In Deep Water

by Sam Blake

  ‘And is Richard Farrell around much?’ Cathy was beginning to wonder why Sarah Jane hadn’t mentioned him, but then she wasn’t impressed by money, would have had a different perspective to Daniella O’Connor.

  Billy yawned. ‘He’s in and out. I call him every night with the figures. He trusts me to run the place right so he doesn’t have to be in every day.’ He continued before Cathy could comment, ‘I really don’t know what else I can tell you.’ He opened his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘If I think of anything important, I’ll be straight in touch.’

  ‘Tell me how you know Rebecca Ryan.’

  Billy’s look of surprise changed to puzzlement. His voice was guarded as he replied, ‘We worked together years ago – in the hotel business in Spain. I went there after the Leaving Cert and we both ended up working in a five-star resort near Puerto Banus. Pop stars and millionaires. No paparazzi, very private. Her parents were killed you know, tragic. It was in all the papers. I went to the funeral and we hooked up again. We meet up every now and again for a drink. She’s very busy, runs a nice little business in Enniskerry. I send any customers I can her way and she recommends The Rookery . . .’

  *

  As Billy closed the back door to The Rookery firmly behind them, Cathy pulled her jacket around her. The night had turned cold. Fanning was at the car before she’d gathered her thoughts. He pipped the central locking and jumped into the driver’s seat, waiting for her.

  But Cathy’s mind was whirring, digesting the information – or lack of it – that Billy had given them. She needed a few minutes to think.

  She thrust her hands into her pockets and tried to visualise Sarah Jane walking to a parked car. Who had she been meeting and why?

  She walked forward a few paces to get a sightline from under the archway where Rebecca had said her car had been parked. Pivoting on her heel, Cathy looked back into the car park. It had been the middle of the afternoon, and assuming the wheelie bins were in the same places now as last Sunday, Jacob would have been able to see about a third of the car park. The back door of the restaurant was hidden from view, but he’d have seen Sarah Jane quite clearly as she walked across to any of the marked parking bays in the centre of the enclosed yard.

  It looked like they had a clear half-hour window to check on the tapes. One of the restaurants across the road must have picked up the vehicles entering and leaving. And Cathy wanted to get back to that security guy, Nacek, to find out if he’d seen the girl from the shop before or since. He’d told Gallagher and Fanning that he didn’t know her, but Cathy really wasn’t sure. Her first impression when she’d seen the tape of the shop was that she was his girlfriend, why had she acted so anxiously otherwise?

  Perhaps he was telling the truth about not knowing her, but he’d actually seen her around a few times and the super friendly act was his way of getting her number?

  Perhaps she was acting worried because her real boyfriend was outside the shop and she knew he wouldn’t be impressed if he saw her talking to Nacek?

  Cathy knew from experience there could be hundreds of variations on interpreting behaviour, none of which came close to the truth. They’d done an exercise in college on it, on how experience and prejudice can lead to assumptions that are just plain wrong.

  Tracking down the girl via Nacek had to be a damn sight easier though, than tracking her via Aleksy and some unknown party in Belarus, assuming he ever got an answer to his calls.

  As the thought formed in her head Cathy turned and walked out towards the road, under the archway. It had rained while they were inside and puddles gleamed in the orange glow from the street lights, the road and the pavements wet. To her left the lights were on in the shop across the road, the MoneyGram Money Transfer sign bright in the darkness.

  Something really wasn’t adding up in Cathy’s head. Sarah Jane fancied the pants off Vijay. She’d told Cathy she didn’t get to see him much or chat to him properly because his uncle was always there, but whenever he was in the shop she tried to pop in as often as possible. Cathy could hear her laughing about how she’d found every possible excuse to drop in over the road when she was working, had been willing Vijay to ask her for a coffee, hoping that one day their breaks might coincide. She was sure he was interested, but he was so shy, and his shifts in the shop were so random, fitting in around his studies, that she never knew whether he was going to be there or not. The last time she’d mentioned him she’d said something about getting his phone number and asking him for coffee; she’d been determined to try the next time she saw him.

  So why hadn’t she gone into the shop on Sunday? Had she been late for work and not had time? If she had known that Vijay was working, Cathy was sure she would have done. Cathy knew Sarah Jane, knew her insecurities about relationships. Sometimes being attractive was a nightmare because everyone assumed you were taken and you never got asked out. How important could the meeting have been that she’d gone to see this guy instead of popping over to the shop for a chat? Why had she met anyone at all on a day that she was working? It was really easy for her to pop into town – if it was someone she needed to talk to about a story, why hadn’t she fixed a time when she wasn’t due back at the restaurant in thirty minutes? So much of this didn’t make sense.

  More questions than answers were forming in Cathy’s head, but she knew you couldn’t find the answers unless you knew the questions.

  Behind her she heard Fanning reversing the car. He stopped in the middle of the car park, the headlights illuminating the cobbles under the archway.

  Sarah Jane had to be back in work in thirty minutes. So that meant that the man Jacob had seen her with had to drive to wherever they were going in under fifteen to give her a chance to get back on time – ten, probably, to allow whatever was happening at their destination to happen. Was he taking her to meet someone? Was this what her dad had meant by something dangerous?

  Where could you go from here in ten minutes? The streets weren’t gridlocked on a Sunday afternoon, but all the shops were open, and it was busy enough. Where could you go in ten minutes that you couldn’t get to on foot a whole lot faster?

  Cathy thought back to the restaurant, to Billy’s office . . . to the locker room.

  She dialled O’Rourke.

  ‘It’s me. We’re done, he didn’t know anything.’

  ‘Really?’

  Cathy ignored the sarcastic tone in his voice, continued, ‘Listen, I know we’ve checked Sarah Jane’s locker at The Rookery, but I was wondering if she or Daniella could have left something in a different locker that could point us in the right direction. I’m not getting how or why Sarah Jane would have left the restaurant with some random bloke when she only had a half-hour break. It just doesn’t make sense. Something links Daniella and Sarah Jane, and at the moment it’s The Rookery. I think we need to go back again and have a really good look around.’

  ‘We don’t know categorically that the body we have is Daniella O’Connor until we get a DNA match, but I hear you. We’ve got two young women missing from the same premises. We don’t have grounds for a warrant until we get a positive ID, but I don’t see why Farrell would object to us searching the place, unless he’s got something to hide. I’ll have a chat to him. Get home and get some sleep, I’ll call everyone in for nine.’

  ‘Billy will be pleased, we’ll be interrupting his lunchtime trade.’

  ‘Worse things have happened.’ He was right there.

  Turning and heading towards the parked car, its engine running, she opened the door to find Fanning had had the heater on full blast. She got in gratefully.

  ‘O’Rourke’s going to get permission for a search of The Rookery. Something’s not adding up here. We’ve a team briefing at nine.’

  29

  The phone lay on the rich pink carpet just beyond her fingertips.

  Irina eased the guy’s unconscious head a little further across her chest, his floppy dark hair tickling her breast, and stretched her left arm out as far a
s it would go. Further than it should go. The muscles in her shoulder screamed at her, the bones in her spine sounded like they were grinding on each other.

  Could she reach it without waking him up?

  She didn’t know how long the drug would work for – she’d only had a half of one of the tiny blue and grey capsules left over from the blister strip the new maintenance man had given her.

  What would she have done without him? He hadn’t been working here long either he’d said. He’d been sent upstairs one morning to fix a light and she’d seen the pain in his face as she’d limped from the bathroom up to the bedroom. He’d stopped her as they were passing on the lino-covered stairs, whispered to ask her if she was OK. He must have heard her talking to Dog Face – he spoke Russian too, although she’d hadn’t found out yet what part he was from. She’d hesitated, but his face had been so concerned, his eyes so understanding.

  She hardly dared speak to him in case they caught her, but she’d told him. About the client they called The Whale. About the champagne bottle and how he had hurt her with it. He’d kept his face straight, his big blue eyes fixed on the hole worn in the lino on the first step. But he’d paled a shade she was sure, and when he’d looked back at her, unconsciously reaching out to run his hand over the top of her arm, his eyes had been steely hard.

  He’d slipped her the capsules the next day, told her if they were taken with alcohol they’d knock The Whale out and with luck he wouldn’t remember anything, wouldn’t know he’d been fast asleep while she polished her nails.

  She just wished she was brave enough to ask him to help her get a phone, but she knew she couldn’t. You couldn’t trust anyone here. She’d have to explain about the girl in the shop. She couldn’t risk it.

  Irina had split the capsules, terrified a whole one might give The Whale a heart attack; she’d only used a tiny bit at a time, slipping the powder into his glass when he was distracted.

  Just as well – even half a capsule had made him sleep well into the hour. And it hadn’t taken too much when he’d finally woken up to persuade him that he’d had a great time. And needed to pay the extra. Which kept everyone happy, except possibly The Whale’s bank manager, but what did Irina care about him?

  Of course if The Whale had had a phone with him all her Christmases would have come together. But that would have been too easy. He probably left it in his car in case his wife was tracking his location.

  Gritting her teeth against the pain of overextending her arm, Irina reached a little further, the muscles in her shoulder and neck protesting as she tried to slide out from under the man’s head. His open mouth was around her nipple, drool sliding down her side. All she needed was for him to wake up with a fright and bite her. Another fraction closer and she felt the cold metal of the edge of the phone.

  It had rung earlier – he’d stopped to answer it and then turned back to her for a moment before having second thoughts about something – and reached for the phone to send a text. She couldnt believe that he had the simplest pin code imaginable, 2580, straight down the middle of the key pad. The second he had his back turned – talking to his wife, girlfriend, whoever – she’d slipped her hand under the pillow for the remains of the last capsule and had slipped it into what was left of his drink, praying it would dissolve before he noticed it.

  If she could get the phone, if she could make the call, she could cope with anything.

  Irina could feel her heart thumping in her chest, her mouth dry. Was this her chance? Please, God, don’t let him wake. She glanced down at him. His eyes were shut. He was a lot younger than The Whale, and she’d only had half a capsule; would it be enough to keep him knocked out? Her fingers were so close. Holding her breath, she caught the very edge of the phone, her nail on the metal ridge running around it. Christ. Her fingernail flicked off it. It wasn’t quite deep enough to give her purchase.

  The man groaned and Irina’s stomach went into freefall. He couldn’t wake up, couldn’t, she was too close. She lay paralysed, her eyes closed. Praying like she’d never prayed before.

  And he rolled off her.

  She held her breath. She didn’t dare look. Then he snored. Irina closed her eyes, relief coursing through her. A moment later she took a furtive glance from under her eyelashes. He was sound asleep. But she wasn’t taking any risks. She eased her body to the edge of the mattress, conscious that a sudden movement might wake him. Anything might wake him.

  This time her fingers closed around the cold case of the phone. She held it so tightly the edges cut into her hand. She drew in a slow deep breath, trying to still her heart. She couldn’t afford for her nerves to take over; if her hands were shaking too much she wouldn’t be able to dial.

  But how could she call without waking him?

  It didn’t matter. If she got that far, she might only have seconds but she was going to use them. She’d been over this so many times in her head. He snored again, sleeping like a child. If his mother could see him now . . .

  Then he stirred in his sleep, and started to roll further away from her. Like a cat reacting to his movement, Irina rolled the other way, over the edge of the bed, used her knee to break her fall, one elbow, lowering herself down onto the thick carpet. She hardly dared breathe. Resting on her elbows, she typed in his PIN. The green call icon flashed in front of her.

  She punched in the number.

  The phone clamped to her ear, she heard the call click through and start to ring.

  30

  Cathy pulled off her glove and reached for her water bottle just as her phone began to ring.

  ‘You on the way in?’ The sense of urgency in O’Rourke’s voice was unmistakable.

  ‘I’m up at . . . hang on.’ She spat out her gum shield, ‘Phoenix.’ Cathy glanced at the clock on the wall: it was just 8 a.m. She’d hardly slept the night before, had got home at about one and got up again at five. Seemed stupid to be tossing and turning. Now she was just finishing up, having had a really good session trying to focus on the image of Sarah Jane getting into a car with an unidentified male. Why had she done that? The question had been revolving in her head as she had lain awake.

  ‘What’s up? I’m just heading for the shower, will be in for nine.’ Tucking the phone to her shoulder she sat down on the low bench that ran around the edge of the gym and pulled back the Velcro on the cuff of her other glove. From the noises in the background she could tell he was in the incident room, could hear him muttering to someone like he’d just been asked a question. Then he was back to her.

  ‘We’ve had a development.’ He paused. Cathy felt like reaching into the phone and grabbing him by his designer tie and pulling hard, ‘What?’

  ‘Sarah Jane got a call about ten minutes ago. Thirsty’s mate up at the lab, the one who is working on her phone, heard it ring. He didn’t answer it, obviously, but a girl left a message.’ He paused again like he was trying to focus – he was obviously trying to do too many things at once. ‘She said her name was Irina. We think she’s Eastern European, she’s been trafficked. From what she said we think she’s in the city centre. We’re tracing the owner of the phone she used – whoever it is must know where she is. Sounds like there are a bunch of them in there, all different nationalities.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  Her heart, already beating hard from her training session, began thumping. She knew every nuance of his voice, knew what he was thinking without him having to say it.

  Sarah Jane’s dad had said that whatever she was working on was dangerous. It didn’t come much more dangerous than the scrotes who were involved in human trafficking. Innocent people were the sharp end of a business that involved organised crime, drugs, the whole lot. But what had it got to do with Ballymun and the horses? Were drugs the connection? And the guy in the combats?

  Someone had tried to contact Sarah Jane. It had to be connected.

  Cathy tried to take it in. Leaning back against the wall of the gym, she yanked her hair out of her face. Way a
cross the other side, in the office, she could see The Boss leaning over his desk making notes on her fitness sheets. O’Rourke continued, ‘The girl on the phone thought she was leaving a message for Sarah Jane. She said she needed help. Then she rang off. She referred to the place they were in as “the club”. She was talking like Sarah Jane would know who she was and where she was.’

  ‘A nightclub?’

  ‘Or lap-dancing club. We’ll know for sure pretty quickly.’

  ‘And she thought she was talking to Sarah Jane?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Despite the feeling in her stomach, the unanswered questions, Cathy’s mind was already collating the information.

  ‘Wait, the girl in the shop. Remember in Vijay’s shop? She was sending money to Belarus – could she have asked Sarah Jane for help and Sarah Jane wrote her phone number down for her?’

  O’Rourke didn’t speak for a minute. She could almost hear the cogs turning. But Cathy didn’t give him a chance to respond, adding quickly, ‘I knew that security guy from The Paradise Club knew her better than he was letting on. Maybe he wasn’t trying to pick her up at all, maybe she’s being held there.’

  O’Rourke’s voice was low, full of suppressed anger, ‘You could be on to something there. I’ll get a team to keep an eye on The Paradise Club while we get confirmation from the owner of the phone. We need more than a hunch for a warrant.’

  ‘The Paradise Club is on the next street but it backs onto the car park right behind The Rookery. Perhaps Daniella was working there too? It would explain the extra money she seemed to have that Jazz mentioned. Perhaps it wasn’t from tips at all, perhaps she earned it in other ways.’

  She could almost hear O’Rourke nodding.

  The PM on the body they’d found had concluded asphyxiation was the cause of death. Her hyoid bone was intact, which suggested that she hadn’t been strangled, but with semen in her oesophagus and bruising to her throat, Fanning – who seemed, rather worryingly to Cathy, to be an expert – had speculated she could have choked to death during some sort of sex game. She’d stopped him as he’d started to explain. There were times when she didn’t need a diagram. She switched her attention back to O’Rourke, ‘So what do you want me to do now?’