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  "You shot yourself in the foot with this one, buddy." McKelvey said nothing, but gave me the finger. Then, when Harvey came over to take him down to the cells, I too left the room and joined Costello and Williams and Holmes next door.

  "Well?" I said.

  "Not much, is there?" Williams said. Then she smiled, "I liked the scabies line though."

  "It was a cheap shot," I said.

  "It's him," Holmes said. "He's a liar through and through. We know he was with her on Thursday night; sure we have it on tape. If he's lying about that, he's lying about the whole lot." He snorted with derision. "I say we charge him now."

  "No," Costello said. "We've seventy-two hours. Hold him over Christmas. We'll start again on Boxing Day. If we need to, we can charge him then. Let the wee shite stew for a few days without his turkey and ham. Agreed?" We all shrugged assent. "The only problem now is who'll do tonight?"

  It's difficult on any night, never mind Christmas Eve, to get volunteers to man a station in a village the size of ours. Generally, one of us takes a mobile and the station is locked up for the night. McKelvey had screwed that up. Someone needed to be in the station while he was being held.

  "I'll do a session before midnight," I said. "Debbie will divorce me if I do the whole night. Anyway, Penny is singing solo at midnight Mass tonight and I can't miss it or she'll divorce me, too."

  "I'm out," Williams said. "I have to play Santa all alone."

  "I'll do the nightshift," Holmes piped up. "I have no one waiting for me; I don't mind. Everyone else has someone to go home to.

  "Aren't you going home for Christmas?" Williams said, and I realized that I didn't even know where "home" was for him.

  "No. My mother died years ago. My father is in care but he's so far gone I could stand right beside him and he wouldn't even know I was there. So that's me. Little orphan Jason."

  Williams looked taken aback by his sincerity. "Come to mine for dinner tomorrow. It'll just be me and Peter ... and the cat." She seemed to have blurted the offer out without thinking, and instantly blushed.

  "Thanks, Caroline," he said. "I might."

  The two of them looked at each other momentarily, before turning back to me and Costello to dispel the awkwardness which we all felt.

  "Fine, Jason. If you're happy enough to do it, that's great," Costello said. "We'll get Harvey to hold the fort until... eight?"

  I nodded my agreement - if I did 8.00 to 11.30 p.m., I'd still be in time for Mass.

  "Benedict, you take the mobile just in case." He began to walk away, then called over his shoulder, "And a happy Christmas to you all!"

  As he turned to walk away, I saw Williams mouth "Benedict?" to Holmes, who shrugged.

  "Only to Elvis," I said, with a wink, realizing that they hadn't known my full Christian name.

  "I heard that," Costello shouted, from his office.

  By the time I got home it was almost seven o'clock. Debbie was getting Penny changed into her Christmas clothes, which she had been given early as a special treat for singing at midnight Mass. I watched as the two of them fixed one another's hair and giggled about girlie things. Shane and I did the manly thing by sitting in front of the TV and not speaking. But then, he was only ten months old.

  Around five to eight, I got ready to go to the station. I left the house with Debbie's warning ringing in my ears: "If you miss Penny's solo, the door will be locked when you get home. Sleep with Frank."

  I made it to the station in five minutes or so, the traffic was so light. Harvey opened the front door, yawning. "What's up?" I asked.

  "Nothing, sir," he said. "Quiet as a mouse in there. I took him tea and a sandwich about an hour ago." "Fair enough, John. Best get home, eh?" "Going to see my sister, sir. Christmas presents and that." "Have a good evening. Happy Christmas, John. Thanks for your help today."

  "My pleasure, sir," he said, shrugging on his Garda overcoat. "Merry Christmas."

  I checked on McKelvey a few minutes later: he was sleeping on his side, his breath wheezing slightly, presumably a result of the blows he had received during his arrest. I lifted the empty cup and plate which he'd left at the side of his bed. He muttered quietly in his sleep and shifted onto his back.

  I sat in the station until 11.30 p.m. reading three-day-old newspapers. When Holmes arrived, I packed up and headed to Mass, not bothering to check on McKelvey, who was getting a better night's sleep than the rest of us.

  I sat in the church and listened to my daughter sing 'O Holy Night', her voice cracking a little on the top notes. I looked at Debbie to see tears well in her eyes as she watched our little girl stand at the lectern and hold the attention of all the people in the church. I was aware of a sensation deep in my mind, an awareness of what the doctor had said about hepatitis or HIV. I would have to ensure that I did nothing which might endanger my family. Debbie would sometimes use my razor to shave her legs. What if I nicked myself and she used it? What if Penny or Shane picked up something from my cutlery - or if I kissed them goodnight? Something in my breast felt raw and exposed as my daughter's voice rose above the choir's in the final chorus, and I wished to be a child again myself, to be held in my mother's arms and told that everything would be alright.

  As if instinctively sensing my need, Debbie took my hand without looking and squeezed it tenderly. Her thumb ran across the back of my hand, caressing the knuckles, and I felt her tense when she rubbed the gauze dressing where McKelvey had bitten me. Instinctively, afraid that some blood may have soaked through with which she might come into contact, I pulled my hand away. She looked down at my hand and then at my face. Smiling a little bewilderedly, she took my hand again in both of hers. Her openness and generosity made me grateful all over again that she had ever married me. This thought would come back to haunt me later that evening, as I almost threw away such a precious gift.

  Chapter Seven

  Wednesday, 25th December

  It was raining as we drove home, a thin steady drizzle which created dirty haloes around the neon of the street lamps and smeared the windscreen with each sweep of the wipers. The journey passed in silence as Penny lay dozing, stretched across the back seat.

  As I swung the car into our driveway, the headlamps raked across a silver BMW which had been abandoned in front of our doorway, and I felt something in my stomach collapse in on itself.

  "I wonder who this could be," Debbie said, then got out of thecar.

  My parents had watched Shane for us while we were at Mass and my mother opened the door. "You've got company. In a bit of a state, too," she said, rolling her eyes.

  Miriam Powell was sitting on the old leather armchair facing the door as we entered the living room, attempting to affect an air of sophistication, despite the smell of gin that hung around her. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was clearly having difficulty focusing. My parents excused themselves and left as Debbie carried Penny up to bed. Miriam watched with a fixed, insincere smile as I kissed my daughter on the forehead and told her I loved her. "I always knew you'd make a good father, Benedict," Miriam said. "I've always said that."

  "There's little to it, Miriam. When you have kids as good as those two of mine, you can't help but be good."

  "I have no children," she stated matter-of-factly.

  "I know." I felt I should add some note of commiseration, but I had always suspected that their childlessness was by choice.

  "Could you offer a lady a drink?" she said, in a slurred attempt at humour.

  "Gin. Right?"

  "You could be a barman, do you know that, Benedict?" she replied, and laughed - a shrill, empty laugh that rang out too long.

  In the kitchen, I fixed her a gin and tonic, omitting the gin because she was driving. When I returned, she was standing at the hearth, admiring our family photographs.

  "Thank you, Benedict. I have always relied on the kindness of ... well, not strangers certainly, but—"

  "That's a role you were never any good at, Miriam," Debbie said, standing in
the doorway. "Even at college, you were never weak enough for Blanche."

  "Deborah! Happy Christmas, dear," Miriam said, turning suddenly and moving to kiss Debbie. In her haste, the cuff of her woollen jacket caught on a picture of Penny on her first day at school and the picture fell to the ground, shattering the glass.

  "Oh fuck! Was that me?"

  "Don't worry, Miriam," I said, reaching down to pick up the pieces as she did the same. Hunkered down, wavering unsteadily, she fell against me, gripping my arm for balance and spilling some of her drink over my shirtsleeve and the picture lying on the floor. Then she started to giggle, as I helped her to her seat. She held out her glass, presumably in a request for a refill, and I noticed Debbie surreptitiously shake her head.

  "So, Miriam, what can we do for you?" she said, still standing in the doorway.

  "I'm here to see your husband. And you, of course, Deborah."

  She smiled and extended the glass again, which I took from her and set on the coffee table.

  "Tommy Senior tells me you called with him, Benedict. We appreciate it," she said, slurring her words only slightly. Despite her state, or perhaps because of it, she held herself perfectly erect, her head haughtily tilted back, but her eyes were glazed and a hint of red was blooming on her cheeks. She was an attractive woman, more so now than ever. Her skin was still dark and supple, her figure trim and well proportioned. Debbie had once commented that anyone could have that body if they hadn't had two children, but it was clear that Miriam worked to keep her shape. As though sensing my admiring glance, she straightened herself further, so that her breasts pushed against her jacket and strained at the buttons.

  Debbie coughed. "Ben always does what he says, Miriam. He told me about your husband's father. I was sorry to hear it."

  "Have we anything to worry about?" Miriam asked me, as if Debbie had not spoken.

  I assured her that her father-in-law was safe, as best we could tell, and that I had assigned an officer to follow up the complaint. I felt ridiculous, speaking in my policeman voice in my own living room after midnight on Christmas Day, especially as it was clear the Powells could have phoned for such information.

  "And where is your husband?" Debbie said, sitting on the sofa as it became apparent Miriam would only leave in her own time.

  "Oh, drifting about. Doing his Santa routine - delivering his very own little present. Emptying his sack!"

  An awkward silence followed, none of us sure how to take her final comment.

  "I feel I have disturbed your evening," Miriam said, trying to stand up with dignity and almost succeeding. "I shall impose on you no longer. Good evening and happy Christmas. Deborah . . . Benedict . . ." and she stumbled against the coffee table. Again, I reached out to steady her and she gripped my bandaged hand and squeezed it while she righted herself, causing me to wince.

  "I'm alright," she stated emphatically, fishing in her purse for her car keys.

  "Miriam, you can't drive home like this," I said, and Debbie rolled her eyes. "We'll phone you a taxi."

  I tried four different numbers, in Lifford and Strabane, but none was answered. Eventually it became clear that one of us would have to take her home, and Debbie made it even clearer that she wouldn't do it.

  The conversation on the journey was strained until we reached Miriam's driveway.

  "Did I see you sitting outside my house the other day?" she asked, smiling coquettishly. "Afraid to come in?"

  "I... I got a call on the mobile and had to stop."

  She wagged her finger back and forth in front of me and tutted. In the confines of the car, I could smell alcohol and cigarettes off the heat of her breath. "You weren't sure whether to come in, Benedict. A woman knows these things."

  I didn't know what to say and so said nothing.

  She continued, "It was nice. Kind of like a first date again. The nervous boyfriend waiting in the car?" She raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

  "Goodnight, Miriam," I said, trying to sound as firm as possible. "I have to get the kids' presents ready for the morning. Merry Christmas to you and Thomas."

  "Debbie's a lucky woman," she said. "I was once, too." She smiled and waggled her finger at me. "Ah, I remember. You couldn't control yourself with me once." Again she smiled coyly, but the impression in the darkness was anything but coy.

  "A lot of water under the bridge since then," I said. "Goodnight then."

  "Goodnight, Benedict," she said. "Merry Christmas."

  She leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, and so I leaned towards her. However, at the last moment, she moved her head slightly and the corners of our mouths connected with a tingle, like static. Her lips were moist from her lipstick and I felt them tug slightly on mine. The gentle teasing of her lips, the warm haze of alcohol which filled my mouth and nose, the under-scent of coconut which seemed to radiate from her skin - all took me back fifteen years. I shifted slightly in my seat, pressing my lips on hers, hearing her moan deeply, feeling the cool wetness of her mouth. Our teeth knocked together slightly, like a teenager's kiss. Feeling her tongue in my mouth, I touched the tip of it with mine. I placed my hand to the side of her face, her skin warm and soft; my other hand, thick with bandages, touched her neck fleetingly, then lower, slipping inside her jacket as she groaned and shifted her body against mine, her own hands moving down my chest. She pressed my face against her neck and whispered something hoarse and urgent which I could not decipher. I could feel the fabric of her underwear, the sheen cool and smooth to my touch. Unbidden images of my wife came to my mind and, with those, the sharp recollection of the threat of infection I carried. The haze lifted and I pulled away from her quickly.

  She opened her eyes and smiled at me, attempting demure but managing only satisfied. Then, without another word, she got out of the car and staggered to her front door, waving over her shoulder without looking back. As I watched her, I became aware of a movement at the window and I looked up to see Thomas Powell watching me from their living room. Despite the fact that I sat in shadow, he held eye contact for a few seconds. Then he closed the blinds, leaving me sitting in the darkness, which seemed to grow around me and thicken as I wiped his wife's lipstick off my mouth.

  When I got home, Debbie was laying out the last of the presents on the armchairs. She did not speak when I came in, nor as I began to build the buggy we had bought for Shane. When she was done she said simply, "You missed a bit," pointing at the corner of her mouth. Instinctively, I rubbed at my mouth, and Debbie looked at me as if I were someone whom, after ten years of marriage, she suddenly did not recognize.

  "You ... you ... bastard," she hissed, unable to find a more succinct way of expressing her feelings for me. Then she went up the stairs to our bedroom and I sat on the living-room floor, a screwdriver hanging useless in my hand, as I listened to her soft sobbing, muffled by our pillows.

  I lay on the sofa with Shane's blanket over me and felt sorry for myself. The wound on my hand throbbed under the bandages to the same rhythm as the guilt and regret hammering behind my eyes.

  At 2.45 a.m. I was sitting on the back doorstep, smoking my fifth cigarette. I tried to see the Star of Bethlehem, as if that might offer some hope, but rain was falling now in sheets, cold and sharp as needles, bouncing off the ground and hammering applause on the corrugated iron roof of Frank's kennel.

  At 3.15 a.m. I began to feel drowsy, my eyes heavy. More than once I jerked awake as the heat of my cigarette burnt my fingers. I became aware of a sensation in my groin and for a few seconds struggled to make sense of it, then realized it was my mobile phone, which I had set on silent vibrate so it would not ring during Mass. It was 3.45 a.m. when I learnt that Whitey McKelvey had died in custody.

  Chapter Eight

  Wednesday, 25th December

  Outside the station, in the pounding rain, a number of cars were already parked, some abandoned more haphazardly than others.

  John Mulrooney had again been called as medical examiner and was checking McKelvey's ar
m muscles for signs of rigor. McKelvey lay twisted on the floor, partly under the bed. He was not wearing shoes and one of his grimy white socks hung off his foot. His eyes were open, his face contorted in pain, from which even death seemed to have offered no release. His chin was still wet with saliva and flecks of spit could be seen on his cheek, the whiteness standing out against the fresh purple bruise. One of his eyes was ringed with black, and blood was crusted around his nostrils. Beside him on the floor lay several tablets, which fitted the description of the one found in Angela Cashell's stomach.

  Someone was taking photographs. Jason Holmes sat outside the cell, being comforted by another officer as though he were a relative. Someone else brought him a cup of tea, though probably with something stronger added.

  Costello appeared from his office. "Devlin!" he called, then went back inside. I followed him in, taking a seat in front of his desk.

  "What the fuck happened?" he began.

  "I don't know, sir. I've only just arrived."

  "I'll tell you what happened. Somehow, someone didn't search the fucker properly when he came in. Looks like he took a dose of his own medicine." He calmed a little. "Jesus Christ, he's twisted so bad they might have to break his legs to fit him in the box." He blessed himself, kissed his thumb and motioned heavenward.

  Mulrooney knocked on the door, then came on in. "Ben," he said, nodding. "Happy Christmas."

  "You get all the good ones, eh Doc?" Costello said, and Mulrooney grimaced in acknowledgement.

  "Goes with the territory. Fairly simple, folks. Looks like he took some of those tablets beside him, if what you said about the Cashell girl is true." He had obviously been informed of the cocktail she had taken. "Dead less than an hour, I'd say."

  "Is that it? Clean-cut and simple?" Costello asked, with more than a little hope in his voice.

  Mulrooney grimaced again. "I'm not entirely sure. There's bruising on his face from his arrest, I'm told. One of his fingers is also badly bruised, possibly broken. Could have been when he was lifted. Looks like someone hit him a fair smack in the face," he said, glancing slightly towards me. "Badly bruised. I hope he deserved it, but it might complicate things."