Authors: Julie Parsons
‘So have you seen her recently, have you spoken to her at all?’
Well, no, he hadn’t. But she wasn’t living at home at the moment. She’d moved into rooms in college to be close to her brother. He’d been helping her with her exams.
‘But it isn’t term time now, Dr Hill, is it?’
Well, no, he agreed. But she had said she wanted to do some extra work, preparation for next term. She’s very dedicated, he said. She’s studying history of art. She loves it. And she
knows that she’s wasted so much time with all that ‘business’. She wants to make up for it.
‘And boyfriends, other friends, anyone who was close to her?’
There was no one, he said, just her brother Stephen. They’re very close.
And Jack especially didn’t want to think about what had happened in the mortuary. When Dr Hill gazed down at his daughter’s face. He had expected the usual. Shock, horror, tears. But
not anger. Not rage. Not disgust. Not the words that poured from the man’s mouth, in an unstoppable torrent. Words that made them all, Jack, Johnny Harris, Tom Sweeney, draw back and
away.
‘You little bitch. You little savage. How could you do this to me? After all I’ve gone through for you. You promised me. You said you’d never do this again. You said
you’d be good. The way you used to be. You said you’d given all that up. You said you were going to live your life my way now. That I would be proud of you. That I would be able to hold
my head up for you. And now look at you, you little bitch. I hate you so much. I can’t bear it.’
And for one dreadful moment he reached out towards her, his hands grasping the sheet which covered her body. His fingers twisting the heavy fabric, pulling. Until Johnny Harris stepped forward,
put his hand on his arm and said, ‘That’s enough, that’s quite enough. At least leave her with some dignity.’
And then there were tears, and gasping sobs, and a sound of pain, a moan that came from deep inside him, as he sank to his knees on the cold tiled floor.
They drove him back to his front door. They offered to phone for help. Friends, family, anyone. But he got out of the car without answering. It was Sweeney who spoke first, who broke the silence
as they stopped at the traffic lights.
‘Did he do it?’
Jack shrugged. He let his breath out in a long sigh. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. But we’ll be back to him in the morning, ask him to give us a sample for DNA, sort out who the
baby’s father is. We’ll have a go at the house. Quickly before he realizes what we’re at. Talk to her mother. There’s been no mention of her so far. And don’t forget
there’s the brother. He probably knows a lot more about Judith than daddy-oh. Do you want to have a crack at him or will I?’
It was very quiet now. No sound from the car park outside. No sound of traffic from the street. He got out of the bath and wrapped a towel around his waist. He poured himself another large gin,
then pushed open the door to his small balcony. The sweet smell of night-scented stock wafted into the room. A present from Ruth, the older of his daughters. She had grown them herself from seed.
He stepped out on to the balcony and sat down. So she’d been in prison a number of times. Johnny Harris had called her a nice middle-class girl. There weren’t many of them inside. What
was it the prison governor always said about the inmates? That they all came from Dublin’s four inner-city postal districts. Not from the nice suburb where the Hills lived. Or for that matter
from the area a couple of miles from here where Rachel Beckett had lived. A coincidence or what? He’d ring Andy Bowen first thing. Someone else to be put on his list for questioning.
He picked up his glass and swirled the ice cubes around. The doors to the balcony next door opened, and light and music came flooding out. And the sound of voices, laughing, then silence, then
other sounds, so familiar. He listened. He wanted to hear. He wanted to imagine what it was like. The ice cubes melted in his drink, and a cold chill crept down his bare back. But he didn’t
get up. He didn’t go inside. He waited until it was all over. And he had got what he needed.
T
HE TIE WAS
the same. The same narrow diagonal stripes of red, grey and dark green against a dark brown background. Except that now there were two of
them. One was crumpled and stained and in the plastic evidence bag which Jack had in his briefcase. The other was pressed and clean, slipped beneath the collar and flattened down over the buttons
of the white shirt that Dr Mark Hill was wearing beneath his navy-blue blazer.
The tie was the first thing that Jack saw when Dr Hill answered his knock early the next morning. He waited until the pleasantries had been observed, and he was sitting with a cup of tea in the
small dark kitchen at the back of the house, before he mentioned it.
‘You don’t mind if we stay in here, do you, Inspector, um, what did you say your name was?’
Jack told him for, he was sure, the fifth time.
‘Ah yes, Donnelly, of course. You don’t mind it in here, I hope? The housekeeper comes today and tidies up for me. I’m not very good at that sort of thing, so the rest of the
house isn’t really presentable.’
Jack nodded sympathetically.
‘And your wife, Judith’s mother? Is she here?’
Dr Hill gazed at the worn quarry tiles on the floor. When he spoke his voice was bitter. ‘My wife, Judith’s mother. Not my favourite topic of conversation. We’ve been separated
for many years, since the children were quite young. She lives in England. We don’t have any contact. I prefer not to think of her.’ He sipped his tea, a look of distaste on his fleshy
features.
He preferred, it seemed to Jack, not to think of many things. He preferred not to talk about Judith’s drug addiction, her prostitution, assault and larceny charges. He preferred not to say
where she had been for the last couple of weeks. Who her friends were. What kind of person she was. What sort of life she was leading. Her pregnancy. And above all, he preferred not to discuss her
death. As the list of Jack’s questions grew, the look of distaste on his face grew too.
Jack placed his cup and saucer on the kitchen table. He reached down and took the plastic bag from his briefcase. He rested it on his knees. He cleared his throat.
‘I’m wondering, Dr Hill, about this.’ He tapped the plastic with his fingertip. ‘I had hoped that I might find some explanation for it in the answers to my questions. But
I haven’t. So I must ask you, can you identify it?’ He held it out to him. He watched as the doctor took it tentatively in his large hands. He turned it over, then got up and went to
the window, holding it out towards the light.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘It’s a Trinity tie. Like this one, the one I’m wearing.’
‘So it is.’ Jack rocked gently on his stool. ‘And do you know where it was found?’
If he had been expecting an emotional response, he’d come to the wrong place. Hill looked at it again, then handed it back to him.
‘There are,’ he said, the distaste now spreading into his voice, ‘at a rough estimate, probably twenty thousand such ties in existence. What does it have to do with
me?’
‘You didn’t notice?’ Jack picked it up again and shook the tie around inside the bag. ‘Here, see that, see that name tape. Recognize it? What does it say? Let me
see.’ He paused. ‘Mark Patrick Hill. Now who could that possibly be?’
A look of consternation passed across the man’s face, and his voice when he spoke was low and, for the first time, hesitant. ‘Where,’ he asked, ‘where did you say you
found it?’
‘Did you get much out of the brother?’ It was lunch-time and Jack was hungry. Last night’s gin had taken its toll and his stomach felt empty and hollow. He
took a large mouthful of roast beef and mashed potato, washed it down with a long swallow of cold milk and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. It was ages since he’d eaten in town. He must
remember, he thought, to congratulate the guys in Pearse Street for recommending this pub. The food was great. Straightforward, uncomplicated, just what a hangover needed.
Sweeney shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not much. He’s very shocked by it all. Kept on bursting into tears. Couldn’t think straight, so he said. I’ll tell you one thing about
him though, he’s the image of his sister. Same colouring, same build, same look. They could be twins.’
‘I assume it’s their mother they take after. Not much of the father there.’
‘He didn’t say. I asked him about her. He was very circumspect. All he said was that the parents had split up when he and Judith were small. The mother had gone to England. And then
there was a bit of a to-do about custody. Apparently the father got it, but she came back and snatched them. He says he doesn’t really remember much about it. Except that after that they
didn’t see her at all.’
‘And Judith, what did he tell you about her? Did he know she was pregnant?’
‘He says not. He was very shocked when I told him. He became practically hysterical.’
‘Any suggestions as to who might be the father?’
‘Nah, nothing. He’d nothing to say about other friends, boyfriends, the drugs and all that carry-on. He wasn’t involved at all, he said, not his scene. He said she’d left
it all behind, that she was a dedicated student. He kept on saying, she promised me, she promised me.’
‘Did you get to see her rooms?’
Sweeney nodded, his mouth full.
‘And?’ Jack shovelled the last of the meat into a heap on his fork.
Sweeney swallowed, then burped.
‘Jesus, Tom, give us a break.’ Jack flapped his hand at him in mock disgust.
‘Sorry, boss, sorry.’ He gulped some water. ‘Well, apparently she’d been writing some kind of essay about this biblical character, Judith. Anyway, there are a number of
well-known paintings, so the brother said, that show this Judith character in the process of killing someone. Very fucking bloodthirsty. All done in a good cause, of course, to save her tribe from
annihilation. You know the kind of thing, invites him into her tent, gets him drunk, then offs him. Great big bloody sword. Chops off his head. She had prints of them stuck up all over the place.
Put you off your lunch.’
Judith and Holofernes, that was it. The widow using her womanly wiles to save her people. Summoned to the chieftain’s bed. Intent on murder. He knew the paintings. He’d seen them
that morning reproduced in a book that was lying on the table in Dr Hill’s kitchen. He’d opened it, idly flicking over the pages while he waited for Hill to come back from making a
phone call. He’d noticed the inscription on the title page:
To Elizabeth, who knows how to love. Forever, Mark.
He’d waited for Hill. He wanted to confirm with him that he’d come into the station. To be fingerprinted. To have a DNA test. To cooperate with their investigation. But Hill had
insisted on phoning his solicitor.
‘Fine,’ Jack said. ‘Go ahead. He can come with you, if you like. I’ll just wait here until it’s all sorted out.’
And while he waited he had turned over the pages, looking at the paintings.
‘And,’ Sweeney put his hand into his pocket, ‘I’ve got something for you. I know your interest in this, so I thought I’d give you a bit of a treat. Here.’ He
handed him a photograph. ‘It was stuck on to one of those pegboard things. In her room.’
Two women. One older, one younger. Their surroundings were drab, nondescript. They were looking, not at the camera, but at each other. They were smiling, happy. Their arms were around each
other’s waists. The older woman was taller and very thin. Her hair was thick and wavy, greying. The younger woman’s hair was long and straight, white blonde, parted in the centre so it
lay evenly on either shoulder.
‘Well, what do you know? Nice middle-class girls together. Just as I thought.’ Jack laughed out loud and turned the picture over. There was an inscription on the back:
Me and
Rachel. Joyful Days!! August, 1997.
‘And what did the brother say about that? Anything interesting?’ Jack had started on dessert. Apple tart and a lavish helping of cream.
‘Nah.’ Sweeney shook his head. ‘Just said it was some woman who Judith had made friends with in prison. Didn’t seem to know anything else.’
‘And did you ask him if—’
‘Of course I did, of course I asked him.’ Sweeney snorted with indignation. ‘I was just about to tell you. I asked him if she’d seen her recently. He said he didn’t
know. But then he sort of blushed. You know, he’s got that kind of skin, very pale, the slightest thing makes him colour up. And then he said that he knew that Judith wasn’t supposed to
have anything to do with people she knew from prison. That it was a condition of her early release. That she was still on probation. So,’ Sweeney reached over, took the spoon from
Jack’s hand and helped himself to a dollop of cream, ‘what do you think?’
What did he think? He thought a lot of things. He thought that they needed to find out whose baby Judith was carrying. They needed to find out where she was killed. They needed a list of all her
former contacts. They needed to know who would want her dead and why. And what was the nature of her relationship with her father. He wondered about the mother. Elizabeth, he presumed. Why had she
left and why had she not been given custody of her children? His heart sank as he thought of the work that lay ahead and for a moment he began to panic. He hated these high-profile cases. He could
see the headline on the early edition of the
Evening Herald
that the woman at the next table was reading. ‘
Sex Slaying Mystery
’ it said in bold black capitals. Jesus
Christ. He gestured to Sweeney, and nodded in the direction of the paper.
‘Here we fucking go,’ he said, getting to his feet, weary already before the day had half begun.
‘S
O YOU’VE HEARD
about the death of the girl you knew in prison. What was her name? Julie, Judy, Jill?’ It was nine-thirty in the
morning. Her weekly visit to Andrew Bowen’s office. She stared at the floor as she answered.
‘Judith. It was Judith.’