Chapter 6: The Forty Foot

Fintan's face went from red to white.

"Get out. Both of you."

I stood up from the crate and laid the Wedding Cup back in its tissue, slowly, because my hands wanted to shake.

Ottoline took out her phone and dialled a number from memory.

"Good evening. Fitzsimons & Sons, policy ending four-four-one. I'm reporting the whole collection at risk of removal without a condition report."

She looked at Fintan while she listened.

"Yes, tonight. Thank you. Eight o'clock is lovely."

She hung up.

"The insurer's assessor will be here at eight to count it," she told him. "Do try to have it all still here."

We walked down three flights and out into the lane, past the empty van.

Ottoline's house in Stoneybatter was a red-brick terrace with a yellow door and a kitchen the size of a lift.

An elderly whippet lay in a basket by the radiator. It lifted its head, looked at me, and sighed.

"He disapproves of everyone," Ottoline said. "It's not personal."

She put the kettle on and took a bottle of whiskey out of the bread bin.

I sat at her little table with my hands around a mug.

"Tell me."

She poured a measure into each mug, sat down across from me and folded her long fingers.

"Your money landed in the company account on the first of every month. You know that."

"Yes."

"On the second of every month, two thousand seven hundred euro went out to Cecily. Director's fee."

She tapped the table.

"It never went out in a month you didn't pay."

I worked it out without wanting to.

"That's half."

"That's half," Ottoline said. "For six years."

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