‘Inspector?’
‘Yes, Don,’ Lottie answered the front desk sergeant.
‘Cathal Moroney from RTE is here for a statement. Superintendent Corrigan is delayed this morning but he said you’re to talk to him. He’s okayed it with the press office. I put Moroney in the conference room. Will you talk to him?’
No, I won’t, she wanted to say.
‘I’ll be right there,’ she sighed and headed down the stairs.
‘Inspector.’ Moroney flashed his megawatt TV smile. ‘I’m delighted you could give me a few moments of your precious time.’
‘A few minutes is all I have, Mr Moroney.’
‘Call me Cathal,’ he said, taking her hand in his, forcing a contact Lottie had not offered. The cameraman, standing behind Moroney, adjusted his lens and pointed it towards her.
‘What can I do for you?’ Lottie withdrew her hand as quickly as politeness allowed. She resisted wiping it against the leg of her jeans. Despite his disarming smile and hail-fellow-well-met act, there was something decidedly unpleasant about Moroney in the flesh, something she couldn’t put her finger on, but she felt it nonetheless.
‘Inspector Parker, what can you tell me about the rumours that James Brown was an active paedophile?’
Blindsided, Lottie blinked in confusion. ‘I . . . what are you talking about?’
‘That he was involved in some ritualistic, sadistic psycho-sexual—’
‘That’s enough,’ Lottie snapped. ‘You, turn that camera off. Now.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to comment on the large amount of money found in—’
‘Off. That’s an order.’
‘All right.’ The man lowered his camera.
‘I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, Mister Moroney,’ Lottie jabbed a finger into Moroney’s smug face, ‘but from now on you can wait for a press office release like everyone else.’
She turned and made her way to the door.
‘Oh, Inspector?’
She paused, her fingers on the door knob.
‘What?’
‘Your face, you got any comment on that?’
‘Yes.’ Lottie turned to him. ‘You don’t want to see it any time soon. And you better believe me on that.’
She left the room and hurried down the corridor, furious with herself, Corrigan, Moroney and everyone else. Even though Moroney’s information was twisted and totally inaccurate, someone had said something they shouldn’t have. A rat, she thought, great. They had a bloody rat.
Twenty-Five
The incident room was a den of voices swearing and groaning when Lottie entered. With all leave cancelled, it looked like everyone had turned up to work.
Some detectives muttered in hushed tones on phones, while a few chatted unaware they were impinging on others’ space. They all appeared to be individuals in the midst of chaos. This was her team, working with a common purpose, gathering information, searching for a clue, for anything. With such large numbers, it was inevitable idle chatter would reveal restricted information and it in turn would get contorted by the media. She presented a mini speech to the assembled troops about keeping their mouths firmly shut.
‘Anything further on the cash?’ she asked Kirby.
‘Forensics has it now. Two and a half grand. In the fucking freezer!’
‘We need Sullivan and Brown’s bank records. There may be more than two and a half grand at stake here.’
‘I have documents we found at both houses,’ Maria Lynch said. She pulled down a file and rummaged through it. ‘Here’s a bank statement belonging to James Brown. Hold on a minute.’ Another file, another piece of paper waved in the air. ‘And one of Susan Sullivan’s.’ She placed both on Lottie’s desk triumphantly.
‘Same bank,’ Lottie said, flicking through the documents. Boyd had a look.
‘I’ll ring Mike O’Brien in the bank. I know him a little,’ Boyd said. ‘He’s the local area bank manager.’
‘Good,’ Lottie said. ‘Kirby, examine James Brown’s phone again. Find other instances when he called the developer, Tom Rickard. I don’t like that ostentatious bastard. And where’s that warrant for Rickard’s phone records?’
‘We need probable cause to do that.’
‘Brown called him before his alleged suicide. Cause enough for me.’
‘Okay,’ Kirby said, doubtfully.
‘Rickard’s up to his neck in something,’ Lottie said. ‘If not murder, I guarantee he has something unsavoury cooking and I’m going to stop him before his pot boils over.’
‘Swallow a cookery book?’ Boyd asked.
Lottie ignored him and asked Lynch, ‘The tattoos, anything on them?’
‘I’ve scanned the images into the database and googled them. So far nothing. When the shops open tomorrow I’ll try that tattoo place in town.’
‘And James Brown’s laptop?’
‘Porn sites,’ Kirby interjected. ‘No evidence of any paedophilia. We’re documenting his emails. Still no sign of Sullivan’s laptop or phone. They could be at the bottom of the canal for all we know at this stage.’
‘Keep at it,’ Lottie said.
She glanced over at Boyd. ‘What did the pharmacy have to say about Susan’s doctor?’
‘I’ll follow it up now,’ he said, swearing under his breath.
‘And I need to know what all that cash is about.’
‘We’re buried under a mountain of paperwork, you know,’ Boyd muttered.
‘Yes, I know. I also know we have nothing,’ Lottie said. ‘Nothing.’
She scowled at the three detectives before storming out of the incident room. She needed to find space to dampen her temper. Damn Cathal Moroney and his gutter journalism. Maybe that was a bit unfair, but this was her own hometown and she didn’t know what was going on.
She stood on the station steps, inhaling breaths of cold January air. Across the snowy road, the majestic cathedral stood tall, once open and inviting, now an enforced no-go area. Taking another deep breath, hurting her ribs in the process, Lottie returned inside, shaking the weariness from her shoulders along with flecks of snow.
She needed coffee.
Superintendent Corrigan pounded down the corridor as fast as the builders’ ladders would allow. He burst into the office, mobile phone in his hand.
‘Inspector Parker. Get your arse out to Bishop Connor’s house.’
Projectile spit landed on his prey. Lottie steadied her mug of coffee. What now?
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, not feeling a bit like the lead detective on a murder case.
‘How’d it go with Moroney?’ he asked.
‘Fine sir. Brief.’
‘Good.’ He peered at her. ‘What the hell happened to your face?’
‘Mugging, sir.’
‘Do you need stitches?’ he asked, eyeing the plaster askew on her nose.
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look fine to me.’ Corrigan turned to leave.
‘Sir, what am I seeing Bishop Connor about?’ She struggled into her jacket.
‘He will explain.’
And Corrigan was gone.
‘Fine? Wait until he hears what really happened,’ Boyd smirked.
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Come on, I need a lift.’
‘What am I now? Your chauffeur?’
‘You know what, Boyd? You can fuck off.’ Lottie pranced out of the office, leaving Boyd shouting after her.
‘What did I say now?’
Twenty-Six