Lottie pulled up the hood of her jacket and clasped it to her ears. She stood on the snow-covered cathedral steps, leaving behind the hum of activity. Every nook would be searched and every inch of marble inspected.
She breathed in the cool air and peered skywards. The first flakes of a snow flurry settled on her nose, and melted. The large midland town of Ragmullin lay still beyond the wrought iron gates now swathed with blue and white crime scene tape. Like herself, the once thriving factory town struggled to awake each day. Its inhabitants muddled through the daylight hours until darkness sheathed their windows and they could rest until the next mundane day dawned. Lottie liked the anonymity it offered, but was also aware that her town, like many others, had its share of secrets buried deep.
The life in Ragmullin appeared to have died with the economy. Young people were fleeing to Australian and Canadian shores to join those lucky enough to have escaped already. Parents bemoaned the fact of not having enough money for daily essentials, not to mention an iPhone for Christmas. Well, Christmas was over for another year, thought Lottie, and good riddance.
The drone of the ring-road traffic seemed to shake the ground, though it was two kilometres away, which denied retailers a passing trade. She looked up at the trees labouring under the weight of snow-filled branches and scanned the grounds in front of her, knowing instinctively they wouldn’t find any evidence. The earth was frozen and the soft snow hardened as quickly as it fell. The morning Mass-goers’ footprints were encased under another layer of snow and ice. Gardaí, clutching long-handled tongs, scoured the grounds for clues. She wished them luck.
‘Fourteen,’ said Boyd.
The smoke from his freshly lit cigarette clouded around Lottie as he invaded her space. Again. She stepped away. He moved into the spot she’d vacated, his sleeve brushing against hers. Boyd was tall and lean. A hungry-looking man, her mother once said, turning up her nose. His brown, hazel-flecked eyes lit up an interesting face, strong and clear skinned, with ears that stuck out a little. His short hair was greying quickly. He was forty-five and dressed in a spotless white shirt and grey suit beneath his heavy hooded jacket.
‘Fourteen what?’ she asked.
‘Stations of the Cross,’ Boyd said. ‘I thought you might have counted them, so I got in before you.’
‘Get a life,’ Lottie said.
There was a history between them and she cringed at her drunken memory, distilled with the passage of time but still present on the periphery of her consciousness. Other things had come between them too – she got the inspector job that Boyd had sought. It didn’t bother him most of the time but she knew he’d relish the chance to lead this investigation. Tough shit, Boyd. She was delighted with the promotion because it meant she didn’t have to commute the sixty kilometres to Athlone each day. The years she’d been based there had been a nuisance; though she wasn’t sure if being back working with Boyd in Ragmullin was more of a nuisance. But on the plus side, it meant she was no longer dependent on her interfering mother to check in on the children.
Boyd childishly blew smoke rings into the air and she turned away from the smile curving under his inquisitive nose.
‘You started it,’ he said. With one final pull on his cigarette he went down the steps and headed for the Garda Station across the road.
Lottie smiled despite herself and walking carefully, so as not to fall on her arse in front of half the force, she took off after the long lanky Boyd.
A few people were queuing in the reception area. As the duty sergeant tried to keep order, Lottie skipped by and hurried up the stairs to the office.
The phones were ringing loudly. Who said good news travels fast? What about bad news? Travels at the speed of light.
Sniffing the stale office air, she glanced around. Her desk was a shambles, Boyd’s as neat as a TV chef’s kitchen. Not an ounce of flour anywhere, well, not a file or a pen out of place. Clear signs of OCD.
‘Neat freak,’ Lottie muttered under her breath.
Because of the on-going renovations, she shared an office with three other detectives – Mark Boyd, Maria Lynch and Larry Kirby. Landlines, mobile phones, photocopier, clanking oil heaters and the trooping through of every guard who needed to use the toilets gave the room an air of chaos. She missed her own space where the silence allowed her to think. The sooner the work on the station was finished the better.
At least the place was buzzing, she thought as she sat down at her desk. It was as if the events in the cathedral had stripped away layers of fatigue and boredom, revealing men and women ready for action. Good.
‘Find out who she is,’ Lottie instructed Boyd.
‘The vic?’
‘No, the Pope. Yes, the victim.’ She hated when he used CSI language.
Boyd smiled to himself. She knew he was gaining the upper hand.
‘I suppose you already know who she is.’ She moved files from one side of her desk to the other, looking for her keyboard.
‘Susan Sullivan. Aged fifty-one. Single. Lives alone in Parkgreen. Ten-minute drive from here, depending on traffic, about a half-hour walk. Worked in the county council for the last two years. Planning department. Senior Executive Officer, whatever that means. Transferred here from Dublin.’
‘How did you find out so quickly?’
‘McGlynn discovered her name Tippexed on the back of her iPod.’
‘So?’
‘I googled her. Got information on the council website and checked the Register of Electors for her address.’
‘Was she carrying a mobile phone?’ Lottie continued searching her desk. She could do with a map and a compass to find things.
‘No,’ Boyd said.
‘Send Kirby and Lynch to search her home. One of our first priorities is to find her phone and anyone who can verify her movements today.’ She discovered her wifi keyboard on top of the bin at her feet.
‘Right,’ he said.
‘Any next of kin?’
‘Doesn’t appear to be married. I’ll have to dig further to find out if she has living parents or any other family.’
She logged on to her computer. While she felt excited, Lottie silently cursed all the activity the investigation would generate. They had plenty of work to keep them busy – court cases dragging on, a traveller feud – and New Year’s Eve tomorrow would bring its usual late night trouble.
She thought of her family. Her three teenagers, home alone. Again. Maybe she should ring them to make sure they were okay. Shit, she needed to do grocery shopping and noted it in her phone app. She was starving. Rummaging in her overflowing drawer, she found a packet of out-of-date biscuits and offered them to Boyd. He refused her offer. She munched a biscuit and typed up her initial interview with Mrs Gavin and Father Burke.
‘Do you have to eat with your mouth open?’ Boyd asked.
‘Boyd?’ Lottie said.
‘What?’
‘Shut up!’
She stuffed another biscuit into her mouth and chewed loudly.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Boyd said.