Erika picked up her phone and then remembered,

‘Use mine, I’m not hacked,’ said Peterson. Erika grabbed his phone and then called in to control, and asked about getting hold of the birth certificate for Jessica Collins. She was told that they don’t have access to Irish birth certificates and they would have to wait until 8am the next morning until the office is open.

‘Shit. Are we out on a limb here? Wouldn’t someone have picked up on it?’

‘The first investigation was a disaster, and why would anyone think of looking at her birth certificate? When we do we look at Birth and death certificates? Only when there is something fishy going on.’

‘You think its possible? That Laura was never Jessica Collins sister, she was her mother…’

 

 

62

 

 

Erika and Peterson stayed up until very late, working their way through the case files, and re-visiting witness statements. They grabbed a few hours sleep on the sofa, and then drove to the station first thing in the morning.

They left the flat at the same time, but in separate cars to drive to Bromley, and the fact Peterson had stayed the night was registered by the surprise on the officer stationed outside the flats in the squad car.

 

* * *

 

‘Okay everyone, I want your attention,’ said Erika to her team when they had all congregated in the incident room. ‘A few minutes ago I put in a request to the Irish records office for a copy of Jessica Collins’ birth certificate. We have reason to suspect that Laura Collins wasn’t Jessica’s sister, she was, in fact her mother.’

There was silence in the incident room. Erika went on to explain their hunch from the previous evening.

‘Boss, there’s a fax coming through for you, I’m just sending it to the printers,’ said John. Erika went to the printer at the back of the incident room and it seemed to take an age for it to start whirring and printing. Then, very slowly the scan of a birth certificate emerged. It was dated from 1983, and written in clear but legible handwriting.

‘Yes! Mother is Laura Collins… and father is a Gerry O’Reilly of 4 Dorchester Court, Gallway.’

Moss was already at the white board and writing it up. ‘Okay we need everything we can get on a Gerry O’Reilly. We don’t know the circumstances of this, he could be old or young, but we have a name and an address.’

Ninety minutes later, they had managed to track down two Gerry O’Reilly’s who were registered to 4 Dorchester Court.

‘Father and son, both have the same name,’ said Moss.

‘Shit, how do we find out who it was?’

‘Gerry O’Reilly senior was born in 1941, which would make him…’ started Moss.

‘Forty two years old when Jessica was born,’ finished John.

‘You’re quick,’ she grinned. ‘Gerry junior was born the same year as Laura Collins, 1970. He would have been thirteen when Jessica was born.

‘Shit, either of them could be the father,’ said Erika.

 

 

63

 

 

After he had hung up his phone for the last time and destroyed the SIM card, Gerry O’Reilly spent a few hours making preparations for travelling. He’d showered and had a close shave. Then he’d packed a bag, left his flat for the last time and taken the train to Charing Cross, wearing an old pair of army trousers a thick red lumberjack shirt. He’d walked up to Soho, and had bought a fashionable dark skinny suit, a tight white button down shirt and a pair of expensive black shoes. His next stop had been to a high fashion barber in Neal’s Yard where he’d paid to have his hair cut and blow dried into a fashionable quiff. He’d then gone to Selfridges and bought an overnight bag, and taken it to a disabled toilet. He emerged a few minutes later in the suit, the new bag packed with his belongings. He’d shoved his old clothes and shoes to the bottom of the bin.

He worked his way down to the ground floor, moving past the make up displays until he found a young slim guy with bright red hair working on the MAC make-up counter, and shown him a picture of the American singer Adam Lambert.

‘Can you make me look like him?’ asked Gerry, looking the young lad in the eye and deliberately flirting. The lad looked down at the picture and back up at him. He had a small leather apron slung over his slight hips, with several make-up brushes poking out.

‘Course I can,’ he grinned, returning the flirt and selecting an eyeliner pencil. ‘I like your Irish accent. What brings you so far from home?’

‘This and that. You think you can cover up my bruises, I have a job interview. A film company.’

‘You want to make an impression, do you?’

‘Something like that. Do a good job and I’ll make it worth your while,’ grinned Gerry.

 

* * *

 

Gerry now sat in a Starbucks at King’s Cross St.Pancras Station. He swilled the last of his coffee down, and then finished the email he was writing. He attached a file, and then activating the camera he grinned, stuck up his middle finger and took a selfie, before attaching it to the email. He then set it to send later that day.

He dumped his take away cup in the small bin in the coffee shop and then left. He crossed the concourse and took the escalator stairs two at a time up to the Eurostar departure gate. His train was due to leave in seven minutes, and it was now or never. With adrenalin coursing through his veins, he placed his bag in the security tray. His £8,000 had been exchanged for a mix of €100 and €500 euro notes which he’d divided between his carry on and his wallet. He handed over his passport to a snotty looking cow, she took it and glanced at the photo, taken a few years previously. He looked rougher, but she didn’t bat an eyelid. She swiped his passport and there was a long horrible moment where she stared at her screen, the passport held open in her tiny hand. The screen beeped and she handed it back with a waxwork smile, wishing him a pleasant trip. The gate was just as easy,

Result, the guy on security looks like a textbook queer, he thought as he approached the end of a short line waiting to go through the metal detectors. He had been sure not to pack anything to rouse suspicion and he’d removed his belt and anything metal. He breezed through, waiting another minute for his bag to exit the scanner.

‘Have a nice trip,’ grinned the guy on security. Gerry winked, and grabbing his bag he made it onto the train with three minutes to spare. He found his seat just as the train started to move out of the station. Thirty minutes later, the train left the UK and started its journey under the sea, and into mainland Europe.