the ten steps with difficulty and leaned on the bell. Nothing happened for a while, then it was opened by a grey-haired women holding a duster.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs De Rossa?’ Surely not, she looked too old.
‘Are you press?’
‘No. I’m – here.’ She handed over her police ID. ‘I’d just like a quick word.’
‘She’s not seeing anyone.’ Presumably this was the cleaner or something. Roisin Flaherty, married to the head of a big Southern bank, had come a long way from the farm she’d grown up on. The door shut as Paula thought of what to say and she found this rather rude – she was pregnant, for God’s sake.
She leaned heavily on the bell, and the cleaner opened the door again. ‘I’m sorry, miss, you—’
‘Could I please have a glass of water? I’m so sorry. You see, I’m pregnant, and it’s awfully warm today, can I just – I’m a little faint.’
‘Let her in, Nancy, for God’s sake.’ A voice had come from further back in the house, from the hallway smelling of polish and lilies. In the gloom Paula could see a woman not much older than she was, with set blonde hair, in a cashmere jumper and dark slacks. Silver bracelets up one arm. Expensive. ‘Do come in and sit down. Nancy, would you get her some water – or tea, if you prefer?’
‘Tea would be lovely,’ Paula murmured, as she was led into a sitting room that was painfully formal and clean. Like a hotel, almost, with a deep grey sofa and a mirrored coffee table, navy silk paper on the walls. ‘I’m sorry. The heat gets to you, doesn’t it?’ She knew Roisin had children.
‘Oh yes. I remember it well.’ She stood, twisting her hands. ‘Is this about what I think?’
‘I’m afraid it’s about your father, yes. I’m Dr Paula Maguire from the Missing Persons Response Unit in Ballyterrin.’
The woman flinched, as if from a physical blow. She had a chunky silver necklace about her neck, which she fingered nervously. ‘I don’t think I can help.’
The door opened and the cleaner appeared with tea on a tray, white china cups and a pot, a plate of shortbread which slender Roisin De Rossa would not eat. The woman gave Paula a fierce stare and went out, shutting the door loudly.
Paula settled into the sofa. May as well use her situation to extract the maximum cooperation from witnesses; it was good for precious little else. ‘I’m sure this is a very anxious time for you.’
‘I don’t—’
‘I mean, he’s still your father, isn’t he?’
Roisin took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a second. She checked the door to see if it was securely shut, then picked up a remote, which she aimed at a black stereo on the bookshelf. It looked more like a pebble in the river than electronic equipment, which showed it had been very dear indeed. ‘How do you work this thing – oh. There.’ Loud pop music came pouring out, One Direction or something, setting Paula’s teeth on edge. ‘Sorry. Kids. There we are.’
Soothing classical, the soar of heavenly voices. Paula understood this was to mask their conversation.
Roisin sat down, twitching at her trousers until she was ready. ‘I’m sorry you came all this way – Dr Maguire, was it?’
‘Yes. I’m a forensic psychologist but I work with the police team. I’m working on your father’s case.’
Again the flinch. ‘Please, I don’t – I can’t help you. You see, I don’t know him any more.’
‘You’re estranged?’
‘Of course we are.’ Her lips tightened. ‘When I was wee, of course, I didn’t understand, and at university I was in that crowd, you know – we thought we were doing right . . .’ She trailed off. ‘I never knew what he was at. That he was actually involved in it.’
‘The IRA?’ Paula didn’t lower her voice, and Roisin turned pale.
‘Please – my kids. They have no idea. They’ve never met him. They don’t know my maiden name. We never go north.’
Why would you, Paula thought, if you could sit in splendour in
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs De Rossa?’ Surely not, she looked too old.
‘Are you press?’
‘No. I’m – here.’ She handed over her police ID. ‘I’d just like a quick word.’
‘She’s not seeing anyone.’ Presumably this was the cleaner or something. Roisin Flaherty, married to the head of a big Southern bank, had come a long way from the farm she’d grown up on. The door shut as Paula thought of what to say and she found this rather rude – she was pregnant, for God’s sake.
She leaned heavily on the bell, and the cleaner opened the door again. ‘I’m sorry, miss, you—’
‘Could I please have a glass of water? I’m so sorry. You see, I’m pregnant, and it’s awfully warm today, can I just – I’m a little faint.’
‘Let her in, Nancy, for God’s sake.’ A voice had come from further back in the house, from the hallway smelling of polish and lilies. In the gloom Paula could see a woman not much older than she was, with set blonde hair, in a cashmere jumper and dark slacks. Silver bracelets up one arm. Expensive. ‘Do come in and sit down. Nancy, would you get her some water – or tea, if you prefer?’
‘Tea would be lovely,’ Paula murmured, as she was led into a sitting room that was painfully formal and clean. Like a hotel, almost, with a deep grey sofa and a mirrored coffee table, navy silk paper on the walls. ‘I’m sorry. The heat gets to you, doesn’t it?’ She knew Roisin had children.
‘Oh yes. I remember it well.’ She stood, twisting her hands. ‘Is this about what I think?’
‘I’m afraid it’s about your father, yes. I’m Dr Paula Maguire from the Missing Persons Response Unit in Ballyterrin.’
The woman flinched, as if from a physical blow. She had a chunky silver necklace about her neck, which she fingered nervously. ‘I don’t think I can help.’
The door opened and the cleaner appeared with tea on a tray, white china cups and a pot, a plate of shortbread which slender Roisin De Rossa would not eat. The woman gave Paula a fierce stare and went out, shutting the door loudly.
Paula settled into the sofa. May as well use her situation to extract the maximum cooperation from witnesses; it was good for precious little else. ‘I’m sure this is a very anxious time for you.’
‘I don’t—’
‘I mean, he’s still your father, isn’t he?’
Roisin took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a second. She checked the door to see if it was securely shut, then picked up a remote, which she aimed at a black stereo on the bookshelf. It looked more like a pebble in the river than electronic equipment, which showed it had been very dear indeed. ‘How do you work this thing – oh. There.’ Loud pop music came pouring out, One Direction or something, setting Paula’s teeth on edge. ‘Sorry. Kids. There we are.’
Soothing classical, the soar of heavenly voices. Paula understood this was to mask their conversation.
Roisin sat down, twitching at her trousers until she was ready. ‘I’m sorry you came all this way – Dr Maguire, was it?’
‘Yes. I’m a forensic psychologist but I work with the police team. I’m working on your father’s case.’
Again the flinch. ‘Please, I don’t – I can’t help you. You see, I don’t know him any more.’
‘You’re estranged?’
‘Of course we are.’ Her lips tightened. ‘When I was wee, of course, I didn’t understand, and at university I was in that crowd, you know – we thought we were doing right . . .’ She trailed off. ‘I never knew what he was at. That he was actually involved in it.’
‘The IRA?’ Paula didn’t lower her voice, and Roisin turned pale.
‘Please – my kids. They have no idea. They’ve never met him. They don’t know my maiden name. We never go north.’
Why would you, Paula thought, if you could sit in splendour in
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