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on wooden frames, and the master bedroom, which had the same stunning view as the living room, with the addition of a massive abstract canvas on the opposite wall. The painting was two great glowing swabs of red and orange, it had a dark, passionate intensity that was violent and melancholy in almost equal measure, and if I hadn’t known that Linda had probably painted it in an afternoon, I’d’ve thought it was a genuine Rothko. At school Linda used to make a tidy sum knocking off copies of the old masters and selling them to the kind of people who felt a Renoir or a Monet suspended above the mantelpiece would set their suburban lounge off a treat.
    Downstairs, Linda was eating a banana and drinking a cup of coffee — time-out from her drinking. She looked at me, her gaze a little clearer now.
    “Did you find anything? Was there a break-in?”
    “I don’t know. There are three more empty files here.”
    I put them on the table. “The two marked ‘Family’…”
    “Peter kept all his photographs in those. His mum and dad’s wedding, his childhood snaps… are they gone too?”
    “What about ‘Golf Club’?”
    “Don’t know what that’s about. Peter wasn’t in any golf club. He didn’t play golf.”
    “Sure he hadn’t taken it up?”
    “Certain. We still… we hadn’t become complete strangers. Not yet, anyhow.”
    Without knowing I was going to ask it, I said, “Did you and Peter make a decision not to have children?”
    Linda flushed and stared into her coffee for a moment. Then she shook her head and, in a strained, brittle voice, said, “No, they just didn’t come. My fault. Left it too late, maybe. And now I’m… sterile? No, barren. A Barren Woman. And… I guess the air seemed to go out of the marriage after we found that out. I offered Peter a divorce, but he said no. He probably should have said yes, ’cause we’ve been… winding down ever since.”
    “And you were meeting on the Friday to talk about a separation. Did Peter know that was on the agenda?”
    “I’m sure he did. He must have. Why is this relevant?”
    “Because it gives Peter a reason to take off. Avoid the conversation, and by the time he got back—”
    “She’ll have worked it all out by herself. That what you’d do?”
    “That’s what most men do. Lie low until the storm passes.”
    “And are you most men?”
    “I tend to lead with my chin. But this isn’t about me.”
    “Four days. No. He’d have called. Left some message. He wouldn’t leave me to worry like this. He’s a very considerate man. That awful mother of his had it bullied into him.”
    “What about Peter’s parents? Have you spoken to them?”
    “They think I’m overreacting. Barbara said maybe he just needed a break from me. ‘You know the way men can be.’ Then she said if I was really worried, she’d get John to ring the Garda Commissioner. Whatever good that would do.”
    “Does Dawson have that kind of pull?”
    “That’s the whole point, he used to. Story goes, that’s how he did his first big land deal, the houses up on Rathdown Road, back in ’77. Friends in high places, the right palms greased. Those days are gone. Barbara thinks they still have the clout, but I doubt it. Better if they know as little as possible.”
    “They’ll get to know soon enough if I go round asking a lot of questions.”
    “Maybe. You’d be surprised just how isolated they’ve become.”
    “Do you ever use Peter’s computer?”
    “I have a laptop of my own.”
    “Because someone was on it yesterday, at midday. A document titled t-w-i-m-c was adjusted — wiped clean, if there was anything in it to wipe.”
    “Midday. I was at your mum’s funeral.”
    As if I was accusing her. Maybe I was.
    “Anyone else have a key?”
    “Agnes. The cleaner. But she came today.”
    “Where would she have put the trash?”
    Linda smiled. “‘The trash.’ You mightn’t’ve lost your accent, but there are still a few giveaways. Out here.”
    She led