Can Anybody Help Me? (24 page)

Flynn exhaled and only then realised he had been holding his breath. It wasn't great. He'd have to get the girl to come down to the station to give a full statement. And he could tell that would take some persuasion. But it was something. It was Miriam Twohy, in a pub with a man, and a time when she arrived and a time when she left. No decent description. But something.

He folded the notebook back into his jacket pocket and began to thank the girl. Gave her the usual spiel. If there's anything else you remember … here's my card.

She took it, and then shook her head gently. ‘I wish I could.'

‘Get you another one?'

The barman's eyes were also blue, but decidedly less charming. Flynn drained his second glass and shook his head decisively. It was only Wednesday. It had been a good day, but there was a lot still to be done.

Ba dumph. Ba dumph. Ba dumph.

The sound the car made as it travelled over the cat's eyes meant she had veered too far into the middle of the road, but there was something soothing about the rhythm and, for just a moment, Claire allowed the vehicle to drift.

Ba dumph. Ba dumph. Ba dumph.

Slowly, very slowly, she could feel her heart rate calm as the wheels glided over the tiny metal risings.

Ba dumph. Ba dumph.

Kick.

It's alright, love. Your mammy won't drive you into a ditch. Smiling, she shifted in the seat and moved the car back into the centre of the lane. The speedometer rose. Twelve noon on a Sunday and there was no one else on the road.

Cat's eyes. Her father had told her the name years ago, late at night, when they were driving back from a family wedding, she nestled in the back seat listening to the sound of her parents' voices rise and fall. She remembered the days when she thought her parents knew everything, and they were the centre of her world.

Ba dumph.

Another, sharper kick brought her back to the present and she steadied the steering wheel.

Ba dumph.

Well, she was the adult now. She glanced into her rear-view mirror and then checked her speed. Perfect. The new bypass meant she'd avoid the town and be out onto the Dublin road in less than five minutes, the claustrophobia of home far behind her. Taking a quick glance at the petrol gauge, she began to plan her journey. She'd drive for another hour, hour and a half maybe, and then find somewhere for a cup of coffee. Sorry, tea. Taking a break would mean leaving the motorway, but she had the time and would relish half an hour reading the paper and sipping tea in blissful solitude. Nobody asking her how she felt. Nobody pointing out that she looked pale, tired, too big or too small, worn out, stressed or (and that had been the most irritating part) beautiful, said in a sad misty-eyed way.

‘You're looking tired.'

Matt's voice in her head. The joy of marriage meant she knew what he'd say even if he were three hundred miles away. Well, he was annoying her too. There had been three calls yesterday and one that morning, all urging her to eat, sleep, take her time on the road. He was as bad as her mother sometimes. In fact, in recent weeks she had come to realise they were more than a little alike. They had the same concerned expression – tilted head, sideways glance – checking that she wasn't looking Tired or Doing Too Much. God, she hated pregnancy. Not the idea of the baby, she had come around to that, was even looking forward to it, in an abstract sort of way. But she hated the omnipresent sense of being watched, analysed for incapacitation. When all the while she just wanted to get on with things.

‘You should cut them a bit of slack. They're just excited about the baby.'

Jesus, Matt, get out of my head.

She almost said the words out loud. After seven years together, she didn't need to be with her husband to have an argument. Insert row here. It had been the same conversation for years. Matt thought she was too tough on her parents. She thought she had forgiven them far too easily.

Where had she left her phone? She hated Matt's clucking, but given The Pregnancy (head tilt) she supposed she owed him a text to say she was on her way. Her hand wandered over to the passenger seat and she felt around the accumulated junk for the rigid casing. When was the last time she'd cleaned the car? She pushed an empty McDonald's bag onto the floor. Still couldn't feel the phone. Glancing over she noticed that a copy of the local newspaper had been left on the passenger seat. Subtle as ever, Ma. Her mother had some misguided opinion that reading the news from ‘home' would be comforting up in the big, scary city. Her mother still couldn't admit to the fact that Galway hadn't been ‘home' to Claire since she was eighteen.

She picked the paper up, shook it and out of the corner of her eye read the headline.

‘Family Mourns Death of Local Mother.'

Ah yes. She remembered something now, filtered through from the babble of inanities that had flowed out of her mother over the past twenty-four hours. Something about a woman, and a car found by the side of the road. A hosepipe maybe? There had been so many ‘God Help Us's' and ‘God Rest Her's' in her mother's story that she had found it hard to separate the
facts from the euphemisms. Sitting in the overheated kitchen, resting her elbow on the warm range, she had in fact come close to drifting off while her father criticised Saturday night television in one corner and her mother droned endlessly on in the other. There had been children, she thought she remembered that much. Not in the car. That was a Blessing. Two of them? Or maybe three. A young father, left to carry the burden. Claire wondered how Matt would cope if the same happened to him. Knowing Matt, he'd manage perfectly well.

BEEEENNNN NNNNNNNNAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR!

She almost leapt out of the seat as the truck's horn blared from behind her, blinked and realised she had veered into the centre of the road again. Whoops.

Lifting her head, she gave an apologetic eyebrow raise to the rear-view mirror although the lorry was now overtaking and the driver was far too high above her head to see her. Sorry, mate. Maybe it was time for that coffee after all. Tea. Christ, she missed coffee. Might chance one today. It was practically medicinal.

Slowing down, she kept her eyes steady on the road until the sign for the next exit loomed ahead of her. Athlone. Perfect. There was a McDonald's outside the town, she'd visited it on the way down. She could grab some petrol at the same time. Swallowing down a faint sense of guilt at her inattention, she slowed even further and took the exit. And almost ran straight into the back of a hay-loaded tractor. Christ. Her heart leapt again and took its time in returning to normal. Steady on, Claire. Get a grip. Still an hour to go. She flicked the radio channels again, trying to ignore the headache that was building at the back of her temples and the child who, as if agitated by
adrenalin, was turning somersaults. Took a sip from the bottle of water in the cup holder, and felt nauseous as she realised it had been sitting in the car for at least two days, but swallowed it anyway. She'd be fine. She'd take a break and be fine.

Wisps of hay were escaping from the load on the tractor in front of her, and as she closed her window she felt moisture gather under her arms. The tractor stopped suddenly and, craning her neck, she could see a yellow-jacketed workman holding a red sign. Typical. You took to the road on a Sunday to avoid traffic and they decided to dig it up instead. There was a slight buzzing in her ears now and she opened the car window, trying to ignore the smell of silage that was seeping in. A cup of tea. And maybe a burger. She'd be fine. There was a row of cars behind her now and she tried to ignore the rising feeling of claustrophobia, the pressure building in her bladder. Jesus, girl, don't go there. Putting the car into neutral, she reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed the paper, pulled it towards her and read the rest of the story. Anything for a bit of distraction.

Community united in grief over sudden passing of local mother of three. Tragic death leaves family devastated.

Untimely sudden death. Local newspaper speak. Untimely usually meant cancer, sudden didn't. Another word leapt out. Tragic. Definitely suicide. Her mother had been right. You didn't need local radio when Nuala Boyle was around. She had left three children behind her. And a husband. Selfish bitch.

Claire shuddered. Twenty years later and that was still her reaction. Aidan had taken his own life and ruined hers and now she couldn't hear the word suicide without feeling angry. Her headache was building and she opened the window and then closed it again, torn between blue tractor smoke and stale car air. What temperature was it anyway? She hadn't thought about what to wear for the journey, just pulled on Matt's fleece that just about fitted her and headed away. Her mouth dry, she longed for another sip of water but couldn't risk the pressure on her straining bladder. Time to text Matt, It would kill another few minutes.

Tossing the paper into the back seat she ran her hand again around the rubbish on the passenger side. A wrapped plastic package. She hadn't put that there either. Sandwiches. And an apple. Ah, Mam. Claire had insisted she didn't have time to stay for lunch, coming down ‘home' for the funeral of the elderly neighbour had been difficult enough, she had to get back to the investigation. Work. That was an excuse not even her mother would dare to quibble with. But the chicken had been roasted and was now apparently the filling of a large and lavishly buttered sandwich. And yes, a clean bottle of water. Jesus. Claire sniffed again. Shaggin' hormones.

The sandwich looked lovely. But McDonald's would be lovely too. As the traffic in front finally began to move with a belch of noxious fumes, she found her phone, buried under a copy of the Twohy case file. Easing into second gear, she sent a quick text to her husband. ‘On Road. CU Soon.' No kisses. He didn't deserve them, having pissed her off in every phone call he'd made in the last twenty-four hours.

They just didn't get it. None of them did. Pregnancy wasn't an illness. She could still do her job. Had to. There was a woman dead, and it was up to her to find the killer.

The tractor pulled into a field just ahead of her and she finally moved the car into third, driving as quickly as she could down the road, following the brown-and-yellow signs. Flynn had done good work on Friday. Between the information he'd learned in the pub and the chat she'd had with the Twohy parents, they'd been able to piece together a fairly decent timeline of Miriam Twohy's final movements. Her parents had picked up her baby daughter from her house at around half past six. She had been, according to her mother, dressed and made up, ready to go out. She hadn't gone into details, but had implied she was going out with a couple of girls from school. They were to meet in one of the pubs on the south side of town. Have a pizza and a few glasses of wine. The baby was to stay over with Miriam's parents to give her a bit of freedom. Not that she expected her to stay out all night; she wasn't the type, her mother had assured Claire with a twitch of her unkempt eyebrows. But Miriam hadn't had a night away from the child since she had been born. Her mother felt she needed a break. And the reunion seemed the perfect opportunity.

But, as they now knew, there had been no reunion. Claire had gained access to Miriam's Facebook page. She hadn't needed the techy guys to help her as it was public, but it was also almost completely bare, showing little evidence of use other than a few photos of Réaltín as a much younger baby and six or seven birthday messages from a couple of months before. A friend request from Deirdre Brady, née Richmond. No contacts had made with school friends, no messages left
or details of a night out posted on her wall. It wasn't much of a digital footprint to have left behind.

Lost in thought, she approached the roundabout without warning and overshot the exit to the fast food restaurant, forcing her to drive around again. They needed to find out who the young mother had met in the bar, and why.

Miriam had lied to her mother about the purpose of the evening which was hardly a sin, or even surprising. But the barmaid's description, as reported by Flynn, sounded off to Claire. A young, good-looking woman like Miriam didn't usually go into pubs like O'Reilly's on her own, dressed for an evening out. Nor did she seem like the type to hang around waiting for a blind date that didn't show. And when the man did arrive, why was she buying drinks for him? No row, no accusation that he had left her on her own too long? Just a couple of drinks and they'd headed off together, apparently completely comfortable in each other's company.

Claire thought back to the grainy black-and-white video taken outside Merview, which had been provided by the security company. Miriam had looked fine. A little tipsy maybe, but fine. At one stage she had tossed her head back and laughed at a joke told off-camera. She had the easy, relaxed movements of a woman in her comfort zone, among friends. With a friend. But her mother insisted she had no boyfriend, her brother backed up the story and her oldest friend from college said her last email had referred to being better off alone. So who had she left with? And why?

Claire turned off the engine and sat for a moment. Brushing the rubbish off the passenger seat, she grabbed her phone and handbag and stepped out of the car. A smell of chip fat hung
in the air and she swallowed, thinking about the sandwich in the car before realising she'd have to take a piss anyway and might as well contribute to Ronald's empire while she was at it. Had she brought her purse with her? Sighing, she opened the car door again and bent down to grab her handbag. Her head swirled. She reached for the leather pouch on the floor and then stopped as black dots danced in front of her eyes. Closed her eyelids. Time for a break. Pulling the bag towards her she opened her eyes but everything was swimming now, the black dots breaking and reforming at the centre of her vision. Jesus, she was going to throw up. Nightmare. Not here, not in the car park. Clutching her purse she began to inch her way towards the restaurant door. Two minutes. Two minutes and then she'd be inside, sitting on the toilet, catching her breath. She'd just left it too long, that was all. Needed a break. A little rest, a sit down and …