A Terrible Beauty

Times.'The murderer's more than likely dead by now, surely?'

'So far the investigation is still open,' said Katie. 'I'm going to be talking to Chief Superintendent O'Driscoll tomorrow morning, and we'll decide what action to take next. Obviously we don't want to waste taxpayers' money on pursuing a case that will give us no useful result.'

The media conference broke up, and the television lights were switched off, leaving the room in sudden gloom. Katie talked for a while to Jim McReady from RTE News, and then she walked back to her office.

She was halfway there when she heard the jingling of loose change as somebody tried to catch up with her. 'Superintendent!' called a voice. It was Hugh McGarvey, a freelance journalist fromLimerick , a skinny little scarecrow of a man with a withered neck and a beaky nose. 'You're right on top of this case, then, Superintendent?'

'I'm doing everything I possibly can, yes.'

'Would it be impertinent of me to ask you, then, who your husband is on top of?'

'What?' she said, baffled.

'Your husband, Paul. I was having a few drinks with some friends at the Sarsfield Hotel inLimerick on Thursday night and lo and behold I saw your husband stepping into the lift with some dark-haired girl in a short blue dress. A fine half she was, very vivacious. And very friendly they looked, too.'

Katie suddenly felt short of breath, as if somebody had slapped her in the stomach.

Hugh McGarvey added, 'There was no Paul Maguire in the hotel register that night, but then, well, you wouldn't have expected there to be, would you?'

'Mistaken identity,' said Katie. 'You should be careful of that, Hugh. A lot of people get themselves into serious trouble, pointing the finger at the wrong person.'

'Oh, I'm pretty sure it was him.'

'Couldn't have been. He wasn't even staying at the Sarsfield.'

'I was only checking, Superintendent. It would make a bit of a story, wouldn't it, if it was true?'

'Listen,' said Katie. 'You were invited here for a media conference about a serious crime-even though that crime was committed over eighty years ago. That's the story. Not me.'

'You'll always be the story. At least you will be until another woman makes the rank of detective superintendent.'

'Your breath smells,' said Katie.

Paul said, 'Nothing happened inLimerick , Katie. I was trying to buy some building supplies from Jerry O'Connell, that's all. We had a bite to eat together, and a couple of drinks, and then I went to bed. On my own.'

'You were staying at the Sarsfield, though? You told me you were staying at Dwyer's.'

'I was going to stay at Dwyer's but they didn't have a room.'

'Dwyer's didn't have a room?Dwyer's?In the middle of the week?'

'For God's sake, Katie. Outside of this house you're a detective superintendent, but inside of this house you're my wife. I don't expect you to put me through the third degree just because some ratty reporter imagined he saw me with some fictitious woman.'

Katie said, 'All right. Sorry. You're right.'

'It's always the same. You're always making me feel guilty even when I haven't done anything.'

'I said I'm sorry.'

'Jesus Christ,' said Paul. 'I love you and this is what I get in return.'

Katie didn't know whether to believe his protestations of innocence or not. If he had been one of her suspects, she wouldn't have accepted his story for a second. Of course she could call Dwyer's and check if he was telling the truth, and she could call the manager at Sarsfield's, too, but what good would that do? Paul was her husband and at some point she had to trust him, not just because she felt so responsible for him, not just out of loyalty, but also because she wasn't yet ready to face the alternative. She didn't want to choose which CDs were hers and which were his. She didn't want to sell the house, because The Nursery was here, and she couldn't leave The Nursery.

Not to be able to walk into that room again, and close her eyes, and imagine that she could still smell that baby smell of talcum powder, and still hear that clogged, high-pitched breathing-just now, that would be more than she could bear.

Paul swallowed whiskey and said, 'Hugh McGarvey's stirring it, that's all. He's a scumbag. He's probably still sore because you complained about that rubbish he wrote about police overtime.'

'Forget it, Paul. He made a mistake, that's all.'

'Me and Jerry went through a whole bottle of whiskey between us. I couldn't have flahed anybody if I'd wanted to.'

'I said forget it.'

He sat down on the pink-upholstered sofa next to her, and stroked her cheek. 'There's only one woman I love, Katie, and that's you.'

'What's wrong with you, Paul? Why can't you tell me?'

'There's nothing at all wrong with me, Katie. I'm just trying to find my feet again, that's all. Can't you ever give me a chance, for Christ's sake?'