The Doll's House (12 page)

‘I’ve been thinking about that. People, events, they’re not straightforward, as well you know. There could be any number of reasons for the canal being chosen. Ease of distance from where the killer lived. Maybe he doesn’t live alone, eliminating his place as a location for murder. The canal waters are significant, but so is the choice of drowning. He wanted Keith Jenkins to die in that way. Perhaps the icy waters meant something to the killer and the victim. And there’s also the timing. The lack of people on the streets. It all made sense to the killer. Right now that’s all we can be sure of.’

‘I’m planning a trip to the Caldine Club on Kildare Street, the one where Keith Jenkins was last seen being friendly. I have the glossy brochure in front of me. It says it embodies the heart of the city.’

‘Do I detect a note of disbelief, O’Connor?’

‘If people want to see the heart of the city, they can take a lift in one of our squad cars on a Friday or Saturday night.’

‘I don’t think you’d get too many volunteers.’

‘Probably not, Kate. Somehow I think the queue for the Caldine could be longer.’

‘Selective membership, I assume.’

‘From what I hear there are only three ways of gaining access.’

‘And what are they?’

‘If you’re God Almighty, if you’re rich and famous …’ O’Connor paused for effect ‘… or if you strike gold and become part of the team investigating the murder of an ex-member.’

‘You got lucky.’

‘
We
got lucky. Things have been crazy here today, but I’ll be paying them a surprise visit in the morning. It might be a good idea if you’re with me.’

‘I hear you’re also looking for my preliminary report.’

‘You know the score, Kate. Everything is needed yesterday. Are you able to meet me tomorrow or not?’

‘Fine. I’ll let you know if there’s any problem.’

And with that the line went dead.

My pent-up, fucked-up anger seems to have taken a vacation for now. But it will come back. It always does. ‘Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.’ I repeat the mantra below my breath, over and over again. It helps my mind to remain centred on the task in hand, to be clear and without hesitation.

Yesterday I passed the reporters and squad cars at Leeson Street Bridge. That place is behind me now. There’s a chill blowing in off the canal. The kind that should make me feel more alive, but instead, despite Jenkins’s blood being washed away, I feel sullied. Some stains are not for shifting.

I think of Clodagh, shrouded in her veil of ignorance and, for the moment, safe. She is part of all of this, the most important part. But Clodagh isn’t going anywhere. You don’t run unless you know you’re in danger. And right now she doesn’t know the game plan. Or even that one exists. It will all be finished business soon enough.

I see the two old lads up ahead – partners in crime. Desperate times dictate desperate bedfellows. I have no plans to make my move now. I’ll wait until the two boys settle down for the night, with their charity sleeping-bags, and curled-up memories of what it was like to have a warm bed. If it doesn’t happen tonight, I can wait for another.

I have become a man of the streets too. When you’re out walking, no one asks the hard questions. You’d think killing someone would change things. It doesn’t, not really, ‘Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief. Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.’

I’ve tried to reach Ruby a number of times and got the usual ‘The person you are calling is not available at the moment. Please try again later.’ No doubt her battery is dead, or her phone hidden under a pile of dirty laundry. Perhaps she’s switched it off. There’s no landline in her bedsit. At least the place is close to college. Ruby says she loves the buzz of town, away from the boring smugness of suburbia. I thought that too. God, I hate her being on that bloody stuff. She says the coke isn’t a problem for her. I’ve to get off her case. I used the same lines, neither of us fooling anyone.

I switch on the television in the kitchen. The news is full of the murder of that celebrity, Keith Jenkins. I’ve never watched
Real People, Real Lives
. My life is real enough. But there’s something about him that I can’t quite put my finger on. It could be Martin’s investment business. He’s had dealings with people in RTÉ. Martin’s always been good with other people’s money. But there’s something else, I’m sure of it.

I check for messages on the answerphone. None from Ruby, but there’s one from Orla. She wants to know if I got her letter – bloody Martin, controlling the post. If Orla sent me a letter, he should have given it to me. More images of Keith Jenkins appear on the screen. Some are recent, showing a handsome man in his late fifties, then others, when he started out in his career. It’s when I see the images of the young Keith Jenkins that I realise why I know his face.

I walk out into the hall, pulling the old photographs I took from Seacrest out of my bag. I had not expected to be looking at this one so soon, my father with his friends. It’s his graduation year. The year after
my parents married, and Dominic was born. Up until now, I didn’t know anyone in the photograph other than Dad and Uncle Jimmy. But now I have another name. Keith Jenkins can be added to the list. He looks a lot younger than the others, barely a teenager, but tall. His right arm is resting on Jimmy’s shoulder. Maybe they’re related. I don’t know the fourth man. He stands alone, but there’s something familiar about him too.

I hear the sound of the electric gates opening. Martin’s car is pulling into the drive. Lately, even Sundays have turned into work days for him. Perhaps he’s avoiding me. I tell myself to be calm. If he’s taken Orla’s letter, it doesn’t mean he’s read it. Orla addressed it to me. But to Martin, information is power.

His key turns in the front door, and right away I can sense his mood isn’t good. It’s the small things, the sharp twist of the lock, extra force brought to bear on the door, the way he slams it shut, fires his keys onto the hall table. They’re all signs. I brace myself for a row, steadying my nerves. He drops his briefcase with a thud on the floor, taking a couple of steps closer to me. He goes to kiss my cheek, but I turn away. He looks down at the photograph in my hand, surprise on his face. He’s quick to get his dig in. ‘Taking another trip down Memory Lane?’

‘Do you have Orla’s letter, Martin?’

‘And how are you, my darling?’

‘Do you have it, yes or no?’

‘Yes, I do, actually.’

‘Why didn’t you give it to me?’

‘I didn’t want to bother you. Lately your mind has been all over the place.’ He looks at the photograph again.

‘Stop treating me as if I’m a child.’

‘Then stop behaving like one.’

‘Have you read it, Martin?’

‘Should I have? You and Orla used to be as thick as thieves.’

‘That was a long time ago, and you know it.’

‘I never liked her,’ he says, with disgust in his voice.

‘The feeling was mutual. You’ve read it, haven’t you?’

‘Do you think I’ve sunk that low? That I’ve taken to reading other people’s mail? Now why would
I
do that? Why would
I
do such a thing?’ He emphasises
I
, as if making an accusation against me. He moves closer again, so close that, if I wanted to, I could reach out and touch him. I need to keep my nerve.

‘Martin, why have you been keeping the mail from me?’

He walks past me, into the living room. ‘Do you mind, darling? I’d prefer to sit inside.’

I follow him. ‘It’s a free country,’ I say.

‘Is it, Clodagh? Maybe for some people it is.’ He sounds angry. ‘I can see what’s happening here. Suddenly I’m the bad guy. I guess working hard, paying the bills, being here to support my alcoholic wife counts for nothing. Maybe Orla thinks you can do better. Be with someone less boring.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

He doesn’t respond.

‘Just give me the letter, Martin.’

‘Polite people use the word “please”.’

‘Please give me the letter.’

‘See how easy that was, Clodagh?’ He walks back out to the hall, and returns with his briefcase, slamming it onto the low coffee table. When he lifts the lid, I can see Orla’s letter sitting on the top. He hands it to me. ‘You look tired, darling. Maybe you should lie down. Your mother’s death is still very fresh.’

I don’t answer him, but I can already see that the letter has been interfered with. There is a small tear on one side, and the line of adhesive is bubbled. I think about not passing any comment, but instead I say, ‘You’ve opened it.’

‘Have I?’

‘Martin, what’s going on?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why are you keeping the mail from me? Is something wrong?’

‘I’m not keeping the mail from you. Most, if not all of it, is addressed to me.’

‘But you opened my letter. I can see it’s been opened.’

‘Is that the case for the prosecution? You’re an expert on letter-opening, are you?’

‘Don’t be flippant.’

‘Flippant? Seems to me I’m not the one being flippant. It seems to me, I’m the innocent party here.’

‘I can tell you opened it.’

‘Can you? How do you know it was me?’ His face is mocking.

‘Martin, stop twisting things.’

He walks into the kitchen. Again I follow him. He takes down a bottle of Beaujolais from the wine rack. I wait while he pops the cork.

‘Clodagh, I’m not the person with the problem here. You are.’ He looks at the photograph in my hand again. ‘I didn’t open your precious letter for one very good reason. It wasn’t addressed to me. I thought about it, yes, but I have standards. I know where to draw the line.’

‘You’re lying.’ He’s an expert liar.

He puts the glass to his lips, swallows some wine. I can tell he’s trying to restrain himself. Instead of letting it go, I push further, a part of me wondering if I haven’t learned anything over the years.

‘Liar,’ I say, my voice shaking.

‘What’s that?’

‘You heard me. You’re lying,’ I roar at him. ‘You opened it. I know you did.’

He puts his glass down. It has been a while since his last outburst, but I recognise the way he looks at me, and know what will happen next.

The back of his right hand hits my left cheek. His aim: determined, solid. I fall back, but remain upright. I won’t be upright for long. The next belt hits my jaw, the photograph falling to the floor. It’s almost a relief, the physical pain, like I’m getting punished for all
the mistakes I’ve made. Martin has played on this before, my need to blame myself.

Once he starts, there is no going back. Afterwards, he will say, ‘Sorry.’ He will tell me he has been under pressure. He will say how much he loves me. How much he loves Ruby. That he loves us more than anything, that we mean the whole world to him. Then he will twist and turn things, until everything is the gospel according to Martin.

On Monday morning after Kate had dropped Charlie to school, she headed to Harcourt Street, instead of driving to Ocean House, parking as close as she could to the station. She was keen to see the private members club on Kildare Street. The victim’s lifestyle was important, whether it was directly connected with his death or not. Patterns of behaviour, where and with whom the victim came into contact, often formed the opportunity for a crime. Did Keith Jenkins’s lifestyle make him particularly vulnerable, or the very opposite? Was it a lifestyle shared by his killer? The Caldine Club was the last place Keith Jenkins had been seen alive, and it was as good a place as any to begin the journey backwards into the dead man’s life.

Kate rang O’Connor as soon as she entered the station. The Special Detective Unit at the heart of the building felt very different from your standard police station, where people could walk in off the street. The further into this building Kate went, the more the outside world seemed to be left behind.

She already knew O’Connor would be a couple of minutes late. As she waited inside a long corridor without windows, lit by fluorescent lights, she couldn’t help noticing a teenage girl with her head down, sitting on one of the black plastic chairs against the wall. The girl’s light frame reminded her of Imogen Willis. But it was more than her slightness. It was the crumpled look of her body. The girl’s hands were locked together. Sitting beside her, an older woman was holding her
by the shoulders. Before Kate could take in any more, a female police officer poked her head out of a side door. ‘Susie, we’re ready for you now.’ The girl looked sideways at the older woman and, as if reading her mind, the female officer added, ‘It’s okay, Susie. You can bring your mother with you.’

Kate didn’t have to wait much longer for O’Connor.

‘Are you ready for our excursion, Kate?’ His manner was upbeat as he joined her in the corridor.

‘What?’

‘Our trip into how the other half lives.’

‘Oh, sorry, yeah. I got distracted there for a minute.’ Standing up to follow him through the double doors, she said, ‘O’Connor?’

‘Yeah?’

‘There was a young girl here a minute ago, Susie, I think her name was.’