Elegy for April by Benjamin Black

look.”
     
“How did you get in?”
     
“She leaves a key under a stone, for her friends,” Quirke said. “My daughter came with us, to show us where the key was.”
     
“And? “
     
Hackett hesitated. “I think, Mr. Latimer, there’s cause for concern.”
     
Latimer glanced at his watch. “Concern over what?”
     
“It didn’t look to us like she’s gone away,” Hackett said. “There are two suitcases in the wardrobe in her room. And all her makeup and stuff is there— I can’t imagine a girl going off without her lipstick.”
     
“Maybe she’s staying with a friend? Or as I said already, maybe she’s shacked up somewhere with some fellow.”
     
“Either way she’d have taken her things with her.”
     
The politician and the policeman eyed each other levelly.
     
“Then where the hell is she?” Latimer demanded angrily.
     
They all had finished their cigarettes, and now Quirke broughtout his silver case and offered it round. Latimer rose with a sigh and went to the fireplace and stood leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece, looking into the burning heart of the coals. “That little bitch has caused nothing but trouble since the day she was born. Her father dying didn’t help— she was only nine or ten, I think it was. Who knows what it does to a child when she loses her father? That’s the charitable view. I’m inclined to think she’d have been the same even if Conor had lived.” He put a hand into his trousers pocket and nervously jingled coins. “It’s in the blood,” he said. “Her grandfather, my father, was a gambler and a drunkard.” He gave his empty laugh again. “The sins of the fathers, eh?” He looked at Hackett. “What else did you find?”
     
Again Hackett hesitated. “There was a bloodstain beside her bed.”
     
Latimer stared. “Blood?”
     
“Cleaned up,” the policeman said. “But of course you can’t ever really get rid of blood, as I’m sure you know. It always leaves a telltale trace”—he glanced at Quirke—”isn’t that so, Doctor?”
     
With a violent movement Latimer pushed himself away from the mantelpiece and began to pace the room, so that Quirke and the policeman had to swivel on their chairs to keep him in view. He stopped, staring at the floor and scowling. “What about the bed?” he asked. “Was there blood there, too?”
     
“You’d expect that, wouldn’t you, if it was on the floor,” Hackett said, “but I didn’t find any. Only between the floorboards. I have a couple of my fellows in there now, going over the place.”
     
Latimer set off pacing again, smoking his cigarette tightly in rapid, sharp drags. “This is not what I expected to hear,” he said, as if speaking to himself. “This is serious.” He stopped, turned. “It is serious, isn’t it?”
     
Hackett lifted his shoulders and let them drop again. “We’ll have to see what the forensics fellows say. I’ll have their report tomorrow.”
     
“Who are they,” Latimer asked sharply, “these fellows? They’ll report direct to you, yes?— they won’t go blabbing around the place?” Inspector Hackett chose not to reply but sat as stolid as a bullfrog, gazing before him. “I mean,” Latimer said, “I wouldn’t want Celia to hear any tittle-tattle before … before there was anything official known.”
     
Quirke could see him going over in his mind the implications for himself and his reputation should it turn out that his niece had come to a scandalous end.
     
“Mr. Latimer,” Quirke said, “how much do you know about your niece, about the way she lives, and who she knows?”
     
Latimer turned on him. His brow was flushed, and there was an ugly light in his eyes. “Are you the detective now, asking the questions? Why are you here, anyway?”
     
Quirke gave him a long look. “My daughter came to me,” he said quietly, “because she was worried about her friend, and wanted me to do something.”
     
“So you called in the Guards before you even spoke to the family.”
     
“I spoke to April’s brother.”
     
“So you did, yes,” Latimer said