Page 114 of The Guilty Girl

‘What did you discover?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You were a long time inside their apartment. Why?’

‘Terry Starr was there. We chatted about nothing, and then I left. I don’t know anything else. Your turn.’

‘My turn?’

‘Tell me what this is about, and what Jackie has to do with the McAllisters. And don’t mention superior officers again, because I’m gone past accepting that crock of shit.’

A rocky silence descended, and Boyd was sure Lopez was about to answer with ‘no comment’ when at last he spoke.

‘What I said is true. My superior … I was told to keep eyes on you at all times. We need to find Señora Jackie.’

Boyd glanced across at the apartment building. He should get back to Sergio. ‘Lopez, I’m done here. Stop following me. If I hear from Jackie, I’ll contact you. Give me your card.’ He shoved the cup of now cold coffee into the centre of the table and stood.

‘This Terry Starr has returned to Ireland. He only stay a few hours in Malaga. Now he is gone. My boss, he is not happy.’

‘Why? Tell me what Terry Starr has got to do with anything.’

A single shoulder shrug. ‘His name come up a lot. When we talk with your wife.’

‘Ex-wife. What did she say?’

‘Señor Boyd, I cannot tell you that.’

‘Until you decide to tell me, you can piss off back to your superior officers and let me enjoy my last full day in Malaga with my son.’

‘No, no. You cannot go. If you leave with the boy, Señora Jackie not come back. You must stay.’

His pleading wrecked Boyd’s head, as did any thought of Jackie returning to deny him access to his son.

‘I’m going back to the apartment. You know where I am if you want to tell me the whole truth.’

Much as he wanted to pump the detective for more information, he was anxious to check on Sergio. Anything Jackie got involved with was rarely resolved without bloodshed. There was no way Boyd would allow his son to become a pawn in the Spanish police’s game.

Nor in Jackie’s.

* * *

Terry Starr sat slumped in his plush armchair with what seemed like two hundred cushions, though in reality there were only twelve. Reality. What he needed was twelve rounds in a ring, even though he liked to knock out his opponent earlier than that.

Tapping his knee with one hand, he checked his phone again. Still nothing from Albert. They’d talked yesterday when he’d still been in Malaga and that conversation had made his mind up for him. He had to come back. Lucy was dead and Albert was grieving.

When he’d arrived in Dublin, he realised he couldn’t meet Albert at his home, so he found himself holed up in his executive Dublin apartment for the time being.

The triple-glazed faux-sash windows excluded all sound from the outside and he felt like he was sitting in a silent vacuum. The lid could pop any second. He was pumped. He needed to go to the gym. A proper gym, not the one he’d constructed in the basement of the Georgian building. He should have stayed in Spain.

He picked up a blue velour cushion and threw it across the room. It knocked a Waterford crystal trophy off the sideboard, and he watched stonily as it smashed into a hundred pieces on the cold marble-tiled floor.

He bit at a stray piece of nail on his thumb. The manicurist was shit at her job. He needed to find a new one. One who wouldn’t rat him out as a pussy to the macho boxing world. The least of his worries, he supposed.

His phone rang and he glanced at the caller ID. He let it ring. No way did he want to talk to Noel fucking Glennon.

54

Having picked the pink acrylic gel from her nails, Ivy sat in her mother’s SUV filing them. Parked on Main Street, she had a clear view of the dingy little apartment located over the dry cleaner’s across the road. Hannah Byrne lived in that hovel with her snotty-nosed brother and her alcoholic mother. Was the kid even her brother? Maybe she should start a rumour that he was Hannah’s son. That would be class.