Faye hasn’t called yet. If she doesn’t contact me by tomorrow afternoon, I’m ringing her. I don’t care what she says about it. I want to know what those detectives asked her. Does she know about my number being in Avril Ryan’s phone? Can she come up with an explanation for that? And Andriu. He’ll be arriving on Tuesday. All happy and where’s the pub. He’s going to get some shock when he hears the cops want to speak to him. I’d better warn him too. I’ll text him to arrange to pick him up at the airport. I’ll get Amy to drive and I’ll fill him in then.

I’m nervous and completely confused about that number. None of this makes sense. I wish Lucas would come home soon so he can tell me what to do, what to feel. He’ll relax me.

Lifting my phone, I check the time, before moving out onto the balcony with the throw from the sofa wrapped around me. It’s only half past eleven. Lucas will probably be partying for hours yet. It could be the morning before I see him.

A cold icy breeze brushes my face. The water is still tonight, going nowhere. On the opposite side of the river, I see a crowd of people gathered outside a pub, drinking, smoking, laughing. That should be me tomorrow night. I don’t know what to do.

A few minutes later, I go back inside and lock the door. I really should try to get some sleep. I’m placing the throw over the alcohol stockpiled in the corner of the room in case Lucas arrives home and thinks Santa came early, when my phone rings. I rush to grab it, hitting my foot on the corner of the sofa. ‘Shit. The pain.’ I lift the phone. With my heart beating a hole in my chest I look at the name flashing on the screen and answer.

‘Tara.’

Faye is dragging out my name, she’s drunk. Which doesn’t surprise me. Faye was always fond of getting drunk. ‘Merry’ didn’t satisfy her. ‘Just one more’, she’d say when I’d tell her I’d had enough. But it was never one more, it was always two or three and sometimes four more. I thought that habit might have stopped when she qualified as a doctor. I don’t know why; I’m sure doctors get drunk too.

‘Faye, is that you?’

‘Tara Moore… soon to be married…’

‘Faye, are you drunk?’

‘Am I drunk?’ she slurs. Then the phone goes quiet.

‘Faye, are you there?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Are you alright?’

‘Am I alri…’

God, she must be pissed. I don’t want to talk to her when she’s like this.

‘Faye, maybe you should hang up, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’

‘That bitch called,’ she says, her voice a little clearer now.