O’Connor looked at Deborah Gahan’s phone number and decided to ring Lynch before he made the call.
‘How close are you to the station?’
‘We’re leaving the quays now. Hold on, sir, I’m putting you on the hands-free set. We had another couple of stragglers to chat with after we spoke to Ozzie Brennan.’
‘Any more of interest?’
‘Not really, sir. Waste of time, other than the link of Jenkins to Gahan.’
‘You said
we
, Lynch. Is Kate still with you?’
‘Yes. I’m dropping her back to her office. She’s right here beside me.’
‘Kate?’
‘O’Connor.’
‘Your preliminary report.’
‘What about it?’
‘I have a question for you.’
‘Shoot.’
‘You used the term “expressive violent act”.’
‘I did.’
‘Well, you infer that the two stages of the attack on Jenkins, the stabbing and the drowning, were motivated by separate driving forces, the initial attack resulting from an outburst of emotional feeling.’
‘That’s correct. I don’t think it was the killer’s intention to kill Jenkins during the first attack, but he wanted him to suffer. The level of stab wounds, frequency and sequence of the attack are indicative of high emotions at play, but that isn’t the only element. As I said, the killer didn’t want Jenkins to die that way. If he had done, he could easily have finished him off, which brings us to the method of killing and the location of the murder. As I stated in the report, if neither of these things was random, then the killer’s choice of victims isn’t likely to be random. We now know Jimmy knew Keith Jenkins. Jenkins and Gahan are part of some chain.’
‘There are a couple more links.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were right on the mark when you suggested old connections. Isabel Blennerhasset has added another name to the mix, an Adrian Hamilton. He and Jimmy Gahan went to college together. Jenkins arrived at Trinity a number of years later, but they knew each other.’
‘Go on.’
‘Adrian Hamilton died after a boating accident in 1978.’
‘Drowned?’
‘It was put down as an accident, but rumoured as suicide. As I said, Keith Jenkins would have been the junior of the bunch, but I’m sure this is connected.’
‘It’s tempting to jump to conclusions, O’Connor. Adrian Hamilton’s drowning is significant, but it may not be linked.’
The pain in O’Connor’s eyes intensified. ‘Well, I’m going to meet someone who’ll shed some light on that.’
‘Who?’
‘Deborah Gahan, Jimmy’s sister. She’s just identified her brother’s body.’
‘When are you seeing her?’
‘I’m going to ring her now. She lives local to you, Kate – Ranelagh, Benton Avenue. It might make sense if you came along.’
‘I need to get back to Ocean House, but I could be there for around four.’
‘Perfect. I’ll text you the address and time. Any problems get back to me. Also, Lynch, when you drop Kate off, I have a job for you.’
‘Not a bother, sir.’
‘And some questions for you too. Higgins and Clarke have reported back from Maldon House. Jenkins booked in under a false name with a woman who fits the description of the late Gloria Sweetman.’
‘What are you getting at, sir?’
‘Did Jenkins’s name come up anywhere in that investigation?’
‘Of course not, or I’d have said so.’ Lynch sounded affronted.
‘Just checking, Lynch. Keep your hair on.’
‘Sir?’
‘What?’
‘We never did find out who supplied Gloria Sweetman with the drugs.’
‘I know that.’
‘Someone gave that shitload to her.’
‘Lynch, tell me something I don’t know.’
‘Well, it was something Ozzie Brennan said.’
‘What?’
‘He said, “Dead men can’t commit murder, nor can murder be blamed on them.”’
‘So?’
‘I didn’t get the impression Ozzie was just referring to the murder of Jimmy Gahan.’
‘Why? What else do you think he meant?’
‘I don’t know, just a feeling. It was more the way he paused mid-sentence before saying, “nor can murder be blamed on them”.’
‘You’re thinking Gloria Sweetman.’
‘As I said, sir, someone gave her that bag of drugs.’
O’Connor agreed to meet Deborah Gahan at six o’clock. While Kate waited for the babysitter, Sophie, to arrive, she and Charlie made animal shapes with Play-Doh. The package with the crime-scene photographs from Jimmy Gahan’s murder had arrived, but she had decided to spend one-to-one time with her son before she disappeared again.
Every now and then she would notice a silence between them, as if they both had something on their mind. And everywhere she looked, there were fragments of Declan: photos of them together before Charlie was born, two smiling faces; bookshelves filled with their books. She looked at a tiny antique jewellery box that Declan had bought her in Rome, more for decoration than anything else, because she’d fallen in love with the intricate pattern of two doves. She scanned the pieces of furniture in the apartment that they had picked out together, before deciding which piece would finally make it home. Now the question was when Declan would come home. He had another two months in Birmingham, although he’d promised to visit every second weekend. Kate wondered if that would fall by the wayside too.
The man on the phone the other evening had seemed alien, not the one she’d married. The Declan she knew, despite everything, loved her, but now he loved someone else.
She felt torn at having to leave Charlie so soon after arriving home, especially now. It was more than simply the pressure of the murder investigation, or her caseload: she was unwilling to face up to how much their lives were about to change.
It was only as Kate drove to the address O’Connor had texted her
that she realised she had forgotten to tell Charlie how long she would be. Picking up her mobile phone, she called home, asking Sophie to put him on. ‘I won’t be long, Buster. I’ll be back a little after seven, if that’s okay.’
His voice sounded lower and less confident than normal: ‘Okay, Mum. Sophie is helping me make a rocket with the Play-Doh.’
‘Be good, honey.’
‘I will, Mum.’
‘Charlie?’
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘I love you tons.’
‘I love you tons too.’
At home, I check my emails. Seeing Orla’s name on the screen feels like another step back into normal life. She wants to know if I use Skype. I haven’t done so before, but the laptop has a camera so I download the link. I’m shocked to see my bruises on the screen. Boston is five hours behind. I could try her now, but she might ask me to use the camera.
The last hypnosis session had left me feeling raw. After I’d left Gerard’s, other memories crept in. The first was from before Dad died. Martin, Dominic and Stevie McDaid were out playing soccer. I was watching them. We were all sent outside because Emmaline had come home from hospital. I was just seven. Mum was settling her to sleep. Stevie called Dominic a sissy. Martin was laughing his head off. There had been a huge fight. Dominic told me to get the hell inside. I was the only one in the house with Dad and Mum and Emmaline. She was asleep in her cot. I heard the Mr Whippy ice-cream van driving up the strand, playing ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’. Then the house went dark. I was crying and Dominic was telling me to shut up. Martin and Stevie were there too, but they weren’t talking. Stevie was Dominic’s soccer buddy and they both loved Manchester United. Martin was crap at sports, but Dominic pitied him because others at school picked on him. We were all in the attic. We’d done something. I think we were hiding. Dominic had the latch over on the inside of the attic door.
The next memory was Dad’s funeral. Dominic was wearing a suit, a shiny grey one. He looked like a miniature big person, as if he could fit inside my doll’s house. I was alone on the front steps of Seacrest looking at the sea. Dominic ran by me, flinging his jacket on the
ground, hightailing it over to the strand. Uncle Jimmy dragged him back. I’d forgotten Jimmy was one of my dolls. He told us stories, long ones if he was in a good mood. Jimmy made everyone laugh – everyone except Mum. Jimmy was the same age as Dad; he called him Jimmy the Juggler because he kept so many balls in the air.
Back in Gerard’s office when I was under hypnosis, Mum was pregnant with Emmaline. She had pushed Dad’s hand away, shutting him out, and then that awful sound of a bell ringing, and the man’s face at the door.
I wonder should I write all this down, but instead I go to Ruby’s room. I lock the door behind me. I press the record button on my mobile phone. I say, ‘Testing, one, two, three,’ then listen back. My voice sounds strange, but it’s loud and clear. I press record again and start.
‘I’m on the strand. The sun is beaming down, burning the back of my neck. My neck feels hot, like a furnace, but I don’t want to turn around. I’m building sandcastles with my red plastic bucket and yellow spade.’
I stop, press pause and look around the room, checking that I’m alone. I listen for any sounds downstairs. When I hear nothing, I press record again.
‘My dolls are with me. Sandy and Debbie are sitting opposite, but Debbie is watching my mum and him. I stand up and walk down to the sea. I wobble back having filled my bucket to the brim with water. It feels heavier than me as I struggle with it, not wanting to spill any. My feet are sinking into the sand. My right arm is stretched and pained. The sun is dazzling. Debbie doesn’t take her eyes off the two of them. The closer I get, I catch the smell of his smoke in the breeze. I can hear my mother laughing. Her legs look long, tanned from our holiday in France. “Today is a treat,” she had said. “We don’t need the boys, just us two girls down on the beach.” But it isn’t only the two of us. She looks beautiful, my mother. She always did. I don’t want to look at him, but Debbie never lets him out of her sight. Did
I know his name back then? I must have done. Perhaps I blocked it out. He stands up, stubbing out his cigarette into the sand. I look at Mum. She’s laughing. I see my sandcastles in his sunglasses, the ones blocking out his eyes. He doesn’t stand for long. He kneels down, then lies on the far side of my mother. Her head turns away from me to him. I hear whispers, the kind I hear downstairs when Debbie wants to shout. Instead of looking at them, I stare at the cigarette butt, the one he’s shoved into the sand. The more people pass, the deeper it gets buried. Soon it will disappear. The blue of the sea is blinding.’
I stop again, noticing the panic in my voice. I need to calm down. I press record again. Now my voice is more measured.
‘When he props himself up on his elbows, his head causes a shadow over me. His hair is brown, past his ears. My mother runs her fingers through it. He keeps his eyes on her. It’s as if I’m invisible. “Go and get her an ice-cream,” my mother says, but he doesn’t move, at least not at first. He turns towards me, as if he’s waiting for me to ask the question. He’s staring at me, and I don’t like it. I don’t say anything. “Go on,” she says, and this time he moves. As he walks away, he gets smaller and smaller, and all the time, my mother is watching him, until she picks up her magazine, holding it with her pink-polished nails, pretending she doesn’t care about him now that he’s gone. But she does care. She folds the magazine over, fixing her hair, smoothing the sand off her legs.
‘When he returns, he puts the cold choc-ice on her tummy. She jumps, then laughs again, before handing it to me. I want to sink like the cigarette butt into the sand. I turn away, my back to them, talking to Sandy and Debbie, feeling the heat of the sun burn the back of my neck, but not caring. I eat the choc-ice. When some of it drops on my legs, melting, I wipe it away, but it feels sticky, the sand hurting my skin, and they both laugh.’
I stop the recording. I press the play button and listen. The first time I met Gerard Hayden, he’d said that after regression some memories might come flooding back. But they feel disjointed. The man with
my mother on the beach is the man whose face I saw at the door of my doll’s house. I remember he wouldn’t put his cigarette butts in the ashtray. Instead he would put them in the bin, or flick the butt into the bushes before entering the house. Dad was never there when the man came in the afternoon, at least not that I remember.
Part of me doesn’t want to press the record button again, but if I don’t, I might lose it. When I do, I wait a few seconds before I start.
‘Our house is filled with people. They’re dancing in the front room. The music is loud and fast. I can smell alcohol and smoke. Sometimes the boys would sneak alcohol up to the attic, and they would all stink of it. At first I’m not sure if he’s there, the man from the doll’s house. I feel small among all the adults, with their tall, tight bodies. Some of their faces smile down at me. I think I’m six or maybe seven. I open the door to the hall, and see the kitchen door is ajar. There’s a light coming from behind it. I pass my father before going out into the hall. He’s in the corner chatting with Uncle Jimmy and another man. The man’s face is in the shadows. I feel I should know who he is, even though I can’t see his face. There is something about him that scares me. The lines on my dad’s forehead look tight, making that bumpy pattern, the one he used to make when he was worried or angry. None of them notices me. Out in the hall, the loud music becomes muted, and I feel cold. I’m curious about the light from the kitchen. When I push the door open, at first I don’t see anyone, but I know somebody’s there. I hear voices, mutters. I hear laughter, my mother’s, then the man’s.
‘They don’t know I’m there, so I move closer to the sounds. They’re in the storage room off the kitchen. The light is off in there. It looks dark, but I can make out their shapes. Mum has her back to me, her arms around his neck. He is leaning into her, kissing her face and then her neck, moving from one to the other, before burying his face in her beautiful ginger hair. It’s trailing down her back. Their bodies are tight together, they’re engrossed in one another, until he sees me. I freeze, not knowing what to do next. He keeps staring at me, saying nothing,
like I’m somebody else’s problem, nothing for him to worry about. My mum turns, scooping me up in her arms, moving fast, leaving the man behind her. She brings me upstairs, pretending to be cross because I’ve got out of bed. She tells me it was all a dream, I should go back to sleep and not leave my bed again, not to come down until morning. She puts my doll Sandy in beside me.’