JP

Their house was like something from a magazine, one of those glossy ones Charlie was always wasting her money on. She’d point at celebrity homes with huge kitchen islands and indoor swimming pools and say: ‘JP, what do you reckon our chances are for a mortgage on that one?’

The McNamaras’ place must have cost a few mill’, at least. Palm trees dotted the top of the lawn, their leaves swishing against the house’s white walls. It had huge floor-to-ceiling windows, and the lighting was generously enhanced by the crystal chandeliers that hung in the centre of each room. A gravel drive, landscaped gardens. Imagine a house better suited to Los Angeles than Dublin – that was their home.

I found the glass offputting. It must have been like living in a goldfish bowl. Though I suppose they’d nobody looking in on them, up on top of that hill in Dalkey, with sea views to the front and a big golf course behind them. And it certainly helped my cause the night I went there, the night they were showing the Crimecall episode.

I stood in the garden among the trees by the boundary wall. I’d been there a couple of times to scout the place out. They’d electric gates but no security, so it was easy to get in. The tree’s branches gave me a little shelter from the downpour that had started earlier in the evening, but wet drops still found their way down the back of my jacket collar. My eyes kept flicking towards the garage at the far side of the house, imagining the car that had killed my sister behind its sliding door.

At 8.55 p.m. the wife walked into what I guessed was the sitting room, but they probably called it the television lounge. I was taken aback for a moment. She was petite, blonde curls tied up in a ponytail, pretty. From a distance, and with the rain making everything beyond the glass a little blurry, I could have been looking at Charlie. I’d brought a little pair of binoculars, not knowing if I’d be able to get a good vantage point to see them inside. I trained them on the sitting-room window to get a better look at the woman. She wasn’t much like Charlie at all, bar in superficial appearance. She was attractive – but older. Her mouth had a sorrowful downturn, dark circles ringed her eyes. She had probably been a stunner once. Now she just looked unhappy.

She turned down the ceiling light and flicked on the television with the remote. Then she sat on the couch across from it, her eyes trained on the screen, the lights from it playing across her face.

On the picture framed behind her, I saw the images reflected. Guards. A studio, a presenter.

She was watching Crimecall.

I watched as she got more and more upset, clasping her breast, then her hand across her mouth.

Why was it affecting her like that? I suppose I’d assumed that she’d been out of it in the car that night when her husband had driven into Charlie, but what if she hadn’t been? Did she know what had happened?

More importantly, where was her husband? Why wasn’t he watching?

I didn’t have to wait long for the answer to that. One of the double doors opened behind her and Harry McNamara came in to stand behind his wife. He wore a polo shirt, and his brown hair was slicked wet. Straight from the shower, by the look of it. He placed his hands on her shoulders – for a moment I thought he was going to strangle her, and my own breathing stopped. I was that jumpy.

She whipped her head around, then leapt from the couch to face him. He said something and she picked up an object – an ashtray. I watched, like somebody tuned into his own personal soap opera, as she flung the heavy ashtray at him and he ducked. When his head came up, his face went through the motions of shock, bewilderment, hurt, then anger, his features contorting until they showed fury.

My heart thumped faster as I stared through the binoculars, pressing them so hard against my eyes they would leave a mark there for hours. For the second time, I thought, He’s going to kill her.

And what would I do if he tried?

Would I let him – and make sure that the sentence he eventually got was for life? I didn’t know that much about the law in 2007, but even then I suspected that the punishment for a hit-and-run, especially after his expensive lawyers were done, would not be enough for the crime he’d committed.

He wife got angrier. McNamara sneered at her and snapped something back.

She threw her arms in the air then started to leg it to the door on her side of the room.

Her husband was too quick for her. He made it across the floor space between them in seconds and grabbed her, roared something and flung her to the couch.

I nearly covered my eyes. I didn’t know if I had it in me to watch any more. To look on as he attacked his wife, no matter how much I wanted him punished for what he’d done to my sister.

I didn’t have it in me.

Did I?