The barrel was now on its side, water emptying quickly until only Emma’s fully clothed body remained inside.
Lottie caught McGlynn eyeing her above his mouth mask. Pools of emeralds, dimmed by the scenes he witnessed. Just like her own, she supposed. Along with another SOCO, he gently eased Emma free from the plastic drum and onto a Teflon sheet.
Stepping closer, Lottie looked down. The girl’s open eyes appeared to glare at her, questioning her, asking why she had let her down. Why she hadn’t saved her. There were scratches across her nose and forehead.
‘I won’t know cause of death until I do the post-mortem,’ Jane said, pre-empting Lottie’s question. She assessed the body. ‘Fully clothed. Jeans, shirt and sweater.’ Her fingers felt under the wet wool and cotton, checking carefully for wounds.
‘I assume she drowned,’ Lottie said.
‘You know what I say about assuming anything?’ Jane said.
Lottie sighed. ‘Let me know your findings.’
‘Of course.’
‘You didn’t give me a chance,’ Lottie whispered and reached out a hand to wipe a strand of hair from Emma’s death mask.
McGlynn dipped his eyes in warning, but Lottie had already turned away.
Fifty-Six
After sending Boyd off to tell Arthur Russell about his daughter’s death and to verify his whereabouts since his release from custody, Lottie watched two crime-scene officers meticulously identify, bag and tag potential evidence in O’Dowd’s kitchen.
Emma’s broken spectacles. Her phone, with a cracked screen. SIM card and battery, separate from the phone. These were the only signs she had left behind that she had been here.
And accounting ledgers. Stepping closer, Lottie flipped open one of the ledgers with a gloved finger. Columns of words and figures. They meant nothing to her. Another had a list of numbered livestock. Who would feed the heifers and milk O’Dowd’s cows now, she wondered? If he didn’t return. If he had murdered the girl. If…
Flicking through the pages, a light of recognition dawned. She knew that handwriting.
‘Hand me an evidence bag,’ she said.
With the ledger sealed, she took another quick glance around. She was sure this was where Emma had been attacked. The CCTV monitor was smashed on the floor.
‘Any tapes?’ she asked the SOCO who was dusting the counter top for fingerprints.
‘Haven’t noticed any yet. But if I come across them, I’ll notify you.’
‘Do that, please.’
She’d seen enough. With the evidence bag under her arm, she left the house, wondering why Emma had been here and what Mick O’Dowd’s role was in the whole sorry mess. Soon, she hoped, Marian Russell would be able to give them answers.
* * *
At the front of the house, Lynch jumped out of a squad car, dipped under the crime-scene tape and caught up with Lottie.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ she said.
‘Now isn’t the time for games,’ Lottie said, shoving the evidence bag under her jacket to keep the rain off it. ‘I need to get home to my children.’
‘Just trying to soften the blow,’ Lynch persisted.
‘Okay,’ Lottie relented. ‘Good news?’
Lynch took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘The man we suspect is Lorcan Brady is off life support but unable to talk for the moment.’
‘That’s the good news?’
‘Yes, boss. The bad news now?’
‘Oh, go on. It can only add to the day I’ve had.’
‘Marian Russell died half an hour ago.’
* * *
‘Inspector Parker?’
Cathal Moroney had appeared from behind a white van with a satellite dish on the roof. He got no further than the gate. Two gardaí succeeded in keeping him behind the crime-scene tape.
‘Have you a comment on what you think happened here, please?’
‘Do you honestly want to know what I think?’ Lottie tightened her grip on the evidence bag under her jacket, and walked up to the tape, careful not to slip in the downpour.
Moroney slid his microphone under her nose. ‘Yes, please. Is it another murder? The girl who went AWOL from under your very eyes?’
Stepping forward, jabbing towards him with her finger, Lottie said, ‘You are the lowest of the low. How do you live with yourself?’
Moroney grabbed her hand before it connected with him.
‘Detective Inspector Parker, I’ll let that go for this one time only. I’ll put it down to the shock of whatever you’ve witnessed in there. But let me tell you, I could do you for assault.’
Lottie kept her mouth shut. He had a point.
‘So it’s no comment, is it?’
She nodded and ducked under the tape, heading for the squad car Lynch had exited. Before she reached it, she felt Moroney tug her sleeve.
‘Meet me in the Joyce Hotel. Tomorrow. Say twelve thirty p.m. There’s something you need to know.’
She shrugged off his hand and opened the car door.
‘Don’t forget,’ he said.
‘If I do, I’m sure you’ll remind me.’
She got into the car and slammed the door. She had more to be doing than meeting Cathal fecking Moroney tomorrow. She leaned her head into the seat and closed her eyes tightly. She could still see Emma Russell’s staring back at her. And she immediately thought of her children. It had been one long, merciless day.
* * *
His coat had been there all the time. Folded in a ball under his music desk. Or had he got two? He couldn’t remember. God, but he had to cut down on the weed. He had no idea what was real or imagined any more.
The guitar held no solace for him. He plucked at a string, sighed, and laid the instrument back in its stand. He scanned his small cabin of refuge and felt the walls encroach on his very soul.
Where would he begin to look for Emma?
Perhaps he should rush over to the hospital and shake the life out of Marian. See what she had to say for herself. The witch. With her plants and her spells and whatnot. Most times he was sure she was insane; other times he was convinced she was just plain sad.
A knock roused him from his reverie. Before he could move, the door swung inwards and Arthur Russell’s sorrowful little world was once again rocked on its axis.
Fifty-Seven
The young garda parked the squad car in the station yard. It took Lottie a moment to realise where she was. A sharp knock on the window and she jumped in her seat.
‘What the…?’
A face peered in at her, the light attached to the wall beaming down behind it.
She stepped out of the car in a daze.
A hand was thrust towards her. She looked down at it and then up at the face. No one she recognised. A head of black hair meant he was probably younger than her. Even in the obscure light she could see his skin was dark. Tanned? She couldn’t make out the colour of the eyes. Not here, anyway. As he stepped back to give her room to shut the car door, she noticed he was a good head taller than her, with shoulders broad enough on which to hang a door. He smirked, and before he opened his mouth, she knew arrogance percolated in the pores of his skin.
‘David,’ he said. ‘Detective Inspector David McMahon. National Drugs Unit. Seconded from Dublin Castle to take command. You must be Detective Inspector Parker.’
Take command? Arrogant prick, she thought. ‘You can take all you like, but I’m still SIO on the murder cases. And the new one.’
‘New what?’
‘Murder.’ Lottie brushed past him and glided up the steps and in through the door. She wanted to bang it in his face, but it was on a slow hinge. She left him standing in the rain. And she knew his mouth was open.
* * *
‘I’ll take this office, shall I?’
He was heading into what would soon be her new office, as yet unfinished, without a door.
‘No you won’t. That’s mine.’
‘Looks like no one has moved in. It’ll do.’ In he marched, pulling off his coat, shaking rainwater over the new beige carpet. He moved a ladder from one wall to the other and eyed the decorator’s table.
She slapped the ledger she’d taken from O’Dowd’s house onto her desk and flopped into her chair.
‘Can I get a chair and a computer?’ he asked.
‘You can piss off back to Dublin,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘What was that?’