Fifteen
October 1954
The boy knew it was very late when Michéal Peoples had come to the cottage enquiring about them. He spoke with his mother briefly and when he had finished and was about to leave again, the big detective said, ‘What is your name?’
‘Michéal Peoples. I came to see how they were.’ He waved vaguely towards the boy and his grandmother. ‘I am the village elder.’
‘Are you now?’ the big detective said. He glanced over without warning, and the boy ducked beneath the blankets before he could meet his eyes. He held his breath.
‘Do you know who called us here?’ the big detective asked. ‘Word was delivered to Mill Street, but we don’t know from whom.’
He could hear Michéal Peoples tell him that he did not know.
The boy heard footsteps approaching, then the blanket was pulled down gently from his face. Up close, he thought the detective looked like a giant, with a head the texture and colour of stone.
‘Young gossan,’ he said. ‘Did you see anything in here tonight? Did you?’
From the corner of his eye, the boy could see Michéal Peoples watching him. He shook his head, his eyes so wide he felt as if they might pop out. The detective’s rock-like face softened. He raised an arm and brought down the massive hand onto the boy’s forehead, patted it twice. Then he turned and walked away.
The boy watched him go, and could see beyond, through the window, the first light of a new day beginning to scratch through the darkness. It was then he finally closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Sixteen
His lips barely moved as he spoke.
‘She’s not my child.’
Roche allowed the statement to hang in the air, then pursed his lips, sealing his mouth shut. Seconds passed, but no one was surprised when he did not speak again.
Claire said, ‘That would be Billy Hamilton, wouldn’t it?’
Roche’s eyes widened as he looked at Claire.
‘I checked Pulse,’ Claire said. ‘The assault, some months back, when you went round to his home and attacked him.’
‘If you checked why did you ask if I was known to gardai? You already knew the answer to that.’
‘Because I wanted you to tell me. You didn’t. Maybe because when you went round to Billy Hamilton’s place the tables were turned. Hamilton got the better of you. A fella like Hamilton always will. You also have some traffic offences, and a public order conviction from last year. There are also two domestic incidents, for this address.’
‘You think I done it, don’t ya? Killed Samantha.’
‘There are aspects of this case which cause me concern,’ Beck said. ‘They would anyone. You would not allow entry to the uniformed gardai when they called just now. They were merely attempting to verify that there was not a baby on the property. Which is why I’m here, and I don’t want to be, because there are other things I could be doing, believe me. And I’m being forced to come across a little heavy-handed, but you leave me no choice. Now, can you run me through where you were from, say, lunch time yesterday until night time?’
‘Are you looking for voluntary admissions? Isn’t that what you call it?’
‘You’re watching too many crime programmes on TV, seems to me,’ Beck said. ‘I’m just asking a very obvious question. Could you just drop the attitude and cooperate.
Roche intertwined his hands, and Beck could see the colour of his flesh change, becoming whiter, as he squeezed and squeezed.
‘I can save you a lot of time,’ Roche said slowly. ‘I didn’t kill her. I… I love her. You’re wasting your time. Don’t waste your time. Find the real killer. When the gardai called, I was nervous, okay. I couldn’t take everything in. I’m sorry.’
‘Where were you then?’ Beck said. ‘Let’s start again.’
As he began to speak, Beck watched Roche’s body language, because he knew from experience, that people who lied often displayed specific body language indicators. This usually meant that their posture became closed, they crossed their arms, or their legs, maybe touched their face, especially by the mouth, or they over explained things, became conversational, tried to win over their interviewer’s trust, their ultimate goal to take control. But a good interviewer would stimulate proceedings, would have already gained the suspect’s trust, would have played along in a respect. And Beck knew he had not done a good job in gaining Roche’s trust.
None of which Roche does now, because his hands still squeeze together, and he is sitting back into the settee, legs loose but not man spread.
‘I was working yesterday. Until just after six o’clock. You can check.’
‘Did I hear you correctly?’ surprise in Beck’s voice. ‘Didn’t you just say a moment ago you had a half day off and went playing golf?’
‘No. I said I was planning on playing golf. But I didn’t say I played golf. After the row, I changed my mind, I didn’t bother. I worked and went home. I thought Samantha and the kid would be here.’
The kid.
‘I waited in all evening, waiting for her.’
‘You have no way of proving any of this, do you?’ Claire asked.
Roche looked at his hands, parted them, then raised them to his face now and rubbed them briskly across it a couple of times.
‘No… No, I don’t,’ with a sigh, holding the palms against his cheeks.
‘You can see my predicament,’ Beck said.
‘Yes. I can see it. But you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
A telephone rang, shrill and loud. Dempsey fumbled in his pocket and took out his mobile.
‘Hello. Yes, sir, he’s here. Yes, sir. Will do.’
He hung up, looked at Beck.
‘Superintendent Wilde is waiting for you. He wants you back at the station right away for a briefing.’
‘Okay,’ Beck said.
‘What about him?’ Probationer Smyth gestured to Roche.
‘What about him indeed,’ Beck said. ‘Edward, you want to make a complaint about your broken window?’
Roche shook his head.
‘I’m not going to be here much longer,’ he said. ‘In this house. No. Forget the window. I want to see Sam.’
‘Someone will be in contact with you about that. If you leave this property, and go stay somewhere else, which I think would be advisable, you must inform us immediately.’ And, to Dempsey and Smyth. ‘Stay with him you two. Take an official statement. Any more rocks through the window, deal with it. Prosecution can be secured under the public order act, you don’t need a statement. I’ll talk to you again, Edward. Goodbye. For now.’
Seventeen
October 1954
It was mid-morning, but the daylight had never fully taken hold, shadows still crept about the room. The boy was awake. He had not slept for very long. He needed the toilet, his bladder pressed down inside him and his stomach was tender. But he would not move from his grandmother. He saw that the sick calf had been taken away. His mother had changed her clothing too. She was dressed in a frayed winter dress and cardigan, with a brightly coloured coat on top. He liked that coat. The colours. They gave her a radiance, one that was out of place in the dark gloom of this place. She wore a hat too, tilted to one side. He considered this strange, and wondered: Was she going somewhere? She was sat at the table with the big detective.
‘Your bábóg. Last chance. Tell me what you did with her?’ The detective’s voice was gritty and tired.
‘I told you,’ her voice strangely content. ‘The monster took my bábóg. But I am happy now. I have prayed to God and I know my child is in heaven. She is with the angels and the saints. She is with my blood and kin who have passed before. She is safe. She is happy. Yes, I am happy now too. So I wore my hat. You can take me now. To that place you told me about. I am ready.’
‘Then say goodbye to your boy.’
‘There is no need. I have already done so. Take me now.’
The big detective stood and walked to the door, opened it. The b
oy’s mother stood and followed. As she stepped through the doorway the boy was about to call out to her. But he did not. She and the detective walked away and the door banged shut behind them.
His mother had not said goodbye to him. She said that she had, but she had not.
She had lied again.
In the silence of the room, the boy’s life had changed forever. The events of this night would never leave him, they would be with him always, a torment, one he would constantly relive, silently, within himself, every day from this moment on.
Eighteen
Colette Power’s life was one of suffering. That was apparent immediately in her face; the flesh like crumpled parchment paper, and the eyes, peering out from their deep sockets. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, but it was hard to tell, life seemed to have slowly, inexorably, ground her down, pushed her towards the edge where she had precariously balanced for years. All it would take was a gentle nudge and she would topple over now.
And this was not a nudge. This was a sledgehammer blow, even if Garda Jane Ryan had decided to come here herself and deliver it as gently as she could. Colette Power had opened the door of 121 Chapel Park just enough to place her head through, peering out at her.
‘Can I come in, Colette?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Can I come in, Colette?’ Garda Ryan repeated.
The head remained, poking out from behind the door.
‘Who’s that at the door?’ a voice from somewhere behind her, with a distinct antipodean accent. ‘The guards d’ya say? Bloody Nora.’
‘What’s happened?’ Colette asked, the door opening fully now.
From down the hall came a tall and gangly male, a mop of dirty blonde hair above a deeply tanned face, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt with a cartoon of a kangaroo and the words ‘Fair Dinkum’ on it.
‘It’s your daughter, Mrs Power,’ Garda Ryan said. ‘We believe her body was found this morning.’
‘Whoa, what the hell,’ Crocodile Dundee said. ‘Wha’ya just say?’
‘What did she say?’ Colette asked too. ‘What did she say? Samantha. What about her? Did you say a body?’
‘Can I come in, Mrs Power, please?’ Garda Ryan tried one more time.
‘What the hell,’ Crocodile Dundee said again.
‘Who are you?’ Garda Ryan asked.
‘Who am I? I’m Mikey. Sam’s brother. That’s who I am.’
‘He’s home on a holiday,’ Colette said, turning and walking away. Garda Ryan followed her down a short hall and into a tiny living room. It seemed to be taken up completely by a large leather settee and two armchairs with lace antimacassars on the backrests. There was a cabinet along one wall filled with cut glass trinkets. The air was musty, the room spotless, seldom used.
‘You sit there, Mum, eh?’ Mikey said, guiding his mother to the settee. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
He stood with his hands on his waists, a gatekeeper.
Colette wrapped a wizened finger around wisps of long, dirty blonde hair, pushed the finger against the hollow of a cheek.
‘Shut up, Mikey. Will you? For Christ’s sake.’ She looked at Garda Ryan. ‘What? Please. Tell me.’
Garda Ryan’s hi-vis jacket was too warm for this weather. But still she wore it. It made a loud squealing noise as she sat down into an armchair. ‘Colette, I’m awfully sorry to have to tell you this. But a body was found this morning. It’s Samantha.’
Colette Power stared at Garda Ryan. ‘What? It can’t be. I’ve already lost one. A son. Kevin. No. Not again. Please.’
‘No way,’ Mikey said, coming and sitting beside his mother now. ‘You coppers are always getting your facts arse-ways. How d’ya know it’s my sister, eh? Who the bloody hell ID’d the body, eh?’
‘Samantha,’ Colette said, ignoring her son, her voice calm, then, as understanding crept in. ‘And Róisín? Where’s my granddaughter?’
‘We thought she might be here,’ Garda Ryan said.
‘Here? No! Róisín is not here. She’s with Samantha. And, what? Samantha’s… dead? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Don’t listen to them, Mum. You go and ring Samantha right now, you’ll…’
‘Shut up, Mikey! They wouldn’t be here unless they were certain. Don’t be an idiot.’
‘Her body was found this morning, Colette,’ Garda Ryan said, leaning forward in her chair.
The noise of that damned jacket.
‘You’re certain?’ Colette Power said. ‘That it’s Samantha.’
‘Colette, we’re as certain as can be. I have to ask, do you know where the baby is? Have you any idea at all?’
‘Róisín,’ Mikey said, his voice gentle. ‘Ah, Jesus.’
Colette Power was so still she seemed to have stopped breathing. Her eyes stared ahead and did not blink, the spiny finger had stopped turning the wisps of hair about it. It was as if her life force was leaving her. But then she blinked. She could not leave, not just yet.
‘Her father?…’
‘Eddie?’ Garda Ryan asked, and realised immediately her mistake.
‘He’s not the child’s father. Billy Hamilton is,’ Colette’s voice a monotone. ‘He might be a lot of things, but he’s a good father… after all, he’s had a lot of practice.’
‘That bastard,’ Mikey said, his eyes blazing. ‘And the other one, Roche. If either of them two…’
‘Will you shut up,’ Colette said. ‘This is hard enough.’
‘Ya,’ Mikey said. ‘Everyone knows Hamilton’s going through the young women of south Galway like a rampaging bull.’
‘But Róisín is his only girl,’ Colette continued. ‘That might have had something to do with it. All the goodness he had he gave to Róisín, and all the bad, the evil, to Samantha. How could he be so cruel to the mother of a baby he loved so much, or seemed to love so much anyway?’
‘Cause he’s a bastard,’ Mikey said. ‘That’s why, eh.’
Garda Ryan considered the news that Billy Hamilton was a good father. The last time she’d seen him was a night recently when he’d been stopped walking through the town with a pit bull terrier on a lead in one hand and a samurai sword in the other. He was strung out and rambling to himself. But it was obvious he wasn’t on his way to make a friendly house call.
She saw a picture on the mantlepiece of the fireplace, of Samantha and a baby.
‘This Róisín?’ she asked.
Colette nodded, closing her eyes, then opening them again slowly.
Garda Ryan noticed a slight blemish on the side of the child’s forehead, a faint red blob. She felt certain it was a birthmark, a strawberry birthmark.
‘Can I take this?’ she asked. ‘I’ll get it back to you.’
Colette nodded.
‘Drove Roche mad, so it did,’ she added. ‘He’s a jealous bastard that Roche. Samantha had her trouble with him too, told me she was going to leave him. Said she just wanted to wait a little bit longer. He earns good money down at that printing shop. Samantha wanted to wait until she had something sorted out. Just a little bit longer she said, just a little bit longer… How did she die?’
‘Colette,’ Garda Ryan said, reaching out and holding her hand. It was cold and bony, brittle, like if she squeezed too tight it might turn to dust. ‘It appears she was murdered.’
A shooshing noise then as Colette sucked in air. She stared ahead, silent.
Mikey got to his feet, his fists clenched. ‘I’ll get whoever did this. I…’
Colette slumped forward, her chin falling against her chest. Garda Ryan felt the weight of her body shift now too.
‘Colette. Are you alright?’
‘… Swear to God.’ Mikey went on, ‘if any—’
‘She’s unconscious,’ Garda Ryan shouted. ‘I need an ambulance here now!’
Nineteen
The operations room at Cross Beg Garda Station was really just a fancy name for a large room with desks and chairs in it. Modern desks and modern swive
l chairs granted, but still, nonetheless, mere desks and chairs. There was also a bank of small personal, personnel lockers at one end. Blue, chosen to match the blue chairs which had been chosen to match the blue tiled floor. The desks were of wood veneer with metal legs and contoured tops so that each officer could reside within, rather than outside, their work station. Functionality, it was called. The ceiling was acoustic with bright, even harsh, florescent lighting that remained on day and night.
But this was a façade. Beneath it all, the building was an antique over a hundred years old, built during the reign of Queen Victoria, when all of Ireland was within her realm. This room, where Royal Irish Constabulary officers were once billeted, where they ate and slept, where an open fire burned and the sun shone through the narrow windows and rooftop skylight. Where they shined their boots throughout the day lest the district inspector should call unannounced. If he did and their boots were scuffed, they would be docked a shilling from their wages. The building now was of historical significance and retained some original features, the heavy green wooden main door for instance, and the tiled reception area. The acoustic ceiling had been installed the year before in the interests of energy efficiency. It concealed the old skylight, eliminating much of the cold winter downdraughts. But last winter had seen more officers taking sick days for colds and flu than ever before. In the wall of the Ops Room the large old fireplace had long been filled in, but its outline was still visible, its green marble mantelpiece jutting out with its fancy corbels beneath, and the slate surround sharply defined against the pale cream of the brickwork. It seemed the building could not decide whether it was a museum piece, an heirloom, or a modern police facility.
Beck went and stood alongside Superintendent Wilde at the top of the room.
‘Where’s Inspector O’Reilly?’ Wilde asked.
Beck shook his head. He didn’t know, and that suited him just fine.
The Child Before Page 4
