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determined to become the most successful, most highly regarded estate agent in the entire region of Coolnamara. Because, after all, bricks and mortar were the only things that could be depended upon. Property was the most solid, most tangible, most proven form of investment there was, and Dervla craved constancy in her life. Other women sought constancy in the shape of a husband and children, but Dervla knew that there was no such thing as constancy in families. Her daddy had disregarded her, her mother had abandoned her, and her sister had betrayed her. Her ultimate aim was to own a house so classy that it would announce to the world that, in terms of self-sufficiency, she–Dervla Kinsella–was at the top of her game.
    And Dervla had achieved that ultimate aim. She had set up on her own, worked her ass off, and assembled a team of razor-sharp agents. Her name was writ large on ‘For Sale’ boards all over the Galway/Coolnamara region, many of which boasted ‘Sale Agreed’ or ‘Sold’ banners. She hadn’t found her dream house yet, but she had found its urban equivalent in a gleaming penthouse apartment in a newly fashionable area of Galway city.
    ‘You do realise that we’ll have to clear the place before the funeral?’ she said, resuming scrutiny of her father’s scuffed front door. Behind that door, she knew, lurked unspeakable chaos.
    ‘Oh God.’ Río started swinging a scarlet-shod foot. ‘Can’t we leave it until afterwards?’
    ‘Of course not. We’ll be having the wake there. When was the last time you visited Dad, incidentally?’
    ‘A couple of days ago. I brought him some chicken casserole.’
    ‘So you know what kind of state it’s in?’
    ‘Yes. Worse than Francis Bacon’s studio. I volunteered to clean up for him, but he told me to eff off, as usual.’
    ‘That’s what he told me when I last visited, bearing Tesco’s Finest lasagne.’
    ‘Did you bring him the lamb chops?’
    ‘No, thank God. Did you?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, at least neither of us is guilty of patricide.’ Dervla gave her sister a grim smile, then swung herself off the sea wall. ‘C’mon, Río. Let’s get cracking.’
    Leading the way across the road, she produced a key from her bag, and inserted it in the lock. Next door, she saw a net curtain twitch, revealing the sparkle of Christmas tree lights. She hoped that her neighbour had invited her father in for mince pies and mulled wine at some point over the Christmas period.
    ‘Mrs Murphy’s on our case,’ she observed. ‘We’d better say hello.’
    ‘Maybe she brought him the chops,’ Río said in an undertone.
    Mrs Murphy emerged onto her front step, wiping her hands on her apron, and wearing a lugubrious expression. Dervla found herself wondering why her father’s neighbour had phoned her in her Galway office with the news that Frank had popped his clogs, rather than phoning Río, who lived just down the road. But when she saw Mrs Murphy glance reprovingly at Río’s red shoes, she concluded that it must be because Río had alwaysbeen seen as the less responsible of the two sisters. She, Dervla, was the sensible one, while Río was the flibbertigibbet. Dervla was the level-headed career girl, Río the boho vagabond. It made sense to contact Dervla rather than the giddy one on an occasion that required a degree of gravitas.
    ‘I’m sorry for your trouble, girls,’ said Mrs Murphy. ‘Will you come in for a cup of tea?’
    Dervla returned her doleful smile. ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Murphy, but we’d best be getting stuck in to cleaning.’
    ‘I managed to tidy the upstairs a little, after your father…you know.’
    The sisters nodded solemnly. ‘Thank you so much. And thank you for taking care of the removal and—’
    ‘I would have done the downstairs too,’ resumed Mrs Murphy hastily, clearly reluctant to dwell on any morbid particulars, ‘but my back started giving me gyp. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help.’
    ‘No