Lake of Sorrows

When they were alone, Brennan sidled to the kitchen door and cracked it open to peer through. Ward heard the sound of a refrigerator opening and closing; then his partner shut the door and came back to sit beside him. She leaned over and said in a whisper: “Three pint bottles of Guinness in the fridge. Does Aileen strike you as a solitary pint drinker, by any chance?” Maureen’s nose for scandal was unrivaled in his experience, and she often picked up cues their male colleagues were just too thick to see.

When Aileen Flood reentered the sitting room a few minutes later carrying a tray, Brennan asked to use the toilet, knowing that Aileen would be too busy with the tea to bother worrying about her.

“I’m sorry,” Ward said, “we shouldn’t be putting you to so much trouble. We’re only here to ask a few questions as part of the inquiry into the death of Ursula Downes.” He saw Aileen’s tea-pouring hand begin to quake, despite her best efforts to keep it still. Her face looked pinched, and she flushed an unattractive blotchy scarlet. This physiological reaction wasn’t of much use to him; some people started to sweat the moment they saw a policeman, whether they were guilty of anything or not, and Ward suspected Aileen Flood might be one of them.

By the time the tea had been poured around, Brennan had returned from the toilet, and when Aileen Flood’s attention was turned elsewhere she took the opportunity to tell Ward with a subtle shake of the head what she’d found there: nothing.

“Thank you for the tea,” he said. “Now, we have a few questions to ask you about the night of the murder, the twentieth of June. Can you tell us where you were on that night, say from the end of your work day onward?”

“I left the office at five o’clock on Thursday, the usual time, then drove to the shop in Birr for a few things. My sister and her husband were coming over from Banagher for dinner that night. I stopped at the off-license to get some Guinness; that’s what Phil likes to drink. They arrived about seven; we ate our dinner and watched a bit of an old film on television, and they went home about half-ten. Phil does have to be up early in the mornings on the boat.”

She paused, her fingers twisting the fringe of a plump, perfect pillow that lay beside her on the chair, and suddenly her soft face looked as if it were about to crumple in on itself. “I know what Owen said when you came to him in the office, that he was on his own on Thursday night, but it isn’t true. He was here with me. He said he didn’t want to involve me in this mess, but I told him it’s no use; I’m already involved.”

“You’re telling us that you’ve been sleeping with your boss?” Maureen asked, her voice as flat as she could make it. “How long has that been going on?”

Tears streaked down Aileen Flood’s face as she answered. “Since last March. He had a bit too much to drink at a farewell party for one of the other regional managers. His wife never comes along to any official functions anymore, and he really was in no state to be driving himself, so I gave him a lift, and it just happened.”

Brennan said, “I suppose he comes here to see you, here to the house?”

“Yes, of course. He doesn’t generally stay over, but he did on Thursday—the night you’re talking about, the twentieth. He arrived after my sister left—about half-eleven it was—and left again about seven in the morning. He was with me all night, I’ll swear it. His marriage was a sham, and everyone knew it, including his wife, so it didn’t seem wrong. A person deserves a little happiness.” Ward couldn’t decide if she was speaking about Owen Cadogan or herself.

“So everything had been going fine since March. Your neighbors must have seen Cadogan’s car here a few times, then?” Brennan asked.

“I’m sure they must have.”

“Does he keep any of his things here—spare clothes, a razor, a toothbrush?”

“I said he doesn’t usually stay the night.” Ward thought he heard Aileen’s voice catch in her throat. He knew where Brennan was going, and knew it was his turn to take up the questioning.

“You must have been quite surprised when Ursula Downes came back to Loughnabrone this summer.”

Aileen Flood’s voice and expression hardened in a single heartbeat. “Why should that be of any concern to me?”

“Because you know what happened last summer, when all Ursula Downes had to do was crook her little finger…”

The fierce battle Aileen was waging with herself was visible on her face. “Owen was through with her. He’d no interest in Ursula; he said he hated her.”

“Hated her enough to kill her?”

“No, I didn’t mean that.” Aileen was evidently having trouble keeping a lid on her own pent-up emotions about Ursula Downes. Ward realized they’d never considered the possibility that the crime had been committed by another woman—or by two people working as a team.

“Did you help Owen murder Ursula?”

“No! I told you—”

“You both hated her, did you not?”