Now You See Her Page 0,50

head toward the two men and one woman, all dressed in neat, dark blue uniforms, then turned quickly away. She hated uniforms.

“We know that,” the older of the two men admitted after a pause. His name was Christopher Murphy and he was about forty, with close-cropped blond hair and a wide nose that had been broken at least once and not properly reset, so that it veered sharply to the right. He sat on the edge of the wide oak desk that occupied most of the room and smiled at her indulgently.

His teeth could use a good cleaning, she heard Peter say.

“You know that?” Marcy repeated.

“The girl, Shannon Farrell, gave us a statement, said she’d just as soon forget the whole incident.”

“Then what am I doing here?” Marcy was already beginning to rise from her chair. “If you’d just give me back my passport …” She nodded toward the stack of papers on his desk. Her passport was lying open on the top.

“Please sit down, Mrs. Taggart.”

Marcy took a cursory glance around the windowless room, surprised by how familiar it seemed. Why was it that wherever you went in the world, police stations always looked the same? Did they all use the same interior decorator? she wondered. Was there a special handbook that prison authorities gave out to potential designers? Not that she’d seen the insides of many police stations, other than in the movies and on TV.

Just one, Marcy thought with a shudder, stifling the memory before it could take root.

Still, she’d expected something more colorful from a country like Ireland, with its deep sense of history and innate flair for melodrama. The old Cork City Gaol she’d visited with her tour group had been suitably majestic, a three-story castle-like building whose cell walls still boasted their original graffiti, even though its prisoners were now made of wax. In contrast, the new Bridewell Garda Station, on the line of the old city wall on the north channel of the river Lee, was relatively modern in structure and appearance. Unfortunately the station where she was currently being detained was an uninspired combination of the two—ancient without being imposing, modern without being sleek, a muddle of conflicting styles whose end result was no style at all. It was dreary, tired looking, and smelled of body odor and disillusionment.

“I don’t understand. If you already have Shannon’s statement …,” Marcy told the officer, or “garda,” as policemen in Ireland were called. She shifted her gaze toward the female garda standing against the dull green wall. Her name was Colleen Donnelly—lots of Ls, lots of Ns, lots of Es, Marcy had thought when the young woman introduced herself—and she was maybe twenty-five. Surprisingly delicate in appearance, she had pale skin that was liberally sprinkled with freckles and a mouthful of tiny, niblet-like teeth.

Some good veneers would do wonders, Peter observed from behind Marcy’s eyes.

The remaining garda gave his name as John Sweeny, although Marcy noted that his colleagues always referred to him as Johnny. He was about thirty and of average height and weight, although his gut was surprisingly prominent for someone so young. His ruddy complexion gave weight to otherwise bland features, and his mercifully ordinary teeth drew no unsolicited comments from the dark recesses of Marcy’s brain.

As with almost all law enforcement officers in Ireland, none of them was armed. For one giddy moment, Marcy considered making a run for it.

“We can still charge you with disturbing the peace,” Christopher Murphy told her.

“Disturbing the peace? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“A table was overturned, a teapot was smashed, some dishes were broken.”

“I’m the one with the black eye.”

“A regrettable accident.”

“Exactly.”

“What were you doing with the baby, Mrs. Taggart?” Christopher Murphy asked.

“I’ve already told you.…”

He referred to his notes. “Shannon asked you to hold her.”

“Yes. The baby has colic. For some reason, when I hold her, she stops crying.”

“And how do you know Shannon Farrell?” Colleen Donnelly asked.

“I met her in the park a few days ago. We happened to bump into each other again today on St. Patrick’s Street. She asked me if I’d like to go somewhere for a cup of tea. Like an idiot, I said yes.”

“Like an idiot?” Christopher Murphy repeated.

“In light of what happened, yes.”

“What are you doing in Ireland?” asked John Sweeny.

“What?”

“What brings you to Ireland?” he said again, as if they were just two people having an innocently pleasant conversation.

“How is that relevant?”

“Indulge me.”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have lots of time.”

Marcy sighed her resignation. “I’m here on