Little Bones: A disturbing Irish crime thriller (The Cathy Connolly Series) Page 17

  Holy fucking shit. But this wasn’t the time to lose his nerve. This was the time to show his hand. He just needed to keep the trump cards concealed a little bit longer.

  The skinny one leaned forward, flipping open the lid of the suitcase. The magazine was tossed on top of the carefully folded clothes, its white cover glowing in the darkness. It was scruffy, the edges curling, obviously old, but the title was unmistakable: Vanity Fair.

  ‘So what are we looking at?’ Hierra could hear in his voice that the Russian’s patience was running thin.

  ‘I’ll show you.’ Hierra held his hand out, grinning.

  The skinny one picked up the magazine and passed it to him, the cover catching the light from the window. Hierra held it up like he was about to read a bedtime story. ‘So this, gentlemen, is a very wealthy lady who owns a company worth many, many millions. Grant Valentine has four major department stores in four capital cities. That’s a lot of poke for a woman now in her late seventies. It offers a ready-made structure for Mr Kuteli to expand his interests into import/export, and’ – he paused for effect – ‘I have unique access to the principal decision-maker.’ It was a long speech and he was thinking on his feet, but Hierra was pretty sure he’d caught their interest. He tapped the magazine cover. ‘It’s all in here.’

  Below the blood-red title a woman’s face stared back at them. Her expression was haughty, unapproachable, her bleached hair drawn back into a severe chignon, pencilled eyebrows arched. Beside her face, the headline read: ‘Irish Eyes Smiling on Fifth Avenue’. Lavinia Grant was at least thirty years younger in the photograph than she was now, but when she’d walked into the drawing room at Oleander House to find him leaning on the fireplace, there’d been no mistaking her. She hadn’t been smiling much then, but he sure as hell had been.

  PART THREE

  Tailor’s Tacks

  A tailor’s tack is created by two threads in a needle, drawn through the fabric layer(s) and then snipped, leaving tails of thread on the top and bottom of the fabric as a marker. Tailor’s tacks can be used to mark pattern pieces for darts, buttonholes etc. or to hold two pieces of fabric together in preparation for machining a seam.

  26

  The Tube train shuddered to a halt, the lights flicking off, passengers lurching forward and staggering back again in the darkness. Tony groaned. Overhead the lights began to flick slowly back on, the electricity spitting in the silence left by the thundering of the wheels, eerie, expectant. Then the shuffle of feet, the page of a newspaper turning, the tinny beat of music coming from someone’s earphones, sounds magnified. Somewhere further down the carriage someone blew their nose.

  The carriage was full. Way beyond full in Tony’s opinion. Hot and stuffy, stinking of bodies and wet clothes and the acid tang of fresh newsprint. Somehow, with the tidal movement of Londoners in transit he had managed to get stuck in the back corner of the carriage, his back to the single sliding door, head bowed where the roof of the train curved, just that bit too low to allow him to stand straight. There were days when he wondered if he should buy a bike. He could imagine Emily’s face as he wobbled off down Cambridge Heath Road, his pants legs clamped in bicycle clips, briefcase strapped to the pannier.

  Emily. Emily.

  Tony’s sigh escaped before he had a chance to catch it. Self-conscious in the silence, he shifted uncomfortably, unbuttoning his heavy wool overcoat, still damp across the shoulders, his mind wandering over their conversation this morning. In front of him, a guy with an earring was labouring through an article about climate change. Tony had skimmed through it, leaning discreetly over his shoulder to catch the last paragraph, had been waiting for him to turn the page since Blackfriars. Tony took another peek. He must be reading it over.

  But whatever about being trapped in a Tube train a hundred feet underground, or the threat of a global climatic catastrophe – what the hell was he going to do about Mary? She was sweet enough, inoffensive, but he could feel her presence in the house, found himself tiptoeing to his study, dreading meeting her on the stairs. He came home to get away from work, goddammit, and fascinating as Mary’s mental condition was – as she was: Tony was taken by her air of mystery too, even if he was reluctant to admit it – he needed a bit of space at the end of the day. And now Em wanted to take her to Dublin . . . Deep in thought, he shook his head unconsciously. On the other side of the carriage, an African woman in a colourful batik jacket who had been studying him intently looked away, afraid perhaps that he might turn to meet her eye.

  Tony shifted within the few spare square inches surrounding him, tried to twist to lean against the end of the carriage. His knees were beginning to ache, the oppressive heat soporific. How the hell were you supposed to cope with this transport system if you were on the edge? Mildly psychotic, claustrophobic, smelly-people-phobic? He was amazed more people didn’t have psychotic episodes.

  Jesus. The more Tony thought about it, the worse it got – if Em had her way with this trip, with this all-expenses-paid, five-star hotel trip, then being stuck in a Tube train was going to be a stroll in the park compared to spending at least an hour on a plane with Mary – several hours, if you included travel and checking in. Several hours with a confused elderly lady who was unlikely to have ever flown, and who, from what Emily had told him, wasn’t keen on crowds. Several hours in which he and Emily would normally have enjoyed a coffee, browsed the bookshop for something fresh to read, whiled away the time speculating about the lives of the people around them. Tony’s head began to ache. They’d have to clear passport control, security; would she even be able to walk as far as the gate? Boy, he hoped she wasn’t incontinent.

  Then it hit him. Passport control.

  Tony felt a peal of hope. He reached inside his coat to check for his phone – there was no signal down here, but as soon as he got to the surface, he’d better ring Em. Maybe they would be able to have a weekend in Dublin on their own after all. He put his hand out to steady himself on the window as the train lurched, shuddering into life, the relief amongst its occupants almost tangible.

  When he finally reached his stop he emerged blinking into the daylight and took out his phone.

  ‘Em?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Walking up from the Tube. It’s not raining here . . .’ Why did she always ask where he was whenever he phoned?

  ‘I thought you had rounds this morning.’

  ‘I do, I just phoned in. Tube got stuck. Look, have you checked those flights yet?’

  ‘Just about to. It’s just as well they’re paying, they’ll be expensive this close to us going.’

  ‘Right.’ Tony tried to sound like he was listening, then decided to jump right in, fighting to keep the smile off his face. He’d once read that if you smiled when you spoke to someone on the phone they could tell. And right now he didn’t want Emily to know he was smiling. ‘I was just thinking, does Mary have a passport?’ There was a pause, a long pause. ‘Em, you still there?’

  ‘Damn, I never thought of that. She must have somewhere but even if we find it, it probably won’t be in date. Damn. I’ll have to ask her. I’ll call you later.’

  Tony clicked off the phone and slipped it into his inside pocket. He hated to be the bringer of bad news, but . . .

  From the living room, Emily could hear the radio, could hear Mary humming. Why hadn’t she thought of the passport? Putting down the phone, Emily scooped up the cat, who had sneaked in to curl up in the rocking chair, and headed for the kitchen.

  Mary was sitting at the table, dressed in a new navy-blue cardigan, a pretty cotton blouse buttoned to her neck. She had brushed her hair, smoothing the short silver strands from her face into a sort of a style. Working intently, she had emptied out several of the bags of old clothes that Emily had collected at her flat, had spread them out in front of her, the fabrics undulating over the polished wood, satin threads reflecting the lights from the overhead spots like the tips of waves. Holding an enormous pair of kit
chen scissors, the only ones Emily had been able to find, she was cutting the fabrics into neat squares, the rasping snip of the blades regular, methodical.

  Realising Emily was there, Mary looked up. Her soft skin was creased in concentration but for a moment Emily was sure something fluttered across her face, a strange look. Fear? Guilt? Emily wasn’t sure.

  ‘Those colours are wonderful, Mary, what are you making?’

  It took Mary a moment to answer, a moment in which her gaze flicked from Emily to the fabrics and back again, anxious, like a child expecting to be scolded.

  ‘Patchwork. A bag. For all those plastic carriers’ – Mary nodded towards a drawer beside the Belfast kitchen sink – ‘you’ll be able to pull them out more easily when you need them.’

  Smiling, Emily pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table, twisted one leg underneath herself as she sat down, her elbows on the edge.

  Selecting another piece of fabric, Mary brought the scissors down on it, her eyes as bright as a bird’s, completely absorbed.

  ‘That’s going to be lovely. Do you enjoy patchwork?’

  ‘Keeps me busy.’

  Emily waited to see if Mary was going to say more, but she was focused back on the fabric.

  ‘Where did you learn to sew?’

  A smile lit Mary’s face, glinting like the sun off the sea. ‘Nanny taught us embroidery, but our housekeeper showed me how to mend and do patchwork. She used to stitch every night, sitting in front of the fire.’

  Hoping for more, Emily waited, but Mary seemed to be content that that was all she needed to say. Emily picked up a piece of fabric, a Liberty print of roses and ivy, smoothed it flat, her voice casual. ‘Us? Was that you and your sisters?’

  Mary bit her lip, the scissors still, her brows meeting in a frown, shoulders tense. It was like a door had closed inside her head. Then, ignoring the question, she said: ‘I liked making clothes the most. Dresses and skirts. Drawing the designs and cutting out the patterns. Books and books of sketches, so many ideas . . .’

  ‘And the rag dolls, Mary, did you make those as well? They were lovely.’

  Mary nodded, muttering, ‘Do you like them? They were for you.’

  She said it so quietly Emily almost missed it.

  ‘For –?’ Emily started to say it, but stopped herself. Mary was obviously getting confused again, and she didn’t want to lose her.

  Not right now, not when she was about to ask her about the trip.

  ‘Mary?’ How should she put it? ‘Have you ever thought about going home?’

  ‘Home?’ The word came out as a whisper, slipping and sliding, sad. When she spoke again, Mary was shaking her head, muttering more to herself than to Emily, ‘Can’t go home, can’t go back . . . what would they say?’

  Emily’s heart took a swoop towards the floor. What had she expected? A smile, a laugh, excitement? Maybe Tony was right, maybe it was a bad idea . . . She tried again. ‘I don’t mean home exactly. I mean back to Dublin, back to Ireland?’

  ‘Why?’ It was raw, harsh.

  For a moment Emily didn’t know what to say – wasn’t it obvious?

  ‘Well, just to see the place, maybe. Do you remember you were telling me about the dances, about the hotels? Would you like to go back to Dublin and look at the hotels again?’

  Watching Mary frown, Emily desperately tried to think of something that would persuade her.

  ‘It’s just that Tony’s been asked to talk at a conference, in Dublin, and I thought you and I could go.’ Mary’s face was changing, as if memories were flicking through her head like cine film. ‘Just for the day, or overnight maybe. We could have some lunch in a nice hotel, have a look at the place. It’s years since I was in Dublin too. There’s the Ha’penny Bridge and the Custom House, and Trinity College. Lots to do.’ Her eyes on the table, Mary picked up a piece of sea-green taffeta, laid it down carefully beside the others. ‘It’s just we could go by plane but you’d need a passport. Do you have one?’

  Mary picked up another piece of fabric, blood red, a seam running across its centre like an artery. ‘An aeroplane?’ Her voice was tiny, incredulous.

  ‘Have you ever been on an aeroplane?’ Mary shook her head, her lip beginning to quiver. Oh God, what had she said? Emily wanted to reach out, to hug her, to take her in charge and tell her she’d be fine, that they’d look after her, that it would be fun. But she knew that was the wrong thing to do. And Tony had told her to be careful stirring the memories . . . Her voice soft, she tried to move away from the whole aeroplane thing.

  ‘Can you remember how you got here, Mary? How you left Ireland? Did you come on a ferry?’

  Mary leaned over to pick up a tiny scrap of fabric, silver threads running through it like water. ‘On the mailboat.’

  The mailboat. Mary had said something before about tickets, about everyone being sick. Had she been talking about the ferry from Dún Laoghaire to Holyhead? If Emily was right and Mary was from Dublin that would made sense. Before she could say anything, Mary spoke again, her eyes watery.

  ‘The mailboat. Came every day. We could see it coming in from the hall window.’

  Emily drew in her breath – they could see the mailboat? Was she from Dún Laoghaire? ‘I always thought it was so exciting, all those people going over to England and people coming home. Romantic, girls waiting for their chaps by the pier. So romantic.’

  ‘So what did she say, has she got a passport?’

  It was late, after nine. Now, with Mary tucked up in bed, they were sitting in the living room, the TV turned down, the fire lit, curtains drawn against the night. As he waited for Emily to answer, Tony lifted his plate off his knee onto the coffee table and reached for his glass, the liquid ruby red, rich and fragrant. He held up his glass to meet hers, the sound of their rims meeting like a bell tinkling. Emily took a sip.

  ‘Actually, it doesn’t look like it. Just as well you thought of it.’

  He reached for the bottle beside the arm of the sofa. Emily was staring into the flames, nursing her own glass, the foot resting on her knee, drawn up on the sofa.

  ‘Shame. But maybe it’s as well.’ Tony worked hard to keep his face straight.

  ‘Well, I was thinking about it, and the whole air-travel thing would have been very traumatic for her, so . . . I had another idea.’ Tony put the bottle down on the polished boards with an unexpected crack.

  ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious really. The ferry. We were talking about it today. She said she could see the mailboat from her hall window. That’s what the ferry was called then, the mailboat – even my parents talked about people catching the mailboat to England. So she must have lived somewhere around Dublin Bay.’ Tony could feel Emily’s excitement like an electric charge, could see her eyes glowing as she explained the plan. ‘That’s what gave me the idea. I need to check it’s still running – they’ve been talking about closing the route – but we can get the train to Holyhead and get the ferry. I’ll hire a car when we get there, drop you and the bags off at the hotel and we can go back to Dún Laoghaire or on into Dublin, whatever she likes. I’ll bring her back to London the next day, then I can fly back to you as soon as I’ve got her settled here.’

  ‘Get the train to Dublin?’ Tony turned to look at her, his brown eyes open in wonder.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’ll take hours for one thing. You’ll be exhausted, and so will she. She’s too old for that sort of travel.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll take our car, drive up. She’ll be sitting down all the way. But the point is, she won’t need a passport for the ferry. They rarely check. And she has an Irish accent. It’s not like she’s an asylum seeker.’

  An asylum seeker? He’d be seeking asylum if this kept up.

  ‘Em, do you honestly think this is a good idea? It’s not like you’re Mary’s family, you only met her by accident . . .’ Why had he said that? Tony could feel Emily’s good spirits evap
orating, could feel her withdrawing into herself. He grasped for something to dig himself out of the hole, but she didn’t give him a chance.

  ‘She hasn’t got any family, Tony, that’s why. Mary’s not got anyone. She’s not even got her memories.’

  ‘But does she want them, Emily? Home sounds like a great place but there has to be a reason why she left. What if she doesn’t like what she finds when she gets there? What if it stirs something she’s spent years trying to forget?’

  27

  Her head thrown back as she scrutinised the trapdoor leading to the attic, thumbs stuck in the back pockets of her jeans, Cathy could feel O’Rourke’s eyes on her, studying her closely. Hot, searching. She tried to ignore him, subconsciously drew her stomach in. Maybe she was imagining it.

  ‘What?’ Finishing her inspection, she looked back at him, one eyebrow raised in question. He was still watching her, leaning on the door frame, his tie loose, the day’s stubble already shadowing his chin. He looked good, tired but good; George Clooney with a broken nose.

  ‘Nothing.’ Shaking his head like he was trying to dislodge a memory, O’Rourke turned to look back at the ladder, taking a moment to think.

  ‘Wait here, I’ll see if I can find a torch.’

  Before she could speak he was trotting back down the stairs. Moments later he reappeared with a steel-cased torch in his hand.

  ‘That was quick.’

  He smiled. ‘Thankfully Ms Grant’s housekeeper is a very logical woman. It was under the kitchen sink.’

  It only took him a second to put the ladder in place, extending it to reach up the twelve feet to the high Georgian ceiling.

  ‘Hope you’re not scared of spiders.’ She scowled at him. ‘Ladies first.’