Page 65 of Three Widows

The office personnel thinned out as they were allocated jobs. Kirby couldn’t help himself: he brought up the Tyler Keating file on his computer. He read while opening the tub of chicken salad he’d bought in Wholesome Pantry, having vowed to change his lifestyle. He would start with his eating habits. Bye bye, McD’s. Hello, greens. It wasn’t too bad if he closed his eyes. If he used his imagination, he could pretend it was deep-fried chicken nuggets.

Tyler Keating was a thirty-nine-year-old accountant with an MBA, and a part-time lecturer at the college in Athlone. He’d been due to attend a conference in Liverpool the day he had disappeared. His wife had reported him missing five days later. It had bugged Kirby at the time and now it bugged him again. Why the wait?

He scanned his eyes over the reports and interviews. Nothing jumped out at him. Everything had been done by the book. But they still had no clue as to what had happened to the man or where he might be one year on. The file was still open, just not active. No new leads. Not a thing had turned up in the intervening twelve months, despite a full investigation followed by intermittent appeals. Tyler had a sister and brother in Mayo, and they’d phoned at the beginning, but they seemed to have accepted what Kirby believed: their brother was dead.

If that was so, where was the body? If he had killed himself, or had an accident, his car would have been found. It had not been taken on a ferry, and to date it had not been sighted or recovered. That was the mystery. Was someone else involved?

They had suspected his wife, Orla, for a time. She’d been checked out, but nothing had been found to support that suspicion, despite the delay in reporting her husband missing. Phone records showed she’d called him but he hadn’t returned any calls. If she had killed him, she might have brought the car to a dismantler’s yard and had it destroyed. They’d gone down that avenue and hit a brick wall. Tyler’s bank cards hadn’t been used either. But they hadn’t been checked in a while. He’d call the bank and see what was the position with the missing man’s accounts. And after that? He felt the hopelessness that came when he had no idea where to turn.

He needed to know definitively that Tyler Keating was dead. He also had to accept the fact that some people just didn’t want to be found.

42

Boyd headed through the station door, letting it bang shut behind him. Lottie watched from the car, unable to understand why he was being so moody. She had one more place to visit before she returned to her desk.

Hill Point was a sprawling apartment complex built during the highs of the Celtic Tiger. The white-painted walls now looked sad and grey, but she knew there wasn’t a spare room to be had in any of the apartments above the commercial units.

She parked, and entered the SunUp studio. It was marketed as high-end deluxe on their website, and never having set foot in a yoga studio before, Lottie found the decor matched her imagination. She felt she could relax here. As if she’d ever have the time to indulge in relaxation and mindfulness.

Green-leafed plants, which on closer inspection proved to be plastic and dusty, were draped all around the tight foyer. The chairs were orange felt and chrome. Through the glass at the lower end of the reception desk she could see the long legs of the startlingly beautiful woman seated there. In her frayed jeans, black ankle boots – she couldn’t find her shoes when leaving the house – and Sean’s Batman hoodie once again tied around her shoulders over a greyish-white T-shirt, Lottie felt like a Z-list actor who’d walked onto the wrong film set. And she couldn’t help thinking that SunUp was desperately trying to be something it was not.

She flashed her ID badge. Up close, she noticed that the woman’s face was caked in thick foundation. If you peeled it off, you might find a different person buried underneath. She blamed Instagram celebrities with their beauty collaborations. Even her daughters fell victim to the hard sell.

The woman opened her crimson-glossed lips and bared her veneers in a tight smile. A flat accent emerged from her mouth. ‘You’d be wanting to speak to Owen, would you?’

‘I must do. Is he here?’

‘Where else would he be? This is his paradise lost.’ She made air quotes.

Lottie vaguely remembered reading an excerpt from Milton’s poem for her Leaving Cert a million years ago. The fall of mankind brought about by Adam and Eve? Mmm.

The PA pressed a button on her console. ‘There’s a detective here to talk to you, Owen. Yeah. Grand, so.’ She hung up and pointed to a door. ‘He’s in there. Be warned.’

‘What?’

‘He’s in a pose.’

Lottie knocked on the door and entered without waiting for a reply. Inside, a man wearing black leggings and a sleeveless gym top was upside down in a handstand against the wall.

‘I’ll be thirty seconds,’ he said.

Lottie listened to the soft pan-pipe music as she glanced around. A phone lay on the floor beside him, and from her angle she couldn’t make out his features. She counted to thirty in her head, and he must have been doing likewise, because he suddenly folded over, let his feet fall to the floor and stood upright.

He held out a sweaty hand. ‘Owen Dalton. How can I help you?’

Lottie introduced herself, adding, ‘I want to ask you about a client of yours. Éilis Lawlor.’

‘I have a huge clientele, so I don’t know everyone personally. I’ll have to check the members list.’

‘I’d appreciate that.’

He moved smoothly around a narrow glass desk to sit on an inversion chair. She recognised it as one used by people with back trouble. So much for the yoga, she thought.

As he brought up a document on a silver-backed MacBook Pro, Lottie noticed his thin, almost gaunt face crease with a frown. He had a goatee beard and dark curly hair. His long fingers ceased tapping. He looked at her. Blue eyes so light they were almost transparent quizzed her without a word. She waited him out, and at last he broke the silence.

‘Can I enquire as to why you’re asking about Mrs Lawlor?’

‘She hasn’t been in contact with her family for over twenty-four hours. I believe she is a member here. When was she last at a class?’

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