Little Bones: A disturbing Irish crime thriller (The Cathy Connolly Series) Page 12

  Cathy had nodded to his back, her face pale, reflected in the windowpane like the ghost of someone she used to be.

  ‘Take Jamie Fanning with you. I’ve got him buckshee from Cabinteely; he needs the experience so keep him busy. He’ll get on with your Zoë like a house on fire.’

  ‘You sure that’s a good idea? He’s a bit of a charmer.’ Jamie Fanning, who kept the entire district entertained with his nocturnal adventures, was nicknamed 007 for good reason.

  O’Rourke had rolled his eyes. ‘He’s keen to make a good impression. I’m sure he can manage to take notes while you talk to her. It’s not rocket science.’

  Standing in his office, she’d groaned inwardly. Having Jamie Fanning hanging about would make it bloody difficult for her to get a moment on her own to make a private phone call – but as they’d arrived outside Oleander House, he’d been complaining about needing a coffee and she’d seen her opportunity and packed him off to the shop. Thank goodness the receptionist at the Well Woman Clinic had picked up on the first ring. The next available appointment was next week. Cathy’s sigh of relief had been ragged. It was a step forward, but it still felt like a lifetime away.

  So here she was, appointment booked, fresh coffee on the way. And here was Steve Maguire. Had he heard her? She’d been careful, keeping her voice low. She shook the thought from her head; he couldn’t have done, she was getting paranoid.

  Cathy looked at Steve, tuning back in to his question. What was she doing at Oleander House? What he was doing here was more to the point. He was still wearing his denim jacket, now with a navy fleece-lined jacket under it, his messenger bag slung over his back, looking like he’d just got out of the shower.

  ‘I’m here trying to do my job, obviously.’

  He jumped off the bike, grinning. ‘Looking good, girl. This detective business suits you.’

  Cathy shot him a withering look, self-consciously yanking her hair behind her ear, wishing she’d tied it back, thankful she’d thrown on a tailored black jacket this morning over her black roll-neck and jeans. At least she looked professional . . .

  ‘You on your own? I thought cops always had partners.’

  ‘I do, thanks, he’s just nipped to the shop. But never mind what I’m doing here, aren’t you through with the knight-in-shining-armour routine?’

  ‘Me? Never . . .’ He threw her a cheeky grin.

  Cathy rolled her eyes. ‘So, what exactly are you doing here?’

  ‘Zoë called to say she was here, so I thought I’d check up on her. She’s really scared that the guy she saw in her garden might come back. She needs someone to look out for her.’

  Cathy looked at him quizzically. Did Steve have any idea what he was getting himself into? She knew he meant well, but she’d always thought he was a bit of a dreamer, more interested in his music than the real world and earning a real living. Pete didn’t agree; he reckoned Steve Maguire was as sharp as they came, would make more money than all of them with his various enterprises. And Cathy had to admit he was probably right on that score – the band Steve had managed when he dropped out of med school had gone viral on YouTube, and now he’d started this magazine, was already looking at expanding it across Europe. He thought big, never let anything get in his way. That didn’t mean he hadn’t had some major disasters, had come to Pete to be bailed out more than once, but he always had another project in the pipeline that could be the next big thing.

  Should she warn him about Zoë though? Whatever was going on here could bring everything he’d built tumbling down. The rag press loved a good scandal and to bring anyone who looked like they were doing well back to ground level. Steve Maguire was too young and too successful for a lot of the whiskey-swilling old guard to stomach.

  Would she be breaching protocol if she told him to back off? She and Steve Maguire went back a long way.

  Cathy took a deep breath, trying to impart the seriousness of the situation with a frown, failing miserably. He wasn’t getting it.

  For a moment Cathy felt a blast of impatience – she didn’t want to have to spell it out letter by letter but it suddenly clicked that she was going to have to tell him. For one thing, if he got in the way of the investigation O’Rourke would go nuts . . . Cathy could hear him now, going on about her not declaring a conflict of interest, forgetting to mention she knew the suspect’s boyfriend . . . personally. She glanced over her shoulder to see if there was any sign of 007. He was probably chatting up the girl in the shop, but he could appear at any moment. She’d better make this quick.

  ‘Look, you didn’t hear this from me, Steve, but you really need to keep away from Zoë Grant. This is a whole lot more complicated than it looks.’

  Steve looked at her, surprised.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s not someone you want to get involved with.’ Cathy kept her voice low, conscious of a man waiting at the bus stop across the road, the collar of his overcoat turned up against the chill sea breeze. He had his head buried in the Irish Times but she didn’t want him overhearing their conversation.

  ‘And why exactly would that be? Because she thinks she’s being stalked and now her grandmother’s dead?’ Steve’s voice had a sharp edge to it, like Cathy was interfering, like it was none of her business.

  She could understand that.

  ‘She just isn’t . . .’ Cathy tried to reach for words that would paint the picture, but that wouldn’t compromise her. She couldn’t give him specifics, but she had to make it clear. She didn’t get a chance.

  ‘You my keeper now, Garda Connolly?’ Obviously she’d hit a nerve.

  ‘Of course not.’ Cathy shot the words right back at him. ‘I’m just telling you that there’s stuff going on here you don’t know about.’

  Steve frowned. ‘Zoë’s had a tough time. Her grandmother was a total bitch – the last person who should have been bringing up a kid. Zoë’s a brilliant artist but she’s got a ton of issues; she’s terrified of the dark and so frightened of water she can’t even take a bath.’ He paused. ‘She’s never had anyone to look out for her.’ Then he said, half-teasing, ‘You jealous?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Steve, have you got a one-track mind? Is it possible that I’m looking out for you here without a hidden agenda? Just listen to me, will you? Keep away from her.’ Cathy paused. She was getting annoyed now; whether it was from embarrassment that he’d thought she was jealous, or because he’d been sucked in by Zoë Grant’s apparent neediness, she wasn’t sure. ‘Don’t you get it?’ She kept her voice low as she tried to control her temper. ‘I’m not here for the good of my health. Read my lips, I’m working.’

  Avoiding Cathy’s eye, Steve grimaced, and jumping off the bike, leaned it on his hip, crossing his arms. Tight. Defensive?

  ‘I know. She told me.’ Narrowing her eyes, Cathy looked at him speculatively. ‘About the bones I mean.’ Steve grimaced and rubbed his hand across his face.

  About the bones. The words reverberated between them like a bell tolling. A big bell. Ringing loud.

  Cathy raised her eyebrows. ‘She didn’t happen to mention where they came from by any chance?’ Cathy had intended it to sound sarcastic, but she half-meant it, the possibility that Zoë Grant might actually have told him the full story at some point after a bottle of wine in the early hours of the morning hitting her right between the eyes in one of those ‘duh’ moments.

  Steve checked out the toe of his Converse, kicked a piece of gravel around the pavement for a moment, weighing up how much he could tell her?

  ‘She doesn’t know.’

  ‘Really?’ Cathy was tempted to say. ‘And you believe her?’ but bit it back. Was he telling her the truth? Surely the past counted for something, surely he’d be straight with her when push came to shove. But she was a cop and his latest conquest – if that’s what Zoë was – was a suspect. Cathy tried to make the next question sound relaxed, casual.

  ‘How long have you known her?’

  Steve’s
sigh was audible. ‘About twenty-four hours.’

  Cathy did a double take. Was that the truth? If it was, at least it got her off the hook with O’Rourke. It was hardly a conflict of interest if they’d only just met.

  ‘You’re not serious. So what’s with the boyfriend routine?’

  Steve shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask to be shipped in here last night – that was your boss. Then Lavinia Grant’s body gets found – I couldn’t exactly abandon her, could I?’ Steve paused. ‘And that Trish O’Sullivan’s nuts. She might be drawing her pension, but for all I knew, she could have topped Lavinia Grant and been after Zoë next.’

  Cathy raised her eyebrows: gallantry or foolishness? Steve shuffled nervously. ‘And she doesn’t seem to have many friends – there wasn’t anyone else she could call.’ He sounded like he was trying to justify himself.

  ‘She must know someone. Everyone has friends.’ Cathy was about to say more but suddenly she felt the hair rising on the back of her neck. Glancing up towards the house, she checked the windows, expecting to see a pale face looking down on them. But each window stared out blankly towards the horizon, reflecting the sharp grey line of the sea. There was someone watching them, she was sure of it. Someone hidden. Cathy looked again. No one there. But the feeling didn’t go away.

  Turning and leaning back on the railings, crossing her arms, Cathy glanced back down the road. Still no sign of Fanning – how long did it take to get coffee? She frowned, trying to focus on what Steve had said. O’Rourke’s idea this morning had been for her to come back and chat to Zoë, to build a picture of her life without dragging her into the interview room and tramping all over what could be a delicate situation with their size elevens. And here was Steve Maguire, someone Zoë was likely to open up to, already on the inside . . .

  Steve leaned his bike on the railings beside Cathy, one hand on the handlebars, the other stuck in his jeans pocket. ‘You’d think she’d have friends, but apart from this guy Phil who frames her pictures and a couple of girls she used to know at school, Zoë seems to have a very limited circle.’ He paused. ‘It’s probably to do with being a Grant. If you’re worth millions it’s hard to know who to trust.’

  Steve frowned, like he was suddenly seeing something for the first time and it was worrying him. ‘You’d think that was the answer to all your problems, wouldn’t you? A couple of million in the bank.’ He looked rueful. ‘You know, Pete and me, we’re always talking about making it, moving forward, hustling, looking for the next opportunity, and that’s a real buzz, but when you see the impact real money has, you start to wonder if that really is the right win. They say money can’t buy you happiness.’

  If Zoë Grant was anything to go by, he was damn right there. About to answer, Cathy glanced behind her again, looking up at Oleander House’s high windows. The feeling of being watched was still there. Like ice sliding down her back. She turned back to him, her voice low, serious: ‘Do you believe her, Steve, honestly? How did you meet her?’

  ‘She’s doing an exhibition for Max. I was supposed to be interviewing her.’

  Of course, how could she forget? Max. Max fecking Igoe. For a moment Cathy felt like the world had shifted a foot, fast, and in the opposite direction to the one she was going in. This wasn’t her day.

  ‘If Zoë knows Max Igoe, she must have friends.’ Keep it practical.

  ‘That’s business. I wouldn’t put him down as a friend. He saw one of her paintings in that flower shop she works in, asked her to come in for a chat.’

  Cathy was starting to build the picture, although it wasn’t the one she’d expected. ‘So why exactly did you turn up at her house yesterday? To get the interview?’

  Steve nodded, drawing in his breath. ‘That’s about it. Max had a meeting with her yesterday, was worried when she didn’t call back, thought she’d changed her mind about the exhibition. Then the whole thing happened here and . . . well . . . she asked me to help her.’

  ‘To help her?’ Cathy looked at him, her eyes wide. What the hell did she want help with that didn’t involve interfering with a Garda investigation?

  Steve was looking at his Converse again, didn’t appear to have noticed her reaction. ‘She’s lost touch with her mother, wants me to help her find her.’

  ‘Her mother?’ Cathy knew she was sounding like a parrot.

  ‘You know that Dr Seuss thing “I have heard there are troubles of more than one kind. Some come from ahead and some come from behind”? Well Zoë certainly seems to have more than her fair share.’ He paused. ‘She said her mother’s in France somewhere – Paris, she thinks. Went when Zoë was about three, but they’ve lost touch. And she really wants to find her – now more than ever, because of the exhibition. Her mum’s an artist too.’

  ‘And how are you planning to find her, exactly?’

  Steve shrugged like it was obvious. ‘Google. If you know how to look you can find all sorts of things. Not just social media, there are lots of ways. If she’s an artist she’s probably had an exhibition. And she went to live with Zoë’s father, apparently. Max said the French social security system is pretty thorough.’ Cathy shook her head, half to herself: Max again. As if this was any of his business. Steve didn’t seem to notice. ‘If her mother’s there, I’ll find her. It’s very hard to be invisible these days. Might have to be a bit clever, but you know . . .’

  Cathy knew – or rather she didn’t want to know. Steve had started coding in school, had hacked into University College Dublin once to get the phone number of a girl he fancied. Some things she was definitely better off not knowing. She looked at him meaningfully. He grinned, getting it immediately.

  ‘Sorry, Garda Connolly. Point taken.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘So who’s Zoë’s father?’

  Before Steve could answer, the front door slammed shut, the sound making them both jump. Cathy turned sharply to see Trish O’Sullivan barrelling towards them, a cigarette hanging from her mouth.

  Across the road, the man waiting for the bus turned to the next page of his newspaper.

  20

  ‘Do you think you could work in your study instead of at the kitchen table?’

  Emily put a cup of coffee down beside Tony. It was his late day, he wasn’t due in for another hour. Looking up, he grinned. ‘I won’t be a minute, just need to sort these notes and then I’ll be off. What are your plans for the afternoon?’

  Emily sat down opposite him, turning her own mug in her hands. ‘I thought I’d take Mary shopping for some new shoes. I don’t think a woman of her age should be wearing trainers. And then I’m taking her to Praxis for a late lunch.’

  ‘Where’s Praxis?’ Tony pretended to be affronted. ‘You’ve never taken me there for lunch.’

  ‘That’s because it’s a charity for migrants and refugees arriving in London. On Potts Street next to the church. They have a coffee shop and an Irish group that meet there. You never know, it might stir some memories.’

  ‘Sounds good. The quicker she’s back on her feet’ – and out of here, but he didn’t say it – ‘the better. It’ll take a while for the medication to kick in fully but I think you should start seeing an improvement soon. Singh wants to monitor her but he’s confident she’s on the right track. It certainly won’t hurt at all if Mary hears a few homey accents. So, you won’t be lonely?’

  Emily didn’t answer, instead threw him a weak grin, looked into her cup of tea like she was reading the leaves. Sensing the opening of an uneasy silence, Tony tried to look busy, shuffling his papers. His voice low, Emily could hardly hear him when he spoke.

  ‘We could try IVF again, you know. Might have more luck here. Different doctors.’

  Her reaction was instantaneous, a sharp intake of breath. Emily shook her head.

  ‘I can’t do it again. I couldn’t face setting myself up for another fall. We’ve tried seven times. You know what the doctors said. And the hormones mess with my head as much as my body.’

  ‘I know,
sweetheart.’

  The sob escaped before Emily could hold it back.

  ‘All I want is a baby . . . It’s just not fair. There are girls not much more than thirteen giving birth around here – what can they offer a child? Drug addicts and alcoholics and . . .’ She hadn’t meant it to all pour out, but her anguish was molten.

  ‘I know.’ What could he say? Tony bit his lip. Why had he brought it up? And he knew what was coming next. He could almost hear her gearing herself up.

  ‘But now we’re settled here for a bit, we could check out adoption again. The rules might be different in England . . . And I know you’re worried about the psychological thing but there’s all types of screening available now.’

  His sigh was deep and jagged. ‘I know, honey, I know.’ Tony paused, grappling with his conscience. The possibility of psychological problems was only one part of it. It was such a big thing. He could hardly say it to himself, let alone to her, and he’d thought about it a lot, trying to get his head around it, but how could an adopted child ever be theirs?

  Emily sighed, her eyes filled with tears. ‘There must be someone out there who got pregnant by accident, or who just isn’t ready for motherhood. It happens all the time. There must be someone, somewhere, who needs a really good home for a baby.’

  ‘You’ve an old lady to mother for the moment. You could hardly manage her with a baby in the house, could you?’

  ‘Just think about it, Tony. How can we leave this planet with no legacy? You’ve so much to offer a child. What about junior football, about passing on your basketball skills to someone . . .’

  Above them the scrape of furniture stopped Emily.

  ‘Sounds like our guest is on the move. Did you put away all the sharp knives?’