The Kinsellas could never determine who had sold what to which outlet, but in the months that followed the murder, photos from the party were splashed across the newspapers. Henry with his shirt unbuttoned too low, a smidge of cocaine burrowed in his left nostril, bottles of champagne littering the ground behind him. An actress from a beloved BBC period drama, a joint in hand, her nipples visible through her sheer dress. Two of Henry’s school friends doing a pretend jig while wearing green leprechaun hats, the sort of cheap thing you’d find in shops selling Paddywhackery to tourists at an indecent mark-up. Ireland had been at the beginning of a recession when Nessa Crowley was murdered. People were losing their jobs, they were worried about how they would pay their mortgages and feed their children, and the photos from the party touched a nerve, like an exposed wire. Didn’t the Brits realise that Ireland was a free country now? They couldn’t just come over here and treat the locals like indentured servants. And was it true Misty Hill received funding from the Arts Board? they wanted to know, becoming increasingly indignant. Despite denials, there were persistent rumours a high-ranking government official had been in attendance that night. Was this what their taxes were being used for? And now a young woman was dead, an innocent caught up in something she didn’t understand. Seduced, no doubt, by the glamour and the privilege. And the money. The Kinsellas had always had plenty of money. Maybe too much, the islanders whispered. The money had been the start of it all. The money paid for the parties, and the parties had brought the outsiders. It was only then the trouble came.
What is she doing here? Keelin had asked Henry when she saw Nessa arriving at the party, a bottle of wine in hand. I don’t know, her husband shrugged, bored already. Alex must have invited her. Her son, his face lighting up at the sight of the Crowley Girl, hugging her hello. Their heads close, talking in low voices, sharing their secrets. Keelin couldn’t help but think of his diary, what she had seen in its pages, and she felt queasy at the sight of them together.
There was only one photo of Nessa taken that night. She was in a filmy black dress, cut tight to her body, and Keelin was beside her. Nessa’s arm around her waist, both of them smiling at the camera. The girl had smelled of apple shampoo, crisp, fresh. Keelin would remember that smell for the rest of her life.
That same photo accompanied the articles about the Misty Hill case in the years that followed, printed and reprinted in every outlet in the country. The story was irresistible, it had it all: beauty, celebrity, wealth, sex. Then there was Nessa, with her big eyes and long legs, that perfect face – she would haunt the Irish people for the decade to follow. Who had killed the Crowley Girl? they asked. Who could have done such a thing to someone so young, so beautiful? When would there be justice?