Last Kiss (27 page)

‘What about them?’

‘I started looking at the flights out of Paris around the time she would have left.’

‘That’s a long trawl. We only ever had a vague idea of the dates.’

‘I know, needle-in-haystack stuff, but lucky for me traffic investigations were in a lull.’

‘I heard there was a large backlog.’ She didn’t attempt to hide her light sarcasm, curling up on the couch.

‘The good news is, I found the flight – well, two, actually. I could so easily have missed the booking connections, had it not been for a lost luggage report by a Lori Smith. Her suitcase turned up in time for her second flight home to Dublin.’

‘What about the first one?’

‘It went from Paris to Heathrow. Then a couple of days later, the second went from Heathrow to Dublin. Direct flights weren’t as common back then as they are now, or perhaps they wanted time in London. Anyhow, four passengers checked in as a group on the first flight, but only three on the second.’

‘All women, I assume?’

‘That right, a Lori Smith, Karen Kennedy, Alice Thompson and, finally, Sandra Connolly, who didn’t take the return flight to Dublin. It was Delphine mentioning the friend’s name as Alice that aroused my suspicions even more.’

‘Where did Sandra go?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘You’ve checked the flights out of London that day?’

‘Yeah, but nothing so far – she could have stayed on in the UK, or left via a flight, ferry or the Eurostar for mainland Europe. The options are endless.’

‘How can you be sure it’s the group we’re looking for? It’s unusual for someone to decide to use their first name when everything else is fabricated.’

‘I’m not sure, but I have enough to make me want to question Sandra Connolly. We have the location, coming out of Paris, the consistency of the dates, the number of female passengers travelling together, the probable age profile, and the final destination for at least three of them. As for using the same first name, changing your details on paperwork is one thing, but swapping your first name can be tricky, especially if you’re with people who know you well, and they’re used to referring to you in a particular way.’

‘Okay. What else did you find out?’

‘They all have clean records, so nothing interesting there. Two of them are married, Sandra being one. Her husband is Edgar Regan, a jewellery designer.’

‘What does Sandra do?’

‘Guess.’

‘If it’s the same person, she was an artist in Paris, so I assume, she still is.’

‘That’s right, Kate – nothing big-time, a couple of exhibitions a few years back, but not much since.’

‘It doesn’t necessarily mean she knew Rick Shevlin.’

‘Maybe not, but it doesn’t rule it out either.’

‘If she didn’t stay in the UK after her friends returned to Dublin, she could have travelled to Italy.’

‘Which is why, Kate, I’m checking all transport links from the UK to mainland Europe between the dates her friends returned to Dublin and Michele Pinzini was killed, but it’s going to take time.’

‘Have you gone to Mark Lynch with this?’

‘I will, but first I’m planning a visit to Sandra Regan in the morning.
It’s still a bit of a stretch, and before I let him know I’ve been digging, I want to make sure it’s worth getting into trouble for.’

‘He won’t be impressed with your extra-curricular activities.’

‘Let me take care of that.’

‘How are you going to approach her?’

‘I’ll go in with the assumption that she’s the Sandra we’re looking for. She will either deny it, or if she doesn’t, we’ll know we’re on track.’

‘We?’

‘I thought you’d come with me.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Blackrock – I can pick you up or meet you there.’

‘If you pick me up we’ll make better time.’

‘We’ll be travelling in a squad car, Kate, compliments of Traffic.’

‘I can hardly wait!’

THE BLACKOUTS ARE becoming more frequent now. When I look in the bathroom mirror, the dark crevices under my eyes are even worse. My skin is pale, and my lips are sagging downwards.

I’ve no idea who removed her things from the bedroom. I searched everywhere for them when I came to, but the dressing gown, lipstick and the Devil card were gone. Part of me wonders if I imagined it all. The doctor warned me that a withdrawal from the medication could cause problems, but I hadn’t envisaged this.

I’m on my own with this battle: when you can’t trust anyone, you have to trust yourself. Grabbing my makeup bag, I begin the reconstruction, bringing the deadened parts of my face to
life. The extra mascara helps, and the blusher on my cheeks gives them an artificial glow. I use lip liner to define a better mouth, concealer to hide the dark pools under my eyes and, layer by layer, I turn into a brighter version of myself.

I think about taking one of the tablets, the ones designed to help me relax. I don’t like admitting that I need them, but I can’t go on like this. When the doorbell rings, it feels like an intrusion. I look out of the upstairs window and see a squad car parked outside. Panic sets in. For a second, I fear something awful has happened to Edgar, but then I remember breaking into that house in Greystones. She must have reported it. I’ve no idea what to do next. When the doorbell rings for a second time, I swallow the tablet. I need to stay calm. Somehow I walk downstairs as if I’m about to open the door to a friendly neighbour. Then, forcing a smile, I say, ‘Good morning,’ looking from the man to the woman, ‘how can I help you?’

I don’t take in everything the detective is saying, something about a murder in town, how I might be able to help them. I must have looked confused because the woman tells me I’m not to worry, there’s nothing to be alarmed about. Before I know it, I’ve asked them inside, relieved they haven’t mentioned the break-in. It could be a ploy, a way of putting me at my ease before the questions get tough. I can feel my right ear becoming hot. I cover it with my hair, trying not to bite my lip. Then they mention Pierre Laurent.

‘I knew him a long time ago,’ I say. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Pierre Laurent was murdered.’ The detective looks like he didn’t spend too long shaving this morning. Maybe he has a fast growth – some people are like that.
Shut up, Sandra. This is serious
.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It was tragic.’

‘You knew him well?’ The detective asks this with intensity – like he’s digging deep. His name is O’Connor. I think he already knows the answer. He probably knows, too, that I faked the paperwork, that I’m a liar and a fraudster. Despite my best efforts, I bite hard.

‘We were friends. He took me under his wing when I was homesick. He made me less so.’ I sigh.

‘Were you romantically involved?’

His question is like another invasion. I feel my chest going blotchy. I stall for time, telling him I don’t understand the question. Then I say, ‘He was a friend, a good one. Our relationship was platonic.’

‘Your time in Paris, at the art college … How you got there was somewhat irregular.’

He’s getting to it now. Is that what this is all about? The college would hardly press charges after all this time. Would they?

‘It was a very long time ago, Detective. I’d prefer to put it behind me.’

‘I’m sure you would.’ His words are loaded with accusation.

‘Sandra,’ says the woman, ‘we’re not here to dig up old issues.’ Her name is Kate Pearson and she’s a psychologist. She’s helping the police with the investigation. ‘As Detective Inspector O’Connor has told you,’ she says, ‘we’re investigating a murder from more than three weeks ago, that of Rick Shevlin.’

The name means nothing to me. ‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘How does this have anything to do with me?’ I stare back at her.

‘We think whoever killed Pierre Laurent may have killed Rick Shevlin.’

I must look shocked, because she tries to appear reassuring, saying, ‘I understand this must be difficult.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I say. ‘It’s been so long.’ I think again about Pierre, how talented he was. He didn’t have to spend time with me. He could have been with anyone. But when we were together, it was like he saw a side of me that no one else ever did.

It’s the detective who speaks next: ‘Sandra, did you know Rick Shevlin?’

‘No. I’ve never heard of him.’

He looks at me inquisitively. ‘We believe he was in an extra-marital relationship before he died.’

Is he thinking I could be the other woman? I almost want to laugh with relief. I’d been worrying about the break-in, stupidly forging those papers, but this is about a man I’ve never met. ‘I wish I could help you, Detective, but as I said, I didn’t know anyone by that name.’

‘Tell us a little bit about Pierre,’ the woman asks. There’s something soothing about her voice.

‘He was a very talented artist. Some people thought he was egotistical. Perhaps he was …’ I hesitate. ‘He was complicated. He could change, you see. One moment he would be ultra-confident, fearless, and the next, like a scared young boy.’

‘You two were obviously close.’ Her words are not as threatening as the detective’s.

‘I guess we were. At least, I hope so.’

‘Did you know anyone else involved with Pierre, one of your friends, perhaps?’

I stare at her again. ‘No … well, not exactly.’ I already know it’s the wrong answer because of the change on her face.

‘What do you mean by that, Sandra?’

‘Pierre liked my friend, Alice, but I don’t think anything ever happened between them.’

‘But you can’t be sure?’

What’s she getting at? I try to remember what they’ve already told me. They think the same person who killed Pierre killed this Shevlin person – do they think Alice is involved? Had I been right to be suspicious of her? ‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t be sure, not completely.’

‘What about your other friends, Lori and Karen? Were they close to him?’

Lori wanted to be, I think about saying, but instead, I say, ‘No.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me about Pierre?’ the woman asks.

I could tell her a lot of things. I could tell her how he liked to bring people to that club, but instead I say, ‘He had the most beautiful face.’

My last words seem to interest her, because she looks at the detective. ‘Why do you say that?’ she asks.

I think about it for a moment. ‘He had perfect bone structure, but it was his eyes – they sparkled and were always full of life.’ I say nothing for a minute, remembering his face again. ‘I sketched him once. He reminded me of someone I knew as a child.’

‘Do you still have the sketch?’ Her question doesn’t sound threatening.

‘Yes, I think I do. I kept all my work from Paris. It would be in my studio.’

She smiles back at me, again in a reassuring way. ‘You said
Pierre reminded you of someone you knew as a child. Who was that, Sandra?’

‘Pierre had the same eyes as my father. They were full of love.’

‘Can you get the sketch for us?’ the detective interrupts.

‘I can look for it, but it might take a while.’

‘We can wait, but before you go searching,’ he pulls out a notebook, ‘can you tell us where you were when Rick Shevlin was murdered?’

This is ridiculous. I don’t know anything about Rick Shevlin. ‘Detective Inspector O’Connor, I don’t have a hectic social life, and days drift into each other. You could talk to my husband, Edgar. He’s much better on these things than I am.’

The detective stares at me suspiciously. Does he think I’m lying?

‘One other thing, Sandra,’ he’s still holding his notebook, his pen ready to write everything down, ‘we believe Rick Shevlin was seeing a woman using the tag name Cassie4Casanova. Does the name mean anything to you?’

The question comes so out of the blue I have no way to cushion my response, but I take the shocked look off my face as quickly as I can, my mind doing a quick double-take. Christ, should I tell them Edgar could be seeing a woman by that name? I still see the name repeated over and over on the computer screen. What’s holding me back? It makes sense to tell them, to put an end to this mess. Then I remember the hotel key, the one I took from her house. When I reply, my words sound calmer than I feel. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name,’ I say. ‘Should I?’

His face looks stern. ‘The sketch, Sandra,’ he says. ‘You were going to get it for us.’

‘Yes, of course.’ I get up to leave the room, frantically piecing the information together. If Edgar is seeing this woman, she could be the killer. I was right to be afraid. I wasn’t imagining any of this, but maybe she isn’t out to get me after all – maybe it’s Edgar who’s in danger. She could even be with him now.

Opening the door of the studio, I search for the folder, knowing I need to get rid of these two as fast as I can. I find my portfolio at the bottom of the chest of drawers. Opening it, I flick through my old work, which even now feels like it was done by someone else, a different me – an artist I no longer know.

It doesn’t take long to find the sketch. Again, I urge myself to be calm. I’ll contact Edgar once they’re gone. I’ll warn him. I’ll make him believe me, whatever it takes.

Entering the room, I get the sense that they’ve been talking about me. ‘Here,’ I say, handing the sketch to the woman, ‘but I’ll need it back.’

‘Of course,’ she replies.

I turn to the detective and say, keeping my voice steady, ‘Detective Inspector O’Connor?’

‘Yes?’

‘Where was Rick Shevlin killed?’

‘Room 122, the Earlbrook Hotel.’

Sandra hasn’t been taking her medication – very bold and particularly perilous. She has fed herself into my hands, making my position stronger. Some people have problems facing up to the truth, always looking for ways to feed their denial and their rose-tinted plan of life.

Yesterday I paid a visit to the village of my birth, the one near the woods. No one recognised me, my appearance having changed dramatically since the last time I was there.

I can’t go back any more, without remembering the killing of my step-father and the witch. As I walked through the woods, I felt as if I was in a dream and that, like the witch, I had become invisible. The sounds and smells of the woodlands hadn’t changed
very much, Mother Nature holding on with her tenacious grip, triumphant once left in peace. It didn’t take me long to find the part of the woodland I was looking for, the hidden scorned earth from thirty-two years before. I was pleased with the sharpness of my memory, and that it stood me well, even though it was dark by the time I found it.