Page 119 of The Altar Girls

Then she was gone, the vegetable smell of her smoothie trailing behind her. At least she was wrapped up in a big heavy coat and had boots on. He wondered how she could float around the house in feather-light clothing. The house was like an igloo most of the time. And she was constantly cleaning and dusting and hoovering, always with a sharpness to her jaw, even though her eyes had a vacancy in them. Maybe by cleaning she was able to keep her mind off her loss.

He leaned his head back and his neck creaked. He figured he’d take her up on the sofa idea, but he wasn’t going back to sleep. Not when he was in charge of a little girl, albeit one who was fast asleep.

The sitting room was cold too, but he left the door open to the hall. He wanted to have one eye on the stairs and an ear out for any sound from above. He found a throw on the arm of the couch, but it was as rough as a splintered stake, so he decided to sit rather than lie down.

He tugged on his jacket to keep warm and checked his phone for news updates, but there was nothing new. No messages or missed calls and his email was barren. With the remote in hand, he was about to switch on the television, thinking it would keep him alert, when he heard what sounded like a yelp from upstairs.

In the hall, he stood on the bottom step and peered upwards. There it was again. The child was crying.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he mumbled.

It was late and he was alone in the house with a little girl, and all the garda vetting in the world wouldn’t help him if false accusations were levelled against him. Why was he even thinking like that?

Opening the front door, he noticed the tyre tracks in the snow left by Zara’s car. The road outside was empty of life. He knew he’d have to go up the stairs to check on Harper.

73

The guy sitting at the end of the Brook Hotel bar kept eyeing her. Martina wasn’t interested. She’d had her fill of the male of the species and concentrated on finishing her Sauvignon Blanc, debating having a gin and tonic next. She dragged her hair further around her face, trying to hide from him.

There was a woman playing mellow piano in the corner of the bar, and it was perhaps that that lulled her into believing the guy at the end of the counter had got the message. A nudge on her elbow told her she had misled herself.

‘Hi, can I buy you a drink?’ he asked.

‘Got a better chat-up line?’ Jesus, that was so corny. Must be the wine, she concluded.

‘I’m not chatting you up. You’re alone, I’m alone. We can keep each other company.’

‘And how will we do that?’

‘Maybe by talking and sharing a drink?’

If he wanted to waste his money on her, fine. She wasn’t about to fall into bed with him, was she? Once bitten and all that. She appraised him as he struggled to get the bartender’s attention. He was taller than her, which wouldn’t be hard, and thinner. Also not hard. She glanced down at her waist. She missed having her utility belt that hid a multitude of sins. He was gesticulating wildly, a guy used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted.

‘What’s with the service in here?’ he said. His hair was too long, but the fair colour matched her own. Not that she was interested in him, but he had intriguing pale blue eyes despite being a thirty-something dickhead. ‘What’re you having anyhow?’

‘Gin and tonic,’ she said.

There was something familiar about his face. Had she seen him somewhere recently?

He sat back with a sigh, having at last placed their order. ‘What has you in here on a freezing Wednesday night?’

‘I could ask you the same.’ She wasn’t giving in that easily.

‘I’m in Ragmullin for the week for work. I normally work out of my office in Sligo.’ He pushed out his hand. ‘I’m Julian, and you are…?’

‘Martina.’ She hoped she’d hidden her surprise. The elusive Julian Bradley was sitting beside her. Time to make up for her blunder earlier. She’d see what she could get from him. ‘What type of work are you in?’

‘Erm, I suppose you could say I’m in the health service.’ He seemed embarrassed.

‘Oh my God, you’re a doctor!’ She feigned adulation.

He grinned. ‘Nothing as high-powered as that, though being a surgeon would be cool. Cutting people up and sewing them back together again sounds like fun.’ He smirked when her face showed a horror she failed to mask. ‘Joking. No, I work in child services. I’m a social worker.’

‘Gosh, you must come across some harrowing sights then.’

‘I do.’

She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. ‘Did you see the news this week? Two little girls were murdered. How can someone do that to children?’