HE HAD CHECKED THE FINISHING TIME FOR JUNIOR INFANTS at the school earlier that morning, and arrived in plenty of time. When the bell rang, all three classes filed out, monitored by their teachers, each of the little ones collected by the dispersing group of mothers, nannies and some token fathers. When he hadn’t seen Kate, he’d thought the boy would be kept waiting, but instead the boy was led away by someone else. Charlie had called out her name. Sophie. He heard Sophie tell Charlie that they were going to the park and afterwards, if he was good, they would make pizza for tea.
Things weren’t going exactly to plan, but no matter. Intelligent improvisation was all that was required. He had already packed the car with hiking boots, backpack, torch and a rope. The duct tape was in the boot too, along with provisions, should they be required.
Turning the delay to his advantage, he bought some comics for the child – something to keep him occupied on the way down. Having made the decision to postpone everything for at least another hour, it gave him ample time to have a late lunch at Meadow View.
He set up the laptop on the table in the kitchen to catch up with events. They had that horrid photofit on again – not a bit like him, the face looking like that of an old man. Zero out of ten to Jessica if she was the one responsible. He allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction.
When the doorbell rang, it made him jump. No one would be able to see him in the kitchen from the front of the house, but if he wanted to look out without being seen, he would have to go upstairs, which was impossible. Turning off the laptop, he did his best to listen, but the only thing he heard was another ring on the doorbell.
It might not be anyone important, but, still, he stayed where he was until they stopped ringing. He didn’t make it out of the kitchen in time to see who it was. It was ridiculous to think it had anything to do with the investigation. They had absolutely no way of connecting things to him.
He checked the clock in the kitchen, then pulled all the curtains closed before heading off to pick up Charlie. The child had looked so innocent last night, hugging his teddy. Not quite the superhero after all.
Interview Room, Gorey Garda Station
Monday, 10 October 2011, 3.00 p.m.
‘RIGHT, MR HUGHES, TAKE A SEAT. JUST GIVE ME A second to get organised here.’
Steve did exactly as he was told while Garda Murray pulled out a statement pad and pen, ready to write down everything he was about to say. Sitting opposite Steve at a small, square, formica table, Murray filled in the upper section of the sheet. ‘Interview with Mr Steve Hughes of 25 Edmond Street, Gorey, conducted by Garda Damian Murray, Monday, 10 October, 3.00 p.m., Gorey Garda Station.’
‘Now I’m going to ask you some questions, Steve, and in your own words you can let me know the answers. Is that okay with you?’
‘Sure.’
‘I understand you work at Cronly Lodge.’
‘Yeah, gardening and a bit of handiwork.’
‘And the owner, you say he drives a Carina?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Ollie has given us the registration number.’ Murray paused to write the registration number down again.
‘Right.’
‘Which brings us to the matter of the photograph. The one Ollie says you found.’
‘I went straight to Ollie with it, I did.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘I said to myself, if anyone knows what this is all about, it’ll be Ollie Gilmartin.’
‘And he had an opinion on it, did he?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Go on.’
‘He told me I should put it back.’
‘Back where?’
‘At Cronly. I found it in his lordship’s, I mean in Cronly’s bedroom.’
‘You have a habit of sharing a bedroom with Mr Cronly, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Why were you in it, so?’
‘Well, it’s like this. Your man, Cronly, he’s been acting strange lately, putting extra bolts on the doors.’
‘Bolts?’
‘Yeah, large yokes.’
‘To keep people out, do you think, Mr Hughes?’ Murray gave him a sarcastic grin.
‘Maybe, but the thing is, I had a load of stuff there, tools and the like. I needed to get them, and, well, let’s just say Cronly wasn’t overly fond of my company.’
‘So you thought it was okay to break in uninvited?’ Murray asked, as he wrote down Steve’s answer about the tools.
‘Not exactly. The auld one, Alison Cronly, she was the one who employed me, she gave me a key, told me I could use it anytime I wanted.’
‘I understand Mrs Cronly passed away a few months ago. Talking to the dead are we now?’ Murray’s look of disbelief left Steve in no doubt as to how this was going.
‘Look, I needed my tools. I had only one way to get them. That’s when I thought things were a bit suspicious.’
‘Suspicious?’
‘Yeah, with all the cleaning and that.’
‘Cleaning?’
‘Well his lord— I mean Cronly was down yesterday. Lit a fire in the house, though he could only have been there for a couple of hours.’
‘No law against lighting a fire in your own home.’
‘I know that, but he’d washed down the wall and the carpet. I thought it was odd, coming all the way down to do some spring cleaning.’
‘The photograph?’
‘I came across it upstairs, when I was checking things out.’
‘You still have it?’
‘Right here.’
Garda Murray studied the photograph.
‘I thought Ollie might know about it, him being around at the time the girl was killed, like.’
‘Wait there, Mr Hughes. Myself and Ollie Gilmartin are about to get reacquainted.’