‘I must confess, Lucille, the powers of connivance at work here have surprised even me.’
‘What powers of connivance?’
‘Your mother’s or your grandfather’s perhaps.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You were correct, it seems. You told no one you were staying in Clonkeelin—’
‘No one.’
‘But you did. Your family. You are related to Amy and Edna Donavan?’
‘They’re my mother’s aunts. Why?’
‘Your grandfather’s sisters?’
‘Yes.’
‘He would benefit from their passing?’
‘Benefit from their passing?’
‘Since no one in Dublin knew of the Donavans, then no one from Dublin would have known where to locate your laptop. Logical?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Then it follows that someone in Clonkeelin took it. And since my own liberty now depends on the demise of your mother’s two aunts, I can only surmise that the communication I have just received can only have come from Clonkeelin. Such is my reading. Time is pressing. Anon.’
It was madness. I couldn’t take it in. Picasso was telling me that he was being forced to kill my two great-aunts and that my grandfather was the only one with motive.
I couldn’t even begin to understand it. And he was gone. I could do nothing to stop him. Even if I could have smashed my way through to the upstairs room, I would have been too late.