Читать книгу The Courier - Ava McCarthy - Страница 14

The closer Harry got to Garvin Oliver’s house, the harder it was to breathe. She cracked open a window and sucked in the sea air. Ahead of her, yellow police tape snapped in the breeze, and an officer stood on guard by the railings. Traffic slowed to a crawl as motorists rubbernecked at the scene. Harry inched her car in behind them.

Her stomach was taut, as though braced for a punch. An image flashed before her: Garvin kneeling, head bent as though in prayer; the gun barrel touching his skull.

I never leave witnesses.

Sweat spilled down her back. The notion that someone out there wanted her dead jammed up her brain.

The officer on sentry duty waved the cars on, bending low to inspect the occupants as they passed. A fair-haired man, lean and athletic, stepped out of the house to join him. Harry caught her breath. Hunter. Shit. How bad would it look to be caught coming back for a voyeuristic eyeful? She yanked at the steering wheel and veered up a side road, her heart banging against her chest.

She’d been stupid to even think of driving past the house. What was the matter with her? She detoured away from the coast road, taking the long way round. Five minutes later, she’d pulled up at the library closest to Garvin’s home.

As she pushed through the door, she inhaled the smell of ageing, plastic-bound books. A lot of people thought libraries were dull, but to Harry they were hidey-holes full of free information. And information was artillery for a social-engineering attack. Which was double-talk for executing a scam.

She smiled at the librarian behind the desk. ‘Hi there. Do you keep a hard copy of the electoral register?’

The librarian smiled back. He was tall and stooped, with the gentle-giant look that often went with large men.

‘You can check it online, you know, to see if you’re registered.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘The computers are back there.’

‘Yes, I know, but I’d prefer the hard copy if you’ve got one.’

She’d tried the online system before. For honest citizens just checking they were registered to vote, it certainly made life easy. But for snoopers like Harry it blocked you right at the get-go by demanding both a name and address. No off-course browsing allowed. The printed version, on the other hand, dumped everything right in your lap.

The librarian nodded, and ambled out from behind the counter. That was the other great thing about libraries. No one ever asked you why.

Harry followed her jumbo helper as he wound his way between the rows of shelves. Behind her, scanners bleeped and date stamps thumped. Eventually, the librarian stopped by a filing cabinet and pointed at the stacks of paper perched on top.

‘That’s most of it for this area, I think,’ he said. ‘If we don’t have the one you need, we can check with the other libraries.’

Harry thanked him and watched him lumber away. Then she hefted the mound of paperwork to a nearby desk and pulled up a chair. She thumbed through the pages. They’d been stapled together in bunches, organized by district and adjoining roads. She traced a finger down the columns of data. The houses were listed by road number, with the occupants’ names recorded against them. She smiled, her mouth almost watering. All that juicy information. Then she fished a pen and paper out of her bag and went to work.

It didn’t take long to find Garvin Oliver’s road. She scanned the house numbers. There it was, last on the list: 91 Seapoint Avenue. Occupants: Oliver, Beth; Oliver, Garvin. The register must have pre-dated her death. No mention of the daughter, which made sense. As a schoolgirl, she wasn’t eligible to vote.

Harry’s eyes slid back to number 90. There was only one occupant: Cantwell, Margot. Since the Olivers’ house was an end-of-terrace, there were no other immediate neighbours. Replacing the stack of paper on the filing cabinet, Harry returned to the front desk where she borrowed a telephone directory and looked up the name Cantwell. None listed for 90 Seapoint Avenue. Damn. Ex-directory. Why did people do that? Did they really think it kept their number private?

She chewed the end of her pen for a moment. Then she swapped the directory for the Golden Pages and looked up video rental stores in the area. There were two, but MaxVision was the closest to Garvin’s home, located just around the corner. Harry noted the phone number, along with that of the MaxVision store across town in Malahide.

Then she flipped to the florist section and ran her finger along the page till she found one close to Seapoint. She jotted down the name and number, and was about to return to her car when she spotted the row of computers behind the desk.

Beth Oliver died four months ago.

Harry contemplated the screens. Surely if there was a sister, she’d be mentioned in Beth Oliver’s death notice?

Two minutes later, and after a brief chat with the librarian, Harry was logged into the national newspaper archives. For the next hour, she scanned through the death notices. She expanded her search to stretch back more than six months, just to make sure. But Beth Oliver’s name wasn’t there.

Harry frowned. Then she shrugged it off and headed back out to her car. Settling herself in the driver’s seat, she dialled the number for the MaxVision store located in Malahide.

‘Hello, MaxVision Rentals.’ The voice was male, but just about. A bored teenager, by the sound of him.

‘Hi there.’ Harry smiled widely. The bigger the beam, the better it transmitted to your voice. ‘I was in with you a couple of nights ago and I just wanted to say how helpful the girl behind the counter was. Really, she went to a lot of trouble and recommended a great movie.’

There was a pause while the teenager seemed to grope for a response. Satisfied customers probably weren’t covered in the training manual.

‘Right,’ he said eventually. ‘Well, glad we could help.’

Harry kept the smile going. ‘I just wondered, could I get her name so I can thank her, maybe write a nice letter to the manager?’

‘Uh, well, sure. But we’ve got two girls working here. What did she look like?’

Harry scrambled for something generic. ‘Oh, darkish hair, I think. Medium height. Slim.’

‘Slim?’ He sounded surprised, and Harry backpedalled fast.

‘Well, slim-ish.’ She laughed. ‘Anyone under fourteen stone looks slim to me.’

‘It might have been Lara.’ He sounded doubtful. ‘Was she sort of, like, pale, dressed all in black in a big tent thing?’

Harry pictured an overweight, teenage Goth. Poor Lara. ‘Yes, that sounds like her. Could you tell me your store manager’s name so I can drop him a note?’

‘Sure, it’s Greg Chaney, you can send it here to the store.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And my name’s Steve.’

‘Thanks, Steve, you’ve been a great help. I’ll be sure to mention you too.’ She hung up and scribbled the names on her pad, awarding herself a mental thumbs-up. Persuading people to part with information always made her day.

Next, she called the MaxVision store near Garvin Oliver’s home.

‘MaxVision Rentals, Jilly speaking.’ Another teenager, but chirpier this time.

‘Hi, Jilly, this is Lara from MaxVision in Malahide. Listen, are you guys having trouble with your computers today? Our stupid system has been down for the last two hours.’

‘Really? No, ours is fine. Did you try switching it off and on again?’

Harry snorted. ‘I suggested that, but who listens to me? Steve here reckons he’s some kind of computer genius, says he’s on the case. You know what guys are like.’

Jilly sniggered. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘Anyway, I have a customer of yours here who wants to rent The Mona Lisa but she doesn’t have her card with her. Could you verify her information for me? Greg Chaney, our store manager, said it’d be okay to ask.’

‘Sure, that’s no problem. Greg calls us all the time. What’s her name?’

‘It’s Margot Cantwell, 90 Seapoint Avenue.’

‘Hang on.’

Harry crossed her fingers, trying to ward off the possibility that Ms Cantwell was a movie-phobe.

Jilly came back on the line. ‘Yep, she’s here. Do you want the account number?’

Harry let out a long breath. ‘Yes, please.’

She jotted down the number as Jilly called it out. She didn’t need it, but information was like currency: too valuable to be discarded. Then she closed her eyes, keeping her tone casual.

‘Is there a phone number next to that?’

‘Yeah, it’s 2834477.’

Harry’s eyes flared open. Bingo. She scribbled the number down. She had what she needed, but she played things out.

‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘No late returns due, I hope?’

‘No.’

‘Or outstanding fines?’

‘No, she’s all clear.’

‘Great. I’ll set her up manually with an account here and enter it into the system when it’s back. I’m sure Whiz Kid Steve here will have us up and running in no time.’

They shared another snigger, then Harry thanked her and hung up. She stared at the phone number she’d just acquired. Some people made a living from scoring information they weren’t supposed to have. In the trade, they were known as information brokers. The key was to push for just a small piece at a time. Then you traded each nugget for something bigger at every stage of the scam. Harry’s biggest trade-up was yet to come. She dialled Margot Cantwell’s number.

‘Yes?’

The woman’s tone was snippy, and Harry pictured her with a ‘what-is-it-now’ look on her face. She beamed into the phone.

‘Hi, this is Catalina from Kay’s Florist in Blackrock. Is that Margot Cantwell?’

‘Yes.’ If she’d added What’s it to you? Harry wouldn’t have been surprised.

‘Great,’ Harry said. ‘I called to your house just now to deliver a bouquet of flowers, but there was no one home. Will you be there if I call again in half an hour?’

‘I’ve been here all day, I didn’t hear anyone. Who’re they from?’

‘Actually, there’s no card.’

‘I don’t want them. Never trust anyone who sends you flowers, that’s what I say.’

‘They’re really beautiful.’ Absurd to feel defensive about her imaginary flowers, but who got surly at an unexpected bouquet?

Margot snorted. ‘Flowers just give a person something to hide behind, if you ask me. Let the roses say it all so you don’t have to commit yourself in words. Saves the trouble of lying.’

Harry blinked. Whatever the world had done to Margot, she was having a hard time letting it go. Still, for all her crankiness, she seemed willing to stay on the line. Harry steered the conversation towards the Olivers.

‘I didn’t like to leave the bouquet next door,’ she said. ‘Not with all those policemen around. What happened in there?’

‘They won’t tell me. I heard some kind of commotion, then this young woman with wild dark hair came rushing out of the house. Looked odd to me, so I called the guards.’

Harry smoothed a hand over her tangled curls. ‘Isn’t that the Olivers’ house? I’m sure I’ve delivered flowers there.’

Margot sniffed. ‘You probably have. That’d be his style all right.’

‘Poor Mrs Oliver. We did the flowers for her funeral. It was a car accident, wasn’t it?’

‘So they said. The police were around a lot that time, too.’

‘I never met her husband.’ Harry crossed her fingers. ‘But I did meet her sister once. She chose the flowers for the funeral. She and Beth were very alike, weren’t they?’

Margot paused. ‘Beth didn’t have a sister. She was an only child.’

Harry frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh yes.’ The woman had turned pensive, and Harry strained to read her voice. It was never a good sign when the mark began to think.

‘And another thing,’ Margot continued in the same tone. ‘There wasn’t any funeral. Not here, anyway. She was buried in South Africa.’

‘South Africa?’

‘Cape Town. That’s where they’re from.’ Margot paused. ‘What did you say your name was?’

Damn. ‘Catalina, from Kay’s Flowers. Sorry, I must be mixing things up, we do a lot of funerals in here. Listen, it’s been nice talking to you. I’ll send someone round with the bouquet later today.’

Harry disconnected and flopped back against the seat. That was stupid. She’d reached too far, straying from her nuggets of information. Guesswork didn’t always pay off.

She rewound the conversation with Margot. At this point, her efforts seemed like an elaborate scam that had netted her very little. So the Olivers were from Cape Town. She recalled the woman masquerading as Beth. To Harry, her accent had been a plain-vanilla blend of the South Dublin suburbs. No terse South African clip, no foreign inflection. It wasn’t conclusive, but together with Margot’s information, it seemed to rule out the possibility that the woman was Beth’s sister.

Harry drummed her fingers on the wheel. All she had now was Garvin’s hard drive.