“Right.” Aifric sat back in her chair. She was half-horrified, half-gleeful. Did Sinéad even realize what she was saying? What the possible implications were?

“That’s all really helpful,” Aifric said. She scribbled the last of her notes, trying to make sure she got every word down.

Chapter Eight

Carrie

Carrie cleaned up the mess, moving slowly to avoid hurting her ribs. She picked up the empties and stacked them on the kitchen table, then bagged up the remains of the pizza and binned it with the scrunched-up pizza box. She took a cloth from the kitchen and wiped down the coffee table, even thought about getting the hoover out but couldn’t face it. She sat herself down on the couch, flicked on the TV, and waited. It was another hour before she heard Aifric’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Where were you?”

“I went to speak to a witness,” Aifric said, unbuttoning her coat.

“By yourself?”

Aifric shrugged and hung her coat on the coatrack. “We’re not talking some scary criminal mastermind here.”

Aifric looked tired and uncharacteristically unsure of herself. The polished accent—which had appeared halfway through her law degree, when she’d decided that the North Dublin accent they’d grown up with wouldn’t cut it around the Law Library—was fraying around the edges. Despite herself, Carrie felt her anger subside. It was always like this. Aifric was older by two years, smarter by light-years, and yet somehow Carrie always played the big sister.

“Are you hungry?” Carrie asked.

“I’m not eating leftover pizza,” Aifric said, making a face.

“No one asked you to.” God. She could be infuriating. Carrie took a breath. “There’s bread for toast. And a few tins of beans. And half a bottle of wine.”

They sat in front of the fire, ate beans on toast, and drank. The heat from the fire leached away the aches and pains of the day from Carrie’s bones, and she eased back into her chair. She really didn’t want to lose this flat.

“I got a new case today,” Aifric said. “A murder trial.” There was a curl of satisfaction around her words.

“A murder trial?”

“It’s one of Gilmartin’s. A returned case.”

“So you’re just covering? You won’t get to take it all the way to trial?”

“I don’t know. I might. There’s no sign of Gilmartin coming back yet.”

“Well, what’s the case?”

“DPP and Robert Collins. He had a fight with his girlfriend in a pub. Collins stalked off, and she stayed on. She left, alone, a couple of hours later but never made it home. Her name was Laura O’Donnell. She was pulled out of the canal three days later.”

Carrie shifted uneasily. “That was one of Charlie Sweeney’s cases.” The murder hadn’t just been the talk of the station, it had been all over the papers.

“Was it?”

“Yes. So I wouldn’t get too excited,” Carrie said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just, don’t start thinking you’re about to pull an Atticus Finch on it or anything. If Charlie Sweeney put him away, you can be pretty sure he’s guilty as sin.”