by Sam Blake
A moment later Cathy had buried her head in McIntyre’s shoulder, as hard as stone, the tears flowing freely. He put his arms around her and rocked her, didn’t say anything, just let her cry.
21
Cathy felt a whole lot better when she got out of the shower at Phoenix. Her muscles were still aching from her workout and her heart was still aching, but she’d turned the shower up as hot as it would go and spent a few moments just concentrating on the feeling of the water massaging the back of her neck. She’d read something on Facebook about mindfulness, about how it was good for your soul to clear your head and just be in the moment. This was the first time she’d tried it and it seemed to work wonders. After ten minutes in the shower, she felt stronger than she had done all day.
Wrapped in a towel, her hair pulled back, Cathy was reaching for a bottle of moisturiser when her phone pipped with a message. It was buried in the bottom of her kitbag and it took a moment for her to find it, her anxiety growing the longer she searched.
But it wasn’t O’Rourke.
She couldn’t resist a smile as she opened the message.
It was from Aleksy. He’d been called into Pearse Street Station to translate for a suspect, was she anywhere nearby?
Her thumb hovering over the keys for a moment, Cathy paused. She wanted to meet him, without question, but it was late and her plan had been to go home and try and get some sleep, ready for tomorrow. But she still wanted to give Aleksy the info on the account that the girl in the newsagent’s had been sending money to.
She checked the time again and made her decision, texting back: There in 20 mins. Meet you in the public office?
Seconds later a smiley face appeared on her screen.
*
Pearse Street Station was busy day and night. A huge granite-clad building, just over one hundred years old, it had been the very first Garda station to welcome female officers. Whenever she came here Cathy thought about that, about the shock that must have reverberated into the very corners of the building when it was realised that ladies’ loos would be needed.
Pushing open the heavy public front door, Cathy saw Aleksy immediately. He had his back to her, was ostensibly working his way through the notices pinned to the wall. Wearing jeans and a leather jacket, his hands in his back pockets, Cathy couldn’t help notice that he had a very nice bum.
‘Hiya. Sorry, were you waiting long?’ Cathy hung slightly back from him deliberately. Feeling awkward.
He turned to her, the smile already on his face. Relaxed, friendly. ‘No, just finished. Were you working?’
If she spoke fast she’d get past the whole awkward thing, ‘No, I was at the gym. Phoenix, out in Ballymun. It’s out on the north side of the city, but my coach runs it so I’m there about six times a week.’
He raised his eyebrows, obviously impressed. She’d told him a bit about her boxing when they’d been in Johnny Fox’s, but modesty had prevented her from going into any great detail.
‘Six times a week? That’s very dedicated, you must be very good at boxing.’ He spoke as if she had been keeping something back from him; technically she had, sort of. Not that it was all that interesting. ‘You must tell me more. Where’s good to get a drink around here?’
‘Flannery’s is nice. It’s not far, and they do craft beers.’
A moment later he was holding the door open for her.
*
Flannery’s was a Garda pub, its cheerful fire engine-red front opening onto an interior that was all dark wood and dim lighting, vintage signs hanging on the walls. Still busy after the 9 p.m. shift change, its clientele was predominantly male and unmistakable even in civvies. The tourists Flannery’s attracted had no idea how well protected they were.
Following Aleksy in, Cathy was suddenly self conscious. Several heads turned in her direction, checking out who had come in, recognising her, checking who she was with, what their business might be. Cathy winced inwardly. By the morning the whole of Pearse Street Station would be gossiping about them having a drink together. So much had happened in her life that out of choice she felt more comfortable in Garda pubs, where everyone spoke her language, but maybe tonight it wasn’t the best decision she’d ever made. She took a mental deep breath – why was she worried? They weren’t dating, and even if they were, was it anyone’s business but hers? Cathy mentally shook herself. Before the blast she wouldn’t have given a damn what people thought, it was only now that she found her emotions on a knife edge. She needed to get a grip, that was all there was to it.
Aleksy headed for the bar as Cathy chose a small round table at the back in an alcove, out of the way so they could chat without being overheard. Sitting down on the bench seat, her back to the wall, she pulled out her phone, pretending she hadn’t noticed the curious looks she was getting from across the room. She was known for her boxing and the bravery award that had got her into the detective unit so young, but then being targeted with a bomb on the job sort of made you stand out a bit. There were definitely days when she wished no one knew who she was. This was one of them.
She watched Aleksy discreetly as he leaned on the counter chatting to the barman, saw him nod to a couple of guys as he waited for their order. Obviously he was well known too. Damn. As the barman passed him a pint of Guinness and Cathy’s bottle of Torpedo, a man Cathy didn’t recognise touched him on the arm and said something quietly in his ear. Aleksy shrugged. In his fifties, the man was wearing a dark tweed jacket and looked more like an accountant than a copper. Cathy tried to get a better look at him as he moved away and headed for the Gents. What was that about?
‘Who was that?’ Cathy asked as he reached the table, her curiosity getting the better of her.
‘Not sure. He thought he recognised me.’ Aleksy took a sip of his pint.
‘But you know a few of the lads here?’
Aleksy shrugged again. ‘I haven’t been working for the Gardaí that long, it sort of happened by accident. But I’ve spoken to a few of them, of course.’
‘And what did the guy in the jacket say?’
Aleksy smiled, ‘You have been in the detectives too long, Cat Connolly. It was a mistake, he doesn’t know me. Now tell me about this number you want me to call.’
He’d neatly sidestepped her question. Why? But it didn’t worry Cathy, someone here would know exactly who he was if she asked. That was if she had the energy. Cathy could feel her day catching up with her, she was getting tired and she had other priorities.
For one she wanted to get the bigger picture on these money transfers.
And she wanted to get to know Aleksy better. Seeing him again now, that was one thing she was very sure of.
She glanced across the table at him. He had the most amazing eyes.
She took a swing of her beer. Ice cold. She needed it. Why do you always meet gorgeous guys when you have so much on your mind there isn’t space for more?
‘OK, so I told you about Sarah Jane, my friend that’s gone missing, and the girl she spoke to in the newsagent’s.’ Cathy pulled out her phone and searched for the photo of the MoneyGram docket to show him again. A moment later she found it and enlarged the image so he could see it more clearly.
Even allowing for the poor lighting in their corner, it was hard to read. Frowning, Aleksy picked up her phone and angled it to get more light on it.
‘Can you email it and I can enlarge it and print it, see if I can make her name more legible before I ring?’
‘Of course.’
‘There’s an Irish telephone number here.’ He pointed to the sender’s number listed on the docket, just above the amount and country it was going to, ‘Have you tried it?’
Cathy nodded, ‘It just rings out. Perhaps she’s run out of credit. And the address isn’t much more use, it’s a huge office. There are so many Eastern Europeans living in Dublin now that without a name, they can’t help.’ She sighed, ‘Two of my colleagues have been to talk to the guy she was with in the shop, but when he finally rem
embered he’d been there, he reckoned he didn’t know her. He said he’d bumped into her in the street and was trying to get her phone number.’ Cathy hesitated, ‘I know it’s going to be tricky. They might not talk to you at all – I wouldn’t give out information over the phone to some total stranger.’ It did sound mad now as she was saying it again. O’Rourke was probably right that it was a waste of time. He was usually right, but she needed to be sure herself.
‘I’ll do my best’. Aleksy reached out and rubbed the back of her hand, his touch hot.
Holy cow, she needed to concentrate. She was sure his best would be pretty damn good. Cathy knew if the information proved valuable, it was going to be tricky to explain how she got it to O’Rourke, but that was the least of her problems at this particular moment.
His touch had sent a super-charged bolt of something straight through her, which would have been manageable if her imagination hadn’t taken over and her head gone into overdrive. He had the top buttons of his shirt undone. It was a heavy white cotton shirt with a denim panel on the inside of the collar that ran around his muscular neck. The lack of buttons only revealed a hint of what was underneath, but it was enough for her mind to fill in the gaps. She could feel her cheeks heating. Cathy shifted uncomfortably, pushing her back into the wall, trying to ground herself. This was a Garda pub, for God’s sake, nothing she did would go unnoticed.
There were times in her life when she definitely needed to plan things better. This was one of them.
It was a long time since she’d reacted to anyone like this, but it was a long time since anyone she’d been vaguely interested in had been interested in her. For a moment her confidence faltered – was he interested or was it all in her head? Then she remembered the car park in Johnny Fox’s. That had been very real. Very real and very fecking amazing.
And she knew now why she’d had to stop it.
Cathy drew in a sharp breath, trying to get back on track. She wasn’t in a place right now where she could take on anything extra emotionally. Every spare particle of her was focused on finding Sarah Jane, on visualising her walking right back into her life, on working on all the information they had so they could identify the thing that they were missing.
Aleksy picked up his pint. He took a swig and, in doing so, moved his knee under the table to touch hers. And the fireworks went off all over again.
‘I will make this call tomorrow and find out all I can. I’ll say I bumped into her and she dropped her purse, and I found the number. Will that be a good idea?’
Jerked back to the pub, to the tiny table, to him sitting so close to her, Cathy took a swig from her beer, the bottle still chilled, the glass cold and damp in her hand. She cleared her throat, ‘Yes, better not to mention the Gardaí, we don’t want to frighten them – she might not have a work permit or something. If you can get her name, then I can try and track her down.’
‘OK, but you know this might not give you the answer? Even if you find her, the chances of her knowing who your friend is, remembering their conversation, could be small.’
‘I know, I just have a feeling . . .’ Cathy couldn’t explain. She looked down at the docket, a surge of emotion overwhelming her. There had to be one strand in all of this that they had missed, and if they could pick it up and follow it to its conclusion it would give them all the answers.
Aleksy picked up his pint again and his eyes locked with hers over the creamy head.
‘Good evening. What are you doing here?’
O’Rourke’s voice made Cathy jump more than she thought was even possible. Had she physically reacted? Christ, she hoped not. She felt like she’d lifted about six inches out of her seat, but she prayed that was all in her head. Turning to look at him, her face fixed in a relaxed, easy smile, she tried to slow her heart down. What the feck was he doing here?
Her response was accompanied with a wide-eyed, what the feck’s it got to do with you look. ‘Having a drink. You?’
O’Rourke’s face was stony, ‘Something similar.’ O’Rourke turned to Aleksy, his eyebrows raised. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Aleksy Janosik.’ Before Cathy could respond, Aleksy put out his hand as if he was completely unaware of any tension radiating from O’Rourke.
‘O’Rourke, Dawson O’Rourke. Cat’s on my team, and we’ve an early start tomorrow.’
Aleksy shrugged, ‘Good to meet you. Cat said she couldn’t stay long.’ He smiled, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she’s safely tucked up and gets her beauty sleep.’
Oh holy fecking God. Cathy grabbed her bottle of beer. Where was she supposed to look now? She could almost feel the steam coming off O’Rourke.
‘Glad to hear it. I’ll see you in the morning, Cat.’
She smiled weakly, and with a swish of his coat he was heading to the bar, the man with him someone she didn’t recognise, but from the way the crowd parted in front of the bar, he was as senior, if not more so, than O’Rourke.
‘He doesn’t seem very happy that you are out.’ Aleksy pulled a face, ‘Are you not allowed a social life?’
Cathy shrugged. Her relationship with O’Rourke was complicated on a good day and it wasn’t something she was going to even try to explain, especially with him in the same room. He was standing with his back to her now, but she knew him too well. He would be watching her in the mirror, she was sure. She couldn’t blame him, really – when it came to relationships she had made some monumentally bad decisions in the past.
‘I’m really sorry, I think I’m going to have to go. We do have an early start.’
Aleksy shrugged, his knee bumping off hers under the table. His smile was warm, understanding, ‘It’s fine, I understand. You need to find your friend. I will call when I have news from Belarus.’ He got up from the table.
Cathy felt like hugging him, ‘Thank you. Really. Thank you.’
Aleksy shrugged again, ‘It’s no problem, we’ll talk tomorrow.’
He leaned over and his lips brushed her cheek. ‘I’ll call you.’
As he turned to leave she could feel her face heating up, was one hundred per cent sure O’Rourke was watching. She picked up her phone and pretended to look busy, praying the blush would subside.
22
The station was relatively quiet when Cathy arrived. It was early, and she was ahead of everyone else.
After her chat with McIntyre last night, and the drink with Aleksy, however brief, her head felt clearer. As if all the emotion she’d been trying to hold in had been dulling her senses. Aleksy had already texted her this morning as she’d left the gym, How r u doing lovely lady? I hope we can have another drink soon, followed by a row of smiley face emojis. She’d texted back: Me too, but now I have to work!!
Aleksy was attractive and intelligent and easy to talk to. As they’d walked to the pub he’d told her his degree was in mechanical engineering – hence the clock tattoo – but for now he was working several part-time jobs – painting and decorating and translating while he looked for something permanent in his field. He planned to stay in Ireland for a few years, get a good job and buy a place in Poland that he could rent out so he’d be on the property ladder when he moved back permanently. He was like Sarah Jane, had a plan all worked out.
Not that vanishing off the face of the earth had been in Sarah Jane’s plan.
McIntyre had given her a long look as she’d headed out of the gym.
‘Keep me posted, girl. Everything, do you hear? I’ll see if I can turn anything up.’
‘Thanks, Boss.’ She’d wanted to hug him again, to thank him for being there, to thank him for . . . well, everything. With his contacts, if there was a rumour on the street, McIntyre would hear it. She’d flashed a smile at him – it had been enough.
‘That’s better. Now you go talk to O’Rourke. He’s a good one, he’ll get this sorted, trust me.’
Now, looking around the empty recreation room that doubled as an incident room, Cathy felt like O’Rourke was here, some sort of ghost
in his steel grey Louis Copeland suit and pale-blue shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and Cathy felt a surge of thankfulness that this was his case.
He might get bolshie about her social life, but thank God this was still his patch, that he hadn’t been promoted again. Cathy knew it would come, and a small part of her was dreading it. He could end up anywhere, posted to somewhere at the opposite end of the country. He’d become an integral part of her life since the blast, had been there to keep her spirits up when she hit the dark patches, the times when the shadows were blacker than black and threatened to subsume every glimmer of light.
It had been O’Rourke who had sorted out the incident when she first went back to work, when she’d lost it altogether and assaulted the bastard who had just beaten up his pregnant girlfriend. On the report sheet his broken jaw had been attributed to him tripping over his feet coming down the apartment steps, the paramedics attending substantiating their report. He’d tried to press charges, but hadn’t got very far – she’d heard on the grapevine that Dún Laoghaire’s busiest legal aid solicitor had laughed in his face when he’d turned up to make a complaint. Then apparently a few words had been whispered in the guy’s ear about backing right off by someone who definitely wasn’t on their team, but who no one wanted to mess with. She put that one down to McIntyre.
It made her well up to think how so many people had closed ranks to protect her. Like they were helping her now, pulling out everything to find Sarah Jane.
The night she belted the girl’s boyfriend O’Rourke had taken her home and sat with her while she’d cried. Cried for her baby and for what was left of her sanity. How could she be operational if she was likely to fly off the handle whenever they got a call about something personal? And if she didn’t have her job, what did she have? Despite her natural positivity, she knew she’d go nuts if she spent any more time at home. It had been the next day, just after she’d got back from the gym, when O’Rourke had shown up at her door with the leaflets for Dublin City University. Something new to focus on that would keep her mind busy while she switched to light duties for a bit, found her feet again.
