rourke interrupted her thoughts, his tone speculative, surprised, ‘You don’t think her case has anything to do with Sarah Jane’s?’

  He sounded like he thought she’d been up there getting a feel for the place, was checking every avenue. Cathy was good with that. If her hunch about the girl played out she’d explain everything. But he had a point. She thought about it for a moment.

  ‘They were similar in age and both American, but it was over twenty years ago. Hard to know, with zero leads in the McCarrick case.’

  They had to consider every possibility, but unfortunately it wasn’t like they were the only two twenty-somethings who had disappeared in Ireland in the last thirty years.

  As she’d driven up into the hills last night Annie McCarrick had been on her mind – she and the other women who had gone missing in the Dublin mountains. But each of those disappearances had been apparently random, had occurred late at night in lonely, out-of-the-way places. Sarah Jane had vanished in a highly populated area. Someone mu
st have seen something.

  Aleksy had been dubious about contacting the people in Belarus, didn’t want to get arrested for data protection violation but had finally agreed to give it a go. And then he’d kissed her. And she’d kissed him back. That had been a really bad idea. All the way home Cathy had had flashbacks to a fire escape in a nightclub and a short red dress and too much champagne and another misjudged moment that had left her with a lot more than stubble burn.

  At least last night she’d stopped it – she’d ended up saying she was sorry, and pretty much left him standing there. Head down, she’d slipped into her car and had headed off down the road before she’d realised she still needed to get his email address to send him the photo of the MoneyGram form that she’d taken – just in case he could read the girl’s name. She’d given him her phone number, and he’d given her his, but then when she’d looked this morning she’d realised that it hadn’t saved properly. Would he call after she left him standing there? She knew she’d be able to track him down through the interpreter services list, it was just a matter of getting Pearse Street to have a discreet look and then getting over her acute embarrassment to speak to him. At least she knew she hadn’t led him on. He’d been the one making all the moves. Was that a good thing?

  ‘You need to try and get more sleep, you keep drifting off.’

  Holy feck, O’Rourke must have been talking to her all this time and she’d totally tuned out.

  ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’

  ‘Run through with me what the boy, Jacob, saw again.’

  In a moment Cathy was back with it, ‘Jacob couldn’t tell us much himself, I need to go back to talk to him if I can – he’s had a bit of a meltdown though over the whole thing, so it’s quite possible we won’t get anything else out of him.’

  O’Rourke rolled his hand, indicating she should get on with it. ‘Did he see her?’