Heathen/Nemesis

Twenty-Nine

As the two women approached the door, Donna noticed it was indeed ajar. From inside there was very little sound; just the soft rustling of paper on paper. Occasionally there came the furtive squeaking of a drawer or filing cabinet. Then there was silence.

Donna pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The man turned slowly and looked directly at her.

He was tall, his hair short and dark, cropped close at the nape of his neck. He had a thin face which rested on a very thick neck. Instead of looking surprised by the discovery, he met Donna’s gaze with one of such intensity as to make her appear the intruder.

‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ she snapped, looking first at the man and then at the office.

He still had a piece of paper in his hand, taken from one of the open drawers in Chris’s desk.

‘Who gave you permission to break in here?’ Donna hissed angrily.

The man smiled.

‘I’d scarcely call it breaking in, Mrs Ward,’ he said, his lip curling contemptuously. ‘I realize that perhaps I should have asked your permission first, but you seemed otherwise engaged.’ He made a theatrical show of dropping the piece of paper back onto the desk.

‘Get out of here now,’ she said, her angry stare never leaving the man.

‘If you’d just let me explain,’ he began.

‘There’s nothing to explain,’ she told him. ‘Now get out of here before I call the police. How dare you do this?’

The man looked at Julie, then back at Donna.

‘I was looking for something which belonged to me,’ he said evenly. ‘Your husband and I had been working together. He’d borrowed some reference books from me.’

‘Working together?’ Donna said incredulously. ‘Chris always worked alone. He never mentioned you or anyone else that he was working with. What’s your name?’

‘Peter Farrell. Your husband must have mentioned me at some time,’ the man said, smoothing his short hair down with a large hand.

Donna shook her head.

‘Why were you going through his papers?’ she demanded.

‘I told you,’ Farrell insisted. ‘I was looking for the books I lent him. I didn’t want to trouble you. You seem to have enough to worry about.’

‘Thanks for the concern,’ Donna said, sarcastically. ‘So, instead of worrying me you thought you’d just come up here and break into my husband’s office?’

Farrell laughed and shook his head.

‘Don’t laugh at me, you bastard,’ Donna snapped. ‘If you’re not out of this room, if you’re not out of this house in one minute, I’m calling the police.’

Farrell shrugged and immediately headed for the door, holding Donna in that steely gaze for a second before passing by.

‘I’d like the books back, Mrs Ward,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you my phone number. If you find them, I’d appreciate a call.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out what looked like a business card. On the back he wrote a number and his name and then passed it to Donna.

‘What are the books called?’ she wanted to know.

‘They’re books about paintings. Catalogues. As I said, if you find them I’d appreciate a call.’ He walked briskly towards the staircase and descended. Donna watched him from the landing.

‘Do you know him?’ Julie asked.

Donna shook her head. She glanced down at the name and number written on the card.

PETER FARRELL

Books about paintings?

‘Jesus Christ,’ Donna murmured.

‘What is it?’ Julie asked, looking concerned.

Books about paintings.

What was the entry in Ward’s diary? JAMES WORSDALE: DUBLIN NATIONAL GALLERY.

Coincidence?

She looked over the bannister again and saw Farrell leaving, followed by two other men. The ones that had been at the funeral.

Donna walked across to the window on the landing and peered out, watching the three men as they clambered into a blue Sierra. Farrell sat in the passenger seat, glancing round once as the car pulled away.

A look of realization crossed Donna’s face and she spun round, hurrying to the bedroom where she pulled open the bedside cabinet.

The photos she’d taken from Chris’s office and Suzanne Regan’s flat were there; she spread them out on the bed.

‘I knew it,’ Donna said softly, her voice barely audible.

‘Look.’

She pointed to the photos of Chris and the five other men.

‘I knew it,’ she said again, more forcefully this time.

She recognised the dark cropped hair, the thin face and bull neck.

The image of Peter Farrell glared back at her from the photos.