embarrassedly. ‘It sounds bad when you say it like that. She went out to the local youth club. I went to bed early last night.’
‘Did she?’
‘Did she what?’
‘Go to the club?’
‘I don’t know,’ the woman said, blankly.
Fleming moved from the window, finally, and sat on the armchair against the opposite wall. ‘You might be best to check,’ he said.
Sinead Finn dragged again on her cigarette, then folded it into the ashtray balancing on the arm of the sofa. She rooted through the pocket of her gown until she produced a mobile phone.
While she rang Sarah’s friend, Lucy glanced around the room. It was cramped, the three-piece suite on which she sat much too big for the room. An electric fire flickered on the hearth. Above it, on the mantelpiece, a small gold carriage clock squatted, the lower works spinning back and forth. It was framed on either side by two small pictures. One was of Sinead Finn herself and a man.
Lucy struggled out of the seat, went across to the mantelpiece and lifted the photograph. It looked fairly recent, judging by the appearance of Sinead Finn. The man was small, little taller than Sinead, his head shaved, though the shadow of stubble across his skull carried a reddish sheen. The buzz cut accentuated his ears, which seemed to protrude a little. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth frozen open in a laugh. He stood slightly behind Sinead, his right arm reaching around her neck and across her chest, the bicep flexed protectively in front of her, the hand lightly clasping her left breast.
Lucy put the photograph down and lifted the second. It was, presumably, Sarah Finn, for the person in the picture wore a school uniform. She sat in front of a bookcase, laden with red-spined leather volumes. Lucy guessed it was a screen backdrop used by the school photographer. Sarah was brown haired, her features soft, still carrying a little puppy fat on her face. She looked up at the camera from below her fringe, her mouth frozen in an embarrassed smile.
Lucy turned and handed the picture to Fleming, then returned to her own seat.
‘Linda? Sinead Finn again. Was Sarah at the club with you last night?’
Lucy sat, clasped her hands between her knees. Instinctively she stretched them out towards the fire, then realized it was electric and returned them to between her legs. She could hear the raised murmur of the other speaker for a second as Sinead adjusted the phone against her ear, reaching for another smoke.
‘Well she said she was going with you,’ Sinead said.
Linda obviously took exception to this last comment for her voice became loud enough for them to hear.
‘She said she was with you,’ Sinead countered, raising her voice too, as if in so doing, she could convince Linda that she was mistaken and that Sarah had indeed been at the club.
Sinead snapped the phone shut and, lifting her lighter, lit the cigarette.
‘She weren’t there at all,’ she explained, unnecessarily.
‘Has Sarah a phone? Have you tried calling her?’ Lucy asked.
‘I’m not bloody thick,’ the woman snapped. ‘Of course I tried. There’s no answer. I’ve left her a message to call me, but nothing yet.’
Fleming nodded. ‘So you didn’t notice that she hadn’t come home last night?’
Sinead Finn stared at him a moment, teasing out the implied criticism of his question. ‘Sometimes she’s home late,’ she explained. ‘The friends she runs around with and that.’
Fleming rose from the seat a little sullenly, crossed to the window and turned his attention again to the road outside.
‘Is this Sarah?’ Lucy asked, lifting the picture from the arm of the chair where Fleming had left it.
Sinead smiled. ‘That’s her. She looks so pretty.’
Lucy nodded in agreement. ‘She’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Is it a recent picture?’
‘A few months ago just. The start of the new term.’
‘Can we hold on to this, to show people if we need to ask around?’
Sinead nodded. ‘Seamy, my
‘Did she?’
‘Did she what?’
‘Go to the club?’
‘I don’t know,’ the woman said, blankly.
Fleming moved from the window, finally, and sat on the armchair against the opposite wall. ‘You might be best to check,’ he said.
Sinead Finn dragged again on her cigarette, then folded it into the ashtray balancing on the arm of the sofa. She rooted through the pocket of her gown until she produced a mobile phone.
While she rang Sarah’s friend, Lucy glanced around the room. It was cramped, the three-piece suite on which she sat much too big for the room. An electric fire flickered on the hearth. Above it, on the mantelpiece, a small gold carriage clock squatted, the lower works spinning back and forth. It was framed on either side by two small pictures. One was of Sinead Finn herself and a man.
Lucy struggled out of the seat, went across to the mantelpiece and lifted the photograph. It looked fairly recent, judging by the appearance of Sinead Finn. The man was small, little taller than Sinead, his head shaved, though the shadow of stubble across his skull carried a reddish sheen. The buzz cut accentuated his ears, which seemed to protrude a little. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth frozen open in a laugh. He stood slightly behind Sinead, his right arm reaching around her neck and across her chest, the bicep flexed protectively in front of her, the hand lightly clasping her left breast.
Lucy put the photograph down and lifted the second. It was, presumably, Sarah Finn, for the person in the picture wore a school uniform. She sat in front of a bookcase, laden with red-spined leather volumes. Lucy guessed it was a screen backdrop used by the school photographer. Sarah was brown haired, her features soft, still carrying a little puppy fat on her face. She looked up at the camera from below her fringe, her mouth frozen in an embarrassed smile.
Lucy turned and handed the picture to Fleming, then returned to her own seat.
‘Linda? Sinead Finn again. Was Sarah at the club with you last night?’
Lucy sat, clasped her hands between her knees. Instinctively she stretched them out towards the fire, then realized it was electric and returned them to between her legs. She could hear the raised murmur of the other speaker for a second as Sinead adjusted the phone against her ear, reaching for another smoke.
‘Well she said she was going with you,’ Sinead said.
Linda obviously took exception to this last comment for her voice became loud enough for them to hear.
‘She said she was with you,’ Sinead countered, raising her voice too, as if in so doing, she could convince Linda that she was mistaken and that Sarah had indeed been at the club.
Sinead snapped the phone shut and, lifting her lighter, lit the cigarette.
‘She weren’t there at all,’ she explained, unnecessarily.
‘Has Sarah a phone? Have you tried calling her?’ Lucy asked.
‘I’m not bloody thick,’ the woman snapped. ‘Of course I tried. There’s no answer. I’ve left her a message to call me, but nothing yet.’
Fleming nodded. ‘So you didn’t notice that she hadn’t come home last night?’
Sinead Finn stared at him a moment, teasing out the implied criticism of his question. ‘Sometimes she’s home late,’ she explained. ‘The friends she runs around with and that.’
Fleming rose from the seat a little sullenly, crossed to the window and turned his attention again to the road outside.
‘Is this Sarah?’ Lucy asked, lifting the picture from the arm of the chair where Fleming had left it.
Sinead smiled. ‘That’s her. She looks so pretty.’
Lucy nodded in agreement. ‘She’s lovely,’ she said. ‘Is it a recent picture?’
‘A few months ago just. The start of the new term.’
‘Can we hold on to this, to show people if we need to ask around?’
Sinead nodded. ‘Seamy, my
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