When the Time Comes (ARC) Read online

  When The Time Comes

  Adele O’ Neill

  Part One

  1.

  ‘Liam, what are you doing here at this hour?’ Louise – or to give her full title, Detective Sergeant Louise Kennedy, Unit Head at Blackrock Garda Station – looks me directly in the eye as she pushes back the interview room door, making it almost impossible for me to look away. She pulls a closed file from under her arm and places it on the table before slapping a notebook with a blank page open on top of it. Only then does she take her seat across the table from me, throwing a glance over her shoulder as she waits for the door to click closed behind her. It’s not even half six in the morning but every ounce of her seems dense with strength, her angles as sharp as her tone. When she stiffens her back, the only softness about her is around her front; the bump of her pregnancy looks like it doesn’t belong there. Maybe I should have left well enough alone. The timing couldn’t have been worse. I had only moved back in to be with the kids on Saturday and then a day later their mother is dead. How many coincidences is an ex-husband allowed before he’s charged with his ex-wife’s murder?

  I sit up straighter and look at her, clear my throat. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’ I deliberately ignore her question and my voice wavers a bit in betrayal. ‘I’m sorry about this, I really am.’ My apology to her is personal, a recognition of the connection that we both share. Alex, the woman that I left my wife for over two years ago, is Louise’s twin sister.

  ‘You’re sorry?’ The derision in her tone is loaded. No doubt with the two years’ worth of disapproval that she’s kept hidden since then. I can’t blame her really. No one wants their sister to be a mistress to a married man, or the reason he left his terminally ill wife and that’s just for starters. ‘About what, Liam?’ she asks, glancing at the digital recorder that sits on the table that separates us. It’s not turned on yet but the camera that’s suspended from the corner of the room is. I noticed the red recording light when I first walked in twenty minutes ago and when I questioned the duty Garda that showed me in here, he explained that the camera is on a sensor that automatically turns on once the room is occupied. He also said that it was on orders from Detective Sergeant Louise Kennedy that I was to wait in here for her. When I don’t answer she continues. ‘Why are you here?’ She places her hand on her stomach unconsciously and pulls it away quickly when she notices me noticing. Do I sprout the usual pregnancy platitudes that I would if she was standing in my kitchen, or me in hers? You’re looking well, hope you’re taking it easy, how’s the morning sickness now…

  ‘I’m sorry about this, about barging in here and looking to speak to you like this… When I first asked for you they said you were busy. That’s when I told them then that we were related.’ Not long ago, when Alex and I were out to dinner with Louise and her partner Kelly we had had a conversation about de facto relationships and the lack of recognition society gives to them. If I remember rightly, she had been in favour of their importance then.

  ‘I was in a briefing with the Inspector Liam, I was actually busy… and just for the record, we’re not related,’ she warns, her eyes glancing towards the camera. ‘You are…’ She hesitates. I can see her scratching out the word are and replacing it with the word were in her mind. ‘… in a relationship with my sister, that’s all.’ She taps her pen agitatedly on the blank page of the notebook in front of her. ‘Now…’ She presses the record button on the audio equipment in front of her. ‘Protocol,’ she explains without looking at me. ‘If that’s okay?’ I nod and she continues to speak.

  ‘Todays date, Monday 4th of June 2018.’ She glances at the clock on the wall. ‘6.25 a.m. Detective Sergeant Louise Kennedy in conversation with Mr Liam Buckley.’ She lifts up a sheet that the duty officer insisted on filling in with me when I first arrived. He said he couldn’t request Louise for me until it was filled in. She adds, ‘Presenting voluntarily with concerns about the death of his ex-wife, Ms Jennifer Buckley.’

  It feels odd to see her in full-on work mode, her hair neatly groomed away from her face, her grey – probably once white – blouse hanging loosely on her sinewy frame, her platinum-plated fine-cable necklace with a pearl pendant gathering in the groove of her exposed collar bone. Alex has the exact same one; they were gifts from their grandmother for their eighteenth birthday and it’s rare to see either of them without them. The pearls, Alex had told him, were the hardened tears of joy from Aphrodite – the goddess of love, according Ancient Greeks. It was the same story her grandmother had told her and Louise when she had given them to them nearly twenty years ago. ‘I do, I have concerns about Jenny’s death and I wanted to talk to you about it before… well, before any more time goes by.’

  When I think of my ex-wife Jenny, it’s her smile I see, the roguish way she used to lift the corners of her mouth just enough to suggest that underneath the warmth and kindness, she’s a bundle of fun. Abbie, our fifteen-year-old daughter, is just like her, or I should say, just like how Jenny used to be, before everything changed.

  She has the same luscious auburn hair that falls in waves down her slender back, the same porcelain skin that sizzles at the slightest hint of sunshine and the same affinity for random knowledge and clever facts. She puts her older brother and me to shame whenever The Chase or some other quiz programme is on, although I suspect that Josh lets her win sometimes. A shiver runs down my spine now, when I picture the four of us then, how we used to be. Nothing in any of our lives worked out exactly the way we wanted it to.

  ‘Sorry Louise, it’s just a little…’ I don’t how to finish the sentence and fill my cheeks with exasperated air. ‘Overwhelming,’ I manage. ‘Hard to get my head around, you know?’ I look at her expectantly, hoping for a modicum of sympathy.

  ‘No,’ she answers flatly, fixing her gaze on me. ‘No Liam… I don’t know,’ she says impatiently, before glancing at the paper in front of her. ‘You said that you had concerns about your ex-wife’s recent death and that you wanted to speak to me.’ Her eyebrows raise a fraction, waiting for my response. ‘You do know that if you want, you can have representation here, you can have a solicitor with you if you think you might need one?’

  ‘I do.’ I exhale. ‘But I don’t need one.’ I pause, checking my words before I utter them. Whatever I say now will form the basis of her investigation so it’s important that I say the right thing.

  ‘So, why are you here?’ Her eyes flicker towards the clock. 6.29 a.m.

  ‘I’m here because I know how this looks, I mean, I know how this is going to look when people start to investigate.’

  ‘Jenny’s death… how is it going to look, Liam?’ she asks, and I consider how to answer her. Do I tell her everything that is in my head? Will it go some way to demonstrating my loyalty to my family or make me look less guilty of murdering my ex-wife?

  Louise pushes her notebook to one side and opens the brown file in front of her. There’s a bundle of loosely piled pages inside it, print-outs from a quick Google search she must have conducted before she came in. Most of them are photocopies of newspaper articles that Jenny had done ever since she appeared on The Current Issues programme talking about assisted suicide and her right to die.

  ‘Are you worried that it will look like you had something to do with Jenny’s death?’ Her voice is softer now, a deliberate ploy to make me open up to her but I don’t. I stay silent. ‘Were you alone with Jenny in the house, Liam… when she died?’

  ‘I was alone when I found her, when I realised…’ The words come to a standstill at the back of my throat and lodge there like a fish bone threatening to choke me if I move them a millimetre more.

  ‘When you realised she was dead?’ She finishes my sentenc
e, her eyebrows raised once more. Her directness almost makes me grin. Ever since Jenny died, everyone I’ve spoken to has gone to extreme lengths to avoid saying that word, dead, like it’s a dirty word or something.

  She bows her head a little, a small mark of respect. ‘How are the kids, Liam? Where were Abbie and Josh when you found Jenny?’ Another ploy in her interrogation toolbox. Does she think if she mentions the kids that I’ll be more likely to confess to something I’m trying to hide?

  ‘Out with friends,’ I say. It was the best place for them to be. I remember years ago, when my mum died, an uncle had pulled me aside and told me there wasn’t a feeling on earth that compared to the feeling of loss you feel when a parent dies, no matter what your age. I’ve never forgotten it and I can’t help but feel a little guilty. Abbie and Josh never asked for any of this to happen. They’re innocent bystanders, I don’t know how this is going to play out and I feel awful that they have to go through this now.

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It hadn’t occurred to me to ask them, not with everything going on.

  ‘How old is Josh now?’ She pulls another page from the stack.

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘And Abbie?’

  ‘Fifteen.’ She knows this already but I wait while she writes it down.

  ‘And they knew their mother’s wishes about…’ Her awkward pause is forgivable, admirable even. She rubs her face before she continues and taps her pen at the headline on a photocopy of a newspaper article. ‘When The Time Comes.’

  ‘Yes, they knew about Jenny’s wishes… which article is that?’

  She’s noticeably uneasy when she answers. ‘It’s in today’s paper… it’s the interview that you and Jenny gave on Saturday?’ She looks at the clock and I follow her eyes there. It’s 6.36 a.m. and we both know that even though the ink is not yet dry on the print run, newspapers are already being unbundled and stacked onto shelves in newsagents across Ireland as we speak. I wonder if they knew about Jenny’s death and decided to run the piece anyway? ‘Jenny’s quoted as saying that she was in favour of having the option of choosing when she would die, she talks about the difference between living and existing and when she gets to the point when she’s just existing she wants the comfort of knowing that if…’ She pauses and looks me directly in the eye, and I look at her expectantly waiting for her to continue. ‘If she decides to end her own life and if she needs the assistance of others that she didn’t want any repercussions legal or otherwise for those that she left behind.’ She glares at me. ‘You’re also directly quoted.’

  ‘Okay,’ I mutter, unsure of what she’s going to say next.

  She shifts in the chair fixing the collar of her blouse. ‘You say here that you will do whatever it takes…’

  ‘I think context is important here,’ I offer. I need to read the article before I say anything else, see what it is I’m supposed to have said.

  ‘It always is, why don’t you give me some?’

  ‘Well, for a start, it was an article that was arranged by Jenny’s friend Sarah after Jenny appeared on The Current Issues programme on RTÉ last month and Jenny asked for me to be part of the interview, show the children a united front, that sort of thing. It all came together at the last minute and this guy, a reporter for the Sunday Independent came out to the house on Saturday to interview us, me Jenny, the kids.’ I notice my voice is raised slightly and I make an attempt to lower it again, to sound less defensive. ‘The “whatever it takes comment” was in the context of doing whatever it takes for the family, that’s all.’

  ‘I see… and now that you have done—’ she curls her fingers making quote marks ‘—whatever it takes… moving back into the family home—’ she throws a quick probing look my way, her eyes wide, filled with curiosity ‘—what do you think happened to Jenny?’ I don’t answer her and we sit silently across from each other. ‘Do you think that someone killed Jenny?’

  Kill sounds so depraved. The word seeps into my gut and creeps slowly upwards, scalding the soft tissue deep inside my chest as though it was acid. I bury my head in my hands and keep them there, opening my eyes behind them to study her reaction to mine. Her eyes move over me like an X-ray machine, her contempt hovering silently like radiation as her nose flares at my greasy black hair and three-day-old stubble. I lift my head to look at her and place my hands underneath my legs to stop them shaking. Maybe everything that I’m worried about them finding, won’t be found.

  ‘Liam?’ She raises her voice when I don’t answer. ‘Is this what you’re concerned about, are you saying that her death wasn’t suicide, that someone killed her?’

  ‘Jenny’s her name,’ I mutter finally, disquietly under my breath. It feels odd saying it out loud in front of her but personal pronouns like her and she just seem too cold, especially when Louise says it with such detachment that it makes Jenny and her life out to be nothing more than a statistic on some victims report. ‘Jenny Buckley,’ I add sharply. I don’t know why. Louise knows Jenny’s name, she’s known about Jenny as long as she’s known about me.

  ‘Is that so, Liam?’ She almost dares me as she scrunches her forehead upwards, the peaks of her eyebrows showing me just how hard-nosed she can be. I wince. This is not me, this is not what I’m usually like, if I had the chance to say it again, I’d say it softer, quieter with less attitude, with more respect. She’s right to be weary, she’s right to be protective of her sister as she sits here in this interview room with its no-frills, functional, hard, grey plastic chairs, painted breeze block walls and twice-repaired plywood doors asking me questions about how my ex-wife died.

  ‘Look Louise,’ I start but she doesn’t let me finish.

  ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Kennedy to you,’ she interrupts me, putting me in my place. She fixes her gaze on the recording machine, sniffing loudly before she leans her head on her hand. She’s letting me know that she’s nowhere near sympathetic to my cause. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have done what I did?

  ‘So…’ She looks me up and down before she continues. ‘Let me just go over a few things here.’ She flicks back over every piece of information she’s garnered so far. ‘Ms Jennifer Buckley, your ex-wife, died on Sunday evening, the day after you moved back into the family home.’ She stares at me without blinking. ‘She was attended to at 26 Oakley drive by the Dublin Ambulance Service Sunday night at 8.35 p.m.’ She stretches her neck upwards, then adds, ‘Patient dead on arrival.’ After a moment’s silence Louise continues, ‘Liam Buckley, statement given to attending Gardaí.’ She squints her eyes as she scans the brief report. ‘The hospital morgue has confirmed that there is a post-mortem scheduled for tomorrow…’ Her statement sounds like she wants me to answer but I don’t so she continues. ‘So, Liam…’ She places her pen on the table and studies me, the silence in the room a little unnerving. ‘Are you here because you want to change the statement you have already made to the Gardaí that interviewed you at the hospital?’ I shake my head, unable to find any words that are worth saying. The Gardaí that came to the hospital said that it was normal procedure in suicide cases to interview the family and that the questions would be brief. When they’d asked what they wanted, they commiserated and shook my hand and left with solemn expressions on their faces. I didn’t say anything incriminating, just gave them cold hard facts: her name, address, the way I found her, that type of thing.

  ‘Liam,’ she says, ‘are you aware of how this looks?’

  I don’t answer her. Of course I’m aware of how this looks, why does she think I’m here, for Christ’s sake? ‘Are you going to speak at all, Liam, or are you just going to sit there like a…’ She doesn’t complete her sentence but I know her well enough to know how she has any number of descriptive insults to use. Fool, arsehole, gobshite, person-who-isn’t-good-enough-for-her-sister. The unspoken insults hang in the air between us. Her patience is wearing thin, the frown on her forehead betraying the professi
onal smile on her face. She shuffles in her seat and then stands suddenly, sending the chair she was sitting on landing on its back. I reach to pick it up for her but she gets there before me.

  ‘This is cold.’ She lifts the cold, half empty paper cup and wiggles it in front of me. ‘I think I need warmer coffee.’ She opens back the interview room door. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ Her smile is as fake as the cheap Michael Kors knockoff bags that Abbie insisted on buying in the markets last year.

  *

  ‘I couldn’t remember how you took yours,’ she says ten minutes later as she kicks the door with her foot to open it, ‘so I put sugar and milk in.’ She places both cups on the table that separates us. I pull the plastic lid from the cup and blow, the steam folds over the rim and slides down the side of the cup before I take a sip. ‘Thanks,’ I mutter and wait for whatever new information she’s just spent the last ten minutes gathering to be thrown at me.

  ‘Is yours okay?’ She asks, I nod in response.

  ‘So where were we?’ she asks, clearly not expecting an answer. ‘Okay, so Liam, are you here because you’re afraid of what the post-mortem will show tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answer concisely. That’s exactly why I’m here. I can’t see another way out.

  ‘Why? What will the post-mortem show tomorrow?’ She sighs heavily as she pulls herself as close to the worn wooden desk as her chair will allow. ‘It’s a very simple question,’ she adds. I swallow, but my words have abandoned me, deserted my brain in a scuttling stampede like lemmings in a mass suicide pact. I only realise that I’m crying when I rub my face with my hands.

  ‘I think…’ The ball at the back of my throat nearly chokes me as I try to speak – whether it’s because Jenny’s gone, or because Abbie and Josh are now motherless or because I’m going to be blamed for her death, I don’t know. I inhale and lengthen my back with a subtle stretch and rub my eyes. They’re red and raw from a combination of no sleep and lots of crying. She leans forward in response. I pause and inhale again, nerves making the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I’m damned if I do and I’m damned if I don’t. There is no other option but to say what I am about to say. At my momentary hesitation, she widens her eyes in expectation across the table. ‘I think Jenny was murdered and I think someone is framing me for her death.’ I shift quietly in my seat, my backbone stiffening as I hear myself out loud. I’ve emphasised the word think to distance myself from the reality of what has actually gone down. I can see it now, I can hear the headlines all over the press.