The Doll's House (13 page)

‘What about her?’

‘Do you know why she’s here?’

‘Suspected rape – Hennessy’s looking after it.’ His voice turned sharp: ‘It’s his area of expertise.’

Kate knew the drill, and it wasn’t easy. A nurse would do the initial examination, including inspection of genitalia for evidence of trauma, bruises or abrasions. The girl’s fingernails would be checked, scrapings collected, any stains swabbed, samples taken from her clothing, everything collated, right down to the combing of her pubic hair. It was an ordeal for sure, but a lot had changed in how victims were treated. Nothing would be done without explanation, the consent of the victim and, depending on her age, her parent. The most important thing for her was the sense that she was back in control. Rape victims experienced far more than the assault. It was nothing like a punch in the face or other kinds of physical attack. It carried emotional and social damage that few other crimes came close to. Despite her ordeal, this was Susie’s first step to recovery. As well as receiving medical treatment
for any injuries, and prevention against infection, her mental well-being would be monitored.

As Kate followed O’Connor out onto the street, she remembered for the zillionth time how close she had come to being another Susie.

‘O’Connor?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’d like to talk to Hennessy about the girl.’

‘Kate, focus on the case in hand. There’s no point trying to save the bloody world. Besides, Hennessy and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms.’

‘So?’

‘So drop it. I’ve got news from Morrison.’

It had been a while since Stevie had called in a Monday-morning sickie, so he felt relaxed enough sitting in his car watching a pair of lovebirds kissing. This area was student flatland. The girl was playing coy, but she was probably different in the sack. Had he not noticed Ruby McKay’s ginger hair from the corner of his eye, he might have missed her altogether. Like Mummy dearest, she had that clear porcelain skin, but instead of beautiful curls, Ruby’s hair was cropped tight. She had the high forehead too, but with her small pert nose and pretty lips, she had more the look of Lavinia Hamilton than Clodagh.

There were six of them in the group. Stevie could tell Ruby was playing the boys off against one other, the other two girls barely getting a look in. The guys wanted her, the girls wanted to be like her. Anyone within a five-mile radius could see that.

None of them took any heed of him, far too caught up in their own conversations to be bothering with anyone else. Stevie didn’t believe in gangs, not any more. Gangs required allegiances, and he wasn’t an allegiance kind of guy.

They chatted among themselves for as long as it took Stevie to smoke two cigarettes, laughing like hyenas at each other’s jokes, finding the whole bloody world hilarious.

Ruby hadn’t looked quite so happy puking her guts up outside Neary’s when her friend had to call her a taxi home. Stevie was glad he’d noted the address off the South Circular. She hadn’t looked happy the night he’d seen her in the window of that fancy restaurant either, living it up with a man three times her age.

Perhaps it was the smile growing on Stevie’s face that had caused
Ruby to notice him for the first time. She’d given him a look all right. He had seen it a couple of times before, the who-gave-you-permission-to-enter-my-magical-kingdom look. He smiled right back at her, and the testosterone-fuelled idiot beside her must have sensed something was wrong because he looked across at Stevie, asking, ‘Are ya all right there, bro?’

Fucking bro, thought Stevie. The one thing he sure wasn’t was this guy’s brother. ‘Ah, yeah, cool. Waiting for someone. You don’t mind, do you?’ It wasn’t a question Stevie expected an answer to. ‘Pretend I’m not here.’ He shot them another smile.

‘Let’s go,’ Ruby said to the others, continuing to stare back at Stevie. And as they walked away, the thought uppermost in Stevie’s mind was that he had managed to rattle the little princess. There had been something in the flicker of those eyes. She hadn’t liked seeing him there, convincing Stevie that his hunch was right. The girl was hiding something.

He drove on past the group, slowing down to register the exact address. The place was a bit of a hovel, a far cry from her home in Sandymount, which was a three-storey number with wrought-iron gates and a gravelled drive. He had heard through the grapevine that Martin McKay, despite driving a top-of-the-range black Mercedes, was feeling the pinch moneywise. Maybe Ruby wasn’t the only family member keeping secrets.

Thinking about the old house on Sandymount Strand, it irked him that, as a boy, he had imagined being part of it, not just some unwanted visitor. Ruby wasn’t his type. She was too much like the grandmother. Clodagh was special, though, the gorgeous feel of her hair, and how the rain frizzed it into a wonderful mass of tiny curls. He remembered her as a kid too, how she was always talking to those bloody dolls of hers. As if they knew the answer to everything.

Striding up Harcourt Street heading towards the Kildare Street club, Kate had to pull O’Connor back. ‘Will you slow down and fill me in on what Morrison had to say?’

‘Oh, yeah, right. Sorry, Kate.’ Then, pointing to a small coffee shop near the top of the street, he said, ‘Let’s grab a coffee. Mr Devoy can wait for a bit.’

It was far too cold to be sitting outside, but Kate didn’t object when O’Connor waved to the small iron tables at the front of the café. Once a copper, always a copper: less chance of being overheard outside than in. When O’Connor appeared back with a tray and two tiny cups of coffee, she smiled, but he kept his face serious.

‘Blasted cups wouldn’t last two seconds in the station. Places like this have no idea what the size of a proper mug should be.’ He lit a cigarette.

‘I thought you’d quit.’

‘Yeah, well, that was then.’

Kate let it go. ‘You were going to tell me about Morrison.’

O’Connor took a long drag. ‘He’s got some early results. The liquid in Jenkins’s lungs confirmed diatoms in his system. Morrison is a happy man – the bastard loves it when he’s right.’

‘Diatoms?’

‘Yeah – minute organisms scurrying around in the water. It’s the final confirmation that Jenkins was alive before taking the dip. Morrison also took swabs from under the fingernails. Weak or not, Keith Jenkins put up a fight, so let’s hope our pal has history.’

‘When will I have the autopsy report?’

‘Whenever I get it. I’ve only got verbals from Morrison.’

‘So let’s hear them.’

‘Half a dozen puncture wounds, all within the same location on the body, below the ribcage. The width, thickness and depth implied severe thrusting into the torso. A double-sided blade was used. It wasn’t a large weapon. The attacker could have hidden it on his person before the assault.’

‘And the dimensions of the blade?’

‘Approximately an inch in width. It sank into the body seven inches. Allowing for the area below the handle, it could have been an eight-inch knife. Morrison thinks it might be a domestic kitchen knife.’

‘And the sequence?’

‘All but one puncture wound happened directly after one another. There was a final, deeper thrust, probably seconds after the first attack. The last wound did the most damage. After that, the victim would have been like putty.’

‘So it was a frenzied attack initially, then a last deciding penetration.’

‘That’s what the master says.’ O’Connor lit another cigarette. ‘So, what do you think?’

‘I think we need to look on the knife attack and the drowning as separate entities. The stabbing is primarily expressive violence, but the drowning was undoubtedly instrumental violence.’

‘Meaning what, Kate?’

‘The first tells us more about the emotional feeling involved. It was aggressive, frenzied, and the sequence is also interesting.’

‘Go on.’

‘The drowning brings a different dimension. When I say, “instrumental”, it represents a means to an end.’

‘He wanted him dead.’

‘Yes, and this was his chosen way of achieving it.’ Finishing her coffee, Kate looked at O’Connor, waiting for the signal to move. But he didn’t seem in any hurry. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have said he was stalling.

‘So how are things with you, Kate, and young Charlie? What age is he now? Four?’

‘Five. He’s finding some things difficult – you know, school and all.’

‘Five! God Almighty, that’s old.’ O’Connor managed a laugh. ‘You’ll be worrying about his college points so.’

O’Connor didn’t have any children, nor was he married, which meant he lived in a separate universe as far as Kate was concerned.

‘Come on, O’Connor. I don’t know about you, but I’m freezing.’ She stood up. O’Connor did the same. Then, both of them walking towards Kildare Street, Kate asked, ‘What’s the final upshot with Johnny Keegan?’

‘He’ll probably walk. Right now it looks like the girlfriend is backing him up. But you can be darn sure that whatever Morrison got from beneath those fingernails, we’ll be looking to play snap when the test results come in.’

‘What about the CCTV footage?’

‘We’ve pieced a lot of it together. There’s a sighting of Jenkins shortly after he left the club, heading down Hatch Street, then another at a late-night shop near Charlemont Street.’

‘Very close to the canal.’

‘Yes, but two hours earlier on.’

‘Have you any idea why Jenkins was out walking? He could have got a taxi home to Malahide.’

‘The current girlfriend lives in town, a Siobhan King. Maybe he was planning to spend the night with her.’

‘What does she do?’

‘PR stuff mostly.’

‘But why walk, O’Connor?’

‘Perhaps he needed some air.’

‘He was alone, I assume.’

‘Yeah, for the most part.’

‘For the most part?’

‘A guy standing outside a late-night shop was picked up on the footage. The two of them had a chat. They both lit cigarettes.’

‘So they knew each other.’

‘Not necessarily, Kate. Strangers often ask each other for a light.’

‘But whoever it was, they would have recognised him?’

‘Maybe. The press office put out a request on the lunchtime bulletin, asking the guy to come forward, but nothing yet.’

‘And after Charlemont Street? Anything after that?’

‘Not so far.’

Looking up at the building on Kildare Street, O’Connor asked, ‘Are you ready to see how the other half lives?

‘Sure, why not?’

‘Good. Let’s start disturbing these lovely people.’

‘Careful, O’Connor,’ she chided.

‘You know me, Kate. I’m full of sensitivity.’

The skin on my face is still throbbing. It will bruise more, but there’s no blood. I’ve no intention of leaving Ruby’s room until Martin has gone to work. Orla’s letter is still downstairs on the coffee table.

Opening my compact, I check the damage, twisting to get a better view in the small, round mirror. My face looks like it’s been split down the middle. One side normal, the other side puffed up like an oversized black mushroom fermenting in the dark. It has been a while since Martin hit out. The last time it was because he had been taken for a fool in some property investment deal. They say you always take it out on the ones you love. Well, he showed his love that time all right. I was drinking then. I let it go. Now it’s different. Now it’s more a question of time.

If I wasn’t a battered wife, I might ask why women stay with such men. They’re seen as monsters, best written out of your life. But outsiders don’t understand. Perhaps I’m a coward – yet another label to stamp on my forehead. Martin has his own demons. I’m not the only one carrying hang-ups from childhood. I’m merely the punchbag. What most people see when they meet Martin is an illusion. He can even trick himself, setting himself up as the guy who likes to put things straight, show what a great man he is.

Martin is still moving around downstairs. His next meeting must be late morning. He’s listening to the news on the radio. He drank the bottle of Beaujolais last night, before going out again. Martin isn’t really a drinker. He took it to spite me. I hear the radio being switched off. He’ll leave soon. I wait until he pulls the front door behind him, giving it a few seconds before I open the door of Ruby’s bedroom.

I catch a glimpse of my face in the hall mirror downstairs, and
think about my old doll, Emma. The one we put in the attic in the box for broken toys. I had forgotten about that box too. Emma had a white porcelain face, cold and smooth when you touched it, except for her eyelashes, which were long and frail, as delicate as a spider’s web. Her face split in two one summer after a fall. Mum and Dad had had a huge fight. Both Dominic and I were sent upstairs. Dominic was dragging me up by the arm, but I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to be sent upstairs. It was a Sunday. I hated Sundays. Dominic was hurting me, and I was telling him to stop. That was when I dropped her. An ugly jagged crack went from the top of her forehead into her neck. The rest of her body was soft so it wasn’t damaged. Even her eyelashes remained intact. Every bit of Emma’s face was still there; not one piece of the porcelain had fallen out. It had just cracked in two, leaving a gaping black slash where once there had been a beautiful face. I remember looking into the crack, trying to find out what was behind it, wondering if the line was something bad, like the cracks in the pavement I used to skip over as a child so I wouldn’t go to Hell. But all I saw was emptiness.

When she fell, she became a different doll, her insides exposed. I thought there was a change in her expression, a kind of sadness to her eyes, knowing everyone would see her differently from then on.

‘Once broken, it can’t be fixed.’ That was what Dominic had said. ‘You can’t fix her, so throw her away.’ He was being mean. He wasn’t usually mean, but he was upset too. He didn’t want to go upstairs either. He would get like that sometimes. It was the same when I wanted to play with him, Stevie and Martin, and he would tell me I couldn’t be in their gang because I was a girl. But I didn’t throw Emma away. A part of her is still here, living inside me.