The club was quiet that night and she was about to leave when a man sat down at a table near her and ordered a double espresso. She noted his shabby trainers, the frayed ends of his jeans, his well-worn leather jacket. Was he a musician, relaxing after a gig at some nearby club? A doctor seeking a caffeine hit after a twenty-four-hour shift? Or had he spent the night dealing drugs in dark lanes with urine-splattered walls? He seemed oblivious to her presence as he checked his phone and sipped his coffee.
The following week, she saw him again. He sat behind her, his reflection blurring in the steamy window. He was watching her. She sensed rather than saw the tingling run of his eyes between her shoulder blades. Graham’s deception had honed her antennae when it came to the opposite sex. She trusted her instincts. What could not be seen had as much, if not more, validity than the evidence before her eyes. A second man entered and stopped to speak to him. Amanda recognised Killian Shroff, one of the three brothers who ran the most notorious gang in the city. Killian, whose name had been abbreviated to Killer as soon as he was old enough to handle a Glock, disappeared into the back of the club and the man sitting behind Amanda left.
She followed him along the quays. The streets were quiet, the nightclubs and music venues emptied out. When he disappeared from view, she was conscious of her aloneness as she hurried towards the Ha’penny Bridge. A car stopped and the driver lowered the window, called out to her. She ignored him and walked faster, her heels clicking too loudly against the pavement. As she passed by a shop doorway, she became aware that someone was standing in the darkened entrance, watching her.
‘Why are you following me?’ the man from Rimbles asked. Before she could answer, he reached out and pulled her into the doorway.
She should have been frightened. He was standing too close, his hand still on her arm, a light grip that would tighten if she moved. She could be in danger, yet she felt curiously light-headed. The anonymity of their encounter had been set to a preordained course, she believed, and it was now reaching its conclusion.
‘I’m Amanda Bowe,’ she replied, as if the force of her name would stall the violence he threatened. ‘I’m with—’
‘I know who you are.’ He laughed, abruptly. ‘I didn’t ask for your name. I asked why you’re following me.’
‘I’m hoping you can help with some information.’
‘What kind of information?’
‘The Shroffs, for one.’
‘Why should I know the Shroffs?’
‘I saw you earlier with Killer. I can pay you for information.’
‘How much?’
‘Depends on the importance of the information you give me.’
‘Okay. Let’s see how this goes.’ The heat of his breath against her neck warned her to stand still. ‘Here’s the first piece of information. Propositioning strange men in cars in the small hours of the morning is a high-risk, criminal activity. Aren’t you afraid?’
‘No.’
‘You should be. I could arrest you for soliciting.’
‘Arrest me?’
‘I saw you soliciting a punter just a few minutes ago. You’re in the arms of the law, Amanda Bowe.’
‘I wasn’t— oh my God, you’re a cop.’ She pressed her hand to his cheek, as if seeking reassurance that he had substance. Stubble rasped against her palm and the giddy skittering of her heart warned her of the consequences that would follow if she didn’t step away from him. His fingers tangled in her hair. He drew her head back until she was staring into the murky outline of his face. They were breathing in synch, the clamping pressure low in her stomach intensifying when she realised that he, too, was swept up in the intimacy of that dark encounter.
‘Are you going to arrest me or kiss me?’ she whispered and he, in reply, opened her lips with his tongue, his knee parting her legs with the same driving force. She gave herself over to the thrust of their desire, unaware of the cold, marbled wall against her back, unaware of everything except the strength of his arms when he lifted her on to him. Beyond the muscular curve of his shoulder, she could see the Liffey; the slow flow of the river reflected the street lamps of the city.
Later, there would be time to talk but, in those few jagged moments, nothing mattered except the splintering satisfaction they demanded from each other.
Over the following months, they often joked about having a top-secret affair. Not that it was a joking matter. There was far too much at stake for them to be seen together in public. Detective Garda Jon Hunter had no intention of jeopardising his career or his marriage – and Amanda had no intention of jeopardising an excellent source. His marriage had been a surprise, especially when he told her he had three children, but not enough of a shock for her to end their relationship. He gave her the names of contacts who could help her with information, and educated her on who was who in the criminal underworld.
He liked to live on the edge. Contentment bored him, routine crushed his spirit, and so he took risks with Amanda, while covering their tracks with layers of subterfuge. She, too, enjoyed the hurried, passion-fuelled trysts in anonymous hotel bedrooms, the belief that the knowledge he was sharing with her would strengthen her reputation as a serious crime reporter. But it was only when Connie Lawson disappeared that Hunter – convinced of Karl Lawson’s guilt and afraid the evidence against him would be too circumstantial to convict – revealed confidential details to her on the ongoing police enquiry. What had been a top-secret affair had become a dangerous liaison.
Chapter Sixteen
At first, Amanda had been convinced Connie was just a disgruntled teenager who would turn up after a few hungry days on the road and be forgiven by her grateful parents for being a brat. Glenmoore was leafy suburbia. Tennis courts and coffee shops, fashion boutiques and glass-fronted restaurants overlooking the beach. Teenagers did not run away from home or end up dead in ditches for non-payment of small debts to drug gangs. Early on in the search, Hunter had told her about the row over the Blasted Glass gig. The girls who were supposed to attend it with Connie had been willing to talk to Amanda. They showed her the texts they had exchanged the previous night. All fume and bluster about their parents and their inability to remember what it was like to be young. To have fun at concerts and scream until the mass of energy gathered there, full-throated and on the verge of hysteria, became a heave of collective ecstasy. But, after that initial flurry of texts, and a phone call to one of her friends, they had heard nothing further from her. She had left her phone at home, which puzzled them. It puzzled Amanda, also. A teenager going out at night without her phone was akin to a snail leaving the shelter of its protective shell.
Her friends were convinced Karl would know exactly where she was hiding out. They used his name casually, like he was one of them, tuned in to their wavelength and immune from any generational barrier. Thanks to Hunter, Amanda also knew about the beach party challenge. The Fearless? The girls shook their heads. They had never heard of them.