Large floor cushions, upholstered in bright, flowery materials that ought to have clashed but in fact looked all right, were strewn everywhere. They looked more expensive than Gibbs’ three-piece suite. Amid the cushions were pottery cups that also looked pricey and were probably hand-made, some with cigarette butts in them and ash streaks down the sides. A few screwed-up Rizlas and some empty takeaway cartons lay under the green glass table that stood in one corner. It was as if a group of homeless people had broken in and had a party in the home of an interior designer.
Cordy O’Hara had her hands on Oonagh’s shoulders as they came into the room, and a baby in a sling round her neck. Like a broken arm. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Ianthe needed changing. And sorry about the mess. Since having baby number two, I’ve been forced to embrace squalor, I’m afraid-too knackered to clean the flat. Oonagh, this is Chris. He’s a policeman. Do you remember the other policeman, Sam? Chris works with Sam.’
Gibbs didn’t like the first-names thing-he hadn’t said Cordy O’Hara could call him Chris-but he said nothing. He did what Sellers would have done if he were here, and started by assuring Oonagh that there was nothing to worry about. She was only six, so he avoided referring to her having lied when Kombothekra interviewed her, and simply said, ‘Oonagh, you and Amy have been exchanging e-mails ever since she went to Spain, haven’t you?’ He shot Cordy O’Hara a warning look. She knew Amy was dead; Oonagh didn’t, and he didn’t want her to find out now. The girl tried to shrink into her mother’s skirt. Her round, wide-open eyes stared at the carpet. She was the image of her mother: thin, freckled face, carrot-coloured hair.
‘Her dad helped her type the messages,’ said Cordy. ‘When Oonagh said she hadn’t been in touch with Amy since Amy left school, I had no idea she was fibbing. Not until I spoke to Dermot.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Gibbs. He hated situations that required him to be sensitive. ‘Oonagh, nobody’s angry with you. But I do need to ask you some questions. Do you remember, in one of your messages, asking if everything was all right between Amy and her mum?’
Oonagh nodded.
‘Did you have any reason to think things might not be okay between them?’
‘No.’ Her voice was almost inaudible.
‘Did you think it was strange that Amy never answered your questions about her mother?’
‘No.’
‘Oonagh, sweetie, you must tell Chris the truth.’
Gibbs was instantly suspicious. Cordy O’Hara shrugged an apology at him. ‘I’ve been trying to get it out of her. Amy used to ask her to keep lots of secrets. Didn’t she, sweetie?’ Oonagh wriggled, hopping from one foot to the other.
‘Oonagh, you’ll be helping Amy if you tell us,’ said Gibbs. ‘Whatever it is.’
‘Please may can I go to the toilet?’ the girl asked her mother.
Cordy nodded and Oonagh fled. ‘Come straight back, please, sweetie,’ Cordy called after her. ‘They taught her at school to say, “Please may…”, but I can’t seem to drum it into her that you don’t need to say “can” as well.’
‘If she won’t talk to me, see what you can do once I’ve gone,’ said Gibbs.
‘I’ve tried endlessly.’ Cordy tucked her hair behind her multiply pierced ears. ‘She thinks something dreadful happens to people who tell secrets; it’s infuriating. If I force the issue, she’ll make something up. Once, ages ago, I found her crying in bed in the middle of the night. She was distraught. Lucy Bretherick-she could be a bit of a madam, Lucy-she’d browbeaten Oonagh into telling her one of Amy’s secrets. Poor Oonagh was terrified Amy would find out, that she’d send a monster to attack her in the night.’
‘What was the secret?’ Gibbs asked.
‘I never got it out of her. Having told Lucy and felt awful about it, she was hardly going to compound her crime by telling me, poor little love.’
On the spot, Gibbs decided that if he and Debbie ever succeeded in having a child, rule number one would be no secrets from Mum and Dad. Ever.
‘I feel terrible,’ said Cordy. ‘I was relieved when Amy moved away. Once she was gone, Lucy and Oonagh became… well, normal little girls. But while it was the three of them…’ She shuddered. ‘I was a horrible coward. I’m totally ashamed of myself now. I should never have exposed Oonagh to scenes like that. No wonder she was traumatised, when Lucy hounded her until she couldn’t take it any more and told Amy’s secret.’
‘Scenes?’ Gibbs asked.
‘One scene, really. Though it was repeated over and over again. Lucy would take any opportunity to say to Amy, “My mummy loves me best in the whole wide world, and Oonagh’s mummy loves her best in the whole wide world, but your mummy doesn’t love you, Amy.” Oh, it was heart-breaking! ’ Cordy pressed her hand against her chest. ‘Completely untrue, too. Encarna loved Amy passionately. She just hated being a mother, which isn’t the same thing at all. She was honest about how difficult she found it-that’s one of the things I liked about her. She said the things no one else would say.’
‘How did Amy react, when Lucy said her mum didn’t love her?’
‘She’d start shaking-literally shaking-with misery, and wail, “Yes, she does!” and then Lucy would try to prove her wrong. Like a barrister, taking apart a witness’s case in court. “No, she doesn’t,” she’d say smugly, and then recite her long list of evidence: “Your mummy’s always cross with you, she doesn’t smile at you, she says she hates Saturdays and Sundays because you’re at home…” On and on it went.’
‘In front of you?’
‘No. In the privacy of Oonagh’s bedroom, but I overheard it plenty of times. I know Geraldine did too, because once I tried to raise it with her and she immediately looked guilty and clammed up; it was literally as if I hadn’t spoken. The one thing Geraldine couldn’t allow herself to admit was that she’d messed up. Oh…’ Cordy waved her hand at Gibbs, as if to delete her last comment. ‘I didn’t think it was her fault, obviously-children have their personalities from the moment they’re born-but Geraldine and Mark had very set roles in their marriage, in the family. Mark’s job was being brilliant and successful, bringing in the money, and Geraldine’s was Lucy; if she admitted Lucy was capable of being mean-of actually enjoying being mean-then she’d have to admit to herself that she’d failed in her part of the bargain: raising the perfect child. And everything about Geraldine’s family had to be perfect: she was so relentlessly upbeat about everything, totally unwilling to admit her daughter had faults.
‘I don’t know if anyone’s told you this yet, and I wasn’t planning to, but…’ Cordy took a deep breath. ‘Lucy Bretherick wasn’t a nice girl. She wasn’t kind. Clever, hardworking, high-achieving, yes. Nice? Definitely not. You know I said I was relieved when Amy moved away?’
Gibbs nodded. ‘It sounds awful, and I’m sorry of course that she’s dead, but… knowing Oonagh won’t be spending time with Lucy any more is a weight off my mind.’
‘After Amy left, Lucy didn’t start to victimise Oonagh?’
Cordy shook her head. ‘Everything was fine, like I said. But they were only six, and every bully needs a sidekick. I reckon that’s the position Lucy had in mind for Oonagh-she was grooming her, subtly.’
This sounded absurd to Gibbs, but he didn’t query it. ‘Oonagh asked after Patrick in a couple of her messages,’ he said.
Cordy nodded. ‘All the girls loved Patrick. He used to play with them. They thought he was the pinnacle of cute.’
This last word made Gibbs uneasy. So Oonagh O’Hara had met Patrick. Where? At Amy Oliva’s house? Had Encarna flaunted her lover under her husband’s nose? ‘Do you know Patrick’s surname?’ Gibbs asked.
Oonagh had returned. She was standing in the doorway, staring at him with something approaching scorn. She said, ‘He hasn’t got one, silly.’