She dropped it and frowned.
‘Now where was I?’ he said.
‘Your father and his files.’
‘When I was growing up, he was always talking about this one story he had uncovered but couldn’t print. As a young boy I remember him being very angry about it. My mother used to shush him to stop him talking about it in front of me. He smoked a pipe and he would be sucking and pulling frantically on it, slamming papers around the desk he had built in the corner of the living room. Once I overhead him talking about two children. His words chilled me.’
‘What did he say?’ Lottie wasn’t sure there was any merit in listening to Moroney and his childhood recollections, but something was telling her to give him another few minutes. Especially as what he’d said so far resonated with what Buzz had told her.
‘He said, “Those little children didn’t deserve what happened to them, and neither did Sergeant Fitzpatrick.” I heard him say those words many times.’
Lottie moved to the edge of her chair, hands gripping the armrests. ‘What children? Who were they?’
‘I didn’t know then, but I do now.’
‘And they had something to do with my father?’
‘He mentioned them in the same sentence.’
‘How can you recall that? Surely you were just a child yourself?’
‘I knew you’d ask. That’s why you need to see the file I found among my father’s things. He ended up with dementia; died five years ago. A heart attack took him in the end. But even in his ramblings, these children were always mentioned in some context. And he was never allowed to print the story.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I have his original report in my possession. Attached to it is a formal letter from the garda commissioner threatening to close down the newspaper if the story saw the light of day.’
‘Jesus!’ Lottie sat back in her chair and ran a hand through her hair. ‘Was the story to do with these children or my father’s suicide?’
‘Both.’
‘Do you realise what you have in your possession, Mr Moroney?’
‘I do. And I think you suspect your father didn’t kill himself. At least not voluntarily.’
The barman arrived with Moroney’s drink and cleared away the plate and cutlery.
‘What do you mean?’ Lottie said, when he’d gone.
‘Do we have a deal?’ Moroney said.
She sat still, eyeing the reporter as he paused with his pint halfway to his lips. Could she really risk her job by going behind Superintendent Corrigan’s back? Perhaps she could feed Moroney inconsequential information. Something that was ready to be released anyway.
‘And I don’t want any shite from you,’ he said, as if he had read her mind.
‘Deal.’ She could get fired for this, but she had spent all her life trying to figure out why her father had killed himself, and the last four months actively pursuing it, getting nowhere. And today everything seemed to be flowing towards her like molten lava. ‘When can I see the file? Do you have it with you?’
‘You may think I’m stupid, but don’t underestimate me. I’ve spent years on this drug story; what can you give me on the murders?’
Thinking frantically, Lottie wondered how much information she could realistically release to a television reporter without the leak being attributed to her. Not much. She’d have to bluff Moroney.
‘I’ll pull together what I have and prepare a document for you,’ she said.
He took a notebook and pen from his breast pocket. Scribbled, then tore out a page. ‘This is my home address. Call to me tomorrow night. Say around eight. That will give me enough time to make a copy of my father’s file. If you don’t arrive with solid information, something concrete I can use, our deal is off. Is that clear?’
‘Clear,’ Lottie said, wishing she had Boyd with her to bestow reassurance that she was doing the right thing.
Somehow she knew what he would say: ‘Career suicide.’
Sixty-Eight
Lottie caught up with Boyd at the station and they drove to inform Bernie and Natasha Kelly what had befallen Emma Russell; even though they were not family, she felt a duty to them. She had decided it was best Boyd knew nothing of her conversation with Moroney. What he didn’t know wouldn’t worry him, as her mother was apt to quote.
The front door was open, rain sweeping in on the hall carpet. The car in the drive had the boot and four doors open.
‘What the…?’ Boyd said.
Lottie shoved by him and entered the house.
‘What’s going on, Bernie?’ She put out a hand to stall the woman’s progress towards the door with an armful of clothes.
‘I’m getting out of this hole of a town, that’s what I’m doing.’
‘Why?’
Bernie laughed. ‘Why! Did you come down in that last shower out there or what? My daughter’s best friend and family were murdered and you ask me why. We’re getting out before we’re next.’
‘Let’s put these down for a moment.’ Lottie took the clothes from Bernie and dropped them on the couch. It was already covered with boxes and crates. She noticed that all the ornaments had been removed from the room. She heard crockery and cutlery rattling in the kitchen. Glanced in. Natasha was methodically packing kitchen utensils into a plastic crate. One by one, trance-like. Turning back, she saw that Bernie was seated on an armchair with Boyd perched on the arm beside her.
‘I’m sorry about Emma,’ Lottie began, standing with her back to the empty grate. ‘Every officer in the division is working flat out to find who murdered her.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not the first to call today. Had a visit from a prick of a detective inspector.’
If she wasn’t so angry, Lottie would have laughed. Bernie had McMahon well summed up.
‘I’m sorry, but DI McMahon neglected to inform us that he was calling to you.’
‘He seemed to be on something of a one-man mission.’ Bernie appeared to have calmed a little.
Lottie ploughed on. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘We went through this before, but I really need to find out how well you knew the Russell family. The comings and goings of people to their house. Any unusual cars or individuals you can recall. There are only these two houses on this part of the road. It’s very isolated, so I’m sure you would’ve been aware of any odd characters hanging around.’
‘You don’t suspect Arthur any more, then?’
‘Everyone is a suspect until we can arrest the culprit.’
‘Even me and Natasha?’
‘I’m only asking if you’ve seen—’
‘I know what you’re asking. And no. I didn’t notice anything. Don’t you think I would have told you if I had?’
‘Have you seen Arthur recently?’
‘No.’
‘Can I have a word with Natasha? Alone?’
‘No. She’s not yet eighteen and I’m entitled to be with her. What do you want to ask her?’
Ignoring the question, Lottie said, ‘Where are you going to move to, Bernie? Do you have family anywhere?’
‘Family? Huh. Natasha is the only family I need. I have to protect her. After all that’s happened this last week, the girl is inconsolable. We have to get out of here. Don’t you understand that? Are you a mother?’
‘I am,’ Lottie said. Not a very good one, she thought, recalling her meltdown last night.
‘Surely then you can understand how I have to shield my daughter from all this mayhem?’
‘I understand. But I don’t think running away from it is going to erase the memories. Natasha will carry the scars no matter where she is. Stay; get her help. See a doctor yourself, even. You’re too distraught to drive anywhere.’
Bernie sighed and seemed to relax, then jumped out of the chair, unbalancing Boyd, who almost hit the floor. She lunged for the bundle of clothes Lottie had deposited on the couch before dropping them again.
‘I honestly don’t know what the right thing to do is,’ she cried, crumpling to her knees.