The White Tower (15 page)

Fifteen

Before going out to the hospital again, I read over the section of the police report containing Eamonn's statement. Detective-Sergeant McCallum hadn't queried his account at all. Eamonn had told McCallum that Niall had been happy. Had McCallum accepted this? You couldn't tell from the report. It wasn't long since I'd met Eamonn, but a lot had happened, and my view of events had changed.

As I drove over the lake, the thought of the diagram sitting in my handbag was like a rip when you're out swimming in the surf. Not strong enough to be dangerous. Not yet. But with the element of danger that belongs to the sea, to waves and undertows and cross-currents.

At the inquiry desk, I was told that Eamonn was on ward eleven. Luckily, I ran into him in the corridor outside it, so I didn't have to interrupt him with a patient. He was obviously in a hurry, but I wasn't going to let that get in my way.

I watched Eamonn study the numbers and the sketch beneath them, remembering his calm good humour the first time we met, the plateau of acceptance he seemed to have reached concerning Niall's death, if not the reasons for it.

He looked up, his face impassive. ‘Where did you say you found this?'

‘In one of Niall's textbooks. Did he ever mention it to you?'

‘No.'

‘Did he say anything about information that was secret, that he had to hide?'

‘No. Look, I'm on my way to get something. It can't wait.'

‘Did Niall give you anything to keep for him?'

‘You asked me that before.'

‘Did he send you the castle picture?'

‘No.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘It's not something I'd be likely to forget.'

‘What about the other radiotherapists, the ones Niall worked with?'

‘I know I said I'd help you with addresses. I will help. If I can.'

‘Why did they all leave at once?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Why didn't you tell me that there'd been almost a complete turnover of staff?'

‘It didn't seem important.'

‘Was Niall asked to leave?'

‘I don't know.'

‘But you knew Niall was having difficulties with his boss. What did he tell you?'

‘He said whatever problems there were, the department would deal with them.' Eamonn paused, then added, ‘He was loyal to Dr Fenshaw.'

Again, the undertone in Eamonn's voice I remembered from before, as though loyalty masked a connection that was deeper and more ­interesting.

‘Were they lovers?'

‘No.'

‘Were you?'

‘What?'

‘You and Niall.'

‘No.'

‘Fenshaw?'

‘It's none of your business.'

‘Fenshaw has a lover here on the hospital staff doesn't he?'

‘Look,' Eamonn said, beginning to walk away. ‘What difference does it make?'

‘Fenshaw and Colin Rasmussen have a thing. Or did.'

‘I don't have anything to do with either of them personally. I told you that.'

‘Was Niall jealous?'

‘Of Colin Rasmussen? That's absurd.'

‘That last night—did Niall mention a specific date to you?'

‘No.'

‘You said he was happy and excited. That's what you told the police. Did they ask you why?'

Eamonn stared at me, his grey eyes angry. I was glad I'd made him angry. ‘It was the day after, for God's sake. I know you mean well, and you're doing this for Niall's mother. But it was the next day—I might've said anything.'

‘You said Niall was happy.'

‘I've been going over and around that since the last time you were here.' Eamonn lowered his head and scratched at his hairline, as if he could scratch away both his thoughts and our conversation. ‘I should have picked up on it, shouldn't I? I should have seen he wasn't happy. Some sort of crazy—'

‘Or relieved that he'd finally made up his mind?'

‘That's just it—if you'd known Niall—he was the last—'

‘You don't believe Niall killed himself?'

‘I have to believe it, don't I? It happened.'

‘But you don't believe it. Why didn't you tell the police about your doubts?'

‘I don't know. I just thought—whatever had happened—maybe it was better.'

‘Is it possible that Niall met someone later that night who turned what he thought was good news into the worst?'

Eamonn shook his head and said he didn't know. ‘I don't think you should come here any more.'

‘Why not?'

‘I just don't, that's all.'

‘Are you embarrassed to be seen talking to me?'

‘Not embarrassed—'

‘Scared?'

‘I have to go.'

‘I'm sorry for upsetting you,' I said.

. . .

Dr Fenshaw was bearing down on me from a yellow arrow in the middle of a long corridor. He leant forward, smiling confidently. His white coat made other men's look grey.

‘I didn't think I'd be seeing you again. I thought by now you'd have done your duty Mrs Mahoney.'

I smiled back. ‘Then you mustn't have thought my duty would take me very far.'

We were a few steps from some benches by a fernery. A man in a wheelchair was sitting motionless, staring at the plants.

‘Clearly I was wrong,' said Fenshaw with another smile. ‘But, forgive me, what more can you accomplish?'

‘Why do you think Niall Howley killed himself?'

‘Niall became mentally and emotionally unbalanced.'

‘Is that why you wanted him to leave?'

‘Who told you I wanted him to leave?'

‘Did you try and fire him?'

‘Of course not.'

‘What about the others?'

‘What others?'

‘Did all the radiographers who left have mental and emotional ­problems, or was it only Niall?'

‘Who have you been talking to?'

‘Some people who met Niall through the MUD.'

I watched Fenshaw perform an act of re-arranging. It was a tribute to his skill that this re-arranging went on behind a surface that remained open towards me, still disposed to like me, even prepared to be hurt if I failed to meet his frankness with my own.

‘You're right, of course,' he said. ‘Niall wasn't the only one with problems. The team did get off to a rather shaky start. They're pulling together much better now.'

‘What about Colin Rasmussen?'

‘What about him?'

‘Why did he stay when the others left?'

‘Colin's an extremely bright young man, and he's matured a lot in the last year or so. He's learnt his limits—his and other people's. There was a danger, for a while, that he'd burn himself out. But I think he's past that now.'

‘Who burnt themselves out?'

‘Apart from Niall? I'm not sure it's really fair to go naming names. Has Colin been talking to you about his former colleagues?'

‘He answered my questions about Niall.'

‘If a member of my staff has been indiscreet, then I need to know.'

‘No one's been indiscreet. Your staff seem extremely loyal.'

Fenshaw leant forward again. It struck me that, earlier references to begging bowls notwithstanding, he was unused to having to ask twice. He pulled up the sleeve of his white coat a fraction, and looked at his watch. If he wanted to maintain the fiction that he was the one doing the dismissing, then that was fine by me.

Once I was away from him, his words began to crumble at the edges, topple sideways, as though gravity itself was altered by his presence. I wondered who he would interrogate besides Colin. I hoped it would not be Eve, and wished I'd said something to lead his suspicions away from her. Did a young bright woman such as Eve attract him, as she attracted younger men? Was he inclined both ways?

. . .

Home again, having fetched Katya from the creche, and heard Peter's school news while I made him a snack, I got out the police report, and flicked back through the statements and interviews. Not to have contacted Sorely Fallon, or any of the MUD's ex-players, struck me as a much more serious oversight now that I'd met him and Bridget.

The pathologist's lengthy detailing of injuries. McCallum's statement—a neutral description of the scene, Niall's body, how it had been found. An open mind as to how it might have got there. But by the time McCallum recorded his interviews with Eamonn and Dr Fenshaw, there had been a shift. The assumption of suicide had taken root.

A number of questions and answers followed Fenshaw's statement, the first few to establish the size and nature of the unit, and some general facts such as how long it had been operating.

Then Fenshaw was asked:

‘Did the deceased report for work on 22 June?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you speak with the deceased during the course of the day?'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘How did the deceased appear to you?'

‘He appeared withdrawn and upset.'

‘Did you ask him why?'

‘It was my understanding that Howley had become very involved with, addicted to in fact, a computer game, and I assumed that this was the reason.'

‘But he remained on duty at the hospital that day?'

‘That's right. I believed that Howley was capable of performing his duties. He carried out a full day of treatments and left, as you're no doubt aware if you've seen the log book, at six-forty. I'd tried to talk to Howley about his ­problems but he wasn't an easy young man to talk to. He resented, I think, questions about his private life.'

The phone rang by my elbow. Brook said, ‘I spoke to Moira Howley. She's very nervy isn't she?'

‘Give her a chance. What do you expect?'

‘Didn't deny hearing a noise that night. Didn't deny any of the stuff about the friendship society either, though she insisted Niall never told her what happened to the money once it got to Ireland. Only thing she asked me was did I have to tell her husband that I'd been to see her.'

‘How did you get on with the hospital?'

‘Spoke to the CEO and put in a request for the computer logs for the month before Howley's death.'

‘You could have a shot at Niall's friend Eamonn,' I suggested. ‘He knew about all the radiographers leaving except for Colin Rasmussen. And he knew that Niall was hiding something. Ask him about the night Niall died. Ask him why Niall was so happy.'

. . .

The modem light began to flash at me. In the same instant Katya started crying. I called out to Peter to see what was the matter.

Just give me thirty seconds, I said under my breath, cursing Sorley Fallon for his timing.

The crying stopped. I clicked print and crossed my fingers.

Katya was under the sofa and Peter was busily bricking her in. All I could see between the bottom of the sofa and Peter's line of blocks were two eyes and a brush of hair.

Peter stood up. Perhaps he'd got as far as picturing his sister unable to escape. The set of his shoulders said he'd done what I wanted him to. He'd shut her up.

I pulled Kat out and carried her into the office. The pages were rolling out blank. The screen had reverted to the Pegasus homepage.

. . .

Ivan said it was a pity Fallon had cottoned on and shut the hole so soon. He was careful not to elaborate on his disappointment. The bags under his eyes were as thick and crepey as the ones underneath mine. I could feel an argument getting ready to break cover and run.

A knock on the door which we nearly didn't hear turned out to be Brook.

He looked uncertain of his welcome. ‘I was just on my way home.'

‘We tried a trick on Fallon,' I said, leading the way down to the office, explaining what we'd hoped to do.

‘Too quick on his feet for us,' Ivan said morosely.

Brook wasn't in the mood for handholding. ‘If I was a bit bigger, I'd put you both over my knee and spank you.'

Ivan and I caught each other's eyes.

Brook said, ‘Go ahead and laugh,' and Ivan, ‘Time for a cup of tea.'

Brook followed him to the kitchen. I listened to their voices circling one another, seeing in my mind's eye a journey, a progression, though at the same time thinking we were three lost children following a trail of breadcrumbs.

Over coffee and frozen muffins, which were edible so long as you heated them in the oven rather than the microwave, Brook said, ‘I couldn't get the logs for the hospital computers.'

‘Why not?'

‘I rang the CEO and he seemed fine with it, but half an hour later he called back to say he'd had a bit of a chat with their solicitor and decided it might be sensitive and confidential information. I've applied for a warrant.'

He delivered this in a flatter tone than usual. He took a bite of muffin and his expression changed to one of physical discomfort.

‘Spit it out,' said Ivan. ‘Here, I'll get you a serviette.'

Brook drank some coffee and wiped his lips. He could be infuriating sometimes, the way he parcelled out his attention between small matters and large.

‘When will you get the warrant?'

‘Tomorrow. I'll be able to unplug the computer and take it, but if the solicitor's up to the mark, he'll have a court order within a couple of hours and I'll have to take it back.'

He pursed his lips. It might have been the aftertaste of frozen blueberries.

I remembered that he must have had a reason for calling in. ‘What's up?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Sophie?'

‘No.'

‘McCallum?'

Brook crushed the serviette in his left hand and put it on a plate. I stared at the mess of crumbs and then his hand, which kept the tension of a balled fist even after he'd straightened out his fingers.