Page 143 of Her Last Walk Home

‘Years. We came on a boat over the sea. Then we got a bus and then a car. A nice man gave her a car and this house. I think it’s cute.’

Jesus. Shannon could think of a lot of words to call the house, but cute was definitely not on the radar. ‘It’s horrible.’

‘You’re not very nice,’ Magenta said, her eyes darkening. ‘I know where she keeps the knife. Don’t move.’

Shannon’s hands shook uncontrollably. She glanced around trying to find some way to get the fuck out of this nightmare. She wasn’t waiting for the child to return with a knife to taunt her, maybe kill her.

She rooted in the drawers, though she knew the one with the knives was padlocked. In the top cupboard she eyed the mugs and glasses. A glass. She could smash one and arm herself with a shard. But could she hurt a child? Like fuck she could, if it meant protecting herself.

She took out a pint glass and smashed it against the ceramic sink, hoping the noise didn’t carry to wherever Magenta had gone. Extracting the longest and sharpest piece from the sink, she palmed it, careful not to cut herself.

‘I wouldn’t if I was you.’ The voice came from the doorway. It was low and menacing. Turning round, she was totally wrong-footed by the person standing before her.

Before she could raise her hand to wield her makeshift weapon, she felt her body on fire and sizzling, and she dropped to the floor.

101

The holiday cottage was so cold when Diana woke up, her breath hung in the air. She’d wrapped every available blanket around Aaron. At least he was cosy and snoring. She made herself a mug of coffee and held it between her icy hands, warming them.

After switching on the television, she scanned the limited channels until she found the rolling twenty-four-hour news service. It was currently on sport, so she had to sit through a recap of the previous night’s Premiership loss by Manchester City to Liverpool before the feed rolled on to the headlines.

Sitting forward, she watched smoke billowing in the distance behind the midlands news correspondent. A drone flew over the site, showing the devastation. The coffee caught in her throat and she spluttered it out over her hands. Gordon Collins’s house. What the hell?

She read the subtitles, not daring to turn up the sound in case it woke Aaron. The images showed an ambulance screeching off followed by an unmarked garda car, blue lights flashing on the grille. Was he dead? The subtitles didn’t mention any fatalities, so he must be okay.

This was getting too close to home. She’d lost her daughter. Gordon his house, if not his life. His protégé, John Morgan, was dead. Aneta was dead. And another girl was missing.

She’d have to go back to Ragmullin. She knew the person behind all this would make sure she was blamed if it came to it. She had to tell the truth.

Once she’d made up her mind, a calmness descended. She’d tell all, bury her daughter, then leave for ever.

As she switched off the television, there was a knock at the door.

She stood, frozen, mug in hand. No one knew she was there. Get a grip, Diana. It had to be the house owner. She peeked out the window. A car was parked beyond the hedge, an unlit taxi sign on its roof. What was this about?

She went to answer the door.

102

Lottie gathered the team in the incident room and fetched Superintendent Farrell.

‘There’s a strong smell of smoke in here,’ Farrell said, loosening the elastic on her tie and taking a seat at the front of the room.

‘I was with Gordon Collins at the fire and then spoke with him at the hospital,’ Lottie said. ‘I received word that he’s having an operation on one of his hands and I haven’t had a minute to pee, never mind wash myself or change my clothes. Boyd smells worse.’

He sniffed his sleeve.

Farrell blanked him. ‘Hopefully we can wrap things up soon and find Shannon Kenny. Alive. We have enough grieving families. What had Mr Collins to say for himself?’

‘Without beating around the bush,’ Lottie said, ‘he claimed Aneta Kobza was his daughter.’

A cacophony ofohandwhat the fuck?went up among the team.

‘And?’ Farrell said, the only one in the room nonplussed.

Lottie detailed the conversation she’d had with Collins.

‘He was paying Aneta to stay in Poland after someone informed her he was her father. But she still came to Ireland searching for her mother. I suspect Diana Nolan may be her mother, because of the old birth cert I found in her house. It names a girl, Magenta McCabe, born thirty years ago. It has to be Aneta who was then adopted. The mother’s name on the cert is Christine McCabe. Diana could have used a fictitious name.’

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