February 2018
I called Inspector Smyth the following morning from the bed and breakfast.
‘I’ll let it go this time, Miss Hogan,’ he said, when I apologised for yelling at him and hanging up the phone. ‘But please remember in future, that non-cooperation and abusing the police could land you in trouble.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘So why did you want to get hold of me?’
‘We don’t any more. We’re satisfied now that the man’s death isn’t suspicious.’
‘Well, that’s good news, I guess,’ I said, rubbing my temples, as I perched on the edge of the bed. ‘But that doesn’t explain why you called in the first place.’
‘Your number was the last he called before he died. We wanted to rule you out of our inquiries. But, as I say, there’s no need now.’
‘When was this? Who was he?’ I said, trying to think who called me, if it was someone I knew. ‘Oh God, it wasn’t Lawrence …’
‘No,’ the inspector said. ‘The dead man’s name was Henry Derby. He called you last week. I hope he wasn’t anyone close.’
‘No,’ I said, puzzled. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’ Unless – I realised it must have been the man who’d called wanting to meet me at the entrance to the Emirates Stadium.
‘Anyway,’ the inspector concluded. ‘As I say no suspicious circumstances. But thanks for getting in touch.’
‘No, wait,’ I said, wanting to tell him everything, spill it all, and hope they could sort it out.
‘What is it, Miss Hogan?’
‘Things have been happening to me,’ I blurted.
‘What kind of things?’
‘I’ve been receiving strange friend requests on Facebook, and someone chased me in their car, and I’ve had some weird phone calls – that’s why I didn’t believe you when you said you were police. And it’s odd, don’t you think, that the man who called me is now dead?’
‘Of natural causes.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Can I suggest, Miss Hogan, that you get in touch with your local police as soon as possible, and give them a detailed account of what’s been happening to you.’
‘Yes, yes I will. Thank you.’
I ended the call, my mind whirring. The man who wanted to tell me what was happening was now dead. I desperately needed to find out who he was.
***
As I drove from Sligo, threatening black clouds following me, I knew I would return. I needed to ask more questions. Truth was, I’d made a right mess of things, and it felt as though I knew less now than I did before I visited.
Instead of getting the train, I planned to drop the car off at Dublin Airport. I wanted to take a detour along the River Liffey. I’d Googled Glastons Insurance, and put the postcode into my satnav, leaving plenty of time to visit and ask questions about Ronan Murphy – the second friend request.
Glastons Insurance was set back from the river, reminding me of a workhouse, although tastefully renovated. I pulled into the car park, screwing up my eyes and scanning the office workers milling about reception. Had Ronan Murphy once worked here? Did he still work here?
I got out of the car, and was buzzed into reception, a spacious area with a curved desk, by a woman in her fifties with black bobbed hair and turquoise glasses. As I moved closer, her cloying perfume gave me an instant headache. She smiled. ‘Can I help you?’
I hadn’t thought things through, and delayed responding. She raised a finely plucked brow.
‘The thing is,’ I said. ‘I’m doing a bit of research on a man I think may have worked here. Maybe still does.’
‘OK.’ She peered over her glasses. ‘So are you a journalist or something?’
‘No …’
‘Police?’
‘No … just researching my family history and trying to find a long-lost cousin.’ I was amazed how the lie tripped off my tongue.
‘I see.’
‘His name’s Ronan Murphy,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he must have worked here at some point.’
‘Never heard of him.’ Her phone rang. ‘Excuse me.’
While she took the call, I glanced at the abstract paintings, the low, bright yellow chairs, a water machine gurgling. A man in jeans and a sweatshirt – dress-down Friday, I imagined – raced across reception and out through the door, talking on his mobile.
‘Did I hear you right?’
I turned to see another man in his mid-sixties, his grey hair combed back from his face.
‘Sorry?’
‘You mentioned Ronan Murphy.’
‘Yes … do you know him?’
He shook his head. ‘No, but I remember the name. When I first started here they talked about him a lot. He was murdered here back in the late Nineties.’
‘Murdered?’ Oh my God!
‘Mmm, he always sticks out in my mind because he was so young, a lovely-looking lad if the pictures in the paper were anything to go by. Are you a relative?’
‘No, I’m …’
‘I thought you said you were doing family research.’ The receptionist had ended her call.
I ignored her. ‘So who killed him?’ My eyes were back on the man.
‘God, now you’ve got me. It was almost twenty years ago.’ He looked about him. ‘As I said, it happened here, although it was a kids’ home at the time – nasty death, it was, but that’s all I can tell you.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, wondering if he could hear my heart thumping.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said, heading on his way.
Back in the car, my mind whirred as I mulled over what the man said. If Ronan had been murdered, had the fire that killed David and Janet Green been deliberate too?
***
Later, I sat in departures browsing Facebook to try to soothe my tattered nerves. There was a photo on Lawrence’s timeline of Grace in Disneyland, dressed as Snow White, her cheeks aglow, eyes sparkling. I clicked on the love symbol. They would be heading home too, and I couldn’t wait to see her. I scrolled down his page, but apart from a few likes and comments by Farrah, there were no photos of them together. Perhaps I’d been wrong. Maybe she hadn’t gone with him after all.
Curious, I clicked on Farrah’s page. Her profile photo was of a cute labradoodle, and her cover photo was of boats bobbing on a river. There was nothing else to see. Her settings were private.
I moved on to Angela’s timeline. She hadn’t posted anything. But then she’d said she’d had difficulty setting up her profile, and was mainly using it to stalk her dates. I felt a pang of sadness, and a gnawing worry that Lawrence could have been right about her drinking.
Zoe’s recent updates were beauty links, and there was a status that I’d missed about our spa day, so I quickly liked and commented that it had been an amazing evening.
I was about to come off Facebook, when another friend request appeared. I clicked on it.
I dropped my phone into my lap, and covered my face with trembling hands. It was the fourth request I’d received, and there was no doubting this man – Henry Derby – was dead, just like David Green and Ronan Murphy.
I had to tell the police. Someone was targeting me, and as fear bubbled inside me, threatening to take my breath away, I wondered if whoever it was wanted me dead too.
With trembling hands, I picked up my phone, and clicked on Henry Derby’s Facebook page. The profile photo was of a man with his back to the camera, looking out at the ocean. The cover photo a modern terraced house.
As before there was one status update: