One Bad Turn Read online

‘Your Docs are amazing. Did you get them at the back of the ILAC?’

  She’d never actually visited the stalls at the back of one of Dublin’s newest shopping centres, but Mary B’s big sister had told them it was the only place in town to buy genuine DMs.

  Heather blinked again, refocused.

  ‘My dad got them for me in London.’

  A second passed and then she smiled.

  ‘But I’ve heard the ILAC is the best place to get them in Dublin. I’m going to go in some Saturday to have a proper look.’

  Eileen grinned shyly.

  ‘I’d love a pair. My mam hates them, but I think I can work on her. Maybe I could come with you some time.’

  ‘That’d be cool.’

  They waited another second, then turned to where Heather’s mother was still standing by the table, ladle in hand. ‘I’d love to try some of the curry, Mrs Sterling,’ Eileen said. ‘It smells delicious.’

  Deprived of her victims, Arlette’s giggles faded. After a moment, a buzz of normal conversation began. As Eileen bit into a poppadum – it was a bit like a crisp, only nicer – she could hear the girls talking about normal things. Ciara’s shoes, Helen’s dress, and who out of the other sixth class had been suspended for smoking. Then Evelyn Roche, who went to Spain every year on her holidays, picked up a bowl and told Mrs Sterling she’d love some curry, thanks, it was her favourite. When they’d all tried some, Heather looked at Eileen, and smiled. She didn’t say anything. But Eileen felt as if she had jumped from that edge and landed on the right side.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘Aren’t you glad to see me, Heather? Don’t say you’ve forgotten me, now. That’d be very rude of you altogether.’

  Through the thin plywood door, Claire heard another slap, then the sound of the doctor moaning softly. She stretched out her hand and then came another, even more terrifying sound – that of the key being turned in the door just under her hand.

  ‘Just making sure we won’t be disturbed.’

  Shit.

  Frozen at the end of the small corridor, Claire stared at the door in disbelief. The intruder, whoever she was, had clearly made the same mistake as Claire had, assuming that the door at the back of the surgery led to the outside world. And now she had lost any chance of bringing this bizarre situation to a fast conclusion.

  The intruder spoke again.

  ‘You’re not expecting anyone – are you? You close at one o’clock – it’s all on your website. I looked it up.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  The doctor’s voice was steady and clear now. In fact, Claire thought, as the intruder spoke again, she was the calmer of the two women.

  ‘So it’s just us, then?’

  ‘That’s right, Eileen. I’m not expecting anyone.’

  Okay, thought Claire. That’s bought me a few minutes. The sound of another slap drove all other thoughts from her mind.

  ‘I suppose you know why I’m here?’

  A pause, then another blow fell.

  ‘DON’T YOU?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose I do. Yes.’

  The doctor must be used to hiding her feelings, Claire realized. Her surgery probably played host to drama on a daily basis, news of imminent births, delivery of test results that gave the recipient the last answer they wanted. But nothing like this before.

  ‘You suppose you do? You suppose . . .’

  The intruder’s voice rose to a screech and the doctor grunted as another blow fell.

  ‘I assume – I assume you’re here because of your son.’

  Another slap.

  ‘His name was Alan. Say it! Alan. His name was Alan.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eileen. Yes. Alan.’

  The doctor’s voice shook on the last word, but Claire could hear that, for the most part, she was managing to control the worst of her fear. She could have done with some of that composure herself, she thought, and forced herself to take a long, silent breath. Think, Boyle, think. Her cop’s instinct told her to find something to ram the door, tackle the intruder, take charge of the situation. Of course it did. But it wasn’t all about her today. She looked back into the toilet, at the buggy, wedged beside a folded changing table. Today she had somebody else to worry about. Not just anyone. The most important person in her world.

  Outside in the surgery the women had fallen silent. Claire reached out and slowly, silently placed her hand on the dividing door. It would be impossible to break the door down without attracting immediate attention. And the intruder had a gun. Claire would have to confront her, of course. But not just yet. Not until she had figured out exactly what she should do.

  ‘Why don’t we just sit over here for a moment?’

  Dr Heather Gilmore was using every ounce of her professional composure now. It was the tone she had used on Claire less than twenty minutes previously.

  But the intruder’s voice rose to a shriek.

  ‘This is loaded, you know! And don’t think I wouldn’t use it because I would! I would and I’d have every right to!’

  This time Claire had to strain to hear the doctor’s response.

  ‘I know you would. I believe you. I just thought we could sit down for a moment. So you can tell me what’s going on – what you need.’

  A pause, then Claire heard a chair creak. She shut her eyes. Think. Think. She doesn’t know you’re here. Will she find you? She opened her eyes again and looked back into the toilet at the buggy, the brightly coloured bag hanging from its handles. Other than the briefcase she used for work, Claire had given up carrying a handbag months ago. Everything she needed on her non-working days was in that bag, from nappies and sippy cups to her own wallet and the latest edition of Vogue, which she’d been carrying around for days, waiting for the opportunity to read it. Given that she hadn’t worn a jacket that morning, its presence meant that she’d left nothing in the surgery. The woman – Eileen, the doctor had called her – would have no idea she was there. Surely that gave Claire an advantage. But what was she supposed to do with it? The most obvious solution was for her to break down the door, overpower the woman and grab the gun. She was a professional police officer, after all. That was what she was trained to do.

  But even if she managed to open the door, what would be waiting for her on the other side? What if – Claire’s heart leaped in her chest – what if the woman shot at her? What if she shot at her and missed and the bullet went past and hit the buggy and . . . Her mind began to shut down. Breathless, she walked back into the toilet and pressed her hands onto the coolness of the sink, willing herself to stay calm. She had to do what she was trained to do. But, oh, Anna. She had to consider her baby too.

  Her phone was at home. Claire turned and pressed her back against the sink, feeling the hard enamel cold through the thin material of her blouse. She could see it, exactly where she’d left it, charging on the counter in the kitchen. It had run down to less than 10 per cent overnight and she hadn’t seen the point of bringing it with her. It was just a quick run to the doctor’s, she’d decided. She wouldn’t be gone long.

  But that wasn’t the whole truth, was it? Raising her fingers to her temples, Claire stared at a brown stain on the tiled floor. She had deliberately let the phone run down, had used the battery as an excuse not to bring it with her. Her conversation with the doctor was unlikely to be straightforward and she had promised herself space, and silence afterwards, to think about what she wanted to do next. She had craved an hour alone, just an hour to think and reflect. Had wanted an excuse not to speak to anyone – to Matt – for one bloody hour. She had planned every moment. After she’d finished talking to the doctor, she would walk to a café. The baby would stay asleep and she would just sit still. Stare ahead at a cheap picture on the wall, sip coffee and let her thoughts swirl. Think of nothing in general and one thing in particular. She needed that hour so badly. Just an
hour to sit still and think, make a decision and a plan.

  Well, plan this, sweetheart.

  She stared at the stain until it swam in front of her. To think that when she’d got up that morning she’d imagined she had problems. If only . . .

  The baby gave a shudder and Claire’s heartbeat paused. She held her breath. Nothing else in the world existed . . . until her daughter exhaled and her deep, regular breathing began again. She was still asleep, thank God. But for how long? Quickly, Claire began to run through the day in her mind, her thoughts a grotesque parody of the baby books Matt had once been addicted to. Anna had had breakfast at eight and a bottle at eleven, had fallen asleep just after half past twelve. It was, what, ten past one now? She’d sleep for another twenty minutes maybe, no more. Would need a nappy change by two. Did that give her mother time to disarm a lunatic? She didn’t think Gina Ford covered that particular scenario. Could she make an arrest and still have her baby at home in time for fruit purée and yoghurt at three? Claire felt a hysterical giggle boil in her stomach and forced herself to calm down. This wasn’t helping.

  You have to focus now. You are all she has.

  She tore her eyes from the floor, glanced around the room and, almost instantly, regretted it. Fifteen years ago, Claire had gone on her one and only sun holiday, to Egypt, with a group of girls from her class in Templemore. It had been a last-minute thing: somebody’s cousin couldn’t make it and there was a half-price ticket on offer if she could say yes there and then. The first few days had been quite pleasant. The hotel was lovely and she’d brought a stack of books and a personal CD player to avoid the endless poolside conversations about who in their class was shagging whom. And then, on day four, one of the girls, a tall broad-shouldered woman from Kilkenny who had been ostentatiously reading her guide book over dinner every night, insisted they leave the pool for the day and ‘do’ the Pyramids. The following morning, dazed by heat and the early start, Claire was standing in the queue at the site just outside Cairo when she realized what ‘doing’ the Pyramids actually meant.

  The passageway into the ancient tomb was less than half her height and she had been forced to bend over and walk sideways to go in. In almost forty-degree heat she had been trapped between her friend’s arse, just inches from her face, and a German tourist who was huffing and puffing close behind. The smell of sun lotion and Teutonic breath filled her nostrils and, after a couple of steps, Claire knew she was about to have her first panic attack, thousands of miles from home and hundreds of feet underground.

  Even when she reached the end of the passageway there was no relief as the tunnel opened out into an equally airless underground chamber. As an Egyptian student guide spoke eloquently about drawings, Claire had found herself taking increasingly shallow breaths, unable to think about anything other than thousands of years of dead air and the tons of rock between herself and freedom. Finally, ignoring the guide’s instruction that the passageway should be kept clear for the next group, she’d pushed her way out of the crowd and back up towards the air, elbowing fellow tourists in the face while she made her escape. When she’d finally emerged into the hot sun her heart had been hammering, tears rolling down her face. The other girls had found her an hour later, sitting in the shade of their tour bus, sucking down a cigarette she’d bummed from the driver and swearing never to go further than Ballybunion on holiday again.

  She had suffered from claustrophobia ever since. It wasn’t something she made a big deal of, but she had to take it into account every day, walking up the stairs rather than using the lift, avoiding public transport at busy times. And now here she was. Stuck in a room so small she could touch the sides with her outstretched arms, a lunatic with a gun outside the door and her daughter locked in with her.

  Such a small room. Her heart hammering, Claire looked around again. The toilet area was two metres long and maybe three wide. Four walls, no window – her heart thudded almost audibly and once more she forced herself to ignore the panic. There was a folded changing table on one wall, with Anna’s buggy wedged in beside it, and a large, low, disabled toilet with a grab rail to one side was fixed to the other. Claire’s mind skittered. Could she pull the rail away from the wall? Use it as a weapon? But no, that would be crazy, she’d make too much noise for starters, she’d be discovered before she’d ever have time to pull it free. But what else had she? The low sink, with large paddles on the taps. A narrow grey plastic sanitary bin and a wider one for nappies. That was it, that was all she had.

  A voice came through to her from the surgery.

  ‘I want you to understand what I’ve been going through. I want you to feel every inch of the pain. Of my pain.’

  The doctor’s voice was less calm now.

  ‘Why don’t you put that gun down and we can talk?’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘His name was Alan. Say his name. Say his name.’

  ‘Alan.’

  Another slap.

  ‘Say his name. My beautiful boy had a name.’

  No windows, but no light switch either. The room was lit from above. Claire looked up and saw the small skylight, at least three metres above her head. Think, woman, think. You have only minutes. Move.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘You’re only a prick.’

  Oh, fantastic. Philip Flynn looked up from his phone and took a glance at the man who was standing in front of him in the queue. There were no other customers in the small, cluttered off-licence and the door to the shop was closed. Only partially conscious of what he was doing, Flynn changed his stance, straightening his shoulders, leaning forward slightly on the balls of his feet. Making sure his weight was evenly distributed, just in case.

  ‘There’s no need for that type of language.’

  The young man behind the counter swallowed, his Adam’s apple prominent on his skinny neck. His voice was high-pitched but steady. Flynn had to admire his balls, but feared his response would only make the situation worse.

  ‘What did you say to me, ya Paki fucker?’

  Yep. Way worse.

  The customer shoved his face across the thin wooden counter and the shop assistant recoiled. Even standing behind him, Flynn could smell the stale beer and fresh onions on his breath and could only imagine how nasty it would be if you were directly in the line of fire. A drop of sweat broke out on the assistant’s forehead. He was young – around twenty-five, Flynn reckoned – with narrow forearms sticking out of his short-sleeved shirt. Flynn wondered how long he had been in Ireland and if, right now, he felt the emigrant experience was worth it.

  The disgruntled customer spoke again, this time jabbing his finger to within an inch of the young man’s chest.

  ‘You’ve no right to speak to me like that. I am a customer. I’m always bleedin’ right, you get me?’

  The assistant coughed, then half turned towards a yellowing, hand-written sign pinned to a cigarette machine on the wall behind him. Management has the right to refuse . . .

  ‘Sir, I can’t sell you alcohol if you’ve already been drinking.’

  ‘For Jaysus’ sake.’

  The drunk turned, looking into the body of the shop for support, but there was no one other than Flynn, who returned his gaze as neutrally as possible.

  ‘And what do you think you’re looking at, ya queer?’

  Seriously? Flynn pondered this for a moment, then smothered a smile. He’d told Diarmaid the T-shirt wasn’t the type of thing he usually wore, but his boyfriend – it still sounded strange to call him that, but six months into the relationship they needed some sort of label and ‘partner’ made Flynn feel like they were about to open a vegan café together – had insisted it suited him. It was just a bloody black T-shirt, for God’s sake. Bit more fitted than he’d usually wear, maybe, but hardly a rainbow flag. Then again, maybe the cheeky Pinot Grigio he was holdin
g in his hand had been the giveaway. Diarmaid was cooking fish later . . .

  The drunk gave a phlegmy, rattly cough and Flynn’s mind came back into the room, his hand slipping to the back pocket of his jeans where his warrant card was wedged. Just in case.

  But the customer, it seemed, was about to try a different approach. He pulled back from the counter slightly and lowered his voice.

  ‘Look, son. I just need a naggin, it’s no big deal. I’m in here all the time, your boss knows me. I have the money, look.’

  He reached into his pocket and then, with a trembling hand, threw a handful of coins onto the small laminated counter. He delved deeper still and emerged with a filthy five-euro note.

  ‘It’s all there – you can check it.’

  The shop assistant swallowed again, then looked at the money and back at the customer. Took in what Flynn had already noted. The fluffy sandy hair that could have belonged to a man in his early thirties. The lined, over-tanned skin more suited to a man twenty years older. The shake in the hand that implied this bender was well into day three. The desperation on his face that indicated it had some time left to run.

  Christ, it was warm. Flynn took a quick look over his shoulder, but there was no one to be seen on the pavement outside. He wouldn’t usually be there himself at that time of the day – he was due in work at two. But he’d been on his way home from the gym and a quick stop at the local off-licence had seemed a better alternative to facing the queues at the supermarket across the road. Not one of his better decisions, it seemed. Hopefully the goon would calm down, get what he wanted or both in the next few minutes, and they could all go about their business.

  He glanced upwards. A CCTV camera was positioned over the shop assistant’s head but Flynn knew from experience that there was only a 50 per cent chance, at best, of it being operational.

  The shop assistant gave the man another searching look, then shrugged his shoulders, sighed and pushed the money back across the counter.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I can’t serve you alcohol today. It’s company policy not to serve you if you’ve already been drinking and I—’