hardly chitchat to someone she’d just witnessed fleeing the scene of a crime. On the other hand, what choice did Harry have? She had no name or phone number. All she had was an address.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She snatched up her car keys and headed for the door.
Sometimes, an address was all it took.
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