The Missing Hours by Emma Kavanagh Page B

at the thread of a girl at reception.
    Fae is crying now, quietly, using her sleeve as a handkerchief. She makes a little noise. Whether it is a yes or a no, I have no clue.
    Bronwyn takes it as a yes, looks back to me. ‘You want to come on through?’
    Bronwyn Hartley is attractive in an overly developed kind of way, with her thickly powdered cheeks, her densely crimson lips. I notice that the make-up looks clumsy and uneven. She must be … what? Fifty, maybe? But today she looks older, is walking like each step pains her. She pauses in the doorway, ushering me through, a nursery-school teacher shepherding her charge.
    ‘Fae,’ she says, over my shoulder. ‘Go grab yourself a coffee, okay?’
    She closes the door without waiting for a reply, sealing out the mourning. ‘You should sit.’ She does the same, sinking into a high-backed leather chair. The desk divides us, and she rests her hands on it, painted nails luminous against the polished wood. They’re yellow. I find myself staring at them, wondering obliquely when this became a thing.
    ‘So,’ she says. ‘Sergeant. Congratulations.’
    I smile. Cannot think of any suitable words in response. I can still hear Fae, even through the closed door, quiet tears that have become sobs. It’s a pungent reminder that, in truth, no one here gives a stuff about me.
    ‘How are you doing?’ I ask.
    Bronwyn looks at me, surprised, and I wonder if I am that transparent. Or is it simply that in our superficial dealings, she has gained a better grasp of me than I have of her? That she has figured out that I don’t really do sympathy, that empathy is a skill of which I am in short supply. I open my mouth. Want to tell her that I am trying something, that I am attempting to be more than I have been. Then I shut it again, remembering that it doesn’t matter, not here, not today. Because all that matters is this death.
    ‘I’m …’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m alive. That’s pretty much all that can be said for me. I still can’t believe it. It feels like I haven’t taken it in. Not yet.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Dominic … he was such a good man.’
    It is the second time I’ve heard him described that way since I walked through the front door. I wonder if it is true. Or is it simply a case of death washing away all the sin, until all you are left with is the remembrance of the victim’s best?
    ‘Tell me about him,’ I say.
    Bronwyn smiles. ‘He was a good man,’ she says again. ‘Very clever, educated. Kind. He always wanted to help. Wanted to give people a chance. To see the best in them.’
    I think of my sister. Were someone to ask me, I would say exactly the same about her. I think about the rain that I poured on her parade last night and feel a flush of guilt.
    ‘He didn’t just want to represent our clients, he wanted to help them. Make their lives better. You know about his work with users, right?’
    I shake my head.
    Bronwyn smiles. ‘Dom always did love a hard-luck case. We get a lot of drug users through here, as you can imagine. Petty crimes to support the habit, violent crimes when they’re high.’ She pulls a face. ‘To be honest, I’ve not got much patience with it myself. But Dom, he was a big believer in fixing the root cause of the problem. Encouraging clients into rehab, trying to get them to make their lives better.’ She sighs heavily. ‘He was a far better person than I am.’
    ‘Did it work?’ I ask, curious.
    ‘Sometimes. Mostly not. Of course, we always had Fae to hold up as an example of how a person can turn their life around.’
    ‘Fae?’
    Bronwyn flicks her acid-yellow nails towards the door. ‘Lovely girl. Had a bad run of it a few years ago. Got into drugs. Brought low by some man, I think. But Dom took her under his wing, set her up with a counsellor, rehab.’ She shrugs widely. ‘I was sceptical, as you can imagine. But no, in fairness to the girl, she pulled herself together, got clean, got a degree.’
    ‘And got a