‘You’re very quiet, Sandra.’ Alice gives me one of her looks. ‘For Heaven’s sake, stop biting that bloody lip of yours.’
I don’t reply. I can’t make out her face in the candlelight. I feel the others, too, are sensing something is wrong. I swallow a generous mouthful of Sauvignon Blanc, waiting a few more seconds. The longer you wait, the harder it will be to retreat. Think of something else to say, fool them, or tell them.
‘Am I?’ I reply, but they’re not buying it.
‘Sandra?’ I hear the note in Alice’s voice that tells me she won’t let it go.
‘What’s wrong?’ Lori moves forward on the couch. So does Karen.
Say it – go on. I take another sip of my wine. ‘Edgar is having an affair.’
It’s Lori’s turn to swallow more wine.
‘How can you be so sure?’ Alice’s words are delivered in slow motion.
‘I can’t be completely sure,’ I reply, ‘not really.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ says Karen. ‘Do you know who he’s shagging?’
I can’t look at any of them. Maybe if I stop talking about it, it will all go away, become some sick joke. Their brief silence will be followed by a tidal wave. There is no going back now. I notice my glass is tilted. Some wine spills onto my lap, trickling down my leg. ‘I think she’s been here, the other woman, in this house – moving things.’
OCEAN HOUSE, THE QUAYS
IT WAS THREE weeks to the day since the discovery of Rick Shevlin’s body in the Earlbrook Hotel, and it had seemed that the investigation had stalled, until now. Kate contemplated the phone call from Mark Lynch. He had told her more than the latest development in the case. He had told her that DI O’Connor would be back on duty, active in the investigation, from the following day. She knew she’d sat on the fence for long enough. She hadn’t contacted him, which would make things awkward, but she was relieved he was back on board. Lynch was confident, but he didn’t have O’Connor’s experience. All she had to do was phone O’Connor – simple. So, what was stopping her? She’d grown emotionally close to him during the last investigation – too close. Making contact might open the can of worms she had tried to keep shut. But still, she rang his number.
He answered immediately. ‘Hello, stranger,’ he said.
She noticed a cold edge to his words. ‘It’s been a while, all right. I hear you’re back tomorrow.’
Silence.
‘Will you be working on the Shevlin investigation?’ She already knew he would be, although Lynch would remain as the senior officer. Still, there was nothing like asking a direct question to get an answer.
‘I will. It’s an interesting case.’
His words were still guarded, but at least they were on safe ground. She hesitated, then said, ‘Maybe it would be a good idea to talk through the broad outlines. I could meet you after the ten o’clock briefing at Harcourt Street in the morning.’
‘It’s probably best if you call here. Tomorrow will be manic. I’ll text you the address, but don’t expect a palace.’ He paused. ‘Let’s say in an hour.’
‘Listen, O’Connor, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ His words still sounded clipped.
Hanging up, she regretted agreeing to meet him at his place, but her guilt about not being in touch gave him the upper hand. When her phone bleeped with his text, she jumped. There was no going back now, not without making things worse.
The address in Reginald Street wasn’t far from Ocean House, located on the far side of the quays, deep in the heart of the Liberties, an area of Dublin dating back to the seventeenth century.
She had never thought about where O’Connor lived, but there was something almost desolate about the house when she reached it. The front door was painted a dark, depressing shade of green, and although all three windows to the front of the artisan dwelling had curtains, each was different. This was Flatland, she thought, a small house, subdivided into apartments the size of dog kennels. She heard him bounding down the staircase well before he opened the door.
‘Step into my humble abode.’ He was still distinctly cool.
She followed him to his flat on the first floor at the back of the house. It was small, but compact, and brighter than she’d expected, a sash window giving an attractive view of the city. ‘Nice and cosy.’ She smiled.
‘I don’t need much.’
She took in the contents of the room. A narrow kitchen, a small wooden table, two chairs, a sofa facing a portable flat-screen TV, and a walled unit with newspapers scattered across the top. There were two other doors, which she assumed led to a bathroom and a bedroom.
‘Great view,’ she commented, as he put on the kettle.