The Game Changer (30 page)

She looked at Charlie’s happy face in the silver photo frame, and she thought about herself as a child, and how she used to like her own company. In fact, she had sought it out.

Staring at the mind maps again, she decided the best approach was to separate herself from them, to treat Kate Pearson as a separate entity, someone who was either at the centre or periphery of an investigation. She pressed the red button on her recorder.

‘Kate Pearson is the only child of Valentine and Gabrielle Pearson. The family were respected members of the community. They lived at thirty-seven Springfield Road, Rathmines. Valentine Pearson was a professor of literature at Trinity College, and was also an active member of various local bodies prior to his retirement in 2004, a year before he died. Both parents are now deceased.’ She stopped the recorder, thinking about the physical-abuse reports, before pressing the record button again. ‘On the outside, the family appeared normal, but there were elements of emotional and physical abuse due to the dark moods of the father, Valentine. His wife Gabrielle reported the abuse to the police on a number of occasions, but she never pressed charges. In 1988, their daughter, Kate, at the age of twelve, went missing. The girl had been with friends near Ticknock when she got separated from the main group. A local search party was organised, but she remained unaccounted-for overnight. On her return home the following day, she appearing unharmed, but she had gaps in memory. The disappearance was put down as an attention-seeking stunt, and no further investigations were made. In the same year, another juvenile from the immediate locality, Kevin O’Neill, aged fourteen, died of carbon-monoxide poisoning. Kevin was fostered by Ethel and Michael O’Neill.’ Kate switched off the recorder – making a note to ask Adam about Kevin’s surname. He had been with the O’Neills only a short time, so he had probably maintained his birth name.

Thinking about her late mother, Kate was hesitant about starting the recording again, wondering, if her mother was still alive, what she would tell her. She had certainly kept her secrets. Kate
hadn’t witnessed the abuse, but she knew her father was capable of it. Why had he changed in her teens? Why had he become a quieter, less aggressive man? People don’t change overnight, not unless something huge happens. Maybe her mother had found out something about him, which gave her the upper hand. Kate had made peace with him a couple of years before he died, but no matter how many apologies her father had made, she’d known there would always be distance between them. She had put it down to not forgiving him for his moods, but what if there was more to it? Then that sentence hit her. The one she couldn’t get out of her head a few of weeks before:
The things you can’t remember are the very things your mind wants you to forget
.

She pressed record again, clearing her throat. ‘Kate had some clear and distinct memories of what happened to her prior to and at the initial point of her abduction/attack. She recalled glimpsing a man from the corner of her eye, before being grabbed from behind. Her attacker held an army knife to her throat. She remembered the smell of alcohol on his breath, and being dragged through trees. In recent memory recalls, other pieces have slotted into place. Her feet had hurt, she had lost her shoes, and her white ankle socks had become wet and muddy. Her underarms were sore from her attacker dragging her. Kate described his hands as strong, his fingers chunky.’ She looked up at the mind maps on the wall, pulling more information from them, and pressed record again. ‘In Kate’s initial recall of the incident, she escaped her attacker, and remembered seeing two men standing close to a clearing in the woodland. She believed it was because of them that she escaped, assuming her attacker thought it was too risky to take her with the men being so close.’

Kate had never paid the two men much attention before. They were strangers, who had unwittingly been the reason for her escape. But what if they weren’t strangers? And what about that extended timeframe? Malcolm knew about it, and so had her parents, others too, but everyone had been happy for her to believe otherwise. Why?
Was it to protect her, or was it to stop her finding out information that others didn’t want her to know?

Walking over to the main mind map, she created another link, with the two male witnesses in it. She thought about the rumours surrounding Michael O’Neill, Tom Mason and her father. It was only then that she remembered the news report about the schoolboy Peter Kirwan. He had gone missing in Dublin in 1987. There was a year-long gap, but that wasn’t much. Could that case be connected? She drew another circle with the boy’s name in the centre.

Like a great many other people in Ireland, Kate was familiar with the case. The police had launched a large-scale search of the area surrounding Peter’s home and school, with many local volunteers offering their assistance. But the only discovery made was the red and blue scarf the boy had been wearing the day he disappeared, found by the father of one of his classmates when helping to search the park close to his home. A forensic examination of the item revealed no useful evidence. The police conducted extensive interviews, and then turned to a clairvoyant in a desperate effort to learn any information that could lead to Peter’s whereabouts. Though many sightings had been reported over the years, no one had succeeded in finding out what had become of the boy.

She pressed record. ‘The late Valentine Pearson, Michael O’Neill and Tom Mason were members of an elite grouping believed to have carried out experimental studies of young boys and girls. It is also believed that they did so without parental permission, and the exact nature of the group is currently unclear; however, all members were male, with similar age profiles and academic backgrounds. At the time of Kate Pearson’s disappearance, as in the Peter Kirwan case, which happened a year earlier, there were rumours and theories as to why. Nothing concrete to support these rumours has been found, but DI O’Connor, of Harcourt Street Special Detective Unit, is working with the PIU on a general review of historical cases of paedophilia, as well as collaborating with Lee Fisher from NYPD 7th Precinct, Lower East Side, Manhattan, who is heading up the
Tom Mason murder investigation. DNA found at the scene matches that of the late Michael O’Neill, although he had never been in the city. Ethel O’Neill, his widow, is now deceased. She died as a result of a reported hit-and-run, which may, or may not, be linked to the current investigation.’

No matter how Kate turned things around, parts of her past and the investigation kept crossing. She pressed record again. ‘The suspected blackmail theory behind the death of Michael O’Neill has been linked to two missing-person cases, those of Amanda Doyle and Robert Cotter. All three parties withdrew large sums of money prior to their death or disappearance. All withdrawals were made in cash, in multiples of five thousand euros, and all of the money is unaccounted for. Both Amanda Doyle and Robert Cotter made contact with their families, officially taking themselves off the missing-persons register, despite their whereabouts being unknown. There is evidence suggesting that Amanda Doyle and Robert Cotter were on some kind of self-discovery or -enlightenment path. Combined with the large sums of money withdrawn, and all links to family and friends severed, their disappearance is consistent with cult-type influences.’

Kate’s final recording covered the transcripts of the letter sent by Amanda Doyle, and the wording of both notes, specifically the second, currently with a script specialist.

She leaned back in her father’s chair. There were three possible scenarios. First, her close personal involvement with the case could be compromising her analysis. Second, someone was intentionally creating links that might or might not be real or substantial. Third, all or some of the strands were definitively linked, and if they were, not only would she potentially be in danger but the suspicious deaths and disappearances could also be indicative of murder on a much wider scale.

THE FIRST NIGHT ADDY SPENT IN THE SMALL ROOM, all sorts of crazy thoughts went through his mind. What if he was the only one down there? How long would this ridiculous incarceration last? Why had Aoife not come looking for him? Why had he gone to the island in the first place? Was it really about Aoife, or because he needed to get away? His mind kept going back to his life as it had been before. He hadn’t realised how unhappy he was. Even when his anger wanted to bubble over against Adam, trying to come to terms with a father being able to live a life without his son, all Addy had ever wanted was to know who his father was and for him to be part of his life. He had spent his whole life filling in gaps, making up all sorts of possibilities as to why his father wasn’t there. The reality hadn’t measured up, and a huge part of Addy’s existence had shifted gear. He had fought hard against it. He didn’t want Adam to be the missing link. He had created his own missing links of the kind of man his mystery father would be, and they didn’t match up to Adam.

The days that followed were no better. Three times daily, members came with food, but no one spoke to him. It was like a seal of silence. To them, he supposed, he was there to reflect, to gain some sort of personal growth. During the day, he thought about Aoife, and every time he heard a sound, he would think it was her, only to be disappointed. If Stephen had told her he had gone home, she would have believed him, but what would be the point in that? As soon as he saw her, he could tell her the truth. That was when the crazy ideas had started to take hold. Other people had supposedly left the island, but what if they hadn’t? Supposing he never got out
of there? Even if his mother made contact, she could be told the same thing: he had left. Who would be any the wiser? Neither did Addy know why Stephen hadn’t returned, but he guessed it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. Maybe he’d been sent to the mainland. That would explain his absence, especially if Saka or Jessica had wanted him to do something. He liked looking good in their eyes.

He had nightmares about the prisoners sent to the island, their torture, screaming for mercy from their abusers, and each time he imagined the abuser’s face, it belonged to Stephen.

He had woken up an hour ago and couldn’t go back to sleep. He put his hands to his face, squashing his fists tight into his eyes, seeing stars and doing it again, pressing harder, as if the pain could ease things. He listened to the gurgling of the water in the pipes, the creaking of floorboards above him, the sound of the wind outside, until he thought he heard something different.

Instantly he panicked. What if it was Stephen? What if this was it? What if all that he feared was actually going to happen?

He saw a gleam of light flickering through the slits in the grille above the door. Moving closer, he braced himself, determined that if anyone opened the door, he would try to bring them down, no matter what. But the door didn’t open. Instead he heard a light tap, then a second.

‘Who is it?’ he asked, keeping his voice low. Whoever it was had tapped lightly for a reason. When no one answered, he said, ‘Is that you, Aoife?’ Still no reply. ‘Chloë?’

The light moved, and he thought, What if they leave without saying anything? He moved as close to the door as he could and said, a little louder this time, ‘Chloë, if it’s you, speak to me. It’s Addy. You know I won’t harm you.’

He saw the light move again, then a piece of paper was passed under the door. He grabbed it, holding it up to the light in the grille, and read, ‘THEY THINK I DROWNED – MY NAME IS DONAL.’

Addy tried to think fast. He didn’t know anyone called Donal,
but the name was familiar. The words were written in purple marker, and the writing looked childish, the last few words squashed together, as if the writer had run out of space.

Again, he whispered through the door, ‘My name is Addy.’

‘I know your name.’

He sounded young, maybe even as young as Chloë. For the first time in ages, Addy thought about Kate’s son, Charlie, and how crazy it would be for him to be standing outside a door of a locked room, writing notes to a stranger. ‘Donal, I need you to listen to me. Can you find the key to open the door?’

‘I have to go. I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘No, no, don’t go,’ Addy pleaded. ‘We can help each other. I can help you. You want me to help you, don’t you?’

‘I heard you the other day, talking about Chloë to Stephen, wanting to know if she was okay.’

Addy sensed a gleam of hope. ‘Do you know Chloë?’

‘She used to be my friend.’ Disappointment in his voice.

‘Why isn’t she your friend any more?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Donal, look, don’t go. We can help each other.’

The light moved away from the door, and Addy clenched his fists in frustration. Something told him if he yelled after the boy, it would make more trouble for both of them.

He paced the room, then eventually got back into the bed, curling up under the blankets, telling himself that the boy had said he would be back, and despite all the adults above him looking for self-enlightenment, Donal might be his only hope.

Jesus, he thought, how had he gone from being a guy studying an arts degree at college to this? His life was a fuck-up. He had jumped at the first chance he’d had to get away, following Aoife, not only because he cared about her, but because he had nowhere else to go. He was no better than some of the guys he hung around with, directionless in one way or another, going with the flow. How pathetic was that? How pathetic was he?

Earlier that day, Addy had tried again to engage with the members who delivered the food trays, but it was the same as before: no verbal contact. It was like they were struck dumb, with a stupid look on their faces, as if they knew stuff that he didn’t know, the kind of look his mother gave him when she was pissed off with him.