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Chapters (60)
  1. Cover
  2. INTRODUCINGKATIE MAGUIRE
  3. ALSO BY GRAHAM MASTERTON
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright
  6. Epigraph
  7. Contents
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. About the Author
  60. An Invitation from the Publisher

They heard the wailing and scribbling of sirens and Katie stood up.

‘Time to go to work,’ she told him. She didn’t tell him how relieved she was that he was unhurt. She had suffered so many losses that she was almost beginning to believe that she was a living Sluagh, a restless spirit who could never find peace, and whose only purpose was to bring death and misery to others.

36

It was still raining the following morning when Detectives Walsh and Cullen drove out to Blackrock with Dr Power.

‘If it carries on like this I’m going to start building myself a fecking ark,’ said Detective Cullen.

They turned into Sunnyside and drew up outside Peadar Ó Dálaigh’s bungalow, with its dripping overgrown yew hedge and its gate hanging on by only one hinge. Detective Walsh had phoned Peadar earlier, and Peadar had said that he was more than happy to talk about Roisin Carroll and little Ita being pushed into the river.

‘To be honest with you, I think it would do me the power of good. I keep thinking about that poor unfortunate Roisin over and over, and how I wish to God that I’d had the strength in me to save her, too.’

Detective Cullen knocked at the door and after a few moments Peadar came shuffling along the hallway to open it. His white hair was sticking up like a dandelion puff and he was wearing a droopy oatmeal sweater with tomato ketchup stains on the front of it. The inside of the house was dark and damp and hazy with cigarette smoke.

‘Come in, come in,’ said Peadar, waving his hand. He led them into the living room, where a sullen peat fire was burning. A gloomy reproduction of The Croppy Boy hung over the fireplace, a dark painting rendered even darker by smoke. It showed a young Irish rebel on his knees, confessing to a priest that he was going to fight for the nationalist cause, without realizing that the priest was an English soldier in disguise.

Detective Walsh couldn’t stop herself from sneezing, twice.

‘Dia leat!’ Peadar blessed her, and then said, ‘Please, have yourself a seat. There’s some tea in the pot if you’d care for some. It should be well stewed by now.’

‘We’re grand, thanks,’ said Detective Walsh.

They sat down on Peadar’s damp, lumpy settee. Detective Walsh noticed that there was a rag doll perched on the back of it, with a grimy white mob cap and a wide, inane smile. She had the strangest intuition that the doll had once belonged to a child who was now dead.