stopping only to say the Angelus together at six o’clock each evening.
We first-generation Irish had news for these ‘plastic Paddies’, some quite old news at that: romantic Ireland’s dead and gone.
I couldn’t help assuming that Marion had bought wholesale into her parents’ dream. Marrying her first proper boyfriend made me suspect she was trusting, idealistic, a little naïve – not the type to have an affair, or to let a stranger into her flat. So how then did Peter fit into all of this? Why would he kill her? Maybe he was having an affair and couldn’t bring himself to tell her. After all, most Irishmen will do anything to avoid a scene. Or she confronted him about it and he flipped. But surely he didn’t hack his own wife to death on the stairs with a knife, then go back to work? That didn’t stack up.
I was mentally listing the most compelling reasons why this crime had to be domestic when I leapt at the sound of my own name. The uniformed officer led me out of the waiting room, down a long corridor, through a pair of electronic security doors, along another corridor, then left into an interview suite. I sat there in airless isolation for what seemed like an age, a hothouse mushroom incubating on stale smoke and sweat. I couldn’t understand why I felt so nervous.
Two middle-aged detectives finally strolled in, coffee cups full, fags on, fresh smoke sweetening the fusty air.
‘I’m DS Barratt, this is Inspector McStay,’ said the taller one, letting his superior sit first.
I talked through everything that happened last night, throwing in my theories for good measure. When I wrapped up, they told me to write it all down in a statement, minus the theories. As I wrote, I repeated my assertion that Marion must have known her killer.
‘Thank you, PC,’ snapped McStay, emphasising my job title, ‘the Big Dogs are all over it now.’
I went on, ‘She clearly let her killer in. She knew him or her well enough to pick up her post.’
‘Who would be your prime suspect then, Lynch?’ asked Barratt, mildly amused.
‘I’d have to start with the husband, Peter. Was he playing away? Did she find out? Has he got a history of violence? It doesn’t usually come out of the blue, does it? I’ve read about a lot of other cases and it normally escalates from domestic abuse. Peter is where I’d start.’
‘Good theory,’ said Barratt, scanning my statement, ‘we’re bringing him in as we speak. He’s going to talk to the press, appeal for help to find her killer.’
He looked up at me: ‘Alongside Mr and Mrs O’Leary, Marion’s mum and dad.’
I tried not to look confused.
McStay seized the moment: ‘Peter is staying with Marion’s parents. Do you think they’d have him living in their own home if they thought for one second he could have been capable of killing their daughter?’
He got up, strode to the door and flung it open: ‘Better get back out there, son. Those bike thieves won’t catch themselves.’
As I made my way back out of Clapham police station, I recognised the rodent-like scurrying of her majesty’s press.
Amid the yapping throng surged my brother Fintan, now Deputy Crime Correspondent of the London-based Sunday News. If the Chief Crime Correspondent didn’t have a pension plan, he needed to get one, soon.
I followed the hordes into a large conference room, taking a seat near the exit. I wanted to see Peter explain himself. I wanted to see if his in-laws exhibited any kind of suspicion.
Within seconds, my identity had become a talking point among a group of photographers. Fintan joined their chat, clocked me and scuttled over, beaming.
‘I hear you found the body?’ he roared, confirming he’d no shame.
‘Jesus, would you not have some decorum, Fintan.’
‘Maybe we can help each other.’
‘I’m not talking to you.’
‘Come on, Donal.’
‘You know I can’t tell you anything.’
‘Fine. Fine. I wonder though, is a PC like you supposed to be nosing around a cordoned-off crime scene after the case has been taken over by a senior detective?’
A red warning light pinged on in my brain.
‘Well I am a police officer, Fintan. That’s pretty much what I do these days.’
‘Oh okay. It’s just … ah nothing, doesn’t matter.’
‘What?’
‘Well, you see that guy over there?’ he said, pointing to a large man cradling a cannon-sized Canon camera.
‘He’s a snapper, from the Standard.’
‘Bully for him.’
‘He said he took your photo earlier today, as you came out of the house on Sangora Road.’
My heart set off on a gallop.
‘And guess what? His editor likes it. Donal, you’re going to be on the front page of the Evening Standard. Imagine that! You on the front page? I’ll send a copy to Daddy. He’ll be made up.’
‘Oh Jesus,’ I sighed.
Fintan guffawed: ‘You, a lowly PC, sneaking around a live crime scene without DS Glenn’s permission? He’s a real hard ass, Donal. He’ll go apeshit.’
I’d already pissed off DS Glenn – the officer in charge of the case – during our first meeting last night.
‘They can’t just use my picture. I have rights.’
‘Afraid not, bro. It’s a public place. He can snap what he likes. Would you like me to have a word with him?’
‘Please,’ I sighed.
Of course I’d never know if any of this was true. Fintan spent his entire life finagling leverage.
He returned in less than a minute. ‘Sorted,’ he said, ‘you can relax. I told him you’re on an undercover job at the minute, and this photo could blow your cover. He’s on the phone to his picture editor now.’
He sat next to me. ‘You’ve got to be more careful, Donal. Seriously, someone like Glenn could have you consigned to uniform for life.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, wondering if that’s what happened to PC Clive Overtime.
‘Don’t mention it. You can buy me a nice pork salad for lunch.’
DS Glenn entered the room through a side door, followed by a bearded man in an ancient tweed jacket and a haunted, ashen Peter. Ten feet behind, clinging together, were a middle-aged couple who needed no introduction. Cameras whirred, clicked and sprayed like slo-mo machine guns.
‘Her people are from Kilkenny,’ said Fintan, shouting over the
