‘He won’t let me see my mother.’
‘What?’
‘Sean. He won’t let …’
June McGuinness let the rest of the sentence trail off.
‘Sorry, what was I saying, dear?’
Louise Reynolds frowned, knowing what she’d heard but unable to repeat it. She continued to brush the older woman’s hair, gentle strokes with an old-fashioned soft-bristle brush.
‘Never mind that,’ she said, lifting June’s chin so she could see herself in the mirror. ‘Now, look how beautiful you are. We’ll go down and show the boys, shall we?’
June’s eyes lit up as she beheld her neat bob. She reached out for the make-up bag on the dressing table.
‘Not without some lippie, dear.’
They found Tom and Sean in the conservatory at the back of the house, conversing in hushed tones.
‘Well, what do you think?’
June did a little twirl for her audience, patting her grey do and smiling.
Her husband of almost half a century smiled back, the strain barely evident.
‘You look really elegant, love,’ he exclaimed, his thick Kerry accent full of forced jollity for his wife’s benefit. ‘Now, a drink. What’s it to be, lads and lassies? Tea or coffee?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Sean. It’s a beautiful summer’s afternoon. Why don’t we crack open the white wine? I’ll get the glasses.’
June glided off in the direction of the kitchen, a petite ticking time bomb, followed by her six-foot strapping husband, quivering with nerves in her wake.
Louise joined Tom on the rattan two-seater, resting her head on his shoulder. The heat-regulating glass panes were working extra hard to keep the room bearable in the hot midday sun.
Tom took his wife’s hand.
‘Tough going?’ he asked, concerned.
Louise pursed her lips.
‘Horrible,’ she replied. ‘It seems to come in waves. One minute she’s completely lucid, the next she’s telling me Sean won’t let her see her mother. Didn’t her mother die thirty years ago? I don’t know how he’s coping.’
Tom sighed.
Sean McGuinness, up until very recently, had been the Chief Superintendent of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Tom Reynolds headed up the murder investigation unit, a Dublin-based specialist team under the NBCI’s remit, and Sean had been the detective inspector’s boss. They were also longtime friends.
Which had made it all the harder when the previous year June had been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s.
Her condition had deteriorated more rapidly than expected and the chief, a man who lived for his work but loved his wife more, had taken early retirement to care for her. Not for one second had he considered placing her in a home. He was sixty, after all; it was time to go. It didn’t matter that the entire force had expected Sean to be carried out of his office in a box long after he should have headed for the hills, such was his dedication to the job.
Louise cupped her husband’s face in her hands, noticing the worried look in his usually smiling green eyes. He’d cut his hair tight this summer because the longer it grew the greyer it looked. She thought the short style suited him better – she didn’t even mind that he appeared to be sneakily growing a long-wished-for beard. He looked very handsome, in fact.
‘He seems to be just getting on with it,’ Tom said, quietly. ‘It’s his new norm. Having to repeat everything, remind her of things, expect the unexpected.’
‘Sorry that took so long.’ June led the way back into the conservatory, carrying a wooden board laden with mixed cheeses, chutney, fruit and crackers. ‘He hid the wine glasses.’
Sean followed, bearing the tray of glasses and a bottle of Riesling, his expression resigned.
‘I didn’t hide them,’ he corrected her, resting his load on the table.
‘Oh, your begonia is stunning.’ Louise diverted June’s attention.
‘Yes, the whole garden is beautiful this year,’ the older woman replied. ‘Actually, would you like to see what I found buried down the end the other day?’
Louise tried to look enthusiastic. She followed June out through the double doors and the two women made their way down a winding stone path towards the trees and wilderness at the bottom of the garden.
The conservatory was awash with scents from outside, the sweet fragrance of gardenia and dianthus and freshly mown grass filling the air. Tom watched the women as they strolled, wine glasses in hand. The scene was so peaceful and relaxed he could almost imagine it was just a normal, lazy Saturday afternoon, like they used to have.
‘So, how are you getting on with Joe Kennedy?’ Sean asked, breaking the spell. He needed a distraction from the daily struggle with June’s illness.
Tom sighed.
‘Chief Superintendent Joe Kennedy, to give him his full title,’ Sean continued with a smile. ‘Which he makes me use, as it happens.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘He doesn’t want people to get confused or imagine I’m still the boss.’
Tom cursed under his breath. In his humble opinion, the new chief wasn’t fit to lick McGuinness’ boots. He knew Sean felt the same. The inspector also knew that if he got stuck into Joe Kennedy, Sean would reprimand him and remind him he must show his new boss the respect his title deserved.
This was his old boss’s way of chiding him for not taking on the role himself.
It had been offered. The assistant commissioner, Bronwyn Maher, had summoned Tom that spring just after Sean had dropped the bombshell about leaving, and told him the job was his for the taking.
‘People in high places hold you in strong regard,’ she had said.
‘Forcing your hand, are they?’ Tom had quipped.
She’d smiled.
‘Not at all. I’m your biggest advocate. How on earth do you know the new Taoiseach, anyway?’
‘Jarlath O’Keefe? Oh, we go way back. Well, back to that case in Leinster House last autumn anyhow.’
‘Ah. You were the making of him, so. He’s pushed hard for you, Tom. He’ll be giving you my job next. Can’t say I’d mind. Look, I’d be happy to have you in as head of the Bureau. But only if you’re willing to put your heart and soul into the job. You can’t half do this role.’
And that had been the problem. The inspector didn’t want the added responsibility and pressure that being Chief of the National Bureau would bring. He liked his job and it was already demanding enough. And when he’d turned fifty the previous year, he’d begun to realise that he wanted to spend more time with his family, not less.
So he’d resisted the promotion and Joe Kennedy was appointed.
Kennedy was a master of spin. He’d cultivated a persona that was at once serious, intelligent and comforting. He wore period-rimmed spectacles and an expression of constant concern for the safety of the Irish public. He came into his own at press conferences, when reassuring rhetoric dripped from his lips like honey.
He was a complete remove from the man sitting across from Tom now, with his frenzied bushy black eyebrows and shock of grey hair, the wine glass looking dainty in a hand so large it could pull up a small tree by the root. McGuinness was brusque and intimidating, but he ran deep, as the saying went.
The decision to replace Sean with Joe Kennedy was so clichéd it made Tom nauseous.
‘It’s all quiet on the western front,’ he said, keeping his thoughts on his new boss to himself. ‘This weather’s too hot to be off killing people.’
‘I wouldn’t go planning any holidays, Tom. You might be on hiatus now, but this heat … it gets people feverish. A man can go from being mildly irritated at his wife nagging him to do the garden or stoke the barbecue, straight to feeling murderous.’
‘We’ve already been away,’ said the inspector, thinking wistfully of the trip they’d taken to Cuba in May. It had been hotter there, but they’d been better prepared for it. Not like in Ireland, where people reacted with joyous wonderment to the first proper sunny day, but after two weeks of heat couldn’t understand how on earth anybody was supposed to live in such a climate, let alone work. ‘But you’re right. It’s too quiet. I think if Louise suggests one more time I paint our shed, I’ll bury her under it.’
‘What are they up to down there?’ Sean asked distractedly, perching on the edge of his chair to peer down the garden. Barely five minutes had passed and already he was uneasy about his wife.
Louise and June were kneeling beneath a late blooming Judas tree.
‘We’ll join them, shall we?’ Tom suggested, curious himself.
As the two men approached, they could hear June chattering excitedly. Louise leaned back on her heels and turned to face them, her face pale.
‘Oh, June,’ Sean said in dismay. ‘Look at your lovely hands. They’re all mucky. Come up to the house and we’ll wash them.’
‘I was just showing Louise the treasure,’ his wife protested.
Sean helped June up and guided her back to the conservatory, ignoring the items spread out on the grass beside the disturbed soil.
Tom raised a puzzled eyebrow.
‘She’s been burying cutlery,’ Louise said, gathering up the knives and forks.
Tom opened and closed his mouth, lost for words.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, jolting him back to reality.
‘D. I. Reynolds,’ he answered, without checking the number on his screen.
‘Tom? It’s me, Laura. Sorry, I know you’re off today, but a body has been found up in Glendalough. Myself and Ray are en route, but the buzz in headquarters is that it might be that girl who went missing last week in Meath. Early reports indicate it’s a young female.’
‘They’re sure it’s not suicide?’ the inspector asked, thinking of the lakes at the scenic mountain spot.
‘They’re adamant it’s not.’
‘Ask Willie Callaghan to collect me, will you, Laura? Tell him I’m at Sean McGuinness’ house. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, helping Louise to a standing position. ‘Willie will pick me up, so you can take the car home at least.’
‘Can’t be helped. I’ll stay with them for a while. Get a wash on for Sean and tidy a bit.’
‘You’re an angel.’ Tom kissed her cheek tenderly.
Sean had been right about the peace not lasting.
But just how badly was it about to be shattered?