The Big Guard laughed too. ‘You’re very good, sir, very good.’ A nod towards Gran. ‘Quite the comedian you’ve got here, Agnes. He’d sell out the Royal Theatre, no bother.’
Dad laughed again and I felt confused that people kept laughing at things that weren’t even funny, like Noel and his stupid South Park or Dad with that barmaid in the pub.
‘Just a bit of craic, Sergeant. No offence meant.’ Dad offered out his hand and the room held its breath. Eventually the Big guard grabbed hold. ‘Rest assured, I’ll send Jacqui your way as soon as she’s back, although God knows when that’ll be? You know how it is, we were all young once, eh.’
‘Ah sure, no bother, we’ll speak to her when we speak to her.’ The Big Guard looked at his watch then stood up quickly, a bit panicked. ‘Mother of God, we’ve been here over an hour, can you believe that? Come on you,’ he said to the younger one, ‘let’s not take up any more of these good folks’ time.’
They walked to the door but then the Big Guard stopped, seeming to change his mind about something at the last minute. ‘Although, while we’re here, I might as well ask you, Mr McBride – have you ever had any dealings with Maryanne Doyle yourself?’
‘Dealings? No, none at all. I mean, I saw her around once or twice. In the Diner. Maybe Grogan’s? But I don’t know the girl, I’ve never spoken to her. Terrible business though, isn’t it? I hope you find her. I hope she’s OK.’
The Big Guard opened the door a crack and the dog squeezed herself out. At school we’d learned about a panda who’d sensed an earthquake brewing in China.
Dad had said it was a well-known fact that animals had a sixth sense for disaster.
18
Happy Christmas! Get anything nice?
SMS 9.06 a.m.
Parnell
A load of flak for getting home late and a cordless hedge trimmer. You?
SMS 9.23 a.m.
Yes. A voicemail from Aiden Doyle saying it’s a shame he’ll miss me in Mulderrin – he could have shown me the sights, ha ha – and would I like to go for a drink when we’re both back in London. Oh, and his old fella’s still hanging on, although it’d be just like the ‘fucker’ to kick the bucket and ruin Christmas. He signs off saying Nollaig Shona Duit – Happy Christmas in Gaelic.
Christmas morning. People all over the country waking up to loved ones, sore heads and a mountain of hastily purchased, naff presents. Chocolate for breakfast. Booze before noon. The Dawsons are away so I have the house to myself, just the sounds of my own breath and the banging and hissing of their archaic central heating system for company. I think about turning on the TV but I quite like the silence. The calm before the inevitable storm. The eerie spell’s broken though when sure enough, a little after ten, Finn calls me and in breathless, staccato delivery, lists a load of toys I’ve never heard of and the exact order in which we’re going to play with them. He’s already played Pie Face with Grandad but he’s saving the rest for me.
Grandad. Such a snuggly, evocative word full of warmth and apple-pie bonhomie. It’s never really suited Dad and he hated it for the first few years. Not exactly the kind of moniker that seduces the type of ladies he sets out to seduce.
Michael McBride. Handsome widower. Check.
Successful businessman. Check – if you play fast and loose with the definition of the word ‘business’.
Manager of contemporary London bar. Check.
Grandad. Not so check.
Liar – one hundred per cent check.
Dangerous?
At a socially acceptable eleven a.m., I pour myself a glass of wine, then another, and I wait for the edges to blur and for Dad’s features to meld so I can’t see his face.
Just the strange twist of his mouth as he smiles at Maryanne in the Diner.
The faint smudge of contempt as they row in Duffy’s field.
Those grovelling eyes as he tells Jacqui, ‘something’s come up’ and he can’t stay over Monday night.
I have to do something.
*
I’m not sure who jumps higher, her or me.
Steele stares at me across the incident room, surprise and irritation jostling for pole position on her face. She’s wearing grey slim jeans, an oversized black cardi and a faded Sonic Youth T-shirt that just about subverts everything I thought I knew about DCI Kate Steele.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she says, parking a buttock on the end of Emily’s desk.
‘I could ask you the same, Boss.’
A wry smile. ‘You could, but you answer to me, m’dear, not the other way round.’
‘I was passing.’
It’s not exactly a lie. As the crow flies, the office is pretty much en route to Dad’s and I’ve always loved walking through London on Christmas Day. The apocalyptic stillness of the place. The frost glittering on un-trod paths. I’d managed to walk all the way from home – along Albert Embankment, past the London Eye and over Waterloo Bridge without encountering more than a handful of folk, each one cheerfully bidding me a Merry Christmas where just days ago we’d have ignored each other, probably startled at any form of approach. It wasn’t until I’d hit Theobald’s Road and a large troop spilled towards me, no doubt fresh from the service at St George the Martyr, that I’d had to negotiate my path to make way for other people.
Steele narrows her eyes. ‘OK, so you were passing and you thought you’d just pop in. Why?’
‘I forgot something.’ I stroll over to my desk, willing something to make itself obvious. There’s a bottle of vodka I won in a raffle over a year ago. ‘I’m flat broke,’ I say, picking it up. ‘Thought I could re-gift this. Can’t turn up to my Dad’s empty-handed, can I?’
She clearly doesn’t believe me but she rolls with it. ‘Think I’ve got the same bottle on my desk actually. Flowers’s annual tombola, right?’ She stands up, ambles in the direction of her office. ‘Well, while you’re here, we might as well have a Christmas snifter. Be a love and grab a couple of mugs.’
I walk into the kitchen, pick up Parnell’s Arsenal mug and another with the fewest chips. While I’m there I neck a pint of water over the sink, cursing myself for those two glasses of wine earlier.
I wipe my mouth and walk back to Steele’s office.
‘Shall I be mother?’ she says. Steele pours and we clink mugs, each pulling the same face at the sheer awfulness of the drop. ‘Christ, unless your dad’s your worst enemy, I wouldn’t be handing over this cat’s-piss, Kinsella.’
I should laugh. I try to but it sounds false, even to my ears.
She sits back, smirking and swivelling in her chair like a cartoon baddie. ‘So cut the crap, why are you really here?’
Because I feel calm and competent when I’m in this office and right now, more than ever, I need to feel calm and competent. I need to think straight.
‘I told you, I’m broke, I wanted to pick up .?.?.’
‘Rubbish. You only got paid two days ago. And do you think I’m blind? I saw the shopping bags under your desk all week.’
She’s like a bloody hawk but then I swear it’s just with me. She didn’t notice for weeks when Ben got a borderline-prohibited haircut over the summer, and Seth’s foot was in plaster for two whole days before she finally thought to ask why he was limping.
On a surface level, it drives me nuts – this level of scrutiny she reserves for just me. On a deeper level, it soothes. Reminds me that I don’t need to visit clairvoyants to know that someone’s watching over me.
‘So if you haven’t got your dad a present,’ Steele goes on, ‘it’s because you’re disorganised or selfish. Not because you’re broke.’
‘You sound just like my sister. She’s always saying I’m disorganised. I’m not though, I just don’t do what she wants, when she wants.’
Steele screws her nose up. ‘Typical older sister. I can just about stomach mine a couple of times a year, max.’ I open my mouth to ask how she knows my sister’s older but she shuts the subject down. ‘So for the third and final time, Kinsella, why are you here?’