The Daisy Picker (29 page)

Twenty minutes later they’re back downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table. Deirdre hasn’t taken much – just one change of clothes, a pair of shoes and a few toiletries. Most
of her make-up is still there, apart from a lipstick or two.

But her passport is gone.

Angela drinks a little of the brandy Lizzie has insisted on pouring. Her colour hasn’t come back, and her eyes look huge and black against the whiteness of her skin. Her hand shakes as she
puts the glass down.

‘We’ll have to call the guards.’

Lizzie nods. It’s raining now; they can hear the drops slapping against the window.

Just then, the kitchen door opens and Pete walks in. As soon as she sees him, Lizzie remembers that the three of them had planned to go to Doherty’s that evening. The Sunday night out.

‘Hey –’ Pete’s grin fades as he catches sight of Angela’s face. She looks at him and dissolves into tears. He’s beside her in three steps, lifting her from
the chair, rocking her in his arms and stroking her hair. He says softly, into her ear, ‘Hey, shh – easy, hon . . . shh . . . it’s OK, darlin’ . . . ’

He looks over her shoulder at Lizzie, and she says quickly, ‘Deirdre’s missing. I’m just going to phone the police.’

She goes out to the hall, picks up the phone and dials Joe’s number – before she changes her mind, or loses her nerve.

He answers after a few rings. ‘Hello?’

She grips the receiver tightly. ‘Joe, it’s Lizzie.’ Without giving him a chance to respond, she rushes on: ‘Deirdre has disappeared – she’s been gone all day.
Angela is out of her mind with worry.’ She stops, glances over her shoulder at the closed kitchen door, then races on. ‘Joe, I saw her with Charlie a few weeks ago in Seapoint. Have you
any idea if they were seeing each other?’

There’s a second’s silence. When he speaks, he sounds shaken. ‘No, none at all. But . . .’

He stops. Lizzie closes her eyes, takes in a shuddering breath; what now?

‘Charlie has gone too – with yesterday’s takings. I only discovered it a while ago. If you saw him with Dee, we have to assume that they might be together now. Have you called
the guards?’

‘No – I’m just about to.’
Oh, God – Deirdre with that man
. . . She prays for it not to be true.

‘Right; I’ll talk to them too.’ Joe hangs up abruptly, and she hears the buzz of the phone in her ear.

After she’s spoken with a garda in Seapoint, she replaces the receiver. Then she forces herself to examine the awful possibility that Deirdre and Charlie might be together.

It makes no sense. Deirdre is so sensible, so level-headed; why would she look twice at someone like Charlie?

Because he meets her in secret, tells her how pretty she is, talks like someone on the telly. Tells the shy little Irish girl that he loves her, that they have to go away so they can be
together.
The thought comes out of nowhere, makes Lizzie draw her breath in sharply. And starts to make some kind of awful sense.

She remembers Deirdre hurrying up from the beach with flushed cheeks, looking relieved when Lizzie tells her that Angela isn’t home – relieved that her mother isn’t there to
witness what Lizzie chooses not to notice: the look of excitement on her face.

The more she thinks about it, the more sense it makes. It would have amused Charlie that the innocent little Irish colleen was so gullible, so easily satisfied. A few compliments, a few kisses
in the moonlight, and she’d be ready to run away with him to God knows where.

Lizzie goes back into the kitchen with a heart full of dread. Pete is still holding Angela, who leans her head against his shoulder and grips his shirt tightly. He strokes her hair and murmurs
to her. They could be lovers; Lizzie almost feels in the way.

Angela lifts her head; her eyes are swollen, her face still deathly pale. ‘Are they coming?’

‘They’ll be right out,’ Lizzie says. She fills the kettle, trying to convince herself that there’s nothing to be gained by mentioning Charlie; Angela will hear it soon
enough.

They’re halfway through the second cup of tea when the doorbell rings. Lizzie opens the front door; Joe is standing there in the rain with two uniformed gardaí. She clenches her
fists as she follows them into the kitchen.

‘Mrs Byrne.’ The gardaí introduce themselves and take Deirdre’s details from Angela, who holds Pete’s hand tightly as she answers their questions in a low voice.
Joe stands just inside the door, head bent. Lizzie doesn’t look in his direction, but she’s acutely aware of his presence.

Then the garda who seems to be in charge looks up from his notebook and explains to Angela that Mr McCarthy has informed them that his son is also missing, and that they’re checking out
the possibility that the two disappearances might be linked.

Angela looks blankly at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

Joe steps forward slightly, and Angela seems to notice him for the first time. She stares at him for a few seconds. ‘Son? What son?’

The garda checks his notebook. ‘A Mr Charlie McCarthy – he’s been staying with Mr McCarthy for the past –’

‘That’s not his son, that’s his nephew, and he’s got nothing to do with my daughter – they didn’t even know each other,’ Angela says, exasperated.
‘Tell them, Joe.’

‘He is my son, Angela.’ His voice is hardly recognisable, so low and defeated.

As he speaks, Lizzie watches Angela’s face. It goes from incomprehension to denial, as Joe tells her gently that Deirdre and Charlie were seen together, to horror. And then to rage.

She pulls away from Pete and stands up slowly. ‘My God – you knew, didn’t you? You knew they were seeing each other.’ Her eyes blaze into Joe; he’s shaking his
head, but she ignores it. ‘You knew – and you did nothing to stop it.’ Her knuckles are white where they grip the back of the chair.

‘Angela, you must believe me –’

‘Shut up!’ she practically screams. Lizzie flinches; she’s never seen her in this state. ‘Shut up, Joe McCarthy! Your good-for-nothing
son
–’ She
spits out the word, ‘ – that . . . that
scumbag
. . .’

Joe just stands there, stony-faced; in spite of all that has happened, Lizzie’s heart goes out to him as Angela rages.

‘If that bastard has touched a hair on her head, if he’s done
anything
to her, I’ll hold you responsible, Joe McCarthy – and I will
never, ever
forgive
you for this.’

Joe says nothing as Angela rants on, accusing him of letting them meet in his house – maybe he even introduced them, thinking it might help Charlie to settle down? Maybe that was why he
brought him over from England in the first place, to find him a nice innocent Irish girl?

John Byrne arrives in the middle of her tirade and tries to calm her down. ‘It’s not Joe’s fault, love – you can see he’s as upset about all this as we are. You
can’t blame him –’

But Angela is beyond reasoning with; she’s pale and shaking, cold and dry-eyed one minute, raging with hot floods of tears the next. She flings John’s arm off, spins round and stabs
a finger at him.

‘You keep out of this! Where were you when she went missing? What do you care what happens her? What do you care about anything except your fancy woman? Coming over here and taking Dee
out, pretending you give a damn, spending money on rubbish in Seapoint . . .’

They let her continue – what else can they do? In the end she collapses into Pete’s arms, exhausted, and the two gardaí leave with a photo of Deirdre, promising to call the
minute they have news. Joe leaves with them, looking haggard.

Lizzie fills the kettle for what seems like the umpteenth time, and the four of them sit around the table like survivors of a nuclear war. John stares down into his coffee cup with a face like
thunder, pretending he doesn’t notice Pete’s arm across Angela’s shoulders, her head leaning against his chest.

Lizzie sits miserably at the table, praying for news.

Several cups of tea, four glasses of brandy, a few rounds of ham sandwiches and twelve hours later, the phone rings.

‘They took a Ryanair flight from Dublin to Birmingham yesterday evening; we had a positive sighting from one of the stewardesses. And your daughter’s bank card was
used to withdraw two hundred pounds from a cash machine in Birmingham at ten fifty-two last night.’ The garda is reading from his notebook; Angela’s eyes never leave his face.
‘She gave herself up early this morning – just walked into a police station.’

‘On her own.’ Angela is only repeating what she already knows.

‘It seems they had some kind of falling-out,’ says the garda. ‘From the information she gave us, we were able to intercept Mr McCarthy when he arrived in Euston Station in
London.’

Angela’s whole face is transformed; even streaked with tear-tracks, blotchy with lack of sleep, it looks beautiful. Since they got the phone call, she’s been smiling.

‘She’s safe,’ she says, so low it’s almost a whisper.

The garda nods. ‘Probably feeling a bit miserable, but otherwise she’s fine, and on her way back. They’re putting her on a plane to Shannon, and then she’ll be driven
here. She should be home by late afternoon.’ He closes his notebook and stands up. ‘Mr McCarthy has been detained for questioning in England.’

‘Thank you.’ Angela takes the garda’s hand and shakes it. ‘That’s wonderful – thank you so much.’

He nods again, a bashful smile spreading over his face; he can’t be more than twenty-five. Lizzie is happy for him, that he’s able to bring good news – he’ll surely have
plenty of terrible visits to make to other homes in the future. ‘No problem, Mrs Byrne. I’m just glad your ordeal ended well.’ He looks at the four of them standing in the
doorway. ‘Maybe you should all try and get some sleep before she arrives; it’ll be a few hours yet.’

When she’s closed the door behind him Angela leans against it, suddenly looking exhausted.

Pete smiles at her. ‘You heard the man, honey; you get some shut-eye now, hear? Everything’s OK.’ He squeezes her hand briefly.

She gives him a tired grin. ‘Yeah, I think I’d better lie down before I fall down. Thanks for being here, Pete.’ She turns to John, her smile fading. ‘Sorry I shouted at
you earlier.’

‘No problem.’ He shrugs. His face looks drawn. ‘You were worried. I may as well head off too; tell her I’ll phone in the morning – and can I come and see her on
Saturday?’

Angela nods. ‘Drive carefully.’ They’re like polite strangers.

After Pete and John leave, Lizzie heads down towards the caravan, telling Angela she’ll see her later. They’ve put a ‘Closed’ sign on the restaurant door.

Her eyes are gritty; it hurts to blink – but she feels that sleep would be impossible; her head is spinning. Maybe a walk . . .

She finds herself on the beach, scrunching along by the sea as she has so many times before. It’s not yet noon, but the day is grey and cold; winter is well on the way. She walks a bit
faster and tries to sort out the jumble of thoughts and questions cluttering up her head.

How on earth could Charlie and Deirdre’s relationship have gone unnoticed in Merway? How long had it been going on? Where did they meet? No doubt Deirdre will tell Angela everything . . .
eventually. How is she feeling now, on her way home? And why didn’t she go to London with Charlie? What happened to make them split up in Birmingham? She’s probably on a plane right
now, maybe the same one that took her and Charlie to England last night. Lizzie glances up at the white sky; it’s too cold for the seagulls. She hugs her arms tightly around herself –
she should have put on a jacket.

And Joe . . . God knows how he’s feeling this morning. She assumes the gardaí have been in touch with him, too, to let him know. What a horrible thing for him to have to deal with
– his son facing a criminal conviction . . . Will Charlie be charged with abduction, since Deirdre is underage, even if she went with him willingly?

Lizzie shakes her head – too many questions. She makes her way back to the caravan and lies on the bed fully clothed, sure she won’t sleep.

Eight hours later she wakes up to the sound of knocking. She drags herself up and opens the door; Angela is standing on the step with a bottle of wine.

‘She’s back, she’s asleep.’ She holds up the bottle. ‘I need it, even if you don’t.’

Lizzie smiles blearily and moves aside to let her in. When the fire is lit and they’re sitting with two full glasses, Angela tells her everything.

‘He swept her off her feet. He told her she was the only girl he’d ever loved – can you imagine? – said they’d get married once she was sixteen, he had a friend
who’d give him a job in London . . . and the little innocent creature swallowed every word.’

She shakes her head slowly. ‘And this was going on for months, Lizzie – since way before the summer. How could I not have seen it coming? How could I have been so blind?’

Lizzie takes a sip; the wine has a full, spicy taste. ‘What happened when they got to Birmingham?’

Angela’s face hardens. ‘He robbed her, that’s what happened. They went to the station and he took her wallet to get their tickets, left her minding the bags – and
vanished. Can you believe it?’