Jim Aylesbury is a mournful-looking man, clean shaven with a crown of curls. He sits at a desk at his office in Limerick as Clarke and I video call him from the boardroom back at the station. Frank is in meetings all day – he’s promised to visit me this evening, at my apartment. The big showdown. If he shows up at all, that is.
‘So, you are saying there was no evidence of a baby ever found in that house?’ I press Aylesbury and his sad-looking, pixelated face on the screen. There’s nothing in the background where he is – just a bare white wall with a lone nail stuck into it – as if a painting had once hung there and had been removed. Empty. In fact, everything about him is slow and dreary. I wonder if people are born like that or if they just get ground down.
‘You take the lead,’ I said under my breath to Clarke before the call, as we waited for Jim Aylesbury’s face to appear on our screen. It was time to get some facts about what the experts found that Christmas night. But I couldn’t help jumping in early on.
‘So, you are saying there was no evidence of a baby ever found?’ I say again, as Aylesbury taps one of his ears awkwardly, indicating he didn’t quite hear the question.
Bloody technology. I lean closer to the computer to hear his answer. I can smell Clarke’s piney shower gel and the toast he told me he shovelled into himself at the station kitchenette before our Zoom call. It isn’t unpleasant, but it is definitely distracting.
‘What I’m saying is that there was no visible organic material present, but that was unsurprising given the intensity of the fire.’ Aylesbury looks like this is the last place he wants to be. But I have a feeling that it’s an unfortunate personality trait rather than ennui from the delicate matter of what we are discussing.
‘But how do you know there was a baby there at all, then, in that case, Mr Aylesbury? I mean, don’t you test for that kind of thing?’
‘Excuse me?’
I’m not sure he’s heard me or if he’s just surprised at the question. I turn the volume higher, making a subtle face at Clarke to demonstrate my frustration with the shitty Wi-Fi here.
‘I said how do you know—’
‘I heard what you said,’ Jim’s voice cuts back quickly, interrupting my question, his words as sharp as the edge of a knife. ‘That’s up to the Gardaí. Our team is responsible for trying to find the cause of the fire.’
Clarke pushes forward, with that respectful manner that also manages to exude an air of authority. It’s probably down to his legal training. I picture him in court – making his point – that earnest face willing you to believe what he’s telling you. I wonder again why he ever left law – he’d have made a good attorney. Fair and firm.
‘In your professional opinion, is it possible that there was never a body at all in the room where you say the fire burnt strongest?’
Aylesbury’s lips curl from confused to horrified at what we are implying.
‘I know Ms Wills was convinced her baby was taken and that the cot was empty but no, we discounted that. I mean… obviously at this stage, I couldn’t say either way. I’m not qualified to say.’
‘But you did, didn’t you?’ I sit forward against the cheap boardroom table – the apple-smooth curve of it resting against my protruding belly. ‘You signed off on the report that it was an accidental fire and that the baby had most likely perished in the fire which burnt so intensely, it says here… that there was nothing left of it at all.’
‘We also had to rely on the Garda investigation.’
‘Concluded by Gerald Barrows?’
‘Correct.’ Jim Aylesbury looks smug – like he was used to getting As in class his whole life. He reminded me a little of Detective Cummins too – we’d met him in the hallway earlier. He’d made a typically flippant comment about whether I was sure I wasn’t having twins, but at least he’d had the grace to ask about my injuries. He hadn’t dared to touch the bump, not after the last time.
‘Are you aware Gerald Barrows was having a romantic relationship with Ms Wills?’ Clarke goes in for the kill.
A pause. Aylesbury is so still that for a moment I think the computer may have glitched again. The internet is particularly bad up here on the sixth floor. But no, there he is, his head bobbing, slightly startled as he stammers his answer.
‘I wasn’t,’ he admits. ‘But I’m not sure how…’ He trails off, reflecting on what this new piece of information might mean for his report.
‘You can see the conflict of interest that could have arisen when it comes to what exactly happened that night. And given a new, more recent development that involves Gerald Barrows, we need to make sure there was nothing buried within that report.’ Clarke speaks evenly – with a calmness I’m growing to admire. He must have been one hell of a solicitor.
‘We had no reason to doubt there wasn’t a baby.’
‘But didn’t you hear what Nancy Wills was telling you? That she believed her baby was taken. That there wasn’t a body in the cot.’
‘What I remember was that she was hysterical.’ He stops, aware perhaps of what he’s said and how he’s said it, his automatic dismissal of the hysterical mother. That won’t play well in this situation – especially not with me. ‘She was understandably distraught, is what I’m saying,’ he mutters. ‘I had to factor in how that might affect her perception of events too.’
What was that supposed to even mean? I feel Clarke’s nonsense radar ping beside me.
But it’s what he says next that surprises us both.
Aylesbury takes a sip of water and adjusts his jacket. The pressure is on. And whatever he’s about to reveal is making him very uncomfortable. But despite any corners he may not have explored in the investigation in the past, he has a professional obligation to get to the bottom of the case, especially when new evidence emerges.
‘Well, if we are really getting into it. I suppose it’s worth saying that the intensity of the fire that night was initially surprising.’ He says the words slowly.
‘Go on.’ I try to ignore the throbbing pain in my arm again. I refused to take even one of the foetus-friendly painkillers despite the doctor’s reassurance they were safe. But this pain is making me irritable.
He’s stalling.
‘Mr Aylesbury, we have information that means this fire potentially wasn’t accidental at all. That’s the basis we have to work from now. So, if there is anything at all that you red-flagged, even if you dismissed it in the end, please tell us now.’
He flips a page in front him that we can’t see.
‘Localised burn patterns to the floor and overhead damage can sometimes indicate the presence of accelerants,’ he says, monotone. ‘In some cases, the damage can be inconsistent with naturally available fuel.’
Both Clarke and I remain silent. My heartbeat quickens. Aylesbury flips another page of the report, bringing it closer to his face as he peers through his thick frames. Then he throws the file down and removes his glasses. He sighs, as if this is a large inconvenience to him.
‘We didn’t write it in the report, but I remember observing that the window in the bedroom was clean of soot on the fire side but melted all the same.’
‘What does that mean?’ I practically shout.
‘It’s an indication that a fire burnt unnaturally intensely. Usually, a sign an accelerant may have been used.’
‘Arson.’ Clarke says, and the word floats in the air of the boardroom for a moment.
‘And you didn’t write this in the report, why?’ I can’t help my tone. This guy had one job, but he was too busy dismissing Nancy as hysterical to listen to anything she was really saying.
‘We spoke to Hugh Wills and concluded that the faulty oil heater – the plug – was the cause of the blaze. The intensity was most likely the result of the fuel from that unit.’
‘Most likely?’ I scribble a note to Clarke. We need to speak to Hugh Wills. I underline the NEED a few times in red pen. He nods and continues questioning Aylesbury.
‘Again, why wasn’t this in the report?’
Aylesbury clears his throat.
‘It was explained to the investigating officer, and he made the decision to rule out arson. We didn’t find the circumstances suspicious, based on the very plausible explanation offered by Mr Wills.’
‘A baby supposedly died, and you took the father’s word that oil from the heater accelerated the blaze?’ Clarke sounds incredulous.
‘An oil heater in the room, yes. Often household items can inadvertently turn into flammable material that accelerates a small fire into something more… catastrophic. This would have been an intense heat, for a prolonged period of time.’
‘Wouldn’t there have been an explosion?’ Clarke probes.
‘Depends if it had tipped over or not.’
‘And was there? An explosion?’
‘It’s too hard to say.’
Clarke throws down his pen in frustration. Maybe he was sharpening his soft edges after all.
‘But you tested for the accelerant?’
‘We had no reason to think it was anything other than a terrible accident.’
‘Did you test for accelerant?’ Lawyer Clarke pushes, his voice like steel. ‘Mr Aylesbury, please answer the question.’
Silence lingers heavily in the air.
‘We did not.’
‘So, let’s get this straight. Is it possible that something else, a different type of accelerant may have been used?’ Clarke says quietly. I hold my breath. Aylesbury sighs heavily and eventually answers.
‘It’s possible, yes. Technically.’
My phone lights up. It’d better not be Frank cancelling on tonight. I wouldn’t put it past him. I glance at the screen, it’s Billy from the lab. I’ll have to take it.
‘Excuse me a moment.’ I slip out, balancing the phone under my chin as I navigate the heavy boardroom door with my sling and my bump. Clarke goes to help but I motion to him that I’m okay. ‘Keep going,’ I mouth, already knowing I’ll watch the recording of this interview over and over. In the corridor, I lean against one of the windows while Billy talks.
Billy and I have been mates a long time, ever since he helped me out on a dodgy urine sample given by a drunk driver, back in Galway. He was the one that ran an additional test based on a hunch. We got the driver, who was three times over the limit when he knocked down the cyclist, when HCG levels were found. If it was true, the male driver was, in fact, pregnant. He went to jail for switching his sample with his wife’s thanks to Bill’s diligence. I’d written a letter of recommendation for his son who’d done work experience with us at the station too. I trusted him implicitly.
‘That DNA doesn’t match,’ he tells me, slightly breathlessly. Billy’s one of the good guys around here – smart and flamboyant, amazing at his job. We’ve known each other a long time but he also knows when work is work and anything involving a child takes precedence, even off the record.
But his statement catches me off guard.
‘You are shitting me?’ I picture him sitting in his lab at the Garda Tech Bureau, probably wearing one of his colourful stripy shirts under his white lab coat, always a coffee nearby. I scrape a smudge of something off the window with my fingernail. The Dublin rooflines stretch out across the city. A sparkle in the distance marks the tall thin spire that dissects the city into North and South. A literal pin on the map.
‘No,’ Billy says. ‘The Dexter kid’s sample from the gumshield doesn’t match the Barrows we have in the system. Gerald Barrows. You sure that’s the right name? Currolough station, County Kerry?’
‘Uh-huh.’ I breathe out. ‘Did you get enough sample?’
‘Ally…’ Billy doesn’t like to be questioned. ‘I didn’t say inconclusive. I said no match. Zilch. That kid Dexter… he’s definitely not Gerald Barrows’s child.’
I exhale heavily and the window I’m leaning against fogs. I rub it away with one swoop of my palm. This wasn’t some small-town tragedy. This might actually have been kidnap. And now potentially arson. Nancy’s child could be alive.
My phone pings.
‘Hang on, Billy.’ I scan it quickly. It’s a message from the reporter Cynthia Shields about the story, due to be published this Sunday in one of the biggest broadsheet papers. It includes a week-old interview with Nancy Wills. Her source about the child being spotted at the market has agreed to go on record. She’s tired of waiting and wants to run a few things past me regarding the investigation and possible links to Eddie Jones’s death.
I ring off from Billy, promising him I’ll thank him with pints as soon as this baby’s out. ‘Watch out Tinder,’ he teases, and I force a gruff laugh, knowing his heart is in the right place. But I’m beginning to tire of my love life being a joke to everyone around here.
In the corridor, outside the boardroom, I root inside my leather bag for my heartburn tablets. Gastric fire was something I thought I’d escaped until earlier this week. Separate pain radiates from my shoulder to my temple – one long throbbing ache. Every movement is excruciating thanks to the huge bruises on my right hip from the fall. I crouch down to use the ground as an aid, cursing the impracticality of having an almost-human strapped to my lower abdomen. Strands of hair fall from the pathetic ponytail I tried to pull back this morning with my claw-tooth clip. I blow it out of my face and reach deeper into the bag, feeling beads of sweat trickle down my spine. It’s almost impossible to get the foil off the blister packet with one hand, but I manage to jam two chalky tablets between my teeth and crunch gratefully.
Taking a breath in preparation to try and haul myself up off the ground, I hear a voice I know off by heart.
‘Ally?’
Shit, I’m supposed to be off work. I look up but already know who it is. I quickly finish chewing.
‘Hi Frank.’
And for a moment, seeing his face, I can’t move – I’m out of energy, physically and emotionally. I’m hanging on by a thread. A wave of pain hits me. It’s so overwhelming that I think I may pass out.
Then Clarke almost knocks me over completely opening the boardroom door. His head is down, he’s texting furiously.
‘Jesus, sorry Ally,’ he says, alarmed as I hold my good arm up to stop the door hitting me. Both men move to help me up and I shake them off. The air is fraught with tension somehow. I look at Frank and then back at Clarke. There’s a strange look on Frank’s face.
‘It’s Detective Sergeant Fields to you,’ I say sharply to Clarke, as I haul myself upright. Whatever blossoming friendship that has started forming between Clarke and I during this case withers right here in this moment, like the sad plant pots at Tudor Lawns Nursing Home. That look of hurt in his eyes as I take him down in front of the boss is brief, but in the pit of my stomach I feel something else too – regret. Sometimes people are just trying to be nice, Sammy tells me time and time again when I push them so far away. You’ll end up with nobody if you’re not careful, she always warns. I’m thinking lately that having nobody is the safest way to be for me. Being alone is self-preservation because I refuse to be blindsided like I was back then. I just have to keep reinforcing my walls. Yes, even against the World’s Nicest, Clarke Casey. But there’s no time for that now. Frank is looking at me, his eyebrows raised.
‘I’m just tying up a few things,’ I stammer, in explanation for my presence at the station. Frank says nothing, observing me with eyes I can’t read. I feel Clarke absorbing my change in demeanour. I’m embarrassed he’s seeing this exchange. ‘I’m heading home now anyway,’ I say quietly, my words soaked with the tone of apology I know Frank expects.
But Frank ignores me and starts saying something about the Jones case to Clarke. He seems to know everything, but I haven’t been able to speak to him about it all week. Strange. They discuss Gerald Barrows like I’m not even there.
‘Nancy Wills may have been in a relationship with the investigating officer Gerald Barrows,’ Clarke tells Frank, who nods authoritatively.
‘Nancy planned to leave her husband and children,’ Clarke continues. ‘She had an argument with her sister Vera in the days leading up to the blaze, and one with her husband Hugh, who confronted her about the affair.’
All I can do is stand and nod, not meeting Frank’s eye, and weakly offer some updates; new information has come to light – the fire may have been started deliberately. Nancy is stable but unconscious.
‘Anything else?’ Frank’s all business now. His eyes hard behind his long fringe. His face looks more angular, his hair less fawny somehow. Has he lost weight maybe? He’s brusque to the point of being rude.
‘The child, Joey, who was a five-year-old at the time, was seen playing with matches,’ Clarke says. ‘According to the babysitter.’
As this debriefing goes on around me, I stand there uselessly. Insignificant. There’s definitely a weird tension. I know Clarke suspects something is probably going on between Frank and me. And I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or not, but Frank seems short with Clarke too. Frank looks from me to Clarke and then drops his bombshell.
‘Hugh Wills and his son Joey are here in Dublin,’ he says, and I suspect he’s enjoying the surprise on our faces. ‘I asked them to come over after Casey told me about Nancy Wills’s accident.’ He glances at Clarke. I stare at them a moment, trying to absorb what he has just said. ‘You can meet them at the hospital tomorrow morning, Casey. I’ve arranged an interview for you at 9:15 a.m.’
Clarke looks down at the ground while I try to put two and two together. I don’t mind him reporting back to Frank while I was in hospital, but has it been happening all along? Even while I was trying to get through to Frank myself? Did they think I wasn’t able for this? I immediately want to smash something hard. I study the scar on my hand from the wall I punched years before and wonder if Reilly’s will let me come down and have a session at the boxing gym.
It isn’t a coincidence that ever since Frank started here, he’s put me on shit cases, and now this. His respect for what I do seems to have diminished with every night we’ve spent together. His controlling chokehold over me has been so subtle I didn’t realise it had extended into my work. It’s hard to fathom the control he has on my life – the control I’ve let him have on my life. This is my fault.
‘I’ll come to the hospital tomorrow too,’ I say, trying to push power into my voice.
Clarke looks embarrassed. Frank shrugs. Then as Frank turns, he lingers at my shoulder and drops his voice. He has the same sour-smoke smell as always, but this time it makes me pull back a little.
‘See you later, Ally. Eight-ish, yeah?’
I rub the cast on my right arm self-consciously. I nod.
He’s all that I have.
Clarke hasn’t heard. He’s stooping to pick up my bag, pushing back inside the folders that have slipped out. Then Frank’s gone and the air around us feels chilled.
‘The DNA didn’t match with Gerald,’ I say to Clarke frostily, too angry to even show my fury right now. I made the correct choice not to let Clarke in; as nice as he is, he stabbed me in the back by being Frank’s messenger boy. I was right all along. Shaking my head in disappointment, I wonder when he started going behind my back, updating my boss, as if I was unable to do my job. I was pregnant, not lobotomised. Jesus Christ, it was just a broken arm. ‘We’ll put in the formal request to see if Dexter matches Nancy.’
Then I remember the message from Cynthia. As brilliant a reporter as she is, that article can’t be published. Not now. Not yet. We are so close. I check the screen of my smartphone – half past six. Clarke seems eager to stay and talk, but I remember what Sammy kept saying to me – take care of the baby, take care of yourself, Ally. Plus, he knows he’s upset me.
I need to eat. I need to think about my future with Frank. I have to start allowing a degree of separation from work. I need to start loving myself before I can take care of this baby.
‘We’ll talk in the morning, Clarke,’ I say dismissively, tapping out a quick message to Cynthia on my phone.
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he says, his hand on the back of his neck, ruffling his hair awkwardly. But I shake my head and drop my eyes back to my phone. I speed read what I’ve written.
Yes, I’ll talk, Cynthia, but not until tomorrow. I’ve updates for you that I have to firm up. Please hold the story until we’ve spoken.
We have to delay that article.
She’ll know I’m stalling too, but now that Hugh Wills is back in the country, everything’s changed. He might finally have the answers that we couldn’t get from Nancy. The father-shaped hole in this story needs to be finally put under the microscope. I’ll be interested to meet Joey too – the strange little boy that May described, who enjoys playing with matches and God knows what else. What does he know? And how did he cope when he was ripped away from his mother at such a young age? What part does that rupture play in all of this?
Stop obsessing over work, Ally, I hear Sammy’s voice in my ear. Go home! Eat!
‘Are you sure you don’t need a lift?’ Clarke looks like he wants to say something else, but I’m so over all of it. I’m over the confusing feelings with Frank and the equally confusing feeling I’m getting the more time I spend with Clarke Casey.
‘Yeah. I’m sure.’ My tone is deliberately curt. I don’t even look up from my phone until he slowly turns. Then I watch Clarke walk away, hands in his pockets. What does he do when he’s not at work? I remember what he said about his idealisation of being a detective, of making a difference. I feel so sad suddenly. He actually deserves someone good on his side. But, as I know too well, good people don’t always get the things they deserve. That’s why I am inclined to take what I can from the universe, plunder it before it tears any more flesh from my bones. I don’t owe it anything at all.
For the first time ever in my career as a detective, I turn away from my work, walk away from my desk, and do something just for myself. I get an Uber to the grocery store under my apartment block and throw broccoli and asparagus into my trolley. Cherry tomatoes, perfectly ripe avocados, organic chicken breasts, spring onions. Using my good arm to reach, and my bump leaning gently against the trolley, I add honey, peaches, cashew nuts, raspberries, sweet dates and my favourite brand of Greek yogurt.
In the toiletry aisle, I knock a conditioning treatment with Argan oil into the half-full trolley, a nail file, new razors, a pomegranate face mask. As I make my way to the conveyor belt, it occurs to me that although Frank is coming over later, this gesture is for me alone. Maybe Sammy’s words over the past few days made a difference – reminding me that I’m precious too. Or maybe it’s the slow realisation that even though I may not deserve good things, I may as well try now that there is new life coming into the world. Perhaps I’m finally understanding how fragile our bonds with others really are. I rest my hand on my belly a moment, close my eyes and feel the energy of the tiny life inside me. I breathe good vibes towards it. I want more for you, I murmur to myself, standing in the queue for the checkout at SuperGo.
Against the backdrop of low beeps and lower ceilings, by a checkout pockmarked with colourful monthly offers, I vow to be a better person – a calmer, more considered person for my child.
See Ally, I say to myself, you got this. Sammy will be so proud of how far I’ve come.
I press €5 into the hands of one of the trolley handlers to carry my groceries upstairs for me. The moment I push the door closed behind him, I take a long hot shower, being gentle with my plastic-bag-encased arm. I let the conditioner melt into my hair like butter and rinse it off slowly with my left hand, enjoying the pulse of the hot jets of the water against my poor, sore body. I wrap myself in my fluffiest bathrobe and pull on soft oversized Christmas socks. I tell Alexa to play Sia, volume eight, while I one-hand cook the chicken stir-fry Roe used to make us, colourful with seasonal vegetables. Baby dances beneath the robe as I sway happily in the kitchen.
This is happy, Ally.
Try to remember this.
With a little flip of joy deep in my stomach, I remember my plan.
Ignoring the box of old photos and clothes from Aunt Roe’s house I had Clarke lug up to my hallway when he dropped me home from the hospital in Ballyowen, I pad along the wooden laminate into my bedroom and kneel by my underwear drawer. Sliding it open, my fingers find the smooth envelope buried beneath scrappy curls of lace. Then, sitting on the edge of my unmade bed, I use my longest nail to slide the envelope open. My heart hammers beneath the embroidered hotel monogram of the robe I never gave back. I lie back against my pillows and, ignoring the traffic sounds in the street below, I clutch the thin black-and-white paper to my chest. The shiny edges scroll inwards, towards its centre. I smooth them back gently. I take a breath and finally turn it over to see what the paper beside it reveals.
Gender: Female.
A little girl.
Heart to heart, I close my eyes and hum the song my mother used to sing as she lathered our hair in the bath into ‘moo cows’ horns’. I let myself think of a mirror fogged with condensation. Splashy squeals. Sammy’s toes smooth against my back.
‘Wild foam and a million stars. Tell me where all the dreams turn to gold. If it’s not too far, my little star.’
It must be only eight when I drift off, Nancy’s dreamcatcher strewn beside me on the crumpled duvet, its complicated weaves so much more intricate up close.
Whatever happens… I promise my baby girl, my hand draped over the warm mound of skin between us.
No matter what happens… I will never leave you.
I will never leave you. Like my
mother
left
me.