Chapter 8: Fitzwilliam Square

Cian looked up over Cecily's shoulder, through the bay window, straight at the hedge where I stood.

He saw me.

He didn't look away, and he didn't let go of her hand.

I walked to the Dart station along the sea wall with my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached.

He rang four times on Sunday.

I let it ring.

On Monday morning I walked into his office on Fitzwilliam Square without an appointment.

It was the first floor of a Georgian house, with tall windows over the square and the trees going gold.

There were still packing boxes against one wall. A rowing machine stood in the corner.

On the desk was a framed photo of a small pub with a red front, and a Cork registration on the van outside it.

His assistant half rose from her desk.

"Ms Bourke, he's on a call..."

"He'll want to hang up," I said, and opened his door.

Cian was standing at the window with a phone to his ear.

He looked at me and said into it, "I'll ring you back," and put it down.

"Number one," I said. "You don't put a cent into the Fitzsimonses."

"I didn't."

"You walked into my mother's house on Cecily's arm."

"I did."

"She kissed you."

"She did. On the cheek. Like a nun at a funeral."

He came around the desk, but not close.

"Will I tell you, or will you shout first?"

"I'll shout after."

"Fair enough."

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Cecily rang me on Saturday morning. She offered me the Fitzsimons Collection for one point two million, cash, off the books."

"Paid where?"

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