Authors: Vanessa Fox
‘
Dodo!’ she could hardly get the words out, fell with her arms around the old dog, burying her face in its coat.
Sebastian’s eyes met hers. His face and chest were smeared with carbon. He reached for her hand and pulled her towards the garden door.
THIRTY NINE
‘
Here they are at last.’ Derek O’Hanlon, the sergeant in charge of Kilfenora's small but efficient Garda station jumped out of the one battered armchair in the public office and nodded to the two lads who had been waiting since ten for The Griff to bring the patrol car back to base. ‘You two get up to the house and assist Bravo One, let me know what’s happening.’
Both in their thirties, well over six feet tall and solidly built, the two men greeted Joe with a grin, giving Caroline a swift appraisal before heading straight out to the yard. She was a looker but their interest ended there. Things were moving fast up at Kilfenora, radio messages flashing out to all the emergency services and they were both itching to get the inside track from the fire brigade.
The sergeant put his mug of coffee down on a desk covered in a sea of well-thumbed newsprint and did his own appraisal of the woman who had just stumbled in through the door, relying heavily on Joe Griffin’s supporting hand at her elbow. She didn’t look their usual sort – despite the fake tan and broken heel–was dressed like some sort of Greek goddess. In the harsh and uncompromising fluorescent light he couldn’t see any track marks on her bare arms, and her sleek black hair and flashy dress and jewellery certainly looked like the real thing…
Over her shoulder The Griff rolled his eyes theatrically and inclined his head towards their resident Romeo, young Sean, who had slipped in behind them, was now busying himself checking the incident reports churned out by the fax machine, trying hard to look invisible. The sergeant followed Joe’s eye, amused. There was obviously a story in this one…and from the disgruntled look on Sean’s face, and the smear of lipstick on his jaw, it was a good one.
‘
Name?’ Moving over to a desk with a computer terminal and keyboard resting on it, O’Hanlon looked expectantly at Caroline. But she obviously wasn’t listening, was looking around the faded grandeur of the public office with unconcealed interest, like she’d just arrived in Disneyland.
It had been someone’s front room about a hundred years before; partition walls thrown up when it was taken over by the State slicing the cornicing and dado rails between the interview room and the passage to the cells, like icing on a cake. Stuffy, the storage heaters never quite on the right setting, the plastered walls scarred and battered and painted in Corporation cream, it had definitely seen better days. Even the desk the sergeant was leaning on, new in 1975, was ringed with coffee stains, a large chip in its Formica top where a prisoner had tried to make a break for it through the wired glass of the public hatch, taking the guard he was handcuffed to with him. Curiosity getting the better of him, O’Hanlon followed Caroline’s eye line to see what was so interesting. The row of dented filing cabinets leaning against one wall was typical, office grey, nothing remarkable there; a row of box files stood to attention along the top, punctuated by a scattering of peaked hats and a bullet-proof vest… maybe it was the footie she was interested in; the station’s portable TV was on behind him, the sound turned down.
Before he had a chance to repeat his question, Caroline’s eyes widened,
‘
Gosh it’s just like The Bill or CSI or something isn’t it?’ O’Hanlon did a double take. He hadn’t expected a posh accent, albeit slurred, the glimpse of France like a high kick in the Moulin Rouge. She interrupted his thoughts with a giggle, ‘Where do you lock them up?’
Behind her the door from the cells opened, Garda Maria Fennelly appearing, a set of huge Victorian keys jangling in her hand. Dressed exactly like her male colleagues, her blonde bob pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, face devoid of makeup she was younger than Caroline but a whole lot more with it. She caught Caroline’s last comment, stood back expressionless, watching the proceedings, her arms folded, taking in the sunray-pleated white wrap evening dress, her peep-toe suede shoe-boots, the missing four-inch heel. O’Hanlon stifled the chuckle that was welling up inside him – if they could get her booked in, she’d be getting a guided tour of the inside of the cells soon enough.
‘
Could you tell me your full name please?’ He could have added it’s almost 10.30 p.m. and these boys want to get home, and Man United are playing Chelsea and half the village is trying to put out a blaze like the Towering Inferno, but he managed to resist the temptation. Caroline got the point though, looked at him like he’d asked her for her bra size.
‘
Caroline Audiguet-O’Reilly.’ From her tone, she obviously thought he should have known. O’Hanlon’s fingers hovered over the keys, ‘That’s AUDIGUET, like the wine?’
‘
Right,’ he paused, then, ‘date of birth?’
‘
Well really I don’t…’
‘
Date of birth?’
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5th November…1973,’ O’Hanlon tapped it in to the computer, ‘I’m Scorpio. Intense and passionate...’ That figured. His ex-wife was Scorpio, he could have added jealous, obsessive and obstinate before you even got to the sting in the tail.
‘
Address?’
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The Four Seasons, Ballsbridge.’
‘
The hotel?’
‘
In the apartments. Top floor.’ Nice.
‘
Nationality?’
‘
French.’ Now they were getting somewhere.
‘
Do you have any medical problems?’
‘
Do cheating fiancés count?’
O’Hanlon almost groaned. This was a simple procedure, it shouldn’t take all night, ‘No, I was thinking more of diabetes, drug dependence that sort of thing.’
Caroline screwed up her face for a moment, apparently thinking hard, ‘No, none that I know of. I’m pretty much perfect.’
Over her shoulder O’Hanlon caught Joe rolling his eyes again. ‘Do you want to contact a solicitor?’
There was a pause. A long pause.
‘
Why would I need to do that?’ Caroline’s voice was sweet, slurred but sweet and completely innocent. Joe shook his head in disbelief, running his hand across his eyes. He’d seen some good ones over the years, but she really took the biscuit. How many had she had? He exchanged a look over Caroline’s shoulder with Maria.
‘
You’ve been arrested. Do you know why you were arrested?’
‘
Me? I think you must be mixing me up with someone else. I had a bit of a bump in my car and these lovely guards brought me here. And I’d love a cup of coffee.’
‘
Caroline Audiguet-O’Reilly you’ve been arrested under Section 49 of the Road Traffic Act 2006. You were seen driving erratically and when stopped, you smelled strongly of alcohol and were unable to walk along a straight line between your vehicle and the Garda patrol vehicle. You are required to provide a breath sample.’
‘
I’m sure after a cup of coffee I’d be able to walk anywhere with that other chap...’
‘
We won’t be giving you anything that could interfere with the result of the sample.’
Caroline looked at O’Hanlon aghast, then, sounding like a small child arguing over a toy, said, ‘Well I’m not going to give you a sample then.’
O’Hanlon had seen this one coming, ‘In that case you will be charged with refusing to give a breath sample, which automatically carries the maximum penalty.’ He nodded to Maria. They needed a female guard for the next bit – in the early days when there were fewer women in the job this whole procedure could have been held up for hours while they sent to Dublin for a woman to deal with a woman prisoner. Thank God things had changed. ‘You will be held here for your own safety until you sober up. Please remove any valuables, belts, jewellery etc and hand them to Garda Fennelly.’
‘
And why exactly do I need to do that?’ Caroline narrowed her eyes, flicking them from Maria to the sergeant. It was the first time she’d noticed that there was another woman in the room and it seemed to throw her off her stride, ‘How do I know they’ll be safe?’
‘
This is a Garda station,’ he spelled it out, ‘safer than the Bank of Ireland. Now, if you don’t mind?’ O’Hanlon gestured for her to take off her jewellery.
Glaring at him, Caroline reached up to undo the impressive ruby and emerald necklace around her neck. Maria held open a large brown paper envelope. The necklace landed inside with a bang like a fire cracker.
‘
And the ring please.’ Maria gestured with the envelope.
Arching her eyebrows, Caroline slipped the Wingfield Sapphire off her finger, hesitating for a moment before she dropped it into the bag. ‘I won’t need that back.’
The sergeant ran his hand through his hair, ‘And why exactly would that be?’
Caroline pouted, ‘It’s not mine.’
He almost sighed; had she been out robbing the crown jewels as well as trying to kill herself on the road? ‘And how exactly did you come by it if it’s not yours?’
Focusing on her bracelet watch which was slithering away from her whenever she got her nail under the fastening, Caroline didn’t pick up on his implication.
‘
It belongs to Sebastian Wingfield. I have absolutely no use for it.’
‘
And does he know you have it?’
Caroline pursed her lips, ‘He does. He gave it to me.’
‘
Did he now?’ It was like pulling teeth. ‘And that would be Sebastian Wingfield of Kilfenora House?’
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Obviously,’ Caroline finally managed to undo her watch, threw it decisively into the paper envelope, scowling at Maria as she did so. ‘Lying, cheating bastard. You can give it back to him, I certainly don’t need it anymore.’
‘
I see.’ O’Hanlon’s tone was loaded.
Maria and Joe exchanged looks, both desperate to ask if that would be the Sebastian Wingfield whose house is currently illuminating the skyline? Both thinking that a Section 49 might not be the only charge Caroline Audiguet-O’Reilly would be facing tonight. What did they say? Hell hath no fury…
‘
Follow Garda Fennelly please.’ O’Hanlon gave Maria a nod, ‘Interview Room One.’
FORTY
In Foley’s Bar, his empty plate still sitting on the counter in front of him, the chip fat congealing, Peter folded up his paper and eased himself out from the stool. The barman had been too busy to remove the plate, too busy in fact to notice Peter’s movements much at all.
‘
That’s me done.’ Speaking to no one in particular, Peter pulled out his wallet, selected a note and tossed it on the counter. The barman finally acknowledged him and dragged himself away from the girls long enough to throw the empty plate in the dishwasher under the bar, to pick up the money. Peter had been tempted to give him some tips on chatting up the opposite sex but he could see the girls were up for it, were only looking for a reason to get their kit off. The elderly builder had fallen asleep by the fire. Peter’s movement made him stir, snort in his sleep.
The street was empty when Peter walked outside, heading for his Discovery, back in position behind the pub. He smiled to himself. A fifteen-minute round trip and the barman still hadn’t filled his glass by the time he’d come back from the gents. Sweet.
And everything had gone to plan. Peter had been surprised to see a second car beside Sebastian’s, a silver Golf, but he’d been in and out so fast he hadn’t had time for a proper look. He’d thought maybe someone would hear him forcing the door of the Palm House open, had paused for a split second as the swollen wood had given way under his shoulder, heard the dull sound of a dog barking somewhere at the back of the house but hadn’t waited for it to appear. Sometimes it didn’t pay to hang about.
Clicking his seatbelt into place, firing up the four-wheel drive’s powerful engine, Peter slipped out into the main street and signalled right heading for Dublin. The road was empty. The lads who’d been making a racket earlier at the bus stop had vanished. Further up the street a group of women were standing outside a row of workers’ cottages, their arms crossed, anxious looks on their faces. Peter drove straight on past, taking the bend at a steady fifty. No point in attracting attention.
As he pulled out of the bend, Peter spotted a set of hazard lights flashing up ahead of him. He slowed, didn’t want to get caught up on the periphery of an accident. Then his headlights picked up a tiny red car pulled over into the ditch. The number plate came into focus and his heart sank. What the hell?
Signalling, Peter pulled in ahead of the sports car. Leaving the engine of the Discovery running, he hopped out to double-check it.
The engine was cold. He tried the door handle. Locked. Bending low he looked inside. A bottle of Champagne was tossed onto the floor on the passenger side. What the hell had happened?
It was Caroline’s car. No doubt about it. But where was she? Had she broken down and hitched a lift somewhere? She’d be stupid enough to do that – but surely she was in the AA? But if she was in the AA why had she gone and left the car behind? A bad feeling was growing in his stomach. Looking around him, Peter took in the dense woodland on the opposite side of the road, dark and menacing, the open fields on this side, the loamy smell of evening. Where the hell was she? She would hardly be wandering around here on her own. Worry uncurled, what if she wasn’t on her own, what if someone had flagged her down and attacked her?