Lake of Sorrows

“By Ursula. It’s awful, I know. I just don’t know if that part is true; it was just what people said. But Tom’s wife left him; that was a fact. And the scandal didn’t end there. There were rumors that Ursula was trying to discredit Tom’s academic work, saying she’d actually done his research and most of the writing he’d had published for the previous several years. I can’t believe that part is true. Tom Power was, and is, a brilliant man; he had no need to hide behind a colleague’s work. But he was consumed with guilt about what he’d done to Sarah and he wouldn’t even defend himself. He had to leave his teaching position, and no other university would touch him. In the end he took a job cataloging a large private art collection somewhere in France, cut his ties to everyone he knew. I can’t imagine that he’s had an easy time of it the past ten years.”

“And Rachel is his daughter?”

“Tom’s daughter was named Rachel, and she’d be about the same age as the girl who disappeared,” Cormac said. “Briscoe was Sarah’s name before she married. There’s got to be some connection.”

Nora’s thoughts went back to the scene at the excavation, when the young man had borrowed Rachel’s binoculars. Rachel’s temper had flared, but it was Ursula’s seemingly benign gesture, handing the binoculars back, that had nearly put her over the edge. “Rachel might have had reason to despise Ursula, but to take a job out here just to get close to her? I can’t see someone her age concocting such an elaborate scheme just for revenge.”

“She may have seen Ursula as the person who destroyed her family. People have committed murder for much more trivial reasons. If no one has seen her since Ursula was killed—”

“But that doesn’t mean she did it. She could have just been a witness.” Either way, the Guards would be anxious to find Rachel and talk to her. Nora considered the way Ursula had been killed and tried to imagine Rachel Briscoe pulling tight the leather cord, drawing a knife. None of it seemed to connect with the defensive young woman who’d sat in the passenger seat of her car less than two days ago.

“We’re probably getting ahead of ourselves,” she said. “Maybe she just got fed up with the job and went home. We don’t even know that she is your friend’s daughter, not for certain. Maybe we should go back to the house and think this through at least once more before we call anyone.”

3

At half-past five, Maureen Brennan set a steaming mug of milky tea on Ward’s desk. The daylong search for Rachel Briscoe had turned up nothing, so they’d come back to the station to dry off and go over their notes, getting ready to brief the Bureau officers who would be coming in on Monday.

“Don’t worry, Liam. She’ll turn up. If she’s anywhere to be found, we’ll find her.”

He didn’t need reassurance on that score. They would find Rachel Briscoe eventually, he was sure of that; he just hoped it wouldn’t be too late. They had found no footprints, no traces of hair or blood, no debris that could tell them any more about the girl’s whereabouts. The only thing they had turned up was a small area of bent grass and leaves under one of the hedgerows, as if someone or something had been sleeping there recently; even the most experienced searchers couldn’t tell whether the marks had been left by an animal or a human. Ward sighed. “What’s the latest from Dublin—and how are we doing on Ursula Downes’s personal effects?”

“She didn’t keep much in her appointment diary, as you saw yourself, so it’s been difficult to find anyone who claims to know her well. But here’s what we’ve been able to get so far. She was born and raised on the north side of Dublin, an only child; her father left before she was born, and the mother either married or remarried—we’re not quite clear on which it was—when Ursula was ten. The father’s whereabouts are still unknown, but both the mother and stepfather are now dead. Ursula was single, lived alone in a flat in Rathmines. The Bureau say they’ll let us know what turns up there, but they said it might take a while; her place is an absolute tip.”

Ward felt annoyed. He knew it made sense to have the Bureau handle the search, but he couldn’t help wondering if they’d miss something, even one tiny thing, that might help color the case. He also knew the Bureau lads wouldn’t be in any particular hurry to get things done until Monday, when their own officers would be safely in charge of the investigation.

A sideways glance from Brennan told him that she understood and shared his irritation, but she went on: “Ursula Downes’s mobile had only a couple of numbers stored in it; her office in Dalkey, Desmond Quill’s mobile.”

“That’s strange, isn’t it—that she wouldn’t keep more friends’ numbers on her mobile?”

“Not if she didn’t have any friends. Some people don’t, you know. Or it could be that she was just too lazy to program them all in.” Ward thought of the empty directory on his own mobile.