Back home, I went to my study to log what I’d gleaned from Jessica. In my ‘Connections’ file, I noted that Gill had known Deirdre well, that she had been something of a teacher’s pet to him at his workshop. But, as far as Jessica was concerned, Gill was a celebrity they were lucky to have met once, a public figure with no significant connection to Deirdre. If Jessica was telling the truth, she knew of no subsequent contact between Gill and Deirdre after the festival. Even worse, the clues that I had been so excited about, the badges and name tags, meant nothing to her. Jessica didn’t even recall wearing them.
But one of the others might. I checked the catalogue for the names of the youth jury members and saved them to my file. One of them was Lorcan Lucey from Presentation Brothers, a famous rugby school universally known as ‘Pres’, though bespectacled skinny Lorcan didn’t look like he spent much time on the pitch. The second boy was Patrick McCarthy from a boys’ school in Bishopstown. Patrick was open-faced, athletic and enthusiastic-looking, like the star player on the school hurling team.
With a sigh, I opened a new document labelled ‘Other Possibilities’ where I typed two names: Colm O’Donnell, art teacher and Joey O’Connor, ex-boyfriend. Then I left my study and went upstairs to my bedroom. It was after two. I needed to get ready. Davy would be around to pick me up soon.
I had intended to wash my hair but a mane like mine takes too long to dry and I hadn’t left enough time. I pinned it up and went for a 30-second shower, keeping my head out of the water. Then, quickly, I pummelled my skin dry and slathered on Summer Harvest body lotion that I’d bought in the Burren Perfumery in Clare the previous August. Next, I shook out my hair, put my head upside down, and sprayed on my old music festival staple, Batiste Dry Shampoo. I smelled nice and my hair didn’t look too bad, but at twenty to three I still had no clue what to wear. Eventually I settled on a purple seventies vintage dress, with a high neck and long sleeves, and high-heeled Mary Janes. And too much black eyeliner and mascara, forgetting that I was going to Muskerry Castle for work reasons, and not on a date with Davy Keenan.
My phone pinged. It was Davy.
‘Your carriage awaits.’
Which probably meant that he was stopped in the middle of Barrack Street, blocking traffic. I’d better leg it.
But when I got to the end of the lane and on to Barrack Street there was no sign of him. I looked down the street, in the direction of town. No sign either. Then I heard him call my name. Parked to the south of the turn-off, he was leaning against his car, a black BMW. A drug dealer’s car, I’d teased, when he got it, asking if NA didn’t have some kind of a ban on black BMWs?
‘You’re only jealous, Finn,’ he’d said at the time, unfazed. And maybe I was, a little, though cars don’t interest me usually. Davy gave a little nod and a smile and I strolled towards him, trying to look casual, which was not easy when he looked this good, sandy hair and beard, six foot two, slim but strong, wearing a vintage brown Donegal tweed jacket over jeans and an open-necked white and blue cornflower print shirt.
‘You look nice,’ Davy said.
‘So do you,’ I said.
He opened the door and I got into the car as fast as I could. I needed the seat.
We drove west from the city, past the Lee Fields, out the Straight Road, where they used to run land speed record attempts back when people were interested in that kind of thing. Then, instead of continuing along the main route, Davy chose the narrow winding road that tracked the river, high above it, a shimmer of water visible intermittently through the hedgerows.
Once or twice I felt him looking at me, but he said nothing. He always knew when I wanted to talk and when I needed quiet. As we turned on to the mile-long tree-lined driveway to Muskerry Castle, the BMW earning us an effortless wave through gate security, I tried, with limited success, to drag my mind back to why I was here.
The hotel was as beautiful as I remembered: castellated limestone, carved oak and stone interiors, Turkish carpets, open fires, pastoral views from every window. It had been the landed estate, the ‘big house’, of the area, not burnt out as many like it had been in the 1920s, or demolished, or fallen into ruins, as others had been after their farms were compulsorily acquired by the Land Commission; death duties had crippled even more. Almost by default, the house had survived intact until one of the less useless members of the family, a daughter, had stopped yearning for a vanished Downton Abbey idyll that had never been, and turned the place into a hotel. She had done well. It was part-owned by an international group now, but the family was still involved in the running, and it was one of the few places in Cork that the recession didn’t seem to have affected, except to make hiring staff a lot easier.
‘Is it a special occasion, madam?’ the waitress asked as she led us to our table. Thrown momentarily, I looked to Davy for help.
‘It might be,’ he said and flashed a smile in her direction.
As we sat down, he asked ‘Why are we here anyway, Finn?’
‘It’s a work thing, Davy. I can’t tell you too much about it, you know, client confidentiality and all that. But I really appreciate you coming along.’
I watched his expression change and settle as I spoke, from curiosity to resignation, with a hint of disappointment somewhere in the middle.
‘Excellent,’ Davy said. ‘You know me, always up for a bit of legal work.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
But it felt like I was using him and, when they came, the perfect mini-sandwiches and cakes tasted like cardboard in my mouth. I had to salvage something from the afternoon, and got my chance when a florid, silver-haired man in Muskerry Castle livery, royal blue, for the kings of Munster, and red trim, for Cork, stopped at our table.
‘Davy Keenan, as I live and breathe, how are you?’ the man said.
Startled initially, Davy made a quick recovery.
‘Edward, how’s it going, boy? I’d forgotten you worked here. I wouldn’t have known you in the outfit anyway. In all fairness, you look like a reject from the Opera House panto. Buttons, is that his name?’
They laughed.
‘And who’s this lovely lady?’ Edward said.
Davy introduced me as his friend Finn and Edward introduced himself as Edward ‘Call me Ned’ Foley, concierge of this fine hotel for more years than he cared to remember.
‘Would you like to join us, Ned?’ I asked. ‘It’s my first time here for afternoon tea, and only my third time ever. I’d love to hear more about the hotel. Is it okay to have a look around, do you think?’
‘I can’t join you, I’m afraid,’ Ned said. ‘The curse of the day job. But if you call by the concierge desk on your way out, I’ll be only delighted to give you a tour and to tell you what little I can about the place.’
‘Hey, what’s the story with you and Ned?’ I asked after he’d left.
‘Sorry, can’t say,’ Davy said.
‘Now who’s gone all secretive?’
What I didn’t say was that I liked the man of mystery act he was putting on; liked it a lot. I leant across the table towards him and whispered, ‘It’s from NA, I’ll bet. That’s how you know him.’
I knew that members weren’t supposed to tell who else went to meetings.
‘Come off it, Buttons in NA? Hardly,’ Davy said.
‘AA so. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘I never said it, okay, so you can stop right there. But he’s a good guy, believe me. Though I can see you have every intention of bleeding him dry for information, whatever you’re up to.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, calling for the bill. ‘I’ll be the soul of discretion.’
Not as discreet as Ned. For all his apparent friendliness, he was giving nothing away. He showed us the ballroom, and the bar, and gestured dramatically up the stairs in the direction of the bedrooms, and the various suites named after the ancient clans of Munster, the O’Briens, the McCarthys and the O’Sullivans and so on. I could have learnt as much, or more, from the hotel website. And when I mentioned Jeremy Gill arriving on Tuesday, dropping in that I was a Film Festival board member, I got an arctic reception.
‘Oh, Finn, we never talk about our guests,’ Ned said as he ushered us into the bar for a complimentary drink. I ordered a grapefruit juice and Davy a still water. At least I’d be able to check what kind of coasters the hotel used.
But there weren’t any.
‘You don’t use coasters any more,’ I said.
‘We’ve never used coasters in the bar, Finn,’ Ned said.
‘But I have one,’ I said. ‘Small and round with fluted edges and “Muskerry Castle” printed on it.’
‘I thought you said you’d never stayed over?’
‘I haven’t.’
‘We only use those coasters in the bedrooms. In the bar, we’ve always used a cocktail napkin, American style.’
‘I must have picked it up when I was at that wedding, maybe, or I’m not sure, I …’
‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t,’ Ned said, with a quizzical glance at Davy, and a ‘Byeee’ as he went back to his duties.
‘Well that was weird,’ Davy said. ‘What was it all about?’
‘Davy, I can’t say,’ I said. ‘I told you, it’s something to do with work.’
‘You’re a solicitor with a sudden professional interest in coasters?’
‘In a way, yes.’
‘Give me a break. All I know is, the minute Ned mentioned “bedroom”, you got very uncomfortable.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said.
‘I’m ridiculous now, am I? Thanks.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘It’s what you said, though. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
‘I can’t. You know I can’t.’
‘Oh, come on. Don’t give me this “client confidentiality” shit. I don’t believe for a second that this is about work.’
‘Well you’d better fucking believe it because it happens to be true.’
‘This is all about a case?’
‘I already said that it is.’
There was silence until Davy spoke again.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough.’
On the drive back to town, I felt Davy’s annoyance in every gear change and engine rev, but he didn’t say anything, and neither did I. He said nothing either as I got out of the car on Barrack Street. Every others time he had dropped me off, which wasn’t all that often, he had got out and given me a hug. Or leant across and kissed me on the cheek. Not today.
I watched him drive away. He wasn’t just annoyed, I realised. He was hurt.
In my bedroom, I tugged off my shoes without opening the buckles and dragged the purple dress over my head, leaving it crumpled on the floor where it fell. I pulled on pyjamas, sat in front of my mirror, and scrubbed at my eyes with make-up remover and cotton wool. Then I went upstairs to the living room, and paced. A lot of the reason I liked hanging out with Davy was that he didn’t ask questions. Maybe he knew not to: today, the one time he had asked me anything, I had lied to him.
I was too wired to watch TV or read. I needed a minor project to occupy me, nothing too demanding, but enough to tire me out and quiet my thoughts. I went back downstairs to the study and checked the 1998 programme again. I typed ‘Daniel O’Brien Cork Film Festival Education’ into Google.
Nothing showed up so I tried ‘Daniel O’Brien’ on its own, then ‘Dan’ and ‘Danny’. Lots of hits, but the photos didn’t match. Then I remembered that Jessica had said she thought the man’s name was Donal, the Irish for Daniel. Maybe there was a typo in the programme? I tried ‘Donal O’Brien Cork Film Festival Education’. Then I tried Domhnall, the other way of spelling Donal. Nothing.
I tried Domhnall and Donal with the surname in Irish too, O’Briain, instead of O’Brien. Still nothing on general searches so I tried all the names on LinkedIn, Twitter and Facebook. And got nothing. There were numerous men with the same name but no matching photographs, and no mention of Film, Education or Cork Film Festival in the work histories.
I poked out the 1996, 1997, 1999 and 2000 catalogues. No Daniel O’Brien. No anybody O’Brien. It looked like he had only worked there that one year, 1998, and there was nothing in the printed 1998 programme about him except his name listed as education officer. I didn’t know if he was originally from Cork, but if he had only worked there for one year it made sense that the festival didn’t appear in searches against his name. What made less sense was that he wasn’t showing up at all. Daniel O’Brien, the other adult male in the workshop photograph with Jeremy Gill and Deirdre, seemed to have vanished.
You can find anyone on the internet. People don’t just disappear. Unless he was dead? At his age, it was unlikely. But if he was dead, he might show up on rip.ie. He didn’t.
There was bound to be a simple explanation. All I had to do was talk to someone who had worked with him in 1998: fifteen years ago. None of the staff listed in the 1998 programme were still employed by the festival. Even Alice, who was almost an institution, had only been there for ten years, so there was no point in asking her. Not that she would have had time to talk. It was after 8 p.m. With the opening film starting at 8.30, she was sure to be busy.
But I had worked as a volunteer in 1998, organised by a co-ordinator who might remember the Education Officer. Marie was her first name, I remembered, but I had to check the catalogue for her last.
Thankfully, she had a slightly unusual surname: Wade. If she’d been called Murphy I could be here till morning and never find her. She showed up on a gratifying number of searches as living in Cork. Even better, she worked in the accounts department at the Opera House.
I logged out. I was fed up with the former Education Officer, who could probably add nothing to what I already knew. It was more comforting to review the progress I had made. Unexpectedly, earlier that day, I had gained potentially useful information: that the coaster Deirdre had hidden away had come from a bedroom. Ann Carney was sure that Deirdre had never been to Muskerry Castle.
But what if she had?