Heathen/Nemesis

Farrell shrugged and immediately headed for the door, holding Donna in that steely gaze for a second before passing by.

‘I’d like the books back, Mrs Ward,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you my phone number. If you find them, I’d appreciate a call.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out what looked like a business card. On the back he wrote a number and his name and then passed it to Donna.

‘What are the books called?’ she wanted to know.

‘They’re books about paintings. Catalogues. As I said, if you find them I’d appreciate a call.’ He walked briskly towards the staircase and descended. Donna watched him from the landing.

‘Do you know him?’ Julie asked.

Donna shook her head. She glanced down at the name and number written on the card.

PETER FARRELL

Books about paintings?

‘Jesus Christ,’ Donna murmured.

‘What is it?’ Julie asked, looking concerned.

Books about paintings.

What was the entry in Ward’s diary? JAMES WORSDALE: DUBLIN NATIONAL GALLERY.

Coincidence?

She looked over the bannister again and saw Farrell leaving, followed by two other men. The ones that had been at the funeral.

Donna walked across to the window on the landing and peered out, watching the three men as they clambered into a blue Sierra. Farrell sat in the passenger seat, glancing round once as the car pulled away.

A look of realization crossed Donna’s face and she spun round, hurrying to the bedroom where she pulled open the bedside cabinet.

The photos she’d taken from Chris’s office and Suzanne Regan’s flat were there; she spread them out on the bed.

‘I knew it,’ Donna said softly, her voice barely audible.

‘Look.’

She pointed to the photos of Chris and the five other men.

‘I knew it,’ she said again, more forcefully this time.

She recognised the dark cropped hair, the thin face and bull neck.

The image of Peter Farrell glared back at her from the photos.

Thirty

The last of the mourners left at just after six that evening and it was with something akin to relief that Donna graciously accepted the last words of comfort and bade the final farewells of the day. Those who had been friends of her husband told her to keep in touch, that they would ring her. The usual things people feel they have to say to widows. She wondered how many of them would keep their promises.

Martin Connelly was sitting in the kitchen when Donna walked in. He stopped chewing on a sandwich and smiled at her. She returned the gesture, wondering why the agent was still there.

Julie was pushing plates into the dishwasher.

Donna wondered briefly whether or not she should mention the incident with Farrell, then decided against it.

‘He had a lot of friends, Donna,’ said Connelly.

‘Did he, Martin?’ she said wearily.

Connelly looked puzzled.

‘There were lots of people at the funeral, but I’m not sure how many of them Chris would have counted as friends.’ She sighed. ‘He was popular but I don’t think he had any real friends. He couldn’t give a fuck about anyone.’

‘Come on, Donna,’ Connelly began.

‘I’m not being nasty,’ she explained. ‘I’m just telling you. People liked Chris but he rarely let anyone get close to him. People would ring him, write to him, but he hardly ever rang them back. You and a couple of others, that was it. He used to say, “If people want me bad enough they’ll call me”.’ She smiled at the recollection. ‘He was a solitary man. He liked his own company.’

And the company of Suzanne Regan.

‘I think that’s why a lot of women found him attractive,’ she continued rather sadly. ‘He genuinely didn’t give a shit.’

Connelly dropped the remains of his sandwich onto the plate, wiped crumbs from his mouth and got to his feet.

‘I think you’re being too hard on him, Donna,’ he said.

She smiled.

‘That was one of the things I loved about him,’ she said.

Connelly kissed her gently on both cheeks.

‘I’d better go, unless there’s anything I can do.’

‘We’ll be fine now, Martin. Thanks, anyway.’

He headed for the door.

‘See you, Julie,’ he said, looking at the younger woman.

She didn’t turn to face him.

‘See you,’ she said and continued loading the dishwasher.

Donna walked with Connelly out to his waiting Porsche, watching as he fumbled in his jacket pocket for the keys.

‘You’re determined to go on this trip to Dublin still?’ he asked.

She nodded.

Should she mention Farrell?

‘Humour me, Martin,’ she said as he slid behind the wheel and placed the key in the ignition.

‘Is Julie going with you?’

‘She’s going to stay and look after the house.’

Connelly tapped the wheel gently and looked up at Donna.

‘If you want company ...’

He allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘I’ll speak to you when I get back, Martin,’ she said sharply.

The agent nodded, started the engine and pressed down hard on the accelerator. The back wheels spun noisily for a second before the car pulled away.

Donna stood in the driveway, watching as the tail lights disappeared around the corner.

As she headed back to the house a cool breeze ruffled her hair and she shivered.

That involuntary movement might have been more extreme had she realized she was being watched.

It took the two women less than thirty minutes to check through the books in Chris’s office.

There were atlases, dictionaries and at least a dozen books on weapons but not one about paintings.

‘Paintings,’ muttered Donna irritably.

‘Donna, try his number,’ Julie suddenly said.

The older of the two women hurried back into the bedroom for the card the tall man had given her, then picked up the phone and jabbed out the digits. Julie wandered into the room, watching intently.

Donna heard the hiss and buzz as the number was connected, then all she heard was the single unbroken tone of a dead line.