The Doll's House

‘I don’t like him.’


‘Why don’t you like him, Clodagh?’

‘His voice is creepy. Sometimes it’s loud and …’

‘And what, Clodagh?’

‘It’s as if I know he can get angry at any moment. His hands are ugly, chunky, like hairy-bear hands. He’s talking to Mum, but I don’t look up at him. I stay close to my mother. Sometimes he clenches his hands tight into fists. Other times, his hands touch her. I don’t like him touching her.’ My voice is loud and angry. I roar, ‘And–I–don’t– like–the–way–he–makes–me–feel.’

‘How does he make you feel, Clodagh?’

‘Horrible. He makes me feel dirty.’

‘Are you ready to come back, Clodagh?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Clodagh, I’m bringing you back. I want you to close your eyes. I’ll start counting backwards from two hundred, and you will walk towards the staircase, the one that will bring you back to the garden, a place that is peaceful and safe, and soon you will be in this room.’

When I open my eyes again, I can see Gerard. Tears are streaming down my face.

‘Are you okay, Clodagh?’

I don’t answer. My mind is still caught between the present and the past. I can still remember the man. How he made me feel afraid. And that night, in the dark, in Dominic’s old bedroom, not being able to help my mother.

‘Clodagh, it’s over now. You’re back. You’re safe.’

‘Gerard.’ I can taste my tears, salty on my tongue. ‘I remember being in the bedroom,’ my voice sounds desperate, ‘the one where my mother was attacked.’

‘What about it, Clodagh?’ His voice is soft.

‘Dominic was there too. He was upstairs in the attic room. He knows about these things. I know he does.’

‘Will he tell you? Will he talk to you?’

‘I don’t know.’ And I’m thinking about the image of the iceberg, the one Gerard described at the beginning of all this. How my conscious mind is at the tip of it, above the waterline, while below there is a giant dark mass, one that is now filled with more doubts and fears than I’d thought possible.





Harcourt Street Police Station


O’Connor could almost taste this point in an investigation, when things were moving so fast that absolutely nothing outside it mattered. But with that came the knowledge that one slip-up now might mean the whole bloody thing could come crashing down around him.

He was uneasy about Dominic Hamilton being missing. They had the fibre results from the lab, and the analysis of the deposits under Jenkins’s fingernails. Once he had Hamilton and McKay in for questioning, it should only be a matter of time before all the building blocks slotted into place. If they were lucky, they’d get the domino effect, each piece of information connecting, giving the required momentum towards the truth.

But one thing was still niggling at him, apart from having to wait for the bloody search warrant, and his inability to pull either McKay or Hamilton in. It was the reference Kate had made to there being another potential victim or victims, and the acceleration in the killer’s mind.

The perpetrator was a risk-taker seemingly with little to lose. His task more important to him than anything else. According to Kate, he could be psychotic and unable to contemplate any protracted waiting period. It meant that whoever had killed Jenkins and Gahan was capable of thinking outside a logical framework. Desperate men do desperate things. The last thing O’Connor wanted was another dead body or an injured party on his hands.

When his desk phone rang with an in-house call, O’Connor assumed it would be a detective from his team. When he heard Hennessy’s voice, he adjusted his tone, unsure as to what the detective sergeant was about to say to him.

‘O’Connor, I know you’re the SIO on the canal murders.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I may have something for you.’

O’Connor wasn’t sure if it was the relief that Hennessy’s phone call had nothing to do with the rape charge or his keenness to get another angle on the case. Either way, a part of him relaxed. ‘Let me hear what you have.’

‘We pulled in a pal this morning in connection with an alleged rape.’ O’Connor felt himself tensing again. ‘The guy’s name is Steve McDaid. He’s denying the whole thing, of course, saying it was consensual, but when we started talking to him, he had no idea why we’d dragged him in. He began spouting on about how he knew nothing about nothing, that he wasn’t anywhere near the canal.’

‘He thought you were pulling him in over the murders?’

‘It would seem so. It turns out he knew both victims, but he got his bearings fairly fast. Anyhow, one way or another, the rape allegation will be a long haul, but he’s here in the station now. I thought you might like to have a few words with him.’

‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more. Which interview room is he in?’

‘22A.’

‘I’m on my way.’





Clodagh