The Child Before

by Michael Scanlon

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘My best estimate is between 17.00 and 18.30 hours yesterday.’

  ‘Was she sexually assaulted?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by sexually assaulted. There was an attempt. Most certainly. That in itself is an assault. But she wasn’t raped.’

  Beck looked at his watch.

  ‘Not keeping you from something, am I?’ Gumbell asked.

  ‘Actually, yes. I’m already running late.’

  Beck considered that Gumbell looked disappointed at this. But he quickly recovered.

  ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘You can get lost so.’

  Outside, Beck gulped in the warm evening air, and, without realising it, rubbed his hands along his shirt, like a cat preening, trying to rid himself of all traces of death.

  His phone rang, ‘Private Number’ flashing across the screen. He answered, but did not speak. No sound but the swirl of static. Beck knew who it was.

  Natalia had said she would not ring him again. And it had stopped, for a while that is. But lately it had started again: The early morning, the middle of the night, anytime really, it didn’t matter.

  This was her now. He knew it. Even if Natalia almost never spoke.

  But today she did.

  ‘Finnegan. I miss you.’

  And Beck felt it, like being back in secondary school, to the first time he had felt it, looking at Mandy North. A surge, barrelling through his entire body, a force capable almost of knocking him flat onto his back, of tying his tongue into knots, of making him act like an imbecile. Or of all three.

  Mandy North had no interest in imbeciles, not that she even knew he existed. She didn’t. Last he’d heard, she’d married a sheep farmer and was living in New Zealand.

  Beck felt it all.

  His thumb found the red icon on his phone screen.

  He pressed it, and walked on.

  Twenty-Nine

  Beck climbed the rickety stairs in Ozanam House and gently opened a door at the top. The room was full, and someone was speaking. He found a chair at the back, sat down, leaning forward, resting his elbows onto his knees, submerging himself beneath the heads around him. His entry had gone unnoticed. Or so he thought.

  The room fell quiet. Someone coughed.

  ‘Finnegan, glad you could make it.’

  Shit.

  Beck raised his head. The man at the top table had a smile like a fisherman who’d just gotten a bite, his eyes twinkly bright.

  ‘Want to share?’

  Shit again.

  Beck sat up, pushing himself back into the chair until he could go no further. The eyes of the room were on him.

  ‘My name is Finnegan,’ he said. ‘And I’m an alcoholic. This is my third meeting and I don’t feel ready to share just yet. So I’ll pass. Thank you.’

  After the meeting, Beck picked up a mug of coffee from a steaming row by the sink in a corner of the room.

  ‘Your sharing – or lack of it – does no one any favours you know. And you never help make the coffee. Think it just makes itself, do you? Think you’re too good for it? How’s your ego doing by the way?’

  ‘What?’

  The man wore a crisp blue suit, white shirt and bright red tie. His nose and cheeks had a red glow.

  ‘I’m telling you like it is,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you’re wasting everybody’s time. My time. Your own time. Everybody’s time. We want to hear real sharing. This is a life or death gig. We need people who are going to help us stay sober. We’re selfish. We have to be. Sobriety comes first. It comes before everything and anything. Comes before any person. Comes before wife and kids. Comes before mothers and fathers. Comes before…’

  Beck took a sip of coffee.

  Then the man stopped talking, extended his hand.

  ‘Jeff. I’m tough because I have to be, but that’s what works. People were tough on me when I first came into the rooms. It’s why I’m still here. AA doesn’t need you, Finnegan, but you need AA. Keep coming back, it’s that simple.’

  Beck rinsed his cup at the sink when he’d finished, was about to place it onto the draining board when a woman standing next to him handed him a tea towel.

  ‘It’s called a tea towel. Works by revolving propulsion. Let me demonstrate.’

  She picked up a mug, began drying it, turning it briskly in her hands.

  Beck smiled.

  She smiled back.

  She had shoulder-length blonde hair, brown doe-like eyes, tight jeans hanging from wide hips.

  ‘My name’s Vicky. Jeff’s right. Keep coming back, Finn. That’s all you have to do. Fake it till you make it.’

  Beck picked up another mug and started to dry it.

  ‘Is everything in here a metaphor?’

  ‘Don’t knock it. It works. After we finish we’re going to Frazzali’s for coffee. Want to join us?’

  ‘More coffee?’

  ‘I bet you didn’t say that when you were drinking? What, more alcohol? No, I don’t think so. That attitude will help you pick up again. You know that? By the way, that mug is dry now.’

  Beck put it down.

  ‘Okay. Sorry. I’d like to. Thank you.’

  She smiled.

  ‘See. It’s okay to drop the attitude. It’s okay to be honest with yourself. Becaaaause, if you’re like me, you’ll have to learn everything all over again. From scratch. The right way this time.’

  It still wouldn’t change what Beck could see before his very eyes. This woman was a knockout. He was prepared to be honest with himself. She was the reason he was going for coffee.

  Beck caught the look of the man who had come and was standing beside them now. He was on the small side, but wide and athletic. The type of body that comes from hours spent in the gym, the elasticated short sleeves of his shirt emphasised the results of his labours. He couldn’t disguise the look. Not in his forced smile, not in his overly compensatory, too firm a handshake. The look of the Alpha male eyeing the approach of a rival.

  ‘Joe. Finnegan here is joining us all for coffee at Frazzali’s.’

  ‘Great,’ like he’d just been told of a death in the family.

  At Frazzali’s they pushed two tables together and eight recovering alcoholics, including Beck, took their seats. The meeting appeared to continue, each person regaling the group with tales from their drinking past, each story more fantastic than the one preceding, as if competing for a prize.

  Eventually it was his turn.

  ‘You’re a policeman… I heard,’ Joe said. He had made a point of sitting next to Beck, between himself and Vicky.

  ‘That’s right,’ Beck said.

  ‘Coming to accept one’s past is an important step in recovery,’ Joe went on. ‘Step Four says we must make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. Some people are never ready to do that, they find it’s too much. You need to prepare yourself for that step.’

  At the end of the table Cathy shifted. She was a retired nurse. She hadn’t touched alcohol in a quarter century, but suspiciously appeared to know the name of every psychoactive prescription drug on the market.

  ‘It was all over the news,’ she said now. ‘The poor Frazzali girl, I mean. God rest her.’

  And the others. Remember them too?’

  The man who spoke reminded Beck of Humpty Dumpty. His expression was of someone who was about to burst into tears at any moment. Beck couldn’t remember his name.

  ‘Are there any developments with Samantha Power? The whole town is talking about it,’ Humpty Dumpty asked.

  Beck broke off a piece of apple tart with his fork, dipped it into the cream on the side of the plate, and held it in front of his mouth.

  ‘No,’ he said, opening and putting the apple tart in.

  It was obvious he wasn’t going to say anything further.

  ‘And the child, the poor craytur,’ Cathy said. ‘Will they search through the night for her?’

  Beck didn’t answer. The search would be called off whe
n darkness fell. But he didn’t want to say that.

  The group was silent. Beck swallowed, took a sip from his coffee.

  ‘Was that a trace of anger?’ Joe asked. He was smiling. ‘It’s understandable. I’m sure you can’t discuss the case. But still…’

  ‘It’s a normal emotion,’ Vicky interjected. ‘If you feel it. Show it. That’s what I say. Hiding has consequences. We all know that.’

  She leaned forward, turning towards Beck. At the meeting she’d had on a light zip-up pink jacket. This was draped over the back of her seat now. Underneath she wore a low-cut top.

  The broad back of Joe came between Beck and Vicky as he leaned onto the table, obscuring his view.

  ‘I think we should be very careful what we say to Finnegan here. Remember, he doesn’t have the time under his belt that we have.’

  ‘How long are you sober?’ Humpty Dumpty asked Beck.

  ‘Come on,’ Joe said. ‘It’s not about time. All any of us have is twenty-four hours. A day. A day at a time. That’s it. We’re all sober for today. One day at a time!’

  ‘But you just said,’ it was Cathy, ‘that he didn’t have the time. And now you say all we need is twenty-four hours. You said it, Joe.’

  Joe took a deep breath.

  ‘Promptly admit when we’re wrong. Sorry. Okay. I did say it. I shouldn’t have. Sorry. It’s getting late. I think I’ll go home. You ready, Vicky?’

  Beck caught the switch. As the group lost interest in the discussion. Instead, they silently looked at Vicky, waiting…

  The eyes of the old man at the end of the table, in a flat cap and Crombie coat, who had not spoken during the meeting or here at the restaurant, suddenly seemed to come alive. He stared at Vicky, his mouth open.

  ‘That’s alright, Joe,’ she said after a long pause. ‘It’s a lovely night. I’ll walk. You go ahead.’

  Joe didn’t move. He placed both hands onto the table. Slowly, he clinched them, tightly, and Beck could see the whites of the knuckles appear through the taut skin. The air became heavy, pushing down, like something was about to crack and splinter.

  But then Joe smiled, and the air immediately lightened. And then he laughed, and it disappeared completely.

  ‘Right then,’ he said, getting to his feet, pumping false cheeriness into his tone. ‘I’ll be off. See you all on Saturday night I suppose.’

  Voices called after him: ‘Righteo, Joe, see you’, ‘Remember, all you have to do each day is… breathe’, ‘Keep coming back, Joe.’

  Vicky watched him go.

  Now it was her turn.

  ‘Regards to your wife, Joe,’ she called after him.

  And for a brief moment, Joe paused. It seemed like he was about to turn around. The group watched him closely, like they were waiting for something. But then, Joe walked on.

  ‘Hello, Vicky.’ The man approached from a side table. He wore a dirty grey sweatshirt and jeans, baseball hat with the swoosh logo across the front.

  Vicky turned her face up to look at him.

  ‘Danny Black. You avoiding me?’

  He grinned, his face slightly off kilter, nothing matching up. He wasn’t avoiding Vicky. No man on earth would ever want to avoid Vicky. ‘No. Course not. Next week. Maybe Monday. I’ve been in Galway for a few days, just got back, finished up a job there. You’re next on my list, honestly.’

  Vicky folded her arms, pushing out her breasts. ‘You make sure I am, Danny. A girl can only wait for so long. It’s leaking everywhere – the radiator I mean.’ She laughed. ‘Only teasing, honey. Can you make it this week, pretty please?’

  ‘Okay, maybe tomorrow, or Friday. I’ll do my best to be round one of those days.’

  Vicky wagged a finger, her arms dropping by her sides. ‘Okay. I’ll be waiting in for you. It’s summertime now, suppose I can do without central heating for a little while.’

  The man smiled in that sweet innocent way of his, lingering, uncertain of what to do.

  ‘I’ll see you then,’ she said, dismissing him, his purpose served.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, and started to walk away.

  Vicky looked about the table, a ringleader in a circus arena of men.

  The waitress reappeared, reaching in to the centre of the table where she had placed the bill earlier. She took it up and crumpled it in her hand.

  ‘Tony says regards to the policeman. This is on him.’

  Vicky brushed a hand through her hair and looked at Beck. He wasn’t certain, but he thought he caught it. Something. He wasn’t certain what.

  Something.

  Thirty

  In the last ten years of the total of fifteen he had spent in Dublin, Beck had lived in one property, the house he owned in the urban village of Ranelagh. Now, in the few short months he had been in Cross Beg, he was already on his second home. He had no choice, not really, because Beck had no wish to remain in a house where the body of a murder victim had been discovered. Nor, it seemed, did anyone else. That house had been vacant ever since.

  Like his last, this too was a townhouse, but rented week to week from a management agency in Galway. Last time he had rented from the owner. She was the one found under his bed, his landlady, Mrs Sheila Claxton. But Beck didn’t dwell on that, there was no point.

  The current house he was staying in was one of a row of ten that stood, separated somewhat from Cross Beg, on the other side of what was called The Little Town Park. Which was, as opposed to The Big Town Park, an area once with high hopes of being turned into a spectacular public garden for the benefit all the citizens of the town. The Little Town Park was now an overgrown, Japanese Knot-infested example of what can happen when an undertaking is the ambition of just one person. Gertrude Wolfe, who had passed away two years before, would be horrified.

  It was midnight. Beck was in his sitting room, a copy of a crime thriller on the armrest of his chair. He had given up on it. The author, an ex-Chicago police captain, had included plenty of technical details. Beck assumed these were correct. But as a policeman himself, even Beck wasn’t sure. Nor were most policeman he knew, because specialities were best left to specialists. He also knew that when an expert writes a book, it becomes a manual. And so, he considered, had this book.

  Although the search for baby Róisín had been called off for the night, volunteers were still searching. They did not want to give up. No one wanted to give up. So they continued, would search well into the darkness, using torches and spotlights in scouring an ever larger radius. Nothing had been found as yet. Nothing. Beck now could not rid his mind of images. Of baby Róisín, wondering if she was wrapped up warm and tight, sleeping? Or was she crying in some dank and dismal place? Or was she dead, lying in a ditch?

  He took up the book again, he’d give it another go. He turned the page, forcing himself to concentrate, but after just two pages his eyes grew heavy and then closed, his head slumped against his chest and he began to gently snore. Natalia smiled at him, beckoning him to follow. The door was open, and she walked ahead into the bedroom, the moonlight through the windows silhouetting her body beneath the fabric of her nightdress. She lay on the bed, arranging her hair onto the pillow like a halo. He could see the veins on her long white neck quiver, pulsing against her flesh. She lay there and parted her legs, then raised them, the nightdress falling down her thighs as she folded her knees back. She reached out her arms, the palms of her hands flat, as they began dancing through the air.

  She opened her mouth to speak. But the sound that came out was not what he had expected. It was of a baby. Crying. And then her neck, unaided, as if by black evil magic, opened up, and a geyser of blood erupted into the air. Yet still, her hands continued to move, dancing through the air, moving faster and faster.

  Beck was rooted to the spot. He could not move. Natalia moved from the bed and walked towards him. That sound she had made of a baby crying had stopped. In its place came a hollow hissing noise as air escaped from her neck, like air escaping from a pipe, which essentially is what it
was. She smiled at him. What’s wrong? her eyes said. Still he could not move. She was almost upon him now, he could smell the sweet metallic aroma of fresh blood. But the face was no longer that of Natalia. It had changed. He was looking at Samantha Power. She tried to speak, but all that came from her was that hissing noise from the gaping wound under her chin. Still, he knew what she was trying to say, ‘My baby is dead. My baby is dead. My baby is dead.’ Her blood no longer gushed, it had reduced now to a mere trickle. And her hands were almost upon him, almost touching his face.

  Beck woke with a start.

  He was slumped in his armchair. The book was on the ground. He shivered. It was cold now in the room. And with it came a feeling, solid and heavy, pressing down on him. Which was this. The baby was dead.

  God, he thought. Please. God. Let me be wrong.

  Thirty-One

  The new day was breaking through. Beck could not sleep and had come here. He stood to the side now, a silent observer, not wanting to get in the way. They were prepared. The garda search team had been waiting for the first lick of dawn to begin their work. Before the arrival of volunteers, before anyone. So they could have the area to themselves, and allow the search dogs to roam unhindered. Because if the dogs could not find the baby now, it meant the baby wasn’t here.

  There were three springer spaniels, the youngest, Casper, highly strung and with a question mark over his future in An Garda Síochána. Unlike the others, Casper now did not crouch low to the ground in the customary fashion of his breed. He did not sniff the ground either. Instead, he held his head high, and sniffed the air. His handler only saw him do this when hungry, usually at the end of shift, as he was being taken from the van.

  The dog tugged on his lead now and whined. He didn’t normally whine. And started to scrape the ground with his front paws. This was not what he had been trained to do. He had been trained to keep his nose low and move forward strictly on command. Any other time, while on operational duty, he was to remain calm and obedient.