‘Of course not. I thought of feeling for a pulse but I knew by looking at her she was dead.’
‘Even so, you’ll have to call over to the station to provide a sample for DNA analysis.’ She added, ‘To rule you in or out of our investigations.’
‘I am a suspect then.’ He locked his long fingers together in a steeple beneath his chin.
‘Everyone is a suspect until we determine otherwise.’ Lottie tried but couldn’t read anything in his eyes. ‘Did you know Susan Sullivan?’ She watched for his reaction.
‘Was she the victim?’
She nodded. His face was serene.
‘No, I don’t remember seeing her before.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There are lots of people who come to the cathedral but don’t go to Mass. They might drop in to pray or light a candle. Ragmullin parish has over fifteen thousand people, you know.’
‘Do you do house calls?’
‘Not unless someone is sick and requests a priest. I visit the hospitals. I’m also the chaplain for the girls’ secondary school. We say Mass and hear confessions, though not many go to confessions any more.’ He shook his head. ‘Baptisms, weddings, funerals, communions and confirmation.’
‘Is that a lot of work?’
‘Which part, or all of it?’ His face opened up with a smile.
Lottie was silent. She recalled a priest coming to her house to administer the blessing of the sick for Adam. She’d have remembered if it was Father Joe Burke. Then again, Adam was so ill at that stage, she might not have noticed him. Unlike now.
‘Can I ask what you did for the remainder of yesterday afternoon?’
‘I accompanied Mrs Gavin home and waited until her husband arrived. Then I returned and read in my room for the night. I’ve never seen such a snowstorm in all my life.’
‘So you didn’t venture out in it, then?’
‘No, Inspector, I didn’t. Why all the questions?’
Lottie contemplated what she would say then decided on honesty. ‘We have another suspicious death on our hands. It could be suicide but we’re not totally sure.’
‘I wasn’t on duty last night and didn’t attend any emergency. What happened? Should I know who it was?’
‘James Brown. He worked with Susan Sullivan.’
‘Don’t know him. God help his poor family.’ Father Joe joined his hands and bowed his head.
‘We haven’t been able to trace any next of kin as yet. Just like Susan. It’s as if they were both plucked from thin air and dropped into Ragmullin.’
‘I’ll ask around. Someone must be related to them.’
‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’ Lottie sighed and, unable to think of anything else to delay her stay, she stood up. ‘I’ll send someone to collect the CCTV discs. Call over to the station today. We’ll take a buccal swab and fingerprints. As the investigation progresses, I’ll be back to talk to you again.’
She pulled on her jacket.
‘I look forward it,’ he said, helping slip her arm into the sleeve. This time she saw a definite twinkle in his eye.
Handing him her card, she said, ‘In case you remember anything else, that’s my mobile number.’
‘It was lovely chatting with you. Pity about the circumstances.’
‘Thanks for the tea.’ She pulled her hood up against the swirling snow.
When he closed the door, Lottie stood for a moment, blinded by the whiteness after the dull interior, and attempted to wrap her mind around just what had gone on between her and Father Joe Burke.
Thirteen
Boyd took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled.
‘We have nothing,’ he said.
They were walking to the council offices. Lottie wished he would shut up. It was fine knowing they had nothing, but there was no need to remind her.
‘We’ll go through their files,’ she said. ‘There has to be a link in relation to their jobs. Both worked in the planning department and it is a highly contentious area. They don’t appear to have anything else in common. For the moment, anyway.’
Boyd inhaled deeply. ‘Maybe they were having an affair?’
Lottie stopped and stared at him.
Then she started walking again, shaking her head. ‘So what? Both were single as far as we know.’
‘It has to be something dodgy in the planning area so,’ he said.
‘Doh,’ Lottie mimicked Homer Simpson. ‘Let’s see what we can find out.’
Boyd stubbed his cigarette into the snow and they entered the glass aquarium.
The building was unnaturally silent. A few staff walked around with bowed heads as they arrived for work, New Year’s Eve joviality now abandoned. Detective Maria Lynch’s team were conducting individual interviews with all personnel in a second-floor room. Lottie looked forward to hearing the outcome.
In Sullivan’s office, a technician unlocked the computer. Lottie could have done it herself, she thought, after finding the password taped to the underside of the keyboard. Some people never learn. Seated, she scrolled through the electronic folders. Stopping the cursor on one marked private, she sensed Boyd at her shoulder.
‘Why don’t you start on Brown’s computer,’ she said.
She was being a bitch, but he was irritating her. So much for ‘be nice to Boyd day’. After an hour of trawling, Lottie looked up to see him standing in the doorway shaking his head.
‘There’s nothing unusual here,’ she said. ‘Her private folders have tax returns and medical insurance. A few items could be of interest though. For example, the minutes of meetings in relation to a group called ‘Residents against Ghost Estates’. There’s about a year’s worth.’ Lottie stretched. ‘Did you find anything on Brown’s computer?’
‘Nothing I can understand.’
‘We’ll need someone who knows about these things, to see if they can spot anything illegal or dubious,’ Lottie said. ‘I’m going to have a word with the county manager.’
‘Will I tag along?’
‘See about getting these files zipped, or whatever you call it, to the station. Make yourself really useful.’
She headed out without listening to Boyd’s retort.
At forty-five years old, Gerry Dunne was the second youngest county manager in the country.