Page 125 of The Guilty Girl

‘You can’t keep hiding from her.’

‘Watch me.’

She shoved her file and notebook into McKeown’s hand so forcefully he nearly dropped his precious iPad. Then she turned on her heel and was down the stairs before he could utter a word.

* * *

Sitting in the Bean Café nursing a coffee long gone cold, Cormac O’Flaherty studied the scratched wooden table rather than look around him. The Bean was the closest café to the station, a popular spot for gardaí to congregate. Why then had he picked it for his coffee? Was he setting himself up as a sitting duck?

His question was answered when the door opened and in stepped the tall detective, the mouthy one who had tricked him into snitching on Hannah’s row with Lucy. He shouldn’t have told her about the photo, but she would have found out at some stage and that would have made him look worse.

Big mistake. Sitting duck. All that and more.

A cool breeze swept towards him with the opening of the door, and he zipped his hoodie to his throat, preparing to escape the second her back was turned. Too late. She caught sight of him as his leg knocked against the edge of the chair, rattling it in his haste to flee.

‘Cormac O’Flaherty, I’d like a word with you. Another coffee?’ She was smiling, but he wasn’t falling for it. Her eyes were like chunks of granite. Cold and hard. Shit.

‘Ah, you’re grand. I was leaving. I’ve to be—’

‘I insist.’ She stepped forward, blocking his exit in the narrow space between the counter and the door.

Trapped. Reluctantly he tugged at his chair and sat back down.

‘Two coffees, Adrian,’ she said, ‘when you’re ready.’

Her smile was so sweet, Cormac thought he might develop diabetes. It put him on the highest alert.

She sat after taking a bank card from her jeans pocket. He envied her in her light top. He was beginning to sweat in his zipped-up hoodie. Concentrate. Don’t open your mouth.

She tapped the table idly with the card and he noticed that her nails were bitten down unevenly. Her eyes were tired and her hair was an untidy mess. She didn’t look like a senior detective. But her image didn’t fool Cormac. He’d read up about her on news stories on the web after his experience in the station yesterday. Detective Inspector Parker was unorthodox, but also one smart cookie, with a track record for catching murderers.

‘I really have to be somewhere else,’ he said, fidgeting.

‘Just two minutes. Bumping into you is opportune. You were on my list.‘

‘What list?’ His hands slipped in and out of each other as he sweated buckets.

‘My never-ending to-do list.’ She paused as Adrian placed two coffees on the table, a plastic-wrapped biscuit on each saucer. When he was back behind the counter, she continued. ‘I’ve further questions about Jake Flood.’ She rolled up her sleeves, all business now. Matter-of-fact. No accusation. Or was there? Cormac found it increasingly difficult to read her.

‘Jake?’ He let a slow breath escape between his teeth.

‘Yes, the boy who sold you the drugs at Lucy’s party.’

Her voice was too harsh, too loud. He glanced around, afraid they might now be the centre of attention. But the ambient chatter didn’t fluctuate. No heads turned to stare.

‘What about him?’ His breath snagged the words as his anxiety heightened.

‘His body was found in the canal last night.’

‘No way!’

‘We’re treating his death as suspicious.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh is right, Cormac. When did you last see him?’

‘At the party.’