Read Online If I Never See You Again by Niamh O'Connor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Niamh O'Connor
Tags: Mystery
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from the exact same ratio of dust to polish hadn’t changed in twenty years, Jo thought as she stepped out of the lift on to the second floor. As she crossed the Beit Wing, she realized that everything in her adult life could probably be traced back to the accident. The birth of her son, Rory, and marriage to Dan when she was still in her teens: a quick-fix solution to replace the family she’d lost. The connection she felt to victims of crime, because she knew first hand what the agony of grief felt like, and even joining the force, so she could start fending for herself.
Out of the side of her eye, the painting hanging on the furthest wall through the last of the six open arches caught her attention, and she turned to face the Caravaggio, the gallery’s major new addition. She hadn’t come across many works by Caravaggio before, but this one she knew all about because it had been presumed a fake and had been hanging in a Jesuit dining room in Leeson Street since the 1930s, until its recent rediscovery created a furore in the art world.
Jo approached until she was close enough to reach out and touch the paint. Not so much as a brass-slung rope separated her from the moonlight bouncing off the faces of seven life-sized figures, all in profile except for the downcast head of Christ, second from the left, straining away from Judas’s kiss as three soldiers on the right moved in to take him. On the far left, a figure was fleeing, his arms outstretched, his fingers splayed, his open mouth conveying the horror of what was unfolding. On the far right, a man – Caravaggio himself – was straining a lantern over the soldiers’ heads towards Christ, blocked by a human wall of gleaming, buckled armour.
But it was Christ’s posture that intrigued Jo. In all the panic, he was the only one perfectly still, his hands joined limply in prayer. Only his creased forehead betrayed any torment. Gaunt shadows danced across his face, making flickering hollows of his eyes and cheekbones.
She knew the painting was telling her something about the case but, stealing a worried glance at her watch, Jo realized that if she didn’t leave for the office right now, whatever it was would be irrelevant, because she might not even make the investigation team.
9
By mid-morning, Jo was standing outside Dan’s office trying to muster the courage to enter. It was originally an L-shape, but the leg had been annexed off to accommodate Jeanie’s work space. This was the reason Jo was hesitating outside the door. She hated the way Jeanie would try to make her wait in that claustrophobic little space until she’d cleared her entry with Dan first. Jo got the same treatment when she dialled Dan’s direct number: Jeanie always picked up first and asked who was speaking.
Swallowing her resentment, Jo rapped twice and entered. Breezing past Jeanie with a captain’s salute, she ignored the loud protests and continued on through the adjoining door into Dan’s inner quarters, pressing the connecting door closed with her back.
Dan looked up over his computer monitor and motioned to the chair in front of his desk. Jo’s gaze shifted from the lemon geranium that had appeared on the window sill behind him to his suit jacket draped on a coat hanger on a hook on the coat-stand, and settled on the back of an ornate photo frame propped on the corner of his desk.
‘You wanted to see me,’ he said, taking some papers from the In/Out tray and banging them together before putting them back in exactly the same position.
Folding her arms across her chest, Jo wondered who had selected his chunky pink tie, the type preferred by the younger, sharper solicitors in the courts, the ones who specialized in personal-injury claims, the kind of people she thought he regarded as sharks.
Pushing her shoulders back a fraction, she said, ‘I’d like to formally enquire if my transfer’s been processed.’ No reply. No eye contact. Dan reached for the mouse and began
Out of the side of her eye, the painting hanging on the furthest wall through the last of the six open arches caught her attention, and she turned to face the Caravaggio, the gallery’s major new addition. She hadn’t come across many works by Caravaggio before, but this one she knew all about because it had been presumed a fake and had been hanging in a Jesuit dining room in Leeson Street since the 1930s, until its recent rediscovery created a furore in the art world.
Jo approached until she was close enough to reach out and touch the paint. Not so much as a brass-slung rope separated her from the moonlight bouncing off the faces of seven life-sized figures, all in profile except for the downcast head of Christ, second from the left, straining away from Judas’s kiss as three soldiers on the right moved in to take him. On the far left, a figure was fleeing, his arms outstretched, his fingers splayed, his open mouth conveying the horror of what was unfolding. On the far right, a man – Caravaggio himself – was straining a lantern over the soldiers’ heads towards Christ, blocked by a human wall of gleaming, buckled armour.
But it was Christ’s posture that intrigued Jo. In all the panic, he was the only one perfectly still, his hands joined limply in prayer. Only his creased forehead betrayed any torment. Gaunt shadows danced across his face, making flickering hollows of his eyes and cheekbones.
She knew the painting was telling her something about the case but, stealing a worried glance at her watch, Jo realized that if she didn’t leave for the office right now, whatever it was would be irrelevant, because she might not even make the investigation team.
9
By mid-morning, Jo was standing outside Dan’s office trying to muster the courage to enter. It was originally an L-shape, but the leg had been annexed off to accommodate Jeanie’s work space. This was the reason Jo was hesitating outside the door. She hated the way Jeanie would try to make her wait in that claustrophobic little space until she’d cleared her entry with Dan first. Jo got the same treatment when she dialled Dan’s direct number: Jeanie always picked up first and asked who was speaking.
Swallowing her resentment, Jo rapped twice and entered. Breezing past Jeanie with a captain’s salute, she ignored the loud protests and continued on through the adjoining door into Dan’s inner quarters, pressing the connecting door closed with her back.
Dan looked up over his computer monitor and motioned to the chair in front of his desk. Jo’s gaze shifted from the lemon geranium that had appeared on the window sill behind him to his suit jacket draped on a coat hanger on a hook on the coat-stand, and settled on the back of an ornate photo frame propped on the corner of his desk.
‘You wanted to see me,’ he said, taking some papers from the In/Out tray and banging them together before putting them back in exactly the same position.
Folding her arms across her chest, Jo wondered who had selected his chunky pink tie, the type preferred by the younger, sharper solicitors in the courts, the ones who specialized in personal-injury claims, the kind of people she thought he regarded as sharks.
Pushing her shoulders back a fraction, she said, ‘I’d like to formally enquire if my transfer’s been processed.’ No reply. No eye contact. Dan reached for the mouse and began
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