Wednesday's Child (20 page)

‘People said she was.’

‘Do you have any photographs?’

‘No. Daddy got rid of any we had. He was in a bad way after she died. They were really, really in love.’

‘Do you remember anything about when she died?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Want to tell me?’

‘Okay.’ Tears in the voice again, but she needed to get this out. She had been holding it in for too long and it was eating her up. ‘Victor and me had been out with Uncle George, that’s my mum’s brother. I don’t know where Dad was. We came back to the flat and he knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. He tried the door then, and it was open. We went in and she was lying there on the floor. I thought she was playing a game,’cause I laughed and went over to her and shook her to get up. But she didn’t move. Ibar was in his crib and he started crying, and then Uncle George got scared and he said the f word and started to shout. The ambulance came, and the guards came, and we stayed with a woman who lived next door, an old lady. Mrs Coveny, I think her name was. She smelled of wee and she made us eat cabbage. After a while, Daddy came and got us. And we drove for a while, and stopped and we were in a new flat, and we would stay there for a while and then move, and then we got on a boat and came here. He told us, eventually, that Mummy had taken too many pills by accident, and they made her sick and she died.’

‘And what do you think about that?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know whether it was an accident or whether she was sad and did it on purpose
or what happened. All I know is that my mummy is gone. And I wish every day that she wasn’t, but it doesn’t change anything. She’s still gone.’

Dympna re-emerged from the house, carrying two mugs of steaming hot chocolate, and the moment was gone. We took the drinks and chatted with the good-natured woman about nothing, and after a while we went into the light and warmth and played Monopoly and laughed and the pain was momentarily forgotten.

‘I’m enquiring about a case you would have investigated five years or so ago.’

‘Can I ask in what capacity you are making the enquiry, sir?’

I told her my job title, gave her the number for the front desk and waited for her to ring me back.

‘Very well, sir. I’ll put you through to the Criminal Investigation Department.’

I was passed around from one person to the next for twenty minutes until a male voice came on the other end of the line.

‘This is Detective Inspector Jim Mitchell. You’re asking about Beatrice McCoy?’

‘Yeah. I’m working with her kids.’

‘And they’re in Ireland now?’

‘Yep.’

‘Is that useless arse of a father with them?’

‘He is indeed.’

‘He’s still wanted for questioning over here, you
know. Shot off like a whippet from a trap after his missus turned up deceased. We were, naturally, suspicious.’

‘Were the … er … circumstances of her demise … suspicious?’

‘Coroner wrote it off as a suicide. Can’t recall the exact details, but if you ring back in an hour, I’ll have found the report.’

An hour later Inspector Mitchell filled me in. ‘Accidental death due to an overdose of psychotropic drugs. Which is a nice way of saying she topped herself. Coroners will often put down accidental death to avoid any extra grief for the family.’

‘Anything else on the report?’

‘Lots, mate, but nothing you’d understand unless you’ve got a degree in medicine.’

‘Paraphrase it for me.’

‘He mentions substantial bruising around the chest and abdomen where it wouldn’t be obvious when she was fully clothed. Common in cases of domestic violence.’

‘Had there been any reports of domestic violence before this?’

‘The McCoys were … I don’t know … they were like poor white trash. A lot of drink, a lot of dope. Max was doing a little bit of running with some local gangsters. Nothing heavy. Dropping off packages, picking stuff up. He wasn’t bright enough or reliable enough for anything bigger than that.’

‘Could that be connected with his running rather
than Beatrice’s death? Maybe he owed them money or something.’

‘Who knows? He never saw the body. Her brother identified her for us. Neither he nor the kids were at the funeral. They just ran. To be honest, the case is closed. I just don’t like loose ends. Max McCoy is a loose fucking end. I always promised myself that if he showed up on my radar again, I’d blow him right out of the water. And what do you know? Here he is.’

‘He’s doing a pretty good job of blowing himself out of the water now, Inspector. He’s drinking himself into an early grave.’

‘I see.’ Silence down the line, just that gentle hum you get on international calls. ‘Well, you tell him I was asking after him. And good luck with those kids. I hope it works out for them.’

‘Me too.’

The note on my desk said: ‘Shane, Gráinne Hartigan wants to see you as soon as you get in.’ I read it three times, and it always said the same thing, so I got in my car again and went to see her.

Gráinne Hartigan was the childcare manager, meaning that she was the overall co-ordinator of the entire Community Care operation in my area. I had never met her before, and knew only that she was a psychologist by qualification and had a reputation for being forward thinking. She was, it was said, as focused on the real needs of the children as her position allowed her to be. This suggested that she was a decent person, struggling against an overloaded system to make a difference in the lives of the people with whom she worked. And she was probably failing wretchedly. I just hoped that she hadn’t become cynical yet. It happened – I saw it all around me, in fact, among those who had been doing this kind of work without a break for ten years or more. It can eat you up if you let it. You begin seeing abuse and neglect everywhere and lose the capacity to function in the real world. You become the job. It’s not a good way to go.

Gráinne was a tall, strong-looking woman with
steel-grey hair, cut very short and very close to her skull. In another person it would have looked severe. On her it looked just right. She projected confidence and intelligence. Coffee was already sitting on her desk, alongside a plate of miniature croissants.

‘Have you had breakfast, Mr Dunphy?’

‘No, ma’am – but this doesn’t look like breakfast to me.’

She laughed and poured coffee into one of the hand-crafted pottery mugs that were on the wooden tray with the coffee and sugar and bread.

‘How do you take it?’

‘Black. Straight up.’

She motioned at the mug and I took it. The coffee was very good. I took a croissant and swallowed it. It was good too. But small.

‘You’re wondering, I’m sure, what I asked to see you about.’

‘I think I know. You’ve read my report.’

She looked at me blankly.

‘You seem to have me at a disadvantage, Mr Dunphy.’

‘The Kelly visit … on my first day …’

She shook her head.

‘I know of no such visit. I have seen no report.’

‘Well then, ma’am, you have
me
at a disadvantage.’

‘Shall we dispense with the formalities? May I call you Shane?’

‘You may.’

‘Thank you. I am Gráinne.’

We shook. She had a firm grip. I wasn’t surprised.

‘I wish to speak to you about Gillian O’Gorman.’

‘Oh.’ I was surprised. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Tell me what you think of her. How is the case going?’

I told her what had happened between Gillian and me so far, leaving nothing out. She listened without a word, her hands steepled before her.

‘And how has she been since you brought her back from the refuge?’

‘Depends on the day. Yesterday she was glad to see me. We went for a walk, talked about school. She laughed and joked and was fun to be around. Two days before that she barely spoke to me when we met for lunch. She ate most of a ham sandwich and listened while I talked about this and that. Didn’t even say goodbye when I left her off back at school.’

‘What do you think this girl needs, Shane?’

‘What she needs and what it would be possible to do for her are two very different things, Gráinne.’

‘Did you ever watch Jimmy Saville when you were little, or was that before your time?’

‘What?’

‘Do you remember he used to have a television programme on a Saturday evening?
Jim’ll Fix It
, I believe it was called.’

I laughed and nodded.

‘I remember. I was only three or four at the time. I thought that was his name: “Jimell Fixit”. I actually used to call him Jimell!’

‘Well then, you know that children, and indeed some adults, would write in to him and ask him to organise for them to do things that they would normally never be able to do. Parachute jumps, be a clown in the circus, meet a pop star, that kind of thing.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, pretend I’m Jimell. What if I could fix it for you to get Gillian whatever it was she needed. What would you wish for her?’

‘She needs to be away from her mother. That would be a really good start. I think that everything else would follow from that. She needs to be in care. A secure unit, if at all possible.’

‘Very good. Now, suppose I told you that I could organise that – what then?’

‘We would need to get her to go for it.
Making
her go would probably be more damaging than leaving her with Libby.’

‘Definitely. So how would one go about doing that?’

I thought for a moment.

‘I suppose it would need to be done therapeutically. She needs to see that her relationship with her mother is damaging and, that to get on with her life, she needs to effect a separation. The only way of achieving that would be through therapy.’

Gráinne was nodding, watching me working it out, listening to me thinking aloud.

‘My thoughts precisely.’

‘She hates shrinks, though.’

‘Yes.’

‘I could probably get her to see one, but the chances of a useful relationship developing are slim to none.’

‘But she already has a relationship with you.’

‘I’m not a therapist, Gráinne.’

She poured me more coffee and sat back, steepling her fingers again.

‘Are you familiar with Freud, Shane?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you studied the methods by which Freud developed the idea of the Oedipus complex?’

Gráinne was referring to one of the most famous theories in psychoanalysis. Sigmund Freud was an Austrian psychiatrist who did his most important work at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries. He had proposed that children – let’s use boys as an example, because he did – between the ages of three and six, experienced a powerful attachment to the parent or guardian of the opposite sex – in this case the mother. They then became jealous of the father, particularly of his relationship with the mother, which the little boy perceived as being far more powerful than his own. This eventually resolved itself, and enabled the child to form healthy relationships later on in life. Freud had constructed the theory through working with the son of a friend of his. He had never actually done any face-to-face work with the little boy, but had
instead directed the father and received regular updates on how the work was going. Therapy by remote control, if you like.

‘You’re going to direct me?’

‘Not me. I have a colleague who has done a lot of this kind of thing, particularly with staff and children in residential care. I think that you should meet her and discuss Gillian.’