Little Bones: A disturbing Irish crime thriller (The Cathy Connolly Series) Page 7

  Shaken, as much by their reappearance as her physical reaction, Cathy tried to calm her racing heart. It had been a routine patrol: she’d been teasing O’Rourke about slipping the disc in his back when a driver had pulled out of a junction, swerving wildly across the road right in front of them. ‘Pissed as a fart’, as O’Rourke had put it. It should have just been a simple Section 49, but they had had no idea as they flashed him to pull over, as they got out of the car putting on their hats, what was going to happen next. And she still had the scars . . . Cathy felt her legs wobble.

  Christ, she needed something to eat.

  Missing lunch was normal on a normal day, but not now, not since that bloody blue line had appeared on the pregnancy test and wrecked her head.

  Ahead of her, O’Rourke was through the gate, the sound of his radio cutting into her subconscious. She couldn’t hear what was being said but saw him nodding.

  ‘Get a move on. We need to suit up so there’s no cross-contamination.’

  Not looking at her, O’Rourke held out a white paper suit he’d grabbed from the boot of his car and pulled a pair of gloves from his jacket pocket. Taking the last few steps to the end of the passage, Cathy reached for it, shaking it out, taking advantage of the fact that he had his back to her as he pulled his on to lean on the frame of the gate and catch her breath.

  ‘You OK?’

  Glancing over his shoulder, O’Rourke gave Cathy a searching look. Her smile was fast, more of a flick of the corners of her mouth, her excuse feeble, even to her ears.

  ‘Missed lunch.’

  O’Rourke passed her a pair of gloves, pulling foot covers out of another pocket. ‘The lads have probably got a couple of Mars bars in the car. Make sure you have something. I need you thinking straight.’

  ‘What have we got?’

  Arriving at the top-floor landing, O’Rourke’s voice was calm, clear, with no hint of the fact he’d just run up about ninety stairs. Behind him Cathy grabbed the banister, her stomach turning as she caught the cloying scent of heavy perfume. The Guard who had gone on ahead was standing back as the paramedics crouched over the body of an elderly woman. Behind them, a woman wearing a white trouser suit was sitting huddled on a large cardboard box pushed half in, half out of a doorway. Trish O’Sullivan, Cathy presumed. And she was still crying. Cathy wasn’t sure if it was Trish’s perfume she could smell, but it was beginning to catch in the back of her throat. The lead paramedic looked up, his face practical, emotion lost in years of experience.

  ‘Can’t find a pulse.’

  O’Rourke nodded curtly. ‘We’ll need the doc to certify. Thanks, boys. Looks like we’ll be needing Donovan’s.’

  Lavinia Grant lay on her back, her head almost at the top of the stairs, one leg twisted beneath her, a high-heeled patent shoe lying beside her. Eyes open, staring lifelessly at the single bulb hanging from the heavily painted ceiling rose, her skin was ghostly pale, two bright splashes of make-up vivid on her cheeks. Her smart Chanel-style suit was a garish purple in the harsh light, her arms splayed uselessly at her sides, like she was floating in a pool. But there was no way she was going anywhere in a hurry, on land or in the water.

  The Guard nodded towards the woman sitting on the box. ‘This is Trish O’Sullivan, Cig, a friend of Mrs Grant’s. She found the body. Mal’s checking the lower floors but it doesn’t look like anyone else was here when Ms O’Sullivan arrived. The building was secure.’

  Clutching a silver handbag covered in rhinestones with one hand, Trish pressed a tattered tissue over her nose and mouth. Huge diamonds flashed from her fingers, her hands deeply tanned and heavily wrinkled, her nails an unnatural orange.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to find her, Mrs O’Sullivan. I know it was a shock.’ O’Rourke’s voice was low, compassionate. ‘Would you like to come downstairs? You might be more comfortable down there. We can get the boys here to check you out.’ O’Rourke glanced at the lead paramedic for confirmation.

  ‘She’s dead, isn’t she? I knew she was dead.’ Trish didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the body of her friend as if she was paralysed.

  Trish’s voice was gravelly, deeper than Cathy expected. She started sobbing again, the sound rasping, painful. Coming up past O’Rourke, stepping carefully around the body, Cathy squatted down beside Trish, putting her arm around her shoulders. The perfume was Trish’s and it wasn’t freshly applied. Cathy could feel the nausea building, fought to ignore it.

  ‘Is there anyone we can call? A friend who can come and sit with you?’

  Ignoring Cathy, Trish reached into her handbag for another tissue, the dozen or so gold chains and strings of pearls hanging around her neck clinking together as she moved. Then she shook her head, as if Cathy’s voice had taken a while to register, her short hair, teased into a helmet of curls, remaining static despite the rapid movement of her head. Thick trails of mascara had formed long black stains down her heavily lined face.

  ‘No. No, not now.’ Another sob wracked her. ‘I couldn’t possibly see anyone looking like this.’

  They heard Professor Saunders before they saw him, puffing and panting, his feet heavy on the stairs, his paper suit rustling. His mood hadn’t improved since this morning.

  ‘Do you really need me? The station doctor should be doing this.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘She probably had a heart attack after that climb.’

  Ignoring the jibe, O’Rourke nodded curtly.

  ‘Thanks for coming out again. This is the grandmother of the girl whose house we were at earlier.’ He shot Saunders a meaningful look. ‘The two events’ – he emphasised the word, implying he didn’t want to elaborate – ‘may be related. I wanted you to see her in situ.’

  ‘So generous. I’m sure photos would have done the trick.’

  ‘Open to interpretation, Doctor, as you know. I need your take on it if you don’t mind.’ O’Rourke paused. ‘We’re not leaving anything to chance on this one.’

  Saunders glared at O’Rourke, thumped his bag down on the floor and leaned over the body. His voice was matter-of-fact. ‘She’s still warm to the touch and the limbs are flaccid, so she’s probably not been dead for more than a few hours. A contusion to the back of her head and slight bleeding, consistent with terminal collapse, no other obvious marks of injury.’

  ‘A blow to the head?’

  ‘Possibly. Can’t tell until we get her onto the table. Is there anywhere her head might have struck as she fell?’ Saunders paused, reaching for his thermometer. ‘What do you know about her – has she got any significant medical history or is she taking any medication?’ His focus on the body, only half-listening, O’Rourke shrugged and immediately regretted it.

  ‘I have no powers of telepathy or clairvoyance, Detective Inspector; I cannot give you a definitive cause of death without the fullest information. I suggest you make some enquiries.’

  12

  Mary pulled her cardigan around her shoulders, shivering, the first drops of rain pricking her skin. Would he be there? Images materialised and merged in her head like the colours of a kaleidoscope: the Gresham Hotel, the warmth and light and laughter waiting for her, overflowing from the lobby, spilling down the steps like champagne.

  Unaware of the litter blowing around her feet, of the oily darkness seeping from the foul-smelling alleys separating the shuttered shops on Roman Road, the graffiti in this part of the East End Turkish and Bengali, Mary could feel butterflies dancing in her stomach, her mind in Dublin, the thrill of anticipation real again.

  Could she bear it if he wasn’t there? After last week, after he’d kissed her . . . he had to be there. Her cheeks flamed at the memory of last week, of his hands, of his soft words, his promises to take her away with him.

  Ahead of her Mary thought she could see lights twinkling gem-like in the darkness; heard laughter, a shout, the roar of traffic. She pulled her cardigan closer, her slippers silent. The ground was cold and hard through the thin soles but she couldn’t feel it, thought
instead that she was wearing her dancing shoes, the silver leather shimmering. Ahead of her, silhouetted in the darkness she could see a tight knot of figures, the present converging with her memories to enhance her feeling of reality. Was he there, chatting to someone he’d met?

  Mary caught a sound from the group ahead, straggling now across the pavement, a jeer, cruel, like hyenas at a kill. But it didn’t register. She knew her feet would be throbbing tomorrow after all the dancing, but she didn’t have to get up for mass until nine. The shapes ahead reconfigured, hands concealed in pockets. Nonchalant. Menacing. He would be waiting for her . . .

  ‘Hey, Mrs!’

  Mary started, the voice sending a jolt right through her body. Then the roar of an engine was on top of her, lights blinding. Lurching away from it, Mary stumbled, a hand gripping her arm, pulling her up before she hit the paving stones. Panic overwhelmed her, her heart racing. Then fear, ripping through her, raw and jagged.

  Through his dreams Tony Cox heard Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony begin to rise to orchestral proportions. It took a few moments for him to wrestle with the heavy layers of sleep and to fumble for his phone. He rolled over to reach for it, anxious not to wake Emily as she slept beside him. His movement dislodged one of her cats, which had settled down to sleep on his shoulder. It stuck its claws in his arm, catching them in the cotton of his pyjama jacket. Swearing under his breath, he struggled to unhook the paw with his free hand, swiping the phone screen with his thumb. He was quite sure they made a beeline for him because they knew he only tolerated them for Emily’s sake. It was like some sort of bizarre feline one-upmanship.

  ‘Hello?’ Tony kept his voice down, glancing anxiously at Emily, but he could see from the rhythmic fall of her shoulder that she was still sound asleep.

  ‘Dr Cox?’ The voice was businesslike, far too efficient for the middle of the night.

  ‘Yes, yes it is. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Sorry to wake you, sir, Limehouse Police Station here. An old lady’s just been brought in – one of the traders from Whitechapel Market saw her wandering down the Commercial Road in her cardigan and nightie. He reckons your wife knows her, Dr Cox. And we found your card in her cardy pocket. She’s very confused, not sure who she is, so we wondered if she was one of your patients. Duty doc’s with her now.’

  Tony closed his eyes for a second, gathering his thoughts. An old lady? Commercial Road? She could be any one of a hundred of his patients, but one who knew Emily? And why the police station and not the hospital? Tony felt himself starting to wake up. At least if the duty doctor was on site she’d get seen quicker in the grand scheme of things.

  ‘I’ll have to see her. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘That’s great, sir, see you shortly.’

  On the other side of the bed, Emily slept on, undisturbed by the telephone, her hair a halo against the pillow, duvet pulled to her chin. Should he wake her? The cop had said she knew the old lady . . . but she looked so peaceful . . .

  Swinging out of the bed, his feet flinching on the cold boards, Tony looked for his slippers, reaching for them, both cats now awake, slinking in under the duvet behind him as he leaned forward, delighted to curl up next to their mistress.

  ‘Morning, sir, Dr Cox is it?’

  Tony almost laughed. The cold blast of air that had hit him as he climbed out of his car had thoroughly woken him up and now, struck by the wall of intense heat in the foyer of Limehouse Metropolitan Police Station, he felt as if he was on a euphoric sleep-deprived high.

  ‘What gave me away?’

  The sergeant looked at him quizzically. ‘Could be the fact that I called you fourteen and a half minutes ago.’

  That would be it. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Inside, sir. Duty doc got another call. He checked her over, said she’s physically fine, needs to be kept warm, get plenty of rest.’ The sergeant tutted to himself. ‘Any longer out there dressed like that and it would have been a different story.’

  Following the sergeant through the heavy security door and along the brilliantly lit corridors of the station, polished floor tiles and regulation cream walls reflecting the overhead fluorescents a little too brightly for Tony’s liking, he could hear the echo of clanging doors deep in the bowels of the building, the occasional shout.

  ‘Here we are, sir. She was lucky she was spotted – almost went under a van she did, walked right out into the road.’

  The room was small, bare, a single steel-legged table and two plastic chairs the only furniture. The old lady was huddled into one of the chairs, a rough blanket, prison grey, wrapped around her shoulders, face pinched as if she was thinking hard, her eyes fixed on a spot on the lino floor.

  It only took Tony a moment to register who she was, but before he could say anything, she started speaking, her voice agitated. ‘She told you, didn’t she? She told you I was going to the dance. Told you where to find me. Had to ruin it, didn’t she?’

  She was rambling. Tony pulled a chair over, settling himself in front of Mary as the door closed on the duty sergeant with a conclusive click. She was agitated but he’d seen a lot worse and she was so frail she didn’t present a threat. Before Tony could say anything, Mary continued, ‘He’ll come, you know. He’ll come and find me. She said he doesn’t love me, that he wants the money, but she’s lying. I know she is. She just doesn’t want me to be happy.’ Mary shook her head, her eyes filling with tears, bottom lip trembling. Under the blanket Tony could see she was plucking at the thin rose-pink nylon of her nightdress, the fabric hanging from her painfully thin knees. Then suddenly Mary looked up, looked directly at him, her face confused, as if the music had stopped and she was the last one without a chair.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Emily’s husband, Tony Cox. Do you remember we met the other day – at the lunch club at the church?’ He kept his voice level, friendly and warm.

  ‘The church?’ Mary shook her head, a tear slipping down her cheek, her face fearful. ‘Not the church.’

  ‘It was the lunch club, Mary, we met at the lunch club. My wife’s name is Emily. She said you had a bit of trouble in the market. She took you home.’

  Mary screwed up her face, then it began to move, expressions passing like a breeze was blowing thoughts into her head, one minute angry, the next sad.

  Behind him, Tony heard the door open. The sergeant was back.

  ‘How are you doing, Doctor? We’d like to get her home.’

  ‘She’s not one of my patients, not yet at least, but my wife does know her. I think she lives near St Anthony’s in Bethnal Green. I’ll have to give Emily a buzz and get the address.’ Tony glanced at his watch: 1 a.m. The ring of his phone interrupted his thoughts, Beethoven bouncing off the bare walls. Pulling it out of the pocket of his coat, Tony held it at arm’s length so he could see the screen clearly. His eyesight was getting worse.

  ‘It’s her.’ He stood up. ‘Excuse me for a moment, Mary.’

  He kept his voice low, quickly explaining what had happened. ‘No, you don’t need to come down, stay in bed. She’s fine. The duty doc’s had a look at her. We just needed her address.’

  Tony paused, turned to raise his eyes to the sergeant, who could hear Emily’s voice, tinny but insistent on the other end. Tony clicked the phone off.

  ‘My wife’s on her way. We live in Paradise Gardens; it’s only a few minutes.’ His voice was apologetic.

  ‘That’s great, sir.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘My wife’s exactly the same. Doesn’t reckon I can tie my shoelaces on my own.’

  ‘How is she?’ Emily Cox arrived through the front door of Limehouse Police Station in a whirlwind of cold air, cheeks flushed, her lime-green ski jacket zipped tight, a fuchsia scarf doubled over at its neck. ‘I can’t believe it. After getting mugged in the market, now this. And she’s such a sweet old thing . . .’

  Tony raised his eyebrows, pointed wordlessly to the door he’d just emerged from. The sergeant
punched in the security code as Emily drew breath. Tony had a strong feeling he knew what was coming next.

  ‘How on earth did this happen? She’s supposed to be living in a warden-managed unit.’

  Tony held up his hand like he was stopping traffic, his face half amused, his other hand on the handle of the door.

  ‘Thanks, sweetheart, but all we need is her address.’ Opening it wide, Tony continued, ‘And the guy’s a warden, not a jailer – if Mary wanted to get out badly enough she would have given him the slip.’ But Tony might as well have been talking to himself.

  Emily didn’t answer, instead went straight to Mary, sighing audibly, and bobbed down beside her. ‘Mary, whatever’s happened to you now?’ Emily’s voice was soft, her accent even more pronounced than normal.

  For the first time that evening Mary seemed to show a flash of recognition, lifted her hand from her lap, gesturing for Emily to come closer.

  ‘He’s here.’ Mary giggled, a girlish high-pitched sound totally incongruous in the harsh surroundings. ‘I told you he’d come for me, and look – he has. Isn’t he handsome?’

  Emily followed Mary’s eye. Glancing quickly at Tony, her eyes filled with laughter as she cottoned on.

  ‘We need to get you warm and dry, Mary, and we need to get you dressed, don’t we, love?’

  Tony ignored her look. ‘There’s a squad car waiting to take her home. They just need to know where to go.’

  Emily stood up straight, glanced at him anxiously then back at Mary, chewing her lip. When she spoke, her voice was so low that Tony could hardly hear her.

  ‘She can’t go home, love, not on her own. That flat’s so, so grim.’

  It took Tony a moment to work out what Emily was implying, then he raised his thick eyebrows, looking at her in horror. He’d seen that look before. But last time it had been the cats. And he couldn’t even pretend he was allergic to old ladies.