She closed the drawer and looked through the rest of the fridge. Half a block of red cheese, hardened at the edges. Milk and the remains of a red onion. Unopened packet of sliced ham and two bars of chocolate. Behind the milk, a carton of orange juice. The tray in the bottom held green peppers and half a head of cabbage.
Before she closed the door, she opened the freezer drawer again. Removing the ice cream tubs she noticed a bag of ice. It was a plastic freezer bag, with paper inside. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, she extracted the bag. Frozen solid. Through the frost she could see it was cash. The top note was a fifty. Jesus, if they were all fifties, there must be at least two thousand euro in it. More even. What was Susan Sullivan doing hiding money in her freezer? A holiday fund? But why would she have one of those if she was dying? Lottie wanted to count it but she’d have to wait until it defrosted.
Kirby and Lynch! How did they miss this? What else had they missed?
She looked around for something in which to carry the frozen package, then decided it’d be sensible to leave it where she found it. Forensics would need to examine it.
Returning the bag of money to the fridge, Lottie closed the door. At the window she pulled down the blinds and switched on the light. She looked in all the cupboards. Old-style teak, caked in grease. Noticing nothing else unusual, she switched off the light and closed the kitchen door.
Glancing into the sitting room at the stacks of yellowing newspapers, she quelled an urge to look through them. They would probably reveal nothing of interest to their investigation, only a collection of clutter fulfilling an obsessive mind. Beyond their columns, she surveyed the room. A television, two armchairs and a fireplace. Then it hit her, what had been at the back of her mind when she first checked out the house.
It was a blank postcard. Picture on one side, nothing on the other. A house devoid of human things. Things people collected over time, things that reflected their life. Things that told you who they were, where they had been, how they lived. No books to tell you what Susan read, no photographs of people she knew or places she had visited, no CDs to depict her taste in music, no DVDs to display her film choices, no perfumes to give you a scent of the woman. Sullivan’s home was a blank canvas, no reflection of her personality, her emotions, her life. Her house was a mirror of what they knew about Susan Sullivan. Nothing.
Lottie didn’t need to look upstairs again. Detectives Larry Kirby and Maria Lynch would be back. This time they’d do a thorough job. Incompetence was something she could not tolerate. Her detectives were better than this. They had to be. And Sullivan’s phone was still missing; their GPS tracking system had failed to turn it up.
Pulling the front door behind her, it closed with a clunk and she headed for home.
The arctic breeze had morphed into a howling wind. Snow swirled around Lottie and she picked her steps carefully. She thought of ringing Boyd to collect her, but decided against it. It was getting late and he was more than likely celebrating the end of the old year. She took the short-cut through the dimly lit industrial estate, to avoid the revellers spilling from pubs, tripping on the snowy footpaths with their wine and cigarettes.
Tall empty industrial units echoed with the wind and electric cables swung dangerously low. Facing into the blizzard she walked rapidly, cursing the elements.
The first blow caught her in the ribs, knocking her to her knees, winding her. She tried to steady herself but the pain in her side flashed through her body. What was going on? She hadn’t heard anyone approach with the wind.
The second blow to her back knocked her prostrate on the ice, hands outstretched, desperately grasping for something to hold on to. Her face banged into the ground, a weight securing her down. Her throat constricted as the cord from her jacket hood was pulled tight. She struggled for breath. She was choking. He was on top of her. An image of her children flitted through her brain and the instinct to fight back took hold and her training kicked in.
She tried to bring her arms upwards, to lean on her elbow, but the assailant was too heavy. She gagged with the metallic taste of blood pooling inside her mouth. With the pain intensifying, anger coursed through her. The attacker was pulling tight on the cord. She gritted her teeth, slid an arm beneath her and swung her other elbow backwards. The hold on her neck loosened and she gulped in the cold air.
She glimpsed lights in the distance. Car lights, she thought. The pressure returned on top of her and she was captive to the blood-stained ice. She could smell body sweat as he lowered his mouth to her ear.
‘Think of your children, Detective Inspector,’ he said, his voice high above the wind. He landed a sharp thump on the side of her head.
She tried to turn. He struck her again.
The lights of the approaching car flashed once, then twice and she felt her body lighten as the weight holding her down disappeared. She heard the car stop, a door opening.
‘You all right, missus? I think I scared him off.’
‘Take me home,’ she moaned.
Twenty-Two
‘She’s not answering her phone,’ Chloe said.
‘If I’d known she was going to work this late I could’ve gone to a party.’ Katie sounded angry. ‘Anyway, you only want her for takeaway money.’
‘No, smart arse,’ Chloe said. ‘I want us to be a family tonight.’
‘Try the station,’ said Sean. ‘And stop fighting or I’m going to bed.’ He switched off the television.
‘Hey, I’m watching that,’ Katie said, raising her head.
‘Will you two shut up,’ Chloe said. ‘Come back, Sean.’
In the hall, Lottie stared at her son. All three were at home. On New Year’s Eve. Even Katie.
‘Mam! What happened to you?’
Sean rushed to her. Lottie squeezed his arm and he linked her into the sitting room. She sat into the armchair beside the unlit fire. The heating appeared to be running full blast. She didn’t care.
‘Mother? I was just phoning your work,’ Chloe said. She and Katie stood, staring.
‘It’s nothing to worry about. Someone jumped me in the industrial estate.’ Lottie rubbed her hand across her nose. It came away with blood on her fingers.
‘I’ll call a doctor,’ Chloe said, concern traversing her young features.
Lottie wiped blood from her face with trembling fingers.
‘I’ll be fine. I don’t think anything’s broken.’ She hoped her nose wasn’t; if it was, she knew the pain would be a whole lot worse.
Three worried faces, all looking at her.
‘It’s okay. Honestly. I just need to wash.’
She didn’t want to think what might have happened had the taxi not arrived on the scene. The driver had told her he’d only seen the back of the attacker running toward the old carriages down by the disused railway track. He wanted to follow. She just wanted to get home. To see her children. To make sure they were safe. The taxi driver had duly obliged.
‘I’ll get you a cup of tea,’ Chloe said.
‘I’ll help,’ Katie said.
Sean sat on the arm of the chair.
She was glad to have her children around her. They were safe and so was she. For now.