Chapter 7

Downstairs, in the living room, I drank coffee, sitting across from Jennifer Furst. The coffee was instant. She’d put the milk in without asking. I didn’t complain.

“Did you ever argue with your daughter?”

“I loved her.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t fight,” I said. “I’ve never been a parent, but I know I used to fight with mine when the mood took.”

She smiled, hung her head. For a moment, she didn’t look so tired. As though the idea of her daughter had taken away a few years. She said, “The last year we fought about church.”

“Church?”

“We go every Sunday. Always have done. She used to do well in Sunday School, too, you know. When she got older, we had a wee talk about it and she stopped that part. But I told her she had to keep going to Church. It’s what our family always did.”

“You’re Catholic.”

She nodded. “I had David…her godfather try and –”

“David Burns?”

She hesitated. “I know what you’re thinking.” She sat back in her chair. Disconnected again. She’d seen something in my face.

I needed to play more poker.

“You were a copper, aye? You said that when you came in?”

“A long time ago.”

“I know what you people think of David. I know who he’s been. The things he’s done. But he’s family.” Jennifer’s Great-Uncle, but they were clearly close. Why else would he be Mary’s godfather?

“He loves your daughter.”

“Treats her like his own.”

I couldn’t imagine it. Burns always talked up his family man image, but knowing what I did about him the claim had never sat true with me.

“He made her keep going to Church?”

She nodded.

I wanted to laugh. Remembered the story about Burns, back when he was making his name and collecting debt for one of his predecessors, how he nailed an insolvent priest to the cross in his own church.

This time, she didn’t see anything in my face.

“I guess she got moody lately. Like all teenagers. It’s strange, you know, to see them turn into a real person. Some days, I think I don’t know her at all.”

“Has she run off before?”

Jennifer Furst shook her head.

“Some days, I was beginning to think I didn’t know her at all,” she said again.

“Like she wasn’t your daughter?”

She flinched at that. And who could blame her?

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said, trying awkwardly to cover my mistake. “When kids grow up, turn into adults, it can be like we just don’t know them any more.” I didn’t sound convincing.

But she seemed to calm down. Adjusted her position, sat facing me again. “I guess it was like that,” she said. “I didn’t understand who she was. What she wanted from life.” She licked her lips; a nervous gesture. Didn’t seem to be talking to me any more. Carrying on an internal conversation I got the feeling she’d been avoiding for a long time. “The last few years, it’s like she’s been looking for herself. It’s something I can’t help her with. I don’t know if anyone can.”

In the back garden, on the mobile.

Susan answered fast.

“One thing.”

I could hear her draw breath. Get ready to snap at me.

I got in first:

“Tell me who Deborah is.”

“What?”

“Deborah. Name on Mary’s computer. More emails than anyone else put together. Doesn’t read like she’s one of her school friends. I mean, she reads older. Not the kind of emails a teenage girl would send. I know someone’s got to have been through the mail, and unless they were a bloody eejit, they’ll have seen the same things that –”

“Where are you?”

She already knew. I’d given the game away. “If I tell you that, I don’t think you’ll be happy.”

“Do I sound happy now?”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure. This kind of sparring, we seemed to excel at it. A wee game we played.

Of course, games are meant to be fun.

“Do you know the name?”

She relented. I could picture her rolling back her eyes. “I know the name. Deborah’s Mary’s art teacher.”

“Aye?”

“When we talked to Richie Harrison, Deborah’s name came up. The two of them got close. Mary and Deborah, I mean. Richie doesn’t say it, but he blames Deborah for Mary breaking up with him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I had to wonder if I was picking up on innuendo where none existed.

“At this point in time, Steed, close means close and nothing else. We don’t know the context. We have a pissed off schoolboy telling us how teacher stole his girl away.”

“As in…?”

“As in Mary spent more time around Deborah than Richie. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Or it means everything.”

“Thought you were hands off.” I could sense her taking a breath on the other end of the line, deciding if she really wanted to ask the next question.

“What are you doing at the girl’s house?”

“You have an address for Richie Harisson?”

“I went over this. And so did my dad. You’re observation only.”

If she’d been there I might have tried for a cute grin. Who, me? Probably failed as well. All the same.

“I’m not looking to tread on anyone’s toes. Just to help. Maybe if I have a wee chat…I’m not a copper. You know, people get nervous around –”

“This is how these things start.”

“I’m looking to help. I won’t do anything without consulting you or your dad.”

“Remember the last time you promised to back out?”

I should have expected that. How could I forget? I’d wound up with a friend almost dying from a bullet wound to the belly, three dead bodies on my conscience and two psychotic bastards trying to kill me and nearly succeeding.

“I’m a different person, now.” Did it sound convincing? I wasn’t sure.

“Things are different?”

“You know they are.”

She hesitated. Then gave me an address to the west of the city. Said, “We never talked.”

I’d guessed at that, already.