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‘I think it’s all a throwback to when Adam died.’ Spits of anger flew from his mouth as he spoke. ‘You buried your husband and then proceeded to bury yourself in the job.’

She was struck speechless for a moment before the words exploded from her lips.

‘How dare you! How bloody dare you, Mark Boyd! You’ve crossed a line, bringing my dead husband into this argument. That is the lowest you’ve ever sunk. For fuck’s sake.’ Her tears came then.

Much as she wanted to be strong, to stand up to him, she felt herself crumble. Fuck. No. She was not that person. Not the person he spoke of. She was not!

As he strode back to the house without another word, she calmed a little, wiped her tears and felt her breathing dip a notch away from hyperventilation. In the clarity of that moment, she had to admit there was a film of truth running through Boyd’s words. And that enraged her even more.

She turned away and headed out into the dark fields, to be swallowed by the descending sea mist.

90

Armed with the CCTV evidence he’d received from Detective Kirby, Detective Sergeant Matt Mooney strode into the interview room feeling lighter on his feet than he had all week. He’d even had a shower, changed his suit and trimmed his beard. At last he had something tangible with which to wipe the arrogance from Wilson’s face.

He did the introductions for the recording and sat back, his finger tapping the manila folder on the table. Everything he needed was digitised, but a file helped to unsettle a suspect.

Norah Ward was the solicitor, now that Bryan O’Shaughnessy was no longer her client. Mooney outlined the arrest sheet, keeping his eyes firmly on Denis Wilson. The man never wavered, his eyes pinned to a spot above the detective’s head.

‘What have you to say for yourself, Mr Wilson?’

‘It’s Councillor,’ Wilson said, unable to stop himself.

‘A conviction will soon see you lose that title, and any hope of running for the Dáil will be gone.’

‘I did nothing wrong.’

Mooney slowly opened the folder, flicked through a few pages and closed it again. ‘Care to tell me where you were last weekend?’

‘Home.’

‘All the time?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Take any trips?’

Wilson glared at his solicitor, who had her head down, then back at Mooney. ‘What’s this about?’

Mooney was glad to see Norah Ward had little interest in her client. Good. ‘Did you take a trip to Ragmullin last Friday?’

‘If you’re asking, you must know that I did.’

‘What was that trip for?’

‘Business.’

‘On a Friday afternoon?’

‘I work every hour God gives me.’

‘Still believe in God, do you?’

Wilson swerved around on his chair, almost falling over as he spat out words at his solicitor. ‘Will you stop this farce? He can’t prove I did anything wrong. I should not be here. Do something, woman.’

‘Why don’t you listen to what the detective has to say.’ Norah inclined her head towards Mooney. ‘I’m sure you have something more than conjecture to impart, otherwise you wouldn’t have arrested my renowned client. Is that correct?’

Mooney heard the implied slur on the word ‘renowned’. Good woman, Norah. Beaming, he extracted two CCTV stills from the folder. ‘Mr Wilson, your white SUV shines up lovely and bright for the cameras. Does it have a PR engine too?’