‘The story went that Tessa Ball took the child and reared it as her own. I don’t know if that was fact or fiction. And this is the best bit so far. It must only have been two years later and your woman was pregnant again. Like a rabbit, she was. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so vulgar.’
‘Back up a minute. You think Tessa took a child away from this woman?’
‘Rumour, that’s all. Will I go on?’
‘Yes, do.’ Some memory, for an old man, Lottie thought. Or perhaps he was making it up, now that he had an audience.
‘Twins she had that time. And this is the really interesting thing. The two mites were taken from her and placed with a foster mother, and Carrie was shunted into St Declan’s. About a year, maybe two years later, she was back out. Tessa Ball was involved. Got her released, so the story goes. And Carrie had her twins back.’
‘So what happened then?’
‘Tried to burn the bloody house down, she did. The mad witch.’
‘Jesus. Did the children die?’ Lottie was now convinced this was the same Carrie that Kirby had mentioned.
‘I don’t rightly know what happened to them, though I heard one of them was fostered.’
‘And Carrie, did she die?’
‘No, she didn’t. Sure you can’t kill a bad thing. Great saying that. Back into the asylum she went. Come to think of it now, one of the children was placed there with her until they could find a home for it.’
‘Is there any way I can get verification for any of this? St Declan’s records?’
‘That monstrosity closed down years ago. Run by the Health Board then. What’s that called now?’
‘The Health Services Executive.’
‘Fancy name for the same bloody thing. You should try them.’
‘So you think Tessa Ball was complicit in everything to do with Carrie and her children?’
‘That was the talk at the time. And sure, then all the files were stolen out of the solicitor’s office. Any evidence of her supposed involvement gone.’
‘I must say, Buzz, you have a great memory, to recall all this after so long.’
‘Told you I’m not senile yet. But it’s just with Tessa’s murder the other day, and talking to you now, it all came back to me. Different times now. That carry-on wouldn’t happen today, sure it wouldn’t.’
Lottie thought for a moment. Maybe the murders, though linked to criminal and drug activity, were in fact intrinsically rooted in the past. Had Rose been right with her offhand remark about Tessa’s past come back to haunt her? Tessa was dead; her daughter and granddaughter were dead. Who else was left to be haunted by that past?
She stood up, her legs like jelly. ‘Thank you, Buzz. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll see myself out.’
‘Just me and Joe here now.’ He dragged his old body out of the armchair and put a cassette into the VHS recorder. ‘I go to the day-care centre on Thursdays; other than that, I’m here all the time. Call and visit. I’ll boil the kettle for you next time.’
As Lottie stepped outside and the clouds gave way to another downpour, her phone vibrated in her pocket.
Shit. Moroney.
Sixty-Seven
The Joyce Hotel had commanded the centre of Ragmullin for over one hundred and fifty years. Having undergone many facelifts and name changes, it was currently named after the Irish novelist who it was said had once stayed a night in the establishment. As Lottie entered the lounge bar, it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dark interior.
‘Over here, Inspector.’
She squinted and turned on her heel. Cathal Moroney sat nestled in a red velour armchair nursing a pint of Guinness. A fake coal fire burned gas up a blocked-off chimney.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me. Will you have a drink?’ He wiped froth from his upper lip.
‘A cup of tea would be nice.’
As he beckoned to the barman, Lottie sat opposite the reporter, wishing she had asked for a double vodka. But she needed her wits about her where Moroney was concerned. She pulled off her jacket, folded it into a ball and squashed it between the iron legs of the small round table.
‘You intrigue me, Inspector.’
‘I can’t say the feeling is mutual.’ She shifted on the chair, dipping her head slightly to avoid his scrutiny.
‘Can we be friends?’ He held out a hand.
‘Not on your life.’ She folded her arms. This was going to be painful. The barman arrived with a pot of tea, and without waiting for it to brew, Lottie poured the weak liquid into a cup. At least it might warm up her hands. ‘What do you want to speak to me about?’
‘No time for chit-chat, then?’
‘Come on, Moroney, you know how busy I am. Out with it.’
He sipped his pint. Slowly. Lottie felt her patience tip over. She stood up.
‘I’m leaving.’
‘I think you’ll want to sit down,’ he said, slapping his glass onto the table. ‘It’s about the drug link to these murders you’re investigating. And possibly your private investigation into your father’s death.’
Lottie stopped, bent halfway under the table retrieving her jacket. Raising her head, she glared at the reporter. If he didn’t try so hard, she might even go so far as admitting he could be handsome. She supposed he flossed his teeth and dyed his hair. Even a little Botox on the forehead to help his television appearance. For all that, his green eyes were bloodshot, probably from drinking whiskey alone in a one-bedroom flat at night, and his belly strained against his shirt buttons.
She sat back down. ‘Go on.’
‘Nothing for nothing,’ he said, curling his lip in a knowing smirk.
‘Thought as much.’
‘I want the inside track on these drug-related deaths.’
‘What are you on about?’ She wasn’t giving him anything.
‘I believe there’s an organised-crime element involved in the Ball and Russell murders. I’ve been working on a story for years and I think this is the apex of it. I want in.’
‘You’re delusional.’ Lottie poured more tea, well brewed now.
A waiter arrived with a plate of food on a tray. ‘Mr Moroney, you ordered chicken, mash, veg and gravy. That right?’
‘Good lad. Put it right there.’ Moroney made room on the table for the plate of food. ‘Hungry, Inspector? Can I order anything for you?’
‘No thank you,’ Lottie said. Her stomach growled in protest.
She watched Moroney dig a fork into the chicken, stuff it into his mouth and chomp with his white veneers. She realised she had never met him outside of his confrontational reporting work. But he might have information to help her, so she’d have to put up with his disgusting eating, for a few minutes at least.
‘My father,’ she said. ‘What makes you think I’ve been looking into his death?’
He tapped the side of his nose with his fork, leaving a streak of gravy behind.
‘It’s my business to know these things. So what’s in it for me?’
Sipping the cup of tea, Lottie gripped the handle tightly. She had to find out what he had, if anything. She made her decision.
‘If you tell me what you know, I’ll try to give you first call on whatever we discover with regard to the murder investigations. Before any other media outlet is informed. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best.’
‘Not good enough.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Moroney.’ She clattered her cup to the saucer and made to get up again.
‘No… sit down.’ Moroney flapped the hand holding the knife. Reluctantly Lottie resumed her seat. Chewing, he said, ‘My father started out as a reporter on the local Tribune. Worked his fingers to the bone with black ink from the presses. Ended up owning the damn thing. Luckily, he didn’t live to see his life’s work taken over by a digital corporation.’
‘And what has that got to do with—’
‘My father was a meticulous reporter. Never lost the skill, even when he was managing a shitload of trouble at the paper. Kept files on everything and anything.’
‘And it’s all digitised now?’
‘Mostly, but not what I’m referring to.’
‘I don’t follow you, Mr Moroney.’
‘Cathal, please. Can I call you Lottie?’
‘No way, Mister Moroney.’
‘Jaysus, but you’re very contrary.’ He pulled his drink towards him and drained it to the dregs. Signalled the barman for another, sat back and folded his arms. He’d left the knife and fork resting on either side of the plate. Boyd would lose it if he saw that, Lottie thought, and smiled.
‘Nice smile,’ he said.