The Rosary Garden by Nicola White (good books to read for women txt) 📗

would be entirely his responsibility. He carried on as confidently as he could.

‘Forensics have identified two types of fibre found on the baby’s body. There are carpet fibres, blue, woollen twist, good-quality; and there are also white polyester fibres, which Dr Flynn has identified as a type used in a looped stretch cloth, consistent with coming from a Babygro or other towelling item. She’s working on finding matches to specific manufacturers, but in the meantime it does point to the baby being kept in a domestic situation for some of the time that it lived.’

‘So what’s your theory?’

‘Something different from the usual panicked cover-up. Girl delivers baby at home, possibly with help. Things go normally for a day or two, baby fed and clothed, then either a change of heart or its existence is discovered by someone hostile to the child.’

‘You think it’s not the mother.’

‘Most likely it is, but the extent of the violence isn’t typical.’

A knock at the door announced that the superintendent’s car was ready. He ushered them out alongside him.

‘So you’ll have something for me soon?’ The boss liked to demand unfounded reassurance.

‘We’re still waiting on more technical reports. If Gina Considine could come in to replace Murphy, that would help a lot.’

‘Don’t be making too much of a favourite of her, now – her head’s big enough. You can have her if you promise me I won’t see another of your witnesses on national television. What was that girl at?’

‘She’s young. She won’t be doing it again.’

‘You make sure of it. What’s the story about her finding a baby before?’

‘We checked it out: something of a sad coincidence. A stillbirth at a relative’s house.’

Kavanagh grimaced, dismissed them with a salute and headed down the corridor alone.

‘Have a good lunch, sir,’ Barrett called after him.

Barrett was getting on Swan’s nerves. And Murphy seemed to have got nowhere with his social work contacts. They really needed a break.

If they could find a realistic suspect, the forensics could probably do the rest. Otherwise they were going to be reduced to sampling every blue carpet in south Dublin or seeking permission to do physical check-ups on likely women. Starting with the two unfortunate families in Dodder Vale, then the girls of the gardening club and the younger nuns. But they couldn’t go round palpating women without solid reason. He could just imagine what Mary O’Shea would do with that.

‘Boss?’ Barrett interrupted his thoughts. ‘I forgot to say your wife rang. She been called away to her aunt’s.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’ Why did she have to go and do that? She could have just left a note at home, didn’t need to talk to anyone here about anything.

‘I hope everything’s all right,’ said Barrett.

‘What do you mean?’

‘With her aunt, Boss. I hope it’s not serious with her aunt.’

15

Ali had come to have a look, that was all, just to see what kind of place Joan was held in. The mental hospital, that’s what they used to call it. The nuthouse. A long grey building at the top of a grass bank. The bars on the windows were painted white, blending tastefully with the multi-paned windows behind. She imagined Joan appearing at a window, dishevelled in a nightdress, pale fingers raking at the pane.

The big gates to the grounds were open, and as she watched, a couple walked out through them, chatting in an ordinary way, not hurrying or throwing fearful glances over their shoulders. The driveway climbed steeply up the bank and ran level along the front of the building. Maybe she would take a closer look, now that she had come all this way.

There was a glass entrance porch with a niche above it, where a statue of Mary opened her arms to all comers. Ali walked slowly towards it.

‘Excuse me!’

A woman pushed past her from behind, carrying a cone of yellow flowers, clacking her way into Damascus House on stubby heels. So they allowed visitors. She might check if there was a notice saying what the hours were. Mary O’Shea would never be this timid. Mary O’Shea would have phoned, demanded information, be sitting on Joan’s bed by now.

But Ali didn’t even know what questions to ask, even if Joan was capable of answering them. She wanted someone to make a separation between facts and nightmares. She wanted an explanation. Then the thing could be put to rest. Ali brushed her hands over her hair, pulled her pony-tail tighter and opened the door.

There were no details about visiting hours inside the porch. Beyond a second set of glass doors, a man sat at a reception desk. He looked up and beckoned her.

The inevitable smell of chemical pines threaded through blousy heat. The man at the desk was filling in some paperwork. When Ali got close, she realised it was only a newspaper crossword.

‘Can you help me?’ she said. ‘Only if you can help me,’ he replied, sucking on the end of his Biro. ‘Five letters, second one O, last one S – Weaver appears mistily.’

‘Sorry?’

He pushed the paper towards her and pointed at the last blank squares on his crossword puzzle. Ali shook her head.

‘You should get into it. Keeps the old brain together …’ His eyes drifted up towards the ceiling. ‘Looms!’ He scribbled the letters in, quick heavy strokes. ‘Got ya!’

He flung the paper aside and gave her his full attention.

‘I was wondering if it was possible for me to visit Joan Dempsey sometime?’

‘And you are?’

‘A friend.’

‘I’ve never seen you before.’

‘An old friend. I don’t live round here.’

He leaned forward over the desk and pointed. ‘Down the corridor, up the end stairs, turn right and she should be somewhere around the west wing.’

‘Is there a room number or something?’

‘Well, she won’t be in it. She busies herself about the place. A busy bee.’ He looked down at the empty desk in front of him. ‘Don’t know what I’m going to do now,’ he said pleasantly.

Ali walked down the wide corridor, her sandals chirping on the vinyl.