Little Bones: A disturbing Irish crime thriller (The Cathy Connolly Series) Page 4

  Fumbling for the light switch, Emily turned her focus from the bags, looking for Mary’s shawl. Covered with a patchwork quilt, the bed huddled against the far wall. As Emily forced a path through the bags of fabric, she could see a pair of rag dolls, tucked in beside the pillow, their faces exquisitely embroidered with stitches so tiny that they looked almost alive. One was dressed in a smart pinafore, yellow wool plaits ending in matching ribbons, the other, its hair a mass of short lengths of chunky wool, wore matching dungarees. And in the middle of the pillow lay a circular nightdress case, cream silk, its embroidered cover a riot of flowers and leaves intertwining. As she studied it, Emily realised that the trailing fronds formed letters written with a flowing hand, each letter linking with the next to form a word – it looked like ‘grace’.

  The verse on the terracotta wall plaque her mother had positioned just inside her hall door sprang straight into Emily’s mind: Plenty and grace be to this place. Was Mary hoping for grace, for elegance and good manners, or for forgiveness?

  A soft green shawl lay across the end of the bed. Emily picked it up and retraced her steps through the bags of fabric to the bedroom door. The old lady had returned to the living room, was sitting on the edge of the armchair, her arms crossed around herself.

  ‘Here we are, Mary.’ Emily wrapped the shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ Mary smiled. ‘But my name’s not Mary.’

  6

  Angel Hierra leaned against the cheap ply door of his hotel room and let out a deep breath. A breath laced with tequila and anger. He’d never been good at keeping his temper. How often had he heard his father say that he had his mother’s Latin temperament; that he only got away with half the shit he got himself into because he had her dark good looks as well?

  His father. Hierra could feel his lip curling, the bitter taste of bile rising in his mouth. Even now the thought of his old man made Hierra mad. Worse than mad. Something inside him lurched, the memories of that day rising like a foul tide, rancid and stinking. How long had he lain paralysed with fear, huddled beside his mother’s unconscious body, sure she was dead, the temperature inside the trailer increasing until he was almost suffocating, his bruised body aching with despair and helplessness?

  Hierra had never dreamed he’d be glad to hear the landlord pounding on the trailer door, grateful to see his pockmarked face leering through the window.

  But angels come in many guises. His mother’s voice came to him now like a draught, chilling his skin despite his heavy coat, the hand-stitched wool suit. Automatically, he crossed himself. That was the day he’d started hating his father. Really hating him. The day he, Angel Hierra, had decided to get even. It had been his fifth birthday.

  Hierra balled the saliva in his mouth and spat onto the stained grey carpet, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  Getting even had taken a bit longer than he’d planned, but he was glad about that now. He’d never have gotten the full picture if he’d done it sooner. His mom had loved the bastard until the end. Santa Maria, how fucking stupid was that? Through the beating and the whoring, she’d loved him.

  Hierra closed his eyes, trying to push the memories aside, to focus on the plan. But what he’d seen today had made him hate the old man all over again. What had he and his mom had? A fucking beat-up trailer in the worst part of town . . . Holy Mother . . . Hierra shook his head, and pushed himself away from the door.

  The room he was in now was cheap, basic, the carpet stains blackened with age, the paint chipped. But he wasn’t after luxury, or a sea view. Just anonymity. And tucked away in the back streets of Dún Laoghaire, this place was perfect. Clarinda Park had been grand once, but now the Georgian terraces were divided into flats and bedsits operated by faceless agencies, populated by a transient population of foreign students and migrant workers. Exactly what he needed.

  He’d parked in the centre of the square watching people coming and going, their heads down, minding their own business. The sign outside, faded and peeling, said ‘Hotel’ but it was stretching the point. Inside, the reception area stank of damp and BO, the fat tart slumped behind a dimpled glass partition hardly turning her head from the TV when he’d walked in, barking out the price and pointing to the register, a biro attached to it with tape and greying string. She never once looked him in the eye.

  Fine by him. Oh yes. Fine by him.

  The Samsonite suitcase was still on the bed where Hierra had thrown it when he arrived. He hadn’t gone through it properly yet, had just had a cursory glance, pulled out the suit he was wearing, made sure the basics were in there – a change of jocks, clean pants – before slipping out of the room to find the fire escape, to get his bearings. He knew he didn’t have much time before the cops caught up with him, wanted to get things moving as fast as possible, didn’t intend to be in Ireland any longer than was absolutely necessary to get what he needed.

  Throwing back the lid, Hierra pulled out a couple of shirts, identical to the one he was wearing, threw them onto the nylon bedspread. Crisply folded and ironed, under them corduroy pants, a turtleneck sweater, a pair of loafers, clean socks balled inside. The guy’s wife was good, had thought of everything. Hierra checked the size, couldn’t resist a grin. A half-size too big, but very serviceable. He’d chosen his mark well. The heavy woollen overcoat was a perfect fit too, and just as well – he shivered – it was fucking freezing in this miserable damp hole of a country. It was easy to see why so many Irish left.

  At the bottom of the case, Hierra spotted a black leatherette washbag. He doubted the cops would be on to him yet, but if they had spotted him coming through customs they’d have him on camera with the moustache and goatee he’d been growing for the past few days. If he got rid of that and shaved his thick dark hair down to a buzz cut, used the cheek pads, he knew he could alter his whole appearance. Unzipping the washbag, he checked the contents. Deodorant, shaving soap, razor. And at the bottom of the bag a single gold ring. Hierra pulled it out.

  A wedding ring.

  Now why had he taken that off? Amused, Hierra rolled it in his palm, the gold heavy, chunky, engraved on the inside. Slipped it on, admiring his hand. He could sell it later, but until then it might come in useful. So the guy must have had some other business here as well as the conference. Now that was a bit of luck. Hierra grinned – he’d wondered why the guy had been coming over so soon: according to the crap in his briefcase, the conference didn’t start for another week. So no one was going to miss him for another few days at least, and whoever he was meeting was hardly going to call his wife and ask why he’d been delayed. Neat.

  In fact, finding the mark had been pretty neat altogether – Hierra had hung around the Holiday Inn looking for someone going to London, had reckoned that it would be easy enough from there to get into Ireland by ferry or on a fishing boat. And then he’d heard the guy talking about Dublin, about some conference . . . Angels come in many guises.

  Hierra slipped the ring off and tossed it in his hand. It gave him all the time he needed. He’d collect the cash tomorrow and get out. Things had gone well today, better than he’d expected. The moment he’d started talking to the old bitch, mentioned a few names, Hierra had known he had plenty of leverage. The old man had spilled the whole lot already, but he was a two-faced lying bastard, and Hierra wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been lying even then, on his knees, with a gun to his head and no place to run.

  A little bit of Hierra still couldn’t believe it, but the pieces were coming together like patchwork. As soon as he’d shaved and fixed his hair, he’d get back over there to keep an eye on things. He had the keys to the houses now, both of them, could let himself in any time, but it was the cash he needed. He didn’t have the time to start fencing a load of stuff, even if it was top quality like that painting. He’d only had time to glance at it but had known immediately that it was the same one the guy doing the interview for Vanity Fair had almost pissed himself over. He’d
schlepped on and on and on about it in the article. But the painting would be a last resort. What he needed was cash and maybe a bit of jewellery and then he could get over to Bogotá and set himself up. There was no way Kuteli would find him there.

  He’d have to sort her out first, of course, but that wasn’t a problem.

  La revancha. Payback.

  7

  It was four o’clock by the time the scenes-of-crime team had finished processing the studio, and it was already beginning to grow dark. O’Rourke’s phone rang as Cathy escorted Zoë Grant past the back door of her cottage; he waved them on ahead, holding up a finger indicating he’d only be a minute. Above them a security light flicked on, making the shadows blacker, the trees whispering above them as if they were trying to speak. For a moment Cathy wished she’d grabbed her leather jacket from the car, but it would stink of Thirsty’s fags by now and Cathy didn’t think she could handle smelling like an ashtray, no matter how cold she was.

  The studio was surprisingly warm considering the temperature outside, and inside the scents were just as strong as in the house; different, but enough to make Cathy recoil as she entered. Sour paint, overlaid with something chemical, heady; turps or white spirit maybe. And lilies. A huge bunch of white lilies dominated the counter at the far end of the studio, their strong perfume adding to the overpowering mix. She really hoped this wouldn’t be a long interview.

  ‘Inspector O’Rourke won’t be long.’ It sounded odd to her ear, ‘Inspector’. Formal, stiff. Back in the day she’d called him O’Rourke and he’d called her Cat – Kitty Cat when he was teasing her. Cathy sighed inwardly. They were friends, had shared stuff that no one could ever understand. In a moment her mind was back in a badly lit industrial estate, a confusion of sounds swamping her: shouting, gunshots. Pain. Cathy took a shaky breath, pushing it from her mind. She couldn’t go there now, she needed to focus on this case, on this moment. On getting it right.

  This was the first time she and O’Rourke had been in the same station since Pearse Street, but she wasn’t surprised to find they’d slotted right back in where they’d left off, easy in each other’s company, each understanding what the other was thinking. Promotion had come fast for him and they’d moved into different divisions – they’d kept in touch, been out for drinks a couple of times, talking late into the night in the secluded corners of hotel bars, had met at parties. Parties. Cathy’s stomach dropped; the last party she’d been to hadn’t turned out at all like she’d expected. A dark shadow of regret began to grow inside her. So much had happened . . .

  Fighting to bring her focus back to Zoë Grant, Cathy forced a smile, struggling to look friendly. Zoë was standing in front of a huge angled drawing board, tidying an already tidy pile of coloured papers, each one decorated with sketches and blobs of colour, with pieces of fabric that had been painted and stitched. As she moved, Cathy caught sight of an unframed painting under the drawing board, the canvas casually leaning against the end of the counter beside it. It was of the sea, predominantly pale grey, streaks of white suggesting breaking waves and clouds, seagulls smudges on the horizon. The brushstrokes captured the movement and danger of a storm so skilfully it almost took Cathy’s breath away.

  ‘Is that one of your paintings? It’s amazing.’

  Zoë looked to where Cathy had pointed. ‘Yes. And thank you’ – Zoë paused, her tone curt – ‘but it needs more work.’

  Needs more work? Cathy wasn’t an expert on art but she knew what she liked, and she understood enough about proportions and balance to know a brilliant painting when she saw it. And this painting wasn’t even about balance and proportion, it was about emotion, and, Cathy was sure, fear. Each brushstroke communicating part of a story about the power of the sea, about man’s fragility. What was Zoë Grant afraid of?

  Hardly aware of Cathy’s reaction to the painting, Zoë’s eyes darted nervously back to the house. ‘My neighbour said there was a break-in. I don’t understand – why are there so many vans and cars? Is it because of the man in the garden last night?’ Zoë trailed off, and seeing the pile of papers she was fiddling with was perfectly aligned, turned to lean back on the drawing board, her arms crossed tight. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I picked up the message.’

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Cathy caught her breath; she needed O’Rourke here before the questioning started. She’d have to waffle a bit, give him a chance to finish his call. ‘I’m afraid whoever it was left upstairs in a bit of a mess.’

  ‘My laptop! I left it in the living room.’ Zoë’s hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘I’ll get the lads to check for the computer, but it doesn’t look like he had time to get into the front room.’

  Zoë nodded, her long earrings catching the light from the overhead spots. Then, almost in a whisper, ‘Do you know who it was, last night? He was watching me, I’m sure.’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘We don’t know yet. It’s possible it’s a coincidence.’ Better not to spook her too much, but there was that word again, ‘coincidence’.

  As Cathy spoke, the security light flicked on and O’Rourke appeared winding his way down the garden, dipping his head under the branches overhanging the crazy-paved path. He held a steaming mug of tea in each hand, his pale pink silk tie flapping over his shoulder. Cathy turned to open the door for him. He handed Zoë a mug, passed the other to Cathy, catching her eye, a moment of understanding passing between them, then pulled out a stool from under the drawing board. Cathy took a sip. She hadn’t realised how much she needed it. And O’Rourke had remembered she took sugar.

  Hovering by the door, happier to stay standing, her hands around the mug, Cathy tried to keep her face open and warm. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but Zoë Grant had one of those exclusive south Dublin private-school accents she was very familiar with. Landing a full scholarship, she’d attended a school like it herself, as a day pupil, but she’d been the only girl in her year who lived in a council house. Her friends were great, but they were all ‘Port Out, Starboard Home’, as her dad always said when he picked her up from a hockey match before his shift started at the pub, his ancient Nissan no match for brand-new Jaguars and Mercs, however lovingly it was kept.

  Cathy glanced at O’Rourke. By rights, he should be taking the lead, but he was relaxed, was quietly studying Zoë Grant, his almost imperceptible nod giving Cathy the go-ahead. Start with the easy questions. She could hear his voice echoing back from the past.

  ‘This is a lovely place to paint; do you spend a lot of time down here?’

  It took Zoë a few moments to reply; she sipped her tea before she spoke. ‘I wish I could spend more time here. You wouldn’t think the flower business would be busy at this time of year, but we seem to be non-stop.’ Zoë paused. ‘I play here too when I get a chance.’ She nodded towards a musical instrument case dominating the space beside the filing cabinet, a double bass or a cello.

  ‘Where do you work?’ The neighbour had told Cathy pretty much everything there was to know about Zoë Grant: that she arranged flowers for South County Dublin’s wealthy elite, that it was always her flowers that featured in OK! magazine. That there was no current boyfriend on the scene. But Cathy needed to hear it from her.

  ‘I work in Foxrock, in the florist’s shop there. We do a lot of TV and magazine work as well as weddings and events, anything you need flowers for really.’

  ‘But you prefer to paint?’

  Zoë pursed her lips as if she found Cathy’s lack of understanding annoying. ‘I love to paint, but I love flowers as well. An arrangement should be art too. It’s like sculpture, three-dimensional – four if you design with scent in mind as well as form.’

  Well, that put her in her place. O’Rourke diffused the hint of tension. ‘Have you lived here long?’

  ‘About ten years. I bought it while I was in college.’

  Cathy felt her eyebrows shoot up. She’d been right in thinking there was money in Zoë Grant’s family, and lots of it obv
iously. Dalkey was one of the most expensive villages in County Dublin.

  ‘Old properties are a labour of love, aren’t they?’ O’Rourke made it sound like he knew all about it.

  Zoë nodded distractedly. ‘Everything goes wrong. The builders had to get all the plumbing redone as well as the rewiring. Then all the windows had to be replaced. And finding someone who could make new sashes took for ever.’

  O’Rourke grinned in sympathy – like he cared. ‘We noticed you had a dress upstairs. Cream silk. Tell me a bit about that.’

  Cathy hid a smile in her mug. He’d never been good at small talk. He was managing to hide his impatience from Zoë but Cathy knew if he’d had a tail it would have been flicking from side to side, like a cat eyeing its prey.

  For a moment Zoë looked blank, a shadow passing across her face. It took her a moment to answer.

  ‘The wedding dress? It was my mother’s.’ She paused, her thick brows knitted together in a frown as her gaze flicked up to her bedroom window. Cathy waited. What would Zoë say? Would she mention the bones, could she explain them? Did she even know they were there?

  ‘Have you had it long?’ O’Rourke again, his voice casual.

  But she wasn’t giving anything away. ‘I’ve had it for years. I don’t quite know what to do with it.’ She paused. ‘I can’t believe this has happened today. I was in the middle of an interview for an exhibition when I got the message.’

  Cathy was getting the feeling that Zoë Grant was somehow disconnected from the here and now, in her head at least. Cathy knew that if a crazed stalker had just broken into her home, and into her bedroom at that, she’d be seriously pissed off – but maybe that was her fight instinct coming through, her ability to turn fear into anger one factor that had helped her keep her title. Zoë was different, but her reaction was still strange though. Cathy had seen a lot of people in shock: usually they became catatonic, staring into space, or talked incessantly. Zoë Grant was doing neither. Maybe she was just a good actress.