Darkhouse

TWENTY-THREE

‘Update on Katie Lawson,’ said O’Connor, standing in his familiar spot at the top of the conference room.

‘As you’ve heard, evidence has come back from the post-mortem – fragments of a snail shell – to indicate that Katie was murdered elsewhere and her body transported to the forest. The place we’re concentrating on is Mariner’s Strand, where we’ve found other samples of the, uh…Sandhill Snail. The Water Unit searched the area yesterday, along with the harbour, where they found one of Katie’s pink running shoes, which is being checked for fingerprints today. We think at this point that Katie paid a visit to her father’s grave on Church Road – a white rose was left there – and she may have moved across the road to the Mariner’s Strand area when she was attacked. She could have been lured there for some reason – whether this was an opportunistic crime or someone had been watching her movements, we don’t know. We know that the last call she tried to make on her mobile phone was to Frank Deegan.’ He nodded at Frank, who had a troubled expression on his face. ‘This could mean that she was aware she was in danger or that maybe she was calling in another crime. The fact that she rang Frank and not 999 is an interesting one, although she does know the Deegan family quite well.

‘Because of the three-week delay in finding the body, we don’t expect any new evidence to come to light from our search of Mariner’s Strand. Something to note is that Katie’s possible movements on that night would directly conflict with the witness statement of Mae Miller, so that’s something we’ll have to explore. As to the body being left in the forest, that could be for any number of reasons, including its secluded nature, its familiarity to the killer, convenience or it could have some deeper significance we’re as yet unaware of. The closest properties to the forest would obviously be the Lucchesis’ house and Millers’ Orchard. We need to keep thoroughly investigating the players involved here.’

The music thumped through the speakers, a tinny repeat melody over a booming bass. Duke looked up at the hairdresser. She wore low-rise jeans that pinched her extra pounds and pushed her pierced stomach over the waistband. Her black glitter halter top plunged low, revealing a chest with a bad reaction to fake tan. Her lips moved to the lyrics of the track. As she cut, the hair fell in wet clumps onto the open newspaper.

She reached down and wiped it onto the floor, leaving a police composite sketch exposed on the damp page.

‘That was awful, wasn’t it?’ she said, pointing at it with her comb. ‘That girl in Tipperary who disappeared.’

‘Awful,’ said Duke, looking down at a face meant to be his.

‘Some young girl came forward after weeks and told the guards. She was in that American diner when the guy was there. Imagine, she didn’t come forward because she thought she’d get in trouble at school. What a waste.’

She kept cutting. ‘God knows at this stage, that girl could have forgotten what the man looked like.’

‘Probably,’ said Duke. ‘But some faces stay with you for life, good or bad. I guess we’ll know if they catch him.’ The scissors moved close to his ears, snipping the hair tight to his head.

The den was quiet but for the slow hum of the fax machine. One after another, the pages slid out, floating to land in a pile on the floorboards below. Shaun walked over and stood confused, trying to focus on the smudged images from a stray upturned page. He bent down, taking it in his hand, bringing it closer. It was a woman, her face peacefully untouched, but her body, desecrated, black ink for blood. Crude hand-drawn arrows pointed to ‘puncture wounds like claws’ to the torso, ‘three symmetrical lacerations to the area beneath the ribs’, ‘partial disembowelling’. An icy sensation pulsed through Shaun’s head. He fell to his knees, clawing through the pages, finding layer upon layer of blurred but vivid images that highlighted in white a handbag or a sideways shoe to make these dead women strangers seem so real. He slumped to the floor.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ shouted Joe as he ran into the room. ‘Shaun, no.’

He stumbled to the ground, pulling his son towards him, prising his clenched fingers from the crumpled page.

‘That was my fax, that was just for me,’ he said uselessly.

‘Is that what happened to her, Dad?’ Shaun pleaded. ‘Is that what happened to Katie? Because that is fucked up. That is the most fucked up thing I’ve ever seen. That is so fucked up. Did some guy do that? Did some guy do that shit?’ He was choking, the words and sobs mangled horribly in his throat. Joe put his arms around him. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d been so close. He felt no different to his father. He released his hold and started to gather up the pages. He knew now he’d have to take another trip to Dublin.

Mae Miller opened the door as wide as it would go. She was dressed in a long silver evening gown, with a string of purple beads knotted halfway and falling to her waist. She wore black velvet gloves to her elbows and a thick pearl bracelet on her wrist. She had swept her grey hair from her face and secured it in a chignon.

‘Hello,’ she said, smiling broadly.

‘Oh, Mrs Miller,’ said Richie. ‘I didn’t mean to catch you on your way out.’ He looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty a.m. and he’d just had breakfast.

‘Not at all,’ said Mae. ‘I’m just enjoying the performance. I didn’t know you were an opera buff.’

Richie looked away. ‘Eh, I was wondering if I could have a word with John.’

‘It’s the interval. He’s gone to the bar.’

‘Danaher’s?’ said Richie.

‘No. Here,’ she said, pointing upstairs.

‘Would you mind giving him a shout?’

‘My pleasure,’ said Mae, gliding away from him.

‘John? John?’ she called. ‘Look who I bumped into.’

Richie had stepped into the hall and was standing by the door. John lumbered down the stairs and frowned when he saw his mother.

‘Howiya, Richie,’ he said, abruptly.

‘Ah, John,’ said Mae. ‘Are you ready?’ She turned toward the kitchen door and held out her arm as if she was waiting to be escorted. She looked back over her shoulder to Richie. ‘We don’t want to miss the second half.’

‘That’s fair enough, Mrs Miller,’ said Richie, looking down at the floor.

Joe drove north through Dublin onto the Malahide Road. Before he hit the motorway to the airport, he took a left through the red iron gates of the Fire Training Centre, following a curved tree-lined drive. The sign to the mortuary guided him around a large field where half an aeroplane leant on its wing in the corner. When he saw the fake front of a nightclub painted onto a brick wall, it hit him – fire, training. He pulled up in front of four prefabs, the temporary home of the State Pathologist’s office. He hoped Dr McClatchie was sitting at her desk. She wasn’t. She was standing inside the door talking to her assistant.

‘Dr McClatchie, hi – my name is Joe Lucchesi, I’m an NYPD detective and, uh, I was wondering if you’d have a minute.’ He smiled.

She looked trapped, but she said, ‘OK, come into my office.’

‘It’s about the murder of Katie Lawson,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ she said, sitting down, gesturing for him to do the same. ‘NYPD? Why have you been drafted in?’

He weighed it up. ‘Uh, we haven’t,’ he said finally. He pulled out the fax and placed it on the desk between them with one of the more graphic photos on top. The name Tonya Ramer was printed above. She was laid out in the morgue, her face ghostly, but almost serene. The body had clearly been found within days of her murder. Between her legs was a mess of tissue and sharp black shards of what he knew was timber. The only other visible injuries were uneven lacerations on her knees and three slashes of similar length under each side of her rib cage. Lara looked down, then back up quickly, but she was using her fingers to spread out the other pages as she stared at him.

‘What are you playing at?’ she asked, bemused more than annoyed.

‘I wanted you to look at these photos and tell me if they are similar in any way to the injuries sustained to Katie Lawson.’

‘Are you mad?’ she asked in her clipped way, as if she was about to wave her hand and order someone to ‘have this man beheaded.’

He inhaled sharply and said, ‘Katie Lawson was my son’s girlfriend.’ She sat back and sighed. ‘And I know,’ he continued, ‘that my son is the number one suspect. I think the man who committed these murders,’ he pointed to the table, ‘could be the same man who killed Katie.’

She looked down reflexively, her eyes sweeping over the photos.

‘You know I couldn’t possibly discuss this with you. I’m actually amazed that you came in.’

‘You can’t blame a guy for trying. Believe me, I have a very real appreciation for what you’re trying to do over here – probably more than anyone else working on this case.’

‘Ah, but you’re not working on this case.’

‘You got me,’ he said. ‘But I’m dyin’, here.’ He flashed a look out at the morgue door. He smiled and leaned across the desk to drag the photos back into a pile.

‘I’m sorry for bothering you,’ he said, locking eyes with her. ‘But I hope my visit will go no further.’

‘Pardon?’ she said.

‘I can’t have the guards knowing I showed up here.’

She threw her eyes up to heaven. ‘Well, I’ve told you nothing.’

Ah, but you’ve told me everything, thought Joe. He was trained on gut reactions and reactions to gut reactions: flickers, twitches, shakes, gulps – cartoonish words for things that helped him differentiate an honest man from a liar. Her reaction to the photos had spoken volumes to him – the wounds were not the same. The one thing he couldn’t pinpoint, though, was the reason for the tiniest frown he caught on her face at the last second and her almost reluctant release of the photos.

‘Here’s my card if you need to get in contact with me.’ She stared at him. He ignored her expression, crossed out his New York number and wrote in his Irish mobile. He stood up to leave, but the motion was too quick on an empty stomach and he staggered to the side, grabbing onto the desk for support.

‘Are you OK?’ said Lara, moving towards him.

When he raised his head, tiny silver spots danced before his eyes.

‘Sit down,’ said Lara, pulling out the seat for him. ‘Are you OK?’

He managed a nod. He put his hand to the back of his neck and started rubbing it.

‘I just got a bit dizzy,’ he said. ‘I haven’t eaten.’ Suddenly he reached for her waste basket and retched violently, spitting saliva onto the crumpled papers and pencil parings inside. His face burned.

‘I knew I shouldn’t have bought wicker,’ she said.

‘Jesus, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know…’

‘Have you got a stomach bug?’ she asked. ‘You’re terribly pale.’

‘No. I just haven’t eaten and I’ve taken some painkillers and other stuff. And coffee.’

‘Do you mind me asking why you’re on painkillers? Or do all cops follow that diet?’

He snorted a laugh. ‘No to the first question and yes to the second. But I get a lot of jaw pain and pressure in my head. It can hurt to eat, so I guess that’s why I get light-headed…’

‘Do you mind if I have a look?’ she said, already reaching her hands out. He jerked his head back.

‘You’re wasting your time.’

‘I’m the boss in my office,’ she said, ignoring his reluctance, pressing cold thumbs down the side of his nose and across his cheeks, then above both eyebrows. He held his breath. They avoided eye contact.

‘Sorry,’ he said, pushing her hand away. ‘I have to breathe.’

‘I never asked you to stop breathing,’ she said.

He flashed a glance at the wicker basket.

She laughed. ‘You should smell my world.’

She sat back against the edge of her desk.

‘Well, it’s not your sinuses,’ she said. ‘You say it’s sore to eat. Where?’

‘Here,’ he said, rubbing his fingers against the sharp ends of his sideburns. He shifted in his seat.

‘OK,’ she said and he took his hands down. She put two thumbs each side on the same spot.

‘Open and close your mouth,’ she said. ‘Can you feel anything?’

‘Like a crackle,’ he said.

‘Pain?’

‘No, but I’ve taken a lot to kill that.’

‘Oh, yes. Does your jaw ever lock? Do you ever hear it click?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you get pain in your neck or your cheeks?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever get diagnosed with toothache, earache or sinusitis?’

‘Yes, look I appreciate this, but I really have to get a move on.’

‘Have you ever suffered an injury to your face or jaw?’

Images of childhood fights flashed through his mind, a teenage car accident, a punch-up in a bar at his bachelor party, a door slammed against him in a raid, the explosion…

‘Uh-huh,’ he said.

She stepped back. ‘Good news or bad?’

‘Bad.’

She shook her head. ‘Pessimist?’

‘Worst Case Scenario Man.’

‘First of all, I’m not your GP, so what I’m giving you here is an educated guess. It could be one of two things: some form of facial neuralgia or possibly, TMJ dysfunction. The TMJ bit stands for Temporo-Mandibular Joint, the all-important joint that helps you open and close your jaw. And you’re American, you’ll understand the dysfunction part.’

Nothing was beyond a comment with Lara McClatchie.

‘I’m leaning towards TMJ dysfunction,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen it before. And my brother has it.’

She studied him for a moment. ‘Why am I getting the impression you’re just playing along?’

Joe said nothing.

‘You know this already, don’t you?’

‘I guess so.’

‘Why haven’t you done anything about it?’

‘I was too busy.’

‘You really should find the time to get treated. Your brain spends a lot of energy looking after that joint. And the problem is worse if you’re stressed, which, under the circumstances, I’d say you are.

‘They’ll probably just fit you with a splint – a mouth guard that you wear all the time or just at night. And there are other options as well – surgery…’ She laughed when she saw his reaction. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I’ve come to the root of the denial.’

He shrugged.

‘It won’t go away,’ she said.

‘Can’t you give me anything for now?’

‘You’re forgetting. I see dead people.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ He smiled.

‘Bet you haven’t been doing a lot of that lately,’ she said.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Here,’ she said, bending over the desk, scribbling on a notepad. ‘Here’s the name of a specialist in the Eye and Ear Hospital, Dr Morley. She should sort you out. We went to college together. She stole my boyfriend.’

‘And what? Sending me in is your revenge?’

‘Good point,’ said Lara with a smirk. ‘Give me that back.’ She crossed out the name and wrote another one. ‘Here. Go with this guy. He’s not a big fan of surgery.’ She smiled.

He thanked her and left. Lara walked out the door to her assistant.

‘Gill?’ she said. ‘You know my forceps?’

Gill nodded.

‘Well, if I could remove one thing with them right now, it would be the platinum band on the fourth digit of that man’s left hand.’

‘Platinum,’ said Gill, ‘says it all.’

‘I can’t believe I nearly sent him to that cow in the Eye and Ear.’ She sighed. ‘On a more serious note, I need you to get me a file.’

‘But you were being serious about him.’

‘True.’

John Miller was sitting at the bar holding a pint and playing with a shot glass of whisky. Ed stood watching him for a few minutes, then suddenly leaned across the counter and spoke firmly into his ear.

‘I’m going to tell you something,’ he said, ‘and I hope you’re listening.’

‘What?’ said John.

‘You’re not an alcoholic.’

John put his pint down gently.

‘What I’m saying to you, Miller, is that your body is not addicted to alcohol. You’re just addicted to being out of your mind so you can forget. You could stop in the morning without help and I think you know that yourself. But in six months’ time, it might be a different story.’

‘Jesus, I just came in for a couple of drinks,’ said John. Ed slammed his fist down on the bar. Then he turned around and grabbed one of the photos from the wall. It was the Munster rugby team, 1979. Ed slapped it down on the counter and pointed angrily to the back row where John Miller stood, young and healthy, with a wide, friendly smile.

‘You were a winner!’ said Ed.

‘Ah, it’s all a load of bollocks in the end,’ said John.

Ed almost shouted at him, ‘Stop being so bloody difficult, for the love of God! I have enough customers that one less isn’t going to matter a flying fiddler’s. I’ve listened to you shite on about your wife and kids every day for over a month now. What I’m telling you is stop your moaning and do something about it. If your wife didn’t want the nice guy back, she definitely won’t want the waster you’ve turned into.’

Victor Nicotero was about to make a call when he saw the flashing red light on his machine. He hit play.

‘Hi, Nic, it’s Joe. Texas trip’s off. I’m not sure, I…What can I say? Everything and nothing’s adding up. My head’s all screwed up. But thanks anyway.’

Anna was tired and pale when she arrived at the supermarket. She moved quickly through the short aisles, trying to ignore the looks being directed her way. Her face was growing hot, her hands clammy. The basket almost slipped from her grip and when she bent to keep it under control she saw two fishermen’s boots on the ground in front of her. She looked up.

‘I’m not happy with what Shaun did,’ said Mick Harrington. He had prepared for this, but he was clearly embarrassed.

‘What do you mean?’ said Anna.

‘You know, he got Robert to cover his tracks. He got him to go to Seascapes and turn out the light after he was in the place with Katie. Robert could have been arrested.’

‘I didn’t know that Shaun had done that,’ said Anna. ‘But I know it wasn’t right. I cannot say much to you, Mick. Shaun is very upset. I had no idea any of this was going on. I would have done something about it.’

‘You and Joe seem to be in the dark a fair bit, don’t you?’ said Mick. ‘Or is it denial you’re in?’

Anna couldn’t speak.

‘Robert won’t be around again,’ said Mick.

Anna was alone in the aisle. She held back tears as she walked to the checkout. As she stood in line, she heard someone call out her name. She didn’t want to look around.

‘Anna,’ came the voice again, this time with a tap on the shoulder. ‘How are you?’

She turned to face Nora Deegan who was smiling warmly.

‘It must be just awful what you’re going through. Awful.’ Her voice was loud and firm.

She squeezed Anna’s arm. The woman at the till stared.

‘Anyway, we won’t dwell on that,’ said Nora. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come over for coffee this afternoon.’

‘Sure,’ said Anna. ‘That would be great.’

Barry Shanley came to his front door, dabbing a bloody spot on his shaved head. He took a deep breath when he saw who was outside.

‘Hello, Barry. Can I come in?’ said Frank. He glanced at Barry’s combats and his black T-shirt stamped with Leave No Man Behind.

‘Yeah, sure.’ Barry stepped back.

‘Is your father here?’

Barry’s father worked on the ferries out of Rosslare. He was rarely home.

‘Uh, yeah.’

‘Is your mother?’

Barry nodded. ‘Do you want me to get them? I’m in the middle of my homework.’ He grabbed on to the banister.

‘I need to speak with you too,’ said Frank.

‘Oh. OK.’

Mr and Mrs Shanley led Frank into the living room and sat on the sofa warily. Barry slouched by the door. Frank pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded the email, handing it to Mr Shanley.

‘What’s this?’ he said.

‘Well, in the old days, we’d call it a poison pen letter. But these days, you can do it by email. It was sent to Shaun Lucchesi and I believe it came from Barry.’ His parents looked at him.

‘I’ve never seen that before in my life,’ he said. His parents nodded.

‘Come on now, Barry,’ said Frank. ‘On my way home from work yesterday, I paid a visit to Mr Russell, the computer teacher at the school and he was able to trace it back to you.’

‘There must be some kind of mistake,’ said Mrs Shanley. ‘This is terrible. An awful thing to send, no matter what Shaun Lucchesi has done.’

‘What do you think Shaun Lucchesi has done?’ said Frank.

Mrs Shanley blushed.

‘Yes, it is an awful thing to send,’ said Frank. ‘And I’m afraid that Barry is the person who sent it.’ He turned to him. ‘Mr Russell is an expert and he would swear to it in court if he had to.’

Barry’s eyes widened. ‘I have to go to court?’ He started to tremble.

‘This is your fault,’ said Mrs Shanley to her husband. Everyone turned to her.

‘Well, it is,’ she said. ‘You’re never here to discipline the child.’

Frank focused on Barry. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you won’t have to go to court. But I think you owe the Lucchesis an apology.’

Barry started to cry.

Danny Markey hung over the back of his sofa at six a.m. and grabbed the phone.

‘You just do not know who’s spitting into your hamburger these days,’ he said.

‘Danny. What’s up? Why are you up?’

‘It’s another sofa night in the Markey household. I spoke with Kane. Flipping burgers right here in New York, so thanks for bringing the mountain to Mohammed. And I mean mountain. Huge guy, yet strangely cuddly. Bit of a comedian. Can’t put him with his rap sheet though. Torture, mutilation…he gouged a guy’s eye out – with a crutch – for whistling. Psycho motherfucker.’

‘So, what about Rawlins?’

‘Nothing major, I’m afraid. Here we go: nuts, Kane spelt that out for me too, like he can talk, obsessed with Harris’ Hawks, which would back up the first claim, he lost it when Riggs got killed, but also thought he was right to blow up the mother and daughter, that you make good on your promises. That was pretty much it. You didn’t get a mention, buddy.’

‘I didn’t think I would. I just, I don’t know…’ The words felt scrambled together in his head, climbing over each other to get out.

‘You really need to chill about all this, Joe. You don’t sound yourself. Is everything all right? What time is it over there? Have you been on the beer?’

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Just the pain.’ Nothing was coming out right. He started to panic.

‘Look,’ said Danny, ‘it’ll all be over and some local whack job will be locked up for it.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Joe.

‘Man, you sound like you need to get some sleep.’

Joe snorted. ‘Sleep. Great.’ He rubbed his eyes.

‘Well, take a shower then. I’m the one calling in the middle of the night, remember.’ He laughed. He got no response.

‘Jesus, I’m forgetting to tell you the weirdest thing,’ said Danny, ‘what he said about the ransom money…I did a bit of checking and it looks like he’s right. I’m gonna FedEx you over the Hayley Gray file.’

Anna had never been to the Deegans’ house before. It was down a small side street in Mountcannon, but on the opposite side to the station, so it didn’t have a sea view. It was beautifully painted, with a newly thatched roof and traditional green window frames and door. There was no bell, so Anna tapped gently with the brass knocker.

‘Well, the sergeant’s wife isn’t going to invite the mother of a murderer into her home, now, is she?’ said Nora as she let her in.

Nora’s directness could be shocking, but Anna managed a laugh.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘This is very kind.’

‘My pleasure. Well, actually, it’s also a bit selfish of me, really,’ said Nora. ‘I was hoping to pick your brain while you’re here.’

‘Sure. About what?’

‘The gallery. The interior, more specifically. I want it to be perfect, but I haven’t got the budget, you know.’

‘I’d love to help,’ said Anna. ‘But are you sure? I don’t want to make things difficult for you. I know what people are like.’

Nora rolled her eyes. ‘I need an expert and that’s that. Don’t mind them and their nonsense.’

‘I’m not really an expert,’ said Anna. ‘I’m new to this.’

‘But you’re working for one of the top interior mags in the world.’

‘It was luck and contacts,’ said Anna. ‘They didn’t come to me. I was only starting really, just four years a designer. I went to them…with a proposal I was hoping they couldn’t say no to. My teacher at interior design school gave me good grades. When I told her my idea, she sent me to her friend in the magazine who likes to take risks.’

‘Well, then you deserve it. This is an expensive risk. I mean to say, they wouldn’t have given it to you if they didn’t think you could handle it.’

‘Joe would say I’m not very good with budgets.’

Shaun pulled his suitcase from the closet and laid it open on the bed. He was taking a pile of fresh clothes from the dresser when Joe walked down the stairs to his room.

‘What’s going on?’ he said.

Shaun spun around. ‘Couldn’t you knock?’

‘I did knock. You didn’t answer. What are you doing?’

‘Packing.’

‘Come on, Shaun, less of the attitude. Where do you think you’re going?’

‘Home. Back to New York.’

‘What?’

Shaun looked down. ‘Granddad sent me a ticket.’ He pointed to the desk. Joe snatched up a slim travel wallet.

‘Yeah, well, we’ll see about that,’ he said, walking to the door. ‘And you can put that suitcase away,’ he called back. ‘After I speak with your grandfather, I’m going for a walk, then I’m going to Danaher’s. You better be here when I get back.’

‘They probably won’t serve you,’ Shaun called after him. ‘Everyone hates us.’

Nora slid a pile of books, magazines and papers off a desk in the corner and brought them over to the kitchen table. She flipped the books open to pages she had marked with index cards, showing Anna the artists whose paintings she was hoping to exhibit. She went through newspaper cuttings from cultural sections, magazine articles on art and faxes from contacts in other small galleries around the country.

‘I think I might have something at home you might like to see,’ said Anna. ‘An idea I started working on before, but didn’t get a chance to finish.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Nora, sorting through more documents.

‘Who’s this guy?’ said Anna, pointing to the top half of a solemn face, hidden by the pages on top. ‘An artist?’

Nora reached for the fax, flustered, but Anna had already pulled it free and knew that what she was staring at was a mug shot. She raised her hand to her mouth.

‘That’s Frank’s,’ said Nora. ‘I must have taken it with my own stuff.’

Anna’s face was pale. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘Who is he?’ She turned to Nora.

‘Who is he? Why does Frank have his photo?’

Her hand was shaking. Nora said nothing. Anna looked back at the page and noticed a scribble, five letters cut off at the edge of the page, ‘chesi’. ‘Does this have something to do with Joe?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

‘You’ll have to ask him,’ said Nora. ‘I’m sorry. This is my fault.’

‘No it’s not,’ said Anna. ‘But I’m going to have to go. I have to talk to Joe.’

Joe punched the numbers into the phone and was pacing across the kitchen before Giulio even picked up.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ said Joe.

‘I presume you’re talking about the plane tickets. I was helping my grandson out.’

‘Playing the big shot. He doesn’t need your help.’

‘The kid’s been through too much. He needs a break.’

‘That’s not up to you. Are you crazy? Coming in, trying to drag him back to New York? Do you think that’ll look good to everyone around here?’

‘He called me, looking for help. So I’m helping him.’

‘To run away. I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation. I can’t believe Shaun even called you.’

‘I don’t think you fully appreciate what’s been going on in his head,’ said Giulio.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘He feels like a criminal. He’s only sixteen—’

‘And what the hell would you know about sixteen-year-olds?’

‘And then there’s you, running around trying to get involved, embarrassing the poor kid.’

Joe was taken aback. ‘None of this is any of your business,’ he snapped.

‘It is my business if my grandson’s unhappy.’

‘But if your son’s unhappy—’

‘Get over it, Joe. Mommy and Daddy still love you, they just can’t live together.’ His voice was a cruel whine.

‘You’re a real cold guy, Giulio.’

‘Shaun needs to get away, relax, where no-one is crossing the street to avoid him.’

‘No-one’s crossing the street to avoid him, for crying out loud.’

‘He sees things differently. He needs to be accepted at this stage of his life. And that’s not happening in your quaint little village over there. Get him the hell away before any permanent damage is done. He’s at an important stage—’

‘What? You making up for lost time now? Is that it? You’re going to be there for him ’cos you weren’t for me?’

‘Well, look how you turned out, you can’t stick with anything.’

‘Jesus Christ Almighty, he’s on to the college thing again. Let me spell it out for you – it was never gonna happen. I was not born to become anything you think makes you look good to your professor friends or whoever the hell you want to impress. Yeah, my son is a cop, yeah, yeah. I bet that doesn’t come up in conversation too much at lunch with the dean. Dad? I would have made a shit entomologist, OK? I make a damn good cop.’

‘Why are you not working now, then?’

Joe was apoplectic.

‘You blew it, Joe, and you know it.’

The line hummed. Joe couldn’t get any angrier, so he did the next best thing. He took some breaths, lowered his voice and spoke gently.

‘You think I can’t stick to anything, huh? Is that how you feel? What about Anna? What about the woman I love and promised to love with all my heart the day I married her? Seventeen years of marriage. So there you have it, there’s something – I’ve stuck with my wife. Which I think we’ll agree is a whole hell of a lot more honourable than walking out on a dying one.’

The Jeep was gone and the house was empty when Anna got back. Joe’s mobile phone was on the kitchen counter. She was still trying to come to terms with the photo. She didn’t want to think about what it meant. She remembered the project she wanted to show Nora and went to the filing cabinet in the den. She tried the top drawer, but it jammed. The one underneath was still open. She bent down and pulled it out. At the back, the corner of a page stuck out from a brown folder with no tab. Her hand hovered over it. This was Joe’s drawer. But she reached in and slid the page free. It was a short letter, addressed to The Personnel Department, One Police Plaza. Her heart fell. Scanning down, she saw

‘Joe Lucchesi…Shield Number…, would like to be reinstated, as soon as possible, consider my application…

Anna slammed the drawer shut with a swift kick.

The sky was grey over Mariner’s Strand. Joe walked along the pebbled sand wishing he was one of the people there to enjoy the view. Instead, he was thinking about grief: his for the loss of a perfect marriage, Shaun’s for a beautiful dead girlfriend. He saw Frank and Nora Deegan by the water and walked towards them. Frank nodded at his wife and she went on ahead.

‘I don’t know whether this is good news or bad for you, Joe, but I found out who sent Shaun that email. It was Barry Shanley, a fifth year student in St Declan’s who was trying his hand at being the tough man.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Joe. ‘But—’

‘I’ve gone through everything in detail with the computer teacher at the school. There’s absolutely no question about it and Barry admitted it himself. He was crying by the time I left him. You’ve been through a lot, Joe. It’s understandable things like that would rattle you. Oh, and Richie went to see Mae Miller today and he said there’s not a bother on her. We don’t think she’s suffering from Alzheimer’s, Joe. John Miller can be a funny fish. Probably looking for some sort of sympathy vote.’

Anna walked around the house trying to decide what to do. She didn’t want to waste her anger on a phone call Joe could hang up on. She wanted him to register every bit of hurt and disappointment she was feeling. She had been right – both her boys were lying to her. She had fought for them over and over and this was how they had paid her back.

‘Screw you,’ she said. She was going back over to the drawer when she heard the doorbell ring. She didn’t move. It rang again. She stormed through the hall and jerked the door open. A man stood smiling in front of her. He wore brown hiking boots, skinny jeans, a check shirt and a creamcoloured vest. Anna’s heart rate soared so sharply, she froze. He was reminding her that he was Gary, the replacement gardener. She found herself staring at the tendons in his arms. Then she realised he had stopped talking. She looked up. Their eyes met. His smile died. She started fumbling desperately for the door. She tried to jam her bare foot against it. Duke was already pushing her back, sliding her towards the wall. The rough wood scraped up her foot, dragging splinters through the torn skin. She cried out and jerked her foot away, slamming backwards into the wall. She dropped to her knees and scrambled past Duke. In one stride he was behind her. He wrapped his arm around her waist then wrenched it towards him, crushing her stomach and ribs. She tried to prise his arm away, but he held her rigid. Something inside her sank. As he carried her back through the door, she caught his strange, distorted reflection in the glass. The only thing she could make out were two dilated pupils that made her scream. Windows to the soul…and the soul was black.

Ray and Hugh were standing at the bar having one of their discussions when Joe joined them.

‘To me, faces from those police sketches are like a whole separate species,’ said Hugh. ‘Like, that guy from that American Heroes place. That face doesn’t exist in any reality. Only in a police file or in a newspaper. I mean, the face we see isn’t actually anyone’s face. It’s like a mutant, pulled together from memory. I always picture these two-D faces floating around the place, with these evil eyes, sharp cheekbones and always the creepy, slitty little mouth. “Hi, I’m the sketch from the robbery? The bank job?” “Wow! You are so not like the guy they got for that!”’ He looked from Ray to Joe. ‘Know what I mean?’ he added.

‘Hugh’s PC is in for repair,’ said Ray. ‘It’s been very upsetting for him.’ Hugh nodded sadly.

‘I haven’t seen the one you’re talking about, but I think they’re always shite,’ said Ray. ‘A couple of years ago, there was a rapist around Waterford and the police brought out some composite thing that was the image of me. I swear to God. It was in all the papers. I thought I’d be the only one to notice, but everyone started staring at me—’

‘I’d say Richie Bates drew that just to piss you off,’ said Hugh.

‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ said Ray.

‘Well, after his road rage moment the other day…’ said Joe.

‘What has he done now?’ said Ray.

‘What do you mean? You’re the one who was there.’

Ray stared at him.

‘With the garbage on the road outside your house?’

Ray and Hugh exchanged glances. Ray snorted a laugh.

Three beers arrived in front of them and the conversation changed.

Robert Harrington climbed out his window onto the conservatory roof, straddling the glass panes, placing his feet carefully on the aluminium. He walked down slowly, then jumped into the garden, sprinting across it and out onto the road.

‘Free gaff,’ said Shaun, when he answered the door. ‘Mom and Dad are out.’

‘You and your Irish expressions,’ said Robert. ‘Shouldn’t you be saying, like “home alone” or something? You look like shit, by the way.’

‘Thanks. Come in. I’ll tell you everything. My life is a mess. I think we should raid the drinks cabinet.’

‘Any excuse,’ said Robert. ‘And I’ve called Ali. She’s on her way.’

The kitchen table was covered with files. Frank sat, leaning on his elbows, studying an open folder. Nora stood in the doorway.

‘I thought I’d tell you about what happened today—’

Frank raised his hand to stop her. Then he looked up with his magnified eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m up to my neck trying to work it all out.’ He pushed himself back from the table.

‘I know you are, pet,’ said Nora. ‘You look pale. And your dark circles are huge,’ she smiled. ‘Are you all right?’

‘My stomach is in bits.’ He nodded towards the coffee pot.

‘It’s worth it sometimes,’ she said, smiling. ‘If you’ve got a lot on. To keep you going.’

‘I just…it’s driving me mad trying to work out why Katie picked me out of everyone to call. Why not 999 or the station or Shaun for that matter? Although, they were arguing, so I suppose…’ He sighed. ‘I just don’t know.’

‘Don’t let O’Connor hear you say that.’

They laughed.

‘Don’t worry about the call. You’ll find out soon enough what it was all about,’ said Nora, walking over and squeezing his shoulders. She tilted the lamp beside him.

‘That’s better.’

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘I’ll leave you to it.’

As Joe swung the Jeep into the drive, his headlights hit the top of the lighthouse, where he saw a figure leaning dangerously over the balcony railings. He reversed the car and the headlights picked up two other people underneath waving at the person above. He slammed his foot on the gas and drove halfway down the lane, cutting the engine and jumping out at the steps down to the lighthouse. A misty, drenching rain was falling and as he approached, he saw Ali rooted to the spot. Robert staggered around to face him.

‘Mr Lucchesi,’ he said, pointing up at the balcony. ‘It’s Shaun. He’s hammered. He says he’s going to jump.’ Robert stank of beer, but had been shocked almost sober.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Joe. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.’ Ali was hysterical.

‘We were drinking in the house,’ said Robert. ‘Then he wanted to come outside in the rain, so we said yeah and he said he wanted to show us the lighthouse and he ran ahead and he’s been hanging over the railings for ages saying he wants to die. We didn’t know what to do. We couldn’t leave him.’

‘Where’s Anna?’ said Joe.

‘I don’t know,’ said Robert. ‘Shaun said she’s out.’

‘Did he take anything?’ said Joe.

‘Like drugs? No. He just mixed his drinks.’

‘Shit,’ said Joe.

They both watched as Shaun vomited into the wind and it flew back against him.

‘I want to die,’ he moaned.

‘Well, I want to kill you,’ said Joe under his breath.

Robert smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lucchesi. I had no idea—’

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Joe. ‘He’s been having a rough time. It was inevitable.’

‘You don’t want to die, Shaun,’ shouted Joe. ‘Come on down, for God’s sake. I’ll get you a coffee.’

‘My life is over,’ shouted Shaun, holding onto the railings, swaying backwards. ‘Katie’s gone and everyone thinks I killed her.’

‘No, they don’t,’ shouted Robert.

‘What would you know?’ said Shaun. ‘Your dad doesn’t even want you near me.’

Robert shrugged his shoulders at Joe.

‘Come on, son,’ said Joe to Shaun. ‘This is just the beer talking. I’m gonna come up to you and we’re gonna come down together. Can you stay where you are?’

‘Just fuck off and leave me alone,’ roared Shaun, trying to raise his knee to climb up. He stumbled back, slumping against the wall, his stomach folded in two. He threw up again, wiping the vomit away with his sleeve.

‘Aw, Jesus,’ said Joe. ‘I’m going up, guys. Wait here. He’s not gonna jump. He wouldn’t even be able to get his leg over that railing.’

Joe ran through the double doors and up the stairs into the lantern house, pushing through the open door onto the balcony. Shaun was weeping now, his hands rubbing at his eyes, his shoulders heaving. Joe sat down and pulled him towards him, smoothing his hair down, telling him it was all going to work out just fine. He called down to Robert and Ali to go home.

After half an hour, he managed to drag Shaun to his feet and guide him back down the stairs and out for a walk across the grass to the house. Shaun muttered random thoughts the whole way, swinging wildly from one emotion to the next.

‘Anna,’ called Joe when he arrived in.

‘Mother,’ shouted Shaun in an English accent. ‘Oh, Mother.’ Joe laughed.

‘Did Mother tell you she was going out earlier?’ asked Joe.

‘No,’ said Shaun. ‘I don’t remember. Maybe. But who really knows?’ He sighed.

‘Well, you’re clearly no use to me. Bed. Now. Actually, shower first.’

Shaun slumped to the floor and curled into a ball, his face resting on a bristled mat, his eyes closed.

‘Get up,’ said Joe, hauling him off the carpet. He dragged him towards his room. ‘You can do the rest.’

Joe looked into the kitchen, but it was dark and empty. He went upstairs and called Anna’s name again. He got no answer.