Playing for time or concocting a web to spin a story? Lottie didn’t doubt that Tom Rickard wouldn’t look a bit out of place on Wall Street.
‘Stop wasting my time and yours,’ she said. ‘Dublin Airport was closed from early morning yesterday because of the snow. So spin another one.’
Opening up his iPad, he pounded an icon for his diary and index fingered the date. She peered across the desk trying to see the upside down words.
They raised their heads simultaneously, two sets of eyes, challenging each other.
‘I was out and about. I had my PA cancel a meeting in Dublin – because of the bad weather. So I did a few site visits.’
She detected a hint of insolence returning to his voice.
‘Can anyone vouch for you?’
‘Vouch?’ He laughed.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Nothing, Inspector. Am I a suspect?’
‘I’m trying to establish if you have a credible alibi.’
‘Mmm . . . There was no one on any of the sites. The weather, you know. Vouch?’ he repeated. ‘I doubt it.’
‘I’ll need a list of those sites.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anything else?’
‘You got a phone call. Late afternoon,’ Lottie said, changing the emphasis of the conversation.
Rickard shifted in his chair.
‘What phone call?’
‘The call James Brown made to you not long before he died.’
‘He’s dead?’ Rickard said, his eyes widening. He appeared to gather his thoughts. ‘I don’t know any James Brown and I certainly didn’t get any call from him.’
‘Nice try.’
Lottie pulled the sheet of crumpled paper from her pocket. She unfolded it on the desk, ironing out the creases with her finger. Taking her time. She picked up his silver pen and underlined the penultimate line of digits. The rest of the page was blacked out.
Turning it towards him, she asked, ‘Is that your number?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘It is your number. You know it’s your number. What was James Brown ringing you about shortly before he apparently wrapped a rope around his neck and hung himself?’
Rickard didn’t flinch.
‘I won’t deny I might’ve had dealings with Brown in the past. I’m sorry he’s dead but you’re not going to pin this on me, Inspector.’
‘I’m not trying to pin anything on anyone. I asked a simple question.’
‘He could have called me by mistake. I don’t know.’ He shrugged.
‘The call lasted thirty-seven seconds.’
‘So?’
‘I’ll get a warrant for your phone records.’
‘Do that. We’re done here. I’ve important work to do.’
Lottie watched as Rickard began opening and shutting drawers beneath his desk, dismissing her with his actions. She stood up.
‘I’ll be back, Mr Rickard.’
‘I’ve no doubt about it,’ he said. ‘No doubt in the world.’
‘Happy New Year,’ Lottie said and walked out the door before he could reply. As she stepped into the lift, she knew she was on a collision course with Tom Rickard. That was probably not a good thing.
Tom Rickard glared at the closed door in the ensuing silence. He pulled over the piece of paper with Brown’s blanked-out phone calls from the last day of his life. He stared at his own number, crudely underlined.
It was there in black and white. Date, time and call duration.
He snorted and crumpled the page into his bin.
He had too much to lose. Let them prove he spoke with Brown.
Tom Rickard would deny, deny, deny.
He tapped a speed dial number on his phone.
‘We need another meeting.’
Sixteen
‘Brown could have been susceptible to blackmail, judging by the paraphernalia in his bedroom,’ Boyd said to Lottie when she returned to the office.
She stood, too wound up to sit still.
‘Having pictures of naked men on his bedroom wall? Come on, Boyd. That’s nothing to be blackmailed over.’ She paced up and down the small office. Corrigan’s habit was catching.
She’d sent Brown’s laptop to their technical guys to trawl through and assigned a detective to check out the reported planning threats. She still had to interview Derek Harte, who had found James Brown’s body. She wondered who he was and what he’d been doing at Brown’s house. She’d instructed Lynch to find him after he’d failed to appear for the ten a.m. appointment.
‘Someone, anyone, organise a Section 10 warrant for Tom Rickard’s phone records,’ Lottie said. ‘And check when the next District Court is on. We need to get things moving.’
‘Sit down, you’re making me nervous,’ Boyd said.
She sat.
The desk phone rang.
‘Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,’ said the state pathologist. ‘Are you available to come over to Tullamore? I know the weather is atrocious but there are some things I think you should see.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ve the preliminary reports ready.’
‘Can you email them?’
‘There’s something I want to show you.’
‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘Any news?’ Boyd asked.
‘Get a life,’ Lottie said. He’d heard every word of the conversation. ‘I wish I had my own office back.’ She pulled on her jacket.
‘You might as well dream here as in bed,’ he said.
Jesus, he sounded more like her mother with every passing day. Lottie zipped up quickly, almost snagging her throat.
‘Where are you off to?’
She didn’t answer him and banged the door behind her.
‘Women,’ he said.
‘I heard that,’ she shouted back.
A minute later, she returned, having eyed the state of the road outside.
‘Boyd?’
‘Yes, Inspector?’
‘Will you drive me to Tullamore?’
Seventeen
He was heading back to his office when he saw the teenage boy heading into Danny’s Bar and he had to follow. The dark interior helped him meld into the woodwork. He watched as the youngster stretched toward a girl, kiss her mouth, then remove his coat.
The man ordered a pint of Guinness, sat at the bar and angled himself on the stool so that he could see the young couple. The teenage boy shrugged his coat over his arm and linked his other arm around the girl’s narrow waist. But the man wasn’t interested in the girl. He loosened his tie at the collar of this shirt and continued to stare.
‘Are you going to drink that or offer it up?’ The barman grinned at him.
The man scowled, lifted his pint and sipped before returning his gaze to the boy’s delicate features. He shoved his legs further beneath the bar, shielding the hardening muscle under the zipper of his trousers. He had plenty to be doing, but for now all he wanted to do was sit and watch and imagine what it would feel like to have that youthful flesh in his hands.
Eighteen