But how do you get in if you mean no harm? Not anymore, anyway. I thought about ringing 999, or 111, but I can’t do it over the phone. Not after holding this secret in for so long. I need to look into someone’s eyes and admit it. If I rang, I could easily just chicken out and hang up. They’d probably take it as a prank call anyway, God knows there are enough of those. No, I need to be sat down in a room with a police officer. A red blinking light on me. Recording everything I say. No return… But how?
Mustering the courage after an elderly couple excuse themselves by breaking their link and passing around me, I slink across the road without checking traffic. Maybe it’s better if I’m run down now. An easy way out. Karma. But I glide over unharmed, although narrowly missing a black BMW within the last few steps, which honks at me, the driver gesturing out of the window. I hop onto the pavement and turn to wave my apologies, but the driver has already sped off towards the traffic lights.
Resuming my attention to the walls, I see a big black door to my right with a camera above. Presuming that’s a good place to try, I cross over and bite my lip. ‘Pedestrian gate enter here.’ But how? There’s no call button, and if there was, what would I say? What reason could I give for requesting access? Information? Confession? I’m hardly going to blurt everything out right here in the middle of the street.
I’m just about to try my hand at knocking on the door when a squeal comes from beside me. I jump and turn around to see the metal gates sliding open, revealing a police land rover crawling onto the street. The uniformed officer in the passenger seat looks out at me inquisitively before I turn and march away.
Chapter Forty-Nine:
“So, is there any more news on what has happened?”
Nuala goes to speak, before Dermott cuts in.
“May I remind you, Cathal, that there is still an ongoing investigation underway. Anything that can be made public has been, anything else could corrupt a trial, and so is being kept private at this time.”
Cathal nods, biting his pen lid.
“Anyway,” Dermott stands, “if that’s all?”
Cathal, disappointed that it’s over so soon, even though he’s got about ten pages filled with shorthand, memories of Aaron Parker and direct quotes from the family, stands and fishes out two business cards from his jacket. He hands one to Nuala and the other to Dermott.
“Please, I would love to be first contact, now you know you can trust me,” he smiles at them both.
Nuala continues to stare at the card as Dermott tucks his into his shirt pocket.
“Aye, sure thing, kid. Now, if you don’t mind…”
Cathal thanks them again for speaking with him as Dermott leads him to the door. He shakes Dermott’s hand again gratefully and crosses the driveway. When he comes out onto Church Brae, he can’t hide the huge grin on his face. He’d done it, he’d really done it. Deciding to catch the bus into the office, the worrying clouds above his head threatening to burst, he climbs the steep hill before levelling out near the hospital and waits at the bus stop, looking back over his notes.
Danielle barely spoke, but when she did they were perfect quotes. Must’ve been daddy’s girl. Michelle was helpful too, but she seems to still be at that awkward teenage stage where she hates the world, he knows all about that with Orla at home. He’s sure with all that has happened, that hasn’t helped her outlook on life much either. He’s surprised with Ritchie’s behaviour, what with being the eldest and the only boy. The new man of the house, some may say in olden style terms. Nuala had apologised and said that his father’s death had hit him hard as they were really close. She believes it to be one of the main reasons why he rarely comes home. Cathal would’ve liked to have gotten the chance to have talked to him a bit more, but he was cagey. He guesses it takes men a lot longer to open up. If they were five pints deep in a pub it might’ve been a different story.
As he pays the bus driver, he takes a window seat and continues examining his notes. Nuala was typical reporter gold. The grief-stricken widow who wanted the world to know how much she was hurting, whilst bumming her husband up as much as she could. Even when Michelle tried to badmouth him for not spending as much time at home in his later years, she had instantly come to his aid. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to meet someone like that. Would Ava ever be like that with him? Dermott was exactly as Ava had described him, although he can guarantee that he’s being kept at arm’s length.
Still, he’s so thankful for getting the exclusive, he brings out his phone to text Ava that the interview went well, when he sees he’s got an unread email. Panic rising within him, he registers that it’s the same user, and clicks on through to see it’s another picture file. It’s a photo of him taken through a window, his eyes on his notes, sitting on a bus. It’s like looking down at a live feed. Jerking up, he looks out at the street, but there are dozens of people going about their everyday lives. Shoppers with trolleys blustering in and out of TK Maxx. Teenagers talking with friends or their attentions on their phones. A woman jogging with her white earphones in, her ponytail pushed through her navy cap. It could’ve been anyone. There’s a message below the photo. Written in the text box.
‘I fucking warned you.’
Chapter Fifty:
Knocking on the door into the spare
