‘You’ve checked the flights out of London that day?’
‘Yeah, but nothing so far – she could have stayed on in the UK, or left via a flight, ferry or the Eurostar for mainland Europe. The options are endless.’
‘How can you be sure it’s the group we’re looking for? It’s unusual for someone to decide to use their first name when everything else is fabricated.’
‘I’m not sure, but I have enough to make me want to question Sandra Connolly. We have the location, coming out of Paris, the consistency of the dates, the number of female passengers travelling together, the probable age profile, and the final destination for at least three of them. As for using the same first name, changing your details on paperwork is one thing, but swapping your first name can be tricky, especially if you’re with people who know you well, and they’re used to referring to you in a particular way.’
‘Okay. What else did you find out?’
‘They all have clean records, so nothing interesting there. Two of them are married, Sandra being one. Her husband is Edgar Regan, a jewellery designer.’
‘What does Sandra do?’
‘Guess.’
‘If it’s the same person, she was an artist in Paris, so I assume, she still is.’
‘That’s right, Kate – nothing big-time, a couple of exhibitions a few years back, but not much since.’
‘It doesn’t necessarily mean she knew Rick Shevlin.’
‘Maybe not, but it doesn’t rule it out either.’
‘If she didn’t stay in the UK after her friends returned to Dublin, she could have travelled to Italy.’
‘Which is why, Kate, I’m checking all transport links from the UK to mainland Europe between the dates her friends returned to Dublin and Michele Pinzini was killed, but it’s going to take time.’
‘Have you gone to Mark Lynch with this?’
‘I will, but first I’m planning a visit to Sandra Regan in the morning. It’s still a bit of a stretch, and before I let him know I’ve been digging, I want to make sure it’s worth getting into trouble for.’
‘He won’t be impressed with your extra-curricular activities.’
‘Let me take care of that.’
‘How are you going to approach her?’
‘I’ll go in with the assumption that she’s the Sandra we’re looking for. She will either deny it, or if she doesn’t, we’ll know we’re on track.’
‘We?’
‘I thought you’d come with me.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Blackrock – I can pick you up or meet you there.’
‘If you pick me up we’ll make better time.’
‘We’ll be travelling in a squad car, Kate, compliments of Traffic.’
‘I can hardly wait!’
SANDRA
THE BLACKOUTS ARE becoming more frequent now. When I look in the bathroom mirror, the dark crevices under my eyes are even worse. My skin is pale, and my lips are sagging downwards.
I’ve no idea who removed her things from the bedroom. I searched everywhere for them when I came to, but the dressing gown, lipstick and the Devil card were gone. Part of me wonders if I imagined it all. The doctor warned me that a withdrawal from the medication could cause problems, but I hadn’t envisaged this.
I’m on my own with this battle: when you can’t trust anyone, you have to trust yourself. Grabbing my makeup bag, I begin the reconstruction, bringing the deadened parts of my face to life. The extra mascara helps, and the blusher on my cheeks gives them an artificial glow. I use lip liner to define a better mouth, concealer to hide the dark pools under my eyes and, layer by layer, I turn into a brighter version of myself.
I think about taking one of the tablets, the ones designed to help me relax. I don’t like admitting that I need them, but I can’t go on like this. When the doorbell rings, it feels like an intrusion. I look out of the upstairs window and see a squad car parked outside. Panic sets in. For a second, I fear something awful has happened to Edgar, but then I remember breaking into that house in Greystones. She must have reported it. I’ve no idea what to do next. When the doorbell rings for a second time, I swallow the tablet. I need to stay calm. Somehow I walk downstairs as if I’m about to open the door to a friendly neighbour. Then, forcing a smile, I say, ‘Good morning,’ looking from the man to the woman, ‘how can I help you?’
I don’t take in everything the detective is saying, something about a murder in town, how I might be able to help them. I must have looked confused because the woman tells me I’m not to worry, there’s nothing to be alarmed about. Before I know it, I’ve asked them inside, relieved they haven’t mentioned the breakin. It could be a ploy, a way of putting me at my ease before the questions get tough. I can feel my right ear becoming hot. I cover it with my hair, trying not to bite my lip. Then they mention Pierre Laurent.