The Girl Who Lied(105)

I wonder what Kerry’s doing? By now, he’s probably discovered the café isn’t open. I hadn’t said anything to him. He would only try to talk me out of it. And as for telling Fiona, absolutely not. It would put her in an untenable position. No, Fiona would find out soon enough. Someone from the station would be on the phone to Sean, without a doubt. It’s better this way.

I lie back down on the mattress, confident I have all bases covered.

I allow myself to zone out. I’m not asleep, yet I’m not fully conscious, refusing to sit and feel sorry for myself for fear I may lose my nerve.

I’ve lost all sense of time but the same female officer who had brought me something to eat earlier comes back to the cell.

‘You have a visitor.’

‘I do?’

‘Your solicitor.’ The officer waves me up from the bed. ‘Come on.’

‘But I haven’t asked for a solicitor,’ I say. ‘I don’t want legal representation.’

The officer gives me a sideways look. ‘My advice to you, whether you think you want it or not, is to take it for now. Someone is obviously looking out for you.’

I think about refusing to go, but then decide if I want to be charged with manslaughter rather than murder, it will be wise to take the opportunity to speak to a solicitor. I guess that it was probably Fiona, or even Kerry, who has organised this.

‘Okay. I’ll see them,’ I say, shrugging off the blanket.

The solicitor is an older man, with greying hair and glasses. I feel I’ve seen him somewhere before. He rises from his seat as I come into the small interview room.

‘Miss Hurley,’ he says holding out his hand. ‘John Devlin of Devlin, Connor and Sullivan’s Solicitors.’

We shake hands. ‘Hello,’ I say, taking the seat John Devlin holds out. I go to speak but Devlin puts his finger to his lips. He nods towards the Guard, who leaves the room.

‘Best to speak in private,’ he says. ‘Now, I know you’re not expecting me, but I’ve been asked to come down and offer legal representation to you.’

‘I do appreciate this,’ said Erin, ‘but I’m not sure I can afford a solicitor. Who asked you to come?’

‘Max Wright of Wright Motorcycles.’

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. ‘Max?’

‘Yes, I believe you know his son, Jody, and nephew, Kerry.’

‘That’s right, but I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why has Max got involved?’

‘I expect Kerry asked him,’ says Devlin, pulling out a dark-green file from a rather battered-looking tan-leather briefcase.

‘But I still can’t afford a solicitor,’ I say. ‘It’s not that I don’t want representation, but I have no idea how I’m going to pay for you. And I know neither Max nor Kerry are in a position to be splashing out on expensive legal fees.’

‘You really don’t need to worry about that now,’ says Devlin. He looks over the rim of his glasses at me. ‘Max and I go back a long way. Don’t let my suit and tie fool you into thinking I haven’t ridden with the best of them in my day. No, I’m doing this as a family favour and, to be honest, from what I can see, we’ll have you out of here by the end of the day.’

I quell the urge to laugh out loud. It’s a ridiculous notion.

‘I don’t mean to be rude, but they have told you what I’ve done, haven’t they?’

‘Yes, I’ve been reading the notes here and your apparent confession,’ says Devlin. ‘You know giving false information and wasting the time of the Guards is an offence.’

I sit back in my chair. ‘I haven’t been giving false information.’

‘Most people in your position would be delighted with the thought of getting off a murder charge,’ says Devlin, taking off his glasses and resting his arm on the table. ‘Anyone would think you want to spend the next twenty-five years behind bars.’

I shrug, aware I’m acting like a petulant teenager who is being admonished by their teacher. ‘I’m simply telling the truth,’ I say, looking down at my fingers, which are drumming silently against each other.

‘Let’s look at the evidence, shall we?’ said Devlin.

I don’t manage to contain the small intake of breath. Evidence? How could there be any evidence against my confession? I watch Devlin as he replaces his glasses and sorts through some papers in the file.

‘Right, here we are,’ he says pulling out a sheet of paper. ‘Now, you say you went to meet Roisin Marshall at approximately eight-thirty on the night of the twenty-second this month.’