The Doll's House (30 page)

‘It’s only a photograph.’

‘Only a photograph,’ I repeat my brother’s words, more as if they’re a question than an affirmation. Then I think of another question, one that unsettles me, realising my mind is still recovering from the sleeping pills. ‘Dominic?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you get inside the house without a key?’

As Stevie watched Wednesday’s nine o’clock news, he thought long and hard about his next move. Being one of Alister Becon’s minions wasn’t a role he liked or cared to turn into a full-time career. He had no problem with following people around but he didn’t take to being at someone else’s beck and call.

Still, he knew Becon from before. Well enough to understand that, once you were caught within the fucker’s circle, certain rules applied. He might have stumbled on some financially useful information regarding Ruby McKay, but Becon wanted his piece of flesh before he handed out any money – which was why Stevie had decided to do a little digging.

He’d been surprised to discover that Martin McKay was working with Becon. It brought a wry smile to Stevie’s face: whatever business dealings Becon and McKay shared, he doubted that good old Martin had any bleedin’ idea the old man had been screwing his daughter. That particular nugget might prove useful further down the line, but the first priority was getting the money out of Becon. All other nostalgic trips down Memory Lane had to wait.

Stevie poured himself a large Jack Daniel’s, drank it in one go and immediately felt better for it. The next he left on the side of the armchair, to savour.

It was an awful long time ago, but he still remembered plenty about the good-old bad-old days, including how there’d been something between that fucker Becon and the ever-so-beautiful, up-herself Lavinia Hamilton. Even as a kid he’d seen it. The way Becon looked at her. Lavinia Hamilton had had no time for Stevie. Fuck
her, had been his attitude. But that was the funny thing about people thinking you were lower than shit. They’d start forgetting you were there. Or even that you had a brain. One connected to your eyes and ears. Maybe Becon had been trying to regain his misspent youth with young Ruby. Turn back time by pretending he could start all over again with a newer model. He wouldn’t be the first eejit to fall for that sad joke. Fucking ridiculous the way old farts think with their pricks.

Martin’s involvement with Becon probably explained how he’d met little Ruby and thought, Presto, I’ll have a bit of that. Stevie didn’t really blame him.

He smiled, thinking about the first time he had kissed Clodagh Hamilton. A crowd of them had gone off with some cans to the old railway tracks. Pissed out of their heads, most of them. He hadn’t known any of the girls at first but recognised Clodagh as soon as she arrived. She was all glammed up, looking gorgeous and shiny, glitter on her arms, and that fucking amazing red hair of hers. To this day, he can’t be sure she knew it was him when they met. She’d had a good few on her. She went for it all the same. In the dark, the two of them eating the face off one another, while the others laughed and messed around in the background. Muck under both their arses. She wore white jeans, as tight as anything. They didn’t look very pretty when she stood up. He’d thought she knew who he was, especially when he was feeling those lovely pert breasts of hers.

It was when he’d called her by name, his face buried in the warmth of her neck, smelling that red hair and wanting more, that he’d detected the first signs of withdrawal. Then had come the turn of the head, the arching of her body, the quick double-take as she’d tried to work out how he knew her. She got out of there like it was the only option in town.

He ran after her, and caught her. He grabbed her into a laneway. Tried it on again, but it had lost its beauty. She didn’t think he was good enough, and he wanted to give her a good lash there and then,
take some of that prettiness off her face. Teach her not to be mixing with the big boys, playing fucking dress-up in her tight jeans, far too much sex-on-legs not to be fucked. Christ, she couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Four years younger than her daughter was now and already pissed out of her head, ending up in the wrong place with the wrong company. Stevie took a swig of his whiskey. Boozed up or not, she’d still tasted beautiful.

A quarter of a lifetime on, part of Stevie still bore a gnawing thought. The reason he hadn’t taken her that night didn’t sit easy with him. It was because a fucking huge slice of his brain knew that, where Clodagh Hamilton was concerned, he could never be good enough – in her eyes or his own.

He poured another whiskey, smirking to himself. Here they were, all these years on, and a bit like that fucker Becon clapping eyes on Ruby McKay, wanting to rekindle some kind of fucked-up happiness, he’d been contemplating the bleedin’ same. Not for the first time in his life he damned ever hooking up with the Hamiltons, and all the other fuckers that frequented their miserable fucking world.

Stevie made up his mind. His time playing fucking detective for Alister Becon would be short-lived. He had no intention of being strung along as a fool. No matter what nasty fucked-up logic Becon lived by.

It takes Dominic an age to answer. The room is in semi-darkness, the only light trickling in from the landing.

‘Clodagh, I was worried about you. I asked Martin for a set of keys, just in case.’

‘In case of what?’

‘In case you needed me.’ He keeps his eyes fixed on me. ‘I told Martin I was worried you weren’t coping, that I needed the keys in case …’

‘In case I decided to top myself, or drink myself into some drunken stupor? Is that what you’re saying?’ Again I want to throttle him.

‘It was a precaution, and it wasn’t only that.’

‘I can’t wait to hear the rest.’

‘Less of the dramatics, Clodagh. I’m only thinking of you.’

‘The whole world seems to be thinking of me. You, Martin, Orla – even Val’s expressed her concerns. But do you know what the laughable thing is, Dominic?’

‘What?’ He stands up, barely able to contain his own anger.

‘Despite everyone’s bloody concern, I’ve never felt so shagging lonely in my whole bloody life.’

‘I know that, Clodagh.’

‘So what was the other reason for you needing keys?’

‘I don’t trust Martin.’

‘Well, why didn’t you ask me?’

‘I wanted him to know I had them.’

‘Why?’

‘In case he got any ideas.’

‘Do you mean his temper?’

‘Yes, but not just that. I don’t want to be worrying you, Clodagh.’

‘But you are worrying me, Dominic.’ My words are more fearful than angry now.

‘Martin’s got involved with some nasty people.’

‘What people?’

‘You don’t need to worry. It’s just an added protection.’

‘Dominic, you would tell me if this is connected to either of those killings?’

‘I’m not saying that, Clodagh …’ he paused as if lost in his own thoughts ‘… but it doesn’t do any harm to be careful.’

‘Who is Martin involved with?’

‘Alister Becon for one. You don’t remember him, do you, Clodagh?’

‘No, I don’t.’ I can hear the frustration in my voice. ‘I remember there was someone else, a man’s face in the shadows.’

‘He gave Dad the boat.’

‘On the day of the accident?’

‘Yes, on the day of the accident. Becon said he had no idea what was on Dad’s mind.’

‘You’ve spoken to him?’ I’m unable to hide the shock in my voice.

‘Yes – after Mum passed away.’

I think about my row with Dominic after she died. How the two of them had made me feel so left out, whispering to each other on her deathbed. This was more of it. More bloody secret conversations. ‘What did he say?’ I ask, with more venom than I intend. Losing it with Dominic will get me nowhere.

‘Nothing of any importance. His kind always plays it cagey. He wasn’t going to share any secrets.’

‘Dominic, do you ever think Dad’s still around?’

‘No,’ his answer bitter and defiant.

‘Sometimes, I feel him close.’

‘I wish I could hear or see him.’

‘You’d better go. Val will be worried about you.’

‘I’ll stay another little while. You get some sleep. You look tired.’

‘Martin gave me some sleeping pills.’

‘Right then, get some rest. You have your mobile?’

‘It’s under the pillow.’

‘Keep it there.’

Once I knew Clodagh was out for the count, I checked that her car was still safely under wraps in the garage. After that, I made my way to the strand. I needed to think straight, pull all the bits together. I can’t afford to let others see that I might be unravelling.

My mind keeps skipping. There are so many things I need to get right to reach the end game. Some say solitude and walking can clear the mind. I walk alone, but my thoughts aren’t clear. At some point this is all going to be over. Then everything will be done, and that will be the end of the whole sorry mess.

It’s good that I have Jenkins and Gahan behind me. But only part of the job is done. It makes carrying on all the more intense. I had my doubts at the beginning that I would get this far. Planning is one thing. Making it happen can be very different.

I hear the seagulls squawking overhead. Even the stupid birds seem to be mocking me. Clodagh is on the brink, as fragile as that cracked doll of hers. She thinks she’s working things out, getting to grips with the truth. She doesn’t know yet that the truth isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. She’ll know it soon enough because I’ll be taking her out of her misery. She won’t have anything to worry her any more. If I’m careful, and keep her sweet, she won’t see it coming.

I’ve felt the pressure over the last few days, my mind buried in so much bloody shit. Walking away from Gahan, his body floating in the canal, I thought I heard the sound of drums, loud, absurd and deafening. I stopped to listen. But there were no drums, or drummer, nobody other than me.

I hear myself laugh out loud. Again no one else is listening. I feel
like two men, the exterior and the interior, as if a slice of my brain thinks I’m not doing this. If someone other than me is doing it, I hope one of us stupid mother-fuckers knows what we’re at because it’s far too late to stop things now.

Another thought slithers through my mind. It crawls into corners, feeling comfortably at home. And once it does, there’s no way of stopping it. I think of Jenkins and Gahan spread out like the brown eagle in the attic at Sandymount, the piercing black of its eyes and how the death of the bird failed to kill its soul. It looks down on all that has happened, knowing evil has its own path to follow.

When Kate arrived at Ocean House on Thursday morning, she rang O’Connor before sending through her report. He hadn’t been in touch after his meeting with Alister Becon. That wasn’t a good sign. She had thought again about both murders being a form of spree killing, with the killer having a final destination, or last victim, in mind.

When victims are chosen, rather than taken at random, the deaths sometimes occur in a particular sequence, more often than not the killer saving the most important killing until last.

O’Connor answered the phone briskly. ‘Kate, I don’t have long. Butler wants to meet me before the ten o’clock session.’

‘I won’t delay you. I was wondering if you’d talked to either of Adrian Hamilton’s surviving children.’

‘Not yet, but hopefully today.’

‘I’d like to be there, O’Connor.’

‘What’s tweaked your interest?’

‘What do you know about either of them?’

‘Dominic Hamilton has no priors. Clodagh McKay had her driving licence taken from her – she was drunk, well over the limit. I understand she’s on the wagon now, but other than that, not a whole lot. I should have more information later on.’

‘You have the DNA results from the deposits under Keith Jenkins’s nails. I assume you’ll be using them.’

‘Only if we have reason to demand a comparison or people are in an obliging mood. So far this case isn’t oozing with friendliness.’

‘How did you get on with Alister Becon?’

‘Slick bastard.’

‘Not good, then.’

‘He gave us nothing, and he didn’t seem particularly concerned about his own safety either.’

‘What was your impression of him?’

‘As you know, he comes from a privileged background. I’d say he enjoys power and control. He probably gets off on being a well-known public figure. Most likely doesn’t give a shit about anyone other than himself.’

Kate laughed. ‘Maybe you’re the one who should have studied psychology, O’Connor. You’ve just described typical psychopathic traits – power, control, needing sensation, and a blatant disregard for others.’

‘Anything you’d like to add to that list, Kate, seeing as how we’re enjoying this psychology lesson?’

‘Well, the most intelligent psychopaths, especially those coming from privileged backgrounds, tend to avoid violence. They know it will get them into trouble. They prefer to use safer means of exploitation at their disposal.’

‘You mean they don’t get their own hands dirty?’

‘Exactly – you said he didn’t seem concerned about his own safety.’

‘That’s the impression I got. But Becon would be well used to saying one thing and meaning another. The guy is either putting up a great front, unwilling to show weakness, or he knows something and doesn’t want to share it.’

‘Or both.’

‘His hands are dirty too. I’d lay money on it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s been more than a few rumours about his finances. The guy is no saint, but right now, it’s all bloody rumour.’

‘I see.’

‘Kate, I’ve got to go. Myself and Butler are about to have our little chat, but he’ll be looking for your report.’

‘I’m sending an interim one over now. And good luck with Butler.’

‘Hopefully, I won’t need it.’

‘And, O’Connor …’

‘What?’

‘Let me know what more you find out about Dominic and Clodagh Hamilton.’

‘It’s Clodagh McKay. She’s married.’

‘What does her husband do?’