“Bring Bella. It’s a gorgeous day. And I’m not working till two.”
Greta will leave us to it, she says; she’s heading down to the hockey camp. So Leesa, Bella and I, with Bella in a sling, set off for Bar Four.
• • •
Inside, the bar is dark, with scant sunlight slipping in through the half-open door. A man in a white shirt is polishing glasses behind the bar and he looks up at us.
“What can I get you, ladies? Coffee machine’s just warming up.”
“Lovely,” Leesa says chirpily. “Two cappuccinos, please, and is Venetia in this morning?”
His face falls. “Ah. Venetia’s not in. She won’t be in this week at all. There’s been a…a bereavement in the family.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. Will she be back on Monday, do you think?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” He hesitates. “It’s her sister who died. You know the story in the news—the couple who were murdered?”
We are both frozen into silence. The barman continues when we don’t respond: “It was Venetia’s sister and the sister’s husband.”
“Aimee?” Leesa manages. “Was that her name?”
“That’s the one. Dreadful thing. Not far from here—down the N11, one of those new developments in Cherrywood. Just shows, even when it’s somewhere nice and safe…” He shakes his head.
I need to sit down.
The barman looks alarmed. “Sorry, love—you’ve gone a bit pale. Did you know Venetia’s sister? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything…” He starts filling a glass of water.
“I didn’t know her, not really.” I lower myself on to a chair, cradling Bella in the sling. “I…I just met her at the opening of the bar.” An image flashes through my mind, Aimee and Warren in the stock room. The husband and the PR girl. And now one of them is dead.
15
Susan
Thursday
From a corner table in the empty pub, I phone the garda station and ask to speak to Detective Kellerman. Going back over the whole story—my message about Celeste, the broken window, the threatening text, the two Oakparks, Savannah’s death and now the connection between Warren and murder victim Aimee, it sounds incontrovertible. At least to me—the person caught in the middle—it does. But Detective Kellerman is reticent.
“Thanks for passing this on, Ms. O’Donnell. I’ve taken note, and we’ll see you tomorrow, as planned, unless we need something sooner.”
I suppose gardaí aren’t going to give much away, but I come off the phone sick and deflated and worried.
The barman brings us two coffees and apologizes again for passing on the shocking news.
“I didn’t realize you knew poor Aimee, god rest her.”
“Don’t worry at all,” Leesa says, “but could you give us Venetia’s address, so we can send a condolence card? I don’t want to intrude with a call.”
“Sure, of course. I don’t know the postal address, but she’s down the road there, the cottages in Coal Place.” He points to his left. “The first one in the row is hers. Lives there with her husband. Foreign fella. You could walk past and check the address for your card?”
• • •
We finish our coffees and do as he suggests—walk toward the row of pretty terraced cottages in Coal Place, stopping for a moment outside the first one. It looks a little shabby beside its pristine neighbor, in need of a fresh coat of paint, but otherwise, just a normal house on a normal road, and it’s hard to believe that inside is a woman whose sister has just been murdered.
“Should we knock in?” Leesa whispers.
I shake my head. “God, no. We don’t know her; it would be insensitive. And I…I need to stay out of it, not draw more attention to myself.”
• • •
