They’d trusted me to look after Jamie. To keep him out of trouble. You couldn’t get any deeper in trouble than a vicious killing and, one way or another, he was up to his neck in this one. At the same time, part of my brain just couldn’t accept that he had actually done the deed himself. I remembered tackling him in the hallway of the house in Caton. His instinctive response to the fright of his discovery had been to take a swing at me. But that didn’t mean he could slash someone’s throat, rob them, and leave them propped on a toilet. No, that was much more Eamonn Garroway’s style. The thought started as a niggle and grew into a monster as we thrashed through the countryside back towards Naas. Jamie might not have murder in his psyche, but his mother’s boyfriend certainly had. The question was, how big a part had Jamie played in his schemes? I backtracked. We’d been followed off the ferry by someone who knew we were coming. They hadn’t bothered trailing us to the hotel, but had turned up later.
