BooksBarbecue
Back Darkest Truth
Chapters (54)
  1. COVER
  2. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  3. DEDICATION
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. EPILOGUE
  54. Acknowledgements

I nodded my assent. But rest was the last thing on my agenda for the evening.

34

I sat in front of my computer, welded to my chair. I planned to stay there until I found something, anything, that might chip away at Gill’s alibi. I was starting from the premise that Gill had murdered Rhona Macbride. In other words, that what Gill was saying was a lie. And that what his mother was saying was a lie. Two lies. And big lies are often made up of a collection of little lies, of all different kinds of lies. Lies of commission and lies of omission. Things said and things unsaid. And the most successful lies of all were the ones that blended seamlessly with the truth. To isolate and identify what was false, I needed to test the truth of every element of the Gills’ story. The same as if I was cross-examining them in the witness box, I would have to go through what they were saying and take down the wall they had constructed, brick by brick.

What did I know already? His house. Everyone in the country knew that, when in Dublin, he lived with his mother Esther in a Georgian house in Clontarf. I googled ‘Jeremy Gill Georgian house Clontarf’ and found an article from a three-year-old property supplement describing painstaking restoration of the house at Clontarf Crescent using best conservation practice, his membership of the Irish Georgian Society, how he was a proud northsider born in the Rotunda and would never move to the southside. Same old, same old.

But what did I know about the mother? Not so much. I checked Gill’s Wikipedia entry and followed links to press articles on Esther Gill. Esther had grown up dirt poor in the flats off Dorset Street, near the Convent of the Blessed Eucharist. She had had Jeremy when she was eighteen, and in everything I had read before, and in what I was reading now, there had never been a mention of Gill’s father. Esther was a single parent, never married. Based on my calculations she was sixty-six or sixty-seven now, and Jeremy was forty-eight. She lived in the Clontarf house, but that was as far as entries on Esther Gill went: a life of total devotion to Jeremy, serving her only child in every possible way. I went into Google Images and studied photograph after photograph of Esther Gill. No lavender-scented silver-haired little old lady, she was wiry and glamorous in a hard, cheap, fake tan, fake nails kind of way. Esther looked tough. And she had the same eyes as her son. Was she capable of lying to protect him? My gut said yes.