‘McGlynn could have warned us,’ she said.
Glancing upwards, she motioned Boyd to do likewise. On the ceiling above the bed, hung a square mirror, suspended from the rafters with chains.
‘Hugh Hefner is only trotting after this guy,’ Boyd said.
A laptop, open on the bed, was half covered by a black silk sheet. They had his office laptop, this must be a personal one. Lottie tipped the return button with the pen from her notebook. The screen flashed to life. A pornographic site appeared. Obviously Brown was not expecting anyone but himself to return to it. The content was graphic but featured only adults, not children. She had seen worse during the course of her job.
‘Would you look at the balls on that fellow.’ Boyd stared at the photographs.
Uncomfortable with violating the secrets of a dead man, Lottie slammed the laptop shut and put it under her arm. The technical team could interrogate its history. Boyd began searching the drawers. She went through to a cramped bathroom.
A bottle of cologne on the shelf above the sink, a tube of toothpaste and a single toothbrush sat in a glass in the window. A feeling of sympathy for Brown grew within her. She joined Boyd.
‘Anything?’ she asked.
‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing to point us in the direction of a murder motive, unless someone didn’t like his sexual persuasion. I still think he topped himself.’
‘It’s all too neat.’ Lottie shook her head. ‘So far the only common denominator between the victims is their place of work. There must be something else connecting Susan Sullivan and James Brown.’
Boyd shrugged. They walked outside and removed their protective gear.
‘Do you want to drive?’ he asked, stifling a yawn.
‘What do you think?’ she answered, sitting into the passenger seat. ‘Put the heater on, I’m freezing.’
‘And I’m not?’
He started the engine and clipped the fender of one of the patrol cars as he reversed.
‘What’s up with you?’ Lottie asked. ‘Something back there excite you?’
He didn’t answer.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window. Maybe she should text Chloe to switch on the heating. Maybe not. If they were cold enough they’d put it on. Getting them to turn it off, that might be the problem.
Her phone rang.
‘Inspector, you know we found Brown’s mobile phone in his briefcase?’ Kirby said.
‘Yes. Go on.’
‘We’ve extracted his recent calls.’
‘Anything unusual or recurring?’ She hoped they had a lead. She needed something fast.
‘Being analysed as we speak. The last number he called before his untimely demise was Derek Harte’s. The second last number is more interesting.’
‘I’m waiting.’
‘It lasted thirty-seven seconds.’
‘Don’t play with me, Kirby. Who did he call?’
‘Tom Rickard.’
Lottie thought for a second.
‘Rickard Construction? I came across that name on the ghost estate files on Susan Sullivan’s computer. I remember all the hullabaloo a few years ago when he got permission to knock down the old bank on Main Street and erected his company headquarters monstrosity in its place.’
Kirby said, ‘Going by your report, Inspector, James Brown made the call approximately four minutes after you concluded your interview with him.’
‘Thanks, Kirby.’ Lottie hung up.
‘I presume our next stop is Tom Rickard,’ said Boyd.
‘I’m going to tackle him on my own.’
‘Shouldn’t I be with you?’
‘I know his sort, believe me, it’s better if I go it alone. I want to pick up that phone printout at the station too.’
Visibility was increasingly difficult. Boyd struggled to follow the road.
‘Some way to spend New Year’s Eve,’ Lottie remarked, leaning over to turn up the heat. She closed her eyes as Boyd swore.
Fifteen
‘Mr Rickard. I hope you can spare a few minutes of your time.’
Lottie followed as Rickard brushed past her, striding to the glass lift.
‘You are Tom Rickard, aren’t you?’ She stepped in beside him.
‘Are you still here?’ he asked.
She folded her arms without budging an inch.
‘You need an appointment,’ he said, pressing his chubby finger on the button to keep the door open.
She flashed her ID badge in his face.
Rickard glanced at it and smirked.
‘I should have recognised you, Inspector, but you look different from your newspaper photos.’
‘I need to ask you a few questions.’
Lottie stepped into his space.
‘Joke,’ he said. ‘I’m very busy but as you’re already here, I’ll spare you two minutes.’
He pushed number three on the keypad. The doors eased closed and the lift rose quickly. His office appeared to take up most of the third floor.
Despite herself, Lottie admired the man’s taste. The space was modern and sparse, with bright warm colours mirroring the sleek character before her.
Rickard removed his cashmere coat, hung it on a marble coat rack and seated himself behind his desk, indicating a chair for Lottie to sit. She didn’t know anything about designer clothes but estimated his coat could cost at least a week of her wages. Perhaps two. Another world.
His grey suit had hand-stitched tucks and the double-breasted waistcoat held in a thick belly. Lottie thought he was about six foot two; mid-fifties; straight russet hair, neatly coiffured. Teeth so white, they had to be veneers. A blue shirt and dark grey tie completed his executive look. She wanted to believe he wasn’t handsome but he was; his craggy jaw and bright eyes reminded her of Robert Redford.
‘I’m extremely busy.’ He leaned forward, two hands placed firmly on the desk. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Mr Rickard,’ Lottie spoke slowly. Unconcerned for his busy schedule, she would take her time. ‘You are aware of the suspicious death in the cathedral yesterday?’
‘I saw the news report last night. Very tragic.’ He sat back in his chair, creating space between them. ‘What’s it got to do with me?’
‘Can you account for your whereabouts, from about eleven in the morning until eight last night?’
She eyed Rickard. His expression was chameleon-like, fading from smug and pompous to enquiring and puzzled.
‘Why do I have to? I didn’t know the victim.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Can’t be a hundred per cent. I meet many people in the course of my business. I don’t remember everyone.’
‘I’ll ask you again. Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday, in particular between eleven a.m. and eight p.m.?’
She was beginning to enjoy this encounter. Maybe she was grasping at straws in the wind, but his altering body language told her to go for it.
‘I’ll have to check my diary,’ he said, reluctantly.
‘I’m talking about yesterday, not last year. Surely you know where you were, what you did and who you did it with?’
‘I travel all over the country, all over the world. I could’ve been on Wall Street, New York, yesterday.’