Liz Nugent - Lying in Wait

O’Toole was still in the same job. My letter of complaint had been ignored all those years ago, or maybe they were never going to take seriously a complaint from the sister of a junkie prostitute. He knew about my letter though. He smiled broadly in my face when I went to see him.

‘Well, there you are now. You just get prettier all the time.’

I smiled sweetly at him. I had gained confidence after a few months of modelling. I was prepared to use it.

‘Declan’ – I used his first name – ‘I just wanted to check if there were any further developments in my sister’s case.’

‘Do you now? As I recall, you weren’t too happy with us before. As I recall, you complained about how I made my enquiries.’

‘I know, I’m sorry, it was a difficult time. I was on edge.’

‘You sure were.’

‘I was sorry to hear that Detective Mooney died.’

That seemed to touch him, and he passed a hand over his eyes.

‘A very sad business. He was a good lad, young James.’

‘He was. I believe he had a suspect in mind for my sister’s murder?’

O’Toole leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t know about that.’

‘Yes, someone that you and he questioned.’

‘And who told you that?’

I shook my head, not prepared to give away my source.

‘That was all in Mooney’s head. He had a big imagination.’

‘I’d like to know who the suspect was. I heard he was a high-powered guy.’

‘Ah, Karen, Karen, Karen, you’ll have to stop this now. It’s been what? Five years? There was never a suspect, just a few notions.’

‘What about the car?’

‘What about it?’

‘The Jaguar car that was seen outside Annie’s flat.’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you ever track it down?’

‘No.’

‘Will you tell me what type of Jaguar it was? What colour?’

He lifted his hands in the air, in a gesture that said he was not going to help me.

‘You should never bite the hand that feeds you. You threw a drink in my face.’

My fixed smile faded now. He was enjoying this as if it was some game.

‘Fuck you.’

He laughed. ‘There’s the little ginger alley cat now, hiding behind the perfect make-up and the hairdo. You don’t look as cheap as you did, but I reckon I could still have you for less than twenty quid. High-class hooking is still hooking.’

I could hear him laughing at me as I walked away.

‘He’s dead anyway,’ he shouted at me.

I turned back. ‘Who?’

‘The fella Mooney thought had done it. Died six weeks later. So I guess you’re even.’

‘Who was it?’

He leaned back in the chair again with his hands behind his head and nodded towards his crotch. ‘That info will cost you.’

This time I kept walking until I was home and had shaken off the anger and fury I felt at our so-called justice system.

Even if he was dead, I still wanted to know the murderer’s name. At home, I went to the heap of newspaper cuttings I had kept from the time of Annie’s disappearance. Some of the reports mentioned the vintage car. I could start there. I rang the fella who serviced the vans for the dry-cleaner’s and, without giving any reasons, asked him what he knew about vintage top-end cars. Nothing, as it turned out. But he had a friend who restored them. He’d ring him and see what he could find out.

Dessie came home, wanting to know why I’d been ringing his mechanic. News travelled fast, it seemed. I told him all that had happened, though I played down O’Toole’s insults. Still, I thought Dessie would be angry too, to know that there was, or had been, a suspect. But he seemed to be pissed off by the news.

‘Sure, that’s only speculation, guesswork, like. Why can’t you just let it be? You’re not feckin’ Nancy Drew. If the cops couldn’t find him, then what makes you think you can?’

‘Because I want to know why , that’s the difference.’

‘Maybe the reason why is awful. Maybe you’re better off not knowing.’

‘I just need to find out who he was.’

‘And what are you going to do, dig him up?’

I could scarcely believe that Dessie was being so mean. How could he not understand?

‘I… I can’t just forget about Annie. There was a suspect, a possible murderer out there, who could have done it before, destroyed somebody else’s family!’

‘And he’s dead!’

‘We don’t even know that for sure. I don’t trust O’Toole. He’s an arsehole.’

‘Would you listen to yourself? You are talking about going out to track down a dead murderer. Do you know how stupid that sounds?’

That was the biggest row we had ever had. I grabbed my bag and coat and went out, slamming the door behind me. I had to tell Ma and Da. They needed to know. I rang Ma in Mayo, but her sister said she was at Mass. This wasn’t unusual. Since Annie had been taken from us, Ma had taken to churchgoing in an obsessed way, going to Mass two or three times a day and feeling guilty when she wasn’t there, praying for Annie’s return. I got the bus to Da’s place.

Da had been laid off the previous summer and was now drinking away his dole money every night. I didn’t think he was an alcoholic as such; he just went to the pub for company. He was lonely without workmates or family. He used to bring the Evening Press with him and pretend to be reading it. He was fierce ashamed of not being able to read properly. I think that’s why he was so hard on Annie when she was in school. He didn’t want her to fail the same way he had.

When there was no answer at his door, it wasn’t such a leap of the imagination to find him in Scanlon’s. He was delighted to see me, or as delighted as three pints of Guinness on a Friday afternoon would allow him to be.

‘My beautiful daughter,’ he said, throwing an arm around me. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’ he said to the barman, who nodded at me in embarrassment.

Maybe I should have waited until he was sober to tell him all that had happened. I hadn’t told either of my parents about any of the developments since Yvonne’s news about her son, but now I sat Da down at a corner table of the bar and told him all the latest information about Annie, leaving out O’Toole’s lewd suggestions about me.

Da listened to it and said nothing for a moment, but then his shoulders started to shake and his eyes watered. ‘It’s all my fault. I should have let her keep the baby, kept them safe at home.’

We were interrupted by a young fella in a corduroy jacket. I was aware that he’d been sitting at a table near us with a few others.

‘Is everything OK?’ he said gently. I was flustered, embarrassed, and Da inhaled deeply to get his sobs under control.

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘we’re fine, just some family business.’

Da put out his hand. ‘I’m sorry, we’re grand, just a personal thing. Karen, this lad works at the dole office where I sign on just up the road. What’s your name, son?’

‘Laurence,’ said the man. ‘Sorry for interrupting. I just noticed you were upset.’

I was a bit annoyed by his interrupting, but when he offered a handshake and I looked in his face, I saw genuine concern.

‘Laurence here has been very good to me, Karen. Karen is my daughter.’

‘Hi.’

‘Hi. Look, I’ll leave you to it. Sorry.’ He backed away and rejoined the table of what I assumed were his workmates.

‘I’m sorry, love, it’s just a shock. Even after all this time, I thought she might walk in here one day with that cheeky look on her face, wanting money off me. I suppose, deep down, I knew it. And O’Toole said yer man is dead? Well, that’s something, I suppose.’

When Da put it like that, I realized that O’Toole must have been telling the truth about the suspect being dead. I knew from Yvonne that if James Mooney had good reason for suspicion, he would have followed up the case himself. Mooney had only died two years ago. The suspect had been dead five years, according to O’Toole. How did he die? Where was he buried, and more importantly, if he had murdered her, where was Annie’s body?