Page 146 of The Altar Girls

He floored the car up through the town.

* * *

The fact that she had concussion meant Sinead had been kept in hospital overnight. The airbag had done its job and no internal injuries had shown up on X-rays, though she was told she’d get a letter about a brain MRI. Yeah, and that wouldn’t be today or tomorrow, she thought, running her fingers over the thick dressing on her forehead.

She’d been lucky, the medical staff had said. Could have been a whole lot worse. She didn’t feel particularly lucky. Carol had brought Annie over to see her last night and Sinead felt such a bad mother for causing so much upset. But she was fortunate to have a friend who was prepared to sleep over with Annie rather than take the child out of her home environment for the night.

She exited the taxi and looked up at her house. She couldn’t wait to get a hug from her daughter. They’d order takeaway and binge-watch Disney for the day. Her reporter’s nose for the murder story had waned. She had to protect the important people in her life and not put herself in danger. Not that the accident was anything other than just that. But still. She’d spent too many hours chasing stories and not enough time with her daughter. She supposed Zara Devine and Ruth Kiernan were both full of such regrets now that it was too late to rectify them. Not too late for her and Annie, though.

When she unlocked the door and put her foot across the threshold, she was gripped by an irrational fear. The house felt silent, stripped of human life. She should be hearing the sound of the television from the sitting room, or Annie’s music from upstairs, or Carol’s voice from the kitchen. But the air enveloping her felt like it was holding its breath. She was too. She breathed out, then in, the only sound around her.

Something wasn’t right in her home.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

* * *

McKeown was loath to go back to the station without word of Bradley’s whereabouts.

‘What’s your bright idea?’ he asked.

‘I’m not telling you.’

‘You’re such a baby when you want to be.’

She rolled her eyes and after a moment said, ‘I think Bradley might be the killer. Phone Sinead Healy. She’s the first person who made contact with Bradley. She might have an idea where he is.’

He punched in the reporter’s number without any explanation as to why he had it saved in his phone.

‘She’s not answering.’

‘Ring the hospital. They can patch you through to her ward.’

He did that, only to be told she’d been discharged. He tried her number again. Still no answer.

‘What next, bright spark?’ he asked.

He’d driven around Main Street roundabout three times. If Martina thought she was dizzy before, she definitely was now.

‘How do you succeed in pissing off every woman in your life?’

‘Sinead is not a woman in my life, she’s a woman I know.’

‘A woman to whom you snitch all our information so she can have a story for the six o’clock news.’

‘Oh, grow up, Martina.’ He circled again.

‘Listen to you, all macho speak.’ She glanced out the window. ‘Grow up, Martina,’ she mimicked and realised it was a mistake when he slammed his fist into the steering wheel.

‘You almost wrecked my marriage,’ he yelled. ‘One of your cronies told my wife about our affair, so yeah, grow the fuck up.’

‘Let me out.’ She had to get away from him before one of two things happened. Either she’d thump him, or, even worse, she’d start to cry from pure frustration.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. Abandoning the roundabout, he headed for the bridge. ‘We still have to find Bradley. What do I do now?’

She answered him because it kept her sane. ‘Go to Sinead’s house. She might be able to help us.’