The last train to Cork was as slow as a hearse and, as was usual for the last train, it had no dining car or tea trolley. Pre-prepared, I ate a bag of Tayto Cheese and Onion, bought on the platform, for main course, and chased it with a bag of Salt and Vinegar for dessert. I hadn’t bought a big enough bottle of water though, and thirst kept me half awake, and staring out the window into the blackness, as the train alternately hurtled through the dark countryside, then shunted in and out of every nowhere town and station until the announcement for Cork came at long last. Another fifteen minutes and I would be in my own bed. But my phone rang as I alighted on the platform at Kent Station at ten past midnight. No caller ID.
‘Am I speaking to Finn Fitzpatrick?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Bridewell Gardaí here,’ the voice said.
‘Is there news?’ I said, thinking of DI Lenihan and the Macbride case.
‘Are you the owner of motor vehicle 03C____?’
‘Yes, I am, is something wrong?’
‘Could you furnish me with the make of the vehicle, please?’
‘VW Golf. Please tell me what’s wrong.’
‘And the last known location, if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Fort Street, Off Barrack Street. But what is it?’
‘Finn, I’m afraid I’ve bad news for you about your car. It’s after being set on fire.’
There were no taxis left at the rank, but I hailed one on the slope down into the city centre and was across town in minutes.
A swarm of passers-by and locals had gathered to view the inferno. I stood well back until the flames started to weaken, after they had been doused by the fire brigade, which took longer than I might have expected, if I had ever expected anything of the sort.
As the crowd started to thin, I made my way over to the firefighters and introduced myself to a man who looked like he was in charge: ruddy, big, and strong enough to carry most people of normal weight down staircases and through smoke and collapsing masonry.
‘Chief Wilson,’ he said and shook my hand. ‘This is unpleasant for you.’
‘Horrible,’ I said. ‘Though it could be worse.’
‘That’s true. Things could always be worse.’
Some folk memory or superstition meant that no matter how bad the circumstances, people were always giving thanks that they weren’t worse. Which annoyed me, usually.
‘Are you sure it was deliberate?’ I asked.
‘Definite. We’ll examine her properly tomorrow. But the way the flames spread, it looks like someone sprinkled an accelerant over the seats and threw in a lighter.’
‘A cigarette lighter?’
‘No, something burning, a rag, paper, even a match would have done it.’
‘Any idea who did it?’
‘Could be vandals,’ Chief Wilson said. ‘Or somebody with a grudge against you. Or maybe just some head-the-ball who likes starting fires. We’ve had one repeat offender over the last while, haven’t caught him yet. Though this looks a bit different to his usual modus operandi. Could be a copycat, or could be him trying something new. That’s why we always check through the crowd. Have a look yourself. These guys like to watch their handiwork.’
I did, but recognised nobody.
‘How did you contact me so fast?’
‘One of the residents in the Gregg Road flats. When he rang to report the fire, he said you’re parked in the same spot nearly every day, so he knew your car number. Once they had the reg, the guards were able to track you, I don’t know how.’
‘Maybe they got my mobile number from the phone company?’
‘Dunno, to be honest, girl, you’ll have to ask them yourself. They’re over there.’
He moved his chin up and his head to the right. I walked across to where two young Gardaí in yellow high-vis jackets were standing, and identified myself.
‘Hard luck,’ the bigger one said. ‘It must be a terrible shock altogether.’
Her eyes shone in the flames like it was bonfire night, and someone had just produced a pound of sausages. Not long out of Templemore, I reckoned.
‘A shock all right.’
The Garda said I could call into any station to get my car insurance claim form stamped. I nodded, and turned again to look at the fire.
‘Thanks for contacting me so fast,’ I said.
‘It was no bother. Once I had your name via the car registration, it clicked with me. You’re a solicitor. Your name and number are on the custody sergeant’s list.’
‘Mystery solved. By the way, what did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t,’ the Garda said. ‘But it’s Ruth Joyce. From the Bridewell. It was me who rang you. I’ll be in touch about making a statement.’
Once the flames had died down, the fire truck pulled off and the guards left and the crowd drifted away. Eventually, I was left all on my own, beside the smouldering wreck that had once been my car. Was Gill responsible? Or someone else? But how? And why? Though the why was easily answered. Someone had intended to frighten me.
In that, they had succeeded, I thought later, as I locked my bedroom door and wedged a chair under the handle, and placed a carving knife under my pillow.