‘Then how did she get Hester to the studio?’
‘Hester and her mother used the playground at a local park. Dervla befriended Tabitha and they had coffee a few times. She offered to paint Hester’s portrait as a surprise birthday present for her father. That’s why Tabitha kept quiet about going to the studio.’
‘And why Roger had no idea where they were?’ Standish nodded. ‘Fair enough, but I still don’t understand how Dervla strapped Frank into the chair.’
‘Simple. She said that she’d shoot Hester if Tabitha didn’t handcuff Frank. Then she took Tabitha to the downstairs studio and did the same to her. Job done.
‘Dervla was pretty good at planning, all thing considered,’ I said. Standish closed his notebook and stuck his biro into his jacket pocket.
‘The big risk was relying on Frank to come alone,’ he said. ‘We think she told him that, if there was any sign of the police, he’d never see his granddaughter alive again. Why do you think she did it? Usually there are signs but with her . . . nothing.’
I’d brooded over the same question when the pain kept sleep at bay.
‘I guess anyone who kills two people and then tops herself has a few issues,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think Dervla was crazy, if that’s what you mean.’
‘What, then?’ Standish asked.
‘She loved her mother. And love can make you do some terrible things.’
‘You really think she could remember that far back?’
‘Who knows? And it doesn’t really matter. The truth is what you think it is.’
The nurse stuck his head around the door again. ‘You’ve been in here forty-five minutes, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Mr Gabriel really does need to rest.’
‘Just wrapping up.’ Standish got to his feet. ‘Last question,’ he said. ‘D’you think Dervla planned to kill herself, or was it a last-minute decision?’
‘She planned it. The stuff with Hester and the pictures of April was to make Frank suffer for a few hours. That’s why she didn’t do it straight away.’
Standish placed his notebook into his briefcase and checked his watch. ‘We’ll want to talk to you again in a few days,’ he said.
‘No problem.’
‘Weren’t you planning to move up north?’
‘Happy to stay in town for a while if you need me.’
‘That won’t be necessary. Visit one of the stations up there and we’ll do something over a secure video link. Just make sure we’ve got your new address.’
And with that he headed for the door.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I said. Standish turned. ‘The thing on your cheek – I was wondering why you don’t have it removed.’
His fingers moved reflexively to the wart. ‘Yeah, the wife’s always on at me to get it done.’
‘So why don’t you?’
‘The truth is that I’ve got used to seeing it every day. It’d be like a part of me was missing. That seem weird to you?’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Makes perfect sense.’
The papers had a field day. A medic or a cop had taken a photograph of Dervla’s installation and sold it to them for God knows how much. Neither the light nor the resolution was great, but that just lent an even more spooky aspect to the picture.
Pop psychologists hypothesised that the way that Dervla had justified her actions was in the name of art. She had once said that creative process transcended morality and they used the quote to prove their point. The contrary opinion was that she was a very troubled woman, evidenced by her history of substance abuse.
Personally I didn’t see them as mutually exclusive theories.
And people were keen to get my take on things. Or, more accurately, they were fucking desperate for an eyewitness account. Security at the hospital was tight, which meant that reporters weren’t able to get in to see me. However, a huge bouquet of lilies arrived from the paper that had printed the picture. The card offered an amount for my story so large that I wouldn’t have had to work for a year.
Bearing in mind that I was unlikely to get my invoice paid from Frank’s estate, it was a tempting offer. Also, I wouldn’t have minded the opportunity to clarify my role in events. In the absence of hard facts, I was described variously as ‘a shady figure on the margins of conventional society’ and ‘a low-rent private investigator’.
The time I came closest to calling the number on the card was after watching Roger Parr read a prepared interview conducted on the gravel driveway outside his house. The heir to Frank’s empire had been devastated by his father’s tragic death, especially as it followed so closely after that of his beloved sister. That said, he bore Dervla Bishop no ill will, hoped her family were bearing up and thanked God that his wife and daughter had survived.
Roger announced his intention to become CEO of Griffin Media. He appreciated the huge responsibility of following in his father’s footsteps and hoped to take the company to even greater success. Towards the end of the statement, he looked directly into the camera, wiped a non-existent tear from his eye, and thanked everyone who had contacted him to wish the family all the best for the future.
I nearly barfed my meds but that wasn’t the worst of it. While Roger was fielding questions from a posse of reporters, I noticed a figure in the background trundling a wheelbarrow. Although he only glanced at the camera in passing, I had no difficulty recognising Mr Screwdriver from the incident outside the Parminto Deli.
That Roger had paid his gardener to scare me shitless made perfect sense. He’d seemed pretty keen in his office that I didn’t visit Cube and now I knew why. It was where Harry had confronted him about sending the emails to Anna Jennings. There was a chance that one of the waiters had overheard the specifics. If I’d relayed these to his father it would have been a disaster for Roger. At least that was the way he’d seen it and God knows he was desperate to avoid the disgrace.
Pay someone to do your dirty work and you leave yourself open to blackmail. Although I was certain that Roger had co-opted his gardener in such a way, it would have been impossible for anything to be proved. If I’d reported the incident at the time, I could have ID’d Mr Screwdriver and things might have become quite interesting. As I hadn’t, there was nothing I could do about it.