‘Was there a particular reason you were awake?’ the detective asked.

‘Sure I hardly sleep a wink at the best of times.’

‘And do you remember what time that was, Mrs Keaveney?’

‘It must have been near morning because there was a bit of light in the sky. I don’t have a clear view of the cottage from here, you can just make out the gable. But I thought it was strange – all that black smoke. And I just knew.’

‘But how did you know, Izzy?’ Sergeant Farrelly asked her.

‘Well, when I saw the smoke I—’

‘No, Mrs Keaveney,’ the detective said. ‘How did a woman living two miles across the bay look out her window and see a bit of smoke and know the fire had been set intentionally?’

‘Oh. That’s another story altogether,’ she said. ‘On the day of the fire, I visited her at the cottage and she told me that she was pregnant with Donal Mullen’s child and that he’d threatened her.’

The detective stared down at the blank page in front of him and then glanced up at Pat Farrelly, who sat there, silent. Oh dear, oh dear, Izzy heard him saying in her head. The detective drummed his pen a couple of times against the pad. And despite the stunned aspect of the two men, Izzy was uncertain she had said anything at all. To have agonised for two weeks over speaking this information, and to have been able to deliver the sum total of it in one sentence seemed impossible.

She poured tea for the detective and handed the cup and saucer to him. He took a sip and, as though something had been righted by the sheer ordinariness of the ritual, he continued his questioning in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘And what was the reason for your visit to Mrs Crowley’s home that day?’ he asked.

‘Well, I had a few bits and pieces to give her, sort of hand-me-downs to help her decorate the cottage a bit.’

‘So you and Mrs Crowley were close?’

She felt James adjusting his position beside her and something of the slow, deliberate way he moved reminded her to proceed with caution. ‘Well, not really,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t say that, but we had certainly become closer over the past six months. I’d started to attend the creative writing classes she was doing up at the Community Centre.’

‘And Mrs Crowley confided in you about her relationship with Mr Mullen?’

‘No, you see, what happened was I saw her in the bar of the Harbour View one night, back in January. The thirty-first it was. I was having dinner with my friend Margaret Brennan, and just as we were walking out the door of the hotel, didn’t I see Colette sitting up at the bar.’

‘Was she alone?’ Pat Farrelly asked.

‘She was, yes.’ She noticed this was the first time the detective had written down anything she’d said.

‘And what time of night was this?’ the detective asked.

‘I can’t remember exactly but it was near closing time ’cause they were throwing people out. Anyway, I offered to give her a lift home—’

‘Because she’d been drinking?’

‘Well yes, but also because she was telling me she was going to walk home herself, and it was a bad night—’

‘And did Mrs Crowley seem intoxicated when you were speaking to her?’

She’d known they’d ask this, that they could use the fact of Colette’s drinking to discredit her – but there was no way around it, there were a dozen other people in the pub that night who could testify to how drunk she was. ‘She was ossified,’ Izzy said. ‘And when I got her into the car, I drove her home, and as we were driving up the road to the cottage, I saw Donal Mullen standing at her front door.’

‘And you’re certain it was him?’ the detective asked.

‘I’m one hundred per cent certain. He had on a sort of coat with the hood up – but he looked directly at me, and I saw his face as clearly as I can see yours now. Then he ran off down the hill and went in the door of his own house – sure, who else could it have been?’

‘And did Mrs Crowley discuss their relationship with you?’

‘She was drunk. She was barely able to talk. She collapsed into the bed.’

‘Well, not that night, but the next time you saw her – did she talk about it then?’

‘The next time I saw her was the day of the fire, when she told me she was pregnant.’

‘And can you talk us through exactly what Mrs Crowley told you on that day.’

She sat up straight, placed her palms on her thighs.

‘Take your time, take your time,’ Sergeant Farrelly said.

She took a deep breath. ‘She said that she was maybe two months pregnant. She hadn’t been to the doctor but she’d done two tests and they’d both come back positive. She’d told Donal he was the father and he was trying to get her to go to England for an abortion. He told her if she ever brought the child back to the town, he’d kill her.’

‘That’s exactly what she said?’

‘As God is my witness.’

‘And had she been drinking on that day?’

She felt James’s hand on her shoulder. ‘She’d been drinking, yes, but she didn’t seem drunk. She was alert and articulate and I believed every word she told me. The woman was terrified out of her mind. She prostrated herself before me and begged me to help her and I’ll regret it till the day I die that I didn’t put her in the car and drive her home with me.’

‘And do you mind me asking why you didn’t come forward with this information sooner?’ the detective asked. ‘It’s been over two weeks since Mrs Crowley’s death.’

‘I know exactly how long it’s been,’ Izzy said. ‘Every day I got up I thought about phoning yous. And every day I was angrier with myself. But I’m sick of it. I’m tired of being scared of that man. I’m sick of worrying about where the kids are every minute of the day or that I’m going to run into him somewhere. He has a bad eye in his head, that fella. I’ve always said it, haven’t I, James?’

‘You have,’ he said.

‘Has Donal Mullen threatened you in some way?’ the detective asked.

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘But he saw me that night. And when we were at the graveyard . . .’

‘Did he try to intimidate you, Izzy?’ Sergeant Farrelly asked.

James took her hand. ‘Well, you might have heard that he had the nerve to show up at the burial,’ she said, ‘and when he was there, he spent most of his time staring at me. Someone I’ve barely said two words to in my life, looking at me like he wished I was the one going in the ground. And I’m not imagining it, am I, James?’

‘No, you’re not,’ he said, squeezing her fingers.

‘And just to be clear,’ the detective said, ‘that was the only time you’ve come into contact with Mr Mullen since Mrs Crowley’s death?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘To be honest I haven’t come into contact with many in the past few weeks. I’ve hardly left the house. And every time I did I was sorry. Anywhere I went someone would corner me and all they’d want to talk about was Colette, and the terrible end she came to, and how she’d taken to the drink. And then when people heard Donal had been questioned, they were all, What was she doing living up there on her own with her family only a few miles away, drinking by herself in every pub in the town? Like if she’d just behaved herself and stayed at home, she’d still be alive. And you there,’ she pointed at the detective, ‘with your little notepad, writing down every time she got drunk, like that’s the crime, like that’s the worst sin imaginable – a woman drinking on her own in a pub.’

The detective laid down his notepad and put the cap on his pen. ‘Right, well, I think we have all we need for now, but you can rest assured that everything you’ve told us will be treated with the utmost seriousness. We’re going to need you to come into the barracks tomorrow to sign a statement – can you do that for us?’

‘But what will you do?’ she asked.

‘Excuse me?’