Chapter 31
LIAM
Murders leave trails. Missing persons reports, investigations, eventual death certificates once the body turns up. If the murder Rowan believes she witnessed is real, finding those things is a cakewalk.
I cock my head at Darragh, and we make our way to his office. He sits behind his desk while I pour us a drink. His fingers fly over the keyboard. Takes him less than five minutes to confirm what my instincts already told me.
“There was no murder on January twelfth five years ago.”
“You’re certain? Not even one that a member of our rival gangs could’ve hidden?”
“Positive. Your gut was right on the money.”
I chew the inside of my lip and drop into the chair across from him. “So someone went to a lot of trouble to make her believe she saw something that wasn’t real.”
“Yup.” Darragh leans back, fingers lacing behind his head. “This isn’t two lads with a fake blood capsule having the craic. You’d need something convincing enough that a woman like Rowan, young, yes, but also smart, would believe with absolute certainty that she’d witnessed a man die.”
“Professional actors?”
“Could be. Or people with enough training to pass for professional. Amateur theater, bit part players maybe.” He turns back to the screen and starts typing.
“What are you looking for?”
“Casting agencies. Anyone hiring for private work, murder mystery parties, that kind of thing.” He rubs his lips together, brows furrowed, his fingers moving between the keyboard and the mouse.
Eventually, he sits back. “Nothing obvious. Whatever this was, it wasn’t arranged through legit channels. ”
Darragh drums his fingers on the desk. “If this was done through some kind of back door, then I’m guessing it was a no questions asked scenario. Students are always looking for easy ways to make fast cash they don’t have to declare.”
“So, we, what? Visit every amateur drama school in a fifty-mile radius?”
He shakes his head. “That’s a dead end. We’d need to go school by school, hoping their records weren’t a pile of shite which—”
“Takes time we don’t have.”
“Precisely. So instead of coming at it from the student angle, we start thinking about how Murray found these students. A cop can’t exactly walk into an amateur dramatics society or a drama school and ask if he can hire some students to act out a fake murder.”
“He’d use someone else.”
“Yep. A middleman. Something that puts space between him and the staging.”
He starts typing again, frowning in concentration. I leave him to it. This is Darragh’s bag. I can’t stand all that internet bollocks. Half an hour passes. I pace, sip my drink, pace some more.
“Pull up a chair.”
I set my empty glass down and pull a chair around to his side of the desk. “Found something?”
He nods, turning one of the screens in my direction. The screen is split: one side a web page and the other a spreadsheet with names, dates, and company registration numbers. I’m confused as fuck, but I keep my trap zipped and wait for him to explain.
“Murray needed performers to make his play work. Specifically, people who could stage something violent and convincing in a non-theater space, and make it convincing enough that Rowan would buy it as real. He’d also need the actors not to blab about it. That’s not a drama school noticeboard job.”
“Then what?”
“Immersive theater.”
“What the fuck is immersive theater?” Sometimes I swear Darragh was adopted. He’s so different to me and to Patrick. He’s also got smarts for days. I beat people with my fists. He beats them with his intelligence and, right now, intelligence is what I need.
“Something that exploded in the mid 2010s. It basically turns traditional theater on its head, making the audience a part of the show. Loads of small operators jumped on the bandwagon offering personalized experiences. It was pretty popular for hen and stag dos and corporate events.”
He scrolls down the screen. “A lot of these companies folded long ago, so I used a web crawler to trawl through archived web pages to see who was operating back then. I pulled every small immersive or private experience company operating in that time frame. This one caught my eye. It dissolved about five years ago.”
I peer at the screen. Bespoke live experiences for discerning clients. Discretion guaranteed. “Why would you need discretion to put on a skit for a stag do?”
Darragh claps me on the back. “My thoughts exactly, brother. Now check this out.” He scrolls down to the testimonials and points at the third one down. I read it, then read it again.
I needed a unique event organized for a small group at extremely short notice. Gina handled everything from end to end, no questions asked. Would recommend to anyone with unconventional requirements.
It had been left anonymously. I look at Darragh. “Murray.”
“I’m guessing so.”
“But why would he leave a testimonial?”
“Who knows? Company was owned by a woman. Murray could’ve been banging her, or maybe he wanted to and thought by leaving a review, he’d get into her knickers faster. Could be ego. Could be that he was so fucking proud of what he’d done that he couldn’t help himself.”
“Can you find her?”
He grins. “One of these days you’ll come to me with something truly challenging.” He waves a piece of paper in front of my face. “She works for a large hotel in Dublin as an events coordinator.”
I snatch the paper from his fingers and leap to my feet. “Then let’s fucking go.”
I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs, in two minds whether to tell Rowan what we’ve discovered about the murder, but I’m antsy to get going, to uncover the whole truth before I come to her with news that she will find difficult to swallow.
That bastard Murray stole five years of her life and made me believe the woman I loved had set me up.
Once I have all the pieces of the puzzle, I’ll pick him up and make him regret the day he fucking crossed me and stole what was mine.
“I’m driving.” Darragh flings the front door open and strides toward the garage.
“You’re a shit driver.”
“I am an excellent driver.”
“If you’re transporting eggs, maybe. Heads up. The car goes more than thirty miles an hour.”
He shakes his head as though I’m a weary child he’s on the cusp of disowning. “This isn’t a car chase. It’s an information-gathering mission. We don’t need to fishtail around every corner and top out at ninety on country lanes.”
I climb in the passenger seat. “Only ninety?”
The banter with my brother is helping to quell the anger rising in me. I have the time it takes to arrive at our destination to rein in my temper, or I’m likely to put the head of whoever put on that show for Rowan through the nearest wall.
I’m so close to the truth I can almost taste it.
The reception area buzzes with guests, and there’s a long line at reception of customers waiting to check in.
I scan the lobby. Concierge. He’ll do. I head over, and I’m guessing I look murderous because the concierge does a double take, then not so subtly pushes his chair away from his desk as though preparing to make a run for it.
I soften my face and force a smile. “Hi. I’m looking for Gina O’Halloran. ”
There’s a marginal relaxing of his features. “Gina. Yes, of course. Let me see if she’s working today.”
If she isn’t, I bet I can get her home address out of this guy in less than ten seconds.
I tap my fingers against my thigh while he makes the call.
Turns out Gina is working today. He suggests we take a seat while we wait.
I ignore him, pacing up and down the lobby while Darragh sprawls out in an overstuffed chair as though he hasn’t a care in the world.
Gina O’Halloran, a woman in her late thirties with dark brown hair styled in waves and precise, professional makeup, greets me with a tentative smile. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I believe you can.”
Lucky for me, Gina O’Halloran has an excellent memory.
She recalled the job easily because she said it was so unusual.
She never met the person who booked the job, and the money for the gig was paid in cash, delivered by a courier, but she did remember the name of one of the people she hired.
Paul Baxter, a drama student over on a study visa from England.
It took Darragh less than a minute to find his current address.
In France.
Fuck. My. Life.
Rather than driving all the way back to the house for our passports, I have one of our security team bring them to us. Ninety minutes later, we’re on a flight to France. Paul Baxter holds the key to the truth, and the cathedral of lies Murray built is about to come crashing down.