The article took up a whole half-page. Superintendent Kavanagh was bound to see it and Swan would have to endure a session in the great man’s office, laced with anecdotes about how understanding journalists were in the old days.
Swan shook the paper, folded it clumsily and thrust it back at Barrett.
‘Why am I only seeing this now?’
‘It’s the second edition, boss. Wasn’t in the first.’
Considine gave Swan a wry look.
‘Hope you’re not here to mock our troubles, Gina.’
‘Just passing, Vincent. But I am on my way to Limerick to take a statement, and a little bird told me you wanted someone to do a bit of poking around in east Clare.’
‘Yes, this baby Ali Hogan’s supposed to have found twelve years ago. I’m wondering now if she’s a fantasist.’
‘I could phone the local Guards,’ offered Barrett. ‘If Considine can do it face to face, so much the better. You’ve plenty to get on with – have you nothing new from forensics?’
‘We’ve a blood type on the baby, but no post-mortem yet.’
‘Jesus. Give me the type.’
Barrett pulled a notepad from his pocket and looked at the last page.
‘Blood type A, boss.’
Common as brown hair or blue eyes. He’d hoped for something a little more exotic.
Swan took the list the monsignor had given him from his breast pocket and scanned it quickly. Sure enough, the name Alison Hogan appeared in the list under the heading ‘sixth year’. Risk-taking, attention-seeking.
‘Back to the phones, Barrett. None of this is good. Murphy – you and I should swing by and pay the Hogan girl a visit. Screw the lid on.’
‘Wish me luck on my travels,’ said Considine.
‘Like you need it.’ Swan gave her a quick nod. At least Gina was on board now. That could only help.
8
A dying note of pipe and fiddle whined from the big monitor hanging in the corner of the green room. The screen showed a close-up of Gay Byrne applauding. Pointing off-camera, he said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the legendary Chieftains!’
The applause engulfed him briefly before he doused it with an elegant swoop of his hands and moved on to announce the next item on the programme.
The door of the green room opened and the six members of The Chieftains walked in, passing close enough to nod to Ali as they headed to the drinks table, some with instruments still in hand. It was weird, like a photograph in a book suddenly coming to life. Ali clutched the wet neck of her beer bottle and tried to still her nerves.
She would be enjoying it so much if she didn’t have to go out that door and be in front of the cameras herself. Mary O’Shea was on the other side of the room, chatting happily to a small curly-haired woman from the North whom Ali had often seen on the Late Late. In a corner beyond them, a middle-aged man sat on his own, looking very serious as he flipped through a wedge of papers. He looked familiar too.
The Late Late Show. It would be like walking naked down Grafton Street with a neon arrow over her head. Up on the screen, Gay was talking to two men who had rowed around Ireland in a currach. They’d been right here just five minutes before, a pair of burly lads debating whether to keep their Aran jumpers on in the stifling heat. Comfort won the argument, and now their pullovers lay discarded on a sofa like a couple of empty sheep.
Mary had phoned Ali at home that morning – her newspaper article had gotten a huge response, she said.
‘They want both of us, Ali. On the Late Late. And you’re not to worry, it’s not about the case – they want to talk about girls and sex education, so I told them you’d be good for that: a real girl, for God’s sake. It’s a great opportunity.’
Ali had let herself imagine it. A sea of blurry faces, all turned to her. Being scared was no reason not to do it, though. She’d been mortified when she’d read Mary’s article, all those quotes that made her sound firm and opinionated. But Mary was right. Girls her age never did get the chance to speak. A light would shine on her and she would be tested.
Her mother was mad with pride, and slipped her money for a taxi to the studios. She’d already bought three copies of the newspaper with Mary’s article in it.
‘It’s a lovely photograph,’ she said. ‘Despite the circumstances.’
Davy had mastered a wicked impersonation of the newspaper photo and would tilt his head to one side and jut out his lower lip each time Ali passed him in the house. Meanwhile, Fitz was mysteriously unavailable whenever she phoned, and Ali worried that she was angry with her, for the reference to Eileen lurking in Mary’s column.
Detective Swan had called round with another man on Wednesday afternoon, angry with her too. The policemen sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee, like they were on a social call between crimes, but then Detective Swan started in on how personally disappointed he was. At least her mother had had the grace to take a bit of the blame, passing the buck on to Seán O’Loan, making out that the press had squeezed details out of them against their will. Ali promised there would be no more talk of what she’d seen.
Yet here she was, waiting to go on television.
At the RTÉ studios a skinny-hipped young woman collected her from reception and rushed her up two flights of stairs. She had big earphones hanging around her neck, as if she had recently been unplugged from some important broadcasting machine.
‘There,’ the girl opened a door on a crowded office. Mary O’Shea was sitting on
