I stood in the bay window. Outside, the sand stretched for mile after empty mile, and the tide ebbed silently. Behind, on Dalton’s writing desk, lay the sprawl of notes I had made of my meeting with him. I had expected to feel better, had hoped for a sense of achievement now that the truth had crawled its way to the surface. Instead, I felt like screaming. Dalton had confirmed that I was right about Gill. But the truth had come too late. Too late for Deirdre. Too late for Rhona. Too late for the nameless girl from New York State.
Now, I awaited Dalton’s decision. Unbelievably, the weasel was procrastinating still, in another room with his wife and his solicitor, mulling over how and when to make his disclosures about Gill, if ever. Dalton had known about Gill for twenty years. Now that he was finally thinking about speaking up, I had told him he needed independent legal advice, and that he had a duty to report Gill to the Gardaí, but he could do so in a way that minimised his own exposure. He had every entitlement to exercise the privilege against self-incrimination but, as far as I was concerned, he had to talk, and talk fast. Most of what he knew was background information and hearsay evidence that would be inadmissible in court. But it was no less valuable for all that. Corroborating what I already knew, it gave Gill a credible motive for murder.
I heard the door open, and turned. It was Richard Hawthorne, Dalton’s solicitor. I had met the man for the first time an hour and a half ago, when he’d swept up to the house in a Mercedes the size of a flatbed truck. A third generation commercial lawyer in his late fifties, Hawthorne wore tasselled Italian loafers and a Hugh Grant Four Weddings-era floppy hairstyle. He was going to fit right in down at the Garda station.
‘Finn, thank you so much for your patience,’ Hawthorne said. ‘Well, I’ve told Christopher that he’s under no reporting obligation here, none at all.’
‘I’d have to disagree with you on that one, Richard.’
Now wasn’t the time for the traditional ceremonial dance between opposing lawyers, where typical opening gambits required mutual disparagement of the other’s position.
‘Well, yes, indeed, I suppose there might be a moral argument to be made, and quite possibly even a legal one, but as it happens and in any event Christopher is most desirous of making a full and frank statement to the Gardaí. He is––’
‘Glad to hear it,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘I’ll make the call,’
I had already talked to Sadie O’Riordan and obtained from her the mobile number of the lead investigator in the Macbride murder. Sadie had said she would tell Detective Inspector Pat Lenihan to expect my call.
‘I wouldn’t have thought there was any need to do this today, surely,’ Hawthorne said. ‘This has been extremely difficult for my client and his family. He needs time to––’
I was out of what little patience I had left.
‘Time? More time? From what I understand, Jeremy Gill is leaving for LA, may even be gone already. I would have thought that your client has had quite enough time.’
‘I see. In the circumstances, perhaps you’re right. I’ll go and talk to him again.’
Hours later, after Dalton had been interviewed and made a statement, and I had done the same, in a different interview room, I sat in DI Lenihan’s office trying to force down a tepid cup of tea.
‘Hope the tea’s all right,’ Lenihan said.
‘It is, if you like bogwater.’
‘It’s not Barry’s, I’m afraid.’
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
‘You’re a bit of a comedian, Miss Fitzpatrick,’ Lenihan said.
He was trying to give the impression that we were settling in for a friendly chat that I knew would be no such thing. He would be watching my every move, and I knew it. Ostensibly welcoming of my input into the investigation, I sensed deep hostility from him. I had disliked him on sight. Clean-cut and handsome, with pale green eyes, freckles and a sulky mouth, Lenihan had the lithe strength and economy of movement that came from years spent on a hurling pitch. A Kilkenny man, he was young for a DI, which meant he had to be smart, but it was his ruthlessness and cunning that had won him early promotion, I reckoned. Lenihan needed the information about Jeremy Gill like a double yellow in an All-Ireland Final. Still, now that he had it, I knew he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, bury it and that whatever needed to be done would be, as clinically and efficiently as possible.
‘Actually, I was hoping to catch the last train home, if that’s all right.’
‘Might be,’ Lenihan said, but he could keep up the nice act for only so long. He sat up in his chair and ran his fingers through his short red curly hair.
‘Okay, let’s cut the crap. I don’t need to tell you that what you’ve brought here today isn’t going to win either of us any popularity contests.’
‘I know that.’
‘And so fucking what. I didn’t join the guards to be popular. I think it gives us enough to interview Gill again. But we’ve talked to him before about Rhona’s murder, on your say-so, remember. And there’s the teensy-weensy little problem of his cast-iron alibi. So I know you want us to throw everything including the kitchen sink at Gill, but he’s only one of a number of investigative strands we’ll be pursuing.’
‘Go down your blind alleys if you want, Detective Inspector Lenihan. But Gill did it. You know that and I know that.’
‘I know no such thing. And neither do you. What are you saying – that Gill was at home eating his porridge with his mammy while a contract killer was out doing the needful for him on the mean streets of Dublin? The guy isn’t a fucking crime boss. He doesn’t have those kinds of contacts. Even if he did, planning a hit takes time. And you’re saying that Rhona Macbride only became a threat to him after his security guard saw you visiting her house. The same guy you say you saw in Cork the next day, which implies that he followed you down the night before, so that means he wouldn’t have been able to murder Rhona either. The fact is that Rhona Macbride was killed only about twelve hours after you left her. How could Gill have had time to plan a murder in so short a time? And why was he worried, anyway? She’d kept quiet for fifteen, sixteen years. Why would he think she’d talk now?’
‘He couldn’t take the chance that she wouldn’t. And no, I don’t think it was his security guard who killed Rhona. You’re right, he was in Cork following me. And I don’t think Gill took out a contract. You’re right about that too. No, I think Gill did it himself. He used a weapon that he had to hand. He waited outside the only place he was halfway sure she’d be. He either knew she’d be leaving for work, or he banked on it and took a chance and waited for her. The guy is a film director. He’s used to orchestrating scenarios, and executing them. He knew to keep it simple. So that’s what he did. I know he killed her. You just have to break his alibi.’
‘Ah stop it, wouldya, you’ve been watching too much Miss Marple,’ Lenihan said. ‘Listen to me now. Go for your train, go home, stay home and we’ll take it from here. Leave it to the professionals.’
Dismissed in every sense of the word, I dragged myself towards Heuston Station, along the north bank of the Liffey, a walk I had done a thousand times before, to and from the Four Courts and the Law Society. As I ran my hand along the black cast-iron railing of the Croppies Acre, I thought about Rhona and I thought about my sister and I thought about Jeremy Gill. And I didn’t care how, but I was going to bring him down.