‘You do that.’
‘Yes, sir. I take full responsibility for my team, but we are under a lot of pressure.’
‘We’re all under pressure, but at times like this we need to be at our best.’
‘Yes, sir. You don’t have to remind me. I know I might have messed up.’
‘There’s no “might” about it. You need to up your game. We want the media on our side. We use them, when and how we dictate. Don’t let Moroney snare you again. In future all press stuff goes through me.’
‘No sir,’ she said. ‘I mean yes sir.’ She didn’t know what she was saying. Duly scolded, she felt worse than if Corrigan had roared at her. His calmness unnerved her.
And Lottie Parker did not like being unnerved.
She wondered who the snitch could be. Maria Lynch flashed into her mind. She’d bawled her out with Kirby over the botched search of Susan Sullivan’s house. Lynch hadn’t liked it one bit. Was she after Lottie’s job?
She stopped at the incident room before heading home.
‘That laptop was wiped clean,’ Kirby said.
‘What laptop?’ Lottie asked.
‘The missing priest’s. A total wipeout.’
‘You know that already?’
‘One of the techies had a quick look. Said there was nothing on it. Not even an operating system. He said someone must have downloaded one of those new illegal applications. It has zilch, nada, nothing, empty . . .’ said Kirby, wracking his brain for more words.
‘I get the picture,’ said Lottie.
‘I wonder why it’s blank?’
‘Father Angelotti is missing and his laptop is blank. Maybe when we find him we’ll solve the mystery.’
‘Has this anything to do with Susan Sullivan and James Brown?’ Kirby asked.
‘I don’t know.’ She thought for a moment. ‘But I think the only people with access to the laptop reside in the bishop’s house and I don’t like that implication.’
‘Will I question them?’
‘Leave it for now.’ Lottie turned to go, then swivelled round on her heel. ‘Kirby?’
‘What, boss?’
‘Thanks for that.’
‘No problem.’
‘It’s after seven, I’m knackered. I’m going home. You should too.’
She left him standing there, scratching his head like he was lost. She knew how he felt.
Twenty-Eight
The party was pounding along at a thunderous pace even though it was still early in the evening. Bodies curled into each other and a weedy aroma hung in the air. Katie Parker ran her tongue along the narrow script tattoo on Jason’s neck. She’d missed all the New Year’s Eve parties but this one was making up for it.
I’m in love, she thought, as he pulled her head back and placed a spliff between her lips. She inhaled. He then brought it to his own mouth, dragging in on the end of the taper. She felt like they were floating in each other’s arms, oblivious to the band, making their own music.
‘Will you come to my house later?’ Jason asked.
Katie stared through the smoky haze.
‘I’ve to go home. My mother was attacked last night. She’ll be worried about me.’
‘Please?’
‘Whatever,’ Katie laughed. The way she felt now, her mother could go to hell.
Sitting down, at last, with a cup of tea, Lottie closed her eyes so she couldn’t see the dirty dinner dishes piled up on the counter. Immediately her phone rang.
‘Lottie?’
‘I’m at home, Boyd. What do you want?’
‘Guess what?’
‘I’m tired.’
‘I found out who Susan Sullivan’s doctor was.’
‘How? Who?’
‘I called into the pharmacy named on the prescription.’
‘About time.’
‘You’ll never guess.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Go on, guess.’
‘I’m hanging up now, Boyd.’
‘Grumpy boots.’
‘Hanging up . . .’
‘Doctor Annabelle O’Shea.’
Lottie put her cup on the floor. Her friend. Annabelle.
‘You still there Lottie? Do you want to talk—’
‘. . . to her? What do you think?’
‘I’ll leave it with you. Goodnight.’
‘Boyd?’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks.’
Finishing the call, Lottie glanced at the clock. Eight forty-five p.m. Not too late.
Doctor Annabelle O’Shea sat in a corner of the Brook Hotel bar, sipping red wine.
Her image looked effortless, making Lottie feel ancient. Unable to halt a twinge of jealousy colouring her cheeks, she pulled off her jacket, hoping her T-shirt was clean. She groaned. It was the one she’d washed with a pair of Sean’s black jeans.
‘What happened to you?’ Annabelle asked, wide-eyed, inclining her head toward Lottie’s face.
‘My own stupidity. Some punk jumped me.’ Lottie folded her jacket on the seat beside her. ‘Thanks for meeting me.’
‘Sorry I missed your call last night.’ Annabelle spoke in a voice mirroring her look. Sharp and succinct. ‘What’re you having to drink?’
‘Sparkling water. You’re looking gorgeous as always.’
Annabelle signalled to the barman.
Her navy trouser suit sat snugly over a white silk shirt and an eye-catching silver pendant hung round her neck. With her legs crossed at the ankles, shod in a ridiculous pair of Jimmy Choo boots, Annabelle could be a model. Blonde hair, knotted high on top of her head, looked natural, though Lottie knew it was not.
‘Wise arse,’ Annabelle said. ‘You look terrible.’
‘Thanks. You know why I wanted to meet you?’ Her water arrived and she sipped it.
‘Feeling guilty for all the times you’ve stood me up over the last few months?’ Annabelle joked.
‘It’s hard to fit everyone in.’
‘How are the children?’
‘They’re fine. And the twins?’ Lottie hated small talk.
‘They spent the Christmas revising for their Junior Certificate.’
Lottie sighed. How did everyone else get the conscientious brainy children while hers lounged around listening to music or twiddling their thumbs on a PlayStation?
‘I suppose Super-Dad is as efficient as always.’ Lottie knew Cian O’Shea was the husband any woman would die for. Though she suspected Annabelle didn’t share that sentiment.
‘Same old Cian. God’s gift,’ Annabelle said with more than a hint of sarcasm.
‘Lighten up. Without him working from home and running the house for you, you’d be lost.’
‘That’s the problem. He’s always there. I never get a minute’s peace. Can’t even take a day off to stay at home or he’s fluffing the pillows and shunting the hoover about the place. When he’s not cleaning, he’s working on his computer designing God knows what type of games, sound-reducing headphones clamped on and singing at the top of his voice.’
Lottie smiled wryly. She would dearly love to hear Adam’s voice again, even for a minute.
‘Enough about me and my lot. How are you doing?’ Annabelle asked, pointedly.
‘I could do with a prescription for more chill pills.’
‘Lottie, it’s time to start facing up to reality.’
A rush of blood surged up Lottie’s face. She didn’t want a lecture.
‘I want to talk about Susan Sullivan.’
‘Not yet,’ Annabelle said, twisting round in her seat to face Lottie.
‘I’m too busy for this right now,’ Lottie said.
‘Is your mood affecting your work?’ Annabelle persisted.
‘No.’