Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

“She came home after that?”

“Yeah, she came home at about ten o’clock.”

“Did she call Sue this time? Did she call anybody?”

“No. She didn’t make any calls on her cell that day. And the police told me that according to Verizon that was very unusual.”

“How many calls did she make on a normal day?”

“About a dozen.”

“And none on the day she disappeared?”

“No.”

“Hmmm.”

“What does it sound like to you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, although the lack of phone calls scared me. That made it sound a bit premeditated. That boy had told her not to call anyone in case she got cold feet. It seemed to make it more likely that the boy was the agent for the kidnappers. Either that or he’d planned to run off with her, or rape her, or whatever, and then he’d found out who she was and panicked. Perhaps killed her and faked that note to throw the police off the scent.

I took a pad from the writing desk, grabbed a hotel pen.

“You better tell me details.”

“Like what?”

“For starters, everything you remember about the boy.”

“You think the boy might be involved?”

“Describe him.”

“I didn’t even really look at him. A teenager, I thought, red hair, thin.”

“Distinguishing marks, tattoos?”

“I didn’t get a good look. He came behind our table to get a salt shaker. I couldn’t see him, but Siobhan’s eyes were all over him and, well…”

“Well what?”

“I thought maybe he smelled a bit,” she said dismissively.

“What do you mean?”

“There was a smell off him, you know, a funky teenage smell.”

“What kind of a smell?”

“I don’t know, Michael, I’m not even sure it was him behind me.”

“What kind of a smell?” I insisted.

“Jesus, I don’t know, aftershave, pot, spot cream, I don’t know.”

“Pot?”

“I don’t know, Michael.”

“When was this? When did you see him?”

“On Friday morning, I took her to the Malt Shop for a pancake breakfast. She’d been there on her own the previous day to get a milk shake, and before she’d said something like ‘There’s a boy who’s always there that I like, I think he’s really cute.’”

“So she’d mentioned him several times before or just that once?”

“I’ve been so busy, Michael, she could have, but I don’t really remember.”

“That’s ok. But you saw him on Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Working there?”

“No.”

“Just hanging out?”

“Having a milk shake.”

“What was he wearing?”

“I honestly can’t recall,” she said.

“Bridget, think,” I insisted.

“I don’t remember, I didn’t pay him any attention. I had a lot on my mind. She’s too young to have crushes on boys, so I didn’t take it seriously. Maybe a black sweatshirt.”

“Anything on it? Logos? Letters?”

“I don’t know, I’m not even sure about the color. There could be a bird or something.”

“What type of bird?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

“Ok. Did she speak to the boy on the Friday?”

“No.”

“How did you know that that was the boy she’d been talking about?”

“She was looking at him and I asked her if that was the boy she thought was cute and she told me to mind my own business, but I could tell.”

“So you don’t actually know that the redheaded boy in the black sweatshirt was the one she’d been talking about.”

“She didn’t actually say it, but I think that was him.”

“And you didn’t get a good look at him?”

“Not really. I couldn’t even do a sketch for the police.”

“That’s ok. And then you perhaps smelled pot on him?”

“Maybe.”

“What is this Malt Shop?”

“It’s a place a few blocks from here. It’s one of those diners, one of those nostalgia places. It’s full of kids. There were cars outside. Siobhan went there her first day here, I think she saw an ad for it on TV. She dragged me there on Friday and we had pancakes and a couple of malted milk shakes.”

“Siobhan liked it there?”

“She really liked it, it was full of boys. She went there a few times, maybe to practice flirting or something, who knows.”

“Flirting at her age?”

“Yeah, I know. Not even a teenager yet. I shouldn’t have let her go. I’ve no excuses. I was trying to do too much in too short a time, Michael. She was bored here in the hotel and it was only a few blocks away.”

“How often did she go there on her own?”

Bridget said nothing, started to cry a little. I passed her the box of Kleenex. She took a tissue, whispered a thank-you. And again I thought this is what happened to you when you thought yourself invulnerable. When you’d been at the top too long.

“How many times did she go there in total?”

“I don’t know. The place wasn’t here the last time we were in Belfast. We went there for breakfast on Friday. She had been there on Thursday. She went back Friday afternoon. And then she went there on Saturday. Or at least she said she was going there on Saturday. The police have been there and asked questions already. No one even remembers her. I sent my boys to ask around, and they can be pretty intimidating, but no one seems to recall her or that red-haired boy. It’s a very busy place. It’s a whole scene. I suppose he wasn’t a regular either.”

“But Siobhan said she’d seen the boy a couple of times. It sounds like he was a regular there,” I suggested.

“Well, no one remembered him.”

“The cops went down there?”

“Yeah, they brought a photo of Siobhan to show around, but no one had noticed her. Michael, I’m not sure that that’s where she really went. I really have no idea.”

“Do you have another photograph of her?”

Bridget nodded.

“Could I have it, please? I’m going to need it.”

Bridget walked across the room, grabbed her handbag, took out a purse, removed a Polaroid, gave it to me. I examined the girl.

She was pretty with coppery blond hair and big green eyes. She had none of Darkey’s coloring or his pug nose. All her looks came from Bridget. Rosy cheeks and a charming, happy smile which suggested that she got the joke. In the photo she was wearing a blue dress with flowers around the collar.

“That’s from a few months ago,” Bridget said.

I nodded, shaken from my reverie.

“Is this what she was wearing when she went missing?” I asked.

Bridget smiled.

“God, no, you can never get her into anything formal. On Christmas when she visits her grandma, that’s about the only time she’ll wear a dress.”

“So what was she wearing?”

“Blue jeans and white Adidas sneakers and an Abercrombie sweat-shirt with a hood.”

“What color was the sweatshirt?”

“Bright yellow.”

“That’s good, that’s pretty distinctive,” I said, trying to give her some crumb of comfort.

“That’s what the cops said too, but they drew a blank.”

“Well, we’ll see. I’ll ask around.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly.

“Did she have any other friends or family here?”

“No.”

Bridget lit herself a cigarette, brushed the hair back from her face. I couldn’t think of any more questions. I had a lot to be going on with. I could get cracking right now. But I was reluctant to leave her. I didn’t want to go so soon after being deprived of her presence all these years.

“Is that enough?” she asked.

I nodded.

Bridget stood.

“Wait a minute, Bridget, let me ask you something.”

She turned, leaned unsteadily against a table.

“What?”

“Bridget, I’m going to do my very best to find Siobhan, but I need to know that I can trust you. I was attacked in Dublin by two men. I talked to Moran and he said it was nothing to do with him or you. Is that the truth?”