Page 21 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

The doorbell buzzes again. I gallop back to press the buzzer to let the florist in. Wondering how many people it’s going to take to carry 1428 long stem roses up to my third-floor apartment.

The answer was thirteen. My apartment was left with not one single inch uncovered by glass vases filled with red roses.

The apartment smelled heavenly. I look around the room at the sweetest gesture a man had ever made for me. If only this man didn’t keep my sister’s bloodied bracelet next to his bed as a sick trophy.

I shook my head. I am an undercover detective trying to break up a human trafficking syndicate. Here I am pretending to be the main character in some weepy Netflix Christmas love story by Hallmark.

I gather a bag of things and head to the basement. I had evidence to analyse.

The dust from the exposed brick walls worsens my cough. Even with the bracelet, I had no further evidence to put O’Shaughnessy behind bars. I turn my attention to the photos I’d taken last night.

Everything is encrypted. Usable to the naked eye. I start to write similar looking numbers together to see if I can discern a pattern. It didn’t take me long to realise that the first numbers were weights and the second set were coordinates. There was also the term GS scribbled next to some of the weights.

I opened up my laptop and type in the coordinates. They were all positioned around the strait of Gibraltar. Of course, GS, Gibraltar straits. The weights couldn’t correspond to the women. They were two light, several were under 15kg. The heaviest weight was 200 kg. This had to in reference drug smuggling.

Next to the weights were what I began to realise were dimensions. I sketched out three of them and they resembled something like a very narrow coffin. I stare down at my sketch and up at the evidence cork board I’d been using to trace all the clues in Harriet’s murderer.

Annoyed with myself, I take a sip of water. I stand up and pace back and forth a few times. I sit back down, adding the top layer of the dimensions. The picture emerged before me. These were submersibles. They were using submersible drones to traffic drugs along the straits of Gibraltar. I dial Fergus.

“Tell me you’ve got something? We need a break after yesterday’s failure.”

“I know how they’re bringing the drugs in.”

He stays quiet for a moment. “Go on.”

“They are using submersible drones. If the Spanish Navy stops them along the Straits of Gibraltar. I’m sure they are going to find kilos of cocaine and heroin and whatever else they are bringing in.

Ferg clears his throat. “How did you get this information?”

“I overheard it in the club. It didn’t make sense at first, but this morning I realised that they weren’t talking about drones that fly overhead,” I lied.

“If this turns out to be true, we could intercept one of the biggest drug hauls in European history.”

I look down at my watch. It was 5:45 pm. I had been in the basement for six hours and barely noticed.

“Keep me updated. I also sent you O’Shaughnessy’s DNA. We don’t have it on file.” I say. “I’ve got to go.”

“Ciara, you are being safe, aren’t you?”

He didn’t want to come straight out and asked me if I’m shagging Liam in order to get this information—plausible deniability.

“Of course. I really need to go,” I say

“Stay safe,” says Fergus.

I raced upstairs already picturing the outfit I was going to wear. A red wine coloured bodycon dress which crossed at the neck. I put on a strapless black lacy bra to go with it. I brush my hair. It’s frizzier than normal because of the humidity. I dampen it down with water. I curl it quickly taking large sections at a time so it falls like a very messy Hollywood wave.

I push my feet into a pair of Karen Millen stilettos just in time for the door to buzz. I apply a deep red lipstick to match the dress. It was exactly 6:00 pm and he was right on time. I grab my bag, leaving the phone that Fergus could call me on behind. I smooth down my hair and dress as I climb down the stairs.

I open the door. Liam is biting his bottom lip. He drags his eyes from my feet up my legs, my body and goes up my neck until he finally meets my eyes.

He is wearing what can only be a bespoke tailored charcoal grey suit with a lilac handkerchief. His shirt is open at the neck, revealing the divots of his collarbones.

“You must be tired,” he says. I smile, knowing what’s coming next.

“Oh, because I’ve been running through your mind all day?”

“I was going to say because you didn’t get much sleep last night. My security team says you were roaming around the house.”

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