Blood And Water (35 page)

He left and returned minutes later with a tray and invited them to help themselves to milk and sugar.

“So,” Milford started when they had all settled down with their coffees, “tell me about the argument with your father.”

Cormac shook his head with a knowing smile. “I’m assuming you’re referring to his upset at my recent ‘
misdemeanour’,
” he said, making finger quote-marks in the air while raising his eyebrows. “Am I right?”

“Yes, we did hear about it alright. Interesting videos,” Milford remarked with a slow, sympathetic and non-judgmental nod.

“Well. Let’s just say it wasn’t one of my finest moments, and I didn’t have the money to stop them.”

“You were being bribed but never reported it?” Milford asked curiously, already knowing the answer.

“Yes and no respectively.”

“You do realise that blackmail is an offence?”

“I do and so is taking cocaine,” Cormac said smartly. “I’ve learnt my lesson. A big one at that and I’m lucky not to have been fired outright, so really I just want to forget it.”

“Do you know who it was?”

Cormac nodded. “I certainly do.”

“Well, at least you didn’t pay them.” Milford paused, looking at Cormac whose smile was tinged with regret.

“No,” he replied, “I didn’t pay them.” A wave of nausea rose in his throat at the memory of what he had done in trying to gather the funds to do just that.

“Well, to be honest, and I know you probably don’t think so now, but if it’s any consolation it’s the best outcome. In my experience if you’d paid them they’d only have come back for more. You’d never see the end of it. At least this way it’s over.”

Cormac nodded, actually believing him. It was the best outcome really. He could learn to live with the nasty taste in his mouth every time he thought of it and the irritating sniggers in the uni corridors would eventually fizzle out once they found something more tantalising to talk about.

“So, this argument with your dad then?” Milford encouraged him.

“Well, as I’m sure you can imagine, Dad wasn’t happy. He was furious to say the least and only just out of hospital – they probably timed its release to coincide, maximum effect and all that.”

“So he kicked you out?”

“Yep, he did that alright,” Cormac replied, remembering his harsh reaction and vitriolic words. “He went a bit nuclear. It wasn’t very pleasant. I had ruined his reputation, apparently, like I did it on purpose.”

“I’d say that didn’t go down well, him shouting at you like that at –” Milford paused to feign a mental calculation, “all of forty-one years old and in front of a practical stranger? McDaid?”

Cormac gave a little laugh. “No, it didn’t. But would I have killed him for it? I don’t think so. My father was a nasty man. He was always horrible to us all. He tormented us for years but we were used to it. He’d be dead a long time ago if that was the approach we took and, in that case, any one of us would have done it.”

“Did you try to borrow money from him?” Milford probed.

Cormac threw his head back in almost hysterical laughter. “No! No, I didn’t,” he gasped. “He wasn’t that sort of dad. If you must know, I asked Kathryn, Seb’s wife. She was going to give it to me.” For a split second he wondered what harm would it do to tell him what really happened, show Seb up for the bastard he was, maybe even earn a little sympathy in the process? But pride and what remained of his dignity stopped him, that along with a smidgen of belated loyalty to his sufficiently humiliated brother.

“And what happened there?” Milford asked.

“Seb found out and wouldn’t let her give it to me.”

“Right,” Milford responded, fascinated even more by the surprising little twists and turns this family seemed to take at every turn. He could only imagine the events that must have followed that let-down. “If I can just go back to the day your father died?”

“Sure.”

“Yourself and Enya left your parents’ house, dropped off the car then went into town to a bar, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s what, maybe a twenty-minute journey between town and your parents?”

“Sounds about right.”

“So it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that either yourself or your sister could have skipped out and come back here with your alibi intact?”

“I think Enya would’ve noticed, don’t you?” Cormac suggested with a smug grin.

“Maybe you left together to return here? It’s possible,” he offered in response to Cormac’s head-shaking denial. “So, you say both of you left the bar at around six thirty?”

“Yep.”

“And you each went your separate ways, alone?”

“That’s correct.”

“Why?”

Cormac shrugged. “I had work the next day and I knew if Enya came back with me to mine, we’d have opened another bottle of wine and who knows what time we’d have finished up, and frankly I’m in enough trouble at work as it is. I’m supposed to be on good behaviour, you know.”

“What was to stop either of you heading over to your parents’ house at that point – you had plenty of time.”

“Absolutely nothing. But we didn’t, or at least I didn’t and I’m pretty sure neither did she.”

“Yes, but what if you were covering for each other? You said yourself there’s no love lost between any of you and your father. You could have planned it that way.”

“We could have but we didn’t,” Cormac replied, not in the least bit amused by the suggestion. “Have you said this to Enya?”

“No, not yet, but we will,” Milford told him. “One last thing before we wrap up. Who do
you
think killed your father?” He knew it was a pointless question but asked it anyway, prompting a curiously defensive response.

“Me? Christ, I don’t know,” Cormac replied, almost appalled by the question and nervous for the first time since they came into his apartment. “How would I? I mean, why would I?”

“So, what do you think?” Milford asked Evans as they strapped into the car.

“I’m not sure. He could have done it, he has the time and motive, but I’m not convinced. He just doesn’t seem the type, does he?”

“Hmmm,” Milford mused, putting the car in gear. “There never is a type, Evans. That’s the problem.”

Say nothing. Say nothing. Say nothing,
Ciara repeated over and over in her head, nervously facing Milford.

They had arrived, not unexpectedly, at her house about ten minutes previously and, after the usual greetings and pleasantries and the making of tea by Enya, Milford asked to speak to Ciara first, in private.

Her knees quaked, her hands shook and her heart was beating as loud and as hard as a bass drum. The soothing
you’ll-be-alright
look from Enya as she closed the door to the living room didn’t help much either. She was going to mess this up, she knew it. She always did mess things up.

“Why so nervous, Ciara?” Milford asked her gently.

“You’re going to think it was me.”

“Ciara, we don’t think it was you,” said Evans.

“You don’t?” she repeated, almost surprised.

“No, we just need to ask you some questions, just to get a better picture of what happened when you got to the house,” Evans assured her with a smile.

“Why would we think it was you?” Milford asked with less niceness than his colleague, happy to play bad cop to Evans’s good one.

“Well, because I probably have the best reason of all, don’t I? Because of who I am and what he did to my mother, my real mother. I’m the one with the real motive, I’m the one who shouted my head off at him and even I’d think it was me if I were you.”

“Tell us how you came about your discovery – you know, about your parents,” asked Milford.

They listened intently to her as she spoke, like this was the first time they’d heard the story, fascinated on the one hand and disturbed on the other. This wasn’t just any man and any secret; this was a public representative selected to govern their country on their behalf. And now they realised this was a man with neither morals nor scruples. This was a man they knew, that the whole country knew and one who should have known better. Secretly, both Evans and Milford were thinking that if she did do it – murder her father – not only did he deserve it but she deserved to get away with it.

“You need to speak to Martha, she really knows more about it than I do,” Ciara said when she came to the end of her story. “She got a lot from the home in Ballybeak – she showed me my mum’s letter.”

“So you’ve spoken to Martha then about this?” Evans asked gently.

Milford was glad she was there as the moment called for the sensitivity of a woman and Evans was filling the role pretty well.

“Yes,” Ciara smiled, “we’ve talked a good bit since all this came out. She’s pretty messed up too. Rian and her are supposed to be getting married.”

“Supposed to be?” Milford inquired, hoping he didn’t sound too forced.

“It’s all a bit up in the air, to be honest. I don’t think either of them wants to rush into anything until this gets sorted.”

“Understandable,” Milford muttered.

“That’s why I went to see my father at the hospital,” she told him, conscious it was in fact the last time she saw him alive. “I still have so many questions, but now …” Her words hung loose in the air, the words shared with the nurse in the corridor coming back once more to haunt her.

“I have to ask this, Ciara,” Evans said kindly. “Can you tell me where you were that day, between four thirty and eight?”

“I was at home for the most part of the day. I knew Dad was being discharged from the hospital and that the others were going back to the house to see him but I couldn’t bear the idea of being around him so I let Enya go without me. Robert was on call and, well, the walls of the house were closing in on me and I just thought a walk would help me clear my head. So I headed out to Strandhill and walked the length of the beach.”

“Did you meet anyone?” Milford asked. “Can anyone confirm that you were there?”

“There were lots of people there but I didn’t see anyone I knew – certainly didn’t talk to anyone – so no, I suppose not.”

“And what time did you get home?”

“Oh God, I don’t know – about half seven, maybe eight?”

Milford recorded the times.

“Thanks, Ciara,” he said. “I think that’s about it for the moment.”

Evans stood to walk over and open the door.

The interview was over and Ciara left, relieved and more relaxed than when she had sat down.

Enya almost bounded into the room, delighted, it seemed, to have her say. She oozed a heady combination of confidence mixed with defiance.

“So,” she started, expertly hijacking the interview, “I’m just going to say it out straight, put it out there, so to speak.”

She looked at both of them, making sure they were ready and listening.

“I didn’t like my father very much. He was a bully and a control freak who as good as ruined my life and I am glad he is dead. Now maybe we can get on with our lives, the way we want to and not the way he’d have liked us to.” Spectacularly relieved to have that off her chest, she clasped her hands in her lap, prepared to take any questions and face the consequences of her confession.

“Right!” Milford replied, sitting back in the chair as if blown there by her outburst. “That’s very honest of you.”

“Well, I thought I’d be better to get it out in the open from the get-go. And just so you know, I didn’t kill him. I could have, but I didn’t.”

“How could you have killed him, Ms Bertram?”

“Enya, please,” she replied, throwing her eyes to heaven. “I don’t mean literally – but figuratively speaking I could have done it. I had a motive, I suppose.”

“Why so?”

“That man did his best to control me and interfere with my life for as long as I can remember.”

“Maybe he just wanted the best for you?” Milford suggested.

“Best for himself more like. Dad never did anything ‘
just’
for any of us – everything had to have a reason that served his purpose, no one else’s.”

“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“No. I don’t.”

“So, you said you’re glad he’s dead then.”

She didn’t hesitate for a moment. “Yes,” she told him firmly, “yes, I am. I’m sorry he died
that way
but yes. Yes, I am.”

“They’re strong words, Enya, so why should I believe you didn’t do it?”

“Because I didn’t and you’d have to prove I did,” she challenged him confidently.

“But you did discover his body,”

“
Ah-ha!
I discovered it but I didn’t create it,” she said with a cheeky grin.

“So tell me what happened?”

“I told you most of this before.”

“I know, just tell me again, to be sure you’ve left nothing out.”

“I got to the house at about five to eight. Cormac and I had had a few drinks and, well, I was a bit pissed and I wanted to give my father a piece of my mind. He’d behaved appallingly earlier to everyone and it was about time someone stood up to him, I thought. I didn’t want him to get away with it. He’d got no right.”

Nodding as if to agree, Milford encouraged her to continue.

“The cars were there and there was a light on in the living room so I just assumed they were still up. But there was no answer at the door so I used the spare key.”

“Where was it?”

“In its usual spot in the fake rock thingy by the pots.”

“Go on.”

“When I got inside, I called out. But there wasn’t a sound.”

Despite her bravado and guff he could tell that Enya was upset by her experience. She closed her eyes as she remembered and relived the journey. “I stood in the hall for a while and listened but I couldn’t hear a thing. It was so quiet. So, I went straight into the sitting room. I suppose I was kind of expecting a bit of trouble anyway and I was a little tense not to mention a little tipsy.” She opened her eyes to look at Milford. “And when I went into the room there he was. Slumped over the table. The lamps weren’t on, just the main light. I went to him. I put my hand on his shoulder. But he didn’t move. I knew he was dead. I saw the blood, you couldn’t miss it – it was everywhere.” She shivered. “I think I screamed, I can’t remember. I’m not sure. And then I thought, shit, Mum. And I called her name. But she didn’t reply. So I ran. I went straight upstairs – I ran up those stairs faster than I’ve ever done before.”