I DIDN’T TELL Maeve what I’d been doing down the Strand Road. If it turned out to be significant, she’d hear about it soon enough. In the meantime, I didn’t want to spoil her one shopping day in Derry; it was enough that she knew I had been pickpocketed. When we had eaten – or rather, when Maeve had eaten; my sandwich remained pretty much untouched – I made my way back to the car.
I left Derry to drive back to Glendara in sleeting rain, strangely glad of the appalling weather since it took up all my concentration and stopped me thinking about what had happened. So much so, in fact, that it was only when I reached Quigley’s Point that I remembered I hadn’t cancelled my missing cards. I pulled into the Point Inn, a bar-restaurant-hotel on the Foyle, and parked in the car park. It was quiet, which was unsurprising the day before New Year’s Eve, and a huge, brightly lit Christmas tree stood outside the main entrance. I did a search for the emergency credit-card line – grateful that my phone hadn’t been taken along with the wallet – and dialed the number.
As I waited for an answer, a movement at the front of the hotel made me glance up. The main door was open and someone was coming out; a man, his face partly concealed by an upturned collar. As he turned to walk down the steps, head bowed, hands rammed deep into the pockets of his coat, the light caught his profile. It was George Harkin. I found myself hunching down in my seat like some 1950s PI. I watched as he walked towards the old Ford I’d seen outside Carole’s sister’s house, climbed in and drove off. I wondered why he wasn’t at the wake, but then maybe he had needed a break, to get out for an hour or two.
Finally, the helpline was answered and I cancelled my cards. I put the phone back in my bag, started the car and drove back towards the entrance. As I was waiting for an opportunity to pull out onto the main road, a taxi pulled in. I recognized the driver as the one who had driven us to Culdaff on the night of the Christmas drinks, and he gave me a wave as he passed me. I watched in my overhead mirror as he drove to the entrance of the hotel and waited until a woman emerged carrying a large bag. She opened the passenger door and climbed in. It was Susanne Craig.
Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the square in Glendara, relieved to be back. It even looked as though I would be on time for my appointment with Stan, until I remembered that I had no wallet. Maeve had given me the coins I needed to get out of the car park in Derry, but I had refused a further loan. With relief, I saw that the bank was still open. I checked with the cashier that my cards had been cancelled and new ones ordered, and withdrew enough cash to get me through the next few days. Then I crossed to Stan’s salon, anticipating a tongue-lashing; I was now ten minutes late.
I was saved. The salon was quiet, with only two clients and one stylist – Róisín, Eddie’s girlfriend. I was surprised to see her; like George, I’d expected she would be at the wake.
She came over looking apologetic. “I’m so sorry, but Stan had to step out. He said to give you another appointment, but I could do it for you if you don’t mind waiting. I’ll only be another five minutes.”
She gestured towards one of the mirrors, where a woman sat with a magazine. The woman waved; she was one of my clients.
“That’s fine. I’m happy to wait.”
“Are you sure?” Róisín smiled. “I won’t be offended if you’d prefer to wait for Stan.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”
She made me a coffee and I sat in the little waiting area with its table strewn with magazines. One caught my eye and it gave me a wrench. It was the same one Carole had been reading on the flight to Dublin.
“Is that okay?” Róisín asked as she tied a pink-striped smock at the back of my neck a few minutes later. “Not too tight?”
“No. It’s fine.” I leaned back into the sink and she began to wet my hair. “It’s nice and warm in here today.”
“That’s because the windows are closed. Stan insists on keeping them open; he’d open the door to the street if he could. It’s madness; we have to keep the heating going full blast to make up for it.” She clicked her teeth as she massaged some shampoo into my hair. “He does the same at our house. It drives my mother nuts.”
“Did you do hairdressing in Sydney?” I asked.
“Only thing I’m qualified to do. I wasn’t there very long, though. I’m not that adventurous. Going to Australia was the most exciting thing I’ve done. First time out of the country.”
“I suppose. I didn’t go on my own, though – I went with a crowd. And we went traveling after.”
“Eddie didn’t go with you?”
“Eddie was working. But when he heard I’d be back in Glendara for Christmas …”
I smiled. “He decided he’d be here too?”
“Something like that.” I sensed her embarrassment.
“Stan must be glad to have you back. Although I should imagine it’s strange living with your boss.”
Róisín laughed. She had a tinkly, shy kind of laugh; it was the first time I’d heard it. “Stan’s all right, once you learn how to tune him out. He was going to stay in a B and B, but my mother wouldn’t have it. I don’t mind.” She applied some conditioner. “She’s so busy looking after him, she’s not hassling me. Calls him her surrogate son, even though there’s only ten years between them.”
“That smells nice,” I said.
“Apple,” Róisín said. “Cruelty-free.”
I wondered if that was Susanne Craig’s influence. It would be hard to be anything other than environmentally aware if you were regularly in Susanne’s orbit, I thought.
“It’s not difficult once you put a bit of thought into it. We can all do our bit.” Róisín wrapped my hair in a towel and rubbed my head vigorously before moving me to one of the mirrors.
As I took my seat, I mentioned Carole’s funeral the following day.
“Aye, it’s going to be a rough old day for George and the boys,” Róisín said, pulling the tangles from my hair with a comb. “They’re lucky they have Emma.”
“Did George teach you at school, by the way?” I asked as she began snipping at the ends of my hair.
“He did. He was one of the ‘cool’ teachers. Of course, it helped that he taught a subject people liked, rather than math or something.” She met my gaze in the mirror, put down the scissors, and leaned on the back of my chair. “Who on earth would have done that to Carole?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s making all the girls nervous. No one wants to go out at night on their own anymore.”
“I’m sure they don’t.”
She picked up the comb and scissors again. “The whole thing’s so fucked up.” She caught my eye in the mirror. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly.
“No, you’re right. It is.” I took a sip of my coffee. It was cold. “You were in the pub with Eddie that Saturday night, weren’t you?”
“Aye, Susanne and myself were both there. Eddie was behind the bar with Carole. Susanne’s da asked him to help out and Eddie thought it would be a great way to get to see everyone again, so he jumped at it.”
“Did you see anyone in particular talking to Carole, anyone strange come into the pub?”
She shook her head. “But she was in a funny mood. Grouchy with Eddie, kept nagging him to clean glasses and take out the bottles, that sort of thing.” She grinned. “But then he was doing more chatting than work.”
Now that sounded like the Eddie of old.
“But then at closing time she seemed to be dying to get rid of us, just when I’d have thought she’d want Eddie’s help to clean up. Insisted that we head out to Culdaff to see George.”
“Didn’t she want to go herself?” I asked.
Róisín shook her head. “She didn’t seem to. I offered to help the two of them clear up so she could come with us, but she said she was wrecked and wanted to head home to bed.”
“So you went on out to Culdaff with Eddie to see George play?”
“Aye, and Susanne came with us.”
I had a flashback of Susanne emerging from the Point Inn. Could Susanne have been the girl that Maeve had seen him with that night in the car?
At ten o’clock, there was a knock on the back door. I’d been waiting to hear from Molloy all day, but had resisted calling him. Now I threw Guinness off my lap and hurried to open it.
Molloy raised his eyebrows. “New haircut?”
“A Stan MacLochlainn special. At least it was supposed to be a Stan special. It turned out to be a Róisín one.”
“It’s good. Suits you.”
I smiled. That was positively effusive in Molloy’s book. He followed me into the kitchen, where I gestured to the wine rack. “Red?”
“Great.”
I took a corkscrew from the drawer while Molloy grabbed two glasses, and we headed back to the fire, where Guinness had stretched out again on the sofa. I pushed him over and we both sat down, the cat leaping back up onto Molloy’s knee and circling repeatedly until he found himself a comfortable spot.
“Well? Did you take a look at the place in Derry?” I asked.
“The PSNI did. This afternoon.”
“Nothing. The landlord was cooperative, but all the flats are rented for cash. Tenants changing all the time. He gave the PSNI a list, but there’s no one on it of any significance. We’ve given the PSNI Carole’s photograph, so they’ll circulate it amongst the tenants and in the casino.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, but I was disappointed.
“What exactly did Stan say to you?” Molloy asked.
“Just that he thought he saw Carole go through a door beside the casino.”
“And why the hell didn’t he tell us that?” Molloy shook his head in frustration.
“He said it was dark so he couldn’t be sure. Maybe he didn’t want to chance getting someone into trouble.”
“All he told us was that she was with a man. Brown hair, tall. Hugely helpful.”
I hesitated. “Does that description fit Dominic Stoop?”
Molloy nodded. “Dominic Stoop and half the rest of the male population. But Dominic Stoop is dead, Ben.”
“I know, I know. I accept it’s pretty unlikely that the UK prison authorities would have got it wrong.”
I could tell there was something else bothering him. But I’d learned not to press him. He stroked Guinness’s fur.
“We’ve found out something else about the same Dominic Stoop.”
I held my breath.
“He was married. To Carole Kearney.”
I sank back into the couch. “Divorced?”
Molloy shook his head. “Nope. Still married to her when he died three months ago.”
“But she’s married to George.”
“It would appear not, not legally anyway.”
I whistled. “When did they marry? Carole and Dominic?”
“Seventeen or eighteen years ago. He was in his early twenties; she must have been about nineteen.”
“Did they have any kids?”
“Not that we can tell.”
I whistled. “I presume George didn’t know she was already married when she married him?”
“I haven’t spoken to him yet,” Molloy said. “I thought I’d wait till after the funeral.”
That seemed the kindest course of action. Then it hit me. What if it was Carole herself who was being blackmailed? What if that was why she needed the money? While I considered this, Molloy picked the cat up and placed him to one side, then stood up and wandered restlessly towards the window, glass of wine in hand.
“God, she was rightly trapped, wasn’t she?” I said. “Until Dominic died and solved her problem. Pity you’re not investigating his death. You’d have at least one prime suspect.”
Molloy pushed the edge of the curtain to one side and peered out. “Which is more than we have for Carole.”
“Why was Dominic Stoop in prison?” I asked. “All I’ve been told is that he was trouble. Hot-headed and violent.”
Molloy let the curtain fall and turned to face me again, taking a sip from his glass. “I suppose you’d call him an eco-terrorist. He campaigned against experimentation on animals, intensive farming, hunting; set bombs in two pharmaceutical plants, one in Kerry and one in Manchester, fatally injuring one person and maiming two. He was in and out of prison all his life.”
“Maeve said his father was cruel to his animals.”
Molloy shrugged. “Maybe that’s where it started. But he certainly went the wrong way about it. He was hugely into animal rights but he didn’t seem to care how many people he hurt.”
“I wonder what he and Carole had in common? He doesn’t sound like her type.”
“Maybe she was different when she was younger.” He gave me an odd look. “Most of us were.”
“Yes.”
He seemed lost in thought for a second, then shook his head. “Anyway, I don’t see how any of this helps in trying to find out what happened to her.”
“What about the trace of explosives found in the Oak? That’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? If Dominic was convicted of explosives offenses?”
Molloy sighed. “And it would be hugely significant if it weren’t for the fact that Dominic Stoop died in prison three months before the Oak burned down. Which is the problem we keep coming back to.”
I was glad that Molloy stayed the night. I dismissed the unease I’d felt earlier in the day and relaxed into his presence, and he seemed to sense it, wrapping his arms protectively around me when we settled down to sleep. But I lay awake for some time, turning scenes over in my mind. I sensed Molloy’s restlessness too, although he didn’t speak.
I fell into an uneasy sleep, to be woken a short time later completely unable to move. My brain was awake and alert, but I was frozen, lying on my stomach with my arm trapped beneath me. I tried to turn over but couldn’t, tried to lift my head and failed, tried so hard to open my eyes that my head hurt. I sensed Molloy beside me and I tried to move my leg to get his attention, but I was paralyzed. The onset of panic made me cry out, but no sound came. I was trapped within my own body.
Suddenly I felt Molloy’s touch. He held my arm and shook me awake. My eyes opened; overwhelming relief followed immediately by a pounding headache.