The Doll's House

‘Thanks.’


Before picking up the second call, I think about what an arsehole Martin was last night. Val might be highly strung, but she and Dominic would have made better parents than Martin and I.

‘Ruby,’ I maintain the upbeat tone.

‘Hello, Mum.’

I can hear her hostility. She’s being standoffish. I can’t blame her. ‘Thanks for calling me back.’

‘No problem, what’s up?’ Again her words are tight, but I let it go. I was two years older than Ruby when I’d left home, at the brave age of nineteen with my big job in the bank. ‘I just wanted to know how you were.’ I want to tell her I miss her, but I don’t.

‘I’m fine, Mum. Is Dad there?’

I don’t know what time Martin left this morning. Since Ruby moved out in September, I’ve slept in her old bedroom. Something else Martin has turned a blind eye to. ‘No, sweetheart, he had to go into work.’

‘But it’s Saturday?’

I pause. ‘Ruby, I know he gave you a hard time the other night. He wants the best for you. We both do.’

‘Mum, I don’t give a shit.’

‘Well, I do.’

She doesn’t answer me, the sound of nothing loud and clear telling me it’s too late to play the supportive, protective parent. I bite my lip. Ruby misses my mother. I know that too. It makes the pain worse.

‘Ruby, I’m hoping to see someone soon, someone who’ll help me.’ I sound like I’m looking for her sympathy. I sound like a pitiful idiot. My mum hadn’t cried when I left home. She told me she had no intention of being one of those silly mothers who couldn’t bear to let their children move on.

‘How’s college, Ruby? Have you made any new friends?’

‘A few.’

‘That’s good. It would be nice to meet them – when you’re ready, of course.’

‘Listen, Mum, I’m going to be late if I don’t go soon.’

She’s giving me the brush-off.

‘But it’s Saturday, you don’t have lectures …’

‘I’ve promised to see someone. Look, Mum, I need to go.’

‘Well, you mind yourself.’

‘Whatever,’ delivered with as much couldn’t-care-less as possible.

‘I love you, sweetheart …’ But Ruby doesn’t hear me. The call ended before I started my last sentence.

I guess nobody, including Ruby, was one bit surprised when I hit the bottle again. An alcoholic likes to feel insular. I check the time. Martin will be ringing soon to check up on me. You don’t realise what you do to others when you drink. But after a while you learn to live with the fact that they can never quite trust you any more. Ever.

I ring the number Val gave me. I expect his secretary to answer, before correcting myself. People like Gerard Hayden don’t have secretaries.

‘Hello,’ I say. I can hear my own nervousness. ‘My name is Clodagh Hamilton.’ And I’ve no idea why I’m using my maiden name. ‘I got your number from my sister-in-law, Valerie Hamilton.’

‘Hello, Clodagh. Good to hear from you.’ He sounds confident. ‘I’ve been expecting your call.’





Leeson Street Bridge


Approaching Leeson Street Bridge, Kate could see more television crews setting up on the south side, a reasonable distance back from where the body had been discovered. It was a great vantage point. Close enough to ensure those viewing the broadcasts would feel part of the action. The nearer the reporters managed to get to the murder location, the better the news coverage would be received.

It hadn’t taken Kate long to decide to abandon the car. Now, walking past the stream of photographers and television crew without attracting too much attention, she saw O’Connor before he saw her. From a distance, she watched him giving instructions to everyone around him, picking up his mobile phone every few seconds to take another call. His short but unruly auburn hair and beard stubble gave him the look of a guy who didn’t get hung up on the small stuff, but his profile within the force had risen since his investigation of the Devine and Spain case. His recent promotion – he was now heading up a team at Harcourt Street – and the expectation of high media interest yet again made him the obvious choice for senior investigation officer in this case.

On seeing Kate, O’Connor began the walk over, a young male following in his wake. Mark Lynch had been in the élite National Detective Unit attached to Harcourt Street for over a year. Kate hadn’t met him before, but she took an instant liking to the lanky young detective, with his heavy dark-rimmed glasses and cropped curly black hair.

‘Mark, I want you to take Kate through absolutely everything we have so far. Every detail, no matter how small or irrelevant it might seem.’

‘Not a problem, sir.’