She stared at him, not understanding.
‘This ... this is my party,’ she stammered, looking around at the waitress, now rapidly disappearing.
Callie saw the hall filled with flowers and giant lit candles, all perfect scene-setting for the modern art that hung on the walls.
Relief returned. Not her family.
‘It’s my fiftieth birthday party. My husband is a businessman, Jason Reynolds. You obviously have the wrong house.’
She waited for the detective to say something about it being a mistake, but he gestured to the pieces of paper.
‘It’s not the wrong house,’ he said and there was something about his voice that made Callie feel more frightened than weak.
She looked at the first piece of paper for an address and saw it all printed perfectly before her: their address, Jason’s name. She’d never seen a search warrant before and it looked so ordinary: ordinary and dangerous. She felt her legs shake the way they’d shaken when she first stood in front of a camera, before she’d learned to handle her nerves and the anxiety.
‘Where is your husband?’
‘Downstairs,’ said Callie. ‘We’re having a party ...’
‘The guests need to go,’ said the detective.
‘What?’ asked Callie. She knew she sounded stupid but her brain, normally sharp, had hit slow-motion. ‘No, really,’ she said again in desperation, ‘there must be some mistake, you are in the wrong house, you can’t be talking about my husband.’
‘Jason Reynolds,’ said the policeman. ‘That’s your husband’s name?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are Claire Reynolds?’
Callie nodded. Nobody called her Claire anymore, not since she had turned into Callie years ago, when she’d sloughed off her past and turned into someone totally different.
‘We need to locate your husband.’
‘Why?’
The detective looked at her slowly and she thought she could see pity in his eyes. ‘To help us with our enquiries,’ he said smoothly, which she felt was not the whole truth. His men began to move, some downstairs.
‘Does your husband have an office here?’ asked another man.
The unreality of it all began to sink in. The police were here to search her house. To talk to her husband. They must have got it wrong, but it was still happening, like a movie when the wrong people were targeted.
Shock made her want to sit down, but she had to stay strong. Poppy was upstairs with her girlfriends, Brenda was in the kitchen making tea and there were three hundred people downstairs drinking cocktails and nibbling blackened cod, tiny exquisite burgers, sashimi.
A door opened and Brenda marched through. Callie felt a sigh of relief. Brenda would sort it out. Tell the police that Jason Reynolds could not be the person they were looking for.
‘What is it?’ she said, looking at Callie then looking at the policemen who were leaving the hall speedily.
‘You are?’
‘Brenda Lyons, Mrs Reynolds’ friend and housekeeper.’ She put an arm around Callie. ‘And you?’
‘Detective Superintendent John Hughes, GBFI, Garda Bureau of Fraud Investigation.’ He handed out a card to Callie.
‘Right,’ said Brenda with a sigh.
Callie didn’t have time to think why Brenda wasn’t in the slightest bit surprised.
‘There are five teenage girls upstairs,’ Brenda said.
