Page 99 of Three Widows

‘She might not be allowed to use her phone on the tills,’ Kirby said. ‘Okay, I get that.’

‘Tip down to Dolan’s and see if she’s there. If she’s not, come straight back and we’ll see what we can do. Deal?’

‘Sure,’ he said, but he didn’t feel sure about anything.

He rushed back to the office, grabbed his jacket and headed out.

Dolan’s supermarket was busy, despite the early hour on a Sunday morning. Kirby bundled his way inside, rushing past a group of jeans-clad older ladies who were discussing the joy of having a new young priest saying morning Mass.

He looked around for Amy.

She wasn’t at any of the checkouts, but he spied Luke Bray, his eyebrow piercing glinting under the harsh lighting. Skipping past the queue, he leaned over to the black-haired lad. ‘Is Amy around today?’

‘She didn’t turn up. Boss is spitting fire and I’ve to pull a double shift. She’ll be on a warning after this.’

‘Where does she live?’ Kirby couldn’t recall the address she’d given the taxi driver last night.

Luke stood and leaned towards him, ignoring the shuffling line of customers. ‘You should know. You’re the one fucking her, not me.’

Reaching out, Kirby grabbed a handful of the boy’s T-shirt, drawing him in close. Luke didn’t resist, but a sneer creased his face, turning his clear skin ugly.

‘You better wash your mouth out, pup. When did you last see Amy?’

‘Calm down, old man. She was here last night. Wanted to skive off early for a date, but she had shelves to stack. Meeting you, wasn’t she? Maybe you were the last person to see her. If you know what I mean.’

Releasing the sweaty polyester, Kirby wiped his hand on his trousers and took a step back. ‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Women have been murdered around Ragmullin in the last few days. I hope Amy is safe and doesn’t turn up like them.’

Feeling his rage bubble past boiling point and not wanting to risk his career by punching Luke Bray, Kirby backed out of the narrow checkout space and rushed towards the door marked OFFICE.

He coerced Amy’s home address from the accounts clerk and left as quickly as he’d arrived.

Amy lived in a pleasant-looking house in a quiet area out on the old Dublin Road. It reminded him of a house that a child might draw. A perfect square with a door centred between two windows, with three windows above.

The car screeched to a halt in the driveway. No sign of any other car. Amy had left hers outside the restaurant last night. Or had she gone back for it and headed off somewhere this morning? Whatever the scenario, he had a nagging feeling he shouldn’t have let her go home. If she wasn’t here, he’d check with the taxi company to ensure she was brought to the right address.

At the front door, he leaned heavily on the bell before noticing that the door was ajar.

The trickle of fear he’d been experiencing all morning rose in waves, crashing against the walls of a cracked dam within his chest. He stepped inside.

‘Amy? It’s Larry. Amy? Are you home?’

Glancing around, he noticed her handbag on the floor in the hall and a bunch of keys on top of it.

‘Amy?’ He was tentative now, each step slower than the last. He called her name up the stairs. Silence. He was alone in the house. To be sure, he searched the rooms downstairs, then headed up, racing from room to room.

No Amy.

In her room, clothing hung neatly in the wardrobe, a paperback by the bed. The bed didn’t look like it had been slept in. He couldn’t see the clothes she’d worn last night. Her work uniform of black T-shirt and trousers.

Back downstairs, despite his anxiety, he pulled on a pair of gloves, moved her keys and picked up her bag. Her wallet was still there. Bank cards and cash. And her phone. The screen was like a newsprint of his missed calls and texts.

The images of Jennifer O’Loughlin and Éilis Lawlor’s dead bodies flashed before him.

Maybe he was being irrational, but that didn’t stop the dam bursting. He rushed outside, where he threw up on the lawn, his body shaking with terror.

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