The man apologized to Dave and made his way out of the room, followed by a companion.
Another of the trio of mourners she’d seen as she’d left the cemetery. Donna was certain of it. She still didn’t recognize them.
Turner handed her the brandy and watched as she sipped, wincing as it burned its way down to her stomach.
‘Thanks, Dave,’ she said. He smiled down at her. ‘That guy you just bumped into. Did you recognize him?’
‘Should I?’ Turner wanted to know.
‘I can’t place him. I saw him at the cemetery, him and two other men. I knew all of Chris’s friends, or so I thought, but I can’t seem to put a name to those three.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Jackie told her, squeezing her hand again. ‘Drink your brandy.’ She smiled.
Donna took another sip, wincing again, then she got to her feet, looking around the room.
From one corner, hidden from her view, Martin Connelly watched intently.
‘Have you seen Julie anywhere?’ Donna wanted to know.
Jackie shook her head.
‘I’ll be back in a while,’ Donna said, excusing herself.
She made her way across the room, pausing to speak to Chris’s publisher, then to a couple of magazine editors he’d been friendly with. More condolences were offered.
How many different ways were there to say, ‘I’m sorry?’
She found more people in the hallway. They smiled politely at her as she passed, making her way upstairs, anxious to be away from everyone, wondering how long it would be before the guests started to leave. She paused on the landing for a moment and exhaled deeply. The top storey of the house seemed quieter, the atmosphere heavier. Donna crossed to her bedroom and entered.
Julie looked up in surprise as her sister entered.
Tears had stained her cheeks and her mascara had run, causing ugly black marks around her eyes. She wiped self-consciously at them as Donna entered, a worried expression on her face.
‘I’m sorry, Donna,’ Julie said, wiping her face. ‘I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want you to see me like this.’
Donna crossed to her and the two women embraced.
‘I wanted to be strong for
you
, to
help
you,’ Julie said, angry with herself. ‘That’s why I came up here.’ She sniffed and smiled. ‘I’m okay.’
‘Stay here for a while if you want to,’ Donna said.
‘It’s me who should be saying that to you,’ Julie told her, waving away the suggestion. ‘I told you, I’m okay now.’
‘You don’t have to feel sorry for missing him, too, Julie. A lot of people will,’ Donna told her.
The younger woman nodded slowly and stood up. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and shrugged.
‘Perhaps I’d better just touch up the worst bits first,’ she said, smiling thinly.
Donna smiled too and walked out of the room.
She stepped back in only seconds later.
‘Julie,’ she said, her voice low, her expression troubled, ‘did anyone else come up here with you? Follow you up here?’
‘Like who?’ Julie wanted to know.
‘You haven’t heard anyone come up here since you did?’ Donna persisted.
‘No,’ Julie replied, looking puzzled. ‘Why do you ask?’
Donna stepped back onto the landing, followed by her sister. The older woman was looking down the short corridor towards the door which was normally kept shut.
‘I think there’s someone in Chris’s office.’
Twenty-Nine
As the two women approached the door, Donna noticed it was indeed ajar. From inside there was very little sound; just the soft rustling of paper on paper. Occasionally there came the furtive squeaking of a drawer or filing cabinet. Then there was silence.
Donna pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The man turned slowly and looked directly at her.
He was tall, his hair short and dark, cropped close at the nape of his neck. He had a thin face which rested on a very thick neck. Instead of looking surprised by the discovery, he met Donna’s gaze with one of such intensity as to make
her
appear the intruder.
‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ she snapped, looking first at the man and then at the office.
He still had a piece of paper in his hand, taken from one of the open drawers in Chris’s desk.
‘Who gave you permission to break in here?’ Donna hissed angrily.
The man smiled.
‘I’d scarcely call it breaking in, Mrs Ward,’ he said, his lip curling contemptuously. ‘I realize that perhaps I should have asked your permission first, but you seemed otherwise engaged.’ He made a theatrical show of dropping the piece of paper back onto the desk.
‘Get out of here now,’ she said, her angry stare never leaving the man.
‘If you’d just let me explain,’ he began.
‘There’s nothing
to
explain,’ she told him. ‘Now get out of here before I call the police. How
dare
you do this?’
The man looked at Julie, then back at Donna.
‘I was looking for something which belonged to me,’ he said evenly. ‘Your husband and I had been working together. He’d borrowed some reference books from me.’
‘Working together?’ Donna said incredulously. ‘Chris always worked alone. He never mentioned you or anyone else that he was working with. What’s your name?’
‘Peter Farrell. Your husband must have mentioned me at some time,’ the man said, smoothing his short hair down with a large hand.
Donna shook her head.
‘Why were you going through his papers?’ she demanded.
‘I told you,’ Farrell insisted. ‘I was looking for the books I lent him. I didn’t want to trouble you. You seem to have enough to worry about.’
‘Thanks for the concern,’ Donna said, sarcastically. ‘So, instead of worrying me you thought you’d just come up here and break into my husband’s office?’
Farrell laughed and shook his head.
‘Don’t laugh at me, you bastard,’ Donna snapped. ‘If you’re not out of this room, if you’re not out of this
house
in one minute, I’m calling the police.’
Farrell shrugged and immediately headed for the door, holding Donna in that steely gaze for a second before passing by.
‘I’d like the books back, Mrs Ward,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you my phone number. If you find them, I’d appreciate a call.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out what looked like a business card. On the back he wrote a number and his name and then passed it to Donna.
‘What are the books called?’ she wanted to know.
‘They’re books about paintings. Catalogues. As I said, if you find them I’d appreciate a call.’ He walked briskly towards the staircase and descended. Donna watched him from the landing.
‘Do you know him?’ Julie asked.
Donna shook her head. She glanced down at the name and number written on the card.
PETER FARRELL
Books about paintings?
‘Jesus Christ,’ Donna murmured.
‘What is it?’ Julie asked, looking concerned.
Books about paintings.
What was the entry in Ward’s diary? JAMES WORSDALE: DUBLIN NATIONAL GALLERY.
Coincidence?
She looked over the bannister again and saw Farrell leaving, followed by two other men. The ones that had been at the funeral.
Donna walked across to the window on the landing and peered out, watching the three men as they clambered into a blue Sierra. Farrell sat in the passenger seat, glancing round once as the car pulled away.
A look of realization crossed Donna’s face and she spun round, hurrying to the bedroom where she pulled open the bedside cabinet.
The photos she’d taken from Chris’s office and Suzanne Regan’s flat were there; she spread them out on the bed.
‘I knew it,’ Donna said softly, her voice barely audible.
‘Look.’
She pointed to the photos of Chris and the five other men.
‘I
knew
it,’ she said again, more forcefully this time.
She recognised the dark cropped hair, the thin face and bull neck.
The image of Peter Farrell glared back at her from the photos.
Thirty
The last of the mourners left at just after six that evening and it was with something akin to relief that Donna graciously accepted the last words of comfort and bade the final farewells of the day. Those who had been friends of her husband told her to keep in touch, that they would ring her. The usual things people feel they have to say to widows. She wondered how many of them would keep their promises.
Martin Connelly was sitting in the kitchen when Donna walked in. He stopped chewing on a sandwich and smiled at her. She returned the gesture, wondering why the agent was still there.
Julie was pushing plates into the dishwasher.
Donna wondered briefly whether or not she should mention the incident with Farrell, then decided against it.
‘He had a lot of friends, Donna,’ said Connelly.
‘Did he, Martin?’ she said wearily.
Connelly looked puzzled.
‘There were lots of people at the funeral, but I’m not sure how many of them Chris would have counted as friends.’ She sighed. ‘He was popular but I don’t think he had any
real
friends. He couldn’t give a fuck about anyone.’
‘Come on, Donna,’ Connelly began.
‘I’m not being nasty,’ she explained. ‘I’m just telling you. People liked Chris but
he
rarely let anyone get close to
him
. People would ring him, write to him, but he hardly ever rang them back. You and a couple of others, that was it. He used to say, “If people want me bad enough
they’ll
call
me”.’
She smiled at the recollection. ‘He was a solitary man. He liked his own company.’
And the company of Suzanne Regan.
‘I think that’s why a lot of women found him attractive,’ she continued rather sadly. ‘He genuinely
didn’t
give a shit.’
Connelly dropped the remains of his sandwich onto the plate, wiped crumbs from his mouth and got to his feet.
‘I think you’re being too hard on him, Donna,’ he said.
She smiled.
‘That was one of the things I loved about him,’ she said.
Connelly kissed her gently on both cheeks.
‘I’d better go, unless there’s anything I can do.’
‘We’ll be fine now, Martin. Thanks, anyway.’
He headed for the door.
‘See you, Julie,’ he said, looking at the younger woman.
She didn’t turn to face him.
‘See you,’ she said and continued loading the dishwasher.
Donna walked with Connelly out to his waiting Porsche, watching as he fumbled in his jacket pocket for the keys.
‘You’re determined to go on this trip to Dublin still?’ he asked.