Nancy Wills lives in a pretty caravan twenty miles from Currolough, perched on the top of a cliff. Far below, the sea meets the lake, saltiness twirling through the silt.
Clarke and I pull up alongside a sign that reads Sullivan’s Caravan Park painted in rainbow bubble writing – a little too merry for this particular visit. The front area is neatly kept; there’s a windchime hanging from one of the beams and a burst of purple heathers in the hanging basket by the blue door. It has a hippy vibe – a happy one too. Nothing like the depressing cave I was expecting. Nancy’s is the brightest mobile home in the holiday park where the other thirty or so units are scattered, dotted along the jagged edge, 100 feet above the rocky beach below. Views to die for, I think suddenly and feel a little dizzy imagining the foamy depths swirling beneath.
Clarke Casey also seems surprised by our first impressions of Nancy Wills’s abode. I think back to Mulligan’s description of how people would drive here just to get a glimpse of her injuries. It reminds me of how I cut Clarke off at the station yesterday when he was about to say something.
‘What were you going to say yesterday, at the station with Horsey Mulligan?’ I ask blithely, as we walk towards the small cabin. The truth is that so far, I’m impressed with Clarke Casey’s ability to sit back and observe. Not that I’m going to say that to him, though.
He looks confused for a moment and then makes the connection to Ken Mulligan’s appearance and tries not to smile.
‘I thought a police officer had an obligation to aid an investigation,’ he says. ‘Like a duty. That’s what I wanted to point out.’
He’s not the worst-looking man in the world when he narrows his eyes like that – a little less Mr Bean Goes to Oxford.
‘Also, what’s the big deal if Barrows can just produce the birth cert and hospital records for his kid and all that?’
It’s a good point and something I was wondering about too. Why bring all this fuss on yourself, getting legal representation and generally creating a headache, when Gerald Barrows could just wave the kid’s birth cert and we’d all go on our way, safe in the knowledge that Nancy just couldn’t ever get over her baby son’s death? We also need to see if there is a connection between the Joneses and Nancy. Why had Gerald been the common denominator in both? Solving cases is mostly about finding patterns and then asking why those patterns have formed. It’s finding some kind of order in disorder, and the irony that I’m good at identifying them isn’t lost on me.
‘I guess we’ll find out when we doorstop him later,’ I grin. Legal would take months that I don’t have. Plus, I’ve never had a problem doing things a little creatively. Anyone who’s worked with me knows that.
Clarke Casey looks back at me with something that feels like comradery, and I don’t mind it.
‘Besides,’ I say as my phone vibrates in my pocket, ‘don’t be such an idealist. Just because someone has a duty doesn’t mean they have to do it.’
I glance at my phone screen. It’s stubbornly blank except for a reminder for my prenatal appointment next week. I hate the flip of panic I feel when Frank doesn’t call. Beneath it all, his inaccessibility is one of the reasons I’d been drawn to him, but now I’m in so deep, his unpredictable patterns are increasingly bothering me. I press the bell of the caravan, and, after a few moments, we see movement behind the blurred glass square of the front door. There’s a jiggle of metal, a click and then the door of the caravan swings open. A slight man with long, greasy-looking hair is beaming at us, welcoming us in.
‘I’m Tim.’ He smiles, but there’s a wariness to his movements I recognise as fear. I don’t read into it too much because as detectives, we tend to do that to people. We command respect while inciting fear. Even in those who have nothing to hide. Nancy was expecting us after Mulligan called ahead.
‘Come in, come in,’ he sing-songs jovially. I try to rearrange my face to match his energy but fail. ‘Nancy’s partner,’ he adds when we look at him a little confused.
We step inside the surprisingly large cabin.
I don’t know why I expected the poor woman to live alone in the dark shadows somewhere. Another preconception. There is something about Currolough that makes me think the worst, constantly. Or maybe it just brings out my worst. Not for the first time since I arrived back in Kerry, I wonder how the hell this situation has arisen; me standing by a cliff in Currolough weeks from having my very own baby. I wonder what Aunt Roe would make of it all. She doesn’t even know I’ve returned yet.
The caravan itself is homely and well cared for. Every available space has been used for storage. Plants in colourful pots dot every edge, a shelf overflows with books, photos line the wooden walls. There are rows of different types of dreamcatchers taking up one entire wall – some hanging from the ceiling, some lying flat. All look homemade.
‘You make these?’ I gesture towards the wall and Tim beams. They are really good – all colourful feathers and carved wood, with the net plaited together tightly, ready to trap insouciant nightmares. They’ve always fascinated me – the idea you could escape your demons somehow, trap them neatly in a net. But here, in such numbers, they look more like some kind of spiritual shrine. An offering…
‘They’re Nancy’s.’ Tim smiles. ‘I do the fiddly bits because… well, because of her hands. We sell them around the country at the craft markets.’
I remember that Mulligan told us Nancy had seen the boy at one of those markets.
Clarke smiles politely and promises to try and make it down to the markets himself if he has time. Tim seems chuffed, and again I wonder how that charm comes so naturally to someone like Clarke – the ability to put others at ease? The opposite of me entirely. I can see the benefits of his method. He finishes what he is saying to Tim and glances over at me to check he’s not in trouble. It dawns on me that it’s not a method, as such. Clarke Casey really is just that nice.
Something is cooking in the small kitchenette – and smells divine. I’d eaten tomato soup and a garden salad last night after Audrey’s interview, promising the baby it was vitamins all the way from now on. But breakfast was disappointing – a few measly strips of bacon at the guesthouse where we’re staying, weak tea and soggy toast, under the watchful eye of the nosy owner who glared at me when I dared ask for an extra towel this morning.
‘Nancy’s out back,’ Tim explains, and gestures towards the other end of the deceptively large caravan with a sprawling deck to its rear. Through the glass opening I can see the outline of a hatted head.
‘I’ll bring out coffees, shall I?’
I tell him I’ll have a tea.
Tim has an English accent – northern perhaps, the tree-hugging type most likely. Middle-aged, bead-wearing men were a dead giveaway. But he seems welcoming. Keep an open mind, Ally, I remind myself because I’ve always been suspicious of the overly friendly.
The ridged slats beneath us creak as we step out onto the decked area at the back of the mobile home. Outside is crisp and clear – an endless blue sky. Cold-nose weather, Mother would call it. It backs onto another couple of similar units on an incline which then give way to the vast ocean view. I glance at Clarke, who has his arms crossed tightly against the cold, feeling bad for him. He’d given me his puffer jacket, after I’d given mine to Audrey last night at the station. He’d insisted despite my protests. I zip the black downy material up a little higher, so it covers my bare neck. With my bump protruding, I look like a giant letter P.
Nancy is sitting with her back to us, in a blue-and-white-striped deck chair. There’s a sun-umbrella overhead, shading the spot where she sits looking out to the bay. Tasselled rugs are thrown across the wide slats of wood on the deck, which is covered in yet more plant pots that are bursting with purple daisies. A cup of something hot rests on a white plastic table to her right, an open book lies upside down on her lap. In such a cosy setting, it’s easy to forget the horror of what we are here to discuss. She’s tucked up tight with colourful blankets.
Clarke clears his throat to announce our presence.
‘It’s usually stormier in January,’ she says by way of greeting, eyes fixed on the blue in the distance. ‘We’re lucky this year. Last year you couldn’t even come out here until March.’
‘You live here year-round?’ Clarke inquires sweetly as we walk around to face her. Sometimes his private school upbringing has its advantages. I’m not sure my snarl produces such positive results with those I interview.
A low laugh, and Nancy turns.
‘It’s not so bad. You get to wake up to this every morning.’
She gestures, proudly displaying the arc of moody blues in front of her, the thinnest gossamer thread where sky met sea. I picture my apartment with the window looking out onto the neighbouring brick wall opposite in Dublin and figure she has the right idea, even if it is Currolough.
I know she’s the same age as me and yet, as we lock eyes, it is impossible to tell how old Nancy is otherwise. Her face is scrubbed tight where she’s suffered facial burns. A mottled appearance, the result of countless skin grafts and scar tissue distortion, which pulls one side of her right eye slightly downwards. Despite her disfigurement, you can tell she’s beautiful. Her hair, dark and heavy under her hat, frames her small face and those brown eyes reach deep. Even under all the colourful material she’s wrapped in, you can tell Nancy Wills is ballerina-slender, elegant and composed.
Nancy directs her gaze towards me, and I step closer to her, knowing her eyesight in one eye is quite poor.
‘Nancy, we wanted to talk to you about the incident the other day over in Drumlish, at the market.’
She nods calmly. This isn’t the crazed woman I’d been picturing since I’d been given this case. Another rap on the knuckle for judging too quickly. The woman in front of me seemed focused and assured – steely.
‘I saw my son. That’s what happened, Ms…’
‘Detective Sergeant Fields. And this is Garda Detective Clarke Casey.’
She nods in brief acknowledgement.
‘I saw my son, Detective Sergeant Fields. But everyone thinks I’m mad.’
‘What makes you think it was your son?’
‘Because he is identical to my other son Joey at that age.’
She smiles, looks at my stomach briefly.
‘And because a mother always knows her own child. Your first?’ she asks.
I nod, but I’m keen to keep the focus away from me. ‘Less than three weeks to go,’ I mutter, because that’s what people expect – a line in the sand when it comes to the progress of human-growing. It’s an obsession with some – but in this case, I understand it’s more of a delicate situation. Her baby was only a few months older than my own bundle of cells when she lost him.
‘Sleeping?’ she asks.
‘Not really.’ I’m just being polite, but when I stop to think about it, I realise how tired I really am. It was five a.m. before I got to sleep again last night, tossing and turning over the twin anxieties of being back in Currolough and the emotional turmoil of my dilemma with Frank Nolan.
‘Joey is what, eleven or twelve now, right?’ I ask Nancy, trying to shake the exhaustion. At least my migraines are keeping their distance.
‘Yes, he’ll be twelve in June.’
‘He’s at school?’
She nods, but something’s changed – something’s crossed her face.
‘Not here. Away. He lives with his father now.’ Nancy tries to pull the blanket up higher to protect her from the cool breeze coming in off the sea. The sight of her hands is pitiful. Instinctively I step forward to help her but something in the way she looks at me stops me in my tracks. I recognise that look – the deep mistrust that stares back at me daily from my own bedroom mirror.
Tim arrives with steaming mugs and I take mine gratefully, glad of the distraction to gather my thoughts a moment. Ken Mulligan hadn’t mentioned that Nancy’s son Joey no longer lives with her. She was now without both her children – that had to sting. No wonder she needs her nightmares filtered out every night. It would take a million dreamcatchers to erase what she’s been through. I watch Tim fuss over Nancy, tucking in her blanket and adjusting the shade to make sure she isn’t in the direct sunlight. It’s endearing, and for a moment, I feel a jolt of happiness that she isn’t completely alone in the world, especially after all she’s been through. Everyone needs comfort, everyone needs to know that just because the worst thing happened, doesn’t mean the worst will always happen. Fatalistic, Sammy calls me.
‘Can you tell me a little about what happened last Monday week?’
Both Clarke and I are perched on the wooden ledge of the deck, facing her, our backs to the ocean as Nancy starts to talk. Without being obvious, I try to sit close to Clarke so at least he has some warmth leaching into his skin. I may be a prickly bitch, but that doesn’t mean I’m immune to small acts of kindness.
‘As you know, Detective, I’ve always maintained that my baby son wasn’t in the cot at the time of the fire that Christmas.’ She glances out to sea, sadness etched across her face.
‘But the fact is that nobody believed me – that his cot was empty. Not even my ex-husband. The Gardaí insisted that my baby died in the fire that night. I’ve never been able to prove otherwise because they didn’t bother investigating properly.’ She pauses to control her emotions. ‘Now I finally might be able to prove my son was alive all this time.’
Clarke takes notes and Tim sits watching Nancy speak, ready to help her whenever she needs it. Selfishly, I think of Frank – how unavailable he is to me. For the twentieth time today, I wonder how the hell everything got so complicated with him. I’ll give him another hour to call me back or else I’ll have to ring him again.
I set my cup on the table and study Nancy as she speaks.
‘Last Monday I was behind our stall at Drumlish Market.’ Her hands fly up to her throat as she remembers. ‘There was a boy playing in the little moving toy nearby. You know, one of those colourful rides that moves when you put a coin in. Like animals… or cartoon characters. They set them up during the markets.’
I imagine rows of dreamcatchers set out on a trestle table with a flimsy canopy overhead. I picture Nancy huddled in a folding chair and Tim pointing out the fine beading details to customers as they pass. I picture the tinkling sounds of a robotic carrousel horse in the distance.
Nancy continues, her agitation growing.
‘I thought it was Joey at first, my older son. This boy’s profile was so shockingly similar. I moved closer. I realised the boy was far too young. Then I saw, clear as day…’
Her eyes fill with tears. She bites her lip, trying to contain her distress.
‘I saw that it was my Liam. The same Wills eyes, the exact curve of his mouth. I screamed, didn’t I, Tim?’
‘You did, love.’ Tim nods, eyes closed, as if remembering back to the moment Nancy cried out. Reliving it alongside her. ‘You gave me a desperate fright.’ He sounds as if he could be from Yorkshire, or somewhere northern anyway.
‘The first thing I did was to ask him his name,’ Nancy continues, blinking away her emotion. ‘But then a woman, his minder it must have been, came over and pulled him away. I’m used to shocking people, especially children, with how I look.’
She says this without self-pity, more of a statement of fact.
‘But this was different. I begged her to let me speak to her – to speak to him. I was only giving them a €2 coin for the ride. Anything to make them stop for a moment. But she wouldn’t listen. Nobody would listen. Then they called security. They just looked at me like I was some kind of monster – a stranger trying to harm Liam.’
She stifles a sob and my own throat aches. Damn hormones.
‘The worst part…’ she continues, her voice shaking, ‘was that he, Liam, looked terrified.’
We pause as the woman in front of us gathers herself. It’s uncomfortable how distressed she has become.
‘There were reports that you were shouting and causing a scene,’ I finally interrupt her sobbing gruffly, mostly to gauge her reaction, although I didn’t doubt for a moment that it must be hell trying to live a normal life with such an abnormal appearance. I check my notes. ‘The child’s Brazilian au pair told police that you were trying to grab at the boy. That you were hysterical and wouldn’t leave them alone. She says she was frightened for their safety.’
Tim goes to speak – to defend Nancy, presumably – but she puts a hand on his leg to stop him. She knows we are here to hear from her.
‘I suppose she was scared,’ she answers quietly. ‘But I waited all this time, and then there he was – my perfect Liam. I needed to touch him. To hold him.’ Her voice is low, almost a whisper. ‘To make sure he was real.’
‘I’m sure there are many children that might resemble your son – either of your sons. But I’m guessing this isn’t the first time you think you saw your child in somebody? Don’t you think grief might have a part to play?’ I am deliberately delicate, but surely Nancy knows this is the crux of it – the fact that most people think she’s out of her mind with grief and denial. That she’s seeing what she wants to see.
Nancy tears her eyes away from the horizon and regards me coolly. Suddenly, there is nothing pitiful about those deep brown eyes.
‘Imagine that child in your belly was ripped from you, taken away, in the blink of an eye. Then imagine people thought you were crazy for even suggesting it. Now imagine you looked the way I do.’
There’s an edge I hadn’t expected. Grief, yes. But also conviction. I take in the folds of her grafts, the faint cracked lines joining layers of good skin on top of bad. Even through the slight cloudiness in her right eye, I can see the indignation. You couldn’t get through what she’s been through and not be resilient.
‘I’ve never ever reported that I found him before. Only that I was sure he was taken. I haven’t seen him since he was asleep in his cot. Since that night…’
A sob starts and is swallowed. Whatever Nancy wants to say, it’s clear she doesn’t want pity. I respect her need to control the uncontrollable. I also don’t doubt that Nancy Wills believes wholeheartedly that the child in Drumlish was her youngest son. Could a mother always know her own child? I suppose in a few weeks I might be able to answer that question for myself. But for now, I have to rely solely on evidence to find the truth.
Nancy sits forward.
‘I see what you see.’ Her body trembles as she talks. ‘But let me tell you this, Detective Fields. I am far from the mad woman this town makes me out to be. Let’s just say it’s a bit too convenient. I’ve been the target of all their ills for too many years.’
Tim is on his feet once more, soothing Nancy who is now very upset. She pushes him away, not unkindly, but there are tears running down her cheeks as she speaks, her chest rising and falling with the effort of trying to explain.
‘I thought about getting a few of his hairs for a DNA test. Then I’d know for sure. Then I could prove it.’ She’s talking quickly now, fraught with the panic of what she should have done.
‘Obtaining DNA illegally isn’t something you can do,’ I say, chilled at the prospect of a stranger grabbing a fistful of a child’s hair as he played in a playground. We have to handle this with extra sensitivity.
‘Could you show us the picture you have of Joey as a child so we can compare it, please?’ Clarke turns the emotional moment into something a little more concrete. His timing is spot on. Nancy slumps back into her chair – distant, as if a light has gone out. Tim gets up to fetch the photograph and takes our empty cups with him. We smile our polite thanks.
‘What do you mean by convenient?’ I ask suddenly, thinking of the unusual choice of words. ‘You said, it was convenient that people thought you were… not right.’
‘People know more than they are saying,’ Nancy says. ‘There’s been a wall of whispers built around what happened that night for years. It’s easier to side-line you if you don’t seem to belong in the first place.’
I think of how true this has been my whole life. It’s clear Nancy is exhausted from remembering. Ken Mulligan warned us that the scarring in Nancy’s lungs has left her at a permanently low ebb and that she tires easily.
‘There was some kind of cover-up. There must have been,’ she whispers. ‘They didn’t find a single trace of him. My son didn’t die that night. A mother knows.’
The wooden decking shifts slightly underfoot and Tim arrives back with a framed photograph of a boy in a blue school uniform. It’s one of those first-day-of-school pictures. He’s small and blond, a tuft of feathery curls, dark brown eyes – Nancy’s eyes – and the uncertain smile halfway between being polite and being overwhelmed with nerves.
‘This is your eldest son Joey?’ I ask gently.
She nods, smiles, but you can tell her heart is breaking as she studies it.
‘He’s five in that picture. It’s just before… It’s the only one we have before… you know. Everything else was destroyed in the fire – every picture, every document. His school gave us this afterwards. It was his first day at St Killian’s. He cried the whole way there.’ She traces her stiff clumped hand over the glass lovingly. ‘As soon as we got to the gate, I had to peel his little fingers off mine and hand him over to the teacher. I’ll never forget that moment. He needed me so much.’
She wipes a tear away.
‘I needed him…’
I think about all the moments she’s studied this picture – imagined what her other son, baby Liam, might have become. My throat constricts with emotion – the idea of all that unfulfilled potential in her baby, all those glorious future experiences going up in flames. One moment that changed her entire world. I shake my head to dislodge the emotion that threatens to spill out into this moment.
‘So, you are saying that the child you saw in Drumlish was extremely similar to Joey? And you believe it was Joey’s little brother that you saw?’ Clarke steps in with a classic detective move, acting slow on the uptake. It’s clever. Smart cop, dumb cop. I throw him a glance to show I’ve noticed. It has the added benefit of allowing me to collect myself a little. I blink my tears away and try not to think of small warm fingers zigzagged through a mother’s hand. The epitome of safety, or the illusion of it at least.
‘Yes, the boy in Drumlish was a little older – about six or so, which would work out perfectly in terms of Liam’s age.’
‘Do you mind if we take this?’ I venture, and Nancy nods, as if she expected this. ‘We will take very good care of it for you.’ I take the framed picture carefully from the mother’s hands and slide it into my leather bag.
‘Did you recognise the woman with the child?’ Clarke asks now, all baby-faced innocence with his crisp posh accent.
She shakes her head. The wind has started to pick up now; windchimes tinkle beside us. I steal a glance at my phone again, hating that I constantly feel as if I’m the one chasing Frank.
‘I talked with a reporter again yesterday – Cynthia Shields,’ she says apologetically. ‘From Southern Sound.’
I nod. ‘We spoke to her too,’ I tell her. ‘About Gerald Barrows.’
I’m watching Nancy’s face very carefully for a reaction. Clarke’s fountain pen stops writing his neat, sloped sentences and hovers in the air a moment.
‘Gerald?’ She answers too quickly. ‘Why are you speaking to Gerald?’
‘The boy you saw, that you claim is your Liam… We believe his father is Garda Gerald Barrows, originally stationed here at Currolough.’
Nancy leans forward. She gasps and then gags as if she may throw up. Genuine shock washes over her. Her face drains of colour.
‘It was Gerald?’ she whispers, her hands up at her head as if sheltering herself from the impact of the news we’ve brought. ‘Gerald took him?’ Tears run down her face, but she ignores them. ‘I knew he was angry at me. But… wait…’ Nancy stammers, almost speechless at what she’s just discovered. She looks from Clarke back to me. I hold her gaze.
‘We’ve only your word to go on for now,’ I say bluntly. ‘We obviously can’t jump to any conclusions.’
‘Are you going to speak to him?’
‘We believe there is enough of a reason to speak with him. There’s another case we want to discuss with him too.’
But she’s distracted. Her demeanour has shifted dramatically. Her hands twitch under the blanket – the book slips from her lap. Clarke stoops to retrieve it.
‘I knew he was alive,’ she whispers. ‘My baby Liam.’
The sea pitches and rolls behind us, choppier now. But it’s Tim’s face I’m watching, and the look of horror he turned to hide when we mentioned Gerald’s name.
‘What do you think?’ Clarke asks as soon as we get into the car, which is parked diagonally next to the wooden dividers that separate their mobile home from the rest. Tim waves from the blue door – his smile a little thinner – Clarke’s card in his hand in case they need to get in touch.
‘More questions than answers,’ I respond. I glide my seatbelt over my stomach gracelessly. It clicks and I start the car, stuffing the small dreamcatcher Nancy insisted I take with me into the driver’s door pocket. ‘Was it just me, or did she seem frightened to you?’
‘No,’ he admits. ‘But Tim did.’
Outside, grains of sand gather and swirl in the wind. A sheep on the grass verge eyeballs us mournfully as we turn out onto the road, the indicator flashing, leaving Sullivan’s Caravan Park behind. Next stop: the address we’ve been given for Gerald Barrows.