‘Happy hunting,’ she said, handing them to Boyd.
Blowing air through her nostrils, Lottie expelled the scent of decaying flesh. She peeled off the gloves, dropping them in a sterile bin beneath a bench. The pathologist scrolled down the computer screen and printed off her preliminary reports.
Once she’d finished, she gave them to Lottie and returned to the bodies to tag and bag and do whatever it was a pathologist had to do to finish autopsies. Lottie didn’t want to know about that. She leafed through the pages as she strolled behind Boyd and couldn’t help wondering if Susan Sullivan had a child out there somewhere.
‘Find out the name of Sullivan’s doctor,’ she told Boyd.
Hearing the click of high heels, she turned round to find Jane Dore standing behind her. Too close. Lottie’s spine tingled. She was more uncomfortable with the living than the dead. Get a grip, Parker.
‘I’m going to get a bite to eat. Would you like to join me?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lottie, ‘DS Boyd and I have to get back to Ragmullin. Next time?’
‘I hope we don’t have a next time. If you follow me.’
Lottie smiled. It was the other woman’s only attempt at any kind of humour.
Nineteen
The light was on, making it awkward to differentiate between day and night. Lottie assumed it was early afternoon judging by her rumbling stomach. They’d wasted no time getting back from Tullamore. She’d seen enough of the Dead House.
Derek Harte sat in the windowless, airless interview room. He had been at James Brown’s house the night Brown died. He had called the emergency services and waited. Late thirties, straight brown hair cut tight above his ears and clean-shaven. His green eyes, submerged burnt-out embers, were lifeless in an ashen face. A masculine scent wafted from him and Lottie wondered if he were trying to shield his look of femininity with cologne. He wore the fragrance like it was meant for someone else. Beneath his black padded North Face jacket, the hood of a red sweatshirt nestled around his broad neck.
Cameras and microphones embedded in the walls. DVD recorder on. Formalities over, Harte began. ‘James and I met last June.’ He closed his eyes at the memory and a whisper of a smile creased his thin lips.
Lottie empathised with him. Fleeting memories, causing secret smiles and unbidden tears, could erupt at the most inopportune moments. She knew it too well.
‘Where did you meet him?’ she asked.
‘This is very delicate.’ He raised his eyes to meet hers.
‘Anything you say will be treated with the utmost confidence,’ she said, not quite believing her own words.
‘I met him through the internet. I’d been on this dating site for a while and never had the courage to engage with anyone. Until I came across James. He seemed nice, non-threatening, if you know what I mean.’
Lottie nodded, not wanting to stop his flow of speech. Years of interviewing had honed her technique.
‘He looked normal. No airs or graces about him. I could tell that from his photograph and bio. I decided to email him and hit send before I could change my mind. He emailed me back. Wanted to meet up. I couldn’t believe he was interested in me.’
Harte looked at Lottie and continued. ‘I work in a school sixty kilometres from here.’
‘Where?’
‘In Athlone.’
‘You met there?’
‘No. I felt we needed to be discreet so we met in a hotel in Tullamore.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Our jobs, mainly. How stressful they were; how we coped. We didn’t approach the subject of our sexuality. Not the first few times. I suppose you could call them dates but we were just like two friends having a drink at the bar watching football. But we never watched the football.’
‘How did the relationship develop?’ Lottie asked, when it appeared he was not continuing.
‘James invited me to his cottage. We had the most beautiful evening. He decorated the dining table with red roses and candles. I’d never experienced anything like it before. His attention to detail was exceptional. Things progressed from there.’
‘Progressed how?’ Lottie asked, keeping him talking.
‘We became lovers. We had a future ahead of us.’ Harte paused, eyes closed, then continued with an air of authority. ‘James was the quietest, most inoffensive person you could meet. I can’t understand why someone would do this to him. They destroyed his future. Our future.’
‘Mr Harte, at the moment we are still treating his death as a suicide.’
‘James had no reason to kill himself.’
‘Tell me about the pictures in his bedroom,’ Lottie said.
‘Just posters.’ He shrugged. ‘Heterosexual men put up calendars of women with their tits hanging out.’ He blushed. ‘Sorry, but it’s true. James liked his posters. There’s no law against it, is there?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘We were just two men in a relationship.’ His shoulders slumped.
‘Did you notice a tattoo on James’ thigh?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Did you ask him about it?’
‘He was very defensive. Told me it was none of my business. From a previous lifetime. That’s what he said. A previous lifetime.’
‘That’s all?’ Lottie asked.
‘This memory, whatever it was, seemed to cause him pain so I never mentioned it again.’
Harte closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
‘Are you all right? Would you like a drink? Water? Coffee?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Were you with James for Christmas?’ Lottie moved the interview forward.
‘Yes. He drove through the snow on Christmas Eve to visit me. He was agitated, though. Annoyed that he couldn’t get back for some appointment that evening but the weather was so bad he had to stay with me.’
‘What appointment could he have had on Christmas Eve?’
‘I’ve no idea. But we got to spend Christmas Day together.’ Harte smiled. ‘It’s the happiest I’ve been since I stopped believing in Santa Claus.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘St Stephen’s Day. He went home that day. He was returning to work on December twenty-seventh.’
‘Do you have a key to his cottage?’
‘No. There’s a place where he leaves it though.’
‘Where might that be?’
‘Under a stone, at the apple tree in the courtyard.’
Lottie sighed. Was everyone just like her in relation to home security?
‘Could anyone else be aware of this?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Was it James’ key in the door last night?’
‘I presume so. I didn’t go near it,’ he said. After a moment he continued, his voice broken. ‘The minute I parked behind his car, I saw him. Hanging there.’
‘Did you see anyone else around? Other cars? Anyone pass you on the avenue or the main road?’
‘Nothing. I saw nothing, Inspector. Just James. Hanging there. Like . . . like . . . Oh God.’ He covered his mouth with his hands, resting his elbows on the table, swallowing a sob.
Lottie wrote in her notebook, even though their conversation was being recorded. She needed to gather her thoughts.
‘Do you know if he owned a small green flashlight?’
Harte shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’