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Lottie wondered where her bravery was coming from. A killer was holding a knife on them and she was conversing with him like it was an afternoon tea party. Her training? Perhaps. Or was Imelda’s pluckiness rubbing off on her? Whatever it was, she did not fear Robert Hayes as much as she should, and that worried her. Being complacent was dangerous. But she had to hear what he had to say.

He sat back heavily and pulled at his hair. His ponytail came loose and the grey strands fell about his face in a greasy mess as he began to talk.

78

The interview room was large and airy, but the air-conditioning unit was on too high and Mooney felt his skin prickle from the cold air.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, and thanks for coming in, Councillor Wilson,’ he said.

He was trying, he really was. He might not like the man, but Denis Wilson had lost his wife in a brutal attack, so he had to demonstrate some sympathy. The detectives that the powers-that-be had drafted in had allocated him the task of interviewing Wilson. They were of the opinion that a serial killer was their target, not a grieving husband.

‘I had no choice,’ Wilson said. ‘Those detectives at my house said I had to talk to you. Anyway, I want someone to arrest and charge the man who did this to my Ann. I know who killed her. I just need to convince you.’ He fixed Mooney with a stare before straightening his cravat.

The detective wondered how a grieving man kept himself so neat. Then again, Denis Wilson always had his appearance just so. The bruising around his eye was the only thing that pointed to all not being rosy.

‘Who are you referring to?’

‘You know right well I’m referring to Bryan O’Shaughnessy. You should arrest him. This time charge him with multiple murders, including that of my precious Ann.’

‘Did you see him enter your home?’

‘No, but ithasto be him.’

‘Why has it to be him?’

‘You wouldn’t have arrested him for the other murder if you didn’t have something on him.’ Wilson flicked his cravat and a tiny diamond sparkled in its centre.

‘If I had something on him, I would have charged him. Denis, you need to stop this vendetta.’ Mooney had to get the man back on track. ‘Where were you last night?’

‘I went home after that prick punched me. Ann wasn’t there. I thought she was missing. I shouldn’t have reported that, because she was just late. She came home and you arrived after that. You know all this.’

‘What happened after I left?’

‘I got drunk as a skunk, if you want to know. I passed out on the couch. Never heard a thing. All O’Shaughnessy’s fault.’

‘You look fine this morning. No hangover?’

‘My wife is dead. I’m in shock. I don’t know which way to turn. This…’ Wilson pointed to his suit, his shirt, his cravat, ‘this is what I do well. Image. Projection. Inside I’m dying, second by second. You need to find her killer.’

Mooney found it difficult to muster any sympathy for him. ‘Your wife was murdered while you were at home. I need you to give me a timeline of last night. What did you and Ann do?’

‘I told you, I got drunk.’

‘I’m sure you remember some of the evening. Did you eat?’

‘This morning? No.’

Was he being deliberately obtuse? ‘I meant last night. What did you both do after I left?’

‘I didn’t eat. Ann probably did. I don’t know. I marinated my brain in whiskey to stop me from jumping into the car and driving out to take the head off O’Shaughnessy.’

‘Drink-driving wouldn’t look good for your PR machine.’ Mooney couldn’t help himself.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Ann mentioned something about your PR people and how you didn’t like anything derailing a well-oiled machine.’ Mooney was well aware she hadn’t said all that, but Wilson didn’t need to know it.

‘She looked out for me. She is… was a stellar wife.’ Wilson seemed to realise what he was saying. ‘I looked out for her too.’