‘This is getting complicated,’ Lottie said. ‘Brady was Emma’s boyfriend and he’s possibly either a burned man or a dead man.’
‘You only have Natasha’s word, though,’ Boyd said.
‘But if it’s true, it could link Tessa’s murder to the fire. I’m going to have a look at the cottage now.’
‘What will I do?’ Lynch asked.
‘Find out who owns that Honda and get the burned victim identified. Put out an alert for Emma Russell.’
Boyd said, ‘Do you want me to go back to Marian Russell’s house? See if SOCOs have unearthed anything?’
‘Follow it up. Main priority is to find Emma. That little madam has been economical with the truth from day one. God knows what she’s into or who she’s into it with, but I want her found.’
Without waiting for a reply, Lottie pulled her bag around her chest and ran down the stairs.
Thirty-Two
It was nearing four in the afternoon and the sky was bulging with black clouds when Lottie arrived at the burned-out cottage.
Looking over at the wet embers, now cordoned with crime-scene tapes, she zipped her jacket to her neck and tucked her hair into the hood. The temperature had dropped significantly and an east wind was gathering pace across the miserable fields.
Listening to the roaring wind and the rainwater drip-dripping from the bare branches above her head, she stretched her arms and legs. She felt like she’d been cooped up in the office all day, when in fact she had been out for most of it. Once her name was ticked off by the garda standing at the small iron gate, she walked towards the cottage.
The roof had caved in, which didn’t make much difference as the internal structure and personal effects had been either burned or saturated by fire hoses and the elements. But once it was deemed safe to do so, it’d be searched. SOCOs would have a hard job going through it, she thought.
A glare of lamps was lighting up the rear. She headed there. Gardaí and SOCOs were busy bagging and tagging the plants found in the insulated outhouse. Just as well the fire hadn’t reached that far.
To the left of the outhouse she noted a galvanised shed. Three walls stood haphazardly and its front lay open with a sagging line of washing hanging beneath the roof. Denim jeans, jogging pants and T-shirts. All blackened with smoke. They might be dry by Christmas, she thought.
She walked up to the SOCO standing with a clipboard in his hand.
‘I’m assuming you wouldn’t get those in a garden centre,’ she said.
‘Definitely not,’ he replied. ‘Cannabis plants might be a tad expensive for the likes of those places.’
‘Not very discreet about it, were they?’
‘Out here in the countryside you can grow just about anything without anyone passing the slightest remark. They’re just plants, if you don’t know any different.’
‘Was it locked?’
‘Chains and combination lock, nothing a good pair of shears wouldn’t cut through.’
He turned to check off another bag of plants being dragged by one of his colleagues to the waiting technical bureau van.
Lottie walked around the yard. From the hedge she could see smoke rising from the chimney of a house in the distance. There wasn’t anything to done here, and as she returned to her car, she wondered if Mick O’Dowd knew what was growing close to where his cows grazed.
* * *
The Land Rover was parked haphazardly at the side of the farmhouse. Net curtains were draped across sash windows, and the front door had been painted green a long time ago, going by the weather-beaten look of it. The satellite dish on the chimney creaked eerily in the growing gale.
A dog, big and black, raced out and circled the wheels of her car. Lottie switched off the engine and got out, praying it would back off. It didn’t.
‘Go away. Shoo. Scram. Good doggie.’ She twisted in circles, trying to keep the animal from jumping up on her. A Rottweiler with yellow teeth, dripping drool. ‘Get off, dog!’
‘What’s all the commotion?’ A man turned the corner of the house. ‘Down, boy. Mason, lie down.’
The dog snarled and threw Lottie a lingering look before turning and strolling to its master.
‘Who are you?’ he said, chaining the animal to a hook on the barn wall. Wisps of long grey hair poked out from beneath his peaked tweed cap. Lottie surmised he must be at least seventy.
‘Detective Inspector Lottie Parker.’ She flashed her ID. ‘And you are…’
‘I think you already know who I am.’
‘Your dog doesn’t seem to like me, Mr O’Dowd. But I’m not too bad once you get to know me.’ She smiled at the attempted joke.
O’Dowd’s grimace curled his face into an unreadable expression. ‘I hope you won’t be here long enough to get to know.’ He glanced at the ID and his hand swallowed hers in a firm shake. ‘What can I help you with?’
She tried not to visibly recoil as the wind carried his body odour towards her. He smelled like someone who hadn’t washed after sex. Lottie shuddered, thinking it was probably a long time since O’Dowd had engaged in such an activity.
Planting her feet firmly and facing the rising wind, she said, ‘I was in the area. Wondered if you knew anything about the cottage up the road, the one that burned down?’
‘Spoke to a detective this morning.’ He sniffed, shaking his head. ‘Do you not talk to each other?’
He turned and walked towards one of the large sheds.
Lottie followed. ‘We do, but I’m the curious sort. Like to hear things first hand. If you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind, and I’m very busy. My day’s been upset enough already. I’ve cows in the milking shed waiting for me.’
‘Don’t let me delay you. Go ahead. I’ll watch, you talk.’
He kept walking, hand raised, directing her. ‘You need wellington boots around here.’
‘So this is a milking shed, is it?’ Lottie scanned the large barn. Two rows of cows, heads through wrought-iron bars, chewing hay, their teats connected to milking machines behind them.
‘I’m sure you don’t want an agricultural lesson.’ He took off his waxed jacket and hung it on a post, then began checking the machines, tightening and loosening as he went.
She loitered at the door. ‘How many cows do you have?’
‘Thirty. Used to have up on two hundred. Not much business in dairy any more, but it keeps me busy. I do a bit of beef farming as well. Heifers and bulls.’ He pointed to a row of animals away on the far side of the shed.
‘Jesus, they’re huge,’ Lottie said, sizing up the animals standing on a slatted floor. They seemed to be as wide as they were tall. She turned back to the cows being milked. ‘Do those things… hurt the cows?’
He laughed sardonically. ‘Why don’t you ask them?’
Folding her arms, she leaned against the wall. ‘Maybe another time,’ she said. ‘Tell me about the cottage. Who lived there?’
‘Never saw anyone. Heard a car with a heavy exhaust, couple of times a week. Carving doughnuts on the road, no doubt. But they didn’t bother me. So I never had reason to call anyone about it.’
‘Until this morning.’ She unfolded her arms and stepped further into the enclosure, holding on to one of the bars. The cow beside her lifted its tail.
‘Righto. Until this morning.’ O’Dowd looked over. ‘Wouldn’t stand too close if I was you.’
‘Why not?’ Lottie jumped out of the way as shit flowed from the cow’s arse down to the straw-covered floor. ‘Okay, I get it.’
He laughed. She thought it sounded more in derision than amusement. Resuming her vigil by the door, she had to shout above the noise of the machinery.
‘You were at home when you saw the flames, that right?’
‘I was in my house, getting ready to start the day. Looked out the window. Like Bonfire Night up there, it was.’ He nodded his head in the direction of the cottage. ‘Got into my Land Rover, so I did. Rushed up the road. Once I saw how bad it was, I rang the fire service.’
‘Did you notice anyone in or around the cottage?’