‘I’ve captured his dental impressions. Should have something for you later today or tomorrow morning.’
‘Thanks, Jane.’ Lottie sipped her tea, allowing it to relax her slightly. Only slightly.
‘Is there something else you want to discuss?’
‘It’s about my dad. You see, in 1975, he supposedly killed himself.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Jane eyed her quizzically. ‘You said supposedly.’
‘Over the last few months, I’ve been privately investigating the circumstances of his death. Following up with his former colleagues. Asking questions. Poking my nose into old people’s lives. Getting nowhere.’
‘Why are you doing that?’
‘I’m trying to figure out why Dad shot himself. I was only four, and my brother was ten.’
‘Was he suffering from depression? Stress at work?’
‘His colleagues, those still alive, say they can’t remember. It’s like they don’t want to talk about him. And my mother won’t tell my anything.’
‘Have you tried talking to her? Nicely?’
Lottie smiled. ‘Yes. I’d been trying to find out for years what happened, and a few months ago she handed over a box containing my father’s things.’
‘Did that give you any clues?’
‘I can’t pinpoint anything. A few newspaper cuttings. Notebooks. No suicide note. Mother says there wasn’t one.’
‘Was there an investigation at the time?’
‘An inquest. I suppose, because he was a serving garda sergeant, there doesn’t seem to have been too much of a fuss. Top brass probably wanted it all hushed up at the time.’
‘What was the verdict?’ Jane asked.
‘Suicide by lethal weapon. I’m surprised he even got a Catholic burial.’
‘Where did he get the gun?’
‘Took it from the weapons cabinet at the station. Stole the key and stole the gun.’
‘I’m assuming there was a post-mortem. Do you want me to check it out?’
‘Please. I have some photos and a death certificate. It’d be great if you could see what’s archived.’
Jane glanced at the certificate. ‘I’ll have a look.’
‘Thanks, Jane.’
‘I can’t promise anything.’
‘I know, but I thought that if you could examine the file, you might be able to tell me, one way or the other.’
‘Where did he do it?’ Cool and professional. Lottie winced at Jane’s aloofness.
‘In the tool shed at the bottom of the garden.’
‘In my experience, a police officer who commits suicide most often carries out the act at their place of work. Unusual that he would bring it on the family like that.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘I’m only speculating here, Lottie.’
‘I know, but anything you can give me is appreciated.’
‘You really want to know why he did it?’
‘If he did it,’ Lottie said.
‘I deal with facts and evidence. I’ll check our archives.’ Jane sipped her tea. ‘Who found his body?’
Lottie was silent for a moment. An image flitted across her eyes. A memory? No, she’d been too young then.
‘My brother Eddie. According to Mother, it changed his personality. He ended up in St Angela’s Institution, where he was murdered.’
‘Sad family history you have, Lottie.’
‘I know. Too sad that my mother won’t help me.’
‘I’m sure if you sit her down and tell her how it has affected you, she’ll talk to you.’
‘You don’t know my mother,’ Lottie said with a grim smile.
‘She gave you the box of memorabilia, didn’t she?’
‘After years of begging for answers, that’s all she offered. I still don’t know what prompted her to hand it over.’
‘Probably you discovering your brother’s bones.’ Jane picked up the two mugs. ‘Speak to her about the days and weeks leading up to your father’s death. If anyone can get her to talk, Lottie Parker, you can.’ She slipped down off the stool and put the mugs into a sink.
‘Thanks, Jane.’ Lottie clutched her bag.
‘I can’t promise anything on your father’s suicide, but I’ll have the prelims over to you in the morning.
‘Prelims?’ Lottie turned around, brows knitted together.
‘On the burned body.’
‘Oh, yes.’
Leaving Jane and the Dead House, Lottie headed out to the car park and was almost blown off her feet by the wind. The storm had arrived.
Thirty-Four
The office was quiet when Lottie returned from Tullamore, her car having been bustled and buffeted along the motorway. It felt like a hurricane was blowing through her brain. She needed to ask Kirby about his impressions of Mick O’Dowd.
At her desk, she quickly typed up a statement of her conversation with the farmer, leaving out his veiled insinuations about her family. The photocopier was silent, the phones unusually quiet and none of her detectives were around. Out searching for Emma Russell, she hoped. If Emma wasn’t at Lorcan Brady’s house, and Brady was the man in the hospital or on Jane Dore’s stainless-steel table, then where was she?
Opening her drawer and spotting her father’s newspaper cuttings, Lottie remembered that she needed to go through Tessa Ball’s letters. After shifting some of the clutter from her desk, she found the copies. Would they give her a clue as to why the old lady was murdered?
‘I’ve looked through those,’ Boyd said, coming in and sitting sideways at his desk. He shoved his long legs out in front of him and leaned back, yawning.
‘Of course you have.’ Lottie swore silently. He was always one step ahead of her. ‘And?’
‘And nothing.’ He rolled up his shirtsleeves. ‘Love letters by the look of it. When did her husband die?’
‘How would I know that?’
‘I do.’ Boyd smirked. ‘Timothy Ball died four years after they were married. 1970. Heart attack.’
‘Long time to be a widow.’ Lottie thought of her own mother, who had been a widow almost the same length of time as Tessa. Neither had remarried. Would she?
‘But all the letters are undated and unsigned,’ Boyd said.
‘Anonymous? Why would she keep them?’
‘We can’t ask her, can we?’
‘Very funny,’ Lottie said, but neither of them was laughing. She scanned over the copies. ‘They do read like love letters. Why not sign them?’
‘In case her husband found them?’
‘But they might’ve been written after he died. So that doesn’t make sense. When we find Emma, we can ask her about her grandmother. Any word on Marian Russell?’
‘It’ll be a few days before they attempt to take her out of the coma. And before you ask, the burned man is still critical.’
‘One of the fire victims must be Lorcan Brady.’
‘If Emma is involved with him, she could be in danger.’
‘Still no sign of her?’ Lottie folded the letters back into the file.
Boyd shook his head. ‘Disappeared into the wind.’
‘I’m worried. She’s had terrible shocks. First her granny, then her mother. Her father is our lead suspect and her boyfriend could be dead or dying in hospital.’
‘She doesn’t know about him.’
‘Maybe she does. I hope she’s not involved in anything drug-related. Oh, I almost forgot.’
She pulled her bag up onto the desk and took out the Culpeper book she’d taken from Marian Russell’s room. Underneath, the two plastic evidence bags nestled amongst the chaos.
‘I found these at the house when I went to pick up clothes for Emma.’
Boyd came and perched on the edge of her desk. He picked up the receipt. ‘Danny’s Bar. The evening of the attack at the Russell house. Two pints of Heineken. 19.04 p.m. Verified by PIN. Visa debit. That’s where Arthur Russell works.’
‘The bar manager might be able to check their records to see if it was him.’
‘It’s a long shot, but we can try. Arthur might’ve had a drink before heading home.’
‘If it was him, then the coat places him at the scene of the crime. Check with the bank too to see if the transaction is his.’
Boyd glanced at the rolled-up notes. ‘And this money. Tell me.’
‘Bundled up in a trainer at the bottom of Emma’s wardrobe.’ Lottie pulled on the requisite latex gloves and took the bobbin from the notes. She flattened them on a plastic folder and counted. ‘Nine hundred and fifty euros.’
‘Running-away fund?’
‘Well, if she has run away, she’s gone without her fund. Drug money?’