I was up twice last night, my head lurking by the window searching for any sign of the woman returning to the garden. It’s hard to sleep when the world is having a go at you.
The idea that Cian and Aaron could be in danger robs me of my ability to breathe properly. I gasp each time I think about it. They will never be left in that room on their own again. I don’t care what’s going on, someone will be in there with them. Until this woman is found, I won’t be taking any chances.
Last night my mind was filled with images of the playroom being empty when I walked in. The window open. The boys gone. And then images of Cian and Aaron lying motionless on the floor. Imagination is midnight’s curse.
Amber refused to go to bed until we did, so my questioning of Tom was brief. He told me he called to Claire McCarthy’s house that day hoping to find out the reason I had been shown a photograph of him with Kenny. He thought she might have been behind it. They argued, she denied it. Tom told her he wanted nothing more to do with them, they were ruining his life. They argued more. She said she never wanted Tom in their life in the first place. It wasn’t her idea for Kenny to find out who his father was.
When he left the house everyone was still alive. Tom finished off by telling me that was why the cops interviewed him at the station. He told them the same thing he was telling me. He said this like I was privileged he was sharing this information with me, which really pissed me off.
Thankfully, there’s hair. Which is where I’m heading now. Burke said not to change any of our usual routines, to leave the boys in the crèche as normal and let the staff there know they are not to allow anyone in to visit the boys. They’d never do that anyway. My mind attempts to set to normal mode while I continue down the city street with all its urban smells. The clicking of my heels on the cobbled pathway announces my arrival.
When I reach the salon door, I hand Elsie her breakfast. A wave of warmth washes over my body. Megan is waving at me through the window before I push on the handle.
‘Hi, Sal,’ she says when I enter, the scent of coconut dressing the air.
Megan’s face glows with a smile. ‘How’s things with you?’
How’s things with me? If only she knew.
‘Fine, all’s good and yourself?’
‘Grand.’
Unbuttoning my coat, I continue to walk through the salon to the staffroom at the rear of the building. Anna is inside when I open the door.
‘Hi, Anna, how are you?’
‘Okay,’ she says, immediately leaving the room and walking out to the salon floor. Have I done something wrong? If I have, I care less, I’ve no room in my head for paranoia today. I came here for a break from my problems not to embrace someone else’s.
Marie walks in just as Anna leaves. ‘What’s her problem?’ she says, without expecting an answer. ‘Did you have a nice weekend?’
‘Quiet.’
‘Me too, ate too much though.’ Pulling the belt on her wrap-around skirt, Marie complains about the size she’s getting. But I don’t indulge her. She’s about two sizes smaller than me with legs twice as long. I hate when skinny people talk like that.
‘Are you going to the hair show, Saturday night?’ she says, jogging my memory with a commitment I made to Megan two weeks previously, when I volunteered to look after the trainees at the event. Stop them from getting drunk too early and dragging the good name of the salon into disrepute.
‘I’m supposed to be, anyway.’ If my world hasn’t caved in by them. Not surprisingly, the idea of enjoying a night out with the staff doesn’t hold the usual excitement. There was a time I would prepare for weeks in advance. What will I wear? Who will do my make-up? What will I drink? Now I’m lucky if I get ten minutes to have a shower.
My first client is checking her new hairstyle in the mirror when my phone rings. The guy is ready to see me now. I tell Megan I have to leave, something important. Megan tells me to take my time; the shop is quiet today.
Crossing over the bridge I walk to the police station on Pearse Street where Burke has arranged for me to meet a sketch artist. I’m making better progress than the cars on the road that are stuck in a tailback for as far as I can see. The trucks aren’t helping. Their heavy loads making me nervous as I scurry past them as they try to manoeuvre around a tight corner. I reach the double doors of the station just as rain starts to fall. At least the clouds are on my side.
I check in at the counter and wait to be called. It doesn’t take long. Not long enough for me to check my phone.
A man who introduces himself as Martin Keegan takes me through a door. The corridor we walk down looks old and in need of a paint. I thought all these places were state of the art nowadays. I was wrong. This is a tip.
As if reading my mind, the guy, who’s about to draw my vision says, ‘Sorry, we’re stuck in the old part.’
He opens a door onto a small room. There’s a table, a few chairs, bare walls. Is this an interview room where baddies get questioned? I feel like a criminal.
‘Sally, we’ll run through what you saw, then I’ll make a few sketches.’
‘I’m not sure I can remember much. I remember the eyes but…’ We both sit down at the table.
‘Let me worry about that. You’ll be surprised what you remember when you try.’
Half an hour later I’m walking back to the salon with a sketch of the person I saw in the garden that night. Martin Keegan was right. He helped me focus on what I’d seen and I’m sure now it was a woman. Even though I only saw her image for a split second, it had been imprinted on my mind. The eyes, the hair, the bone structure. What surprised me most was the cross around her neck. The shape dangling at her bony throat was so clear and yet I hadn’t remembered it until now. I’m impressed. I’m also a bit nervous. If it’s the same woman that was looking in the window at the boys playing, I fear we’re in danger. Hopefully it’s not. I’ll know soon enough.
Back in the salon, I’m blow-drying fifty strands of dry grey hair trying to make it look like a thousand. Mrs Walsh really shouldn’t waste her money but she says she comes more for the experience than the hairdo. I get her. I know what she means. Her heavy blue coat hangs looser every time she leaves.
‘Thank you, see you next week,’ I say, wondering will I? Will next week be the week she doesn’t return. It’s coming soon.
I think about the young woman taken in her house that day. What could have happened, who wanted her dead. It’s looking like the cops are focusing on two people, my husband Tom who has admitted he was there and a second person. A woman, who has yet to be identified. But that’s just because the kid heard two arguments. It’s possible it was neither of them, that there was a third person. They still haven’t located the knife used to murder her. I’m hoping they do soon, take Tom out of the picture because I know he didn’t kill her. He might tell lies but seventeen years in his arms and he has never lifted one of them.
My phone rings. Dad. Why is he ringing?
‘Dad.’
‘Sally, how are you?’
‘I’m fine, is something up?’
‘No, just calling because I was a bit worried when I didn’t see Tom in the house at the party.’
‘Everything’s fine.’ Silence, always silence. Since Mom died, myself and Dad only communicate when we have to. I lived in the house with him for five more years but we never spoke outside the necessary. Sometimes I blame myself, I should have been nicer, more considerate. But I was young and at the back of my mind this niggling question festered that I didn’t want answered. Why a brain haemorrhage?
‘I have to go, Dad, there’s a client waiting.’
‘Okay, Sal, talk soon.’
We won’t. I probably won’t hear from him again for another six months.
I’m walking towards the reception area smiling at my next client when I remember the list. Dad wasn’t on the list, he just arrived at the party uninvited.