Someone You Know by Brian McGilloway Page B

Gobnascale. She was in her mid-thirties, at most, dressed in a heavy white dressing gown over her pyjamas. She wore thick grey bed socks into which she had tucked the legs of her pink pyjama bottoms. Her legs were crossed, the foot of the upper leg jittering as she spoke.
    â€˜The school phoned just after lunch to say she’s been off all day. I thought maybe she’d bunked off with friends.’
    â€˜Had she bunked off before?’ Lucy asked.
    Finn shrugged lightly. ‘A few times, maybe.’
    â€˜And she’s not been in touch since?’
    The woman shook her head. ‘I checked when I got in from the shops but she weren’t in her room. She normally gets herself back in from school and that.’
    â€˜So when was the last time you saw her?’
    The woman reached across to the pack of cigarettes on the table next to the sofa and withdrew one, shaking it free of the pack. She lit it, dragged deeply, then held it between the fingers of the hand resting on her knee. Lucy couldn’t help but notice that her nails looked freshly painted. She glanced across to where the cigarette box sat and, sure enough, a bottle of nail polish stood behind them. If she’d been concerned by the news of her daughter’s absence from school, it hadn’t affected her cosmetics routine.
    â€˜Last night some time.’
    â€˜Last night?’ Fleming asked, glancing at his watch. It was almost three. ‘What time?’
    â€˜Before seven, maybe. She were going out with her friends.’
    â€˜You didn’t see her come home last night?’
    â€˜I went to bed early.’
    â€˜And this morning? Was she home this morning?’
    The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She normally sorts herself out in the morning.’
    â€˜Was her bed made or unmade?’ Lucy asked. ‘Had she slept in it?’
    Again a shrug. ‘I don’t know. It was made, I think. But she always makes it.’
    â€˜Has she ever run away before?’ Lucy asked.
    â€˜Never.’
    â€˜So you last saw her before seven last night. Almost twenty hours ago,’ Fleming said.
    The woman laughed 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.’
    â€˜Did she?’
    â€˜Did she what?’
    â€˜Go to the club?’
    â€˜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