Carlin’s phone rang in his pocket and the detectives looked at him. He took out the phone and looked at the caller ID. Kat. He cancelled the call and sent her a text—Busy call u soon x—and switched off the phone.

‘Besides the hand cannon, the missing ear and the mystery case—’191

‘And the bite mark on her thigh.’

‘And the bite mark on her thigh, besides all that, paramedics said they found cuff bracelets with cut links around her wrists and ankles.’

‘What the fuck?’

‘Whoever she was, she was in deep.’

‘Her name’s Orla McCabe.’

The detectives looked at Carlin.

‘You know her?’

‘Been looking for her for the past week.’

‘What’s her story?’

‘Doesn’t really have one. She just stepped in some dogshit and has been leaving a mess everywhere she’s gone since.’

‘Well, someone needs to contact her family. Does she have anyone?’

Carlin sighed. ‘She does. A husband and baby. I’ll do it.’

‘One more thing. Van Gogh had a card on her.’

‘What kind of card?’ Carlin said.

‘Like a business card.’

‘What kind of business?’

‘That’s the thing. The card was blank except for a phone number and the hotel’s address handwritten on it. We’re assuming that’s who she was calling on the payphone.’

‘You rang it?’ Carlin said.

‘Nothing. It’s dead.’

After a brief silence, the fourth detective who was yet to speak gestured to Carlin’s bound hand. ‘How goes it, Brother Carlin?’

Carlin went slowly down the corridor to the restaurant entrance. Forensics and police and paramedics. Camera flashes. Clusters of staff. People streaming all around, some ducking under police tape, some recording on phones. He looked through the 192movement and saw the bodies under the sheets. Broken glass and blood everywhere. On a wall in the restaurant was a sign pointing to the toilets.

He moved through the crowded lobby and out of the hotel into the night storm. The impact of the rain forming glassy domes that slid adrift across the surfaces of puddles. He got in his car and sat there recalling nights lying in bed beside his sleeping wife, imagining her life without him, how she and Kat would cope with his suicide. He guessed after the initial shock they’d be okay and better off with him out of the way.

He picked up the radio and made a call. It was answered immediately.

‘What the fuck, Boyd? I never said kill anyone. I said get the money and run.’

‘Fuck her. She shouldn’t have reached for a gun.’

‘I saw the footage. She didn’t reach for a fucking gun and you know it.’ He wiped his steamed window and looked at the sea, black and fearsome through the trees. ‘I’m finished.’

He didn’t notice the yellow Saleen Mustang pull up behind him without its headlights on.

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