though he were a relative. Someone else brought him a cup of tea, though probably with something stronger added.
Costello appeared from his office. 'Devlin!' he called, then went back inside. I followed him in, taking a seat in front of his desk.
'What the fuck happened?' he began.
'I don't know, sir. I've only just arrived.'
'I'll tell you what happened. Somehow, someone didn't search the fucker properly when he came in. Looks like he took a dose of his own medicine.' He calmed a little. 'Jesus Christ, he's twisted so bad they might have to break his legs to fit him in the box.' He blessed himself, kissed his thumb and motioned heavenward.
Mulrooney knocked on the door, then came on in. 'Ben,' he said, nodding. 'Happy Christmas.'
'You get all the good ones, eh Doc?' Costello said, and Mulrooney grimaced in acknowledgement.
'Goes with the territory. Fairly simple, folks. Looks like he took some of those tablets beside him, if what you said about the Cashell girl is true.' He had obviously been informed of the cocktail she had taken. 'Dead less than an hour, I'd say.'
'Is that it? Clean-cut and simple?' Costello asked, with more than a little hope in his voice.
Mulrooney grimaced again. 'I'm not entirely sure. There's bruising on his face from his arrest, I'm told. One of his fingers is also badly bruised, possibly broken. Could have been when he was lifted. Looks like someone hit him a fair smack in the face,' he said, glancing slightly towards me. 'Badly bruised. I hope he deserved it, but it might complicate things.'
Costello's face blanched. 'You're sure?' he managed.
'Fairly much. If you need me for anything else, leave it until Boxing Day.' He smiled ruefully as he waved goodbye and left.
Costello moved to behind his desk and dropped heavily into his chair, grunting as he did so. 'What happened, Benedict?' he said in a tone both friendly and weary. But I said nothing.
He looked at me for a moment, waiting. I wanted to come clean and tell him all that had happened, but I could not speak.
'What happened, Inspector?' he asked again, the change in mood evident.
'I'm not sure, sir. Everything was fine when I left. He was lying sleeping, I think.'
'You think!' he said. 'What about this bruising to his face?'
'Picked up during his arrest, sir?' I offered.
'A punch in the face?' he snapped, loud enough, I imagined, for those outside his office door to stop and pretend they weren't listening to our conversation.
'Go home, Inspector,' he hissed. 'And get your story straight. Because in the morning I'll have to announce an internal enquiry to the press, the McKelvey family and every shit-head who's looking to run down this force. Someone's going to take a fall, Inspector – and it won't be me.'
I left his office in silence, absorbing, but not fully comprehending, all that he had said. Those outside were no longer even pretending not to have heard. I saw Williams with her son, who was wrapped in a blanket, lying asleep across three chairs in the waiting area. Williams was standing with her hand on Holmes' shoulder, and he sat, head bowed, staring at the floor. She must have spoken to me for he looked up at me, then he shrugged off her hand and came over.
'What happened, Jason?' I asked.
'I don't know sir. He… he kept goading me. Acting like he was off his head. I might have smacked him about a bit. Nothing serious, though. Nothing to do… this,' he said, gesturing slightly towards the floodlit cell with his head.
'Nothing serious! He's fucking dead, Jason,' I hissed, trying desperately to keep the conversation between us.
'Well, I'm not the only one who smacked him about a bit, sir, am I?' With that he looked towards Williams, who held my gaze awkwardly for a second and then looked away.
'Don't worry,' he said. 'We'll say nothing. Your secret is safe with us.' He placed his hand on my shoulder, as Williams had done to him, and kneaded the muscle slightly. I looked at him, my mind buzzing with thoughts, my jaw muscles seemingly beyond my control.
I stood outside, under the wash of the streetlamps, as the first light of a Christmas dawn turned pink the edges of the mountains behind the town and the rain began to ease. It felt fresh on my face after the heat of the station and my inclination was to walk down along the river, down to where Angela's body had been discarded one week earlier, but I realized that it was dawn and the children would soon be up for their presents.
As I drove into the driveway, I noticed our living-room light on, and realised that I had missed my son's first Christmas morning and Penny's face when she opened her presents.
I ran into the house, hardly bothering to shut the door behind me. Debbie was standing in the living room, Penny peering down from the top of the stairs.
'What's happening?' I asked.
'I told the kids I had to check first if Santa had been. Now he's been, we can bring them down.' Her face revealed her disappointment. I tried to say thank you but only managed to mumble incoherently. 'We'll get the kids settled with their toys, then we'll talk,' she said. 'This is their day – don't spoil it for them.'
And so, for an hour, my self-absorption left me and I played with my children and my wife, and recalled again all the Christmases of my own childhood and longed for that magic again.
Then, over breakfast, while the kids played, I told Debbie everything: the arrest and the bite and my attack on McKelvey, nearly punching Williams, the incident with Miriam in the car, McKelvey's death, and Costello sending me home. As I spoke I felt the familiar catharsis of confession and began to feel a little better – though aware that reconciliation requires penance and reparation as well as simple admission of guilt.
Debbie listened without talking. She drew back from the table while I spoke of my encounter with Miriam Powell, but not when I told her of my attack on McKelvey, even when I revealed the visceral thrill I had felt. When I finished she stared at her hands for a few seconds, then got up and went over to switch on the kettle.
'I'll make more tea,' she said, as I swivelled in my seat to watch her moving around the kitchen.
'What do you think?' I asked, needing some response, but at the same time afraid that she would answer.
'You're a stupid bastard, that's for sure. I can't believe you kissed Miriam Powell. Anyone but that… slut!' She lifted the teapot, then put it down and turned to face me, leaning against the cooker. 'Did you not see it coming? Are you blind? Is this a man thing? I mean, for Christ's sake, Ben, could the signals have been any clearer?'
'I'm sorry, Debs,' I said, resisting the urge to excuse myself by pointing out that Miriam had started it.
'I know you are, Ben. But that doesn't necessarily make it alright.'
'I know.'
'God, I'm so angry with you. Miriam bloody Powell. I'm warning you, Ben – keep that woman away from me or you'll be investigating another murder, I swear.'
I said no more, and eventually she sat beside me again and refilled our cups with hot tea.
'You'll have to speak to Costello. Tell him the truth.' It took me a second to realize that we were not still talking about Miriam Powell. Debbie continued, 'Maybe you shouldn't have kicked him, but you're only human – I'd be surprised if you hadn't done something. But you need to tell Costello, in case he thinks you're involved more seriously. Holmes will tell him. You know that.'
'Maybe not,' I argued, weakly.
'Oh, come on. A uniform, starting out? Taking the heat for an Inspector? He'll rat you out first chance he gets to save his own skin.'
'That doesn't mean I should rat him out,' I said.
'I didn't say that. I said you have to tell Costello what you did. Let Holmes deal with his story. Costello has always dealt fairly with you. Square it with him.'
'What if they fire me?'
'Then they fire you! We'll deal with it. Not telling Costello the truth is just going to make it worse. Drink your tea, have a smoke and then go and see him before this gets further out of hand.'
Costello lived on the road to St Johnston in a house which had once perfectly suited himself and his wife and
