Chapter 69
The cold case brought them to a house in the Dublin suburbs. The area had once been a rural setting, but the Celtic Tiger had seen a boom in apartment building, and the horseshoe of terraced and semi-detached houses was now dwarfed by high-rises. Time had buried them and forgotten they were there.
Lottie zipped up her coat and walked with Boyd to the door, resolve in every step.
The fact that Sadie’s mother and sister had been murdered and the case appeared to be unsolved twenty years later, made the current murder case more personal.
And it validated Lottie’s feeling that Sadie had lied to her.
Eugene Tormey was aged in his sixties, according to their files, but he looked like a stereotypical ninety-year-old.
Walking stick gripped with bulging arthritic fingers, and Velcro tartan slippers on his feet.
A beige Aran cardigan with a cloth handkerchief sticking out of a pocket hung from his bony shoulders over a blue shirt with tea stains down the front.
‘My carer’s just left,’ he said as they joined him in his living room. ‘Josie’s a nice girl. From the Philippines, not that I’ve anything against where anyone comes from. Great worker. She knows what to do around here without any shite talk.’
He sat into a faded floral armchair, the arms black and frayed from years of use.
The television was switched off and a mug of tea sat on a table beside him.
He slid the walking stick into the gap beneath the chair.
The floor was freshly hoovered, and the smell of air freshener masked the odour of what Lottie thought was illness.
‘You’re lucky to have Josie, Mr Tormey,’ she said. ‘Are you sick?’
‘Sick of life. Sick of being on my own. Sick of my arthritis. Bad liver, too. Bit of Alzheimer’s, according to the shrink, but other than all that, I’m hunky-dory.’ He held her gaze with a rheumy eye. ‘Why are you here?’
‘It’s about your daughter, Sadie,’ Lottie said. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘No one other than Josie visits me. Youse can sit down. I don’t bite.’
Lottie and Boyd obliged him by sitting on the couch, which was less stained than the armchair. They both sank down into the springless cushions.
‘What can you tell us about your daughter?’ Lottie hauled herself upright.
‘I’m presuming she’s done something?’
‘We’re not sure yet. We’re trying to find her.’
‘Good old Sadie. She runs when she’s cornered. Like an animal that way. You need to treat her nice and fair or she’ll run or retaliate.’
‘It’s a bit late for that, because she has either run or someone has taken her.’
‘No one would dare take that girl. If she’s gone, it’s because she wants to go.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sadie went through so much in her young life, I’m sure she’s grown the skin of an armadillo. Saw a nature programme on the telly one Sunday night about—’
‘When did you last see her?’ Lottie interrupted.
‘Must be fifteen or so years ago. Might be longer. Time blindness I have too.’
‘She doesn’t visit?’
‘Nah. I’m a reminder of her past. Sadie has moved on to greater things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘I don’t know. I’m presuming. But they can’t be too great if they’ve brought you knocking on my door.’
‘We believe she was detained in Oak House when she was barely a teenager.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A young offenders institute. Can you tell us about that?’
‘Oh.’ He clicked his false teeth. ‘That was a long time ago.’ He picked at his eyelid without looking up.
‘Why did she end up there?’
‘Mixed with the wrong crowd maybe?’
This resonated with what Alice Quigley had said about Caroline.
‘What sort of crowd?’
‘Druggies. You have to realise we were living in extreme poverty. Our lives were shit. Denise and I were drinking hard back then, and she was a tyrant when drunk. I was blind to what was going on in front of my eyes. Got kicked out of the house eventually.’
Lottie waited for him to explain, but he clamped his lips shut. She’d have to prise it from him, even though according to the file he was not around when his wife and daughter were killed.
‘Why did you leave the family home?’
He kept his head down. ‘The wife threw me out, so she did. Can’t blame her one bit. I was a bit of a bollox on the drink back then. Anyhow, I quit the booze some years back. So all is not lost.’
‘What happened to your wife?’ She feigned ignorance, hoping to snatch a piece of information not in the file.
A solitary tear rolled down the man’s cheek, followed by another a few seconds later. He tried to wipe it, but his gnarled hand wouldn’t play ball, so he let the tears fall.
‘Denise is dead. But it’s my younger daughter, Poppy, I mourn. You already know about them, seeing as you tracked me down.’
‘What age was Poppy?’
‘Ten. My wife was gone thirty-nine when she died. It seems like a lifetime ago now, which I suppose it is.’
‘And where was Sadie when this happened?’
‘I don’t know, do I? The wife sent me packing not long after Sadie came out of that juvie place. Denise blamed me for it, but she was no fucking angel herself.’
‘Can you tell me anything at all about the murders?’
‘They said Denise did it. Killed Poppy and then herself. But I don’t know. I often wondered if it was Sadie.’ He sniffed loudly.
‘Is there any reason you can think of that might have driven Sadie to murder them?’
‘Denise was a drunk and a hard taskmaster. Ruled the house ruthlessly. I wasn’t around much.
Sadie was a bit of a tearaway, but no, Inspector, I can’t think of anything that would drive her to murder her family.
She wouldn’t have hurt Poppy. Could have been that druggie crowd.
Retaliation or something. I don’t know and the cops hadn’t a clue. ’ He snorted.
‘Were you a suspect?’
‘I was in Liverpool drinking my brains out at the time. I had an airtight alibi. A publican attested to throwing me out on my ear around the relevant time.’
‘Where was Sadie when the murders happened?’
‘Not a clue. Wouldn’t surprise me if she’d been back to hanging out with that crowd that got her in trouble.’
‘Was she considered a suspect by the Gardaí?’
‘Don’t know. I came home to be interviewed, once I sobered up for long enough. Detectives told me about the 999 call, but they couldn’t match a voice to the recording.’
Lottie wondered if the tape had survived the passage of time. Forensic technology was more sophisticated nowadays.
‘Did she ever admit to you that she’d killed her mother and sister?’
‘No.’ He shook his head adamantly. ‘Because she didn’t do it.’
‘How can you be sure of that?’
‘Sadie was streetwise. A tough nut. But behind it all she was a good girl. She tried to look after her little sister. She ran with the druggies for money. We hadn’t a penny, and what we did have, me and Denise drank.’
‘Do you know anything of Sadie’s time in Oak House?’
‘Think she was only there a couple of weeks. She didn’t say much about it. That would have been a year or more before the murders.’
‘Did you ever hear her speak of a girl called Caroline Quigley?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Name doesn’t ring any bells, but it was a long time ago when I last saw Sadie and my brain was boozed up, so I can’t swear to it.’
‘What about the name Liam Scanlan?’
He shook his head once more. ‘Means nothing. Like I said, I have a touch of Alzheimer’s. Memory is kaput.’
Lottie persisted with her questions, not buying his failing-memory defence. ‘Was your wife in a relationship after you left?’
‘She kicked me out, I told you. I’d never have gone of my own free will. And to answer your question, I don’t know who Denise might have been shacked up with, if anyone at all.’ The man’s hands were trembling, one knee jiggling up and down.
She didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
‘Mr Tormey, we’re investigating a triple murder in Ragmullin. A father, mother and their twelve-year-old daughter. I believe the woman was once known to Sadie as Caroline Quigley. The murders bear a resemblance to the deaths of your wife and daughter. Do you think Sadie could have been involved?’
He was silent for a long time before he looked up. Lottie could read a world of sadness in his eyes. And regret. Eugene Tormey knew he had failed his family.
‘Sadie was traumatised and damaged even before her mother and sister died. Poverty, neglect, beatings. The one thing I can tell you is that I believe she was capable of doing whatever was necessary to save her own skin.’