The Game Changer (27 page)

He had known Stephen had been testing him, hoping he would crack, talking about his
incarceration
being a reward for his idle curiosity and blatantly breaking the rules. He knew the bastard hated him, but it was Chloë’s face that kept coming to him now. Stephen had told her to go back to her mother, and she had looked so lost, like she thought she’d failed somehow.

When the bastard pushed him down the steps, Addy thought he was going into some kind of underground storage area. He had given Stephen a few digs, and even though the guy had got the better of him, there was something tempting about doing real harm to him.

When he realised where he was, his first thought was that this sicko was going to do him in. There was a certain look in the guy’s eyes, as if a mask had been taken down, and it had made Addy want to lunge at him again, which he did. He’d gotten Addy in a headlock then, and trying to break free had only given the bastard more satisfaction. ‘I could slit your throat in a second,’ he’d said, ‘I could pull your eyes out and blind you.’

Addy didn’t reply, and then he saw that Stephen had taken a small knife out of his pocket and was turning it, like it was an extension of his hand. That was when he started going on about the history of the place. How the original buildings didn’t have proper foundations. At first, Addy couldn’t work out where any of it was going, but he kept his eyes on the knife, ready to protect himself if he had to. The guy went on and on about how the cells were originally built for murderers and thieves sent to the island to die, how the prisoners had no means of escape, and how the guards had had their own favourite type of punishment, burning body parts, smashing bones or pouring water down a prisoner’s throat, as if the man was drowning over and over again, until eventually he lost his mind. Stephen could have been making the whole thing up to scare him, but Addy had been freaked out by the sound of Stephen’s voice, a kind of menace within it, as if he was under some kind of spell.

All the time Stephen was talking, Addy had taken in as much about his surroundings as he could. The room they were in was smaller than his quarters above, and there were no windows to allow in daylight. There were a couple of vents feeding into some kind of pipe system, but the only door other than the one they had walked through led to a small cubicle, with a washbasin and toilet.

Addy let the bastard talk, wondering what Stephen was going to do with that knife. When he finally left without using it, and Addy was alone in the cell-like room, he didn’t feel quite as much bravado as he had earlier on, listening to the group meeting and, as Stephen had said, breaking the rules. Once he was on his own, the initial relief was followed by questions. What if the bastard left him there? Who would ask questions? Who would even know where he was? Would Aoife ask? He checked his pockets for his mobile phone. He didn’t have it. Maybe it had dropped out in the struggle, or maybe he’d left it in his room. It wouldn’t help either way. The signal would be worse below ground. If he’d had his phone though, at least he could have looked at his photographs, the ones of him
and Aoife. It would have been some sort of link to normality. She had sent him a selfie a couple of months back, one of her alone in her bedroom. She looked gorgeous in it. What if Stephen had his phone? There was a password, but maybe he could bypass it – maybe Aoife would tell him what the code was. He thumped and kicked the walls then, knowing he had to think of some way to get out of there, and fast.

KATE STOOD AT THE WINDOW, HER HANDS MOVING around the objects on the table below. She had a set way of laying out the items: pens and pencils in the circular container to the right, her small notebooks piled neatly on top of one another to the left, and a photograph of Charlie, in a heart-shaped silver frame, beside them. Adam seldom came into the study, he knew it was her work area, but someone had switched things around. The breeze was strong from the window, but it couldn’t have moved them, not like that. A couple of things were missing too. A notebook and pen set, with a pattern of exotic birds, a present from Adam. They had joked about it. He had told her she should keep it by the bed, in case she woke up some morning with a life-changing idea. Could someone have been in the apartment? She hadn’t been out in days. She put her hand down on the table again, her fingers scrolling down the pile of notebooks looking for the one with the birds on it, even though she knew it wasn’t there.

She felt cold again, shivering. Feeling faint, she sat on her study chair, the one that had belonged to her father. She lowered her head to her knees as the room began to spin, but no matter how she tried to get the image out of her head, all she could see was the dead blackbird, its throat slit, warm blood seeping through her fingers. The bird had been killed for her, but it had suffered too: its wings had been torn from their sockets and the dead eyes had stared up at her, saying, this is your fault, this happened because of you. ‘Who are you?’ she said out loud. ‘What do you want?’

Almost as if her mind was trying to fill in the gaps, she heard the words, ‘I want you, Kate.’

The first note had said something close to that. It had said, ‘I remember you Kate.’ If they remembered her, she must have known them, or did she? What if it was somebody who was obsessed with her? But they knew about the dead blackbird, and that had been years ago. ‘Who are you?’ she cried, raising her head.

Assuming it was the same person who had sent the notes, could they have gained access to the apartment? Malcolm had been there, but that was ages ago, and he hadn’t left the living room. The sender of the notes had got past the keypad lock. They could have been in the corridor any number of times. What if she had been careless? What if Adam or she hadn’t shut the door properly? Unless you pulled it after you, the door closed slowly, enough time for someone who was watching, hiding, to gain access. She looked at the key in the study door. She always kept it in the same place, but it wouldn’t have been hard to find, not if you had time on your hands.

She needed to get to the bathroom: her stomach was doing cartwheels. She had to calm down, get her head straight. Maybe she had put the pen and notebook somewhere else. Her mind had been all over the place lately. Within seconds, she was throwing up, and then the shivers came back. She couldn’t stop herself shaking. Then she heard her mother’s voice: ‘Get into bed, Kate. You’re not well.’

She felt exhausted. Perhaps she should lie down, get some sleep. The bed felt warm. She pulled the duvet over her head, the way she used to do as a child, and for the first time in years, more than anything she wanted her mother beside her, telling her everything would be okay, that she wasn’t to worry. Without warning, the tears came, and with them a form of relief. Finally, wih the warmth coming back into her body, she closed her eyes and slept.

IT WAS CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT BY THE TIME LEE LEFT his ninth-floor apartment for his nightly walk. Warm days and cool nights made October one of his favourite months, the crisp fall air refreshing after the higher temperatures of Spring Valley.

Since he’d returned to the city, Marjorie had never been far from his mind. Whenever he took time off, it happened that way, almost as if she was waiting for his mind to slow down so that she could creep back in. He didn’t mind remembering and, looking up at the night sky, he figured it usually came back to the same thing: he hadn’t expected her to die so soon, or so abruptly.

He had imagined their relationship reaching the point of no return, both of them lacking the will to go on, but it had never come to that. Despite going their separate ways, they had never got over one another. When she died, he felt cheated that the last stage of their relationship had been taken from them – it clawed at him even now. He missed her, and he’d meant what he’d said to Margaret. His biggest regret was that he couldn’t turn back the clock and make sure he was with her at the end. It wasn’t ego. It wasn’t because he wanted to know if she’d needed him there before she died. That was part of it, but not all. He had missed their final dance, the last bit of their life they could have shared, and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it. Death does that. It finishes everything.

Slowing down to light his cigarette, he wrapped the palm of his hand around the small flame, blocking out the breeze. It cooled his skin, like a lover’s enticement, gentle and provocative, tingling and almost ghostlike, as his thoughts shifted to the investigation.

The Mason case was bothering him for any number of reasons. Detective O’Connor had drawn up a list of names, all male, involved in the 1980s grouping, and Lee had extracted as many as he could from Mason’s sister, Emily Burke. Some of the men on the list were already dead, and outside of Mason and O’Neill, their deaths were due to natural causes, and beyond suspicion. Of the few from the list that they had been able to track down, none was keen to elaborate on the group to any large degree, saying it had been active over a quarter of a century earlier. Many of them had been on the fringes, and if anything sinister was going down, they appeared unaware of it. He agreed with O’Connor on one aspect, though: if the Manhattan and Dublin deaths were related to the 1980s research studies, there had to be a reason why Mason and O’Neill had been targeted when others on the list hadn’t. Either the killer had only limited details about the identities involved or their emphasis had shifted.

IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME KATE WOKE. SHE LOOKED at her mobile phone – 7 p.m. She had slept for over four hours. She never slept during the day, and then everything came tumbling back: feeling unwell, throwing up, and wondering if someone had been in the apartment, the missing notebook and pen, the dead bird, and the notes, then her mother’s soothing voice. Crawling out of the bed, she took off her clothes, discarding them on the floor, still lacking energy, and wondering if she would feel any better after a shower.

The water was piping hot and felt good on her skin. If she stood there long enough, could she wash away all that was troubling her?
Concentrate
, she told herself.
Remember how much better you felt when you were talking to Adam, discussing the missing-person case. Keep busy.

She switched off the shower, wrapped herself in a towel and left the bathroom. As if to ease her thoughts, she noticed the squad car passing the living-room window.
Work, Kate. It’s what you do best.

She played back the tape recording from that morning. Something still bothered her about the missing-person cases. If they were connected to the Mason and O’Neill deaths, the potential cult association might have other sinister connotations.

What if this enlightenment group had some tie-in with the original group in the eighties? Both O’Neill and Mason had been members, as had her father, and all three were now dead. She stared out of the window, thinking about her father again. Even though there were a great many unanswered questions about him, she had no doubt that records would have been kept of the meetings that took place. Could they still exist and, if so, where would they be?

She picked up her phone to call Adam. He was late, which also meant he was busy, and she was half expecting it to go to voicemail when he answered.

‘I didn’t expect you to pick up,’ she said, ‘I was going to leave a message.’

‘Are you okay, Kate? You sound tired.’

‘I’ve just slept for four hours.’ She remembered the missing pen and the notebook. ‘Adam, did you move that notebook and pen you gave me? It was in the study, but I can’t find it.’

‘Not guilty.’

‘I had this mad notion that someone had taken it, but it must be around here somewhere …’

‘Kate, I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m up to my neck in it here.’

‘Sure. Sorry. My mind keeps drifting these days. I wanted to ask you something.’

‘Shoot.’

‘I know I’m not part of the investigative team, but can you tell me everything you know about the two missing-person cases?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure yet. Do you have the files?’

‘I have them right here.’

‘Will you read them to me?’

‘What – now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Kate, this is irregular.’

‘Please – even the cover sheet.’

‘Okay.’ She heard paper rustling. Then he began: ‘Robert Cotter, fifty-four years old, was reported missing on the sixth of April 2015. The missing-person report was filed by his wife, Michelle, stating that her husband had left home without any explanation or correspondence. There had been no domestic issues, according to his wife, and although all three of their children were grown-up, and they were no longer living at home, Michelle didn’t believe her husband would have left without an explanation to them. Robert
Cotter’s details were circulated via the PULSE database, and posted publicly online via the Trace Missing Persons site. The last sighting of Robert Cotter was at Bridgemount Road, Stillorgan, at approximately 1 p.m. on the seventh of April. He was described as five foot six, heavy build, grey-black hair, balding at the top. He was wearing light blue jeans, a navy Aran jumper, white shirt, a short blue rain jacket, and black work boots. When he failed to return home after forty-eight hours, his wife, concerned about her husband’s whereabouts, contacted friends and family. She also did a complete search of their home. It was while looking through the house that Michelle Cotter found her husband’s wallet and ATM cards. On the thirteenth of April, seven days after her husband had been reported missing, he phoned her. The number identification on her mobile phone came up as withheld, but she recognised his voice immediately. He told his wife that he needed time away to work things out. When she asked him what these things were, he stated it was nothing to do with her, and that he loved her very much. All he needed was time. It was during the phone call that he explained he had withdrawn substantial amounts of cash from their joint bank accounts, and that he didn’t need his ATM cards any longer. He repeated that he loved her, and the children. If they loved him, he said, they would understand. His mobile phone was pinged, and the call was traced to outside Adare village in Limerick. No further sightings have been made since the last one reported in Dublin. He has made no further contact with his family. The money was withdrawn in amounts of five thousand euros, and totalled forty thousand. Prior to his disappearance, Robert Cotter was described by his wife as being a little down, but he had seemed very happy shortly before he left. He also spoke to her about being on a self-discovery journey, seeking what he had called enlightenment.’