had seen her face before. I stopped Mrs MacGowan and
asked her name.
"Is
she in trouble?"
"No,
no." I said. "I know her face from somewhere."
"She's
here on probation for a month before I make her permanent. If she's in trouble
with the law, Inspector, she's out on her ear. We have to trust our staff
completely, what with old people's money and belongings lying around."
"No,
she's not in trouble. It's nothing important; I just can't place her face. I've
seen her somewhere recently. Kind of like deja vu," I lied.
"Yvonne
Coyle. She's from Strabane: Glennside, I think."
"Right.
Maybe I've seen her round the town or something. It'll come to me
eventually."
I
thought of driving out to Powell's house to tell Miriam that I had spoken to
her father-in-law, despite the fact that I knew that she and her husband would
once again make me the object of some new private joke. In fact, I made it as
far as the house, a massive Victorian manse which Powell Sr had bought from the
Anglican Church after their minister moved out to Raphoe from Lifford in the
early '60s. Oaks and sycamore, trunks heavy with vines and ivy, surrounded the
house. The wall around their two-acre estate was added maybe forty years ago,
built, I remember being told by my father, from bricks from the old jailhouse
that had been demolished in 1907. They were unidentifiable now under the thick,
wet moss that cushioned the coping stone and had broken off layers of the
brick, which lay shattered on the pavement beneath.
I
sat opposite their driveway gates and peered beyond to where Miriam had parked
her BMW next to the Land Rover that her husband drove, as befitted one of the
landed gentry. Powell Jr lived off the rent collected from his father's various
properties — wealth to which, as far as anyone knew, he added very little. The
jailhouse bricks were typical of Powell Sr: an extravagance that no one would
notice, so that he retained his image as one of the common men, while the
rumours of opulence added to his enigmatic status. The Land Rover, meanwhile, was
indicative of his son, adding to the image of ostentation he had created for
himself.
I
debated whether or not to go in, then decided against, partly because Powell Jr
would be there. As I shifted into gear I couldn't help but feel that I was
being watched.
I
was washing up the dinner dishes that evening, while Debbie cleared the table.
The kids were in the living room, watching Toy Story for the umpteenth time. Debbie dropped two knives into the dishwater and began
to wipe the counter.
"Don't
forget that Penny's singing tomorrow night, at Mass," she said.
"I
won't," I promised.
"You'd
better not. She'll never forgive you."
"I
won't," I said, a second time.
She
nodded. "Did I see you at Miriam O'Kane's today?" she asked, not
looking up from her work, as though this were part of the normal conversation.
"Who?
Miriam . . . Oh, Mrs Pow— Miriam Powell. Yes, I was going to call in to see her
husband. He asked me on Sunday to look into an intruder in his father's room.
Remember - after Mass?"
"Oh.
Is that what you were talking about? I thought maybe Miriam had asked
you."
"No.
I haven't seen her since ... I don't know when."
"This
morning, apparently. So your Sergeant said. Caroline, isn't it? Miriam was
there when I phoned you, she said."
"Yes,
that's right. Just called in to see what progress had been made."
"I'm
sure she did. You didn't mention it on the phone."
"No,
I didn't think much of it, I suppose."
"Mmm,"
she said. "Did you make any?"
"Any
what?"
"Progress,"
she said, then went in and sat with the children, while I finished the dishes
in silence.
Terry
Boyle
Chapter Five
Tuesday, 24th December
I
answered the phone on the second ring at 3.30 a.m. that morning, having had
difficulty sleeping. Debbie lay beside me, hunched away from me so that, even
in sleep, her resentment over the re- emergence of Miriam Powell in our lives
was clear. She stirred with the ringing of the
asked her name.
"Is
she in trouble?"
"No,
no." I said. "I know her face from somewhere."
"She's
here on probation for a month before I make her permanent. If she's in trouble
with the law, Inspector, she's out on her ear. We have to trust our staff
completely, what with old people's money and belongings lying around."
"No,
she's not in trouble. It's nothing important; I just can't place her face. I've
seen her somewhere recently. Kind of like deja vu," I lied.
"Yvonne
Coyle. She's from Strabane: Glennside, I think."
"Right.
Maybe I've seen her round the town or something. It'll come to me
eventually."
I
thought of driving out to Powell's house to tell Miriam that I had spoken to
her father-in-law, despite the fact that I knew that she and her husband would
once again make me the object of some new private joke. In fact, I made it as
far as the house, a massive Victorian manse which Powell Sr had bought from the
Anglican Church after their minister moved out to Raphoe from Lifford in the
early '60s. Oaks and sycamore, trunks heavy with vines and ivy, surrounded the
house. The wall around their two-acre estate was added maybe forty years ago,
built, I remember being told by my father, from bricks from the old jailhouse
that had been demolished in 1907. They were unidentifiable now under the thick,
wet moss that cushioned the coping stone and had broken off layers of the
brick, which lay shattered on the pavement beneath.
I
sat opposite their driveway gates and peered beyond to where Miriam had parked
her BMW next to the Land Rover that her husband drove, as befitted one of the
landed gentry. Powell Jr lived off the rent collected from his father's various
properties — wealth to which, as far as anyone knew, he added very little. The
jailhouse bricks were typical of Powell Sr: an extravagance that no one would
notice, so that he retained his image as one of the common men, while the
rumours of opulence added to his enigmatic status. The Land Rover, meanwhile, was
indicative of his son, adding to the image of ostentation he had created for
himself.
I
debated whether or not to go in, then decided against, partly because Powell Jr
would be there. As I shifted into gear I couldn't help but feel that I was
being watched.
I
was washing up the dinner dishes that evening, while Debbie cleared the table.
The kids were in the living room, watching Toy Story for the umpteenth time. Debbie dropped two knives into the dishwater and began
to wipe the counter.
"Don't
forget that Penny's singing tomorrow night, at Mass," she said.
"I
won't," I promised.
"You'd
better not. She'll never forgive you."
"I
won't," I said, a second time.
She
nodded. "Did I see you at Miriam O'Kane's today?" she asked, not
looking up from her work, as though this were part of the normal conversation.
"Who?
Miriam . . . Oh, Mrs Pow— Miriam Powell. Yes, I was going to call in to see her
husband. He asked me on Sunday to look into an intruder in his father's room.
Remember - after Mass?"
"Oh.
Is that what you were talking about? I thought maybe Miriam had asked
you."
"No.
I haven't seen her since ... I don't know when."
"This
morning, apparently. So your Sergeant said. Caroline, isn't it? Miriam was
there when I phoned you, she said."
"Yes,
that's right. Just called in to see what progress had been made."
"I'm
sure she did. You didn't mention it on the phone."
"No,
I didn't think much of it, I suppose."
"Mmm,"
she said. "Did you make any?"
"Any
what?"
"Progress,"
she said, then went in and sat with the children, while I finished the dishes
in silence.
Terry
Boyle
Chapter Five
Tuesday, 24th December
I
answered the phone on the second ring at 3.30 a.m. that morning, having had
difficulty sleeping. Debbie lay beside me, hunched away from me so that, even
in sleep, her resentment over the re- emergence of Miriam Powell in our lives
was clear. She stirred with the ringing of the
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