‘Against my baser instincts I resisted your cajoling. By that stage you weren’t capable of anything other than sleep. Apart from forcibly undressing me.’
She inhaled deeply, mortification flushing her skin.
‘Lottie, what’s going on?’ Boyd asked, blowing smoke circles in the chill air.
‘I haven’t a notion.’
‘You need help.’
‘I need to get a grip on my life.’
‘You can’t do this on your own.’
‘Watch me,’ she said.
‘I am and I don’t like what I’m seeing.’
‘What does that mean?’
He inhaled his cigarette. Silence wrapped itself around them.
‘You were crying in your sleep,’ he said, eventually.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.
They sat and smoked to the sound of the toilet dripping. Then he dampened the butts under the tap, threw them in a shiny bin under the sink and led her back to his bed. He tucked her in, kissed her forehead, fluttered his hand through her hair and slid in beside her. Lottie hung on to the edge of the bed, creating an imaginary line between them before falling into a soft sleep.
She awoke and sat upright. Alone. She twisted the clock to see the time: 6.38 a.m. Nestling back down into the comfort of the pillow, Lottie was thankful it was Boyd she had imposed her drunken self on and not some faceless bar pick-up. Her children! Shit. She jumped up abruptly. She had to get home before they woke.
Boyd walked in, fully dressed in black trousers with white shirt, and handed her a mug of coffee. The aroma tingled at the base of her nose. She looked into his eyes, questioning him silently.
‘Don't worry. I can be discreet. Drink up. We’ve a long day ahead of us.’
‘You’re a good man,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’ve five minutes to wash and dress,’ he said and walked out of the room.
‘Sadist,’ she said.
‘It takes one to know one,’ Boyd’s voice echoed.
She had to smile.
She pulled on yesterday's clothes. At least she’d the sense to have changed out of her pyjamas last night. Finding a crushed Xanax in the back pocket of her jeans, she stuffed it in her mouth and washed it down with two gulps of coffee. She needed the artificial calmness to delete the night and face the day.
She picked up the pack of cigarettes and secreted them in her pocket. She only smoked when drunk. Do not go there, she warned herself and left the bedroom.
Outside, the sleet blitzed the cuts on her face before she ducked into the car.
‘Drop me home first,’ she said. ‘I’ve to check in on the kids and change my clothes.’
The swishing of the wipers was the only sound in the car. Neither had much to say to each other and that which they were thinking was probably best left unsaid.
Boyd pulled up outside her house. She hoisted her long legs out of the car.
‘Thanks, Boyd.’
‘What’ll I tell Corrigan if he looks for you?’
‘Tell him I’m following up a lead.’
‘What lead?’
‘When I figure it out, I’ll tell you.’
She closed the door with a soft thud. Time to resurrect strong Lottie. Before it was too late.
Thirty-One
Chloe Parker sat at the table, mascara streaking her damp cheeks. Lottie stalled at the door. Go in or run?
‘I’m sorry, Chloe,’ she said, entering the kitchen.
The girl ignored her, walked over to the bin, extracted the two-thirds empty vodka bottle, unscrewed the cap, emptied the remaining third down the sink, dumped the bottle back in the bin and ran up the stairs.
Lottie slumped into her chair. She’d have to talk to Chloe. Later.
She phoned her mother, knowing Rose would relish the fact that it was Lottie breaking their deadlock. She convinced herself that being in the throes of a raging hangover might help rather than hinder the forthcoming showdown.
It had taken less than ten minutes for Rose Fitzpatrick to drive across town. Now she stood at the ironing board, iron in hand, in the middle of the kitchen floor.
‘Lottie Parker, you should stay at home more often. Those poor children are always starving and they haven’t a stitch to wear,’ she said, folding Sean’s training jersey.
Lottie wanted to tell Rose that the sports top didn’t need ironing but held the thought. As she’d suspected she would, her mother had taken control the minute she entered the house, without question or enquiry. Following Adam’s death, Rose had tried to take his place in their lives. Interfering and controlling. Lottie suspected all this was grounded in love for her grandchildren and wrapped up in a protective streak which Rose nurtured. But everything had come to a head with their last row when Lottie had told her mother to take a hike, or words to that effect.
Standing tall, sweeping the iron over the clothes, Rose Fitzpatrick’s face was a map of smoothness with just a creeper of lines at her eyes, like wilting ivy. Her hair was short, sharp and silver. At one time a monthly hair colour woman, she’d abandoned this on turning seventy, five years ago, though she still went to the salon for a weekly wash and blow-dry.
‘Will I make a cup of tea?’ Lottie asked, politely.
‘It’s your kitchen,’ Rose said, running the iron along a pair of jeans, the denim like cardboard.
‘Would you like a cup?’ Lottie filled the kettle.
‘You take a shower.’ Rose folded the iron flex. ‘You smell, you know. Then you can ask me whatever it is you wanted me here for.’
Lottie stormed out of the kitchen. Her mother hadn’t even asked how she’d got her bruised face. She stripped off her clothes and stood under a stream of hot water until it stung her cuts. Her ribs were purple and her head ached but at least she felt clean. Pulling on a thermal vest and long-sleeved T-shirt over her jeans, she felt ready to face her.
Before going downstairs, she peered into Chloe’s room. Her daughter was lying on the bed, a massive set of earphones on her head. When she spotted Lottie, the girl purposefully turned to the wall.
Glancing into Katie’s room, she saw it was empty. She thought of asking Chloe where her sister was, but decided against it. Sean was in his room talking on an online PlayStation game. He’d probably been up all night.
In the kitchen, Rose was sitting at the table, holding a cup of tea. The ironing board was gone, clothes neatly piled, potatoes were hissing in a pot on the cooker, a chicken was roasting in the oven and it was not yet eight o’clock in the morning. Christmas Day. That was the last time they had a proper cooked dinner. Was this an orchestrated guilt trip by her mother? Lottie forced a smile.
‘Thanks for . . .’ Lottie directed her arm around the tidy kitchen.
‘Isn’t that what mothers are for?’ Rose said. ‘Cleaning up the mess their children leave behind.’
The smile died on Lottie’s lips.
‘So, what do you want with me?’ Rose asked.
‘Susan Sullivan,’ Lottie said, diving straight in. She poured herself a cup of tea.
‘The murdered woman? What about her?’
‘I spoke with Annabelle and she told me Susan contacted you.’
‘She did.’
‘And you met her?’
‘Yes. A few months ago. October, November maybe. I’m not sure when.’
‘Go on.’