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She had been hunting for a pair of low-heeled black shoes when, catching sight of herself in the full-length mirror in her bedroom, she had suddenly paused and sat down on her bed.  Almost
collapsed
onto the bed.  Her heart had started hammering, she had broken into a cold sweat, and suddenly found it hard to breath.  She felt shivery and frightened and confused all at once.  Dizzy, even. 
What th
e
hell?

She had remained sitting like that for some time, feeling a dreadful sense of impending doom in the b
ottomless pit that her stomach had suddenly become.  Eventually she had started to calm down and her brain had unfrozen, allowing her to think again, to rationalize what had happened.  No doubt it had just been a mild panic attack, a flashback perhaps to the horror of her own mother’s funeral.  Or perhaps going to a funeral simply made everyone more conscious of their own mortality, of the frailty and intransigence of all life.  She had been so unnerved by this funny turn that she had considered not going at all; it was so tempting to think of just staying in bed for the day.  But in the end she had simply stood up and finished dressing, and the mini-crisis had passed.  The ringing of her mobile had restored her fully to normality and she looked at the caller id before answering; Michael Riordan.  Again.  She considered not answering but then thought she had perhaps been rude enough to him lately, and put as much warmth as she could into saying, ‘Michael, hi.’

‘Hi, Kate, it’s Michael
.  Er, I just rang to say I’m sorry about being so ratty last night.  The government’s getting a real pounding about NAMA and I had a pretty bad day, but I still shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’

Kate had her own views on the public
disgrace hidden behind the acronym NAMA but had controlled herself; this really wasn’t the time to go into it.  Instead she had replied, ‘I guess I wasn’t exactly nice to you either.  I had a bad day too, and I guess I took it out on you as well.’

‘Well, I could have been more helpful,’ Riordan had replied in the light, whimsical t
one she had found so attractive when they first met, ‘since I actually
know
the guy’s name.  And really there’s no reason I shouldn’t give it to you.  It’s Jimmy Shiels, by the way.  It’s just that I got someone to pay him off last year and I thought I was finished with him for good.  But you’re trying to help Grainne, and if you need to speak to that scumbag; well, so be it.  I guess just the mention of him reminded me of her drug taking, and brought back those days in all their horror.  What Therese and I went through with her… Jesus!  I suppose I just didn’t want to be reminded of all that bad stuff.’  He sighed, ‘It reminded me of my wife’s death, too.  I thought I had put all that behind me but I guess I’m not as tough as I thought.’

Although preoccupied
with thoughts of the impending funeral Kate’s heart had softened and she had replied sympathetically, ‘It takes time to recover from the death of a loved one.  I know how hackneyed that sounds, but it’s become a cliché because it’s true.  And every now and then something crops up to remind us of them and the pain returns, as strong as when they first died.  Sometimes even stronger, because the finality of it all really hits home.’

‘I suppose so,’ he had replied,
not sounding convinced, ‘But I’ve been so busy lately I haven’t had time to think, and I guess I convinced myself that I was fully over it.  Anyway, enough about me.  I talked to Detective Sergeant Morrison, the Garda in charge of Grainne’s case, and he’s agreed to talk to you, and give you the rundown on any of Grainne’s associates you care to enquire about.  Well, I
say
Grainne’s case but in reality she’ll never stand trial for Therese’s death.  And if she ever did the charges would soon be dropped in view of her mental history.’

This was outside Kate’
s provenance, and didn’t interest her anyway, so she only said, ‘Well, thanks.  I imagine Morrison will be able to give me the address of this Shiels guy, but whether or not
Shiels
will talk to me I don’t know.  There’s no real reason why not, since I only want to know what drugs she was taking, but criminals tend to be pretty close-mouthed with anyone outside their own immediate circle.’

‘Well,
be careful if you do speak to him,’ Michael had warned her, ‘Most of these drug-pushers are junkies themselves, and there’s
nothing
these scumbags won’t do for that next fix.’

Kate thought
he was being a bit melodramatic and had replied, fairly coolly, ‘Thanks for the warning but I only want a brief chat with him; it’s not like I intend to arrest him or something.  Now, I don’t mean to be rude but I really have to go.’

‘Hang on a second,’ he had protested, ‘Listen, I’d like to see you tonight. 
Just for dinner or a few drinks; nothing heavy.’

She h
ad paused uncertainly caught in two minds; she had no real interest in a relationship but she
was
attracted to him, there was no denying
it. 
Perhaps partly because she thought him a fairly superficial person, one who would never ask too much of her emotionally.  Which, it seemed, was exactly what she needed, whether she liked that aspect of herself or not.  And the last few months
had
been pretty lonely.  Apart from her physical needs -which God knew were powerful enough- a bed can seem very empty when you’re used to having someone sharing it with you. 
Filling it,
a part of her mind amended,
and practically shoving you out onto the floor.
  But even to have someone to talk to, to have occasional dinner with, even just to ring her largely silent mobile now and then to say hi…she needed
someone
in her life.

‘I’m not sure,’ she had said at last,
confused and unsure, ‘Maybe.  Can I ring you back later?’

‘Of course.  And if not tonight, perhaps tomorrow or Sunday?’

‘Perhaps,’ she had agreed, as much to get away from him as anything; his persistence was as annoying as it was flattering.  ‘Talk to you later.’  After hanging up the phone she had felt better, more normal, and had abandoned any idea of not attending the funeral.

She was roused from her reverie by movement in the crowd; the service was over and the priest was turning away, with the mourners on the outskirts of the crowd taking their cue from him and starting to leave.  The immediate family, however, seemed reluctant to leave their mother and simply stood staring helplessly down into the wet, open earth.  Kate decided to slip away, to try and avoid having to talk to any of them.  It was bad form not to express her condolences but she didn’t know any of them well and would not be missed.  Besides, his sisters were notoriously protective of Peter and she wanted to avert a possible confrontation about their break-up.  They would probably be too grief-stricken to worry about her dumping their little brother but she knew only too well that grief could affect people in the strangest ways, and cause them to vent their feelings on the nearest person for any or no reason.

If h
er real motive for slipping away was to avoid Peter then it backfired, for as she started to walk away down the muddy, rain-sodden gravel path he called out her name and jogged slowly around to her.  She stopped, hoping he just wanted to say hello; surely
h
e
wouldn’t cause a scene?  She instantly dismissed the idea as ridiculous and gave him a sympathetic, heartfelt smile.

He stopped a few feet away from her, clad in a dark
pinstriped suit and a long olive raincoat, looking –wildly inappropriate though it was to think such a thing at such a time- incredibly handsome as well as forlorn.  ‘Hi, Kate,’ he said at last, ‘Thanks for coming.  How did you know?’

‘Trevor told me.’

He nodded, ‘That figures.  He always thinks he knows best and just can’t help interfering in other people’s lives.  Goes with the job, I suppose.’  He shrugged, ‘You hardly knew my mother so I didn’t think you’d mind not being invited.  And my sisters are pretty emotional at the best of times, and I wanted to avoid any unpleasantness.’

He held out his hand and, in surprise and no little confusion, she shook it.  All in all, a polite but cool handshake was possibly the last thing she had expected from him.
  Especially as she was fighting an urge to throw her arms around him protectively and never let him go; he looked so young and
lost
.

‘Thanks again for coming.  I
know you weren’t close to Mam but it means a lot to me that you came.’ And with that he was gone, simply turning and walking back through the rain to his family, who still would not abandon their mother to the earth.

Kate left the graveyard feeling no end of a fool.  She
didn’t think she was an egomaniac but whatever she had expected it was not this complete lack of interest from Peter and his family.  She got into her car and drove back to the Southside with a pang in her heart and a strange sense of loss haunting her.  Wild thoughts tried to intrude but she firmly pushed them aside; she could worry about it later.  She had hardly arrived home, and was indeed just hanging up her coat, when there was a ring on the doorbell.  Her unknown caller from Wednesday instantly sprang to her mind, and she cautiously looked through the glass panel at the top of the door.  Outside stood a man and a woman, but not a couple.  Kate could tell this straight away by the stiff way they were standing, and the gap they maintained between their bodies.  She also knew, from their neat but well-worn suits, blank faces and motionless, patient carriage, that they were there on business.  And she realized too, that to arrive so promptly behind her they must have been sitting nearby in a car, waiting and watching for her return.

S
he put the safety chain on the door before opening it and saying, in the guarded tone she reserved for Mormons and salesmen, ‘Yes, can I help you?’

‘Miss Kate Bennett?’ the man intoned in
a strong West of Ireland accent.

‘Yes?’

The stranger held up a warrant card and id in a black leather wallet and said, ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Morrison of Dublin Metropolitan C.I.D. and this is Detective Garda Haughey.  We need to ask you a few questions regarding a crime we’re investigating.  May we come in?’

Kate’s face cleared and she took the chain off the door and stood aside, ‘Oh yes, of course, I’ve been expecting you.  Please step inside.’

Morrison’s face remained professionally blank as he entered the little hall, but his eyes were bright with curiosity as he said, ‘You were expecting us?’

Kate led the way into the
sitting room, ‘Please sit down.  Yes, Michael told me you would be calling to talk to me, though I have to admit I expected you to phone rather than call round.’

The two Garda
sat down on the sofa and Morrison said neutrally, ‘Michael?’

A little irked by this parroting of everything she said, and his dull, questio
ning tone, Kate dropped into an armchair before replying sharply, ‘Yes, Michael Riordan.’

‘Michael Riordan, the government Minister?’

‘Yes, Michael Riordan the government Minster!’ she intoned ironically, ‘Are we talking at cross-purposes here?  He said that you would be in touch with information concerning the past drug-related activities of his daughter Grainne.’

Morrison blinked and shook his head in confusion, ‘I’m dealing with the Riordan case, yes, -or rather I
was
, since it’s been shelved for the time being- but I’m here today on quite another matter.  And I haven’t spoken to Mr. Riordan in some weeks.’

Kate felt a stab of fear and, c
ollapsing into an armchair, shot the female detective a horrified look; Women’s Lib or not, she well knew the main function of women in the Irish police at least.  And she gasped rather than said, ‘
What
other matter?  Has one of my family been hurt?’

‘No, no,’ Morrison quickly reassured her, ‘It’s nothing like that.  We simply came across your name in connection
with another case and came here to ask you a few questions.  What is your connection with Michael Riordan?’

To her intense embarrassment Kate felt herself blushing, and to cover her confusion she said in a stony voice, ‘I’m a consultant therapist to his daughter.  I asked for his help in
getting the name of Grainne’s old boyfriend, to find out what drugs she had been on, and he said he had spoken to you and arranged for you to pass on any necessary information.  At least I thought he did.  Perhaps I got the name wrong.  Or maybe he only said he
would
speak to you.’

She almost added,
Or maybe
it
was
a
different Morrison,
but restrained herself, aware that she was babbling like a fool.  What was it about policemen that made you want to talk and talk and talk?  Their professional silence?  The expectant, inquiring look on their faces?  Whatever it was, Kate shut her mouth with a snap, determined not to speak another extraneous word.

Morrison was looking at her thoughtfully, a mildly curious expression on his face.  He was a big, bl
ocky man with a red face and a mass of thick brown hair, who looked more like a farmer than a detective.  He had the remains of a truly awful acne problem still showing on his meaty face and at first sight could have been dismissed as a clod, a typical thick culchie copper. But his grey eyes, though small, were bright and very alert, very
aware,
and looking at them Kate got an impression of sharpness.  And it might just have been a carefully cultivated act but she got the impression that it would be difficult to fool him, and dangerous to try.