Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(78)

Olivia smoothed a long lock of ash-gold hair and watched it tighten. She said, “I suppose, much of the time, the straightforward explanation is the right one.”

“Yeah. Right. Great. I’m sure it is. But this time, Liv, this time it’s all wrong. This time, the straightforward explanation is a f*cking travesty.”

For a second Olivia said nothing, and I wondered if she had twigged who the straightforward explanation must have been, right up until Kev took his swan dive. Then she said, very carefully, “It’s been a long time since you last saw Kevin. Can you be absolutely sure . . . ?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. I’m positive. I spent the last few days with him. He was the same guy I knew when we were kids. Better hair, a few more inches each way, but he was the same guy. You can’t mistake that. I know everything important there was to know about him, and he wasn’t a killer and he wasn’t a suicide.”

“Have you tried saying this to Scorcher?”

“Of course I have. I might as well have been talking to the wall. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, so he didn’t hear it.”

“What about talking to his superintendent? Would he listen?”

“No. Jesus, no. That’s the worst thing I could do. Scorcher already warned me off his patch, and he’s going to be keeping an eye on me to make sure I stay off. If I go over his head and try to shove my oar in, specially in ways that could banjax his precious solve rate, he’ll just dig his heels in harder. So what do I do, Liv? What? What do I do?”

Olivia watched me, thoughtful gray eyes full of hidden corners. She said gently, “Maybe the best thing you can do is leave it, Frank. Just for a little while. Whatever they say, it can’t hurt Kevin now. Once the dust settles—”

“No. Not a chance in hell. I’m not going to stand by and watch them make him into their fall guy just because he’s dead. He may not be able to fight back, but I can bloody well do it for him.”

A small voice said, “Daddy?”

We both jumped about six feet. Holly was in the doorway, wearing a too-big Hannah Montana nightie, one hand on the door handle and her toes curled up on the cold tiles. Olivia said swiftly, “Go to bed, love. Mummy and Daddy are just having a chat.”

“You said somebody died. Who died?”

Oh, Jesus. “It’s all right, love,” I said. “Just someone I know.”

Olivia went to her. “It’s the middle of the night. Go to sleep. We’ll all talk about it in the morning.”

She tried to turn Holly back towards the stairs, but Holly clung on to the door handle and dug her feet in. “No! Daddy, who died?”

“Bed. Now. Tomorrow we can—”

“No! I want to know!”

Sooner or later I would have to explain. Thank God she already knew about death: goldfish, a hamster, Sarah’s granddad. I couldn’t have handled that conversation, on top of everything else. “Your auntie Jackie and I have a brother,” I said—one long-lost relative at a time. “Had. He died this morning.”

Holly stared at me. “Your brother?” she said, with a high little shake in her voice. “Like my uncle?”

“Yes, baby. Your uncle.”

“Which one?”

“Not one of the ones you know. Those are your mammy’s brothers. This was your uncle Kevin. You never met him, but I think you two would have liked each other.”

For a second those butane eyes went huge; then Holly’s face crumpled, her head went back and she let out a wild shriek of pure anguish. “Nooooo! No, Mummy, no, Mummy, no . . .”

The scream dissolved into big gut-wrenching sobs, and she buried her face in Olivia’s stomach. Olivia knelt down on the floor and wrapped her arms around Holly, murmuring soothing wordless things.

I asked, “Why is she crying?”

I was genuinely perplexed. After the last few days, my mind had slowed down to a crawl. It wasn’t until I saw Olivia’s quick up-glance, furtive and guilty, that I realized something was going on.

“Liv,” I said. “Why is she crying?”

“Not now. Shh, darling, shh, it’s all right—”

“Nooo! It’s not all right!”

The kid had a point. “Yes, now. Why the f*ck is she crying?”

Holly lifted her wet red face from Olivia’s shoulder. “Uncle Kevin!” she screamed. “He showed me Super Mario Brothers and he was going to bring me and Auntie Jackie to the panto!”

She tried to keep talking, but it got swamped by another tsunami of crying. I sat down hard on a bar stool. Olivia kept her eyes away from mine and rocked Holly back and forth, stroking her head. I could have done with someone to give me the same treatment, preferably someone with very large bosoms and a massive cloud of enveloping hair.

Eventually Holly wore herself out and moved into the shuddery-gasp stage, and Liv steered her gently upstairs to bed. Her eyes were already closing. While they were up there I found a nice bottle of Chianti in the wine rack—Olivia doesn’t stock beer, now that I’m gone—and cracked it open. Then I sat on the bar stool with my eyes shut, leaning my head back against the kitchen wall and listening to Olivia making soothing noises above me, and tried to work out whether I had ever been this angry before.

“So,” I said pleasantly, when Olivia came back downstairs. She had taken the opportunity to put on her yummy-mummy armor, crisp jeans and caramel cashmere and a self-righteous expression. “I think I’m owed an explanation, don’t you?”