After several tries, I had finally managed to get my hands on the most valuable document in Cork – the City Council Residents’ Parking Permit sticker. The proofs needed made getting a passport look easy but meant that, for a tenner a year, I could park for unlimited periods on the streets near my home. I walked most places so, most of the time, my black Golf stayed parked. But I needed it now for the trip to the O’Connor motor dealership on the Kinsale Road.
I got into the car. Checking my phone, I found a message from Tina. She had been googling. It turned out that Joey O’Connor had form. She had emailed me a link to an Evening Echo article and photo: ‘Rugby star in Roid Rage Rampage.’ Eight years ago, Joey had been convicted of dealing in anabolic steroids and of seriously assaulting two of the guards who had come to arrest him. The photo showed an expensively suited, baby-faced athletic-looking Joey, in his early twenties by then. The article recited the plea given by his barrister (injury, temptation, bad mistake, inexcusable, deep regret, out of character, new leaf, working in the family business, promising rugby career derailed, charity work) which had resulted in a suspended sentence. It was a middle-class tragedy that might have ended a lot differently if he had been from somewhere less leafy. Well done, Tina, I thought but texted back only ‘Ta’, focused already on what I’d say to Joey.
He was outside the door smoking a cigarette as I pulled into the front of the gleaming glass and steel showroom. He wasn’t on steroids any more, that was clear. Somewhere along the way, Joey’s life had taken a wrong turn and instead he’d gained a permanent frown, an air of bitterness, and about sixty pounds. He didn’t look like he sold many cars, but then nobody had sold many cars in Ireland in the last five years and, as the boss’s son, he would have been insulated from the risk of redundancy.
Joey greeted me with a nasal, ‘How’s it going?’
I introduced myself and gave him my card but, before I could say why I was there, he was in with the patter.
‘What had you in mind, Finn? We’ve a great range here, both new and quality used. You look like you’re ready for a change anyway,’ he said.
He gave my battered ten-year-old Golf a pitying glance, turned back to me, and smiled. The smile stopped at his mouth.
‘Keep her outside, do you?’
‘Yeah, but I––’
‘I suppose the rust is a bit of a giveaway. On the street?’
‘Yes.’
‘No danger of anyone stealing her, anyway. What area of the city do you live in?’
‘Off Barrack Street. But actually I’m not here about a car, Joey.’
I handed him my card.
‘I’m here about a case, nothing to do with you, specifically. I represent Deirdre Carney’s parents. They’ve asked me to look into her death. They think something happened to her when she was in Transition Year’
‘What the fuck?’ Joey said. ‘What’s this about?’
He backed away, shaking his head. I didn’t know if he was mad or sad. Maybe both. But at least he was backing away. He was huge.
‘I’m sorry, Joey,’ I said. ‘This must be upsetting. I know you and Deirdre––’
‘Fucking right. She killed herself. I think you might call that upsetting.’
‘Yes, of course, Joey. I apologise if this brings up bad memories. I––’
‘What exactly are you trying to suggest?’
This time there was no confusion. He was angry and he was walking towards me. I stood my ground. Whatever he felt like doing, I had to hope that he wouldn’t do it here, in full view of his workmates, and probably on CCTV, too.
‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ I said. ‘I’m just here to ask you about Deirdre. I’ve already spoken to Jessica Murphy, and she told me you were close to Deirdre. And that sometime after the Film Festival in 1998, she changed, and was never the same after. And that’s it. I’m just here to see if you know anything about why she changed.’
‘What are you saying? Why should I know anything about that?’
Anguished-looking, he took in a couple of deep breaths. His voice was quieter when he started talking again.
‘She … she got sick. Did what she did. I don’t know any more. I tried to get back with her, even after she was in and out of the mental … I mean St Michael’s. She never answered my calls, never came out with me when I asked her. I even tried to visit her in hospital. But she wouldn’t see me. She was like a stranger. When she broke it off with me after the festival, she said there was another guy so …’
‘I’ve seen a photo of you all back then, a group shot, at a workshop with Jeremy Gill. And then a shot of Deirdre with two other students and Jeremy. She looked happy.’
‘Yeah, I thought she was. It was later …’
He paused.
‘Later …?’ I asked. ‘You mean that it was after the Film Festival she ended it?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, after another pause.
‘Do you know the name of the other guy?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I never found out who he was, the fucking bastard. All I know is, he didn’t last. There was no one calling to see her. I’d have known if there was.’
‘What was Gill like, do you remember?’
‘Oily fucker,’ Joey said. ‘Deirdre was impressed. I wasn’t.’
‘Did that make you jealous?’
‘Jealous? Are you joking me or what? He was ancient and I was bored stupid. I was only there ’cause of Deirdre. Films weren’t my thing. I was into rugby, and I was into her. Now, please go, would you? I don’t like talking about her. Brings it all back.’
I knew I’d get no more out of Joey today. And I couldn’t think of a way to ask about his convictions, though I was keen to see his reaction. I tried one last question.
‘Thanks for your help, Joey. Will you call me if you remember anything else about Deirdre after the Film Festival, anything that might help?’
‘I told you to leave,’ he shouted, hands by his side, fists clenched.
Shaking, I drove off. Joey had a vicious temper and a history of violence. And he’d cared about Deirdre. Loved her, probably. What might he have done as a teenager, his desires thwarted? Deirdre had kept saying it was her fault.
Might she have been talking about Joey?
I had taken a few steps forward with my investigation into Gill, but this was a giant step back. Impulsive, brute-strong, and with a proven disregard for the law: if you were casting a violent rapist in a TV crime drama, it would be hard to look beyond Joey O’Connor. He had loved Deirdre, was crazy about her, Jessica had said, but the flip side of love is hate: for proof, sit and listen to the proceedings in any courtroom anywhere any day of the week.
And what about Jessica? What if she had known more than she’d said? Had she been jealous of Deirdre’s relationship with Joey? Why hadn’t she told me about Joey’s convictions? She must have known. What if he had sought comfort with her after Deirdre had rejected him? Might Jessica have been protecting Joey by pretending to dislike him?
None of it felt right, but in the end the only reason I could come up with for eliminating Joey as a suspect was that I wanted Gill to be the guilty one.
It was another night of broken sleep, my sense of unease about Joey and my concerns in advance of Jeremy Gill’s imminent arrival in Cork made worse by the fact that Davy wasn’t replying to my messages. I had sent him two texts during the day. My iPhone told me he’d read them. But he hadn’t replied.
By 3a.m. I had had enough. I deleted the conversation from my messages and put my phone upstairs in the living room, on silent. Back in bed, when I wasn’t thinking about Davy, Deirdre went around and around in my head, along with the old voices, and the blurred pictures I’d failed to delete.
Her coming to collect me for a visit, coming in a taxi, her at the gate, Doreen walking me out to her, us getting the smell.
‘I don’t think Mum’s well enough to take you out today, Finn. Go back in while we have a chat.’
Me watching from the door.
Her shouting.
‘I am not drunk, how dare you, give me my child!’
Doreen closing the door on her.
Her hammering on the wood, her face peering through the bubble glass.
Her, and not her.
The noise, that’s what I remember most.
Breaking glass.
Shouting.
Crying.
The quiet with Jim and Doreen.
Me starting to call him Dad.
Me starting to call her Mam.
Me wishing it was true.
Me wishing something bad.