Page 68 of Dublin's Danger Dancer

A breeze rips through the rounded edges of the green leaves on the lines of oaks marking the way to her grave.

I exhale deeply. “I know he knows who put you here. But it’s not him. For a mafia boss, his soft as shite. I can’t see him killing an ant let alone a person. But anyway, it was a mistake. One I won’t be making again.”

The leaves bristle again.

“Truth be told. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know if I’ve gone rogue.” I push my hand to the side of my head and rub my temples.

“I mean, I don’t think I have. But getting this close to a suspect, it’s not healthy. And I let…God.”

Tears begin to flow down my cheeks.

“I let four good guards die on the ship last night. For what? So a sleazy drug dealer could import drugs into Dublin to ruin more lives. Jesus, Harry, what was I thinking?”

The trees are conspicuously silent.

“Give me a sign. If you want me to chop off Liam O’Shaughnessy’s balls. If I’m falling in love with a—I mean, no. I’m not falling in love. I can’t be. I’m not a feckin uneducated eejit. I went to the London School of Economics. I have a degree in criminology. I’m just, well, losing my mind a bit, I guess. It’s not knowing what he knows about who murdered you. If I can break that, I’ll put him in prison and chalk this whole thing up to being under sexed and desperate for answers. Did you like Liam when he was young?”

The leaves rattle with a furious intensity.

“Yes, but everyone, well nearly everyone, is likeable at eleven years old. Boys only become bastards later on.”

“In a life full of unforgivable sins, sleeping with the one who murdered you might be the one that kills me. God, How can I describe an attraction to him? It’s so strong no amount of logic I can use would ever help me understand it? It’s not like I had much of a choice. I mean, I had a choice. He didn’t force himself on me. But I didn’t have any ketamine with me. Yes, I could have taken some.”

An elderly couple dressed in black pass through the line of tombstones behind me looking at me in horror.

“Ah, Jesus.” I say.

“Look Harry. I don’t feel like he murdered you. He has an alibi. He was in police custody. And his nice, soft, caring. He says you were his first love. And God. It’s always the people who love us who murder us.” I bring my hands to my face pulling my lower lids down with my palms. “How could I be so stupid? Having sex with O’Shaughnessy. He could have…oh God. Oh God. If I find out Harry. I promise you I’ll kill him myself. I’m a feckin eejit for doing this, but I promise you that.”

I rise from the tombstone.

“I’m going home Harry. I’m going to get my head straight and I’m going to bring him to justice.”

+++

I spent the rest of the day in the basement going over the evidence and compiling a voice note for a sketch artist. I couldn’t go in and give the description myself. There was a leak and it could be anyone, including the sketch artist.

Once Fergus sent me a few different sketches and I confirmed the closest match to the admiral. He was named as Anthony Sanchez. A high ranking Spanish Naval officer. He’d been on the take from criminal gangs from Ireland for over three decades. Cycling through the ones who came up and not grieving the ones who died.

I’d been so focused on piecing together evidence, I’d almost forgotten about my shift at the club. I arrive late. Sergei clears a line for me to the door. The group of men part.

I smile sweetly at Sergei and ask him how he is. His answer goes in my ear straight out. My brain is unable to process anything.

I quickly descend the stairs. I trudge down the corridor towards the changing room. Athena and Letitia are applying their fake eyelashes almost in perfect synchronicity as if they were synchronised swimmers.

I kiss them hello. They are both uncharacteristically sombre. I take my bag out of the locker and decide on a white leatherette bralette with white shorts. I push my boobs into the bralette, heaving them together for maximum cleavage. I strap myself into my pink pumps.

The club is heaving with Friday night bachelor parties, egging each other on to do shots, businessmen hunched, talking about the latest stock developments and impending crises.

I walk to the bar where Kieran is topping up bachelor number one with tequila. The bar is strewn with lemon peels and salt grains. Kieran doesn’t smile at me enthusiastically. He doesn’t smile at all.

Everyone in the club had been giving me an odd since I’d arrived. Kieran wears a grim expression. He looks like a stone, frozen in time.

“What’s up with you?” I ask.

“You haven’t heard? I sent you a message.”

“Heard what?”

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