‘Need big favour! Call me ASAP.’
I had sent the text to Davy as I was leaving the university campus, but I was home a while now, and still hadn’t heard from him. He was probably at meetings or teaching classes. It could be hours before he saw my message. Still, it was worth waiting for him. He had an ‘in’ at Muskerry Castle with Ned Foley, the concierge, who could check the hotel’s records for the 12th of December 1998. If they still existed. Though they mightn’t. But if there were records, and if they showed a room reservation for Jeremy Gill, or for his then employers Thomson AdGroup, or for Joey O’Connor – he would have had enough money to pay for a room too – then that, along with Lorcan Lucey’s sighting of Deirdre at the hotel, was a breakthrough in identifying her rapist. That was something to take to Sean and Ann Carney, something real.
Eventually, Davy called back. When I told him what I wanted, he was matter-of-fact.
‘We can’t do this over the phone,’ he said. ‘Meet me at the end of Barrack in ten.’
He was the same when we got out to the hotel.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll do a bit of preparation work with Ned. He wasn’t too fond of you last time we were here, as I recall.’
I bristled, but I knew Davy was right. I went to the bar and ordered a pot of tea for three, hoping that he would be successful in getting Ned to join us, though I had no real doubt that he’d get somewhere with him. People did things for Davy, often without being asked. Ned Foley would roll over and let Davy tickle his belly, but if I asked the same questions he’d double-lock the door and call security.
I looked out the window into the misty, mossy, grey-green of the day. I was close now, I could feel it. But what about Lenihan? Was he following up or ignoring the leads I had given him? He hadn’t called me back. And I had been forced to stop texting and calling him after my conversation with Sadie O’Riordan a couple of hours earlier.
I winced at the memory. I was just home from UCC, waiting for Davy to call, when she rang.
‘Hiya, listen, Finn, one of the Macbride murder team was on to me to say that Lenihan, well, he wants you to stop contacting him. Except he didn’t put it as politely as that. He said you were to let him do his job or he’d have you arrested and charged with interfering with an active investigation.’
‘That bastard. He’d have no investigation only for me.’
I stopped then, realising how true that was, in more ways than one. Sadie didn’t notice my pause.
‘Leave it, Finn, for fuck’s sake.’
I knew that I had to. For now, at least. It was just as well that a new avenue had opened up in Deirdre’s case or I would have been seriously depressed.
Davy’s charm seemed to be deserting him. The tea was stewed and there was still no sign of him, with or without Ned Foley. But, just then, Davy came to the door of the bar. He raised his eyebrows and signalled me to follow him. In the lobby, I found him standing by an open door at the far side and down a short hallway. I crossed to him and shut the door behind me.
We were standing in the library. A fire blazed, and standard lamps illuminated armchairs and sofas set in cosy groups. Ned Foley stood to one side, before a glass-fronted cabinet. Gone was the professional bonhomie of our previous visit. Foley looked serious and determined.
‘It’s better if I don’t know any more than Davy told me. But what he said is enough. I can’t get you the room reservation records. They’re all archived. Anyway, I don’t have that kind of access. But you’ll find what you need in here. Make sure to close the case when you’re finished and drop the key back to me at the concierge desk. This never happened. But at least you’ll know where to look if you come back with an official request for information. Good luck to you.’
Ned Foley glided out of the room in silence, a silence Davy and I didn’t break. I made my way towards the cabinet. If there was something in there, it could take days to find it. But, as I got closer, I saw that the leather-bound books had years etched in gold on their spines. They were guest books, I realised. I ran my finger along the row until I reached 1998. There were three volumes. I plucked the third one from the shelf and paged through it until I got to December.
The 11th.
The 12th.
A few entries. Then a full page of angled signatures and autographs.
Thanks for a fantastic shoot, we’ll be back.
Thanks Muskerry from Thomson AdGroup.
T.A.G. says TA.
Gill’s name or signature wasn’t there. Nevertheless, I photographed the page. I could check if any of the comments were in his writing – but it wasn’t what I’d hoped for. I turned the page.
The 13th.
Brilliant few days folks. Thanks. Jeremy Gill 13/12/98.
I exhaled slowly. The 13th. Evidence that he had stayed overnight on the 12th, the same night that Lorcan Lucey had seen Deirdre walking up the stairs to the bedrooms. It hadn’t been Joey O’Connor. Jeremy Gill was the one who had raped Deirdre. And his pattern of behaviour was an almost exact copy of what he had done with Rhona. I photographed the page and took a close-up of Gill’s message. I felt Davy at my shoulder.
‘Who’d believe it?’ he said. ‘A guy rapes a schoolgirl and takes time to write in the Visitors’ Book next morning. Unreal. But, hey, you’ve got proof now.’
It was a fair point. Who would believe it?
‘I’ve got proof of nothing. It’s only another piece of circumstantial evidence.’
Davy stepped back from me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘What I should have said is that thanks to your efforts …’
‘Thanks to me you’ve got nothing worth talking about, by the look of it.’
‘That’s not what I meant. All I meant is that I need more. When you said who’d believe it, it brought it home to me. That’s all I meant.’
‘Come on, let’s go. This place seems to bring out the worst in us,’ Davy said.
‘The worst in me, maybe,’ I said.
Davy didn’t say anything to contradict me.
‘I didn’t mean it the way I said it,’ I said, on the way back to town.
‘I know,’ Davy said. ‘I understand. I do. You were talking professionally. I wasn’t.’
‘That’s not what I meant either,’ I said. ‘You made a good point. A point I should have seen, and instead of accepting it with good grace, I got mad with you.’
‘I told you it’s fine so would you leave it? You’re nearly there. Just be happy.’
‘Okay,’ I said, but it wasn’t fine, and I wasn’t happy.
‘You’re too hard on yourself, you know,’ Davy said.
Why was he being nice to me? I didn’t deserve it. But I was saved from further self-flagellation by the sound of my phone ringing. It was Garda Ruth Joyce.
‘Hi, Ruth. Are you calling to tell me you’re charging Joey in relation to my car?’
‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘It is about him, though. I wonder if you could come into the Bridewell as soon as possible?’
‘Is something wrong?’
‘I’ll explain when I see you.’
The arson attack on my car had looked like an open and shut, and relatively minor, case, headed for a guilty plea, after I’d fingered Joey on CCTV – so why the urgency?
‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,’ I said.