Declan made two cups of coffee and brought them over to the table in the kitchen, where Kate waited silently until he sat down beside her.
‘You didn’t get back until late.’
‘I needed to clear my head.’
‘Want to share your thoughts?’ She blew her coffee to cool it down.
‘Look, I don’t know what exactly, but something is going on here. Things aren’t right between us.’
‘I know that, Declan. I guess I’ve known it for a while,’ she said, putting her coffee cup down, ‘but I just didn’t want to admit it.’
Although she didn’t know what Declan was thinking, her response seemed to make everything more real. Declan opened his mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by her mobile ringing. She picked it out of her bag and saw O’Connor’s name on the screen.
‘Let it go, Kate.’
‘I’ll only be a second. It might be important.’
‘And we’re not?’ Declan looked down into his coffee.
‘Of course we are. Look, I’ll take this and get it out of the way.’
Kate walked out to the hallway. ‘O’Connor?’
‘That idiot Gunning has actually got something back from Interpol.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a connection to the crucifix, similar age, but the case is complicated. I have the images here.’
‘Can you send them over?’
‘You know that stuff is encrypted. You’ll have to come back to Tallaght.’
‘Now?’
‘When would you like to come over, Kate? Yes, bloody now.’
‘Okay, okay, I’m on my way.’
Declan had remained seated, waiting for her. He looked up as she walked in and his features, set in a hard line, spoke volumes.
‘Don’t bother, Kate, I can tell by the look of you you’re already on your way out the door.’
‘It’s just this case, Declan. I can’t do anything about it.’
‘Wave to your son on your way out,’ he replied, his voice cool and unforgiving. ‘He’s the small guy on lookout.’
Home of Dr Samuel Ebbs
Sunday, 9 October 2011, 1.00 p.m.
SAMUEL WAS LISTENING TO THE RADIO IN HIS KITCHEN, working on a cryptic crossword puzzle he was determined would not get the better of him, when the news reporter on the lunchtime news mentioned the ribbons and the plaiting. He turned the volume up. He had heard about the double murders, of course, who hadn’t? But when the newsreader mentioned the red ribbons and the plaiting, he listened more intently.
Was it possible that Ellie Brady had made the whole thing up and he had been taken in by her lies? If she had heard the news bulletins, it would certainly explain why she had decided to come out of her shell all of a sudden. He had not discounted the idea that what she believed she remembered, and what was, in fact, the truth, might be two very different things. Yet if her story was nothing more than a fabrication, then Ellie Brady was some actress. For the first time in a very long time, Samuel felt real anger towards a patient. He’d believed Ellie Brady, had been moved by her story, but right there and then he cared less about her mental condition and more about how he might have been conned, particularly at this late stage in his career.
His next meeting with Ellie wasn’t until the following morning. It would give him time to assess this latest development. If Ellie had listened to the coverage on the news, there was another possibility he could not dismiss, one that was easier to accept than believing Ellie had purposely wanted to trick him with a copycat story. He knew only too well that guilt did strange things to people. At this point, it was completely possible that Ellie may not realise that she was making the whole thing up.
Tallaght Garda Station, Incident Room
Sunday, 9 October, 1.30 p.m.
KATE’S THOUGHTS WERE ALL OVER THE PLACE AS SHE drove along the roads back to Tallaght Garda Station. She seemed to be doing nothing but apologising lately, particularly to Declan and Charlie. She hated leaving the two of them, especially when the look of disappointment on her son’s face equalled the look of annoyance on her husband’s. No one was happy. Although Declan probably didn’t realise the unhappiness extended to her too.
She retraced her steps from the car park, into the station and back to the Incident Room, this time not waiting to be escorted inside. She was beginning to feel that O’Connor wasn’t the only one who needed a temporary office. Everyone looked just as they had done an hour earlier, frenzied and preoccupied, as if time was standing still. She weaved her way through their desks and walked into O’Connor’s office.
‘What do you have, O’Connor?’
‘A missing person case from forty years back. It was reopened five years ago. Skeletal remains of a young girl found buried in the grounds of an old church.’
‘Where?’
‘Livorno, Tuscany.’
‘Do they know who she was?’
‘Thirteen-year-old Silvia Vaccaro. The site was owned by the church, but it was subsequently sold to a developer. It was during the excavation that the girl’s remains were discovered.’