Can Anybody Help Me? (27 page)

Yvonne hadn't even realised he'd known the nurse's name. But Gerry was a man on a mission now. His wife needed a break and he was going to give her one whether she liked it or not.

In a way, Yvonne agreed with both of them. She did need a break, a break from being nagged and questioned and told to go to classes she had no interest in. And a break from being a single mother. It would be nice to have a husband, not a shadowy figure who tiptoed up the stairs at 2 a.m. and was frequently gone before she was fully awake. It would be nice to have a shower without keeping one foot extended out of the shower tray, to rock the baby in the bouncer. And it would be nice to be brought breakfast in bed on a Saturday, and listen to the sound of her husband doing housework downstairs maybe, instead of hearing frantic calls from pissed-off press officers booming through the ceiling.

But Gerry didn't see any of those things. Instead, he heard Veronica saying his wife needed sleep, and sleep he decided to give her. And since he didn't have the ‘equipment' – he accompanied the phrase with an eyebrow raise, and the nurse smiled approvingly – to take over the night feeds, well, then Róisín would have to get used to the next best option. After all, most babies were on bottles by six months, weren't
they? And sleeping through. And wasn't there some study that said all the goodness of breastfeeding was done by then anyway?

Yvonne had sat and listened and tried to remember the facts and figures she had read on the internet. But her head was too fuzzy. Someone had stuffed cotton wool in there and the voices of Veronica and Gerry were coming from far away. They were talking to her and it was all she could do to nod and pretend she was listening to them. Arguing back was out of the question. Besides, they were probably right. She probably was spending too much time with the baby. Róisín had been fussing a lot at night anyway; sometimes she didn't think she had enough milk for her anymore. Just another way in which she was failing. So she had nodded and smiled and made vaguely appreciative noises when Gerry went out that evening – that very evening! Turned out Teevan could spare him after all – and bought a new steriliser, a top-of-the-range machine and bottles, he said, had been designed in America by a paediatrician. And she had nodded and smiled when he had put her to bed, said that he was in charge now and that he'd see her in the morning.

And she had slept. Deeply, dreamlessly. And now it was fresh-air time. Gerry had gone into work on the previous Saturday but Not This Week, he'd told her in bright cheery capital letters, when Yvonne had finally woken and found her small family downstairs making pancakes in a cloud of flour and smoke. Today they would all get some Fresh Air. Once again she found it easier not to argue. Besides, she was still tired. It seemed churlish to admit it. After all, she'd had eight hours straight. The Holy Grail. The ‘stretch' of sleep
most of the Netmammies would have traded a Lotto win for. But she still felt woozy, and worn out. Maybe it was a cumulative thing. Maybe her body had got used to no rest, and was in shock now. So she nodded yes to the park, yes to everything. And when he stared at her too closely and said ‘you're not just going along with this to keep me happy, are you? You do have an opinion, don't you?' she had been so eager to keep the peace and not to have to think, that she searched her memory and gave him the name of a park, and a time, that would do just fine. St Stephen's Green, in Dublin city centre. The Netmammies were meeting there at two, she realised when they were on their way. That was why it had come so quickly to mind. For a while, she had considered meeting up with them. Putting faces to names. Maybe making some real friends. But that was all too much to think about today.

In the beginning, it had all been quite pleasant. Gerry had insisted on wheeling the buggy and she had to admit he looked like an ad for one of the posh pram shops, striding along on his long, jean-clad legs, the baby gurgling up at him, entranced by the shards of light that were beaming through the hedges at the side of the path. It was a beautiful day for it. For them, and for the Netmammies, who she quickly spotted in a large group by the front gate.

They were sitting on an expanse of grass, far enough away from the duck pond for toddlers to be allowed a small amount of freedom. Picnic blankets and buggies marked their territory. As she walked around the park, trailing in Gerry's wake, she considered joining them and introducing herself as LondonMum. But the closer she got to them, the more impossible
that seemed. Just like the yoga women, they all seemed to know what they were doing.

The ones with young babies had them lying down on rugs, their feet kicking into the air, faces hidden by hats which were all perfectly tied in place and gave shelter from the unseasonably warm sun. The women with older children were more impressive still. All of them seemed to be able to do three things or more at once, peel a banana, wipe a nose, apply sun-cream, while chatting brightly to their neighbour. No, Yvonne didn't belong there. But it was nice to watch them. Nice to figure out who Della might be, and if CaraMia was the one in the long trailing scarf and if the bleached-blonde woman in the corner, looking slightly ill at ease was TAKETHATFAN, perhaps regretting the outing but determined to brazen it out anyway.

So when Gerry suggested she take a rest, it seemed logical to base herself near them, not close enough to hear what they were saying, but near enough to take a sneaky glance at the faces, figure out who was who.

Gerry had even brought a blanket. He was SuperDad today. It seemed there was nothing he hadn't thought of. A bottle of water. A hat for Róisín. Suncream. The baby was getting cranky now, overstimulated. She reached out of the pram, whining for her mother. But Gerry had a better idea. You get some rest, he told her. We'll keep walking. She'll drift off in the buggy. We'll be back soon. The nurse had mentioned to him that it was time for Róisín to learn how to fall asleep without Yvonne. Why not start now?

It was nice not to have to think. So Yvonne didn't bother. She lay down on the blanket, zipped up her cardigan and
closed her eyes as the clouds rolled back and a shaft of sun, real summer sun blazed down on her. Warmth. Peace. It was beautiful. A toddler kicked a ball towards her and ran over to reclaim it. His mother came near, rescued it and apologised. No matter. Not a problem. She closed her eyes. The chatter of the Netmammies was rising now, drifting towards her on a heat wave. She couldn't pick out words. But the murmuring was soothing.

Really, they were making the whole thing far too easy. It wasn't enough to advertise their little gathering on the internet, right there in public so that anyone could read it, they had to position themselves by the front gate of the park, positively inviting attention
.

It would be rude not to take a closer look
.

Meet in a public place. That was one of the main rules of the internet, wasn't it? Meet in a public place. Safety in numbers
.

What they didn't realise was that the numbers gave him safety too
.

No one noticed one extra person in the crowd
.

The one with the messy hair, piled up on top of her head had to be Meredith. Someone probably told her once she looked like the TV star. She didn't. She was far fatter for a start. And the thin bleached-blonde sitting on the edge of the gathering who was feeding her child a packet of crisps had to be TAKETHATFAN. The others looked at the snack like it was poison. They preferred to fill their kids full of dried fruit, pebbles of pure sugar that just happened to have Organic written on the recycled cardboard box
.

God, they were so predictable! He had only been walking among them for a couple of months but already he knew everything about them. Their lives. Their hopes. And their complaints
.

They never stopped complaining. Which helped him to do what he had to
.

‘
Hi!! You sit over there … oh what a gorgeous baby. Maybe in the shade? Yeah, I have that changing bag too. Mad, the price of it but sooo worth it. I didn't tell himself of course!!!
'

Their public voices were the same as the ones they used online. Too jolly, too enthusiastic. They pretended to want to hear what the others had to say, but really they were only biding their time before they could come back in with a louder and conflicting opinion. Sweetened with a giggle. Or a LOL
.

‘
Suncream is so expensive, isn't it? My lad can only tolerate the organic brands. Will you get away at all this year? Just not the same with the children, of course. All that dashing around
.'

They did so love to whinge
.

FarmersWife had whinged, struggled and then begged for her life in the end. For her children, she kept saying, in a frantic effort to change his mind. Bullshit. If she was that concerned about them, then she wouldn't have spent so much time complaining. If she loved her life that much then maybe she wouldn't have had so much time to be nosy, and to interfere in what he was doing. She brought it on herself, and she realised it, at the end
.

MyBabba hadn't been so vocal. She'd kicked out at him though, which made killing her easier. It wasn't right, to kick a man like that. Had he planned her death? He wasn't sure. It had just kind of … happened. And had worked out for the best in the end
.

And there would be a number three. He knew that now
.

Here in the park, a pair of sunglasses allowed him to observe for as long as he wanted. And online, they didn't suspect a thing
.

They were getting noisier now. Look at me; listen to me, my views are important. I am important
.

No, you're not
.

‘Do you think he'll be smaller than he looks on the TV? They say they usually look smaller. Do you watch it? My dad thinks he's AMAZING, he's always going on about him. My mum hates him, she goes to bed rather than watch him, but my dad is always coming out with Eamonn Teevan said this that and the other. God, he'd go mad if he thought I was going to meet him.'

Good Lord. Philip Flynn indicated left and wondered if Garda Siobhan O'Doheny came with a volume button. He didn't need her to shut up entirely. Just tone it down a bit.

Following the signs for the quays, he glanced down at the speed and brought the car back down to the edge of the limit. They were travelling in an unmarked car and there was no need to draw undue attention to themselves. Not that he'd speed anyway, even if they were in a squad car. He hated that, seeing lads driving along the hard shoulder or with their mobile phones sewn to their ears just because there was no one out there to stop them. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair on other drivers who were doing the right thing. Philip Flynn was a great believer in fairness.

In the passenger seat, O'Doheny was still yammering away.

‘Unless we end up picking him up, of course. Imagine! That'd
be huge, if he had something to do with it. But that's hardly likely, is it? Remind me again why we're going out to talk to him? Because he, like, knew her or something?'

It was a good question and Flynn used a particularly difficult junction as an excuse not to answer it. The fact of the matter was, the idea to call out to Ireland 24 and interview Eamonn Teevan had been Boyle's, and Boyle's alone. It had been in Flynn's diary for days and had remained there when she was taken off active duty. Technically, he should have run it past Byrne now that he was the lead officer on the case. But Byrne hadn't asked and Flynn had decided not to tell him.

The night she disappeared, Miriam Twohy had told her parents she was meeting up with old school friends. It now looked likely that she had been lying. Miriam Twohy hadn't kept in touch with friends from school, and didn't seem to have made any in the workplace either. Her time in UCD seemed to have been the busiest of her life, and Boyle had a bit of a bee in her bonnet about the people Miriam had known there. Flynn didn't totally understand it, but he respected the sergeant and it wasn't like they were falling down with people to interview anyway. In fact, since the whole apartment fiasco, they were back in the square behind one and at a loss where to go next. So if Boyle wanted him to take a day trip to visit Ireland's newest and biggest television star, then he was willing to give it a go.

O'Doheny was still talking.

‘… used to listen to him on the radio all the time, but he's way better on television. Like yer man Jeremy Kyle, only better. More intelligent. He's very good-looking as well …'

Flynn sighed. Most of the lads in the station would give a day's pay to be stuck in a traffic jam with O'Doheny, whom
he'd once heard described as a blonde Angelina Jolie with a bit more meat on her bones. But she wasn't his type and her chatter was, not to put too fine a point on it, starting to drive him insane. At last, the turn off. She'd have to stop talking now.

‘It doesn't look like a television station, does it? I was expecting something way bigger. There's no cameras or anything. Didn't you think there'd be cameras?'

Or possibly not. O'Doheny was still babbling as they drove into an industrial estate in the city's docklands. They followed a sign marked Ireland 24, waved on by a bored-looking security man in his dusty booth to a sign saying ‘Visitor Parking'. She was still talking as Flynn lined the car up neatly between two white lines and displayed his visitor's badge prominently on the windscreen. He had to admit, though, she had a point. The place could have been any old office really. The only thing that distinguished it was a van parked outside the main reception door, which had a dish on top that looked like a bigger version of ones you'd stick on your house at home. But the lad standing outside it, with the fag stuck between his thumb and forefinger, didn't look glamorous at all.

O'Doheny finally fell silent as they walked through the double doors that led to the reception area. And almost immediately, the atmosphere changed. The place felt like an upmarket lawyers' office, or a doctor's waiting area. A consultant, not a GP. The space was large and airy, a couple of grey couches arranged around a water fountain at one end and a large leather reception desk at the other. Photographs lined the walls, most of them featuring Eamonn Teevan smiling broadly beside politicians, artists and TV stars. Flynn could sense O'Doheny's eagerness to walk over and take a closer look, but
she restrained herself, remaining silent and straight-backed as they walked towards the desk, which was presided over by a glamorous brunette who looked like she should be on television herself.