The Doll's House (26 page)

I close the bedroom door behind me, pulling across the old latch at the top. Again I visualise the room as it used to be, with a world map hanging on the wall beneath the attic staircase. I remember reaching up on tiptoe to touch Ireland. Russia was red, with orange Mongolia underneath, partly hidden by the underside of the attic stairs. In the same corner, Dominic had his drum kit, which he and Stevie McDaid loved to play, Martin sitting on the bed or lying on the floor, laughing and joking with the two of them. When was the last time I’d heard Martin laugh, really laugh, as if life was fun and worth living?

I don’t feel like a trespasser, as I would have done years before, fearing Dominic would catch me in his room and give me what-for. Walking up the stairs, I hold tight to the narrow rail fixed to the wall. I take one step at a time, just as my mind had done with Gerard Hayden, counting each one. I stop at the top, pulling across another latch. I am hesitant about putting the key in the lock, reluctant to open the room that part of me hopes will be full of memories, and another part wants to be as empty as Dominic’s bedroom.

I should expect the dark, but it jolts me. It’s colder too, and I shiver. The attic is in complete contrast to the bright white walls I’m leaving behind. The door creaks on opening. I need light. My hand reaches for the old light switch, hoping it will still be there, even though it has been years since I stood in this room. The attic is not unlike the one in my doll’s house, with its A-roof and slanted pitch at either end.

With the door closed, again I reach up, pulling over the latch on the opposite side, as if shutting out the rest of the world. I soak it all in, my eyes adjusting to the artificial light, a single bulb hanging from the centre at the highest point. It looks the worse for wear. I see the old rope ends where the boys hung hammocks from the wooden beams above. I’m sure they got up to plenty in this room, well away from adult supervision. There’s an old dartboard hanging on the gable wall. At first, I can barely make it out, until I get close enough to see the rusted darts and metal divisions. I smell dust and rotting wood, my eyes scanning the low roof walls on either side. There are shelves packed with boxes, old sweet tins, bits of rubbish and a large wooden crate with Christmas decorations bulging out.

I’m looking for Emma, my doll with the cracked face. The one Dominic told me to throw away. To the right of the dartboard, the tall shelves don’t look quite so tall any more. If I find her, I might start remembering more. I took her with me everywhere. I held her in the attic, that time I hid with the boys.

The shelves are full of dust. I have a sense of foreboding, running my fingers along the middle shelf, filled with open and closed boxes. I see my old spinning top and smile. It still has the blue plastic bottle-top stuck to the top. When the handle went missing, Dominic fixed it for me. There’s an old paint set too, with Mickey Mouse, Pluto and Donald Duck on the front. Inside there is a mess of colours, bits of paint, hard and chalky, the underside of the lid like a grubby rainbow. I remember painting it. I can’t understand why some memories are so clear and others not.

It’s Emma’s hair I notice first, even before I see her eyes. She’s halfway down the box with the broken toys. Reaching in, I touch her porcelain face, running my fingers down the jagged crack. Again a sense of foreboding builds inside me. Her eyes look back at me. I see kindness. I sit below the old dartboard, trying to remember.

I’m trying to remember hiding in the attic, or the memory from the doll’s house, when Mum and Dad were arguing and I heard the doorbell. I had felt fear, not understanding why the man I now know to have been Keith Jenkins was there. Uncle Jimmy was in the doll’s house too.

I must look mad, a grown woman holding a doll.

I thought this room would have answers, but it doesn’t. I listen for Dominic downstairs, but hear nothing. I’m about to give up when something comes back to me. It has nothing to do with Mum or Dad, or their arguments. It’s the sound of boyhood whispers, Dominic, Martin and Stevie, talking in low voices. There are other voices too, adult ones. Suddenly I need to get out of this room. I jump up too fast from my hunkered position and feel woozy. I don’t bother to dust myself down, running towards the door, the whispering getting louder, the voices more powerful. I reach for the latch. It’s stuck. It doesn’t want to budge. I feel like that scared little girl again, wanting to run away, to go somewhere to cry, somewhere she can be safe.

When the latch opens, I fall out into the bright walls of Dominic’s old bedroom, pulling the door behind me. I rush down the stairs, not stopping until I reach the landing.

Dominic is waiting for me, leaning against the door of our parents’ room. I can’t read his face.

‘Find what you were looking for?’ His voice sounds uncaring.

‘Not exactly,’ I hear myself say. I realise I’m still holding Emma and feel embarrassed, but I regain eye contact with Dominic. ‘You cleared out your bedroom, but you didn’t do the attic.’

‘Not yet.’

My next words surprise me, because it is as if someone else is doing the talking: ‘Keith Jenkins.’

‘What about him?’

‘He loved Mum, didn’t he?’

Dominic looks unperturbed. He waits the longest time before answering. ‘Keith Jenkins wasn’t the only man who liked our mother.’

I’m taken aback, but not because of his words: it’s because of my reaction to them.

O’Connor knew he needed to be firing on all cylinders if Chief Superintendent Butler was to stay off his back. They now had two deaths on their hands, an established MO, both Jenkins’s and Deborah Gahan’s house under twenty-four-hour police protection, and still no clear idea as to who the killer was. Or why the hell he was doing it.

Kate talking about more players being involved, and different motivations overlapping each other, wasn’t exactly cheering him up either. The likelihood of something else unforeseen going down was increasing. Which he didn’t like one bloody bit.

The mood in the incident room was sombre. Every man and woman present knew Butler was about to unload his frustration. Nobody wanted to be in the firing line. O’Connor may have been the SIO, and more likely to get it head on, but Butler wasn’t always selective in his choice of individual to suffer his wrath. The session at Harcourt Street kicked off with a general attack by Butler for the benefit of every single member of the force huddled in the packed room. Even Matthews, the bookman, was keeping his mouth shut as the chief superintendent let off steam.

‘He’s some bloody piece of work, putting a guy in the canal when he’s already dead.’ Butler stood up from the top table. The sound of his chair scraping backwards across the floor was the only noise other than his voice. He turned to look behind him at the large white incident-room board, while O’Connor, Matthews and Dr Martha Smyth, from the forensics team, remained seated. Everyone present knew to let Butler’s last comment go unanswered. He would let them know when he was ready to hear them talk.

‘I’m not happy, people, not one bit happy. The media love this blasted story, first Jenkins with his superstar status and now a bloody down-and-out. But I don’t love it. I’m far from loving it. Jenkins took his dip in the early hours of Saturday morning, and I don’t need to remind you all that it’s now bloody Wednesday.’ Butler paused, his silence an indicator that he was about to pounce again. ‘Is Morrison sure Gahan was dead going into the water?’ His question was directed at O’Connor.

‘Completely sure, boss.’ O’Connor hoped his positive affirmation of Butler’s ranked superiority might ease the line of questioning. ‘Heart failure brought on by the knife attack. There’s no evidence of diatoms in the bloodstream, or pressure trauma in the sinuses or lungs, or any haemorrhaging in the sinuses as Morrison would have expected with a drowning. Nor is there debris from the water, which Jimmy Gahan would have sucked in, trying to breathe,’ O’Connor coughed, ‘had he been still alive.’

‘What lines are you working on, O’Connor?’

‘Lynch and CAB are looking into the running of a company called Hamilton Holdings, which was set up thirty-seven years ago. It was originally owned by the late Adrian Hamilton, and taken over by Jenkins after Hamilton committed suicide in 1978.’

‘Suicide?’

‘Or death by misadventure. At least, that’s what the coroner believed.’ O’Connor could see Butler was anything but convinced.

‘Doubting inquest findings now, are we, O’Connor?’

‘Keeping options open, boss, that’s all. Jenkins started the company moving again about two years back. He got a shitload of investors. Most of them are low-key.’

‘By low-key, O’Connor, I assume you mean they’re keeping their identities under wraps.’ The strain in Butler’s voice was audible.

‘That’s right, boss. Investment in millionaire properties in Portugal type of thing, but Lynch, as I said, is working on it with the CAB guys.’

‘Following the money trail is never fast, O’Connor.’

‘I know that, boss, but—’

‘No bloody buts.’ Butler’s face was reddening.

Matthews decided it was time to step in, turning to Martha Smyth. ‘Martha, we understood from Sarah Walsh that you were examining fibres from the ledge on the canal.’

‘That’s correct. Hanley’s team came up with a number of items for analysis.’

‘What do you have so far?’

‘We were able to identify some undyed white cotton strands with a twisted-ribbon pattern, too common to be of any real value. However, we also identified synthetic traces, a type of polypropylene often used in carpet manufacturing for cars. We’re running further tests on diameter, shape, colour, curl and crimp to see if we can be more specific and match it to a particular model.’

‘When will you have more?’ Matthews was looking down into his case log rather than at Martha Smyth, ready to assign the next update to her.

‘We’re waiting on sample results from the UK. Hopefully, we’ll have them tomorrow. In the meantime the tyre impressions taken, along with the witness testimony on the car type, have brought up a match with a couple of Volvo models manufactured in 2010. Again, we’ll know more tomorrow once we have the fibre tests back.’

‘If you or Hanley get any other information, let me and O’Connor be the ones to know about it first. I assume if we get a cross-match, it will be narrowed down to a particular vehicle type.’

‘We’re hoping the internal fibres match a model from the tyre impressions.’

Matthews hadn’t finished yet, but this time O’Connor was back in the frame. ‘O’Connor, did you get the visuals from the insurance company on the missing ring?’

O’Connor cleared his throat. ‘Standard gold band, size nine, eighteen point nine millimetres, with roped edging top and bottom.
The missing ring and the hotel receipt fire in a couple of other possibilities.’

‘Go on, O’Connor.’

‘Higgins and Clarke have given copy witness statements to Robinson, taken from the receptionist at the hotel in Blessington. She’s confirmed it was Keith Jenkins who stayed at the hotel, although he and his female companion both used false names. We believe Gloria Sweetman was his companion.’

‘What’s the tie?’ Matthews rapped.

‘There’s nothing conclusively linking that case to the Jenkins murder, but Gahan’s drinking buddy, Ozzie Brennan, hinted that Gahan may have had something on Jenkins, putting pressure on him for cash. If that was the case, then Ms Sweetman’s death via a drug overdose may have given Gahan what he needed on him.’

Butler couldn’t keep quiet any longer. ‘Have you found anyone else linked to Gahan and Jenkins?’

‘We’ve spoken to Deborah Gahan. She and Isabel Blennerhasset confirmed a connection to Adrian Hamilton. They all knew each other, and Adrian Hamilton also drowned.’

‘A death over thirty years ago. I don’t know about that, O’Connor.’ Butler was sceptical.

‘Dr Pearson thinks the drowning is critical in this case. Our guy has displayed excessive aggression, and despite the minor variances in his MO, he’s determined that his victims end up in water. She also thinks it may be some kind of personal vendetta. The taking of the wedding band from Jenkins and the hotel receipt being found close by could mean the killer is operating some kind of judgement on his victim or victims. I’m running background checks on Adrian Hamilton’s surviving children, now adults. I’m also looking into the identity of the man who lent Hamilton the boat the day he died.’

Butler looked directly at O’Connor with raised eyebrows. ‘Be careful. That old death could be immaterial.’

‘I know that.’ O’Connor kept his voice firm and assured.

Matthews spoke next. ‘When will we have the report on the Gahan killing from Dr Pearson?’

‘This evening or early tomorrow morning.’

‘I’m assuming, O’Connor, that since Jimmy Gahan’s body was found there’s been more light shed on things?’

‘As I said, Dr Pearson has a couple of theories. We’ll know more once we have her report.’

Again Butler interjected, ‘Matthews, mark that down as top priority on the assignments – and, O’Connor?’

‘Yes, boss?’

‘Make that sooner rather than later. If necessary, remind Dr Pearson we’re dealing with a double murder.’

‘She knows that, boss.’

‘Good to hear it. Is there
anything
else, O’Connor?’ Butler was forcing home how little they had, and seemed to lay the blame for the lack of evidence firmly at O’Connor’s door.

‘Dr Pearson thinks there could be more than one layer to this. Jenkins and Gahan are linked, that we know, but she thinks Gahan’s immediate death wasn’t the killer’s intention. Assuming the same MO, the killer kept Jenkins alive for a period before death. She thinks it could have been to get or share information.’

Butler grunted. ‘You said she thinks there’s more than one layer going on here. What does she mean exactly?’

‘We have the possible blackmail of Jenkins, the planting of the hotel receipt, the time delay between the attack on Keith Jenkins and his subsequent death. Dr Pearson thinks our guy is highly motivated and determined in his task, but she’s not one hundred per cent sure that someone else isn’t in the driver’s seat.’