Arthur Russell strummed his guitar and listened through the headphones. It was beginning to sound good. Beginning to sound like something worth recording. He still had dreams. Forty-nine and acting like a wannabe world-famous guitarist. That’s me, he thought. Too late to change now.

Flicking a couple of the red switches and sliding a lever on the sound desk, he began again. Crooning to the soft music straining through his headphones.

Still not quite right. Sighing loudly, he tugged at his wiry grey-flecked beard and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, two people were standing before him. He pulled off the headphones, scraping the skin on his shaved head.

‘What do you want? How’d you get in here?’

‘Mr Russell? Arthur Russell?’ said the woman with rain-soaked hair.

‘Who’s asking?’ He placed his guitar on its stand, folded his arms and gently swivelled on his stool.

‘Detective Inspector Lottie Parker,’ the woman said.

He liked the sound of her voice. Deep and melodic. He wondered if she could sing.

‘Detective Sergeant Boyd,’ said the tall wiry man.

He looked more groomed than the woman. Odd pair, Russell thought.

‘You’re trespassing on my property. How did you get in?’

‘Your landlady. Nice set-up you have here,’ the detective inspector said.

‘Mrs Crumb is a loony old bat. What do you want? I haven’t done anything.’

‘Breach of a barring order strike any bells?’ The woman’s voice was higher now. Sneering at him.

He said, ‘I haven’t been next, nigh nor near that house. Ask the wife. Oh, maybe she sent you to shake me up for a few more euros, is that it? Hard luck. I’m broke.’

‘When did you last see your wife?’ the male detective asked.

He wasn’t a singer anyway, Russell mused. And what had this to do with Marian?

‘My wife?’

‘Yes, Mr Russell. Your wife.’

‘Saw her in court about four months ago. Why don’t you ask her?’

‘We would if we could find her.’ The inspector again.

‘Try Tesco or up at the house. Only two places Marian goes.’

‘She’s not at either. When did you last see your mother-in-law?’

‘Hold on a minute… What’s this about?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘No, I won’t answer the question. You’ve no right being here, asking stupid shite. Now get out before I call a solicitor.’

The inspector stepped towards him. Arthur stood his ground.

She said, ‘It’s in your own interests to answer our questions.’

‘Why? Any time I’ve had anything to do with your lot, it’s ended up damn expensive. You and your like cost me my family. I can’t even see my daughter without giving a month’s notice.’ He rolled his fists into tight balls. Chewed hard on the Nicorette gum in his mouth. Blood pumping up through his chest and arms, boiling around in his head. The muscles in his legs making his knee twitch.

‘Why are you so angry?’ The inspector – what was her name? Parker. Yeah. Bitch –took another step into his space. One more and I’ll flatten you, he thought. He shrugged his shoulders instead.

‘I want no trouble.’

‘Where were you last night between six thirty and, say, eleven?’

‘Do I need a solicitor?’

‘Up to you. Have you something to hide?’

Arthur banged his fists against his thighs. ‘You come in here and ask me all these questions. Makes me nervous, that’s all. What would you feel like if someone came into your music shed and did that to you?’

‘I don’t have a music shed,’ she said.

‘Figures.’

‘What do you mean?’

Arthur stood up, his patience finally snapping. ‘You look like you’re too far up your own hole to chill with music. Am I right or am I right? Ha.’

Gone too far, he thought, as she grabbed his shirt and pulled him close to her. He smelled the mint she’d been sucking, masking the staleness of alcohol. A drinker. All the guards were the same. Alcoholic bastards.

‘Take your hands off me this second,’ he said.

She released her grip, dropping her hand without moving away. ‘I’m taking you to the station to make a statement.’

‘What am I supposed to have done, because I sure don’t know?’

‘You refused to answer our questions,’ said the lanky male detective. ‘Last night, where were you?’

Russell picked up his guitar and sat down. ‘I was at work yesterday in Danny’s Bar and I had my dinner with Mrs Crumb around seven thirty. After that, I worked on my music in here. Now get the hell out of my privacy.’

The two detectives looked at each other. Deciding what to do? Pricks, Arthur thought, and put his headphones on. He wheeled the stool away from them, faced his desk and began to sing.

When he turned around again, they’d gone. But he knew, as sure as day follows night or whatever the saying was, they’d be back.

He spat out the gum. Rooted around in his guitar case, found a pack of cigarettes and lit one. His head began to swim and he knew he needed something stronger than nicotine.

‘Fuck you, Marian,’ he said, tugging off the earphones again. ‘You scheming bitch.’

---

‘He’s a piece of work,’ Boyd said, struggling to light a cigarette in the rain.

‘With his hillbilly tartan shirt and his scraggy beard… Who does he think he is?’ Lottie said, pulling up her hood against the downpour.

‘He could do with a wash,’ Boyd said.

‘I couldn’t smell him.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Lottie, you’re drinking again. I’m not blind or stupid. What’s going on?’

The concern etched on his face disturbed her. But she didn’t need him to feel sorry for her. She’d fight this her own way. Like she always did.

‘Mind your own business.’ She ran to the car. Got in and slammed the door.

Boyd joined her. ‘I’ll only say this once,’ he began. ‘I’m here if you need me.’

‘Start the car. We need to do the paperwork on Arthur Russell and check out his so-called alibi.’

‘Your wish is—’

‘Start the car, Boyd.’

‘Maybe we should’ve told him about his dead mother-in-law and his missing wife.’

‘Maybe we were right not to. Let’s see what he does next.’

‘Do you think Marian killed her own mother?’

‘When we find her, why don’t we ask her?’ Lottie stamped her feet up on the dashboard and wondered where she could get more pills.

‘Where to?’ Boyd said.

‘Tessa Ball’s flat.’

‘What about Danny’s Bar? To check Arthur’s alibi.’

‘It can wait. We’ll have lunch there.’

‘Might get it on the house.’ Boyd put the car in gear.

‘You’re a mean shite.’ But she had been thinking the same thing.

‘Bet you were thinking the same,’ Boyd said.

Lottie attempted to hide her smile, but failed. She had to listen to him laughing all the way to St Declan’s Apartments.

---

Lynch ceased her banging on the door and turned round, coming face to face with a woman, key in hand.

‘Can I help you at all?’

‘I’m the temporary family liaison officer assigned to Emma Russell. Do you know where she might be?’

‘I told the other one that we don’t need… Oh, come on in.’ The woman opened the door and ushered her inside. ‘I’m Bernie Kelly.’

Taking off her coat, Lynch hung it over a heap of others on the stair post. ‘I was ringing and knocking but no one answered. I even went down to check at the Russells’. Where is Emma?’

‘In bed, I should think. I don’t know how she’s going to cope with it all.’

‘Can I check?’ Lynch grabbed the other woman’s arm and steered her towards the stairs. ‘I want to be sure she’s safe.’

‘Of course she’s safe in my house. Why wouldn’t she be?’

‘Please have a look.’

‘Emma? Natasha? Are ye awake yet?’ Bernie sauntered up the stairs. Lynch wanted to push past her and run into every room.

‘What’s up, Mum?’

Lynch assumed this was Natasha. The girl appeared on the landing, a black T-shirt for a nightie and her hair a tangled mess around her shoulders. Both thighs were tattooed with a dark red heart dripping blood from the dagger piercing it.

‘Where’s Emma?’ Lynch almost sent Bernie tumbling back down the stairs as she barged past her.

Natasha squinted through one eye, the other seemingly stuck closed with sleep. ‘Who are you?’

‘Detective Maria Lynch, family liaison officer. I need to see Emma. Where is she?’ She couldn’t stop the panic sharpening her voice.

Emma’s bedroom was empty.

‘Is she in another room?’ Without waiting for an answer, she checked the other rooms. All empty. She whipped out her phone and bounded down the stairs past an open-mouthed Bernie Kelly, tapping her phone for Lottie’s number.

‘Hey, just a minute, you, this is my house.’

Lynch felt her ponytail being tugged, and whirled round to launch an attack just as the back door opened and in walked a teenager, holding a plastic supermarket bag in her hand. The smell of fresh bread preceded her entrance.

‘Are you Emma?’

The girl nodded.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Lynch shouted, disconnecting the call before Lottie could answer.

Emma shrank back against the door. Tears suffused the whites of her eyes. ‘Shopping.’

‘And you’ve just assaulted a member of the gardaí,’ Lynch snapped at Bernie Kelly.

‘This is my house! You can’t go barging around like you own the place.’ Bernie marched past Lynch into the kitchen. ‘Come on, let’s have a cup of tea and we can all calm down.’

And that made Lynch even madder.