In her council office Bea Walsh diligently checked through Susan Sullivan’s files. With a time-driven planning process, if an application wasn’t finalised within the eight-week deadline, it was deemed approved by default. All too aware of this, she scanned the database, matching files on her desk with the computer list. The screen told her she should have ten files. She had nine.
She scanned through James Brown’s list. Maybe it was mixed in there. But she was efficient and knew she hadn’t made a mistake. Even with the trauma of the murders she carried out her tasks professionally. The file was missing.
She rechecked the screen. Due for decision on January 6th. Realistically she knew the file could be in a number of places but all the database boxes were ticked. That meant the application contained all the requisite reports, completed and signed by the engineers and planners. Then she remembered where she’d last seen it. Susan Sullivan and James Brown, in his office, having an intense argument, and the file on the desk between them. The day before Ms Sullivan took her Christmas holidays.
Bea took off her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes.
She hadn’t seen the file since.
Lottie plugged her phone into her desk computer and uploaded the photos of the cars from Rickard’s house.
She keyed the registration numbers into the PULSE database.
All the cars belonged to the Rickard family. Rich bastards. Boyd looked over her shoulder at the screen.
‘What did you expect to find?’ he enquired.
‘I don’t know. Something,’ she said, willing the computer to conjure up a clue.
Then she told him about Father Joe’s disappearing act.
‘He’s done a runner,’ said Boyd.
Lottie sighed. Predictable Boyd. Her phone rang.
‘I need to speak with you, Inspector,’ Bea Walsh’s voice quivered.
Lottie was surprised to hear from Susan Sullivan’s PA.
‘Sure. Will I call to your office?’
‘Not here. Cafferty’s? After work. Would that be all right?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll be there at five,’ Bea said precisely and hung up.
‘Wonder what that’s about?’ Lottie said to Boyd.
He grunted.
She looked again at the photos of Tom Rickard’s cars and picked at a hole appearing on the hem of her T-shirt.
Lynch popped her head round the door. ‘Derek Harte is downstairs. You wanted to speak to him again?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Lottie said.
Forty-Two
‘Did James smoke?’ Lottie asked, after routine introductions for the record. Maria Lynch sat demurely, notebook at the ready. James Brown’s lover, Derek Harte, sat straight in the chair opposite.
‘No, but I do,’ Harte said. ‘Marlboro Lights. I tried to quit. Definitely won’t be able to now.’
‘Are you willing to provide us with a sample of DNA?’
‘Why?’ he asked, sitting back.
‘To eliminate you from our enquiries. Standard procedure,’ Lottie said, hoping they might get a match with the two cigarette butts found beside the body in the garden.
Harte nodded like he didn’t have much choice. ‘I suppose so.’
‘You’ve told me previously that you and James were not at his house on Christmas Eve. Is that the truth?’
‘Of course it is. The snow came down like an avalanche. No one was going anywhere that night. What are you getting at?’
‘Do you think James might’ve been involved with anyone else?’
Harte laughed. ‘Is this to do with the body you’ve found?’
‘I’m asking the questions,’ Lottie said.
Harte shrugged. ‘No, Inspector, James was not involved with anyone else. He and I were committed to each other. And before you ask, I’ve no idea how a body came to be there.’
‘Did you ever hear him speaking about a Father Angelotti?’
‘No,’ he said, quickly.
‘You seem quite sure,’ Lottie said.
‘I’d remember a name like that.’ Harte leaned back further into the hard chair. His attitude was beginning to grate on Lottie’s nerves.
‘Why would a priest be at his house?’ she asked.
‘No idea.’
‘Did James ever say anything that might indicate his dealings with a priest?’ Trying to be as diplomatic as possible, Lottie felt like she was banging against the proverbial brick wall.
‘No.’
‘Anything to do with Susan Sullivan?’
‘No, but if I remember anything, I’ll let you know.’ He pushed the chair with the backs of his knees and stood up. ‘Is that all, Inspector?’
‘Detective Lynch will arrange your DNA swab, then you can go,’ Lottie said.
As he left, she knew he’d been economical with the truth. But he was willing to give a DNA sample, so what was he hiding?
She placed a mug of coffee beside Boyd’s computer.
‘What’s that for?’ he asked.
‘I think you’re meant to drink it.’
Lottie went to her desk to write up the Harte interview. Every spare moment throughout the day, she had re-read all the information they had on the murders and she was no nearer a motive or killer.
Boyd lifted the mug, wiped the damp ring from beneath it, and put down a memo pad before replacing the mug.
‘This Derek Harte guy comes across as genuine,’ she said, stirring her coffee with the end of a pen.
‘But?’
‘I don’t think he is.’
‘His lover is dead. We found the body of a missing priest in said lover’s garden. Cause enough for concern,’ said Boyd.
‘I want his background checked if it’s not done already. And why didn’t we get his DNA sample the first time he was here?’
‘We had no reason to,’ Lynch said. ‘We were treating Brown’s death as a suicide.’
‘I’m sure it’s murder made to look like suicide, so process the DNA as quickly as possible,’ Lottie said. ‘At this stage we can’t leave anything to chance.’
Kirby sauntered in with an armful of newspapers.
‘Any good news?’ enquired Lottie.
‘We’re the bad guys now, according to the press,’ he said. ‘Not doing enough, quickly enough, the investigation has stalled and is going nowhere and there’s a murderer at large.’
‘Did the DNA results come in yet on the cigarettes in Brown’s garden?’ she asked.
‘Nothing yet,’ Kirby said, flicking quickly through the papers. ‘You do know it could take—’
‘Weeks. Yes, I know,’ Lottie said, throwing up her arms. ‘Someone stood there long enough to smoke two cigarettes. What were they watching or waiting for?’
‘Presumably James Brown,’ Kirby said.
‘And he didn’t turn up because he was snowbound sixty kilometres away, in Athlone,’ Lottie said.
‘If Derek Harte can be believed,’ Boyd said.
‘Any other news, Kirby?’ Lottie asked.
He shoved the newspapers on to the floor and read from his screen.
‘As you already know, Susan Sullivan’s mother, Mrs Stynes, died two years ago in Dublin. Her husband died the year before. No other relatives, that we can find.’
Lottie sighed. ‘The father dies, the mother dies, then Susan moves back to Ragmullin. She dies. Dead end.’