The rattle of the door-knocker just after 8 p.m. made me jump and sent Izzy into a barking frenzy. Normally I’d have laughed and told her to calm down, but I was on edge, too. People didn’t routinely call to my door without letting me know they were coming to visit.
Nonetheless, I managed to quiet Izzy down and walked to the front of the house, to the formal front door – which was really more ornamental than anything, as most people came in through the kitchen door.
I put my eye to the peephole and saw a glamorous-looking woman – her no-doubt designer sunglasses pushed to the top of her smooth blonde bob. She fumbled through her green leather handbag and pulled out a notebook and pen.
When I opened the door, she thrust one hand out to shake mine.
‘I’m so very sorry to bother you, especially given the hour,’ she said, her face tilted to one side, her tone abjectly apologetic. ‘I’m Ingrid Devlin, from The Chronicle.’
‘Can I see ID?’ I asked.
She looked a little shocked to be asked but reached into her bag and took out her purse, pulling out a blue National Union of Journalists membership card, which confirmed her credentials.
I eyed her suspiciously. ‘What can I do for you, Ms Devlin?’
‘Look, my sources have led me to believe you may have been with Clare Taylor when she died. That you may have been the woman who called for help.’
‘Your sources?’ I asked. ‘And who might they be?’
I’d been assured my details hadn’t left the incident room at Strand Road and wouldn’t go beyond the four walls of the Taylor house.
‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ she said, ‘but I do know you visited the Taylor household on Friday.’
‘And? Is a woman not allowed to pass on her condolences any more?’ I was on edge; Ingrid Devlin’s presence on my doorstep wasn’t a welcome one.
‘Of course,’ she said sweetly. ‘And it’s very kind of you to do so. I’m sure the entire experience has been exceptionally traumatic for you.’
I wanted to say something but feared that if I did, I’d say too much. I’d let slip something that would confirm what her ‘sources’ had told her.
‘I think the Taylor family are the people experiencing trauma here – and I’m just as sure reporters knocking on doors asking questions probably doesn’t help them, either.’
‘Oh, goodness, absolutely. And I certainly wouldn’t pressurise that poor family into talking. But you must know, Mrs O’Loughlin, that people are scared out there. This is a particularly nasty murder.’
The sun was shining in my eyes and I put my hand up to shield my face.
‘I can see you’re getting blinded by the light there, Mrs O’Loughlin. Maybe if I came in we could talk inside over a cup of tea or a glass of cold water. I’m roasting today in this heat. And, of course, our chat could be off the record, if you want. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.’
She was so saccharine sweet that my teeth hurt just listening to her. I’d seen her type before. Many times. Never trusted any of them.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ I said and she moved to take a step inwards. I put my arm out to stop her. ‘You’re absolutely right. I don’t have to tell you, or anyone else, anything I don’t want to. As for it being a nasty murder, I don’t think you’ll find any murders anywhere that aren’t nasty. That kind of goes with the territory of murder, don’t you think?’
‘But … but …’ she stammered. ‘That’s not what I meant. I just meant that we all have to work together to try to get this monster caught as soon as possible. It seems to me that he’s very dangerous. I just wondered if you would help us with that. You know, tell us what you saw. Anything she might have said …’
‘I think you’ve got the wrong person for that,’ I told her.
It wasn’t too much of a lie. I wasn’t the right person to talk to a journalist. I certainly wasn’t the right person to divulge any information about the case. The police had asked me specifically not to and that was before the nastiness of the funeral bow on my gate that morning. I had no desire to draw any more attention to myself.
‘And we don’t know for definite it was a man. Even the police won’t say that,’ I added.
Ingrid tilted her head to one side. ‘Ah! now come on. I think we all know it was a man. This mystery boyfriend. Did she mention him at all to you? Give a name? Blame anyone?’
There was something about this woman that made me feel deeply uneasy. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was a falseness to her that gave me the creeps. I shivered, even though it was still so very warm. I wanted her as far away from me as possible, so that she couldn’t wheedle any information out of me that I didn’t want to give.
I tried to push the door closed.
‘Thanks, Ms Devlin, for your interest, but I really don’t think we have anything more to say to each other.’
To my shock, she put her foot out to stop the door from closing.
‘Please, Mrs O’Loughlin. I’d ask you to reconsider. This is very much in the public interest. If we could just chat for a bit. I can explain what I need from you – what could help us to get the story out there. We want to make sure no other family has to go through what the Taylors are going through. No other person has to see what you saw.’
‘I’ve told you already that I’m not the person you need to talk to. Now, please can you remove yourself from my property or I’ll call my sources at the police station and have them remove you.’
Ingrid cast her eyes downwards then looked back at me. I could see tears glistening in her eyes as she chewed on her bottom lip.
‘Please, it’s very important that I get this story. Can I level with you? Woman to woman. My editor has told me that I can’t come back to the office without a story. My job depends on it.’
‘I’m very sorry for you, Ms Devlin. But if I were you, I’d question whether or not I really wanted a job that made me act in such an unscrupulous fashion. I wish you a good evening.’
She had the good grace to look defeated then. She fished around in her bag and pulled out a business card, which she handed to me.
‘Mrs O’Loughlin, I’m going to park my car on the main road. Outside your property. I’m going to wait there and give you time to think about things. If you decide to talk to me, and I really, truly hope that you do, my number’s on that card. Just call me and I’ll come up to the yard. I can assure you I’m not unscrupulous, at all. I just want to do a good job and get the real story out.’
‘Good evening, Ms Devlin,’ I said and closed the door firmly.
I peered through the peephole again until I saw her turn and walk back down the yard to the road, which is when I allowed myself to have a cry.
All I wanted to do was to turn the clock back and not have gone for that blasted walk at all. Or, better still, turn the clock back two years and save my daughter. I was struggling to cope; I could feel anxiety building up inside me. Why couldn’t people just leave me the hell alone? I just wanted to live my life out here in peace and quiet.
The stress was causing my body to react, my muscles to stiffen, my head to hurt. My bad arm ached and I rubbed it, hoping it would ease some of the pain.
Even though it was still early, I locked every door in the house and climbed the stairs. From my bedroom window I could see Ingrid Devlin’s car parked on the road. She could wait there till Christmas for all I cared. There was no way on earth I was going to talk to her about what horrors I’d seen.
I pulled the curtains across, barely making an impact on the streaming evening light, climbed into bed then hoped against hope that I’d fall asleep and that it would be dreamless.
I slept until the small hours, my body clearly having been in desperate need of it. Waking just before five, needing to use the bathroom, I decided it was as good a time as any to get up. Glancing out of the window, I could see that Ingrid Devlin had clearly given up waiting – hopefully some hours ago – and her car was gone.
I breathed a sigh of relief and hoped she wouldn’t be back. I’d tear up that stupid card of hers and call either Constable King or DI Bradley as soon as was reasonable to let them know that she’d been sniffing round. No, more than that, it seemed very likely there was a mole in the investigation who was leaking information to the press. Information that could put me in direct danger.
I decided to go downstairs and make myself a cup of tea and some toast. Maybe I’d watch some TV, something light to distract myself from everything that was happening around me. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I saw a lined page from a reporter’s notebook that had been folded over lying on the floor by the door. My name was scrawled on the cover. I had to give Ingrid Devlin something: she was persistent if nothing else. I picked it up and carried it through to the kitchen, where I switched on the light and put on my glasses before reading her looping, swirling scrawl:
Mrs O’Loughlin,
I’m sorry you didn’t feel you could talk to me earlier. I assure you I have your best interests and the best interests of the story at heart.
I’ve heard you received a nasty surprise this morning, one that may have referenced the very tragic death of your daughter, Laura, and that police believe may also be linked to the murder of Clare Taylor.
Mrs O’Loughlin, I’ve spoken to my editor and we fully intend to run a piece in the paper showcasing this new information. We believe it will ultimately help the police to catch the person responsible for Ms Taylor’s death.
As a courtesy, I’m letting you know about the article, which will be running in Monday’s edition, so that you can decide whether you want to add anything, or speak about your relationship with your daughter and how you feel in the wake of being so close to yet another terrible tragedy.
You can reach me on the numbers on my business card, either my office number or my mobile.
Best wishes,
Ingrid
In my anger, I kicked the leg of the kitchen table so hard that I made Izzy yelp in fright and I was pretty sure I’d also broken at least one of my toes. That horrible woman was going to make a salacious headline of my daughter’s death – as if we all hadn’t suffered enough. That time – and the months that had followed – had been the darkest of my life. I’d been left emotionally, mentally and physically broken, and it had taken me a long time to piece myself back together again. I wasn’t sure I could relive any of it.