Lying in Wait(23)

There was a lock of soft, downy, almost yellow hair stuck to the page with Sellotape.

As well as writing, there were things like cinema tickets pasted to the pages like a scrapbook, and random phone numbers, cash amounts and badly spelled hotel addresses. Some recent entries were listed with a ‘J’ on one side of the page and ‘￡300’ on the other. I could make no more sense of it than O’Toole.

After the reporters printed our interview, information came flooding in. Annie had been spotted in five different pubs and two restaurants in Dublin, working in a café in Galway, a hotel in Greystones, an office in Belfast. Countless possible sightings. Detective Mooney kept us updated, but even he admitted that they didn’t have the resources to follow up on every single call. Not properly. Me and Dessie chased up a lot of them ourselves. We took the bus and went to hotels and pubs and shops with her photo, but it was infuriating. It seemed like some of the people who had ‘spotted’ Annie just wanted to be part of the excitement of a missing person’s case. Their stories didn’t hold up, or they were contradicted by their friends. Often they were just people with problems of their own that wanted some attention. Each new lead excited us for a time, but none of them checked out.

A week after our press interview, the muckraking began. New headlines appeared: ‘Missing Annie’s Heroin Addiction’ and ‘Annie Doyle’s Secret Teen Pregnancy’. There were vague references to gentlemen callers, and anyone with a brain could see what they meant.

Da and Ma were distraught. Da and I went straight to see O’Toole. ‘How did they know? You said you wouldn’t tell them any of that private stuff!’

O’Toole played the shocked innocent. ‘We’re launching a full investigation into how those details were leaked, Gerry. I can assure you, we’re just as upset as you are.’

Detective Mooney, I could tell, was furious. His eyes blazed at O’Toole. I knew it was O’Toole who had done the leaking. After the press conference, I saw him and some of the reporters laughing and joking together. He posed for photographs with them. I was sure he would not hesitate to provide any dirty details they wanted. Maybe he told them to hold off for a week, so that the articles couldn’t be connected to him.

To me, the tone of these reports seemed to imply that Annie deserved whatever she got, and if she was dead in a ditch, she had nobody to blame but herself. Even Dessie was upset by all the coverage. ‘It’s as if she doesn’t matter,’ he said.

Within three weeks, everything stopped. No leads, no investigation. Gradually, the name Annie Doyle disappeared from the headlines. I guess nobody cared enough to really investigate the vanishing of someone like Annie. If she had been a posh rich girl without a ‘troubled’ history, they would not have given up so quickly.

I couldn’t stop thinking of that first entry in Annie’s copybook. It had been written four years earlier, but the pain in that letter was obvious. What if she had travelled to St Joseph’s in Cork to find out where her baby had gone? What if something happened to her in Cork?

I rang O’Toole.

‘Did you ask St Joseph’s?’

‘What?’ He didn’t appear to know what I was talking about.

‘St Joseph’s in Cork, where Annie was forced to give up her baby.’

‘Oh yeah, I did, yeah.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘They didn’t have any information that would be helpful.’

‘But did they say she had been there? Had she gone down to find out where the baby was?’

‘Karen, a beautiful girl like you, all this worry is doing you no good. You have to leave this investigation to us. We’re doing everything we can.’

‘Like what?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Like, today. What are you doing today?’

There was a pause before he said, ‘You know, Karen, patience is a virtue.’

‘I’d just really like to know what you’re doing to find my sister.’

‘Would you like to discuss it over a drink?’

I hung up.

I rang St Joseph’s in Cork. I didn’t know who I should speak to. The place was run by nuns. The woman who answered the phone identified herself as Sister Margaret.

‘I’m trying to find out if my sister visited in the last five weeks, please? Her name is Annie Doyle.’

‘And why would she visit here?’

‘She … she had a baby there in 1975. The baby’s name was Marnie. I have her date of birth, if that helps? She stayed there until December 1976, when she gave up the baby.’

There was a rustling of papers then.

‘I see. Do you know what her St Joseph’s name was?’

‘No … I … what do you mean?’

‘All the girls who come here are given new names.’

‘Her name is Annie Doyle. She’s missing. I think the guards were in touch with you?’

‘Not that I recall. If you can’t give me her house name, I can’t help you.’

‘Wait, but don’t you keep records? Where did you send her baby? She might have gone looking for her.’

A long silence followed.

‘I don’t know who you are talking about. Perhaps she went away because she was ashamed.’