Page 65 of The Guilty Girl

‘Slowly, so I heard.’ Kirby tugged at his trouser belt, loosening it a notch.

‘He’d better smarten up. Right, let’s get this one done, then we can move on.’

She marched to the front door and rang the bell. Richie Harrison’s red van was an eyesore parked outside his designer house on the executive estate.

‘Must have pumped all their money into the mortgage,’ Kirby noted, ‘to be still driving this heap of shite.’

‘Does his wife work? They must have another income source.’

‘I doubt there’s much to be made being a DJ nowadays. I thought all music was online anyhow.’

‘Ibiza is all about the DJs, according to Chloe.’ Her daughter was forever begging for money to travel, even though she was earning a wage working in Fallon’s bar. She glanced at the van, then back to the pristine black door with its chrome finishes. ‘I’d say the wife must have a decent-paying job.’

‘Or maybe Richie is involved in something more lucrative to supplement his income.’

‘We shall see.’ She rang the bell again.

The man who opened the door squinted in the sunlight, his face as tired as the creased, red T-shirt stretched tight across his chest, where a string of coloured beads hung from his neck. Blue jeans, white socks, no shoes completed the look.

‘Mr Harrison, is it?’ Lottie showed him her ID badge. ‘We’d like a word. May we come in?’

‘Is this about what happened at the McAllisters’?’ He kept his hand tight to the door, his taut body in the gap.

‘We’d like to discuss it inside, if you don’t mind.’

He paused, then opened the door wide.

Lottie wasn’t sure if she was required to take off her shoes, but she wiped her feet on the mat and followed him into a sitting room. It was so minimalist it was almost bare.

Stark white walls. A low blue L-shaped couch, one matching armchair placed opposite. The glass coffee table was without a book or magazine, let alone a coffee stain. The almost white carpet made her glance at her shoes to ensure she hadn’t walked dirt in. A massive television was fixed to the wall above an insert fireplace. Everything was modern and expensive.

‘Nice house,’ she said, more than a little jealous.

‘I’m sure you’re not here to admire my home.’ Harrison swiped up his long hair and tied it back with a band from his wrist. His skin was smooth and his fingers long. She noticed his nails cut short. Clean.

‘You’re right,’ she said, sitting on the couch, her legs too long to be comfortable. Harrison sat on the armchair. There wasn’t even a wedding photograph on the walls. She’d have liked a look at Mrs Harrison. ‘What do you know about the incident at the McAllisters’ house?’

He tightened an arm around his waist, coiled like a spring, she thought. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Why were you trying to gain access to the house earlier today?’

‘I had to pick up equipment I’d left behind last night. A guard stopped me at a checkpoint. And then Brontë had to be rushed to the hospital. She’s pregnant. They’re monitoring her. What’s this about?’

‘I’d like you to tell me that.’

He appeared mystified, uncoiling his arm and throwing up his hands. ‘I don’t know anything. The guard wouldn’t let me pass. He mentioned that someone had been killed. Was it a robbery gone wrong or what?’

‘Why would you think it was a robbery?’ Lottie had the feeling he was trying hard not to let something slip.

‘All that garda presence. Albert McAllister is a big knob. House must be worth a fortune, not to mention all the fancy shit he has in it.’

‘You’ve been in the house?’

‘I was working there last night, as you know.’

‘Tell me about the party. I want chapter and verse.’

‘Definitely wasn’t any murder when I was there.’