She craved sleep but because of last night she was afraid to go to bed. After pouring a glass of water she sank into her kitchen armchair with her legs curled beneath her. She switched on her iPad, logged into Facebook. It had been weeks since she’d checked it.
‘Holy Jesus,’ she muttered when her news feed burst into life. One hundred and fourteen notifications. Probably all ‘Happy Christmas’ and ‘Happy New Year’ shit. She hadn’t fourteen real friends, let alone over a hundred. There was one personal mail and one friend request red flag. She tapped the friend request first.
‘What the . . .?’ Lottie blinked, put her glass on the floor, kicked out her long legs and sat up straight. Susan Sullivan. The name, no photograph. Why had Susan Sullivan sent her a friend request? She glanced at the date of the request. December fifteenth. Was it even the murdered woman?
She didn’t know Susan Sullivan, had never heard of her before the murder, but Susan had met with her mother. Had Rose mentioned her? Probably. But why didn’t the woman contact her at the station?
She tapped ‘friend accept’ and accessed the woman’s account. Still active.
There was nothing on the page, just like their profile of the murdered woman. She’d joined Facebook on December first. Lottie tapped in, wondering what friends Susan had.
None.
No status updates, no likes or shares either. What had possessed her to set it up? Lottie picked up her glass and sipped the water slowly, craving a shot of vodka. Maybe she could sniff the sink.
She tapped her private messages. Susan Sullivan. Again. She read the short missive from the dead woman.
Inspector, you don’t know me or anything about me but I remember reading about you in the newspaper and I’ve spoken with your mother. I would like to meet you. I have some information that I believe will interest you. I look forward to hearing from you.
That was it.
After staring at the iPad for a few minutes, Lottie reached for her phone and called Boyd.
‘I got a message from Susan Sullivan,’ she said.
‘Are you drunk?’
‘I’m stone cold sober.’
‘The dead don’t speak.’
‘Believe me, Boyd, this one did.’
‘You are definitely drunk,’ he said.
‘Just come over. Now. I assure you I am sober.’
Thirty-Eight
Boyd sat in Lottie’s kitchen, spooning Pot Noodles into his mouth, with one hand on her iPad.
‘I wonder why she didn’t follow it up?’ he asked. ‘Or contact you at the station.’
‘It’s very odd. I want to know what information she had.’ Lottie leaned over Boyd’s shoulder. ‘Those noodles smell vile.’
‘It’s pure shite.’ Pushing the empty carton away from him, he said, ‘Did your mother say anything about this information Sullivan mentions?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe we should check if James Brown was also on Facebook.’
‘I did.’ Lottie patrolled her kitchen. ‘Do you realise how many people are called James Brown?’
‘Too many?’
‘Exactly.’
‘While you’re at it, check out the others,’ she said.
‘Who? Father Angelotti? The missing priest?’ He tapped in the name. Nothing again.
Lottie sat down next to him, took the iPad from his hand and asked, ‘Are you on it?’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said, ‘don’t you dare.’
‘I bet you keep track of your beautiful ex-wife Jackie and her boyfriend.’
‘He’s a criminal. And she is still legally my wife.’
‘You must still feel something for her if you haven’t divorced her yet. Why haven’t you?’
‘She was a party animal. I wasn’t. But I love her, I mean loved her. I suppose I just wasn’t what Jackie wanted.’
‘And she wanted Jamie McNally? The biggest scumbag in Ireland. Where are they now?’
‘Costa del Sol, last I heard.’
‘You’re keeping tabs on her then.’ Lottie patted his hand. He swatted her away.
‘I am not.’
‘It’s been years, Boyd. Forget about her.’
‘Don’t start.’
‘Okay,’ Lottie said, ‘I’ll try Mr Ferret.’
‘Mike O’Brien? Ah, stop. I know him.’
‘So?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘He undressed me with those sly eyes of his.’
‘Bet he didn’t get a view as good as I got last night.’
‘Shut up.’ She tapped in O’Brien’s name. ‘Nothing.’
‘I saw him at the gym this evening. He was all chat. You know he’s very fit for a man who doesn’t look it.’
‘You’ve planted an obscene image in my mind.’
‘What image?’
‘O’Brien in Lycra.’
‘Gross,’ said Boyd. ‘Try Tom Rickard?’
Lottie tapped in the name. ‘Too common a name. We’d be a week going through them trying to find our man.’
‘Rickard Construction?’
‘Yep. That’s here.’ She scrolled down the page. ‘Mainly advertising stuff. It’s his business page.’
‘Who liked it?’
‘Jesus, there’s hundreds of likes on it. He must’ve had a special offer on one of his ghost houses.’
She scrolled through the names.
‘I’ll kill her,’ Lottie said.
‘Who?’
‘Katie.’
‘Your Katie?’
‘Yes, my Katie.’ Lottie pointed to a photograph. ‘Jason Rickard.’
‘Ugly kid, isn’t he,’ Boyd said. ‘He must be son and heir. What’s he got to do with Katie?’
‘He is my beloved daughter’s boyfriend! That little pup was in my sitting room earlier this evening. Smoking weed.’
‘You’re having me on.’ Boyd raised a brow.
Lottie glared. ‘I’m not joking.’
‘Arrest the little fart.’
‘He’s not that little, and he is the son of one of our people of interest.’ She struggled with the idea of Katie in a relationship with Rickard’s offspring.
‘You’re always going on about small towns, Lottie. In the end everyone knows everyone else and they know each other’s business.’
She knew it was true, but she didn’t want her daughter in the middle of whatever they were in the middle of. ‘Why are we always last to know?’
‘Parents or the guards?’
‘Both.’
‘You’re tired. Leave this until tomorrow.’ Boyd stretched and yawned.
‘I don’t want to go to bed. My mind is hyper.’ She glanced up at him. ‘And no comment about how you can tire me out.’
‘We can investigate this further tomorrow.’
‘Stymied every way we turn.’
‘I’m going home,’ Boyd said. ‘Unless you want me to stay?’
‘Go,’ Lottie said.
She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to see the ache in his eyes.
He pulled the front door softly behind him.
She returned to Susan Sullivan’s Facebook message.
‘What did you want to tell me?’ Lottie asked.
2nd January 1975
He watched from the window. The corridor air whispered a chill around him.
He saw the girl getting out of the car followed by a tall thin woman holding a small bundle in the crook of one arm. The girl looked pale and tired. He ducked his head as she glanced up at the white sash windows. Her eyes, veiled in a dark unseeing way, reminded him of a terrified boy he’d once seen, after suffering a beating. The girl looked just like that, walking in a stupor, pushed along by some invisible force. A man sat in the yellow Cortina, with the engine running.