“Hello, Mr. Griffith. You’re very late. I was just about to leave.”

  His looked genuinely contrite. ‘ ‘I was held up. I’m terribly sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

  She attempted a friendly smile, hoping it looked real. “How long did you say you worked with my brother?”

  “About six years or so.”

  “What exactly do you do?”

  “I’m a forensics investigator.”

  She frowned. “Surely sorting through computer files isn’t part of your job description.”

  “You would be surprised, Miss Delaney. We fill in where we can.”

  “I see.” She stood for a minute, arms folded against her chest. “Well, then. I have a few things left to do.” She stepped aside and gestured toward the study. “Help yourself.”

  “Thank you,” he said and walked into the room behind her.

  Kellie turned around. “Can I get you anything?”

  “That’s very kind of you, but it isn’t necessary. Please, don’t let me keep you.”

  “How long do you think you’ll be?”

  “About an hour or so if it isn’t too much trouble for you to stay.”

  “No,” she said, “no trouble at all.” She walked away, through the house to the back door, down the steps of the porch, through the rosebushes to her destination, the side door of the garage. Connor’s files were stacked neatly in a locked closet. Standing on a stepladder, Kellie felt around for the key on the top shelf. Then she unlocked the closet door. The files were dated. She pulled out the ones labeled July and August and began to sort through them. Her brother’s pay stubs were there, reflecting the exact dollar amount of his deposits.

  Kellie’s hands shook. She reached for more boxes, the unlabeled ones. Pulling out a manila folder she opened up a sheaf of papers and began to read. Nothing there. She laid it aside and pulled out another one. Twenty minutes later, her face white, heart hammering, she examined the contents of the folder. Why would Connor have his picture on two passports and why was he using the names John Devereaux and Austin Groves? Why was he reporting to British Intelligence? What was the nature of the numbers on all his correspondence to them? She was having difficulty accepting the evidence and yet what other explanation could there be? Connor Delaney was no mere police criminologist. The signs were all there, large amounts of money, counterfeit identities, coded numbers, receipts for services rendered. Two current ones bore a single name. She latched on to the name, Tom Whelan.

  Kellie replaced the files, all except the damning one, and locked the cabinet. She dusted herself off and followed the path around the back of the house to the carport where her car was parked. Looking around carefully to be sure she wasn’t observed, she slipped the folder beneath the floor mat. She had no plan, but instinct told her to hold on to her evidence.

  Back in Connor’s bedroom, she opened his closet door. Her brother’s smell filled her senses. She slammed the door shut again, drinking in great gulps of air. Rubbing her head, she paced the room, back and forth, back and forth, until the hammering of her heart eased. She couldn’t do this. She simply wasn’t ready. She would have Gillian clean out his closet and distribute the clothing to the Red Cross.

  Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a cleaning receipt she’d found in the top drawer of his desk. Connor’s suit was still at the cleaners. She would pick it up today. The suit would be no more than a piece of dark wool, packaged in plastic, as sterile and impersonal as the great bolts of material on display in the tailor’s window. It was a good suit. Connor had impeccable taste in clothing. Someone could use it.

  Her stomach was beginning to complain. Kellie looked at her watch. She’d skipped both breakfast and lunch. There was still time to order a pub meal after she picked up the cleaning.

  “Miss Delaney?” It was John Griffith. She hadn’t heard his step in the hall. “I’m finished here. Thank you very much for your time.”

  “You’re welcome. Do you have all you need?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But I’ll let you know.”

  “Do you have a card, Mr. Griffith?”

  “A card?”

  Kellie’s eyes were a hard, ice-flecked gray. “Yes. A business card? In case I should need to reach your office.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen and a pad of paper. “I can give you a phone number.”

  Kellie took the number and looked at it. “Goodbye, Mr. Griffith.”

  Normally she loved autumn. Oxford, teeming with color, was best in autumn. Steam rose from fogged store windows, men and women wore colorful mufflers and drank hot spiced drinks. Delicious soup smells wafted out from restaurant kitchens. It was a season for eating comforting foods and wrapping oneself in wool. She did not love this particular autumn, however. Driving down the lovely, old familiar streets gave Kellie not even a hint pleasure. She wondered if she wouldn’t be better to relocate, begin again somewhere where memories didn’t assault her around every corner.

  Sahid Pushnabi adjusted his turban, bowed and welcomed Kellie effusively. “It has been too long, Miss Delaney. How may I help you?”

  Kellie pulled out the receipt. “My brother left his cleaning. Do you still have it?”

  “Of course, Miss Delaney. I have called several times, but there is no answer at his home. I thought, perhaps, he was away on holiday.”

  Kellie swallowed. He hadn’t heard. She thought everyone would have heard. “My brother and nephew were killed in an auto accident two weeks ago.”

  The Indian’s face blanched and his hand flew to his lips. “I am so terribly sorry. Please forgive my rudeness.”

  Kellie shook her head. “How could you know?”

  “If there is anything I can do—”

  “Thank you. I’ll just pay for the suit.”

  “No, no.” He waved her money aside. “Please. It is little that I do.”

  In the end, she gave in. It was a small amount, really, not enough to argue over.

  It was nearly time for tea before Kellie was home again. She turned on lights, adjusted curtains and lit the fire. It was a large flat, too large for one person, but she preferred living alone rather than sharing with a roommate, a reaction to a childhood where she never had a private moment. She would see about selling Connor’s house, or should she? Someone, she couldn’t remember who, had advised her to wait at least a year before making any permanent decisions.

  She hung Connor’s suit on the door and ripped away the plastic. It was a lovely piece. Expensive clothing had suited him well. She ran her hands over the sleeves of his jacket and heard the rustle of paper. Curious, she pulled out a small crumpled wad lodged in the pocket corner and unfolded it A telephone number was scrawled in the center under the name, a name that was burned in the memory of her brain, Tom Whelan.

  With shaking fingers, Kellie picked up the telephone and dialed the number.

  It rang three times, the long double rings distinctive to Ireland.

  A man answered. “Whelan Bed-and-Breakfast, Tom Whelan here.” His voice was low-pitched, friendly.

  “I want to book a room,” Kellie said quickly. “Do you have any available?”

  “When would you like it?”

  When, when? Of course he would ask when. “Two weeks. I need a room in two weeks.”

  “That would be November. I’m wide-open then. No one in his right mind wants to come to Banburren in November.”

  “I do,” said Kellie.

  He had a pleasant laugh.

  “Well, then, come away. What did you say your name was?”

  “Delaney. Kellie Delaney.”

  “My daughter and I will expect you. You’ll have the house to yourself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will that be all?”

  “Yes,” Kellie whispered and hung up the phone.

  Thomas Whelan of Banburren. Thomas Whelan of Banburren. She said the name over and over. An idea began to form in her mind. The more she thought it through, the more credible it became.

  Kellie wasn’t a fool nor was she an idealist. Too much had been heaped on her in the course of a single day. She would sleep on the thought and look at it in the morning.

  Exactly one week later, Kellie climbed the stairs of the Knightsbridge tube station and looked around. She had the address of Special Investigations, a division of British Intelligence with an office in the government buildings on the Thames. John Griffith had been only too happy to take her call.

  London was a roiling mass of humanity on Friday. A fine rain had drizzled for hours and the city smelled of wet wool and exhaust. Umbrellas of the usual brown, navy and gray formed a somber roof over the footpaths. Storefronts with neon signs and the homey smell of fresh bread from the bakeries were the only brightness in the wet misery of the day.

  Kellie snapped her umbrella shut, looked at the address on the massive door and compared it with the one on the piece of paper she pulled from her purse. A man came out of the building and held the door for her. She stepped inside. A guard sat at the desk. She gave her name. He checked the list and pointed her toward the lift.

  John Griffith ushered her into a small office with glass windows. Kellie refused his offer of tea. Already she was uncomfortable. She had initiated this meeting because there was no alternative, but she had no desire to be here.

  She glanced at Griffith, an average man of average height with regular features, brown hair, gray eyes, a man most would immediately forget. “Who are we waiting for?” she asked.

  He smiled for the first time. “Cecil Marsh, our chief investigator, will be here momentarily. Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a cup of tea?”

  She needed a moment to collect herself. “Perhaps I will take a cup.”

  He left the office. Kellie settled back in her chair and breathed deeply, coaching herself for the interview to come. She needed help. She had no resources to find information on her own. Diplomacy was the key. She would need to be very, very careful in the questions she asked. They had agreed to see her. That was a good sign. It gave her hope.

  Too soon Griffith returned with a plastic cup of milky tea. He apologized for the sweetness. Kellie finished half the cup before the man Griffith introduced as Cecil Marsh joined them.

  Mr. Marsh was the opposite of nondescript. Black hair frosted with gray curled around his ears and a heavy mustache marked his upper lip. He was very tall and hunched with black eyes, a strong nose and crooked teeth. Kellie would not forget him if she saw him again.

  He came right to the point. “What can I do for you, Miss Delaney?”

  She’d already decided to presume her brother’s affiliation. “My brother didn’t normally discuss the details of his work with me, Mr. Marsh, but this last case was something of an exception.” The lie she’d practiced came out smoothly.

  He leaned forward.“Really?”

  “Yes.”

  He stroked his mustache. “I assume you’ve come here for a reason.”

  “I want to know if his death had something to do with his investigation.”

  The two men glanced at each other. Marsh spoke again. “We have no evidence that would lead us to believe so.”

  She stood, praying her bluff would work. “I see. Thank you for your time.”

  “Please, Miss Delaney, sit down.” Marsh hesitated. “We’re in something of a bind. Connor was working on a lead. He was killed before he had time to deliver his report. Any information you have would be appreciated.”

  He was killed. Kellie drained the last of her tea. It was difficult to swallow. She couldn’t get past the words he was killed. Connor and Danny, innocent Danny, were killed, murdered. “I could use the same consideration, Mr. Marsh.”

  Again the two men looked at each other. Griffith shrugged and turned to gaze out the window. Marsh cleared his throat “The brake cables on your brother’s car were cut.”

  “How is that possible? He drove several hours before the crash. Surely he would have noticed that he had no brakes before climbing the mountain road.”

  “We believe the brakes were partially cut before he started out that day. He stopped for petrol and a bite to eat at a convenience store. When he came out the brakes were gone.”

  Kellie closed her eyes. Pain leaped to life in her chest, radiating outward until her entire back and stomach were on fire. “Why?” she whispered.

  “We’re not disclosing this to upset you further, Miss Delaney,” Cecil Marsh assured her. “We could use your help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “Anything you can give us would be a start— names, locations, anything?”

  “Will you find who killed my brother and his son?”

  Cecil Marsh leaned back in his chair. Lines of weariness etched his cheeks. “Honestly?” He shook his head. “It’s doubtful. These people are clever and the situation complicated. It isn’t likely one person acted alone. The odds aren’t good, Miss Delaney. They never are. I’m sorry. Can you help us at all?”

  They wanted her help, these men who treated murder as blandly as they did the morning weather report. Rage loomed in her chest. Connor and Danny were dead, killed by assassins and it was merely an unfortunate circumstance. Kellie bit down on the inside of her cheek. Her eyes were blank, her words expressionless. She had a single name, a common name. It was all she would give them. “Tom Whelan,” she said quietly. “My brother was communicating with a man named Tom Whelan.”

  John Griffith spoke for the first time. “There are thousands of Tom Whelans. Do you have a location?”

  “No,” she lied. “All I have is his name.”

  Marsh stood. “Thank you for your information, Miss Delaney. We’ll let you know if anything develops.” He had his arm under her elbow, leading her toward the door. “These things take time. It’s best to get on with your life and let us do our business. Connor would have wanted that. He understood how things worked.”

  Kellie stood outside the door closed firmly shut against her. The interview was over. She had been swatted aside, an annoying fly in the path of a steamroller moving in the opposite direction.

  There was nothing left to do but take matters into her own hands and go to Banburren, check into Tom Whelan’s guest house and find out what she could. Fortunately she had already booked her room. Two weeks had never seemed shorter. Connor’s house would have to be listed and her flat sublet. There was no time to lose.

  Three

  He opened the door, took one look at the woman on the porch and his breathing altered. She stepped out of the shadows into the light and his heart resumed its natural rhythm. She wasn’t Claire. The revelation came to him immediately, with the speed and surety of an epiphany.

  Mustering the practiced skill acquired through years of renting rooms to boarders, Tom Whelan summoned a warm smile and reached for her bag. “Come in,” he said easily. “You must be Kellie Delaney.”

  “Yes. Thank you for taking me on such short notice.” Her voice was smoky, seductive, so like Claire’s it shook him to the core.

  Once again he recovered quickly. “It’s no problem. There isn’t much activity here in Banburren this time of year. Would you like a pot of tea?”

  She smiled. “Yes, thank you. I’d like it very much. I’ve forgotten how hospitable the Irish are.”

  “You’re not Irish?”

  “Actually I am, from here in the Six Counties. But I’ve been away for a long time.”

  He led her into the kitchen where he filled a kettle with water and assembled the tea tray, all the while maintaining a steady flow of light conversation.

  Tom cleared his throat. “I thought you’d be more comfortable if I made up the room overlooking the garden.”

  “Thank you.” She sat down at the table and sipped her tea. “Do you have another job or does this take all your time?”

  He was surprised at her bluntness, odd for an Irish woman. Claire was like that, quick to the point, not worrying about appearances. But Claire was a girl without education from a working-class family, with a bit of a chip on her shoulder. This woman was not. Still, there were similarities, enough to intrigue him. He sat down across from her. “I play a bit of music and I write poetry. Why do you ask?”

  She ignored his question. “Poetry? Have I heard of you?”

  “I don’t think so.” He grinned. “We’re all poets here.”

  “We’ve a few where I come from as well.”

  “Ah, Seamus Heaney. I’ll not be forgetting him.” He changed the subject. “Where did you say you’ve been living?”

  “I didn’t.”

  He recognized a rebuff when he heard one. Apparently she was a woman who preferred asking the questions.

  “That was rude,” she said, surprising him with a lovely smile and more of her bluntness. “I live in Oxford.”

  Rude, perhaps some would call her so, but honest and straightforward she was as well. He liked that.

  “On the phone you said you had a daughter.”

  If he narrowed his eyes and listened to her voice, she could almost be Claire. He caught himself. Not even seven years could change a woman so completely. “Aye. Her name is Heather,” he said. “She’s seven years old. Her grandmother is keeping her tonight.”

  “Where is her mother?”

  Again, that shocking lack of formality. And yet it didn’t offend him, not yet.

  “She doesn’t live with us,” he said shortly. “And what is it that you do for a living, Kellie Delaney?”

  “I’m a teacher.”

  “Isn’t school in session?”

  “Yes, it is. But I’ve taken a leave. I’ve had a—” she hesitated “—a loss.”

  “I see.” He wouldn’t probe, even though he imagined she would have had no difficulty doing so if the tables were turned. “Will you be here long?”

  She fixed her eyes on his face. They were large and fight light gray, nearly colorless except for the odd dark flecks in the centers. Her hair was lovely, too— brown with strands of copper, so fine and wavy it sprang out with a life of its own from around the sculpted bones of her face.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Perhaps. Can you accommodate me?”