‘So this is a copy?’
‘No, this is the original. I made the copy yesterday but I hadn’t time to return the original, so I took it home with me to have a read-through. And maybe somewhere in the back of my mind I thought it was safer with me.’ She buckled up her bag and laid her hands on top of it. ‘The copy was here, on my desk. It’s the only thing missing.’
‘Oh God. I’m so sorry about all this.’
‘It’s not your fault. I went through the correct channels to get the file. I had no reason to suspect it might send a red flag to someone. But Lottie, this may mean you were right to suspect that your father’s death wasn’t all it seemed.’
‘I know. And I apologise for putting you in an awkward position. Did you tell the investigating guards?’
‘I don’t know why, but I said nothing. Anyway, I still had the original.’
Lottie put a protective hand on top of the file. At last she might get some answers. Or had she opened a Pandora’s box? ‘You said you read it last night.’
‘I did.’
‘Anything strike you as odd about his death?’
‘I think your father did kill himself.’
Lottie slumped back in the chair. Unwanted tears stabbed the corners of her eyes. She brushed them away angrily.
Jane continued. ‘But I think he may have done it under duress. I studied the PM photographs and found evidence of excess pressure on his thorax. There were strange indents across his chest too. I think he may have been tied to a chair. I believe someone forced him to pull that trigger. Then they untied the ropes.’
Lottie sucked in her bottom lip, desperately trying not to cry. She had been right all along. All these years, struggling with the idea that her father hadn’t loved her enough to want to live.
‘Thanks, Jane,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you so much.’
She felt the pressure of Jane’s hand on hers.
‘Lottie, you need to drop it now. Don’t keep after it. You won’t find answers. It will destroy you.’
‘But don’t you see? My father was murdered. I have to find out why, and then I have to bring the perpetrator to justice.’ She wondered once again why Tessa Ball had had in her possession the gun that had killed her father.
‘Whoever it was, they’re probably dead by now,’ the pathologist said.
‘Someone knows, Jane. Someone, somewhere knows. Why else were they prepared to steal that file?’
Sixty-Six
Arriving back in Ragmullin, Lottie drove through the flooded streets and parked outside Willie ‘The Buzz’ Flynn’s apartment.
Buzz brought her into a cluttered living room. A two-bar electric heater blazed in the fireplace and a gas heater flamed out a noxious heat in the centre of the room. She searched for somewhere to leave her jacket, but there didn’t seem to be anywhere free to put it. The room was packed to the ceiling with memorabilia relating to the late singer Joe Dolan. The old man, one hand gripping a Zimmer frame, pointed out each prized possession, documenting its significance.
‘I’ve a few videos here too, of Joe singing. I’ll put one on for you.’ Buzz pulled a cassette from a bookcase.
Lottie placed her hand on his arm. ‘Not now, if you don’t mind. I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’d like to ask you a few questions. About your time working with the Midland Tribune.’
He croaked a laugh. ‘I’m retired out of there donkey’s years. What could a pretty young lady like yourself want to know about the old days?’
‘I’m not altogether sure, to be honest.’
‘Start at the beginning.’ He lowered his thin body into an armchair and sat on top of a bundle of newspapers.
Looking around, Lottie spied a stool with a frayed leather seat. She pulled it over and sat down gingerly, hoping the bandy legs wouldn’t give way under her weight.
‘Have you heard about Tessa Ball’s murder?’ she asked.
‘Nothing goes on in this town without Buzz knowing.’ He tapped his nose with a thin finger, the skin almost transparent.
‘Tell me about her.’
‘Didn’t know her at all, at all. Not recently anyway. She used to be a solicitor. At a time when there weren’t many women in the profession. Not like nowadays. Tough-nosed biddy she was.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She had a reputation.’
‘Reputation? Not a good one?’
‘Depends on what you mean by good.’ He leaned into the chair, newspapers rustling as he made room for himself. ‘From what I can remember, Tessa Ball was good at winning cases in the district court. She mainly dealt with what you’d now call family law. Though there was no such title then.’
‘What sort of cases?’
‘Father against son, brother against brother – land stuff. Husbands beating their wives – abuse stuff. That kind of thing. It was a long time ago. My memory is not what it used to be.’
‘You’re doing fine,’ Lottie encouraged him. ‘Is there any case in particular that you can recall?’
He closed his eyes. She thought he had nodded off when he started to speak. ‘Not a case. No. A bit of a scandal, you could say. She sorted it out, though. Oh yes, Tessa was the go-to woman to get things sorted.’
‘What scandal? Would I find it listed in the newspaper’s archives?’
‘No, you won’t, because it was never reported. All hush-hush, covered up. Ha! But every dog in the street knew about it.’
‘Can you remember it?’ Lottie wondered what she was doing here. Surely this old man’s unreliable recollections had nothing to do with her investigation. She wanted answers to things she didn’t even know the questions to.
‘Let me think,’ he said, knotting his fingers together. ‘It was the time of the IRA bombings in Dublin. You can look it up on the goggle thing you use nowadays. Seventy-two or three, I think. It was all over the press. God, that was a time when the Special Branch were sprouting up everywhere like wild ivy. Shocking times. Shocking.’
‘I was only a child then,’ Lottie said. ‘What was this thing that Tessa was involved in?’
‘There was a local woman… Carrie… I can’t remember the surname. I remember the name Carrie, because wasn’t there a horror film of the same name?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, this Carrie was a bit of a horror show herself. A right madam. Into drugs and drink in a fierce way. Must’ve been from Woodstock or somewhere that she got her barmy ideas. A hippy. That’s what she was. Wild clothes, every colour under the sun; hair all matted… What do you call it? Dreadlocks? Aye, that’s it.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘So, Mr Flynn, what’s your point?’
‘Buzz. Call me Buzz. It’s the only name I answer to nowadays.’
‘You were telling me about this Carrie woman,’ Lottie prompted.
‘I know what I was telling you. Not senile yet.’
‘I’m sorry. Go ahead.’
‘She slept around. Anyone that’d give her a few bob or a drop of whiskey was welcomed. You know what I mean?’
‘I think I do.’
‘Got herself caught with buns in the oven a fair few times.’ He tapped his nose again. ‘She had more than one pregnancy?’ Where was this going?
‘There was a rumour doing the rounds that young Mick O’Dowd and even a couple of the guards up in the station were regular visitors to her.’
Lottie felt her stomach lurch, then somersault. Shit, this wasn’t what she’d been expecting. ‘Really? Did you hear any names?’
‘No. All part of the hush-hush,’ he said. ‘Here’s the thing. The rumour mill sizzled with the news that Carrie had a child, but there was no sign of it. One day she was pregnant, and the next she wasn’t. Don’t know what went on there, now do I? A few months later, wasn’t your woman going around with another bun in the oven. No contraceptive pill available in them days, was there? Until the women took the train to Belfast protesting about its availability in the North…’
‘Go on,’ Lottie said.