Mr McCoy was right, the Beattie house really did look like a Victorian mansion. It was at the end of a long driveway that we drove up after the electric gates opened to let us in and then closed behind us. There were two fancy and expensive-looking cars parked to one side of the house and there appeared to be a barn to the rear with the door half open and I glimpsed the bonnets of some vintage cars inside.
‘Must be a collector,’ Dad said, spotting the same thing.
I suddenly felt silly for feeling so proud of the BMW; it didn’t seem as impressive or special now that I knew Jennifer was used to those kinds of vehicles.
When I got out of the car – with a box of chocolates in one hand and a single red rose in the other – and walked towards the giant house, I felt like I was transported back to the world of a Dickens novel or something. There was even a door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, which I knocked and stepped back from, almost expecting a butler to answer, but it was Jennifer’s mum who opened the door.
‘Good evening, Brendan, don’t you look handsome,’ she said. Her voice had a smoothness to it which sounded mainly English but I could tell she was Northern Irish. ‘Barbara,’ she said, putting her hand on her chest by way of introduction.
She was wearing a cream business suit, as if she had just got back from a meeting, in bare feet, her blonde hair tied up tight. She had a pair of glasses on a string around her neck. Her face was glowing, although it didn’t look like she was wearing any makeup.
‘These are for you,’ I said immediately, handing her the box of chocolates.
‘Oh, that’s so kind of you, Brendan,’ she said. ‘You’ll ruin my diet, but it’ll be worth it. Jennifer is nearly ready; would you like to come in for a second?’
She stepped back and allowed me to come inside. The walls of the hallway were dark wood panelled. There was a staircase to the left that had a wooden banister the whole way up and above my head was a crystal chandelier.
‘Guest room straight down the hall, Brendan,’ said Mrs Beattie, pointing ahead.
The hall was lined with paintings on either side; some seemed very old and were of ships, countryside scenes and old buildings. There wasn’t a single family picture or photograph amongst them. Small tables along the hallway had vases on them that contained no flowers. When I turned left into the guest room, it was high ceilinged and had more of the same paintings and vases. There was a scented candle burning on the fireplace – cinnamon, I think – and a faint scent of something else, something spicy cooking somewhere in the house.
‘Take a seat,’ said Mrs Beattie, indicating a white upholstered two-seater that was in front of the large fireplace. It wasn’t very comfortable to sit on; it was rock solid. ‘Jennifer’s father is busy in the kitchen at the moment but he’ll want to pop out and say hello before you go. I’ll see if Jennifer’s ready. Would you like anything to drink while you’re waiting? We have lots of different kinds of juices if you’d like?’
‘Oh, no thank you, Mrs Beattie, I’m OK, thanks,’ I said.
Just as Mrs Beattie was about to turn, her husband entered. He was wearing a white chef’s apron that didn’t have any stains on it and had a red-and-white tea towel over one arm. He was almost bald, apart from some dark hair around the sides of his head that had been shaved short. He had a thin face but his body looked overweight; one didn’t match the other. He gave the impression of having been in the midst of more important things and was only taking a quick breather before he needed to get back to it again.
‘Hello there, Brendan,’ he said in a loud voice that had the same posh Northern Irish quality as his wife. ‘Jonathan Beattie.’ He wiped his hand on the apron and thrust it out to shake mine firmly as I stood up. ‘Lovely to meet you, you’re looking spot on. Would you like a juice?’
‘I’ve just asked him, Jonathan, he says he’s fine. I’m going to check on Jennifer,’ said Mrs Beattie, wafting off into the darkness of the hallway.
‘Alright, Barb,’ he said after her. ‘You sure you don’t want a juice, Brendan? We pressed some apples this morning or I can make you up a fresh one? Carrot and ginger? Beetroot and celery?’
‘No, honestly, Mr Beattie, I’m OK, thank you. They sound good, though.’
‘No worries,’ he said. ‘Well, I know Jennifer has been looking forward to tonight all week. She speaks very highly of you, and of your friend too – that’s just awful what happened to him.’
‘Ronan?’ I said, a little surprised to hear that Jennifer had been talking about Ronan with her parents.
‘Ronan, yes, McCoy?’
I nodded.
‘Yes, really just terrible what happened to him. How’s he doing?’
I didn’t want to talk about Ronan with someone who was a stranger to me, so I kept it general.
‘He’s good; improving every day.’
‘Ah, excellent, brilliant,’ he said, taking the tea towel from his arm and flicking it up onto his shoulder. ‘I don’t know the parents but, God, that’s really tough, really is.’
‘Yes,’ I said, unsettled by Mr Beattie continuing to talk about the McCoys.
‘And tell me,’ he said, taking a seat on the edge of one of the hard upholstered chairs, ‘did they ever get to the bottom of it all?’
I remained standing, looking down at him, and shook my head quickly as if to say,All of what?
‘The one who found him,’ he said, ‘have they not got an explanation from him? I know I’ve got my legal hat on here but I’d imagine they’re entitled to substantial compensation. I was wondering if they’re happy with their legal support and getting everything they need? But I’m only talking as an outsider, I don’t have the details. What exactly happened on the day?’
