In Deep Water

by Sam Blake

  Jazz glanced up at her, his face hostile, ‘I told them before, I don’t know where she is, she’s not answering her phone.’

  ‘I know.’ Cathy paused, sensing she might not have much time here, that she needed to build his trust but she needed some answers fast. ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘I told them. She went to work on Friday night and didn’t come back.’

  ‘Can I buy you a burger? It’s freezing up here. And I’m dying for a coffee.’

  *

  She hadn’t thought he’d say yes, but Jazz had looked at her for a minute, and then turning back to the horse had put his arm around its neck and rested his head on its flank for a few moments. The horse had responded, turning its huge head to nuzzle him. Cathy didn’t know if he was speaking to the horse, but then he patted it and turned to Cathy. As if the horse understood it had whinnied and tossing its head, trotted off to another part of the field to crop the tight grass. And as the stallion moved the rest of the herd scattered, re-forming closer to him.

  Jazz watched it go and then, as if he was dragging his feet through quicksand, headed in Cathy’s direction.

  Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in McDonald’s, a Big Mac and fries and chocolate milkshake in front of Jazz, a skinny latte in front of Cathy. The food might have dubious nutritional value, but they made great coffee. Out in the car Fanning was tucking into a quarter pounder with cheese, twisty fries and a side order of chicken nuggets. At least one of them was happy.

  As Jazz emptied his chips into the lid of the Big Mac box, Cathy took him in. He looked younger than fifteen, skinny and pale, his hair cropped short, one ear pierced. His hoodie was flimsy; she wondered how he kept warm out there up on the hill.

  She took a sip of her coffee. Start with the easy stuff, she could hear O’Rourke saying inside her head.

  ‘Is the horse yours? He’s absolutely huge.’

  Jazz paused for a moment, a chip inches from his mouth, ‘Sort of. He’s wild, really. The others belong to different people, but no one can get near him.’

  ‘He seems to trust you.’

  A glimmer of a smile. Jazz didn’t say anything. Cathy tried again, ‘Do you ride him bareback like the others?’

  Jazz shook his head. ‘Not yet. No one can ride him. Last lad that did got thrown and got trampled.’ Cathy could feel her eyes opening as she tried not to react. Nice. ‘He hit him, the lad, had a whip and tried to race him. He’s not that sort of horse.’ Cathy took a sip of her coffee. ‘I need to build his trust before he’ll let me ride him. I’ve got a halter, though. I think he’s nearly ready.’

  Jazz nodded half to himself, stuffing chips into his mouth and speaking with it full. ‘The guy who owns the land had a stable block built for when the weather gets really bad. It’s over on the other side. He’s got loads of money, keeps an eye on the horses.’ He paused, ‘So are you going to find Daniella?’

  Cathy hesitated. Eithne O’Connor had asked her not to say anything to Jazz about their suspicions that the body could be Daniella’s. She would do that in her own time. ‘He’s already lost his mum. They fought all the time, but Daniella looked out for him, they were close. He’s been pining since she went. I’ll tell him when you know for sure.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Cathy left it there, ‘I’m working on another case as well – Sarah Jane Hansen. She works with your sister at The Rookery.’ She paused, ‘She’s my best friend.’

  Jazz stopped chewing for a moment and something passed unspoken between them. ‘I saw it on the news, that’s what made me go to the station. It’s weird, them working in the same place and both going missing.’

  ‘That’s for sure.’

  ‘She came to see the horses.’

  Cathy stopped breathing for a moment, ‘Sarah Jane did?’

  Jazz nodded. ‘She had her break with Daniella one day and she said she was in DCU. They started talking and she said she was writing a thing about urban cowboys. Daniella said she needed to talk to me cos I was one.’ He said it with a note of pride in his voice. Then, ‘What does urban mean?’

  Cathy took a slow sip of her coffee. ‘Means town, like you live in the city – it means cowboys who live in towns.’ Jazz took this in. ‘What did Sarah Jane ask you about?’

  Jazz shrugged, ‘Just about how many lads kept horses, did we race them, like. And about school and stuff, and drugs – that sort of stuff.’

  Drugs?

  Was that what connected these disappearances? Dealers? Or was it customers? Did The Rookery’s clientele look for more than food when they were ordering?

  Cathy knew Fanning was working through the customers who had been in when Sarah Jane was working on Friday and Sunday. In his statement to the Gardaí in Ballymun Jazz had said he’d last seen Daniella on Friday night; did someone come into the restaurant on Friday who was involved in serious crime? Had Sarah Jane stumbled on a connection? The Rookery took contact details with each booking, it was just a matter of working through them all. And Cathy knew they’d be able to cross-reference who served which table that night and look for patterns in the weeks before the girls went missing. Restaurants all used digital systems these days. There would be a digital trail, and there were guys up in the Park, in headquarters, who loved nothing better than putting all the data together to create a clear picture.

  ‘So tell me about Daniella. She wants to be a model?’

  ‘That’s why she’s working there. Lofty, he’s my friend, says she should be on Page Three. He wants to be a photographer, is always taking pictures of her.’ He chewed for a minute, ‘And because of the tips. The tips are only mighty.’ Sarah Jane had said the same thing.

  ‘Can you tell me about the last time you saw her?’

  Jazz’s face paled . . . He’d heard the front door of the flat slam shut before he realised it had been opened. Lying on his stomach across his bed, his comic in his hand, he’d frozen. His nan couldn’t be back from the flower stall, could she? He’d glanced at the clock radio on the floor beside his mattress. Twelve o’clock. Jesus H. Christ, she’d only murder him if she caught him bunking off school.

  But it couldn’t be his nan. No way. Eithne O’Connor stuck at her pitch rain and shine, had never missed a day sick. Her stall was renowned for staying open longer than some of the shops on Grafton Street, she was always saying the best punters were the suits rushing home who had some apologising to do. That with the right chat a fella would take a bouquet twice as big as anything he’d buy at lunchtime and she could get rid of all the flowers that wouldn’t keep.

  But if it wasn’t her, who was it?

  He looked over his shoulder and a moment later a blond head had appeared around his bedroom door.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at school.’

  His heart pounding, Jazz had glared at Daniella, opened his mouth to say, ‘And you’re supposed to be at work . . .’ but wasn’t quick enough. She hardly drew breath, ‘And what the fuck’s that smell? Jesus it’s rotten – you can smell it in the hall, what’ve you been at?’

  Jazz had turned back to his comic, could already feel his cheeks colouring. If she saw him blushing she’d go on about it for a week. But there was no ignoring Daniella.

  A moment later he could feel her presence at the end of the mattress, towering over him, his box bedroom filling with new perfume, doing battle with the more normal aroma of socks, and today, mud.

  He’d tried to pretend she wasn’t there, but it hadn’t worked.

  ‘Look at the state of this place. And why can’t you take your fecking mucky jeans off before you go near the bed?’ Daniella had sniffed the air noisily, making her point. ‘Is that horse shit? Christ on a bike, how can you come in here covered in horse shit?’

  Trying to keep his flushed face turned away from her, Jazz looked over his shoulder, speculatively, at his socks. They had once been red and white, and were now caked in mud around the ankles where his jeans didn’t quite get down as far as
his runners.

  ‘It was raining. I was cleaning him up . . .’

  ‘That horse? Have you been up on Keane’s Field again? Jesus, never mind clean him up, why can’t you clean y’self up? You look like something that crawled out of the Liffey.’

  Jazz had screwed up his face and turned to glare at her. He wasn’t any good at arguments, could never find the words as fast as she could. His silence didn’t stop her, though. It never did.

  ‘What on earth were you cleaning him with anyway? He’s a mad one, don’t you ever listen to Nan?’

  ‘I got an old brush. I need a proper one. A curry comb.’ The last part came out slowly, the new words hard to say, not nearly as confident as he’d heard the other lads saying it, talking about tack and hoof picks and stuff.

  ‘Nan’s going to fucking kill you. She told you to stay away from Keane’s Field – that stallion will kill you if you try to ride it.’

  What the hell did she know? Jazz had felt himself turning into one giant scowl. And why wasn’t Daniella at work? Why the hell did she have to turn up and muck up his day? Lofty would be here in a minute – Jazz had been planning to take him up and show him Krypton while it was quiet. He’d brushed the horse’s mane specially.

  Well that had been the plan, but if Lofty knew Daniella was around he wouldn’t want to go anywhere near Keane’s Field.

  From behind him, Jazz heard Daniella opening the wardrobe. Hers was so full she kept half her clothes in his room. Wire coat hangers screeched along the metal rail as she sorted through the dresses and tops.

  ‘What are y’doing?’ He turned over to see her pulling a sequinned jacket out of the wardrobe. ‘None of your damn business, horse boy.’

  ‘You going out?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To see a friend.’

  Jazz looked at her, his head on one side. What the hell was she up to this time? ‘So how long are you going for?’ He’d wanted to get money off of her for the brush for Krypton; this wasn’t good news.

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘I’m going to tell Nan. Tell her you went out in that skirt. She says it’s too short, that you look like you’re a working girl in that.’

  ‘No you fucking aren’t.’ Daniella spun around as her tone changed abruptly. Jazz fought to keep the smile off his face. He’d hit a nerve.

  ‘You’re a toerag, horse boy. I’ll leave her a note, tell her I’ve got an early shift in the morning, that I’m going to stay in town with one of the girls tonight so I don’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to get into work.’

  ‘In those clothes?’ Jazz raised his eyebrows nonchalantly.

  ‘Ah shut the fuck up. Don’t you dare tell her . . .’

  ‘Or what? You won’t be here to know . . .’

  ‘Or I’ll fucking kill you myself.’

  Jazz had rolled over and pulled himself up into a sitting position on the bed. ‘No you won’t. Nan really wouldn’t like that.’ He paused, making his face look thoughtful. For added emphasis he put his finger to his chin. ‘I could be persuaded, though. Twenty should cover it.’

  Daniella narrowed her eyes and glared at him. ‘What you going to do with it? Buy pony nuts?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He had her now.

  Reaching into the back pocket of her skirt, Daniella pulled out a wad of notes. Jazz’s eyes grew wide as she rolled off a twenty and threw it over to him. Then, looking at him, she pursed her lips and peeled off another one.

  ‘Here, don’t spend it all at once . . . and don’t say a fucking word to Nan, or anyone. You haven’t seen me, right?’

  Jazz had lunged for the money before she changed her mind.

  *

  Cathy’s voice interrupted his thoughts, ‘We checked with Daniella’s manager this evening. He said he last saw Daniella on Friday night. He said she said goodnight to everyone and headed off as normal when her shift finished. How did she normally get home?’

  ‘Bus usually. But she didn’t get home. She said she was going out, but she didn’t come home the next day either.’

  ‘Exactly, so we need to find out where she did go. We’re going back over the CCTV tapes to see if we can pick her up walking out of work.’

  ‘When she’s going out, she gets a lift home with her boss after work on Friday. She thinks I don’t know she’s seeing him, always tells Nan she’s going to her friend’s house.’

  Cathy crooked an eyebrow, ‘Daniella was seeing Billy Roberts?’

  Jazz shook his head, ‘No, her boss is this guy Richard Farrell, he owns the restaurant. He’s always in the magazines, drives an Aston Martin. I think she said he lived in Foxrock.’

  26

  ‘We’re on the way to Farrell’s home address now.’ Cathy spoke into her phone as Fanning spun the car around. ‘Should be there in about thirty minutes tops.’

  Without rushing him, Cathy had managed to get Jazz to finish eating and they’d dropped him back to his nan’s. Now they were heading over to Foxrock. Fast.

  As 007 accelerated out of Ballymun to head south on the M50, Cathy had the phone clamped to her ear, filling O’Rourke in, ‘Sarah Jane knew Daniella, she came up here and spoke to Jazz about the horses for her article.’

  ‘Jazz give any hints about why Sarah Jane’s dad might think that was dangerous?’

  ‘He said she was asking about drugs and his school and stuff. I wasn’t getting a vibe that he was hiding anything.’

  ‘And Daniella was dating this Richard Farrell?

  ‘Apparently. Jazz said he thought she’d gone home with Farrell on Friday night – she often did, apparently. But he hasn’t seen her since she went to work Friday lunchtime.’

  There was a pause while O’Rourke thought about this. ‘Farrell’s happy to talk now?’

  ‘More than happy. He sounded really concerned, said he had no idea Daniella was missing.’

  ‘Two young blondes who both worked in his restaurant disappearing within a few days of each other is a bit of a coincidence whether he claims he knows about it or not.’ O’Rourke said it half to himself. ‘Call in as soon as you can, the team are going through the CCTV tapes of the surrounding premises. The camera that covers that car park behind the restaurant is out of action, apparently.’

  ‘Another coincidence.’

  ‘I was just thinking that.’

  *

  Foxrock was the Dublin equivalent of millionaires’ row, huge houses with even huger gardens set back off a broad road – high, solid gates hiding the treasures inside each house. Cathy had been inside a couple of these properties before, had been stunned by the luxury – black and white tiled halls scattered with ancient marble busts, original oils on every wall.

  ‘It’s this way, if Google’s right. Roscrea Close.’ Fanning hit the indicator and pulled left between two narrow granite gate pillars.

  ‘You sure? This looks like someone’s drive.’

  ‘I think it was, once.’ Fanning slowed as they passed an imposing three-storey manor house on their left. ‘Must have sold the land.’

  Driving carefully down the narrow lane, wooded heavily on both sides, Fanning had his headlights on full beam. It was pitch dark. The headlights picked up movement and Cathy jumped as a fox shot across the road. ‘Holy feck.’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘My heart.’

  Fanning shot her a grin, about to comment, but she gave him a look. She wasn’t in the mood.

  A moment later Fanning swung around to the left and a security light blazed on, illuminating huge electric gates set into high, rough stone walls, a tiled driveway meeting the lane.

  ‘Obviously he’s doing OK. Must be a lot of money in posh food.’ Fanning ducked to look out of the windscreen and get a better look at the property.

  ‘More than you’d think . . .’ Cathy trailed off as the gate began to roll open. Fanning accelerated up the incline. The driveway curled around landscaped gardens to the porticoed front door of a mock Tudor mansion, wall
s built from aged red brick, roof tiles designed to look uneven, handmade. Lights glowed like jewels around the front door.

  *

  Inside, the house was just as palatial.

  Relaxed in designer jeans, tooled cowboy boots and a navy cashmere sweater pulled over a white T-shirt, Farrell greeted them at the front door, the sound of barking coming from somewhere behind him. He was younger than Cathy had expected, late thirties or early forties maybe, his deceptively natural-looking sandy hair tousled. Opening the door wide he ushered them into a massive marble-floored hallway, a huge staircase rising to a mezzanine level. Cathy looked up to see a balcony that ran around the whole hallway.

  ‘Come in, please. This is really terrible, I had no idea Daniella was missing, what’s happened?’

  Leading them into a living room, Fanning’s mouth almost fell open. It looked like something out of a Hello! shoot. Two huge black leather sofas seemed to float in a room that was bigger than huge, floor to ceiling windows along one wall looking out over an Olympic-sized indoor pool lit only by star lights under the rippling water. The lighting was low in the living room too, chart music playing through some hidden sound system in the background. There was definitely money in the restaurant business.

  Farrell collapsed onto one of the sofas, pulling one leg underneath him, then leaning forward, his face anxious, said, ‘I’m sorry, can I get you a drink? Tea maybe?’

  ‘No thanks, we won’t keep you long.’ Cathy sat down on the other sofa, Fanning beside her.

  ‘Nice pool.’ He nodded towards the window.

  Farrell looked at it vaguely, ‘Thanks. Need to keep fit, you know how it is.’

  Cathy wasn’t so sure about that. He was good looking, trim but soft. His idea of fit was different to hers.

  ‘So can you tell us when you last saw Daniella?’ Cathy wasn’t in the mood to pussyfoot about.

  Farrell shook his head, ‘This really is awful. I picked her up after work on Friday night and dropped her to the bus stop on the main road on Saturday morning. I had a business meeting in Gorey later that afternoon, so she said she’d get the bus back. That’s the last time I saw her.’