The Sleeping Season

by Kelly Creighton

  ‘He’s not been home in days,’ said one child as he dinked the ball. He was in a school uniform that had that end-of-day tattiness. He looked to be about nine.

  ‘Hey youse, what are you looking for?’ asked the other, possibly a younger brother – seven, perhaps. He wore wet-look gel and a thin red tracksuit. ‘What do you want that man for? We’ll let him know you’re lookin’ him, missus.’

  We ignored the kids. I didn’t tell them to go on about their business, though I was sorely tempted.

  Shane had taken a year’s lease eight months before and his agreement was ending, from what we could gather. That was what worried me. His landlord told me that he had never been called out to fix a thing, and the neighbours had never complained to him about Shane, which was a miracle in itself.

  ‘And Ivan isn’t DHSS, so that’s great too,’ the landlord said.

  It turned out that the house in Brandon Terrace was leased under Shane’s middle name: Ivan Reede. Yet he was DHSS and he had been flying under the radar, working cash in hand at RAD. Doing the double with deft precision.

  Shane had given the landlord a reference from a Mr Cleary in Monaghan. The address was the same as the one we had got from Raymond. Cleary, we deduced, was living in the house Shane used to live in in Monaghan, a house that was registered to Isobel Reede.

  Linskey and I decided to visit Shane’s neighbours in Brandon Terrace.

  In the second terraced house a woman opened the door and welcomed us in. Laura was a big, convivial woman who sported darkened glasses that sat on the end of her nose and purple lipstick that had left Crayola-like marks on her teeth. She said she had last seen Shane on the Saturday morning. She worked in the newsagents and had served him there, where he bought some milk and a comic for River.

  ‘The wee lad told me I needed to lose weight. I had to laugh,’ Laura said with a smile. ‘He has no filter – always says something funny. It’s never cheek, to my mind, like with some kids.’ She nodded at the pair outside who had progressed to kicking the ball at her kerb. ‘Nobody could be bad to wee River. River!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘What’s wrong Jack or William? I told him, “I’m trying my best to drop a few pounds.” I didn’t notice, in all honesty, if Shane was about. Besides police cars, there’s been no one at that door during the evenings. But then I’m not here most evenings – most nights I go and sit with my mother who’s in a home now – and of course I’m working during the day. Maybe you’d be better asking the girl next door to me.’

  The third terraced house was occupied by a young African woman: Rashida, mother to six-month-old twin girls. One slept on the sofa with pillows at the edge to stop her falling off, the other one, a black-eyed beauty, Rashida held outward. The child’s spine fitted the length of the mother from hip to rib. She curled in on herself, holding toes in fingers, drool splattering on her vest and her mother’s forearm, and on the floor.

  Linskey just about melted. ‘Don’t you just love them at that age,’ she said.

  Rashida smiled and, with one finger, gathered the drool from her daughter’s chin and wiped it off on her jeans.

  ‘Oh yeah, him two doors down has a wee fella, doesn’t he?’ she asked. ‘Haven’t seen him though.’

  I told her that Shane’s son was the boy on the TV, the missing one.

  ‘I don’t get a chance to watch much TV at the minute,’ she said, nodding at the baby. ‘But I did hear, the way you hear things, in the shops. I hope he’s okay, the man two doors down. His son is a little loud, but I think they’re okay.’

  Outside Shane’s house I could feel my guts churn. My head pounded as huge dark clouds whipped above us and the rectangle of sky we were depending on suddenly shut off like someone had turned all the lights out.

  Chapter 17

  By five p.m., when the Chief got off his call with the gardaí, he called a meet. He wanted to get a couple of our officers to Monaghan. Linskey offered us up, seeing it was our case. He told us to go on ahead and keep him posted.

  Before we set off, Linskey phoned her son, Luke, the only one who still lived at home, to tell him she would be working away from home for the next while and that he would need to look after himself.

  Luke was on speakerphone. He said he’d be fine and told his mother to be careful.

  ‘You too,’ Linskey replied. ‘And feed the parakeet, please.’

  Luke groaned.

  ‘I can’t believe you took that thing home,’ I said when they finished the call.

  ‘They were feeding it left and right at the station. The thing was about to explode.’

  ‘You’re just a softie.’

  ‘And you’re cold-hearted.’

  ‘No,’ I said, offended. ‘I just wouldn’t want that responsibility.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Linskey.

  We soared down the motorway in silence, but eventually spoke about River. Even though he was nothing more than a case and a few photos to either of us, he had suction, that boy. He drew people to him. The confidential phoneline had now received hundreds of calls, most from well-wishers hogging the line, but also from people who thought they could find out what stage the investigation was at, as if the helpline was to help the public, not River and his family.

  Rain began to pelt down. I set the wipers to full whack. I hadn’t had the chance to get out running since the previous Saturday morning; now it was Wednesday teatime and my legs were cramped from sitting at the wheel. Just before Craigavon, Linskey got me to pull over to a service station for something to eat.

  ‘My blood sugar’s getting low,’ she said.

  She always had this excuse; she couldn’t just say she was hungry, as if hunger was an abnormal desire to have. So I stood outside to stretch my legs too, grains of icy rain sliding down the back of my collar. Then came a call in my earpiece: the woman from the park, Ms Smith, the one Sandy Hammitt claimed to have walked past, had come into the station to say she had been at Shaw’s Bridge on Monday morning and hadn’t seen anyone – not Sandy, not Dusky, not River or his coat.

  ‘She spoke out of the side of her mouth, like she’s had a stroke,’ Higgins said. ‘She wasn’t the full shilling, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Okay, copy that,’ I said and got back into the car.

  Linskey bought me a bottle of Lucozade and a sub filled with tuna and onion. ‘Get that into you, skinny,’ she said. ‘All the carbs you eat too – it’s not fair.’

  We sat mulling over this latest development.

  ‘Maybe we should go and see Ms Smith when we get back to Belfast,’ I said, never completely happy when something was left in Higgins’ hands.

  As we ate we watched people filling their tanks, running from their cars to the garage, running back out, dodging the rain as best they could.

  ‘I had a feeling about Alice, the manager of Albertbridge Home Supplies,’ Linskey said, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

  ‘Why is that?’ I asked her.

  ‘When I thought about the description of the woman in the park Sandy gave us, I started to think about Alice.’

  ‘I suppose … same height, same age bracket.’

  ‘I was tempted to ask her if she had dogs and ever went walking them around Shaw’s Bridge.’

  ‘Why didn’t you? And she did seem fond of Donald, in a sick kind of way.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t Alice anyway. It was just a fleeting thought.’

  The rain had become torrential; I could hardly hear Linskey when she asked, ‘How’s your mum doing, Harry?’

  It was always Mother; no one mentioned Brooks any more.

  ‘No change.’

  ‘Your dad must be having an awful time. I saw him recently, and I hope you don’t mind me saying, but he looked frail. Maybe it’s the care of your mum.’

  I was chewing the sub, careful to leave the filling. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘He’s old now.’

  There were other things to worry about other than Mother and bedsores. Brooks had made himself disappear
; he’d told us so he wouldn’t be a worry any more. Not that it worked like that. Father acted like he couldn’t care less, but I knew he cared more than he’d admit. Maybe that was the father’s burden.

  I couldn’t picture Jason Lucie as a father. If I had have been able to picture that, to picture both of us as parents, then maybe I would have gone there. Thank God I didn’t. The way it worked out had shown me his ugliest side. Imagine being stuck to that because we shared a kid. It would have been the most hellish of hells. By the time our relationship ended, I couldn’t pick love out of any corner of our marriage.

  ‘Any news on the love life?’ Linskey asked, as if she was reading my mind.

  With her marriage wrecked by Geordie, who worked in Fraud and had left her for a young barrister, I kept my love life to myself. I had a feeling she knew that my man was married. She always scratched the surface but never asked anything more. For her benefit, I had changed Greg’s name to Paul.

  ‘He hasn’t called round in a week,’ I said. ‘He texted me last night – had to work late.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been busy yourself,’ she stated.

  I rolled the tuna up in the wrapper and Linskey put her hand out for it, gathering all the rubbish in a brown paper bag. She got out of the car to put it in the bin now the rain had eased off. A man with pruney eyes walked in front of the car, seemingly unaware of the rain. He had a carton of milk swinging in his left hand, and under his right arm a newspaper was folded, River’s photo showing, a boy adoring his sandcastle.

  ‘Feeling better?’ I asked Linskey.

  She said she was. ‘You haven’t asked me about my love life,’ she added.

  ‘Oh, what’s this?’

  ‘Nothing to tell, really. I got talking to this fella online. Well, we met at the city hall, but didn’t he turn up with a mate in tow.’

  ‘For moral support?’

  ‘Don’t be so naïve, Harry.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Even men in their forties chance their arm for a three-way.’

  ‘Listen to you – a three-way. You watch too much MTV. And another man? It’s usually— ’

  ‘I know.’ Linskey started to laugh.

  ‘Bisexual?’

  ‘Oh, don’t! He could be bi and I could be asexual at this point.’

  ‘And? Would you, do you think?’

  ‘Away and fuck,’ Linskey said. ‘Absolutely not! Just … no!’

  ‘What did you do, then?’

  ‘Went to the loo, via my car, and got out of there.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sandy Hammitt fancies you.’

  ‘Oh great! That’s what I mean, Harry – I get all the weirdos of the day. Jesus, are there any normal ones left?’

  ‘Yes. Charlotte has one. David’s not perfect but he’s not deviant. He’s loyal.’

  ‘That sounds perfect to me,’ Linskey said. ‘Your Coral has it right – maybe women would be easier.’

  ‘Even more drama, if you ask me. Though not with Coral’s Rose. Love her to pieces. But generally, most women. How do men stick us, I wonder sometimes.’

  Linskey beheld me with disappointment. ‘Fair game, I’d say,’ she replied.

  Chapter 18

  Father and I went fishing for my twenty-second birthday. It was the weekend before my main plan, which was to go to Dublin with my sisters, though Coral was in full baby-making mode with her (now ex) husband and refused to drink, and Charlotte got engaged the day before and decided she wanted to be at home with David instead.

  As for the rest of them: Addam was playing missionary in Africa and Brooks was living in England and having a stab at being sober and a husband to Lydia, their marriage more of a short forgiving phase than a commitment; I think it was lost in a sneeze.

  And Mother. I don’t know, she probably would have enjoyed Dublin but I didn’t think to invite her. Fifteen years ago, they still used the holiday home; Mother was still healthy and being in Father’s presence wasn’t such a chore for her.

  The fishing trip ended up being the only thing worth remembering about that birthday. And out of that trip the only conversation I recall was about Hans Clarke, who had a restaurant in Belfast. Clarke was being threatened, embezzled by so-called decommissioned individuals who still enjoyed the flavour of the few extra pounds they gathered from protection money. Father told me that Clarke had suddenly shut up shop and fled, and was initially accused of doing a bunk – tax evasion – which turned out to be hearsay. Clarke had been asked for protection money when he set up his restaurant and had refused at first, being from England and not accustomed to city centre politics in the smouldering afterglow of the Troubles. So they had put his windows in and fucked about with his suppliers. Eventually he had given them something. Clarke also had a wife – no one ever mentioned her name let alone remembered it, but I did: it was Meredith – with whom he lived out Hillsborough direction. He gave his family a beautiful home and a prep school education for Hanna-Caitlin, their only daughter, who had horses and did dressage.

  ‘You can see how people can get used to a way of life,’ Father had said.

  We Sloanes had always been comfortable, and while Father came from quite humble beginnings near Lough Erne, Mother came from a family in Bangor who weren’t hurting for money – lord mayors and solicitors a long way back. She was the first woman in the family to be a success in her own right, and one of the only female judges in the province. Us kids went to prep school; we didn’t have horses, but we had a chalet to run to and skiing holidays every other year.

  Anyway, the restaurateur went bankrupt and the extortionists burnt out his car for touting on them. In the end, this was when Linskey came into her own, on the job and in Father’s – and subsequently my – books. Hans Clarke smothered Meredith in bed, then went into Hanna-Caitlin’s room with the intention of doing the same, but she was awake, using the toilet. So when he went in he was startled, and so was she. He put his hands around her throat and squeezed until he had taken the life from his own daughter, a fifteen-year-old girl who, to add to the tragedy and the questions that arose, was two months pregnant.

  When Clarke was found to have drunk a concoction of white spirits, alcohol, rat poison and every tablet in the medicine cabinet, gossip began to percolate that the motive was that the father had impregnated his own daughter. Eventually a sixteen-year-old boy came forward to say that he had been seeing the girl, which at the time both surprised and pleased me. Hanna-Caitlin’s boyfriend knew about the pregnancy and they hadn’t told anybody else.

  Hans Clarke left a note to say he couldn’t let his family live without the things they loved, that he couldn’t take everything away from them. Forensics were able to tell that he wrote the note after he had killed Meredith and her daughter. (I refused to refer to them as his, correcting Father when he called them Clarke’s wife, Clarke’s daughter.) Hans thought it better to take their lives than their wealth.

  Father had sat reeling in a fish, grappling with it at the same time as telling me that it was Linskey who found the bodies and insisted on being the one to tell Meredith’s family, who lived around Warrenpoint, and that she had dealt with the family really well. Now I wonder if he was telling me: Look, here’s a woman who can do this job and do it well.

  Linskey was a constable then. Father spoke about her with respect, which was more than most got. She shared his work ethic too. She offered to go to Hanna-Caitlin’s school to answer any questions the pupils might have. Father was impressed with how Linskey broomed their worries away. People, especially young people, always think these things are catching, and they looked at their own dads differently after what happened to Hanna-Caitlin.

  It was Diane Park’s shining moment – Park until she divorced Geordie and reverted to Linskey. She had the makings of a fantastic detective, according to Father. She never jumped to conclusions, even when everyone was gossiping about Hans tampering with his own daughter. She didn’t let things slip past her either.

  But now Linskey seemed
off her game. There was something I couldn’t put my finger on, but she had changed. Why didn’t she ask Alice if she had been at Shaw’s Bridge if she had thought it?

  ‘People hear the word case,’ Father said. ‘They say they are working on a case. They picture a suitcase and imagine they can unpack the evidence, then repack it – try to make it fit. Park was scared, but she did it without getting overwhelmed.’

  He thought that being emotionless, or at least having the ability to conceal those emotions, was a virtue. I could do it too. I also knew fear, the flavour of it, how it tasted like gunmetal.

  I thought of Linskey finding Hanna-Caitlin strangled on her bathroom floor. That must have been a worse sight than the car accidents we’d been called out to, teens mangled, their faces smashed from the impact of the dashboard, blood everywhere.

  But a child who still looked perfect and had been purposefully taken – that was the worst of the worst, if you could rate it. And for what? A motive I found brittle, superficial.

  What would we Sloanes have been like if we had suddenly moved into a local primary school, lived in a terrace in East Belfast? Maybe wealth had more importance than I realised when I was an idealistic, somewhat emotional twenty-year-old. Everything fluctuates.

  Chapter 19

  In Monaghan the night sky looked unfazed by the day just gone. There was this agitated churn of landscape, the land sectioned off with toothpick fences. After the rain, the air felt weightless, as if the night could just evaporate. It didn’t feel like autumn.

  I unstitched my legs from the car seat and got out, our boots clacking on the stones of the drive. I shone a torch around the building. There was on old derelict barn where the lane elbowed off to the left and vanished. Moonlight dusted the bricks and the air tasted like silica. Through the trees we caught the hollow rush of breath.

  Before us was a dark beefy presence. I shone the flashlight at his feet and he shone his at mine, like we were actors holding spotlights, facing off.