False Mermaid

“I’m afraid we had an ulterior motive in asking you for dinner,” Nora said to Devaney. “I’ll just tell you straight out. The police may be looking for us—Elizabeth and me. She ran away from her father and stepmother when they arrived in Dublin on Friday—”

“Gave them the slip at the airport,” Cormac said. “Took a taxi straight to Nora’s apartment.”

“Only I wasn’t there; I’d gone back to the States last week. Fortunately, I have kind neighbors, who were able to look after her until I could fly over the next day.”

Devaney frowned. “Why did the child run away?”

Nora glanced at Cormac. “I think she found out about her mother. My sister Tríona was murdered—it happened five years ago. Elizabeth was too young to understand.”

“We think she may have discovered that her father is still the main suspect,” Cormac added.

Nora said: “He’s never been charged. Unfortunately, whenever we get a promising lead, it seems to evaporate. The point is that Elizabeth came to me for help, for protection. I can’t just let her go back—”

Cormac said: “There’s another possible wrinkle as well. Her father might claim that Nora abducted her. You see our predicament—”

Devaney rubbed his chin. “You haven’t spoken to anyone in the police over here?”

“I wasn’t sure what to do,” Nora said. “The detective working the case at home said he would contact Garda headquarters and Interpol, let them know he had a murder suspect on the loose over here. My brother-in-law’s name is Hallett, by the way—Peter Hallett.”

“And so far as you know, nobody’s got him under obso?”

“No—not as far as we know. As I said, he arrived in Dublin on Friday, so he could be anywhere in the country by now.”

“And you don’t know if he’s filed a missing persons report?”

Nora shook her head. “I’m afraid we’re completely in the dark. We obviously couldn’t just phone up and ask. Frank Cordova, the detective back in the States, has been working on some new leads. A few things have just turned up in the past few days, but—”

“Still not enough to file charges?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Devaney pondered for a minute. “Well now, it seems to me your only choice is to dig in for a bit, at least until your detective can scare up more on those leads. He should get in touch with me directly, and I can shuttle him to the right person in the Serious Crimes Unit. In the meantime, I’ll work a few contacts, see what I can find out.”

“I’d be so grateful for any help. I should warn you—Peter Hallett is dangerous. He has a way of twisting things, turning everything around so that he looks like the victim, and anyone who dares to question him seems seriously disturbed. He made my sister seem completely mad—and he’s been trying to back me into that same corner for five years.”

The two girls had climbed to the top of the opposite promontory overlooking the harbor. Nora shaded her eyes to peer over at them.

Devaney’s voice was thoughtful. “Could Elizabeth know enough about her mother’s death to be in danger?”

“I don’t know. She was only six, and she was out of town with my parents at the time of Tríona’s murder.”

“Still, children see and hear things nobody else does. Especially true in domestic cases. But kids don’t want to be grassing on the other parent. Has she ever been interviewed by a social worker or counselor?”

“Her father wouldn’t allow it. He moved away after my sister’s death, so I’ve had no contact with Elizabeth for the past four years. Even now, I can’t get her to talk to me. I tried to ask this afternoon why she ran away, and do you know what she asked me? If everyone believed her dad was a murderer. She flatly denies that he had anything to do with my sister’s death.”

“Not uncommon, unfortunately. Sometimes it takes them a long time to figure things out. But she did come to you—that’s a good sign.”

Nora was remembering how Elizabeth fidgeted when pressed. “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience with children.”

Devaney offered a sympathetic wince. “My wife tells me to stop worrying and start listening—I think it’s very good advice.” He turned to Cormac. “Ready for that tune now?”

Back at the house after the excursion, Nora watched the musicians getting ready to play, Róisín taking a half-sized fiddle from her case while her father slid an amber cake of rosin up and down his bow, the rounded belly of his fiddle still dusty from the last application. When all was ready, the two fiddlers sat cradling their instruments, plucking absently at their strings, bows at the ready on the table. “Why don’t you and Róisín play something together to start us off?” Cormac suggested to Devaney. “Maybe the tune you were playing down at the pub this afternoon—‘The Pigeon on the Gate.’ That was a nice setting.”