Page 69 of The Guilty Girl

Ivy slid down in the driver’s seat of her mother’s SUV as the two detectives left Richie’s house. She’d parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, partially hidden by a cherry tree, its blossom long since scattered in the wind.

She didn’t like that they were talking to him. He was liable to say anything. Richie was a gobshite. Gullible. All the clichés she could think of. Just like that creepy teacher Mr Glennon. She shivered thinking of him. She’d nearly died when she’d seen him at the party, and had said as much to Lucy, who’d just laughed it off.

After the detectives had left, she contemplated whether to knock on Richie’s door. His wife might be home. If so, what story could she come up with? She had to talk to him.

She palmed her phone and was about to send him a text when the door opened again and Richie rushed out, holding a bulging plastic bag, which he threw into the van. Before she could leave the car to stop him, he had reversed and chugged up the narrow road, exhaust fumes trailing behind.

‘Damn you, Richie.’

She yawned and turned the key in the ignition.

It was so tiring keeping a secret.

* * *

What was she doing here?

The kid on the bike spied Ivy in the SUV as the detectives left the fancy house. He’d sheltered by the gable end on the opposite row.

Really, like! What was she doing? He kept staring. Once the DJ drove off in his van, she waited a few more minutes before following him.

This was interesting, but he wasn’t sure if it was important enough to report her being in the same place as the cops. Maybe he’d leave that detail out of his report.

He wrote the text and sent it, without mentioning Ivy.

If anyone knew about her being here, he could always say he hadn’t seen her. But as he took off on his bike, he had an uneasy feeling that he’d made his first mistake.

32

Once he’d taken a long drink of cold water, Boyd kept one eye on Sergio to ensure he didn’t end up watching something he shouldn’t while also scrutinising Terry Starr. It was difficult to marry the well-spoken, friendly man with what Boyd had seen of him boxing in the ring on television. You live and learn, he supposed.

Terry leaned against the counter, blew on his coffee and took a sip. ‘I love the coffee out here. Tastes expensive without costing the earth.’

Boyd said, ‘So where are you from, Terry?’

‘Tullamore originally, but I have a pad in Kensington – that’s in London – and another on Dublin’s Southside. I can’t believe Lucy’s dead.’

‘You said you’ve only just arrived here. Early flight?’

‘Yes. First of the morning from Dublin.’

‘Where were you prior to taking the flight?’

‘At home.’

‘In Tullamore?’

‘No, that’s my parents’ place. My Dublin apartment.’

‘You arrived here after the McAllisters had flown home, though?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have any idea why they were out here for three weeks?’

‘Albert said he was organising a fight with a big payday. I should contact him to see if he’s had any success.’ Terry’s hand stalled the mug halfway to his mouth. ‘Shit, forgot. He has other things on his mind now.’

‘How well did you know Lucy?’