Where They Lie by Claire Coughlan

Author:Claire Coughlan [Coughlan, Claire]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Nicoletta walks for a while, in the opposite direction from which she’d come, as the afternoon dissolves into a mist of drizzle, until she comes to the asylum’s high stone wall, topped by barbed wire. It goes on for half a mile. The gate, black and forbidding-looking, is manned by a security guard, seated in a small hut, leafing through a newspaper. He doesn’t stop to notice her or wonder why she’s there.

She hails a passing bus heading for Baggot Street Bridge. The rain has stopped by the time she ducks into a pub to gather her thoughts and use their phone book. Leslie White doesn’t live too far away, in Ballsbridge. She decides to walk, the streets becoming wider and leafier at Pembroke Road. Leslie White’s house is a sprawling, modern red-brick, set back from the road. Though the name on the gate says Magpie Cottage, it’s as far away as it could be from Nicoletta’s idea of a traditional cottage. Dozens of magpies and rooks circle the chimney stacks on the large steepled roof, calling to each other with glee. There’s no doorbell she can see, so she gives a brisk knock. Several seconds pass, a door bangs and a woman’s voice calls something to an invisible presence within. The door is opened by a tall man, stooped at the shoulders, dressed to go out in a three-piece suit, an overcoat and a hat. They’re all far too large for him and the effect is that of a boy playing dress-up. The man carries a large umbrella with an insurance company logo on it. When he puts it down, Nicoletta is surprised to see sunken cheeks and papery skin. He looks almost as surprised to see Nicoletta.

‘You’re not our taxi, by any chance, are you?’

‘I’m afraid not. Are you Mr White?’

The man laughs, which turns into a cough. ‘I am. Please don’t be offended. I had to ask. Can’t assume these days that a woman can’t or won’t drive a taxi.’ He looks at her quizzically from under the brim of his hat. ‘Who’s looking for Mr White, anyhow?’

Nicoletta talks fast. ‘Nicoletta Sarto. I’m a reporter for the Sentinel. I’d like to speak to you about Gloria Fitzpatrick.’

White leans into the doorframe as though the effort of standing upright is making him tired. ‘I haven’t heard that name in a long time. I’d ask what she’s done now, but she’s dead. God love her, and all that.’

White shuts the door gently behind him and joins Nicoletta on the front step. ‘A bit late in the day to be writing about poor old Gloria, I would’ve thought. Nothing left to say.’

Nicoletta catches his eye. They’re about level in height, his eyes muddily bloodshot in the greyish midwinter light. They seem to take everything in, yet give little away.

‘The body of Julia Bridges was recovered on Christmas Eve, along with the remains of a baby, as I’m sure you’ve heard by now. I believe Miss Fitzpatrick was questioned about Mrs Bridges’ disappearance up to the last day of her own life.

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