He managed a revenue budget of millions and a capital budget on a downward curve as the recession hit infrastructural development. During the Celtic Tiger years he had overseen multi-million-euro developments including a major motorway traversing the county. No comfort to struggling motorists, thought Lottie as she leafed through the council’s annual report outside his office. People couldn’t afford the diesel; they couldn’t afford the cars; they couldn’t afford the taxes and some couldn’t afford to put decent food on their tables. Gerry Dunne continued to earn his hundred thousand plus salary annually and Lottie was sure he was one of those who changed his car every January. His biography made interesting reading for Lottie as she waited to be admitted to his office. She thought of her own dwindling bank balance and squirmed.
A secretary buzzed her in. His office was twice the size of James Brown’s. A chill circulated the room. Snow had settled outside on the window ledge and mystical images imprinted themselves on the glass where the wind had blown the flakes. A networked laptop and phone were the only blemishes on the smooth wooden surface of his desk.
‘I’ll do anything I can to help, Inspector,’ Dunne said. His striking features were lined with stress and his mouth dipped toward his chin. Short dark hair had wisps of grey shadowing his ears.
‘We’re all shocked at these deaths,’ he said, his eyes appearing to penetrate the depths of her soul. Lottie pitied him if he could read what was written there. There was a time when these interviews wouldn’t have affected her, but that was then, this was now and her life had changed. ‘Two esteemed members of my staff, in one day. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘Is there anything work-related that might lead someone to kill Susan? Or indeed James, though I should state that his death is classed as suicide for the moment.’
She interrogated his face and found little reaction.
‘They both dealt with planning applications. From time to time they would’ve come under political and developer-led pressure. Inspector, I can vouch for my staff having the highest ethical standards.’
His voice was slow and measured. It sounded like a prepared speech.
‘Any threats made against them?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes. Against other staff too. During the Celtic Tiger era developers had millions of euro for land purchase. Acquiring permission to build large housing estates, shopping centres, industrial estates and the like ensured they made a profit. Those late on the scene lost everything. Others early in the game made fortunes.’
‘How were these threats made?’
‘Phone, letter . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘I once received a bullet in a miniature coffin.’
Lottie remembered the incident.
‘And all these threats were reported?’
‘Yes, of course. You should have records of them.’
‘I’m sure we do. I’ll double check.’
‘Yes, Inspector, you do that,’ Dunne said, lips tight, drawing a line under the matter.
Was he reprimanding her? Pull yourself together woman, she warned herself. He was hard to read. At least Corrigan shouted and bellowed and she knew where she stood with him.
‘Their current planning files, I need to see them. I know you’ll tell me they’re confidential . . .’
‘On the contrary,’ he interrupted, ‘all planning information is in the public domain. I’ll ensure you have access. Will that be all?’
‘Where were you around midday yesterday?’
‘I returned early in the morning after a few days’ holiday in Lanzarote with my wife, Hazel. I think ours was the last flight in before the airport shut down due to the weather. Once I was home, I stayed there.’
‘Will Hazel verify that?’
His smile emphasised straight white teeth. His eyes never moved.
‘I’m sure she will.’
Jesus, a barracuda in a pinstripe suit. God help the other fish in the aquarium. Lottie went off to find Boyd.
The smile slipped down Gerry Dunne’s face as soon as the inspector left his office. He looked at the icy river below his office window.
He was not a stupid man. He knew she had conducted a character appraisal in the short time she’d been with him. She probably hadn’t liked what she found. He didn’t care. He didn’t like himself much either.
Two members of his staff were dead, attracting attention at a time when he wanted to be so far under the radar that he was invisible.
The mask of composure, which he could wear so well, dissolved into tiny shards. He sat back at his desk and, trying to hold it all together, he cradled his head with quivering hands, wishing he was back in Lanzarote.
Fourteen
Boyd struggled to keep the car upright and Lottie braced herself for impact with a ditch. He was an expert driver. Good job.
‘Twenty-two,’ Lottie said, rubbing cold fingers over her forehead, deepening the furrow.
‘What?’ asked Boyd.
‘Trees on the left-hand side of the avenue.’
‘And that means . . . what exactly?’ Boyd asked, bringing the car to a halt.
‘Observing. That’s all,’ Lottie said. Why was she feeling stressed? The day was yet young. She got out of the car.
A Garda Technical van, a squad car and two other cars were parked on the courtyard in front of James Brown’s house. In the daylight Lottie observed the stone cottage, covered in snow-laden ivy. It dominated the enclosure. A leafless tree, a cairn of rocks circling its roots, sprouted from the centre of the frozen cobbled ground. Looks lonely, she thought. To her right the oak tree, without the body that had swayed from its branch last night, threw ominous shadows in its wake. The state pathologist had been and gone.
They pulled on protective clothing, covered their shoes and entered the cottage. From the black and white hexagon tiled hallway, they walked into the living area. Wooden beams traversed the ceiling. The walls were bare and whitewashed. A round table with four chairs stood in the centre of the floor. A cream fabric couch faced an open-hearth fireplace. Red bricks climbed up the chimney breast and extended towards the window. The entire area was stark in its brightness. Clutter free and clean. Scattered around the floor in front of the fireplace were thick white candles at various stages of melt. Lottie smelled only their wax, no vanilla or jasmine. She deduced the candles possibly served a purpose other than exuding a calm scent.
The room felt overcrowded with two SOCOs and a couple of uniforms along with herself and Boyd. Nothing looked out of place. No sign of a struggle.
‘We’re finished in here,’ Jim McGlynn told Boyd, ignoring Lottie.
‘Asshole,’ she muttered, interpreting his snub as disrespect.
‘Heard that,’ Boyd whispered.
‘Did you find anything we should know about?’ Lottie asked McGlynn.
‘We’ve taken fingerprints and samples for comparisons. That’s if you find anything to compare them with. No suicide note.’
She nodded and stooped into the kitchen. Small and compact. She opened the fridge. Tubs of organic mush, she noted, lifting and probing, searching through the food. She closed it and inspected the counter. An empty sink, a breakfast bowl, mug and spoon on the drainer. No microwave. The kitchen was clean and tidy. It was obvious James Brown had no teenage children ransacking it.
At the bedroom door Boyd stood, looking in. Lottie joined him.
She sucked in a gasp. ‘What the hell?’
‘My sentiments exactly.’
‘And I thought Brown was Mr Stuffy Boots when I spoke to him yesterday.’
Lottie explored the small bedroom. It felt oppressive, with a free-standing wooden wardrobe, chest of drawers and a four-poster bed adorned with a black silk quilt. Life-sized photographs of naked men blasting out various stages of arousal covered every inch of wall space.