© 2011

Four

The number of wings on a wasp

The number of chambers in the heart

The number of strings on a violin

The number of photographs he gave me

I sang and strummed over the whispered chatter of the crowded audience. Playing in this intimate Kilkenny club was a welcome break from the harsh tone of the Dublin circuit. I noticed a man coming in late, alone. He sat at the back but looked a little out of place; he was too neatly dressed, in a charcoal suit that matched his thinning hair. He held a large brown envelope in his left hand. I guessed who he was. In a way, I’d been expecting him.

When I’d finished my set he stood up and approached me. I slipped my guitar into its leather case and turned to face him.

‘Jacki?’

I nodded. I could see his features clearly now. The edges of his brown eyes and his thin lips were creased with wrinkles.

‘Can I speak to you outside?’ he said.

I followed him to the smoking area outdoors where the cold night air hit me with force. The sky was studded with tiny sparkling stars. The centre of the courtyard was crowded with people huddling round gas heaters so we stood in a vacant corner. I was sorry I hadn’t taken my coat out with me as goose bumps were appearing on my arms. My black lace dress was no barrier against the chill.

‘My name is Detective Sergeant Matt Lawlor.’ He held out his hand. The skin felt coarse, but his handshake was firm. ‘I’m a member of a team working on Operation Trail, investigating the disappearance of a number of Irish women over the last ten years… We’re concentrating on four cases at present.’ He paused as if expecting a response. When all I offered was silence, he continued: ‘I hoped you might be able to help, Jacki. Would you be prepared to help us?’