She started picking at the skin around her fingernails, ripping shreds off them, worrying at them until she pulled a strip too far on her thumb and a bead of blood sprang to the surface. She stuck it into her mouth, then turned it sideways so that she didn’t look like a toddler sucking its thumb. Poor kid, thought Carmella.
‘I’m afraid I can’t say what it’s about. I know this won’t be easy for you, dragging it all up when I’m sure you don’t ever want to think about it again. Can you talk me through what happened? But before your mum gets back, tell me – was it just the bruise on your face that made Hammond give you that money? I’m guessing it wasn’t.’
Roisin shot a panicked look towards the hall, where her mother was on the phone – they even had an old-fashioned telephone with a curly cable, on a little wooden table by the front door. ‘Please don’t tell her. It would kill her if she knew what he really did to me,’ she whispered. ‘They wanted to make sure I never told the papers.’
‘What was it, Roisin? What did Shawn Barrett do to you?’
But at that moment they both heard the click of the receiver being replaced and Mrs McGreevy came back in. ‘It’s grand. Nicola will see you when she sees you, she says. I told her you’d been a witness to a road accident and the police were talking to you.’
‘Oh, Mam! What if she asks me about it?’
Carmella glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something, Roisin. In the meantime, could you talk me through how you first met Shawn? Do you mind if I record this, just so I can write notes later?’
Roisin nodded. Her mother bustled around the already-clean kitchen, wiping down clean surfaces with a clean sponge, listening but pretending not to.
‘I went to an OnTarget concert, their first big tour. It was the first time they’d played in Dublin. I’d never been to the O2 arena—’
‘That’s the place that used to be the Point, right?’
‘Yeah. Think it’s changed again now, to the 3Arena. Anyway, I’d never been there. Me and my mate Scarlett went together, queued for hours to get near the front, we did. Couldn’t believe it when Shawn got me up out of the crowd.’
There was just a hint of pride in her voice, even after everything that happened that night.
‘Go on.’
‘It was during “Catch Me Falling”, in the first encore. He just pointed at me and beckoned, and before I knew it these two massive bouncers dragged me up on the stage. Everyone was screaming and cheering. I sang a whole verse with him into his microphone! He kissed me . . .’
Her voice faltered.
‘Then what? How did you end up at his hotel?’
‘When I was up there, he put this little bit of paper in my hand without anyone noticing. It said “CALL ME AFTER THE SHOW”, with a number on it.’ She was starting to look slightly sick.
‘And you did?’ Carmella prompted.
Roisin looked at her mother’s set shoulders in her flowery housecoat. ‘I know it was wrong. I know it was asking for trouble, but I honestly thought it would be OK. I mean, he’s so famous, surely he wouldn’t risk doing anything mental . . .’
‘What about your friend – Scarlett? Did she come with you when you went to meet him?’
Roisin shook her head. ‘Her older sister was there, at the concert. We were meant to be going home with her after, but I told them that I’d bumped into my auntie and my cousins who live round the corner, and they’d take me. Shawn said on the phone not to worry about getting home, he’d get a car for me, but I wasn’t to tell anyone and I was to come on my own.’
‘Did anyone ask how old you were?’
Roisin looked sheepish. ‘Yes. One of his bodyguards. But I . . . I—’
Her mother interrupted, a harsh edge to her voice. ‘She had a fake ID saying she was eighteen. And she looked different then. You wouldn’t believe the phase she was going through. Right little skank she looked – bleached hair, ridiculous heels and enough make-up it’s a miracle she could even open her eyes. If her da and me had seen her before she went out dressed like that, we’d never have let her go. Never!’
‘I’ve not worn a scrap of make-up since that night,’ Roisin said quietly. ‘Or heels, or short skirts.’
Poor girl, thought Carmella. The sort of rite of passage that no girl ever deserved.
‘So that’s one good thing that came out of the whole sorry business,’ said Mrs McGreevy sanctimoniously, polishing the already-gleaming kettle. Carmella suddenly felt desperate to get Roisin on her own. She clearly wasn’t going to say what really happened, not with her mum there being all judgemental.
Roisin looked up, anguished. ‘If he has done it again, will I have to go to court? They’ll kill me – if my name gets out, they will actually kill me, I’m not joking.’
Her mother’s hand stilled on the disinfectant spray.
‘Who will, Roisin?’ asked Carmella gently, wondering who she meant. Hammond? The band? Shawn’s family?
‘OnT fans!’ Roisin wailed. ‘They’d hunt me down and kill me, I know they would! Some girl got glassed in the face by four fans just for getting her picture with Shawn – can you imagine what they’d do to me if I helped get him sent to jail?’
She was weeping now, so Carmella got up and fetched her the box of tissues – housed in some sort of hideous pastel knitted cosy thing – on the windowsill. Interestingly, Roisin’s mum made no move to comfort her daughter.
‘Listen,’ Carmella said kindly, putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about that now. It’s very unlikely, and if the worst happened and you did, your name would absolutely be kept out of the press, you have my word on that. Now, how about I walk you to work? If we go now, you won’t even be very late, and we can talk on the way.’
Without your mother listening, she thought. Then I can find out what really happened.
Chapter 25
Day 8 – Patrick
Patrick hauled himself out of his bronze Prius and made his way through the station car park, passing Winkler’s white Audi and noticing the gleam of the paintwork, the alloy hubcaps, the licence plate bragging that this car was brand new. Winkler had been banging on about his new motor for weeks, and Patrick couldn’t help feeling a clench of envy, especially when he peered through the window and saw how immaculate it was. No crumbled Wotsits on the carpets; no half-chewed Haribo stuck to the seats; no discarded toys in the footwell. Bonnie had systematically wrecked the interior of Patrick’s car and he needed to take it to one of those valet places, where silent Eastern European men would render it spick and span – until Bonnie got in it again. Still, it was all worth it, wasn’t it? He’d rather have crisp crumbs mashed into his upholstery than live Winkler’s shallow existence. Rather get a big goodnight hug from his daughter before settling in front of the TV for an evening of – albeit currently awkward – conversation with Gill, than live Winkler’s life: pumping iron at the gym, then heading to bed with his latest desperate woman.
He sighed. He hadn’t been to the gym in months, and when he tried to do press-ups at home Bonnie would invariably leap screeching onto his back. And going to bed with desperate women . . . well, there was ‘exciting’ desperate and there was the other kind. By the time Patrick reached the building, his mood had dropped from grumpy to foul.
Winkler was hanging about in the corridor, chatting up the custody sergeant, the two of them falling silent when Patrick walked past scowling, a fresh burst of laughter following him down the hall. He was in a good mind to go back there, ask them what was so fucking funny. But he was distracted by the beep of his phone. Carmella? He was eager for news from Ireland. But no, it was Gill, asking what he wanted for dinner, even though he’d only left her company an hour ago. He very much doubted he’d be home before midnight – she knew that – and he felt irritated, then felt bad for being irritated. He knew she was nervous today because she had a meeting with her chambers about going back to her previous job in a month or so. He badly wanted Gill to resume her work as a barrister, even though it would cause more nightmares with childcare, because he believed that if she returned to work, she would begin to regain her old self, and the nervy, anxious woman he lived with would become his strong and capable wife again. He knew it wouldn’t be that simple, but surely it would be a start? Something had to give. Because at the moment he was happier at work, dealing with Winkler and dead teenagers, than he was at home.