‘Kirby. Lynch,’ she commanded, pulling off her jacket as she entered the cramped office.
The two twisted round in their chairs, looked at each other, then back at Lottie.
‘My office!’ Shit, this is my office now, she thought.
Boyd was sitting at his desk, chatting on the phone. He looked up at her, then at Kirby and Lynch standing to attention. Kirby tapped his pocket for a cigar he couldn’t smoke inside the building, his head looking like it was bulging with a hangover, and Lynch had pulled her hair into a sober ponytail. Lottie nodded at Boyd to disappear. He hurriedly finished his call.
‘Jesus, what happened to you?’ he enquired.
‘Nothing.’ Lottie threw her jacket on the back of her chair, avoiding his intense gaze.
‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Did you walk into a couple of ladders down the hall?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘I wouldn’t like to see the other fellow.’
‘Give it up, Boyd. It was just some mugger in the industrial estate, down past the old grain store. Probably one of the railway junkies looking for money. Got my handbag.’
‘Are you all right? Did you report it?’ he asked. ‘Don’t suppose you did.’
‘It’s nothing to get uptight about.’
‘Tell me where it happened and I’ll get someone to take a look for your bag.’ Boyd sat on the edge of her desk.
Lottie relented. ‘Last night, I went to Susan Sullivan’s house to have another look around. That led to something I wish to discuss with these two. Walking home through the industrial estate, I was jumped.’
‘Why didn’t you report it?’
‘That’s what I’m doing now.’
She filled Boyd in on all the details she could recall, gave him the taxi driver’s card to follow up on anything he might have seen.
‘And check in with the uniforms who were guarding Susan Sullivan’s house in case they noticed anyone around last night.’
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ Boyd said, getting his jacket.
A photocopier whined unattended, shooting out paper which was accumulating at an alarming rate. Lottie switched it off and turned her attention to Maria Lynch and Larry Kirby.
‘Those cuts look bad. You sure you’re okay?’ Lynch asked, concern etched in her eyes.
‘I’m fine.’ Lottie folded her arms, standing directly in front of them. ‘How well did you search Susan Sullivan’s house?’
‘Thoroughly,’ the two detectives replied in unison.
Lottie looked from one to the other.
‘Not thoroughly enough. Who checked the fridge freezer?’
‘I did,’ Kirby volunteered, a worry line furrowing a trough along his forehead. Last night’s whiskey was oozing perspiration bubbles into the ridges. His breath stank. Lottie took a step back.
Lynch’s shoulders dropped and her mouth creased into a straight line.
‘Guess what? No, don’t even try,’ Lottie said, as Kirby opened his mouth. ‘I found a bundle of money, quite a lot actually, frozen in a bag. In the freezer. What do you say about that?’
‘Someone must have put it there after we’d searched,’ said Kirby, struggling. ‘All I saw was ice cream.’
‘Did you look behind the ice cream? Did you take out the ice cream?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
Kirby traced an imaginary line on the floor with his black leather, unpolished shoe.
‘I’m disappointed in you,’ Lottie said. ‘Both of you.’
A sharp pain wrenched her ribs, forcing her to sit down. Her mood for anger subsided. She was too sore to be annoyed any longer.
‘In future I don’t want anything like this to happen. You don’t need me to tell you, botched searches are unacceptable.’
‘Yes, Inspector,’ Lynch said. She was biting her lip but her eyes were flaring anger.
Lottie knew Detective Lynch would not want this black mark against her impeccable record. It could spell trouble down the career line, but Lottie was the direct line manager and that meant reprimanding people for unacceptable work. There were more important things going on here than Maria Lynch’s ambitions.
Kirby said nothing, just hung his head with a hangdog expression. Lottie understood then how a twenty-something year old might fall for him – probably felt sorry for him. She dismissed them both and they scuttled off.
Boyd returned and threw a pharmacy paper bag on her desk.
‘Don’t take them all at once,’ he said. ‘You’re lucky Boots is open today.’ He switched on the photocopier before sitting at his desk.
‘You’re a lifesaver.’ She quickly swallowed three painkillers. ‘Haven’t you got work to be getting on with?’ she asked, logging on to her computer.
‘Indeed I have,’ he said and began noisily banging his keyboard.
Her chin resting on her hand, Lottie sat watching Boyd and listening to the photocopier in the otherwise quiet office. Suddenly, she felt the need for someone to hug her, to hold her tight, to soothe away her aches. She almost reached out to Boyd, but didn’t.
Twenty-Four
The Ragmullin grapevine was wrapping itself into knots but Cathal Moroney, a journalist with RTE, the national television station, couldn’t find anything worth reporting. He flicked through his empty notebook. He was hungry for a new angle on the murder and suspected suicide.
He’d interviewed some of the victims’ colleagues but they knew nothing. He wanted the human-interest story; a story to awaken his tired audience. He wanted the scoop of a lifetime.
He kept asking himself the question everyone was asking. Were the deaths connected through planning? And was Brown murdered? If it turned out to be two murders, was there a serial killer stalking this tired midlands town? He began to sweat at the thought. Now that would be a story and a half.
Warming his hands around an early morning cup of coffee, he listened to the gossip in McDonald’s. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone was talking shite.
He noticed a huddle of gardaí at a table in a corner near the toilets. Everyone knew Cathal Moroney, but this group was so engrossed in their own conversation, they didn’t notice him. He slid into the dimly lit corner behind them and sipped his coffee. Listening. And he heard. Something new. It just might be the story he was waiting for. He just needed a formal comment.
He checked his phone and contacted his source.
Lottie planted her two feet on her desk and rested her head into her interlocked hands. The painkillers had eased her throbbing ribs and she’d stuck a plaster over the cut on her nose.
The preliminary technical reports did not offer much hope. DNA was found in the vicinity of Sullivan’s body. Masses of skin cells and hair. All logged, ready to be cross-referenced. And probably weeks before any results, if ever.
James Brown’s forensic reports were not in yet so she glanced through the preliminary autopsy reports. Maybe he did kill himself, she thought with a yawn, but what about the grazed fingers and contusion on the back of his head?
Her jaw ached and pain weakened her knees so she dragged her feet to the floor and stood up, attempting a stretch. She felt hungry. Maybe Kirby could get her a Happy Meal. She eyed the grumpy detective across the room. Maybe not.
Her phone rang.