I hadn't been expecting this one, either, though I probably should have been. Two children vanished forever in the local wood; how could they have failed to become part of Knocknaree folklore? I don't believe in ghosts, but the thought-small flitting shapes at dusk, wordless calls-still sent a bright icy chill through me, along with a strange twinge of outrage: how dared some woman from the Lane see them, instead of me?
"At the time," I said, aiming the conversation back on track, "you told the police that three rough young men used to hang around the edge of the wood."
"Little gurriers," Mrs. Fitzgerald said with relish. "Spitting on the ground and all. My father always said that was a sure sign of bad rearing, spitting. Ah, but two of them turned out all right in the end, so they did. Concepta Mills's young fella does the computers now. He's after moving into town-Blackrock, if you don't mind. Knocknaree wasn't good enough for him. The Devlin lad, sure, we were talking about him already. He's the father of that poor wee girl Katy, God rest her soul. A lovely man."
"What about the third boy?" I asked. "Shane Waters?"
She pursed her lips and took a prim sip of tea. "I wouldn't know about the likes of him."
"Ah…turned out badly, did he?" Cassie said confidentially. "Could I take another scone, Mrs. Fitzgerald? These are the nicest ones I've had in ages." They were the only ones she'd had in ages. She dislikes scones on the grounds that they "don't taste like food."
"Go on, love; sure, you could do with a bit of meat on you. There's plenty more where those came from. Now that my daughter's after buying me the microwave, I do make six dozen at once and put them away in the freezer till I need them."
Cassie made a flatteringly big deal of choosing her scone, took a huge bite and said, "Mmm." If she ate enough of them that Mrs. Fitzgerald felt the need to go heat up more, I was going to brain her. She swallowed her mouthful and said, "Does Shane Waters still live in Knocknaree?"
"Mountjoy Jail," said Mrs. Fitzgerald, giving the words their full sinister weight. "That's where he's living. Himself and another fella robbed a petrol station with a knife; terrified the life out of the poor young fella working there. His mammy always said he wasn't a bad lad, just easily led, but there's no call for that kind of carry-on." I wished, fleetingly, that we could introduce her to Sam. They would have liked each other.
"You told the police there were girls who used to hang around with them," I said, getting my notebook ready.
She sucked disapprovingly on her dentures. "Brazen hussies, the pair of them. I didn't mind showing a bit of leg myself, in my day-no better way to make the boys look, am I right?" She winked at me and laughed, a rusty cackle, but it lit up her face and you could see, still, that she had been pretty; a sweet, cheeky, bright-eyed girl. "But the getup on them young ones, sure, it was a waste of money altogether. They might as well have been in the nip, for all the difference them clothes made. Nowadays all the young ones are at it, with their belly tops and their hot shorts and what have you, but back then there was still a bit of decency."
"Would you remember their names?"
"Wait now till I think. One of them was Marie Gallagher's oldest. She's in London these fifteen year, comes back now and again to show off her fancy clothes and her fancy job, but Marie says at the end of the day she's only some class of a secretary. She always did have notions of herself." My heart sank-London-but Mrs. Fitzgerald took a hearty slurp of her tea and raised a finger. "Claire, that's it. Claire Gallagher, still; she never married. She was going out with a divorced fella for a few years, near gave Marie a heart attack, but it didn't last."
"And the other girl?" I said.
"Ah, her; she's still here. Lives with her mammy in the Close, up the top of the estate-the rough end, if you know what I mean. Two childer and no husband. Sure, what else would you expect? If you go looking for trouble, you'll never have far to look. One of the Scullys, she is. Jackie's the one married that Wicklow lad, Tracy's the one works in the betting shop-Sandra; that's herself. Sandra Scully. Finish that scone," she ordered Cassie, who had surreptitiously put it down and was trying to look as if she'd forgotten it was there.
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Fitzgerald. You've been a great help," I said. Cassie took the opportunity to jam the rest of her scone in her mouth and wash it down with tea. I put my notebook away and stood up.
"Wait a moment, now," said Mrs. Fitzgerald, flapping a hand at me. She stumped into the kitchen and came back with a plastic bag of frozen scones, which she pressed into Cassie's hand. "There, now. That's for you. No, no, no"-over Cassie's protests; personal tastes in food aside, we're not supposed to take gifts from witnesses-"they'll do you good. You're a lovely girl. Share them with your fella there if he behaves himself."
The rough end of the estate (I had never been there before, as far as I remembered; all our mothers had warned us to stay away) wasn't actually that different from the good end. The houses were a little dingier, and there were weeds and daisies growing in some of the gardens. The wall at the end of Knocknaree Close was sprinkled with graffiti, but it was pretty mild stuff-LIVERPOOL RULES, MARTINA + CONOR 4EVER, JONESY IS GAY-mostly done in what looked like colored marker; almost quaint, really, compared to what you get in your true hard-core areas. If for some reason I had had to leave my car there overnight, I wouldn't have panicked.
Sandra answered the door. For a moment I wasn't sure; she didn't look the way I remembered her. She had been one of those girls who bloom early and fade, bewildered, into blowsiness within a few years. In my hazy mental image she was firm and voluptuous as a ripe peach, haloed in glossy, red-gold eighties curls, but the woman at the door was overblown and sagging, with a weary, suspicious look and hair dyed to dull brassiness. A swift, tiny pang of loss went through me. I almost hoped it wasn't her.
Then she said, "Can I help you?" Her voice was deeper and rough around the edges, but I knew the sweet, breathy tone. ("Here, which of them's your fella?" A sparkly fingernail moving from me to Peter, while Jamie shook her head and said, "Ewww!" Sandra had laughed, feet kicking up from against the walclass="underline" "You'll change your mind soon enough!")
"Ms. Sandra Scully?" I said. She nodded warily. I saw her peg us as cops, well before our IDs were out, and get ready to go on the defensive. Somewhere in the house a toddler was yelling and banging on something metallic. "I'm Detective Ryan, and this is Detective Maddox. She'd like to speak with you for a few minutes."
I felt Cassie shift almost imperceptibly beside me, clocking the signal. If I hadn't been sure, I would have said "we," and we would both have gone through the routine Katy Devlin questions with her until I made up my mind one way or the other. But I was sure, and Sandra was likely to be more comfortable talking about this without a guy in the room.
Sandra's jaw hardened. "Is this about Declan? Because you can tell that old bitch I took the stereo off him after the last time, so if she's hearing anything it's the voices in her head."
"No, no, no," Cassie said easily. "Nothing like that. We're just working on an old case, and we thought you might remember some bits and pieces that could help us out. Can I come in?"
She stared at Cassie for a moment, then gave a defeated little shrug. "Do I have a choice?" She stepped back, opening the door a fraction wider; I smelled something frying.
"Thanks," Cassie said. "I'll try not to take too much of your time." As she went into the house she glanced over her shoulder and gave me a tiny, reassuring wink. Then the door slammed behind her.