“OK, basically, I was out for a walk with Bella one day in May, down by the football pitches, and I saw her there with a guy.” I glance around at my audience. “In her uniform, during school hours, I mean. She didn’t see me, so she wouldn’t have known until the message this week that she’d been spotted.” I turn to Maeve and Aoife. We probably shouldn’t be discussing Nika in front of them. “Donotrepeat those details though. I’m only saying it because I trust you and you’re here with the grown-ups.”
Two heads nod vigorously.
“Did you not say something to her?” Greta fails to keep the disapproval from her voice. She’d never have let it slide.
Leesa squeezes my arm. “She’s on mat leave; she doesn’t have to care what they do. And come on, we all did it back in the day.”
Greta’s only reply is a firm headshake, and I’d well believe it—this isn’t just for show in front of Maeve and Aoife. Greta was the good girl, the one who followed the rules. Leesa was the troublemaker, though no worse than half the kids her age. As usual, I was somewhere in the middle—experimenting with a bit of everything without going too far.
I shrug. “I might have said something if I’d walked right past her, but she was at the other side of the pitch, and by the time I got around there, she and her boyfriend had gone. Well”—I glance at my nieces—“not her boyfriend, as it turns out.”
I fill the others in on the Zach–Nika–Ariana love triangle and the comments from the other kids in their year.
“Serves her right,” Aoife says, and Maeve raises her eyebrows in a gesture that means, I think, she agrees with her sister but isn’t going to say so out loud.
“But…does this pile-on give Nika a reason to break our window and text you, and so on?” Jon asks.
“The first two, maybe,” I concede. “It’s the ‘and so on’ bit I can’t imagine.”
Silence then. I guess none of us are comfortable discussing murder hypotheses in front of Maeve and Aoife.
“Well, I’m not sorry Nika’s getting a taste of her own medicine,” Greta says, with uncharacteristic malice. I don’t think she means it, really. I don’t think she’d wish bullying on any teen, but she’s still angry on our niece’s behalf.
“A taste of her own medicine…” Maeve repeats thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t it be good if there was a medicine you could give to fix people like that.” She looks up. “Fix them or get rid of them.”
22
Celeste
Saturday
Celeste sips her Moroccan mint tea, watching Warren over the rim of her cup. He’s psyching himself up to tell her something. She knows the signs. Jittery, keys jangling, pacing. Offers of tea, although she’s clearly already got one. The Saturday-morning papers sit unread on the island. Warren has them delivered every weekend but only ever reads sports news, and only ever on his phone. The front page of theIrish Timeshas a photo of the Cherrywood murder victims. Aimee smiles up from the page, white teeth gleaming, dimples buttoned in her young skin. Thirty-three to Warren’s fifty-five. The husband—Rory—is handsome.Washandsome. Dark hair, even features, a cheeky glint in his deep blue eyes. Warren’s gaze follows hers to the newspaper and his face colors.
“Right, I’d better go, I’m golfing at ten. And…well, the police want me to go down this afternoon to give a statement about the girl. The Bar Four thing.”
She looks at him, doesn’t respond.
“Have you…have you heard any more from Susan O’Donnell? Did she say anything else?”
“About what, Warren?”
He opens his mouth but can’t seem to bring himself to say more. Celeste takes another sip of tea. She doesn’t need to hear about Warren and this Aimee. She can imagine very well without further input from Susan O’Donnell. Anyway—though she doesn’t tell Warren this—she’s blocked Susan’s number.
Warren closes his mouth, nods and walks to the doorway. Then he turns, as though something’s struck him last minute. “Ah, I meant to say, Cody’s work experience’s been pulled.”
Celeste lowers her cup to its saucer and crosses her hands on her lap, eyebrows up, waiting for more.
“Yeah, they said it was something to do with numbers—they’d already accepted more kids than they realized.”
“But?”
Warren looks down. “I believe they heard about Cody and the Fitzpatrick situation.”
“I see. And what do you have to say about that?”
“Come on, Celeste, that’s hardly my fault. You can’t blame me for everything.”
I can and I do.
