The Game Changer (23 page)

AFTER TALKING TO ADAM, KATE KNEW, IF SHE WAS going to manage this, panic and anxiety weren’t her friends. Adam was sending over a courier to pick up the note, so before he or she arrived, she copied the wording into one of her journals.

With at least an hour to go before she had to pick up Charlie from school, she decided to record aspects of Michael O’Neill’s death, and how, if at all, she fitted into the picture.

Pressing the record button, she began: ‘Michael O’Neill’s death can be interpreted in two ways, either as a suicide or as a death staged to look like one. If the death was caused by someone else, what do the crime-scene factors tell us? First, it is likely that there was a relationship between the killer and the victim. The exact details of the relationship are still unclear. However, to carry out this act successfully, assuming it was murder, the killer would have had to be familiar with the routine of the deceased. Access to the house would also have been a requirement. With no forced entry, the most likely means of access was via permission of the victim.’

She paused, thinking about the large sums of money withdrawn. She pressed the record button again. ‘Assuming the cash withdrawals are connected to the victim’s death, the perpetrator of the crime and the beneficiary of the funds are possibly one and the same. The missing money has prompted a suspicion of blackmail, which is backed up in a number of ways. First, the victim’s profile indicates financial prudence and sensibility. Second, all of the money was withdrawn in cash, in amounts of five thousand euros, totalling the O’Neills’ life savings. Third, the victim displayed signs of stress in the weeks preceding his death, despite his mood improving in the
later stages. Fourth, the victim was retired, and although investment couldn’t be ruled out, no records of this have been found. To date, the police have been unable to locate the missing funds.

‘Another disturbing aspect of Michael O’Neill’s death is the planting of DNA at a crime scene in New York. The victim, Tom Mason, was killed in May of this year.’

Kate stopped the recording again, and considered what Malcolm Madden had said about her father, and the two dead men, Michael O’Neill and Tom Mason, all being part of the elite group. At best, it would seem they used questionable means to study cognitive processes among minors. She leaned back in the chair, making a mental note to ask Adam if the Manhattan detective, Lee Fisher, had information about this so-called academic circle. Two dead men, she thought, of similar age, one of whom had obviously been murdered. Money unaccounted for, the planting of DNA, historical rumours about her father, a closed and suspect grouping, Kevin’s death, which had had similarities to O’Neill’s, the degradation of the garage and the missing items. Someone had been there after Kate and Ethel O’Neill had left, removing the notebooks, the hair samples and the reference to the Cronly murder case – death, secrecy, money, rumour, and a lot of question marks. Adam and Malcolm had both alluded to her inadvertently slotting things together, things that might or might not be connected. Were the notes part of all this? Whether they were or not, someone had sent them, and someone had killed that bird.

She looked up at the mind maps on the wall, including the ones she had recently created. ‘Michael O’Neill, DEAD. Subset A: cause of death – carbon monoxide poisoning. Subset B: treated as suspicious – suicide/foul play. Subset C: large amount of money missing. Subset B1: suspected blackmail.’ She added another strand: ‘Kevin, foster son, similar MO, death 1988.’ Taking a red marker from her desk, she stood up, circling ‘1988’, then creating another subset: ‘VICTIM: Michael O’Neill. Previous accusations of paedophilia.’ Then, reluctantly, she created another subset,
this time with her father’s name in it: Valentine Pearson. It was a different time, Malcolm had said. It was common knowledge that reported sex-abuse cases were handled badly in the eighties.

She went to the subset marked ‘Known Associates’, looking particularly at Malcolm Madden, making another link outwards, writing, ‘LIED to the police.’ Her gut told her to believe him, but the mind map told her to doubt. With the red marker, she underlined each element where potentially the investigation mind maps and her memory mind maps held common factors: O’Neill; his foster son, Kevin; entries about Kate in the teacher’s notebooks, Malcolm; 1988. She created a subset under the title ‘Commonality’. She noted similar-type scissors used in both the newspaper-clipping note and the pages removed from O’Neill’s notebook.

Before adding more details to the mind maps, she thought again about the newspaper article she’d found in the back of the 1988 notebook, the one about her and Adam and the Cronly trial. That had to be intentional. Was someone trying to create a mystery where none existed? She added another subset, this time including the Cronly murder investigation. Both victims were female, both pre-adolescent, the same age as Kate was when she was abducted. If someone was playing games, what did they want?

She pressed the record button. ‘Missing newspaper clipping found at the lock-up garage rented by the O’Neills, related to the Cronly trial. It depicted DI O’Connor and myself. Possible reasons why? Michael O’Neill, or someone else with access to the garage, maintained an interest in me, DI O’Connor, the murder trial, or all three. Content of article was general information about the prospective length of trial, overview of victims, the witnesses called that day, including myself and DI O’Connor.’ She hadn’t a copy of the article, but she could easily find it on the Internet. One line in it kept repeating itself in her mind. It was about the age of the victims. Going back to the mind maps, Kate made a list of items noted in the news report, underlining the age of the victims, twelve, in red, then doing the same with her mind map.

All of a sudden, the air in the room felt sparse. She stepped back, taking in the mind maps in front of her. One range had the late Michael O’Neill at the centre, the other had herself. From the short distance, another thought crossed her mind. What if neither of them was at the centre? What if she had been looking at this all wrong? What if both were merely part of a bigger picture? And if the centre was different, what was it?

SARAH HADN’T THOUGHT SHE LOOKED ON SEX AS A taboo. Since Lily’s birth, she and John hadn’t had sex. He’d made numerous approaches but had accepted her rebuttals. She’d told him she wasn’t ready. And then how could she think about sex with the loss of their daughter? Soon he’d stopped asking altogether, and not long after that, they hadn’t always slept in the same bed. The double bed they used to share felt large, cold and closer to the world Sarah knew she was creating for herself. She missed his warmth, missed knowing someone was there beside her.

Now, on the island, everything seemed brighter. She didn’t crave darkness and despair any more. Since coming here, she realised her life was no longer about having John in it. Over the last few days, she had even found it difficult to remember his face. At other times, she would wonder if he existed at all. Had she imagined him? Made him up? But she could hear his voice inside her head, telling her he wanted her to come home. She wasn’t going to do that. She was told she could send a letter, and someone would bring it to the mainland. The mobile signal was bad. It was impossible to make a call. She had tried a couple of times, and failed.

She heard a word repeating in her head. The word was
taboo
. It felt out of context. Another girl, called Amanda, was partnered with her that day. She was nice, if not particularly good-looking. She wore heavy glasses, and when she took them off, her eyes looked smaller, like tiny beads. Sarah felt bad about being so shallow and scolded herself. She tried to make a bigger effort to listen to what Amanda had to say.

The medication meant her concentration kept drifting, and she
found herself doing more looking than listening. Sarah figured Amanda had been talking for a very long time. She must have stopped paying attention ages ago. Amanda was talking about relationships, saying how ever since she’d come to the island, she was less hung up about them. She was telling Sarah that love was for sharing. Sarah nodded. It hadn’t crossed Sarah’s mind to seek out relationships. Being a mother was all-consuming, but she had heard the other women talk.

They said the medication had helped them to loosen up; they were less highly strung and intimidated. She didn’t pay much attention to them. They had their lives and she had hers. She knew that was wrong of her because things were different on the island. Everyone was family. Everyone cared. During her last session in front of the camera, she realised she was still clinging to old habits, and no one can move forward by carrying on the same as before.

Sarah had stopped listening to Amanda again, although she hadn’t seemed to notice. Amanda was talking about sex, and when she repeated the word
taboo
, it jolted Sarah out of her thoughts.

Amanda looked down at Lily, asking if Sarah ever thought about having another baby, a brother or a sister for her little girl. ‘What would be so bad,’ she continued, ‘about giving Lily a sister or a brother?’

Sarah didn’t know the answer to that, but it was okay, because Amanda filled the silence by talking even more. Sarah nodded every now and again to keep looking interested. The medication made things like that easier, and part of her didn’t mind that her brain was slowing down. It was a relief at times to be free of those constant aching questions.

She stared at Amanda, and she noticed that Amanda’s voice was separating from her face. They were cutting out shapes from old newspaper. Amanda was cutting out diamond shapes that were linked together. Sarah was cutting out shapes to make paper boats. She remembered making them when she was younger. Her mother would bring her to the park, and they would float them in the pond.
Amanda was talking about Japan now. How it used to be customary to give young people what they called a pillow book. Sarah raised her eyebrows, unsure how they’d got on to the subject of Japan. Amanda didn’t notice, telling her that the pillow books were small volumes of coloured woodblock prints showing the details of sexual intercourse.

‘A picture paints a thousand words,’ she said, as if it wasn’t a cliché. Sarah tried to remember other clichés, but she couldn’t. Not one. Her mind was stuck.

‘The pillow book,’ Amanda said, ‘saved the parents the embarrassment of explaining intimate sexual details.’

Sarah nodded again.

‘Now things are different,’ Amanda continued. ‘People can find out anything they want from any number of sources. Sex is no longer a taboo.’

Sarah registered the word. Amanda must like it because she kept saying it. Sarah repeated the word inside her head,
taboo
,
taboo
,
taboo
,
boo
,
boo
,
boo
, and she started to laugh, and Amanda asked her why she was laughing, and for no good reason, Sarah said, ‘
Boo
,’ out loud, and then she said it again, and it sounded like the funniest thing she had ever heard, so she laughed some more, and Amanda laughed too, and after a few minutes, Sarah apologised for laughing, saying she didn’t know why she had.

‘That’s okay,’ said Amanda. ‘It’s good to laugh.’ Then she told Sarah that sex shouldn’t be repressed. Having relations with multiple partners, Amanda said, was nothing more than a freedom of expression, a celebration of life, of enjoyment. ‘Don’t you agree, Sarah?’

Sarah said, ‘Yes,’ because she didn’t know what else to say, but she must have looked a little shell-shocked and unsure, because she could see that Amanda wasn’t happy with her reaction. Then Amanda’s face softened, as if she thought Sarah might be a bit slow, or like a child, someone who couldn’t grasp a full understanding of something.

‘Sex is a natural thing,’ Amanda said. ‘I love it now.’

‘Didn’t you love it before?’ Sarah asked.

‘Not really, but it’s different on the island.’

‘So much is different here.’

‘I prefer older men,’ Amanda whispered. ‘They appreciate you more.’

Sarah wondered if she would view John as an older man. He wasn’t much older than Sarah, but he looked it. She could hear the wind whistling outside.

She could see Amanda’s mouth opening and closing, but she couldn’t hear what she was saying. It was as if someone had turned the volume down. Sarah imagined John in their house. She could see him moving about, getting out of bed, going to the bathroom, brushing his teeth. He always got up before seven, even on the weekend. She tried to remember what day it was, but it was useless. She visualised John going downstairs in his dressing gown, after he’d had his shower. Then he would put the kettle on, lifting the small blind at the sink to let in the light. The kettle would be full from the night before. He would set the table for one because he was on his own now. Sarah wondered how that would make him feel. She could hear the imaginary click of the knife he would use to butter his toast, and the spoon he would use to stir one teaspoon of sugar into his tea. When he was ready, he would put the radio on, and read the newspaper he had collected on his way home from work the previous day. By seven thirty, he would be done. Then he would clear everything into the dishwasher. He would check that it was stacked properly to get the best economic value. He would fold his newspaper and bring it into the sitting room, dropping it on the coffee table, then walk back upstairs to get dressed.