Sam has a lovely light touch with interviews, when he wants to, and he wanted to that day. He kept it easy, casual, nonthreatening. Would you have any ideas, any at all, about who might have stabbed Miss Madison? What are they like, those five up at Whitethorn House? Have you seen anyone you didn’t recognize, hanging around Glenskehy? The impression he gave, subtly but clearly, was that the investigation was starting to wind down.
Bannon mainly answered in irritable grunts; McArdle was less Neanderthal and more bored. Both of them claimed to have no clue about anything, ever. I only half listened. If there was anything there, Sam would spot it; all I wanted was a look at John Naylor, and at the expression on his face when he saw me. I arranged myself in the cracked chair with my legs stretched out, trying to look like I’d been dragged in for more pointless questions, and waited.
Bannon was in fact an ugly great lump: a serious beer belly surrounded by muscles and topped off with a potato head. When Sam ushered him out of the interview room and he saw me, he did a double take and shot me a vicious, disgusted sneer; he knew who Lexie Madison was, all right, and he didn’t like her. McArdle, on the other hand-he was a long skinny streak of a guy, with a straggly attempt at a beard-gave me a vague nod and shambled off. I got back behind the desk and waited for Naylor.
His interview was a lot like the others: seen nothing, heard nothing, know nothing. He had a nice voice, a quick baritone with the Glenskehy accent I was starting to know-harsher than most of Wicklow, wilder-and an edge of tension. Then Sam wound it up and opened the interview-room door.
Naylor was average height, wiry, wearing jeans and a baggy, colorless sweater. He had a mop of tangled red-brown hair and a rough, bony face: high cheekbones, wide mouth, narrow green eyes under heavy eyebrows. I didn’t know what Lexie’s taste in men had been like, but there was no question, this guy was attractive.
Then he saw me. His eyes widened and he gave me a stare that almost slammed me back in my seat. The intensity of it: this could have been hatred, love, fury, terror, all of them at once, but it wasn’t Bannon’s narky little sneer, nothing like it. There was passion there, bright and roaring like an alarm flare.
“What do you think?” Sam asked, watching Naylor stride across the road towards a muddy ’89 Ford that was worth maybe fifty quid in scrap metal, on a good day.
What I thought, mainly, was that I was pretty sure where that prickle at the back of my neck had been coming from. “Unless McArdle’s very good at faking on his feet,” I said, “I think you can move him to the bottom of the list. I’d bet money he didn’t have a clue who I was-and even if your vandal’s not our guy, he’s been paying a lot of attention to the house. He’d know my face.”
“Like Bannon and Naylor did,” said Sam. “And they weren’t one bit pleased to see you.”
“They’re from Glenskehy,” Byrne said gloomily, behind us. “They’re never pleased to see anyone, sure. And no one’s ever pleased to see them.”
“I’m starving,” Sam said. “Come for lunch?”
I shook my head. “I can’t. Rafe’s already texted me, wanting to know if everything’s OK. I told him I was still in the waiting room, but if I don’t get into college soon, they’re going to head down to Wicklow Hospital looking for me.”
Sam took a breath, straightened his shoulders. “Right,” he said. “We’ve knocked one out of the running, anyway; only two to go. I’ll give you a lift into town.”
Nobody asked, when I got into the library; the others nodded at me like I’d been out on a smoke break. My snit fit at Justin, the night before, had made its point.
He was still sulking at me. I ignored it all afternoon: the silent treatment makes me tense as hell, but Lexie’s stubbornness would never have cracked, just her attention span. I finally snapped over dinner-stew, so thick that it barely counted as a liquid; the whole house smelled wonderful, rich and warm. “Is there enough for seconds?” I asked Justin.
He shrugged, not looking at me. “Drama queen,” Rafe said, under his breath.
“Justin,” I said. “Are you still mad because I was a snotty cow last night?”
Another shrug. Abby, who had been reaching to pass me the stew pot, put it down.
“I was scared, Justin. I was worried I’d go in there today and the doctors would say there was something wrong and I’d need another operation or something.” I saw him glance up, a quick anxious flick, before he went back to turning his bread into little pellets. “I couldn’t handle you being scared as well. I’m really, really sorry. Forgive me?”
“Well,” he said after a moment, with a tiny half smile. “I suppose so.” He leaned over to put the stew pot beside my plate. “Now. Finish that off.”
“And what did the doctors say?” Daniel asked. “You don’t need more surgery, do you?”
