She looked away, blushing scarlet.

‘He tried to tie my hands together with a scarf. I didn’t want him to, but he wasn’t listening. He just kept saying, “This is fun, isn’t it? Let’s have some fun.” But then he got out this riding crop thing, and—’ She stopped, gulping.

‘Did he hit you, Roisin?’

‘I tried to ask when we were going out to dinner and he just laughed and said he wasn’t hungry anymore. He got more and more . . . worked up. It was like he was in a proper frenzy, hitting me all over my body until he . . . you know . . .’

‘Climaxed?’

‘All over me,’ she said, looking as though she was about to throw up. ‘Not in me. I mean, we never actually, you know, did it.’

‘No penetrative or oral sex at all?’

The girl shook her head, mortified. ‘Just kissing, and . . . hitting me.’

‘What happened then, Roisin?’

‘Then he got his driver to take me home. I bashed my face on the door frame, I was in such a hurry to get out of there. I was in a right state, and so these two guys came in the car with me.’

‘Which two guys?’

‘One of them was Mervyn Hammond. He looked, like, completely stressed, and he kept saying “So, you’re all right, aren’t you?” like he was daring me to say I wasn’t, even though I could barely sit down, Shawn hit me so hard. I couldn’t believe it had happened to me. I couldn’t stop crying. I was so humiliated . . .’

What an evil toad that Barrett was, thought Carmella angrily, and Hammond not much better, clearly trying to cover up for his protégé.

‘Who was the other guy, Roisin?’

She shrugged. ‘Someone from the record company. Gordon? Gary?’

Carmella didn’t recall anyone with either of those names.

‘From the Dublin office or the London one?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think I heard him say anything, so I’m not sure if he was English or Irish. He was nice. He put his arm round me in the car – not in a creepy way, just comforting me. . . . Then when the cheque arrived from Mervyn Hammond it was in a big package of OnTarget stuff, you know, CDs and T-shirts and what have you – I mean, like I ever wanted to see Shawn’s face again? You must be kidding, I thought. I threw it all out. Except the cheque. I had to tell my folks about the cheque because I didn’t have my own bank account then and I didn’t know what to do with it. I told them that they’d paid me off ’cos Shawn got drunk and shoved me into the doorway, and they wanted to make sure I wouldn’t tell the press or tweet about it or anything. I did have a big bruise on my cheek. Mam said it served me right for going into his room, and I was lucky nothing worse happened . . . I’ve never told her that it did. If she’d seen the bruises all over the rest of me, she’d have taken me straight to the police.’

Roisin was crying again. They were passing a scrubby little park, so Carmella steered her to a graffitied bench, sat her down and handed her another tissue.

‘I’ve never told anyone this before.’ Roisin sniffed.

‘You’re being really brave. And so helpful. Really. It’s been totally worth me coming all the way over to speak to you – thank you. So you didn’t even tell your friend Scarlett?’

Roisin shook her head and wiped her eyes. ‘Never saw her again, or any of my other OnTarget friends. Couldn’t hack it. They think I’m a weirdo, but I don’t care. I don’t think I’ve been out anywhere since; only school and work. If an OnTarget song comes on the radio, I have to switch it off, or leave the room. If I see Shawn on telly, I have to go and actually throw up.’

Carmella wanted to give her a massive hug. She felt unspeakably sorry for her – but then thought that Mrs McGreevy could well have been right: Roisin was lucky nothing worse had happened. She thought of the mutilated bodies of Jessica McMasters and Rose Sharp and wanted to tell the girl that she might well have had a very lucky escape.

‘That Mervyn Hammond . . . he didn’t need to pay me off. I was never going to tell anyone about it anyway.’

‘You shouldn’t feel ashamed—’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s them – the fans. You know I said before, they can be vicious. If it was in the papers that I was accusing their hero of attacking me, they would kill me. Literally kill me. I’m not really scared of Shawn or Mervyn Hammond or anyone else – well, I am, but not nearly as scared as I am of the other OnT fans . . .’ She shivered.

Carmella took a business card out of her bag and handed it to Roisin. ‘Listen. I don’t know if you’ve had any counselling or not, but you ought to. I understand you don’t want your parents to be involved, but I know a few excellent counsellors in Dublin I could put you in touch with directly, now that you’re sixteen.’

‘You’re super nice. I wish more Dublin cops were like you.’ She blushed.

What a lovely kid, thought Carmella. She wanted to help her, make the bad memories go away as completely as the bruises Shawn had inflicted on her. ‘Are they not?’ she said lightly, smiling at her. ‘Anyway, I need to get going back across the water. Don’t want to miss my flight – and you don’t want to be too late for work. Did you want me to talk to your boss so you don’t need to lie about witnessing an accident?’

Roisin shook her head and balled the tissue up small, sticking it into her pocket. She stood up and tucked her hair underneath the Supermac’s baseball cap. ‘Na, you’re all right, thanks. I can handle it.’

Carmella stood too, delving into her bag for a biro. ‘If you’re sure. Just call if you change your mind. Or if you remember anything else about that night, whether it’s about Shawn or Mervyn Hammond, OK? Can you write your mobile number down for me in case I need to ask you any more questions later?’

‘Sure,’ the girl said, taking the biro and writing her number on the back of the second business card Carmella produced. ‘Well. I’m glad I could help.’ For a second she looked as if she was barely out of primary school. ‘I don’t think I’m ever going to . . . be with a boy again,’ she said, her lip wobbling.

Carmella wondered if Roisin had somehow sensed that she, Carmella, was gay, and if she were tacitly asking for advice . . . but, much as she liked her, it just wasn’t in her remit to give that sort of help.

‘I meant what I said, about helping you find a counsellor,’ she said instead. ‘You’ve been through a major ordeal. It was lovely to meet you, although I’m sorry about the circumstances. I’ll be in touch, OK?’

Roisin nodded, blushing again. ‘Bye,’ she said, and put her head down against the stiff breeze, striding away towards the burger bar, her sensible trainers making no sound on the pavement. Carmella watched her go, the dejected slope of her shoulders saying almost as much about her as their conversation had. Poor kid, she thought. She wondered if Shawn Barrett had any idea what he’d done to her. It was as if he’d taken the spark out of her and crushed it like a lit cigarette underfoot. Even if she had been a bold little trollop before, too much make-up and slutty clothes, this was surely worse, this awful despondency and world-weariness in a girl who wasn’t yet seventeen.

Sighing, Carmella headed for the nearest bus stop back into O’Connell Street. At least she’d have something to tell Patrick. He’d want to get Barrett in for a chat, for sure – which would be a whole shit storm of media chaos and injunctions up the wazoo, if they weren’t careful. Mervyn Hammond would see to that.

Suddenly, Carmella felt tired and almost as dispirited as Roisin had looked. All she wanted was to be home in Jenny’s arms.

Chapter 28

Day 8 – Patrick

The cab dropped Patrick off outside Shawn Barrett’s apartment block at the same time that a white van pulled up. The van’s driver jumped out, sliding open the side door and emerging with a tower of brown boxes that came up to the bridge of his nose. He wobbled towards the door and was buzzed in, Patrick following, aware that the fifteen or sixteen paparazzi camped out across the street were watching them closely. The paps looked miserable, huddled together in the cold, smoking and sipping from Starbucks cups. What a life. Patrick bet that each of them would sell his or her grandmother to do what Patrick was about to do: ride the lift up to Shawn’s home for an audience with the most famous – with the possible exception of princes William and Harry – young man in England.