TORN (10 page)

When he answered she could hear crowd noises in the background.

‘Hey there,’ he said, and Reilly thought his greeting sounded unusually chirpy.

‘Where are you?’ she asked, and was faintly surprised when he told her he and Delaney were in a pub. Then she remembered Crowe’s funeral and recalled that drinking after a burial was an Irish tradition. A wake, wasn’t it? Another quirky local custom Reilly couldn’t quite get her head round, despite being the daughter of an Irishman, not to mention one who’d never needed a funeral for an excuse to hit the bottle.

Unsure of the protocol surrounding a wake, especially a cop’s, she felt slightly wrong-footed. ‘Well, maybe this can wait till—’

‘No, whatever it is, fire ahead,’ Chris assured her. ‘We’re just about to head off now anyway.’

‘OK …’ Reilly went on to tell them about the find in Coffey’s clothes.

Chris was impressed. ‘Nice one. Could you make out the number?’

‘Would I be calling if I didn’t?’ she replied, faintly teasing. ‘Got a pen handy?’

‘Hold on a sec, it’s a bit noisy in here, and we’re just going outside.’

There was a brief rustling and Reilly heard a creaking noise, which she guessed was the pub door opening. After that, the background din disappeared. 

‘OK, shoot,’ Chris said. ‘Kennedy has the notebook out.’ Reilly read out the number sequence and heard Chris recite it to Kennedy in turn.

‘It’s a cellphone number so should be easy enough to identify – unless of course it’s prepaid,’ she went on. ‘Whether it’s any good or not is anyone’s guess.’ When there was a brief silence at the other end she said, ‘Chris? Are you still there? I don’t know if the signal’s—’

‘I’m still here,’ he said in a strange voice. ‘That’s definitely the number you found in Tony Coffey’s pocket?’

‘No question. Why – does the sequence sound off to you or something?’

‘The sequence is fine.’ Chris’s voice was grim. ‘And seems we’ll have no trouble identifying it.’

‘What? How?’

‘Well, according to Kennedy, that’s Johnny Crowe’s number.’

Chris sat in the back of a taxi, his thoughts filled with Reilly’s latest discovery and its significance or otherwise.

Why would Tony Coffey have had John Crowe’s mobile number?

There could be any number of reasons: the most obvious being that Crowe was Coffey’s source on a story he was researching for the
Herald
. Yet, Coffey wasn’t a crime reporter and, as a rule, didn’t write about drug dealers, organized criminals or the other unsavory types Crowe had been typically involved with.

More importantly, was there anything significant in the fact that the two men were now dead, both murdered in bizarre circumstances?

Kennedy, with his personal links to Crowe, was going to follow up on it tomorrow, talk to Crowe’s former colleagues and partner to see if any connection between him and the journalist was immediately apparent. If not, then it was simply another loose end in this increasingly frustrating case.

After Kennedy had left for home, on a whim Chris decided to head for his best mate Matt Sheridan’s house for a long overdue visit. He’d called ahead; Matt and his wife were home and delighted at the prospect of seeing him. The couple were parents to Chris’s goddaughter, a gorgeous 18-month-old called Rachel,and he rarely got the opportunity to spend time with her.

‘I’ll just pop in for a few minutes to see Rach before she goes to bed – then I’ll be out of your hair, I promise,’ he’d told Emma on the phone.

‘Not at all, you’re staying for dinner and that’s the end of it,’ she’d insisted. As there was nothing in his own fridge but out-of-date milk and a few mouldy vegetables, Chris didn’t need too much persuading. After such a somber day it seemed fitting to spend time with people he really cared about.

‘Kiss!’ Rachel demanded when he was barely in the door of the Sheridan household – her own special way of pronouncing his name, and demanding a cuddle at the same time. Faced with such a bundle of cuteness – Rachel was all blond curls, bright blue eyes, and a big baby-toothed smil
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Chris was happy to comply, although it troubled him how much the toddler had grown in the few weeks since he’d last seen her.

He and Matt played happily with Rachel until her bedtime at seven, and while his mate got the little girl ready for bed, Chris chatted with Emma in the kitchen as she prepared dinner.

‘So how’s work these days?’ she asked him, before adding pointedly, ‘And your lovely American colleague, what was her name again?’

Chris rolled his eyes. Emma was a notorious matchmaker, and he rued the day he’d introduced her to Reilly.  A few months back, when he’d had a stint in hospital following the work-related shooting injury, a visit from Reilly and his friends had overlapped.

Like the majority of the force, Chris certainly wasn’t immune to Reilly’s charms. There was no denying she was a knockout: great legs, silky hair, huge, appealing eyes … and more than once he had surreptitiously observed the slim, muscular lines of her body when she was working at a crime scene.

But despite getting to know her better recently, he still felt like he’d barely scratched the surface. To say that Reilly Steel was a complex woman was a huge understatement.

And complex women scared Chris.

‘Work’s fine, and yes, we’re all busy – Reilly too,’ he answered briskly, refusing to be drawn. ‘Can I help with anything?’ he asked, changing the subject as Emma went about setting the table.

‘Same old Chris, all work and no play,’ Emma scolded, shaking her head. ‘But seeing as you asked … can you organize the glasses?’

‘Sure.’ As he went to the cupboard, his gaze rested on a cream-colored card propped up against the wall on the worktop.

‘I see you guys have a wedding coming up,’ he remarked casually, as Matt returned to the room. He nodded towards the invite; the elaborate gold-colored script on mother-of-pearl card a dead giveaway. ‘Need a babysitter?’ 

Emma stared at her husband, and was it Chris’s imagination or did a strange look pass between them?

‘Um, my mum is taking Rachel – but thanks,’ Emma replied quickly.

‘Grand. I’m sure you’re looking forward to a night off – not to mention a lie-in,’ he joked, aware that since Rachel’s arrival, time away for the couple was as rare as hen’s teeth. ‘Anyone I know?’ he went on, wondering why the mood seemed to have altered all of a sudden.

‘Well, now that you say it …’ Matt murmured, and all at once Chris figured out the reason for this silent exchange, and the uncomfortable vibe that had suddenly descended upon the conversation.

‘It’s Mel’s wedding, Chris,’ Emma said gently, confiming his suspicions. ‘We weren’t sure if you would have been—’

‘No, I wasn’t invited,’ he said, keeping his tone even. ‘She told me a while back she was getting married all right, but I wasn’t sure when …’ He placed a wine glass in front of each table setting. ‘I’m sure it’ll be a great day. Give her my best, won’t you?’

Emma looked at him worriedly. ‘Of course.’

The conversation about the wedding had ended at that, but for Chris the incident lingered in his mind much longer thereafter.

Later that night, as he lay wide awake in the darkness, he was still thinking about Melanie, and trying to remember what she had been like back when they were togethe
r
happy together.

But all he could focus on was Melanie afterwards, when everything had fallen to pieces.

Chris walked slowly up the path to the small semi-detached house, a bag of groceries tucked under one arm.  His dark jacket was slightly crumpled, overdue a visit to the dry cleaner.

His eyes took in the peeling paint around the windows, the tightly drawn curtains, the overgrown garden. The house didn’t quite look abandoned, but there was no question it was in an advanced state of neglect. The person living within had long ago given up caring what other people thought.

With a deep sigh, Chris reached up and rang the bell, making sure to position himself directly in front of the sun-bleached front door.

‘Who is it?’ The woman’s voice was nervous, crackly as it came out of a small intercom on the wall to the left.

He pushed the button to speak.  ‘It’s Chris.’

‘Chris who?’

He sighed. ‘Chris Delaney.’

‘Show me your ID.’

He was already reaching in to his pocket, by now familiar with the routine.  He held his detective’s badge up to the glass panel.

The shadow moved against the peephole again. Chains and locks rattled back one by one, until finally the door opened just enough for him to step in. It was slammed shut the moment he was inside.

‘Hi, Mel.’ He stood inside the narrow hallway, and held out the bag. ‘They were out of pears so I got you some apples instead.’

She took the bag, scuttled down the hall. ‘Gala? You know I only like Gala apples.’

Chris bent to pick up the pile of junk mail that lay on the doormat, before following her down the narrow gloomy hall and into the kitchen.  ‘Of course.’

Melanie set the bag on the table, and began unpacking, her movements quick, full of nervous energy. ‘Cup of tea?’

‘Please.’

It was a small kitchen with pale blue 1970s cupboards, a square Formica table in the middle of the floor, two cheap plastic chairs tucked neatly in to the table.  A blue and white checked table cloth covered the table, a small glass vase with a large faded plastic sunflower the only attempt to brighten the cold room.

He watched as Melanie scuttled around the kitchen – she was thirty-two years old, but could have passed for anything from twenty to forty. She wore a gray woolen skirt, pale blouse, baby-blue cardigan.  Her shoulder-length brown hair was scraped back in a tight ponytail, her thin face free of make-up.

The kettle rattled as it boiled, and Melanie pulled two matching mugs from the cupboard, dropped the teabags in and poured the hot water, the steam rising up briefly to wreathe her face. ‘I’ve been thinking …’

Chris looked at her carefully, knowing by her tone exactly what was coming. He folded his hands in front of him on the table. ‘You promised.’

She reached for a tea towel, and began wringing the end of it fiercely between her hands, wrapping it tighter and tighter until her knuckles were white and stretched.

Chris leaned forward, tried to make eye contact with her. ‘Mel, it’s been almost a year. The psychologist said—’

  ‘ I know!’ she snapped. She kept her back to him, ignoring his imploring looks. ‘And I will, I will …’

‘But not just yet,’ he finished softly.

‘Not just yet,’ Melanie repeated. She set the two mugs of tea on the table and finally turned to look at Chris. Then, in a flash, her face changed and her eyes brightened. ‘Oh, you bought me a packet of digestives!’ she beamed. ‘You’re so good to me, Chris. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Chris smiled, his heart automatically softening at the sight of the rare, but achingly familiar smile.

Be patient, he told himself.  Give it time.  Just a little more time … 

Father Byrne never felt closer to God than at this time of day, and in this place. Just before dawn, when the cold gray of the early morning fog shrouded the area, he turned the key in the wrought-iron lock. The hinges on the heavy wooden door groaned as he opened it to enter the beautiful old country church.

Such a shame to see it falling into decline, the priest thought, but with
so few parishioners in the area and St Joseph’s only two miles away in Blessington, the parish couldn’t keep the building permanently open. The best they could do was morning communion once a week.
There was no lighting, the electrics being decades old and in complete disrepair. And sadly, these days the numbers were dwindling, the faith of the flock sorely tested by revelation after revelation about dark moments in the Church’s past. 

Father Byrne liked to get in early and make sure everything was in order before nine o’clock Mass. In truth, he enjoyed spending time in this wonderful old building. There were so few like it in Ireland these days, and he admired  its traditional features: rough stonework, mahogany carvings, and of course the awe-inspiring stained-glass windows above the altar.

It was a calm, peaceful location; the opposite of the functional, purpose-built church in the town. The interior was small, the gray stone walls wearing a tired look. Ten rows of wooden pews ran up each side of the central aisle, cloaked in shadows.

He walked down the aisle, marveling how, at this time of day, the colored glass caught the light and redistributed it throughout the interior in myriad rainbow
s
as though God Himself was sprinkling the room with His light and love.