In Deep Water

by Sam Blake

  She was amazed he’d remembered. During one of their first night shifts together in Pearse Street, when she’d just come out of the Templemore Garda Training Academy, he’d asked her where she saw herself in ten years, what she wanted from the job. She’d told him how ridiculous it was that a national police force didn’t have its own in-house profiler, that she was fascinated by what made people tick, that it was an area she’d always wanted to go into. But with all the other stuff going on in her life she’d lost sight of it.

  Until that day. And it had all made perfect sense. The lecturers in DCU had been delighted to have her in the class, had agreed that she could work her tutorials around her shifts and training, and with something to keep her mind occupied she’d slipped back into the unit and had been fully operational again within weeks.

  Cathy’s sigh was jagged. She felt her jaw tighten, anger pulsating, giving her strength. They would find Sarah Jane, and then they would unleash the full might of An Garda Síochána on the perpetrators.

  Cathy leaned back on the edge of the snooker table, a layer of plywood converting it into a passable conference table. In front of her a huge whiteboard had been set up on the back wall.

  The incident board.

  Photographs of The Rookery, of Sarah Jane, of her bedroom at home, were joined by arrows with times written in, in marker, caps sloping slightly to the right. Close-ups of her bedroom. What had they been looking for? Who had been looking?

  Nothing made sense. But Cathy felt if she looked at these maps, diagrams and photographs long enough, she would see what they were missing.

  Cathy knew the rest of the team would be coming in soon and the incident room would start to hum again. It wasn’t that they weren’t working 24/7 on Sarah Jane, but everyone needed sleep. Down the corridor in the detective office the early shift were busy processing statements, logging every call, every tiny detail that had been thrown up overnight by the reports on the news.

  Behind her she heard the swing doors open. It was O’Rourke.

  ‘You’re in early.’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’ Swinging around to face him, Cathy came to an abrupt halt. He was standing as if fixed in the doorway, hands in his trouser pockets jiggling his change. His face was pale, his eyes focused on a distant point on the floor. Avoiding hers.

  ‘What is it?’

  She could read him. They’d known each other too long, been through too much for him to be able to hide his thoughts from her. Something bad had happened, and he didn’t know how to tell her.

  ‘What?’ Turning fully around, she suddenly felt faint, her stomach swirling. She leaned back against the snooker table for support. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘A call came in, a few minutes ago. Guy walking his dog in the mountains, up beyond Johnny Fox’s, has found a woman’s body.’

  Cathy opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.

  ‘It might not be her, Cat. It might not be her.’ He looked straight at her, his blue eyes filled with pain. He sounded like he was trying to persuade himself as much as her.

  ‘We need to get up there.’ Cathy moved so fast she caught herself by surprise, had closed the gap between them and was pushing past him to get out the door before she realised that he hadn’t moved. He stopped her, catching her firmly by the shoulders.

  ‘The lads are on the way up. There’s no hurry, let them secure the scene first.’

  ‘What do you mean there’s no hurry? It could be Sarah Jane, I need to know.’ Cathy’s thoughts were tumbling around her head. Then she knew what he meant. There was no hurry because the body wasn’t going anywhere. She took a deep, deliberate breath, trying to slow her heart, which was beating so hard she thought it would jump out of her chest. Focus, she needed to focus. Like those few seconds before she went into the ring for a fight. She needed to blank out everything else and to try and keep calm. But this wasn’t like before she went into a fight. This was different. And she wasn’t doing a good job of keeping calm.

  ‘Do they think it’s Sarah Jane?’

  His hands were still on her shoulders, heavy now – it felt like he was resting them as much as preventing her from rushing out of the incident room. ‘It’s not clear. It’s a white female around the right age. That’s all we have until the team get up there. The witness was very distressed, his statement is confused.’

  ‘Holy God.’ Cathy’s hand flew to her mouth. She could feel herself pale several shades and for a split second she thought she was going to vomit.

  A moment later O’Rourke’s arms were around her, holding her tight. She leaned her forehead into his chest, intensely grateful to him for holding her. She’d read somewhere that human touch was vital in times of crisis, it did things to your brainwaves – calmed them, like nothing else could. It had worked for her before, he’d been there for her then too, his voice and the touch of his hand a constant while she’d been in hospital. Right now, her brainwaves were on overload, and touch was what she needed. She wanted to stay here for ever.

  He didn’t move, rested his chin on the top of her head for a moment.

  ‘It might not be her, Cat.’ His voice was low, she could hardly hear him. He paused, ‘Look at me.’ Rubbing the tops of her arms, he pushed her away from him so he could look in her eyes. He spoke slowly, his voice low, in control.

  ‘Take a deep breath and we’ll head up. I need you to keep it together on this one. I need to know about distinguishing marks, tattoos, piercings.’

  Cathy took a ragged breath and looked at him blindly, her eyes clouded with tears, not fully understanding. ‘Why?’

  ‘Parts of the body are missing. It’s possible it was animal activity, but it’s looking deliberate. We’ll know more after the PM, but it’s going to make identification harder.’

  ‘What bits are missing?’ The words caught in her throat. Tears were rolling down her face now.

  ‘Her head, and her hands.’

  Oh Holy God. Sniffing, Cathy looked at him hard, processing the information. And the cop in her kicked in, ‘Clothes?’

  ‘That’s more like it.’ O’Rourke squeezed her shoulders, ‘She was partially dressed, but I don’t have clear information. And we don’t know for sure what Sarah Jane was wearing when she disappeared.’

  ‘But I’d know. I’d recognise her clothes. I’d know if it was her.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He looked at her hard, ‘You sure you’re ready for this?’

  ‘Yes. Yes of course I’m ready.’ She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, counted to three. When she opened them again his eyes were fixed on hers. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  *

  The road up into the Dublin mountains was narrow and winding, low walls preventing the car from slipping sideways into the fields and farmland that tumbled away steeply to their left. Cathy had only been half concentrating as O’Rourke swung up beside the little blue wooden church in Kilternan, her mind on Sarah Jane, on holding on to the tea and toast and peanut butter she’d had before she’d gone to training this morning.

  She needed something else to focus on, to banish the pictures of Sarah Jane’s headless, handless body lying in the undergrowth on the side of a mountain. She’d seen enough bodies to know exactly what it would look like. Hypostasis, post-mortem lividity, would leave even Sarah Jane’s skin pale, her blood drained to the lowest point. And as to the rest, Cathy wasn’t even going to go there.

  Then they passed Johnny Fox’s pub. And the memory of Aleksy’s kiss shot straight back into her head. As if there wasn’t already enough going on in her life.

  It was all starting to merge together, like she was on one giant emotional rollercoaster. Cathy could feel her head beginning to pound. It was like the sands were moving, like things that had once been fixed in her life were all changing. All at once. Sarah Jane’s disappearance, O’Rourke, meeting Aleksy, and now this – finding a body. Cathy dug her nails into the palm of her hand. Please don’t let it be Sarah Jane, please don’t let it be Sarah Jane . .
 .

  She summoned a picture of Aleksy back into her mind, holding it in her head, trying to get back in the moment, trying to get out of this moment. He said he’d call today to tell her if he’d found out anything about the cash transfers. Maybe O’Rourke was right and the girl in the shop had only been asking Sarah Jane the time, but Cathy needed to be sure, and the only way to find out what she’d said was to ask her personally. And to do that, she needed to find her.

  O’Rourke slowed at the lights. ‘You OK?’

  At the sound of O’Rourke’s voice the image of Aleksy vanished. Cathy didn’t answer, instead she pulled her necklace out of her sweater and ran it quickly up and down its chain.

  ‘Watch it, you’ll wear that out.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She didn’t even know why she was sorry. Cathy dropped the pendant, unsure what to do with her hands. Clasping her fingers together she pushed them between her thighs.

  ‘Where are we going, exactly?’

  ‘It’s about ten minutes straight up here, just beyond civilisation on the edge of the forest.’ O’Rourke slowed behind an ancient dark green Fiat that was struggling with the incline, tapped out a tattoo on the steering wheel with his fingers. She could feel his tension, radiating like white heat.

  ‘And the dog walker who found her?’

  ‘The dog actually. It’s a wolfhound, needs masses of exercise so he takes it out every morning before he goes to work, and then again in the evening. Apparently they walked the same trail Monday night.’ He rubbed his hand over his face, ‘I’m losing track of time. There was nothing there then – he reckoned – he was there pretty late too, he works shifts. So that narrows the window of opportunity a bit.’

  Cathy felt O’Rourke glance at her. They were as tense as each other, it was like the atmosphere in the car was supercharged. And not in a good way.

  The Fiat ahead lazily indicated left and slowly pulled between low granite pillars into a drive. O’Rourke had had enough.

  ‘Sit tight.’ Flipping the switch on the mobile blue light suction cupped to the dashboard, he put his foot to the floor, the BMW taking off. Driving a beautiful high-performance car had its definite advantages when you wanted to be somewhere fast.

  O’Rourke was an incredible driver, had ridden police motorbikes when he’d started in the job. To survive on a motorbike you had to be three steps ahead, anticipating the unexpected and understanding your limitations. He brought that skill to the car, and was one of the few people she felt completely safe with driving at speed.

  As the houses dotting the side of the road became less frequent, Cathy could feel they were getting closer. The road narrowed and O’Rourke slowed, the blue light still pulsating on the dash. Right now she was torn between desperately wanting to get to the scene and desperately not wanting to get to the scene. She didn’t want to know, but she had to. Please don’t let it be Sarah Jane. She was feeling physically sick again, like she had in the station.

  O’Rourke slowed again, then around a bend she saw them up ahead. The technical bureau van had been wedged up on a slight incline that led off the road, like the entrance to someone’s drive. But this wasn’t a drive; a signpost indicated it was the start of a forest path.

  A Guard in a fluorescent jacket was standing in the middle of the road directing traffic, reduced to a one-lane stop/go system, so approaching motorists could safely get around the row of Garda vehicles pulled in to the right. It couldn’t have been a worse spot; a sign warned motorists to beware of their car slipping off the road for five hundred metres. O’Rourke flipped his indicator on and, recognising him, the Guard flagged him over. He pulled up across the front of the technical bureau van. They wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

  Checking the wing mirror as she swung open the door, Cathy felt the keen freshness of the air before she registered the cold. It was definitely chillier up here than in Dún Laoghaire, those couple of hundred feet making all the difference. Johnny Fox’s was supposed to be the highest pub in Ireland; she doubted that, but there was no question it was colder up here than at sea level. And Sarah Jane hated the cold.

  Taking a deep breath, Cathy reached into the back seat and pulled out her leather jacket, slipping it on as O’Rourke popped the boot open. He pulled out two white forensic suits, folded flat in clear plastic bags. He handed her one. As she ripped open the plastic and pulled it on, he reached in for blue foot covers.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘No.’ Cathy paused, leaning on the back of the car to pull the foot covers on over her boots. ‘Let’s get this done.’

  23

  The body was hidden in a shallow grave, well off the path. In an effort to conceal it, a trench had been dug in the peat and loam under dense, overhanging laurel bushes, the leaves glossy, dark green, twisted with briars.

  But whoever had gone to all the trouble of bringing her into the mountains hadn’t bargained for a dog the size of a bear catching the scent and hauling her out by her ankle.

  Squeezing past the white tech van, Cathy felt her heels sinking into the soft ground as she weaved between two mossy granite boulders marking the start of the forest track. To her right, hidden from view by foliage but very close, she could hear voices, recognised the Kerry accent of one of the forensics lads from the Phoenix Park. A moment later a flash of white revealed their exact location. The scent of pine blended with rotting leaves caught in her throat.

  A branch had fallen across the path and Cathy paused, her hand on the cold lichen-covered bark. She ducked under it, unable to look in the direction of the white overalls, instead focused on the path in front of her; on the sound of the paper suit she was wearing, rustling as she moved; on the shapes of fallen leaves, dry and brittle; on the carpet of pine needles on either side of the narrow path; on an impression in the mud that looked like a huge paw print. She took a deep breath. She felt like she was going to lose the contents of her stomach at any moment.

  ‘You sure you’re ready for this?’ Ahead of her on the path O’Rourke had stopped and turned.

  Cathy took another deep breath, trying to still her heart. It felt like it was exploding in her chest. Emotion swirled inside her, common sense and experience mixing with a hollow feeling of dread that was worse than anything she’d ever experienced. She’d been in some pretty awful situations in the past, but she hadn’t seen any of those coming.

  This time, she knew exactly what she was in for. A headless corpse missing its hands. The corpse of a girl about the same age as Sarah Jane.

  She had seen plenty of dead bodies and had attended PMs with guys bigger and tougher than her who had lost their breakfasts or faded away so that by the end, she’d been the last one standing. She’d got through up to now by distancing herself emotionally from those bodies, from the victims – it was just something you had to do in this job or you’d never sleep. But this time it was different. This time she was walking into a situation that had one of two definite outcomes. And one of those outcomes was that her best friend, someone she loved most in the world, the girl who perhaps knew her the best, was lying dead on the side of a mountain, and that someone had hacked off her head and her hands.

  Cathy gagged. Closing her eyes she tried to centre herself, reached for the echo of The Boss’s words of wisdom as he stood beside her just before a fight, his voice barely a growl in her ear. Blocking out all the sounds around her, she reached for his Belfast accent, felt his presence beside her, willing her on. She could do this. She could do anything she put her mind to.

  Then she felt O’Rourke’s hand on her shoulder. It was warm and firm and strong.

  Looking up, she met his steely blue eyes, his face creased with concern.

  ‘It’s OK, I’m ready.’ She paused, ‘I’m ready. Just stay close to me.’

  He put his arm around her, squeezing her shoulder. A few steps on they reached a break in the foliage, a tributary from the main path twisting back parallel to the way they had come. It was hardly a path at all, more an animal track, hid
den from the road entirely, cut into the edge of the hill. Where the soil had eroded, knotted tree roots were exposed like clawing fingers.

  Fallen branches cracking beneath her plastic-covered feet, the track wasn’t wide enough for both of them, and dropping his arm O’Rourke took the lead again. Cathy felt overwhelmingly grateful. She really wasn’t ready to go first.

  Another few yards and the track opened into a tiny clearing, the path blocked by crime scene tape. To their left, above them, the hillside was sheer, reaching up to what looked like the ruin of a stone cottage. But that wasn’t what drew Cathy’s eye. Ahead of her, on the other side of O’Rourke, two white-suited techs were stooped under an overhanging bush. Hearing them arrive, one of them turned. He flashed her a sympathetic smile, the brief nod of his head acknowledging how difficult they all knew this was.

  ‘Stick to the markers.’ The tech pointed to a series of stepping stone-like discs that had been placed across the clearing, leading from the path to where he was standing. O’Rourke had stopped at the tape. She took a step to stand beside him.

  This was it. Nobody could do it for her.

  Summoning courage from she didn’t know where, Cathy ducked under the tape and took a tentative step forward. She felt as if the forest had fallen silent around her. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing and the beat of her heart. Another step and another, and the second tech who had been bending over the body turned and took a step back.

  Cathy’s cry was involuntary. Under the overhanging branches she could see a bare leg, long and slim. It still had smudges of dirt along its length where it had been pulled free from the loose, loamy soil around it. The foot she could see was bare, nails painted bright red. Cathy took another step forward, her eyes following the leg upwards. The girl was wearing a black T-shirt and not much else. Her underwear had been removed, her legs falling slightly apart, bruising around her thighs livid against her bloodless skin. She was lying on her back, one arm thrown above her head, the other trapped beneath her. Her T-shirt had been ripped open, a black bra pulled down to reveal generous breasts, even in death the nipples pink. Lying slightly downhill, Cathy couldn’t see anything beyond the girl’s shoulders, which vanished into the dense foliage. Thank God.