Chapter 15
Susan
Thursday
From a corner table in the empty pub, I phone the garda station and ask to speak to Detective Kellerman.
Going back over the whole story—my message about Celeste, the broken window, the threatening text, the two Oakparks, Savannah’s death and now the connection between Warren and murder victim Aimee, it sounds incontrovertible.
At least to me—the person caught in the middle—it does. But Detective Kellerman is reticent.
“Thanks for passing this on, Ms. O’Donnell. I’ve taken note, and we’ll see you tomorrow, as planned, unless we need something sooner.”
I suppose gardaí aren’t going to give much away, but I come off the phone sick and deflated and worried.
The barman brings us two coffees and apologizes again for passing on the shocking news.
“I didn’t realize you knew poor Aimee, god rest her.”
“Don’t worry at all,” Leesa says, “but could you give us Venetia’s address, so we can send a condolence card? I don’t want to intrude with a call.”
“Sure, of course. I don’t know the postal address, but she’s down the road there, the cottages in Coal Place.” He points to his left. “The first one in the row is hers. Lives there with her husband. Foreign fella. You could walk past and check the address for your card?”
· · ·
We finish our coffees and do as he suggests—walk toward the row of pretty terraced cottages in Coal Place, stopping for a moment outside the first one.
It looks a little shabby beside its pristine neighbor, in need of a fresh coat of paint, but otherwise, just a normal house on a normal road, and it’s hard to believe that inside is a woman whose sister has just been murdered.
“Should we knock in?” Leesa whispers.
I shake my head. “God, no. We don’t know her; it would be insensitive. And I…I need to stay out of it, not draw more attention to myself.”
· · ·
That evening, Greta calls in at ours just after Jon gets home from work.
They chat in the hall for a bit, voices hushed.
I’m in the sitting room, cross-legged on the couch, still numb.
When they join me, Greta beside me, Jon on the other couch, I fill them in on the day’s events.
The long version. I’d texted both of them earlier with the news that Aimee—PR girl of my message—is a murder victim.
“I’m really worried now that there’s a link with me.” I pull a cushion on to my lap and briefly bury my head in it. “That Savannah and Aimee and Aimee’s husband—Rory was his name—were somehow, bizarrely, killed because of my message. I need to understand how all of this is connected if not by me.”
They both nod, indicating listening rather than agreement, I think, but I’d really rather they tell me I’m wrong.
I play devil’s advocate to my own argument. “Of course, it might all be coincidence. Because it doesn’t really make sense—why would someone kill Aimee and Rory just because she was mentioned in a message?”
Jon speaks gently now. “Could it have been murder-suicide? Like…” He swallows. “Could it be that Rory saw a screenshot of your message, thought Aimee was cheating, lost it, killed her, then killed himself?”
I let out a slow, controlled breath. “It wasn’t suicide, from what I’ve read online.
It’s not mentioned in the news reports, but people are saying Rory and Aimee were hit with the same weapon.
So it can’t be self-inflicted. I guess it could be speculation or maybe a leak, or even the person who found the bodies, but if it’s true, both of them were murdered. ”
“That’s…better, I think?” Jon says, and though it sounds awful, I know what he means. Because the idea that Rory killed his wife, as a direct result of my message, is too hideous to contemplate.