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‘So that’s why no one rang to warn you.  And no
reporters rang to question you either. I’m afraid they’re going to hound you till you speak to them because like it or not I’m a public figure.  Though right now I wish I wasn’t.  Listen, you’ll have to make some sort of comment or they’ll never leave you alone.  Do you want my Press Officer to prepare a release in your name?’

Completely numb by now Kate said blankly, ‘I think I’d better read the article first.  See what it says.’

There was a long silence and then he said, ‘You’re going to hate it, trust me.  But please don’t hold it against me, even though it’s my political profile that made them print it.  And, well, I once had a bit of a fling with the editor of the
News,
and she took it pretty badly when I finished with her.  Ever since then she’s passed up no opportunity to make me look bad.’

‘Look, I have to go,’ she said in near desp
eration, wondering how bad the article could be like to unman him like this, ‘I’ll talk to you later!’

She put the ph
one down and walked straight out of the flat, not bothering to lock up or even to grab a coat.  She walked down to the corner shop with her purse in her hand, sick with dread, and picked up a copy of the paper from the rack outside.  Looking at it she went deathly pale as her feeling of dread became a desire to vomit; the entire front page was a photo of her leaving Michael’s apartment block, her coat open and her ripped blouse very much in evidence.  Her lacy white bra was clearly visible too.  And in the background above her head, clearly outlined in the well-lit window, stood Michael, staring down after her.  The headline was even worse, reading; “Minster’s rough TRADE?  Girlfriend or INDUSTRY?”

In a
daze Kate paid for her copy and hurried for home, trying to read the article as she walked and trying
not
to think that every passerby was staring at her.  But the words kept blurring and swimming in front of her eyes as the thought screamed in her mind,
I’m on the front page of the fucking newspaper! And a rag like the
News, at
that!  In an article that’s making me out to be some kind of whore!  Oh fuc
k,
what will Peter think when he sees
THAT?

She finally reached her flat and hurried inside, feeling as
if she were living in a waking nightmare, where nothing was quite real.  As she entered the phone was ringing and out of habit she picked it up.  It was a reporter from the Irish
Mirror
, asking her to comment on the story, and on her relationship with the Minister.  She shook her head in dull wonderment; how the hell had he found out her name and phone number?  Had he also discovered her address?  Was she going to be hounded in her own home?  In shock, she put the phone back down without answering and went on into the kitchen, her eyes feverishly scanning the black type.  Inside there was a smaller photo of herself and Michael leaving the restaurant earlier that evening, though mercifully there was no mention of her name or occupation, or the fact that she taught at Trinity.  In fact the whole slant of the article seemed designed to indicate that she was some sort of whore, though that was probably only so the writer could make his little puns about “Trade” and “Industry”. 
Very
fucking
clever
.  Which thought in turn made her briefly wonder just how much longer she would be working at the college; perhaps it was just as well she didn’t much care about her job there.

She read on, though really there was no substance to the story, just the bare fact of a mystery woman being seen running out of the apartment block in tears, with her blouse torn.  Though it seemed her identity hadn’t remained a mystery for long; wait till the
News
got
that
little titbit.  She wondered briefly who could have identified her to the
Mirror
but then abandoned her speculation as pointless; any one of a hundred people could have seen the article and rung up to tell them her name.  Fighting to restrain tears of humiliation and anger she returned to the paper but the remainder of the article consisted mostly of speculation as to how her blouse had gotten torn, and whether or not Michael Riordan had assaulted her.  And, of course, whether she was his lover or a more casual pick-up.

Kate threw the paper away
from her as though it were a venomous snake and closed her burning eyes, tears of anger and mortification spilling over and running down her cheeks;
what would Peter say when he saw this? 
Not that anything she did was his business anymore, but still. 
Jesus, what a fucking mess.

Over the next couple of hours the phone hardly stopped ringing at all, with friends, family and e
ven students ringing her up to ask if the article was about her.  In fact, Peter was about the only person who
didn’t
ring.  Certainly a or so dozen reporters rang, both on her home phone and her mobile, though she couldn’t imagine how they all got her number so quickly.  After phoning Michael and rather shortly -and tensely- clearing it with him, she told one and all that her only connection with the Minster was that she was helping to treat his daughter, and had met with him once or twice to discuss background information on Grainne’s case.  And that was all; there was nothing personal between them.  The previous evening she had snagged her clothes on the door handle as she left the building, tearing her blouse and hurting her shoulder, which accounted for the tears, but there was of course no truth to the rumour that she had been attacked, by Riordan or by anyone else.

Most of the callers seemed to be
satisfied with this explanation, -or pretended to be- and one or two of the more decent types among the reporters promised to print that in their papers the next day, though whether or not they could be believed only time would tell; good news, after all, makes poor copy for the scandal sheets.

As the day wore on the fuss eventually started to die down and Kate began to slowly recover from the shock.  And as she did what she felt in its place was red, blinding fury. 
How dared they?  The evil, insufferable bastards! 
How dare they sneer and snigger at her and her private life, and make their dirty little insinuations?  As if anything she did was any of their business!  Everything about the affair made her furious, but it was impotent anger, as she was only too aware that there was nothing she could do about the article.  They hadn’t actually told any lies, they had merely made her appear sleazy and sordid through cheap innuendo, a fact which would not impress a judge in a libel case.  So all she could do was grit her teeth and bear
it,
and wait for it all to blow over.  As it very quickly would once the explanation she had given to the other reporters came out.  She hoped.  But even so that didn’t mean she had to like it.  And the only reason she wasn’t currently filled with hatred towards a certain Michael Riordan was that the paper made him look even worse than her, suggesting that he beat his girlfriends.  Or worse, hired prostitutes and then beat
them.

After hours of futile pacing and fuming, to say nothing of swearing, she finally reached the point where she simply couldn’t think about it all any mor
e without going insane.  So she forced her mind to think of other things, which was when Meagher and the murder of Jimmy Shiels came back to her mind, making her decide to ring the detective who had visited her, Morrison.  For one thing it was her civic duty to tell him what Madelyn had told her, and her own theory on who killed Jimmy, and if nothing else it would take her mind off her new position of Ireland’s premier slut.  She dialled in the mobile number the detective had given her, and he answered practically on the first ring.

‘Morrison.’

‘Sergeant Morrison?  Kate Bennett here.’  She took a deep breath, ‘I’m sorry to ring you on a Sunday but I’ve learned a few things about my burglary, and about Jimmy Shiels, and I thought I should fill you in about them.’

His voice was as non
committal as ever as he said, ‘Go on.’

So she told him everything Madelyn had told her, and also her theory that Meagher had set up the robbery to find out just what she had learned about him.  She had to admi
t that it sounded even more far fetched in the cold morning light than it had the evening before over a bottle of wine but she plugged on relentlessly.  After she had finished Morrison was silent for so long that she eventually said, rather timidly, ‘Sergeant?’

‘Mmm?’

Kate began feeling defensive and snapped, ‘I suppose you think I’m talking tripe?  That it’s all just nonsense?’

‘Well, you have to admit it’s all a little over the top,’ he said at last, emerging from his reverie, ‘though I’ve heard stranger stories.  But most murders are simple affairs,
committed for simple reasons.  Hatred or revenge, sex or money.  Or a combination of these things.  I
like
your theory, Miss Bennett, but I like it the way I like crossword puzzles, or old repeats of Morse on the telly.  I
don’t
like it as a reason for a real-life murder.  I remember the killings of those three girls, though I didn’t work on the cases, of course; I was only a rookie beat cop back then.  But I remember enough to know that there was no case against Meagher then, and certainly wouldn’t be now.’

‘Come off it, Morrison!’ said Kate heatedly, ‘Police work has changed since then!  Genetic finger-printing, for example.  DNA from stored blood or sperm could convict Meagher nowadays and you know it!’

Morrison sighed, ‘Call me Sean.  And I’ll call you Kate, if you don’t mind.  I know you worked with the police in England, Kate, so tell me this; do you really think we kept evidence from an eighteen-year-old murder case which we considered
solved? 
That case was closed, and even if the physical evidence was kept it certainly wouldn’t have been stored in such a way as to be uncorrupted and still viable for DNA comparison.  Like I told you before; our resources are limited, and we didn’t always freeze blood and sperm samples even from
unsolved
murders back then, much less from cases we’d closed.  Not with other, more pressing demands on our facilities.’

Kate was silent for a moment, then said quietly, ‘Would Meagher know that?’

Morrison sighed again, ‘No, perhaps not.  So he might have panicked when you started digging around again.  But I don’t like the
feel
of it.  The witness that convicted Fearney isn’t about to change his testimony after all this time and have an innocent man’s death on his conscience.  Nor will Meagher’s original alibi, Wilson, change his story at this stage even if he wasn’t involved himself.  There’s a Garda cold-case team in operation now, but we closed the file on that murder so he can’t be afraid of them digging into his past. 
If
he actually is guilty, that is.  The evidence against him is even thinner than it was against Fearney, and you don’t believe
he
was guilty.’

‘I know,’ said Kate in a subdued voice, ‘And everything you’ve said is true.  But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?  You don’t
want
to prove Fearney innocent.  You don’t want the Gardai who put him away to have his death on
their
heads, do you?’

‘That remark,’ said Morrison quietly, ‘is one of the most insulting ever aimed at me.  And you of all people should know how often policemen are abused and reviled.  If Meagher killed Jimmy Shiels I’ll get him for it, believe
me, no matter what the trial reveals or where it leads.  And if it transpires that Fearney was innocent I’ll see his name cleared too, no matter what.  You can count on that.  But I can’t open a closed,
solved
murder investigation on my own authority, and the DPP won’t listen without solid evidence.  And your theory is far from being evidence.’

‘I’m sorry, Sean,’ said Kate instantly, and with unaccust
omed humility, ‘I really am.  I shouldn’t have said that, and I don’t doubt your integrity.  Honestly.  I’ve just had a really shitty day and I’m feeling pretty cynical about the whole human race right now.’

He sighed and his normal no
ncommittal tone returned, ‘We all have days like that, and policemen more than most, so no harm done.  And if nothing else you’ve given my investigation into Shiels’ death a direction, because I haven’t turned up anything on my own.  No witnesses, no evidence, no motive,
nothing. 
As far as Dublin’s criminal element is concerned an alien must have topped Jimmy Shiels, because none of
them
did.  So I will have a look at Meagher, though I really doubt that he’s involved.’

‘Will you let me know what you discover?’ asked Kate hopefully.

‘Of course I will!’ said Morrison cheerfully, ‘As soon as the trial’s over and the killer’s in jail I’ll tell you everything you want to know!’

Kate made an angry noise down the phone and he laughed and said, ‘I’ll tell
you what, if I discover that Meagher definitely had nothing to do with it I’ll let you know.  Fair enough?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Kate in resignation; she knew enough about coppers not to have really expected him to tell her anything about an ongoing investigation anyway.