Page 149 of The Altar Girls

‘The daughter must be at a childminder’s and Sinead went there. Do you know who that might be?’

‘I’m not bloody psychic.’ She looked over at the neighbour’s houses. ‘Maybe we should knock on a few doors?’

‘Sinead is not a suspect, and she isn’t in any danger that we know of. We only wanted to speak with her for information she might have on Julian Bradley. We better go and break the bad news to the boss.’

He marched down the drive to the car. Martina hesitated. Was something wrong? No, an unanswered door didn’t mean anything. She shrugged. McKeown was right. Sinead had nothing to do with their investigation.

She joined him in the car with one last glance at the house. About to snap on her seat belt, she halted.

‘Wait a minute.’

‘No, Martina, we’ve wasted enough time. Back to base and see what we’ve missed.’

She jumped out of the car. ‘You go if you want. I have this feeling… I’m giving it another try.’

‘Now you’ll tell me it’s women’s intuition or some such shite.’

She slammed the door on his words. Whatever it was, she had to check it out further.

90

Kirby talked for ten minutes on the phone with Amy, thrilled to learn she was being allowed home in the morning. He’d have to beg for time off to pick her up, but hopefully Boyd would be back by then to relieve some of the pressure.

His good humour dissipated with thoughts of Father Maguire. The priest bugged him. He had access to the children, and then there was that friend of his, Father Pearse. He wanted to talk to him again.

After checking the time, he figured the community centre might still be open, so he trudged there through the slushy snow. Everything was packed up for the day. Only Father Pearse was present, sitting in a corner on a fold-up garden chair.

‘Hello, Father Pearse,’ Kirby said.

‘You’re back. Did you catch up with Keith?’ The priest ran a handkerchief over this red-hot head, then wiped sweat from his brow.

‘We did.’

‘That’s good.’ He pocketed his handkerchief and shifted uneasily on the chair. ‘All okay?’

‘It will be when we have the murderer of those children behind bars.’

‘True, true. Tragic and horrific.’ Pearse removed his dark-framed spectacles and polished the thick lenses with the hem of his shirt. His bare head again shimmered with a sheen of perspiration. ‘Words have failed me for the first time in my life.’

‘Words are the lifeline of your business.’

‘Oh, you mean for sermons and such? We do a lot more than preach.’ He swept an arm around the room. ‘This work is the true role of a priest. Helping those in need and—’

‘That’s all fine and dandy,’ Kirby said, not having the time or patience for the priest’s pontification, ‘but I wanted to have a serious talk with you. Might be best if we do it at the station.’

Father Pearse raised himself up from the chair and it toppled sideways.

‘The station?’ His cheeks flushed crimson. ‘What for? I don’t know a thing about what happened. I’ve given my statement and DNA, what more can you want from me?’

‘Hey.’ Kirby put out a hand to steady the man, who was in danger of toppling too. ‘We can have a quick chat here if you’d prefer.’

‘I suppose so. I’m not sure how I can help you.’ Pearse righted the flimsy piece of furniture and sat again.

Kirby dragged over a red plastic seat for himself. ‘I’ve heard rumours. About your friend Father Maguire.’

Pearse snorted and ran a hand under his nose. ‘There are always rumours about priests. I wouldn’t pay any heed to them.’

‘You heard them too?’