Page 19 of Three Widows

He topped his cigar and shoved it into his stained shirt pocket, then took a deep breath of air before heading inside. Hopefully no one would notice him sneaking back in.

As luck would have it, Sam McKeown was the first person he bumped into. He was standing in front of the photos tacked to the incident board.

‘She was stunning,’ McKeown said.

‘You don’t have to talk about her physical appearance. It denigrates her.’

‘You’re turning into a grumpy old man, Kirby. You need to get laid.’

Kirby smirked. If McKeown only knew. ‘You’re one to talk. You aren’t satisfied with your wife and kids, so you have to target the young women who work here.’

‘I can’t help it if you’re jealous of me and Martina.’

‘And what about your wife? Ever stop to think what you’re doing to her?’

‘That’s the problem with you, Kirby, you can’t deal with the fact that I have two beautiful women fawning over me while you can’t get anyone.’

Kirby turned on his heel to leave. The conversation was travelling one way – downhill – and he wasn’t in the humour for fisticuffs. He feared he might blurt out about Amy. No way was he going to let McKeown belittle her with his narrow-minded standards based entirely on looks.

At the door, though, he couldn’t help himself. ‘You need to watch out, McKeown. You can only ride your luck so far, and you’re fast running out of a clear road ahead.’

McKeown’s shaved head blazed and his mouth flattened in an angry line. He swallowed his lips as he spoke through his teeth. ‘Take this advice for nothing, Kirby. Watch your back. I wouldn’t be too clever around me if I was you.’

Feeling the flush rise up his cheeks and his chest tighten, Kirby scrunched his hands into fists. One good punch and he’d land McKeown on his back. But McKeown was taller and fitter, and Kirby would certainly suffer the worst of the battle. Instead, he left the room, banging the door so hard he heard the windows rattle. He needed a strong coffee. Three shots. Nothing less.

* * *

Orla had ended up skipping yoga. The sound of sirens and the screech of vehicles racing through town had put her on edge.

She’d walked as far as Ballyglass Business Park, where the emergency vehicles had headed, and then back into town. She’d mooched aimlessly through a few shops before entering Fayne’s café. Sitting on a stool by the window, she’d thrown her yoga gear at her feet and stared out at the day stealing away from her.

Sipping her strong coffee, she felt the presence of someone beside her. She nodded to the man who questioned with his eyes for permission to sit. He was burly and sweating but smelled okay. She knew him, though it was obvious he hadn’t yet recognised her. Or maybe he was just distracted.

‘Turned out nice after all the rain,’ he said, and slurped his black coffee.

She remained silent. He seemed to get the message. Side-eyeing him, she noticed that he was scrolling on his phone with stubby fingers. A pearl of sweat fell from his bushy hair onto the screen, and he swiped it away.

‘Are you all right?’ she couldn’t help but ask. ‘You’re not ill or anything, are you?’

‘Hung-over,’ he said, with a smile.

He actually had a lovely smile; it lit up his face, but she recognised the effects of alcohol in his eyes. Bloodshot.

‘Same,’ she said. ‘I backed out of my yoga class this morning. Actually, I know who you are.’

‘If you were in any of the pubs last night, you might have bumped into me.’

Here was the bloody detective who had worked on her husband’s case, and he didn’t even remember her.

‘Do you recall the disappearance of Tyler Keating?’ she asked

He scrunched his lips up to his nose and squinted as if trying to dredge up a face. Then he seemed to get the connection. ‘Of course I do. You’re his wife. Orla, isn’t it? Your husband disappeared… twelve months ago now? Left home to go to the airport and hasn’t been seen since.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘I’m afraid there’s no news. We never found his car and he never boarded the plane. We did all we could. I’m sorry.’

‘Looks like he slipped down your order of priority.’

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