I take out my spare key, and the door swings open onto a narrow, tiled front hall, a yellow paper lantern suspended from the ceiling. The flat smells the same as always, like rose oil.
It seems to have been cleanly, efficiently burgled. The police have taken away her laptop as evidence, and her old phones, the boxes of papers under her desk. They’ve left behind her coats, though, her tubes of lipstick, her coffee cups, and I move around the flat running my hands over them.
Her clothes are all hanging in the closet. She might have been wearing the same jeans and shirt for the past three days. They would be filthy by now, darkened with sweat and grime.
A light shines under the bathroom door. The police left it on, probably. I slowly push open the door, and feel almost disappointed when no one is standing behind it.
Her fridge is empty. She eats takeaways most nights. I nag her about the cost, though to be fair, she does work twelve-hour shifts. Usually she’ll order a delivery as she leaves the ambulance station, timing it to arrive right after she returns home.
Sometimes Marian helps me cook, on weekends or holidays, which usually ends in an argument. I’ll be trying to get something in the oven, while Marian very slowly peels a potato. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” I’ll say, and she’ll say, “You asked me to help,” and then we will argue until one of us storms out. We never learn, though, we always expect it to go smoothly. We attempt to make our own ravioli, and homemade pastry, and soufflés. One Christmas Eve, we made lobster pot pies with our mam, and by the time they were finally ready near midnight, the three of us were so hungry that we ate them standing at the kitchen counter, drunk on prosecco and weepy with laughter.
I sit in the velvet armchair by the window. I’ve done this so many times—sat in this chair, with my feet on the windowsill—that the moment seems about to jump, like I’m on skis that might be pulled onto previous tracks laid in the snow. At any minute I’ll hear Marian’s voice.
A key turns in the lock. From behind the door, a woman clears her throat. Relief flashes through me. I rush toward my sister, then stagger back.
“I’m sorry for startling you,” the woman says. “I’m Detective Sergeant Cairn. I work in counter-terrorism with DI Fenton. Are you all right?”
“Fine,” I say. The sergeant’s name sounds familiar. She might have read statements from the police before. She’d be good at a press conference, with her composure, her stillness. I find it unnerving, in this confined space. Her eyes haven’t left mine.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“To speak with you,” she says crisply. The police must have the building under surveillance, they must have watched me come inside. “Can I ask what you’re doing here yourself?”
“Nothing. I came because I miss my sister.”
In a soft voice, she asks, “Are you a member of the IRA, Tessa?”
“No.”
“Has your sister ever tried to recruit you?”
“My sister’s not in the IRA.”
“Are you familiar with the name Cillian Burke?” she asks, and I nod. “Burke was placed under audio surveillance after the attack in Castlerock. At the moment, he’s on trial for directing terrorism.”
“I know. We’ve been covering his case at my work.”
The sergeant sets her phone on the table and says, “This is a recording from the twelfth of March. The man speaking is Cillian Burke, and you should recognize the other voice.”
My legs start to shake. On the tape, Cillian says, “How was your trip, then?”
“Grand,” says Marian, and a buzzing starts at the base of my skull. “Belgrade didn’t work out but Kru?evac did.”
“How many have they got?”
“Twenty,” she says. “For six hundred thousand dinar.”
“They’re having a laugh.”
“That’s market rate,” she says. “They can easily get that much for Makarovs.”
The sergeant stops the recording. It’s like a pin is being slowly slid out from a hole in a dam. I feel distant from the room, but like I can see everything inside it very clearly. “Play the rest,” I say. “They weren’t done talking.”
“The rest of their conversation touches on an open inquiry into another IRA member,” she says. “I can’t play it for you.”
“Where were they?”
“Knockbracken reservoir.”
Cillian must have thought he couldn’t be heard by surveillance in such an open space. I wonder how the security service managed to catch it.