Sweet Little Lies (Cat Kinsella #1)(68)

The ‘at this stage’ seemed to irk Dad, who’d been friendly and chatty up to this point, laughing about various characters in the village with the Big Guard and ribbing the other one about a big match his Gaelic football team had thrown away at the weekend.

‘Jacqui’s not here,’ said Dad, landing another pot of tea on the table. This wasn’t a lie. Jacqui’d gone AWOL since breakfast when she’d got a pasting from Mum for asking whether it’d be insensitive to go over to Maryanne’s to get her Chili Peppers CD back. ‘But when she does get in, shall I send her up to the station for your “quick word”? Or is O’Malley’s a safer bet?’

The Big Guard glowered at Dad but said nothing.

‘What?’ said Dad, laughing, his face now the picture of innocence. ‘Isn’t that where you lads drink nowadays? I tell you, they’ve gone awful strict on the drink driving back in England but if an officer of the law can’t have a pint or two at lunchtime, what’s the world coming to, eh?’

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.