‘Eavesdrop?’
‘The phone-in radio programme in the afternoon. Justin and Matthew came on looking for information on his whereabouts. Far as I know, they’d no luck finding him. Karl looked rough the last time I saw him, like he was homeless. But don’t ask me where he was staying.’
‘You must have some idea where I can find him.’ Amanda wants to shake information from her. ‘You knew enough about him when Connie disappeared.’
‘You mean Constance?’ Maria tilts her chin, narrows her eyes. ‘Call the child by her proper name. I hated the way you always shortened it.’
Amanda shakes her head, attempts an apology. ‘I didn’t mean that to sound the way it came out…’
‘It doesn’t matter. You should ring Eavesdrop. Maybe they can help.’
Maria is still standing at her gate when Amanda drives from the terrace.
She parks by the side of Turnstone Marsh and rings the producer of Eavesdrop. He is apologetic but unable to help. Justin Lawson and his son’s appeal for information yielded no results, but he texts Amanda a link to the programme.
She listens to the recording on her phone, afraid to fast forward in case she misses a vital clue that will help her to locate him. Justin Lawson sounds emotional when he asks the listeners if they can help him trace his brother’s whereabouts. His son also speaks. Matthew, a teenager now, or near enough, repeats his father’s plea for information. Amanda remembers interviewing him on a farm – no, not a farm, a horse shelter in Wicklow. She found him mucking out stables, the smell of horse on his clothes. He was fearful, shying from her questions, hiding information out of some misguided loyalty to his uncle, or so she had believed. By the time she drove back to Glenmoore, Karl Lawson had been taken in for questioning and she had decided to run with the Selina Lee story instead.
A group of teenagers carrying planks of wood and old tyres pass by. They clamber up the embankment into the marsh.
A bonfire will blaze there tonight. Amanda is filled with an impulse to visit the girl’s grave. Not that it really is her grave, of course, but it’s where she always imagines Connie—Constance to be.
Six years ago, she’d watched from a distance as a digger sank teeth deep into the earth and guards in boiler suits made their fatal discovery. She must have felt sad at the time. She wants to recall that emotion, yet all that comes to mind is the adrenalin rush that thrust her forward into the centre of the story.
The pull to return to the site is so strong that she turns on to Orchard Road. The dour exterior of the old house looks like a perfect location for a Hallowe’en celebration of ghouls and lost souls. A new gate has been erected outside it. Solid steel and high, it hides the grim house beyond it. The boundary wall has been repaired, the brick that crushed the life from Constance long removed. What is she supposed to do here? Stand above an empty water tank and pray for the young girl’s soul? Amanda doesn’t believe in the soul. Death is final. The idea of a fluttering dove rising above her mortal body was comforting when she was a child but not now. Constance Lawson is ash, scattered across an American landscape. She drives away without looking back.
The wind is sharp on the Liffey boardwalk. No one is relaxing on the benches overlooking the river apart from a young man in an anorak, who stares at the photograph of Karl Lawson with the zoned-out gaze of a drug addict.
‘What ya’ say his name is?’ he asks her for the third time.
‘Karl Lawson.’
She printed the photograph from her Constance Lawson file. It was taken when he was on his way into Glenmoore Garda Station for questioning. She has others. The one Shane took on that first morning when he opened the door of his brother’s house and dismissed her with a glance. Seven days later he looked unrecognisable, shoulders hunched, his eyes wasted as he was ushered past her into the police station.
‘Na, never seen ’im.’ The man scratches at a pimple on his cheek. He looks so young, a teenager, his features hardened with street knowledge.
‘Look at him again,’ Amanda begs.
‘Is he yer ould man?’
‘No, he’s not my husband,’ she replies. ‘Please think carefully. It’s important. Have you seen him around here recently.’
‘Why? Wha’s he done den? Are ya a bleedin’ cop?’
‘No.’ She transfers a twenty-euro note from her wallet to the empty carton on the bench beside him. He immediately shoves it into the pocket of his anorak.
He slides his hand over one half of the face and squints at the image. ‘Could be Scarface ’cept for da hair. He’s black.’
‘Scarface?’
‘Yeah… like in the film. Haven’t seen him in ages. He’s okay, not like some o’ the fuckers dat hangs around here. Have ya checked the hostels?’
‘Yes. No one’s been able to help me.’
‘If I see him I’ll ger him to ring ya. What’s yer number?’
‘It’s okay. Forget it.’ Time is of the essence and she is wasting it.
‘Suit yerself, missus.’ He shuffles off, heading for a hostel or a fix.
The river is choppy as it runs towards Dublin Bay. A woman begging on the arch of the Ha’penny Bridge, her face raddled from drink and the open air, glances at the photograph and says, ‘Feic off, luv. He’ll be home when he’s good’n ready. Give us a few euros for a bed.’
‘Have you seen him, please? It’s very important that I find him.’
‘Yeah, I knows him.’ The woman’s gaze fastens on the twenty-euro note in Amanda’s hand. ‘But it’s ages since I seen him ’round here. Heard he headed to Belfast… or was it Galway? Jaysus, me head’s all over the place deze days.’ She plucks the money from Amanda’s hand and holds it out for inspection. ‘Hope ya find him, luv. Give him a cuddle from me when ya do.’
Alms for information, yet nothing she hears brings her any nearer to Karl Lawson. She’s exhausted when she enters a cafe and finds an empty table. A man sitting opposite her reads the late edition of Capital Eye. The paper hides his face but Amanda can see the headlines. A warning from the fire services about the dangers of Hallowe’en bonfires. A hurricane is causing havoc in the Pacific Ocean. Ben Carroll is launching his fourth book tonight in the Browse Awhile bookshop. Tears rush to her eyes at the sight of his name. Browse Awhile was where she planned to bring Marcus on Hallowe’en… but the plink author is quickly forgotten as she reads the headline above Barbara Nelson’s byline: Constance Lawson – Tragic Link to Missing Boy. She’s unaware that she has cried out until he lowers the paper and asks if she’s okay.
She nods at her cup. ‘Coffee’s too hot.’
‘Take it slowly,’ he says and continues reading.
‘Can I borrow it?’ She reaches towards his paper. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’