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hat? A trilby-type hat?’ He pulled a photograph of a hat out of his pocket. ‘This shape,’ he said, pointing at the photo. I heaved a huge sigh of relief.
    ‘No. Never. He doesn’t have a hat.’ O’Toole looked at Mooney with smug satisfaction on his face.
    ‘Good, good, that’s it then, I’ll be on my way.’
    ‘But why are you asking about that weekend, and my dad and a hat?’
    He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ongoing investigation, but you’ve nothing to worry about now, off you go!’ He tooted the horn and drove off.
    They were looking for a different man, a man who wore ahat. I needn’t have lied at all. Dad was guilty about something, though – maybe he had gone out that night for another reason. I was almost relieved to think that he might be having an affair, and the bracelet belonged to his fancy woman, Marnie. None of the reports had mentioned the name on the bracelet, and one would assume that it would be the woman’s own name, Annie. So Marnie must be Dad’s floozie. That was better than … whatever had happened to a missing prostitute. The knot in my stomach loosened.
    Mum was cutting fabric on the kitchen table when I came in.
    ‘Mum,’ I said jovially when I got in the front door, ‘Dad’s off the hook. They’re looking for a fella in a hat!’
    She didn’t look up. ‘What
are
you talking about, darling?’
    ‘There were two detectives outside just now, and one of them was asking me about that night, the night he questioned Dad about, but they’re looking for a guy in a hat.’
    She smiled sweetly. ‘Good heavens, a guard asking you questions. What did you tell him?’
    ‘I told him Dad and you were here when I got home from my night out and that Dad didn’t even own a hat.’
    She laughed. ‘So ridiculous, questioning a schoolboy.’
    ‘I hope they catch him.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The fella in the hat!’ I foraged in the fridge for some cheese and cut two slices of thick bread from the loaf.
    ‘Leave room for your dinner,’ said Mum. As if.
    I was relieved that I no longer had to think about this girl. After the newspapers had been thrown out, I had retrieved them from the bin and cut out the articles about the missing woman. Unusually, Dad had recently been buying all of the newspapers, including the ones he had claimed to despise. We were not a house that would ordinarily take the
Sunday World.
At first, there was just information about where she had last been seen, a description of what she may have been wearing, but the later reports suggested that she was leading a sordid life. I had been poring over them nightly, looking at her snaggle-toothed grin, her misshapen mouth, desperate to rule out my father’s involvement. I had raided the desk in his study, looking for evidence of an affair he was having, but really looking for some link between him and Annie Doyle. I don’t know what I expected to find – a photograph? A legal case file that named her? It was ridiculous and I knew it. Prostitutes did not give receipts or hand out business cards.
    I had had nightmares in which I was having sex with Annie in Helen’s distorted bedroom, and others in which I was stabbing her viciously with my father’s silver letter-opener and then I’d see my mother’s face, and I’d wake up, drenched in sweat and guilt-ridden. Now I was free of all that.
    Until two days later, when I noticed a gap on the shelf where my grandfather’s old trilby hat had been for as long as I could remember. I asked Mum where it had gone. ‘Oh, I think your father finally threw it out,’ she said absent-mindedly, and all the fear and anxiety swept back up into my heart. I nervously asked Dad if he had thrown out the hat.
    ‘Why do you want to know?’ was his first question, before he claimed that he didn’t know what had happened to it, his voice quivering as he spoke.
    I knew. I knew for sure he was lying.
    I didn’t do anything with this knowledge. I was scared of what it meant. I had lied to