The Doll's House

‘In case he got any ideas.’


‘Do you mean his temper?’

‘Yes, but not just that. I don’t want to be worrying you, Clodagh.’

‘But you are worrying me, Dominic.’ My words are more fearful than angry now.

‘Martin’s got involved with some nasty people.’

‘What people?’

‘You don’t need to worry. It’s just an added protection.’

‘Dominic, you would tell me if this is connected to either of those killings?’

‘I’m not saying that, Clodagh …’ he paused as if lost in his own thoughts ‘… but it doesn’t do any harm to be careful.’

‘Who is Martin involved with?’

‘Alister Becon for one. You don’t remember him, do you, Clodagh?’

‘No, I don’t.’ I can hear the frustration in my voice. ‘I remember there was someone else, a man’s face in the shadows.’

‘He gave Dad the boat.’

‘On the day of the accident?’

‘Yes, on the day of the accident. Becon said he had no idea what was on Dad’s mind.’

‘You’ve spoken to him?’ I’m unable to hide the shock in my voice.

‘Yes – after Mum passed away.’

I think about my row with Dominic after she died. How the two of them had made me feel so left out, whispering to each other on her deathbed. This was more of it. More bloody secret conversations. ‘What did he say?’ I ask, with more venom than I intend. Losing it with Dominic will get me nowhere.

‘Nothing of any importance. His kind always plays it cagey. He wasn’t going to share any secrets.’

‘Dominic, do you ever think Dad’s still around?’

‘No,’ his answer bitter and defiant.

‘Sometimes, I feel him close.’

‘I wish I could hear or see him.’

‘You’d better go. Val will be worried about you.’

‘I’ll stay another little while. You get some sleep. You look tired.’

‘Martin gave me some sleeping pills.’

‘Right then, get some rest. You have your mobile?’

‘It’s under the pillow.’

‘Keep it there.’





Sandymount Strand


Once I knew Clodagh was out for the count, I checked that her car was still safely under wraps in the garage. After that, I made my way to the strand. I needed to think straight, pull all the bits together. I can’t afford to let others see that I might be unravelling.

My mind keeps skipping. There are so many things I need to get right to reach the end game. Some say solitude and walking can clear the mind. I walk alone, but my thoughts aren’t clear. At some point this is all going to be over. Then everything will be done, and that will be the end of the whole sorry mess.

It’s good that I have Jenkins and Gahan behind me. But only part of the job is done. It makes carrying on all the more intense. I had my doubts at the beginning that I would get this far. Planning is one thing. Making it happen can be very different.

I hear the seagulls squawking overhead. Even the stupid birds seem to be mocking me. Clodagh is on the brink, as fragile as that cracked doll of hers. She thinks she’s working things out, getting to grips with the truth. She doesn’t know yet that the truth isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. She’ll know it soon enough because I’ll be taking her out of her misery. She won’t have anything to worry her any more. If I’m careful, and keep her sweet, she won’t see it coming.

I’ve felt the pressure over the last few days, my mind buried in so much bloody shit. Walking away from Gahan, his body floating in the canal, I thought I heard the sound of drums, loud, absurd and deafening. I stopped to listen. But there were no drums, or drummer, nobody other than me.

I hear myself laugh out loud. Again no one else is listening. I feel like two men, the exterior and the interior, as if a slice of my brain thinks I’m not doing this. If someone other than me is doing it, I hope one of us stupid mother-fuckers knows what we’re at because it’s far too late to stop things now.

Another thought slithers through my mind. It crawls into corners, feeling comfortably at home. And once it does, there’s no way of stopping it. I think of Jenkins and Gahan spread out like the brown eagle in the attic at Sandymount, the piercing black of its eyes and how the death of the bird failed to kill its soul. It looks down on all that has happened, knowing evil has its own path to follow.





Ocean House, the Quays


When Kate arrived at Ocean House on Thursday morning, she rang O’Connor before sending through her report. He hadn’t been in touch after his meeting with Alister Becon. That wasn’t a good sign. She had thought again about both murders being a form of spree killing, with the killer having a final destination, or last victim, in mind.

When victims are chosen, rather than taken at random, the deaths sometimes occur in a particular sequence, more often than not the killer saving the most important killing until last.