‘That’s none of your business,’ O’Brien said, a hint of arrogance sharpening his tone.
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ Lottie said. ‘These people were murdered and this money appears to come from one account into both of theirs. I need you to tell me who paid it.’
‘No,’ O’Brien answered, twisting the diamonds tighter into his cuffs.
‘No, what?’ Lottie raised her voice.
‘No, I can’t tell you.’ O’Brien straightened his tie. The dandruff on his shoulders seemed to intensify and a sweaty odour oozed from his armpits.
‘These two people are dead,’ Lottie thumped the table. ‘Release the information or—’
‘Or what, Inspector?’ O’Brien flashed a smug smile.
‘Or I’ll get a warrant.’ Lottie stood.
‘You do that.’ O’Brien pushed back his chair and stood up also. He was half a foot smaller than Lottie and maybe ten to fifteen years older than her.
‘Mark my words, Mr O’Brien, we will be back,’ she warned.
‘You have their bank statements. I can’t do anything else. Within the law.’
‘Don’t lecture me about the law.’
‘Believe me, I wasn’t trying to.’
Lottie stepped towards O’Brien and looked down at him.
‘I’m beginning to think this town is full of stonewalling, obstructive little shits,’ she hissed.
‘See you at the gym later,’ O’Brien said with a short wave to Boyd, snubbing Lottie.
‘Maybe,’ Boyd said, turning to leave.
‘Sweaty little bollocks,’ Lottie muttered and followed Boyd out of the office.
‘Language, Inspector,’ Boyd said.
‘I can’t believe you actually share a gym with him.’
‘And he coaches Ragmullin under-twelve hurlers.’
‘Thank God Sean now plays under-sixteen.’
‘O’Brien’s not all that bad,’ Boyd laughed.
‘Could’ve fooled me.’
With a swing of her shoulders Lottie power-walked up the street ahead of Boyd.
Thirty-Six
As the afternoon darkened, the thaw evaporated as quickly as it had arrived and a freezing fog descended, adding greyness to the already dull atmosphere.
Boyd began compiling the warrant documents and Lottie strode down to the shop at the end of the street. She bought the newspaper and a packet of crisps.
A grainy picture of herself accompanied the headline ‘Paedophile murdered?’
Moroney’s interview was redrafted for all who had missed the debacle on television. She’d refused to watch it but Boyd had filled her in on her five seconds of unwanted fame. A PR disaster was how Corrigan continued to describe it, between expletives. Boyd had also related that piece of information to her. All they’d found in James Brown’s house were pornographic photos and images on his laptop. Nothing to suggest paedophilia. So the most likely scenario was that Moroney had overheard idle speculation and twisted it to suit himself. Fuck him to hell, she thought.
She needed a breakthrough in the case. Something to wave as a peace offering in front of Corrigan. But what? Maybe Jane Dore had found something. She hoped so.
She got keys from the duty sergeant, took a car from the station yard and headed out into the fog.
At the Dead House, Jane Dore boiled a kettle and poured water over two camomile teabags.
‘Please tell me you have something significant,’ Lottie said, welcoming the tea’s warmth. The forty-kilometre drive to Tullamore had eased her temper but not the thumping in her head.
‘I haven’t carried out the post-mortem on the body from the garden yet. However, initial tests indicate that the fibre from the scene matches the rope found around James Brown’s neck.’
‘Great. Evidence to link the murders. Anything else?’
‘The word Pax is inscribed on the inside of the ring. Latin. Translates as “peace”.’
‘Is it a wedding ring?’
‘Wrong finger, but that doesn’t mean anything one way or the other.’
‘A wedding ring could have the word “love” on it or even the spouse’s name.’ Lottie twisted her own gold band with Adam’s name engraved on the inside. Her name was on his ring. In his coffin. She hadn’t thought of keeping it. Another regret.
Jane said, ‘I’ve never been married, so what do I know?’ She smiled wistfully. ‘Not for want of trying mind you. Never met anyone who could put up with my terrible working hours, not to mention my job.’
‘He’s probably our missing priest,’ Lottie said, putting the cup on the desk. She took out Angelotti’s photograph and showed it to the pathologist.
‘Same bone structure,’ Jane said and brought Lottie in to see the body. They compared the dead man’s bloated face with the young vibrant one in the photograph.
‘Could be him,’ Lottie said, turning away from the corpse.
‘I think you’ve found him,’ the pathologist said. ‘But that’s just my opinion.’
‘The priest’s hairbrush is gone to the lab. DNA should confirm it for us,’ Lottie said.
‘That will take a while but I’ll let you know once results are in.’
‘Any estimate on time of death?’
‘Going by weather reports and the preservation of the body, I estimate Christmas Eve or before. Not after, because that’s when the snow and ice began in earnest.’
‘It’s a starting point.’
Lottie held a hand to her rumbling stomach. ‘I have to get back to Ragmullin. And I need to eat.’
‘The only way to cure a hangover,’ the pathologist said, sipping her tea.
‘Do I look that bad?’
‘Yes,’ Jane said with a laugh. ‘I’d join you for food, but I have to start cutting. Your Superintendent Corrigan is chomping at the bit.’
‘And I’m trying to avoid him,’ Lottie said as she left the mortuary.
The fog had lifted and shadows swept down over the road as she drove back to Ragmullin. A silver frost glistened along the grass verges in the headlights. Once again, temperatures had plummeted below freezing.
Using her hands-free she called Bishop Connor.
‘I think I’ve found your missing priest,’ she said.
‘Thank God. Is he all right?’ the bishop enquired.
‘He’s dead,’ Lottie said, crossing her fingers on the steering wheel. A little white lie might rattle his cage.
‘What . . . that’s awful. Where . . . how?’
‘Do you have any idea why someone would want to murder Father Angelotti?’
‘Murder? What are you talking about?’
‘I thought you might enlighten me. Why was he really in Ireland?’
‘Inspector, this is a great shock. I do not appreciate insinuations that I have been economical with the truth.’
‘I didn’t insinuate anything.’ Lottie smiled to herself as she listened to the bishop’s voice rise. Was it panic?
‘Sounded like it to me,’ he said. ‘I will talk to your superintendent about you.’
‘Join the queue,’ Lottie said and disconnected the call.