The Doll's House (11 page)

‘No problem. You can pick him up at five, and don’t worry, I’ll call you if they get too hot to handle.’ It was her turn to laugh.

‘Great. You have my mobile?’

‘Sure, sure. Got to go. They’re roaring for food.’

‘Good luck.’ Again Kate laughed.

‘Let’s hope I don’t need it.’ And with that Miriam hung up.

Kate decided to play the disk sent over by Mark Lynch, of Keith Jenkins’s show,
Real People, Real Lives
. Lynch had put a note in the box, advising that Johnny Keegan, one of the people on the show, had been taken in for questioning.

The first thing Kate noted about Johnny Keegan was that, physically, he fitted the description given by Grace Power of the man holding up the weakened Keith Jenkins. On the second viewing, Kate rewound the tape to before Johnny Keegan sat beside his girlfriend, Suzanne Clarke, who also happened to be the mother of his child.

Keith Jenkins is positively energised by the time the lame Johnny Keegan walks onto the set, attacking Johnny verbally even before he’s sat down. ‘Do you know what always amazes me, my friend? It’s how guys like you, with the ability to destroy people’s lives, walk out here all downbeat, with their eyes looking to the floor, as if they’re all sorry and humble.’ Johnny sits up straight in the chair, not looking at his girlfriend. Kate noted the controlled rage in Keith Jenkins’s voice when he turns to the audience, as if to get them on his side, then asks, ‘What have you to say for yourself? What have you to say to the mother of your child? Go on. Look at her. Have a good look at the woman you like to beat around the place, like she’s your personal punchbag.’

‘Nothin’. I’ve nothin’ to say.’ Then, looking at his feet, ‘I’m disgusted with myself. I can’t explain it. I don’t know what gets into me.’

‘Don’t know? Don’t know? That’s a nice easy answer.’ Then, like the seasoned professional he was, Keith Jenkins turns back to the audience, keeping the camera in view, bringing the home and studio audience with him, and continues his attack on the now shrinking Johnny Keegan. ‘Yeah, well, men like you, you’re always disgusted afterwards. Did you feel disgusted when you hit her? Did you feel disgusted then?’

‘I was drunk.’

‘That’s a reason for it, is it?’ Jenkins points to Johnny’s girlfriend. ‘Suzanne here, she’s scared of you. Do you know that?’

‘I don’t want her to be scared. I love her.’

‘What’s that? You love her? You’ve a pretty funny way of showing it, mate.’

‘Doesn’t mean it’s not true.’ His tone was quiet, but harsh.

‘Will I tell you something, mate? She might be scared of you, but I’m not, far from it.’

‘I know dat.’ Johnny sits upright again, legs stretched out and apart, shoulders back.

‘Do you know what, Johnny? Do you know what else? When I think about women, girls like little Suzanne here, I have to ask myself a question. Why can’t they see what I can see? Do you know what I see?’

‘No.’

‘I see a selfish idiot who gets his kicks from beating up defenceless women. Someone more interested in pouring alcohol down his throat than doing something to help the woman he says he’s in love with.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Isn’t it? Well, mate, tell that to your girlfriend here. Tell that to your baby son. Let’s see if he gives a damn about you when he’s older, because that, my friend, is very questionable.’

‘I told her I was sorry.’

Suzanne, who has remained silent throughout the whole interview, finally speaks: ‘But you gotta change, Johnny, for me and the baby.’

‘Do you hear her, Johnny? Are you listening? Why don’t you use some of the time you spend drinking to look after your son instead? You do remember him?’

‘I’m nervous.’ Again the young Johnny Keegan looks down to his feet.

‘Nervous? Nervous of what? Is this another handy excuse? What are you saying? That because you drink you can’t be trusted to mind him, to care for him, to do all the things fathers should do? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘In a way, yeah.’ This time he locks eyes with Keith Jenkins.

‘So, because you can’t be trusted, you don’t take any responsibility. That is convenient, isn’t it?’

‘You don’t know anythin’.’

‘Don’t I? I know you, my son, your sort, too busy beating up women to take on a real man.’

And with that, Johnny Keegan’s had enough, leaping out of the chair, attempting to land a blow on Keith Jenkins’s face, before being pulled back by two mules dressed from head to toe in black.

As they drag Johnny Keegan off the set, Keith Jenkins kneels beside the now distraught Suzanne Clarke, putting his arms around her shoulders for a number of seconds, before standing up again. Turning to the television camera, he fixes his tie back neatly into the collar of his shirt, saying, ‘We’ll take an interval here, folks, but don’t go anywhere – Keith Jenkins,
Real People, Real Lives
.’

Kate watched the final ten minutes of the recording, covering an interview with a woman who had had numerous extra-marital affairs, an interaction that reaffirmed some solid views that were forming in her mind about Keith Jenkins. He was no shrinking violet, and if he lived aspects of his life in a similar manner to his screen persona, then he must have picked up a lot of enemies along the way. If the rumours about him and women were true, then judging by how he’d attacked the last victim on the show,
vis-à-vis
her extra-marital affairs, then the old adage that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones was not a concept the late celebrity had lived by.

The media would be jumping all over his family soon enough, not initially to dish any dirt – it was still a little early for that – but to empathise with the wife and kids left without their model
husband and father. When it came to dissecting these stories for entertainment value, it was to be expected that the media would operate like a circus, one act following another. But one thing was for certain. Once the initial hype and sadness were over, the media would ultimately turn, and every single negative aspect of Keith Jenkins’s life would be there for the taking.

Yesterday I had decided against taking a taxi home. It was a long walk, but I reached the strand faster than I expected. With the tide out, the beach stretched for miles. Instead of turning away from the strand and heading home, I kept walking towards the red-and-white chimneys of Sandymount. The calmness I’d felt with Gerard Hayden was gone. I knew something had changed inside me. There were questions to be answered.

In Mum’s final hours she was delirious with morphine, but she still had moments of lucidity. ‘Don’t blame your dad,’ she’d whispered to Dominic.

He’d thought I couldn’t hear her, but I had grown accustomed to the low voice. ‘I don’t,’ he whispered, the two of them holding hands like lovers.

To hell with them both, fuck them and their little secrets. Dominic shut me out, like he’s always done, telling me it wasn’t important. I felt like the outsider, and I hated her more than him for that.

Under the hypnosis, I’d talked about my old doll, Sandy. I have a fleeting memory of holding her in my arms, sitting with my back against my bedroom door, trying to keep it shut. Since Mum’s death, other memories have seeped through. Images, smells and feelings I had forgotten. The smell of nicotine in my bedroom when my father came in to say goodnight; sitting at the top of the stairs with Dominic, his arms wrapped around me, telling me everything will be okay. I can’t place the time, or work out why I’m crying, but for some reason I keep seeing my mother fixing her face in the hall mirror, lifting her right hand up to settle her hair, a turn, an extra-long glance towards can
me, then walking away without saying goodbye, as if she hated me. I want to catch her image before the mirror wipes it clear, before the woman who used to smile disappears all over again.

For the briefest moment, I wonder should I tell Martin about Gerard Hayden. I haven’t told him about the row between Dominic and me either. The one after Mum died. Or how during my time in rehab I became more and more convinced that there was some darkness in my past, something I needed to face up to. He’ll think I’m making excuses for being an alcoholic, dismiss me as nuts, or both. And maybe he’d be right.

Gerard Hayden told me my subconscious mind would protect me. It wouldn’t bring me to a place of harm. I’ve made another appointment for tomorrow. Next time the regression will be different. Next time I’ll be going back to that gaping hole in my memory. Gerard says all memory is kept intact by our subconscious. I hope he’s right, and that my years of drinking haven’t messed the whole bloody thing up.

While on the strand, I’d wondered why Dominic and I had both chosen to live in houses only a stone’s throw from Seacrest. Martin wouldn’t hear of living anywhere but Sandymount. ‘Better an area you know than one you don’t.’ Maybe fucked-up familiar was strangely safe for us all.

Mark Lynch phoned Kate after the Sunday-afternoon briefing. Morrison wouldn’t have any test results from the lab until Monday at the earliest, but it was something he said about the blood deposits on the canal ledge that caused Kate to pause.

‘Hold on a second, Mark. I want to take another look at the photographs in my study.’

‘Okay.’

She looked at the images from the wider viewpoint. ‘Mark, the low concrete wall running the length of the canal on either side, it links the two bridges together. You say Sarah Walsh picked up the blood deposits on the inner ledge. From here it looks about six foot long.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Long enough to rest a body.’

‘That’s the theory. He used the ledge to assist the drowning.’

‘We can assume the ledge formed part of the original canal structure.’

‘I suppose.’

‘But I can only see one ledge, and I’m looking at a full view from one bridge to the next.’

‘So?’

‘The ledge is parallel to where the tyre markings were found. The killer knew the exact point he wanted to stop at. He picked the location beforehand, even before the stabbing. The canal was his final destination.’

‘Meaning?’

‘That from the outset he wanted Keith Jenkins to die by drowning.’

‘Kate, they’re all screaming for your preliminary report.’

‘You’ll have it after I get the autopsy results. Tell O’Connor he should know better than to think these things can be rushed.’

‘It’s not only O’Connor.’

‘Well, he’s my link.’

‘I’ll pass on the message.’

‘And the missing wedding ring. Did Morrison confirm his earlier views that the finger indentation meant it was routinely worn?’

‘He did.’

Hanging up, Kate heard the Rathmines town-hall clock chime. She wondered again about Declan not being in touch. Maybe he was waiting for her to make the first call. Checking the signal on her mobile phone, she pressed ‘contacts’ and rang his number. As she did, it struck her that she hadn’t thought about what to say to him. They would probably talk about Charlie, keeping it nice and civil. She would ask him about work, and he would do the same, both of them pretending that everything was fine. It was easier to bury your head in the sand from a distance. But what they weren’t saying to each other was far more important than what they were. Judging by their last conversation, neither of them was prepared to move past simple pleasantries, keeping everything on safe ground.

Kate allowed the phone ring six times before hanging up. It wasn’t like Declan not to be in touch, so instead of leaving a message, she texted two words,
Ring me
, her mind turning back to Keith Jenkins’s murder.

The risk of the killer being seen was high, although his use of the ledge to facilitate the murder also meant he’d wanted to get in and out of the area quickly. The images from the study wall were still in her head: Keith Jenkins’s floating body, his brown hair, the dark shade of a female blackbird, swaying like seaweed in the icy waters. As a child, she had picked up a near-dead female blackbird from
the side of the road. Her mother had said it was cruel to let the bird suffer. The beady eyes had stared at Kate, one female to another. She never found out what had happened to it. Her father had probably dealt with it. Even now, passing that spot on the road, she thinks about the blackbird, the worn-out eyes, beating chest, and the feel of bloodied feathers in her hands as she carried it home to what had been certain death. Thinking about the murder location, she knew place was always important. People and places come together for a reason. If the canal was chosen, could that particular stretch be of significance to the killer? And what was the thinking behind Keith Jenkins dying in that way?

Murder was full of secrets. Why had it happened? Who knew about it? Were there crimes within the crime? Nothing operates in isolation. Everything had connections, small or large.

Kate went back into the study, staring again at the images on the wall. She thought about how often the answers were not in what you saw but in what you couldn’t see. The wedding band: it being missing was significant, but was anything else missing? According to O’Connor, everything else was intact. None of the victim’s clothing, other than his scarf, which could have been lost anywhere, had been removed. Even his shoes had remained on his feet. Kate nearly missed hearing her mobile phone ringing in the other room, but she got to it in time to catch O’Connor, knocking her leg off the side of the couch in her effort to get there fast. Ever since their meeting at the canal, with Mark Lynch appointed as the official go-between, she had figured her contact with O’Connor would be less direct. On answering the call, she registered the sharpness in her own voice, which was less about her throbbing leg and more about their new communication set-up.

‘You sound frazzled, Kate.’

‘Me? No, I’m fine.’

‘I hear the killer’s objective from the start was to drown Keith Jenkins.’

‘It’s looking like that.’ Kate sat down, rubbing the side of her shin to ease the pain.

‘What’s your theory on why the killer chose the canal? He could have drowned the bastard in a bath – no witnesses. It would have saved him a whole lot of bother.’