She grimaced then, and waved a hand in the air, as if conceding that she had merely given one version of many, that there was probably rather more to her marriage than youthful folly, certainly more than she was willing to tell me. She turned her dark head and looked into the fire. A glow of red flickered through her hair, which she suddenly shook forward and then swept back; the shadows and light bounced off the glass doors and played around the room.
"Get us another drink, would you Ed?"
I went through to the kitchen and fixed a gin; we'd been drinking it with lemon juice, which she had made up fresh and leavened with sugar syrup and orange juice. When I brought her the drink, her dismay that I hadn't made myself one was palpable.
"Not thirsty anymore?"
"I can't stay. I told you that."
She nodded, and turned her gaze back to the fire.
"Do you have a photograph of Patrick?"
She didn't move.
"Miranda, you said earlier you wanted me to find him. If you still mean it-"
She got to her feet and left the room. I looked around at the pictures on the walls, but they were all action or parade-ring photographs of Hutton in full livery; he looked like a jockey, all right, but so did all the others. When Miranda came back with a photo, I glanced quickly at it, long enough to see it was a full face shot, not so long that I began to compare it to the man I had found dead and mutilated on a dump earlier that day. I didn't want to be the bearer of that bad news, not yet.
"Can you remember the name of the private detective you hired to find Patrick?"
"Don…something. Kelly? Kennelly? I can find out."
"Let me know as soon as you do. Last thing. You said Vincent Tyrrell came to see you the day Patrick disappeared. What happened?"
"He told me Patrick had made a confession. To him, as a priest, the sacrament. And he couldn't, of course, disclose anything he had said. But he was very…it was as if he knew something about me, something I had done, or something about the way I lived…and that whatever it was, I should be ashamed of myself. All his insinuations…like I was, I don't know what, a whore, worse than a whore, some kind of…corrupter…I couldn't really follow it back then. I was angry, I threw him out, what right did he have-but I must have run it through in my head a thousand times since. That whatever had happened to Patrick, the reason he disappeared, it was all my fault, and it was somehow up to me to work out why."
"And have you?"
Miranda shook her head, aiming for a laugh that came off as a muted wail. She picked up her drink from the mantelpiece. I could hear the ice clinking, her hand was shaking so much.
"There was something about Father Tyrrell…the scorn for me, the contempt in his eyes…it was so belittling. As if I had…yes, he used the word betrayal… as if I had betrayed Patrick somehow. But he wouldn't say how."
She took a long, steady swallow of gin. Her use of it seemed medical, sacramental.
"The other thing was, he said something like, 'Well, he's better off now,' or 'It's probably for the best.' I thought he was just trying to placate me, because I was screaming at him, you know? I was mad at Patrick anyway, and now he'd made it even worse, setting this creepy fucking priest on me. I mean, confession? Who goes to fucking confession anymore? Old ladies. Children. Nuns. All the people who don't need to, who have no sins worthy of the name. So I really lost it with him. And I chose to remember it as, you know, well, he tried to bully me but I let him have it. And he scuttled off mouthing platitudes, you know, not to worry, all will be well. But that wasn't what happened. He knew Patrick wasn't coming back. And he was basically saying, he's well shot of you."
She drank again, emptying her glass. My phone announced the arrival of a text message: it was from Dave Donnelly, asking me where I was. I got my coat, and held Miranda Hart close, and headed for the door. Miranda stopped me in the hall.
"I did love Patrick," she said. "I wouldn't want you to think…"
"I don't," I said. She was shaking, face flushed red. I went to hold her, but she put up her hands and shook her head.
"No. Just, so you don't think…I may not have wanted to go back over any of this again, but…don't think I didn't love that man. Don't ever think that."
There were tears in her eyes. I nodded, and waited for the rest.
"There's one last thing," she said. "That morning-ten years ago today-when Patrick was leaving-when I wouldn't listen to him, or look at him-the thing he kept saying was, he wouldn't be a Judas. That was the last thing I heard Patrick say.
"'I won't play the fucking Judas for anyone.'"
SEVEN
The rain had turned to sleet by the time I made it back to Quarry Fields: a tricky drive in a '65 Volvo with no windshield wipers. Dave Donnelly's unmarked blue Toyota Avensis was parked outside my house, and Dave was sitting on the edge of the brown leather couch in my living room, drinking a cup of tea.
"Make yourself at home," I said.
"I'd need a Hoover."
"You're welcome."
"Or what is it these days, a Dyson?"
"It's in the press under the stairs."
I got myself a can of Guinness from the kitchen and a glass and joined him.
"How'd you get in?"
"You gave me a key."
"Why did I give a cop a key to my house?"
"The night we went out. When I got transferred to the Bureau. Remember?"
"We had a few drinks?"
"We had all the drinks. Dublin town ran out of drinks. And you said you had the last of the drinks back here."
"For some reason, it doesn't stand out in my mind."
"And I fell asleep on the sofa. Great sofa, mind."
"You can sleep on it without orthopedic consequences."
"You can what?"
"Without fucking your back up."
"This is not the sofa I have at home. This is why my back is fucked up."
"So there you were, asleep."
"And you were off first thing. I don't know, an early house. A woman. A client, even. And you gave me the key to lock up after."
"Case closed. Glad we got to the bottom of that one."
Dave half laughed, then looked at the floor, his low forehead furrowed in a scowl. He was a big-boned thickset crop-headed man who had lost two stone in weight quite suddenly, and it made him look ill. He had looked ill in a different way before, what with the high color and the bad temper and the bursting out of his ill-assembled, badly fitting suits and anoraks, like he was about to explode with exasperation and righteous anger at any moment, but it was a reassuring kind of ill. Now he looked ill as if he had a disease. But he didn't have a disease, he had a new job that seemed to be absorbing every ounce of energy he had, and then some.
Dave had been detective sergeant with the Seafield Garda for twenty years; a few months after he was promoted to inspector, the Howard case broke, and a web of murder, child abuse, sex trafficking and drug smuggling was uncovered, with DI Donnelly conveniently placed at the center of it all. That's when the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation came calling. But it wasn't plain sailing at the Bureau: the Howard case had been front-page news for days, and Dave had attracted a swath of publicity which Garda Headquarters had encouraged (in part to deflect the credit away from me, a strategy that suited me just fine); his high-profile transfer (SUPERCOP TO SHAKE UP BUREAU) had been met with perhaps understandable resentment from his new colleagues, most especially Myles Geraghty, a pugnacious blockhead with whom we'd both had our tussles in the past.
I got a bottle of Jameson and two glasses and made them up two-thirds to a third water and gave one to Dave and he drank it down as if it was a cup of milk.