The Doll's House (17 page)

Stevie’s meeting wouldn’t be for another quarter of an hour, but he was glad he had decided to get there early, and all the more poignant that they should meet near the old house in Sandymount. Stevie had been a lot younger the last time they had spoken face to face, but some impressions are lifelong ones. His conversation with Ruby McKay had been educational. Fear has a way of concentrating the mind, even for a tough little junkie like Ruby.

At first, he’d thought she had been afraid of him, but the way she’d stood her ground had contradicted that. There was another shark afloat, the one old enough to be her grandfather, and someone who really knew how to scare precious Ruby. If he played his cards right this time, getting embroiled with the Hamiltons could turn out to be a very lucrative move indeed.

By the time Kate curled up on the couch on Monday night, she was exhausted. Charlie hadn’t gone to bed until after ten o’clock, and it was another hour before he’d fallen asleep. Alone, Kate thought back to her phone call with Declan, realising how ill-prepared she’d been for it. Notwithstanding the difficulties in their marriage, she hadn’t expected that. The whole conversation had felt alien, as if she’d been transported into someone else’s life, and the person at the other end of the phone wasn’t her husband any more but this other man. A man she no longer knew.

Within seconds of hearing the words ‘I’ve met someone else’, a wall had been built up between them different from anything that had gone before. Declan had wanted to talk to her about this stranger, this woman who had become part of his life. It had felt abhorrent to Kate to listen to even the smallest detail. She hadn’t wanted to know any of it. And it wasn’t simply thinking she wasn’t good enough for him any longer. It went far deeper than that, a throwback from her being an only child, that feeling of detachment from the world around you, and a sense that, ultimately, you would end up alone.

Kate had put her mobile phone on silent, not wanting to talk to anyone, but jumped when it quivered on the armrest. She had lost track of time, and despite it being after one in the morning, she was somewhat relieved to realise it was O’Connor rather than Declan.

‘Kate?’ His voice was higher and snappier than her current mood.

‘What is it, O’Connor?’

‘There’s been another killing. Same as Jenkins, knife wounds to the lower chest, body floating in the canal.’

Kate wasn’t ready to answer.

‘Kate, are you still there? Did you hear me? There’s been another—’

‘I heard you, O’Connor. What part of the canal?’

‘Parnell Bridge, five bridges down.’

‘I assume the first location is still being monitored.’

‘You assume right, Kate.’

‘He would have been a fool to go back to the first location.’

‘Not unless he was looking for some police volunteers.’

‘Another male victim?’

‘Yeah, early sixties, maybe more. It’s hard to tell at this point.’

‘Any connection to Jenkins?’

‘They didn’t mix in the same social circles.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Our victim slept rough, no fixed abode.’

‘He was homeless?’

‘That’s right, with a capital H, and it’s something he’s been doing for a while.’

‘You know him?’

‘Yeah, Jimmy and I were old pals. I pulled him in a few years back. He was a small-time con artist. Last time he was taken in, he was minding someone else’s credit cards. Jimmy was a bit of a storyteller. When he was cleaned up, and had some money in his pocket, he’d come over as a regular friendly fella. Until, that is, you checked the next morning and discovered he’d taken something you hadn’t planned on sharing.’

‘How did he pull those cons if he was homeless?’

‘Every now and again he’d get himself off the streets. It’s thought he had a personal benefactor of late, but nothing definite. Jimmy never stayed off the street for long. My theory is, he would get some money, maybe after lifting a wallet, live it up for a while, building up hotel bills and the like all over the place. He liked the sauce. The money kick-started the pattern – stolen cards and money, hotels, pulling a few more cons, drinking. Then, when the money ran out, he was back on the streets again.’

‘You’ll be checking the people affected by his scams?’

‘For sure, and cross-checking them with what we know about Jenkins and his contacts. So far there’s no obvious connection.’

‘They might have known each other from years back, even if they didn’t mix in the same circles.’

‘Lynch is chatting to some of Jimmy’s pals now. Jimmy liked to talk to everyone except the bloody police. If there was something going on of late, I’m thinking his friends on the street will know more about it than anyone else. What do you make of it, Kate?’

‘You have my preliminary report. I don’t think the killing of Jenkins was random. Either the killer knew him or he fitted a particular target preference. A homeless person and a celebrity feel too far apart for it to be going down to type. Either there’s some other connection between the two victims, or they knew each other.’

‘At least Jimmy’s social circle is smaller than Jenkins’s.’

‘As I say, look backwards, even to school and college records. Being homeless doesn’t mean he didn’t mix in the same circles as Jenkins at some point. People who sleep on the streets are a microcosm of groupings. They’re a wide mix, coming from every social background.’

‘Kate?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Are you okay? You sound a little distant.’

‘I was just thinking of the nursery rhyme.’

‘Which one?’

‘Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief …’

‘Why?’

‘Keith Jenkins was a rich man. The latest victim was the opposite.’

‘Well, let’s hope it’s not a childhood favourite of our pal, because that, Kate, is a bloody long list.’

‘He’s upped the stacks of there being more killings, O’Connor, and he’s moved relatively fast. The sooner you find out what Jenkins and Jimmy had in common, the better.’ Kate paused. ‘What’s Jimmy’s full name?’

‘Jimmy Gahan. At least, that’s the only name we have – other than Jimmy the Juggler that is.’

‘I see. Was Jimmy brought to the canal as well?’

‘No, this time it was the main crime scene. Why? What are you thinking, Kate?’

‘By stabbing and drowning Jimmy Gahan at a single location, he isn’t sticking to a pattern. Perhaps opportunity is playing a role.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Jimmy Gahan might have somehow played into his hands. Assuming the killings aren’t random, it could also mean the killer was following Jimmy before he died.’

‘We’ll retrace Jimmy’s last movements, see if we can get any witness details.’

‘Going back to the first killing, it points to a risk-taker, and a need to kill the victim in a particular manner and a particular place. The way this is going down, the drowning is the constant, and is therefore becoming more paramount. But, despite the risks, he’s also calculating the odds. He won’t make sloppy mistakes. But I agree retracing Gahan’s last movements could unearth something.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Has Morrison been able to work out the time gap between Jenkins’s knife attack and the drowning in the canal?’

‘You’re talking an hour at most, possibly a little less.’

‘Still, O’Connor, there was an interval. It could mean there was a level of hesitancy on the part of the killer, but it looks like he isn’t hesitating now.’

‘There’s no guarantee, Kate, that he has other victims in mind.’

‘I know, but the canal and the water connection appear primary. Let’s hope killing Jenkins hasn’t set him off on some kind of spree.’

‘The canal could have been an easy-picking ground for him, especially with a vagrant.’ O’Connor’s voice was cautious.

‘Maybe, but a killer capable of moving this fast will think nothing of acting quickly again.’

‘You said you didn’t think Jenkins’s killing was random.’

‘No, I don’t. Either, as you say, our guy is working off the canal as a hunting ground or something else is at play.’

‘Right, Kate, I’ll keep you posted.’

‘O’Connor, where is Jimmy Gahan’s body now?’

‘Here at the canal. Morrison’s about to start his preliminaries. The press are going to go ballistic with this bloody story. I can see the headlines now, “Riches to Rags” and all that blah, blah rubbish. Thank God Stapleton’s in charge of the media and not me.’

‘Two men are dead, O’Connor.’

‘Thanks for stating the obvious, Kate. I know two men are bloody dead, and if we don’t all get our arses in gear, that number, as you so nicely remarked, might get even bigger.’

‘O’Connor, you said Lynch is talking to Jimmy’s pals.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where’s he interviewing them?’

‘The great outdoors. The last I heard he was in Camden Street.’

‘I have his mobile. I’ll give him a call.’

‘Listen, Kate, I have to go. Hanley and the guys have just arrived. I’ll get Lynch to keep you in the loop.’

‘Okay.’

Hanging up, Kate tried to pull together the information she’d just been given by O’Connor. Thinking she heard Charlie, she walked down the hall to her son’s bedroom. He was still out for the count. Kate wished she was too, but she rang Lynch all the same. He had just left one of the temporary shelters off Camden Street, and was on his way to look for an Ozzie Brennan, one of Jimmy’s old pals. Lynch had already checked some of their usual hangouts, and had a few more to visit.

Walking back into the study, Kate looked again at the images of Keith Jenkins. Two dead men. Those had been her words to O’Connor, two dead men, but only one killer. Who was going to be the next?
Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief?

Martin was on edge this morning. He hasn’t yet apologised. I don’t care one way or the other. Lately, he’s been spending more time out than in. This house is beginning to feel like nothing more than a series of connecting rooms. I emailed Orla after he’d left for work. She’d put her email address at the end of her letter. Somehow it felt like taking a step closer to normality. She’s married now, with two young boys, twelve and ten. It’s hard to think of Orla as a mother. I think of myself as a mother, feeling frustrated that I haven’t been able to contact Ruby. I daren’t tell Martin she’s not answering her phone.

I can’t believe it’s only Tuesday. It feels like an eternity since I saw Gerard yesterday. I pick up a photograph of my own mother, the one with Ruby in her first year at secondary school. The two of them were so alike. They were close. I assume even closer when I drank. I was jealous of that love too. I think about phoning Dominic, doing what Gerard suggested yesterday, but then I think again.

I can’t get that little girl out of my mind. Since the regression sessions, it’s as if she’s always with me. I’d seen her at that bus stop too, even before I went to see Gerard yesterday. I wonder if my mind’s playing tricks with me. But something is pulling me back to her.

Out of impulse, I phone Ruby again. The ringing tone is loud in my ear.

‘Hello, Mum.’ Her voice sounds impatient, almost patronising, as if I’ve interrupted her from something more important. I hate it when she sounds like Martin.

‘How are you doing, Ruby? I’ve been trying to get you since the weekend.’

‘I’m fine. You don’t have to keep tabs on me.’

‘I’m not. Ruby, I wish you’d stop shutting me out.’

‘Jesus Christ, Mum, it isn’t all about you, you know.’

‘I didn’t say it was.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘Can’t I simply phone you?’

‘You just did.’

‘Don’t be smart, Ruby. It doesn’t help matters.’ I’m trying to keep calm. ‘I hear you’re seeing someone.’

‘Who told you that?’ Her response is both snappy and accusing.

‘Does it matter?’

‘It matters.’

‘It was Dominic, if you must know. He mentioned it over dinner the other night. He saw you in town with a young guy. Dominic said he called to you, but you didn’t hear him. Is he a student?’

‘He’s just a friend, that’s all.’

‘It would be nice to meet him.’

‘Look, I can’t be dealing with this.’

‘Dealing with what, Ruby? What can’t you be dealing with?’

‘You bloody playing the caring-parent game.’

‘Well, I do care.’

‘It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?’

‘I hope not.’ My voice pulls back. ‘I know you miss your grandmother.’

‘It’s not about Granny.’

‘What is it about, then?’

‘I have to go.’

‘You’re always running away from me, Ruby.’

‘That’s a bit rich, Mum, coming from you.’

I draw a deep breath. ‘I know that, but I’m trying, Ruby. I’m trying hard.’ I hear a long silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Ruby, are you still there?’

‘I’m still here.’ Her voice sounds like mine, as if we’re both waiting for the right thing to be said.

I want to tell her how much I love her, but instead I say, ‘Will you be calling over soon?’

‘For another inquisition? I don’t know which of you is worse, you or bloody Dad.’

‘Ruby, it’s just …’

‘It’s just what, Mum?’

‘He doesn’t want you ending up like me. He worries about your drinking, and the rest of it. If you need help, Ruby, we can get it for you. I didn’t want to go to rehab, but—’

‘I don’t need fucking help.’

‘We all think that.’

‘I’m not listening to this shit any more.’

‘Ruby, please don’t hang up.’

But she does. And I can’t hide my anger. I slam down the receiver, my hand still shaking. At first, I’m not sure who I’m more upset with, her or me.

You think you can put back together all of the broken pieces, but you can’t. None of this is Ruby’s fault. When I think about her being small, the memory is unbearable. All those wasted weekends when I was so hung-over that we never left the house, or the school functions I missed with one excuse after another. It’s when children stop asking you to be part of their life that you know things have gone too far. I can’t keep blaming my mother for that. The fault is mine. I was the adult, Ruby the child. The one she should have been able to trust, the one who turned her back on her. If I’ve learned nothing else from my mother, I’ve learned that. I hope to Christ it’s not too late for us. I may be a fuck-up, but I love my daughter more than anything else in this godforsaken world.