Were they ever going to get past the brick wall? She checked her emails. Jane Dore’s preliminary post-mortem report on Father Angelotti was in.
‘I love you, Jane,’ Lottie shouted at the screen.
‘I knew it,’ Boyd said.
‘Shut it Boyd.’
‘So what’s the excitement about?’
‘Jane pulled in a massive favour. Ex-boyfriend in the forensics lab. Fast-tracked the DNA from the body,’ Lottie said, reading from the screen, ‘and it matches the brush hairs I took from Father Angelotti’s room.’
‘We’ve found our missing priest,’ Boyd said.
‘Are you sure it was his hairbrush?’ Kirby asked, without raising his head. His tobacco-stained fingers thumped his keypad. The current rumour circulating had his young actress lover high-tailing it back to Dublin on the late night train out of Ragmullin, leaving Kirby in a haze of cigar smoke and whiskey fumes.
‘Kirby,’ Lottie said, ‘what exactly are you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ Kirby said.
‘Just as I thought.’
‘Forensics can’t do anything with the smashed phone.’ Kirby looked up from his screen.
‘Typical,’ said Lottie.
She thought about Derek Harte. He’d been interviewed twice already and she couldn’t help feeling she’d missed something. Was he the murderer?
‘Good news at last,’ Lynch piped up. ‘Warrant granted to gain access to the victims’ bank accounts.’
‘We have their accounts,’ Lottie said, ‘but let’s see if we can use it to put the squeeze on weasel man.’
‘Diamonds are forever,’ Lottie whispered to Boyd.
O’Brien’s cufflink gems dazzled as he pulled up accounts on his computer.
‘And a girl’s best friend,’ Boyd said, from behind his hand.
The banker handed over a printout.
‘What’s this?’ Lottie asked, shaking flecks of dandruff from the paper.
The page contained a number with amounts of money. The identical figures they had seen on the Brown and Sullivan bank accounts.
‘That’s the account number,’ he said. ‘Registered to a bank in Jersey. Strict secrecy laws. So no names. Sorry.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ Lottie said.
‘Ah, come on, Mike,’ Boyd said. ‘You have to give us more than this.’
O’Brien shook his head. ‘That’s it. You can try the Jersey bank yourselves. But as you know, it’s virtually impossible to get information due to their banking laws.’
Lottie stood up, her skin bristling with rage. Another dead end. She glared down at the banker and spied a tiny indent in his ear.
‘You know, Mr O’Brien, a diamond is all sparkly on the outside but inside it’s just black carbon. So which are you?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ O’Brien rubbed his ear self-consciously. ‘I think you should leave.’ He stood up, his head shedding dandruff on his shoulders as he moved.
‘We’re going,’ Boyd said, pushing Lottie through the door in front of him.
Out on the street, Boyd said, ‘Why do you have to piss everyone off?’
‘Comes with the badge,’ Lottie said.
‘Comes with you,’ Boyd said.
‘Jersey. Of all places.’ Lottie started to walk away from him. ‘I’ve to go to Cafferty’s.’
‘A bit early for drink,’ Boyd said, glancing at the time on his phone. ‘Can I come?’
But Lottie had turned the corner walking down Gaol Street, leaving him staring after her.
Forty-Three
Bea Walsh sat in the snug, inside the bar door, a hot whiskey on the table in front of her. Lottie ordered a coffee.
‘Sorry, I’m a bit late,’ Lottie said, checking her watch. It was quarter to six. Not too late, she thought.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Bea said.
‘No problem.’ Lottie sat down.
The scent of cloves and whiskey filled the air around Bea. The pub was dark and as far as Lottie could see there were only three other customers sitting at the bar. Darren Hegarty, the barman, brought over her coffee.
‘Any luck with catching your murderer?’ he asked.
‘Working on it,’ Lottie said and turned to Bea. Darren wiped down the table and returned to his lonely sentry duty behind the bar.
‘Ms Sullivan cried a lot,’ Bea said, wiping her nose with a crumpled tissue. ‘In secret, I mean, when she thought no one was looking. I knew something was troubling her.’
Bea began to whimper.
‘Are you all right?’ Lottie enquired.
‘Just sad.’ Bea dabbed her eyes. ‘About a month ago, I walked into the ladies’ toilets and Ms Sullivan was there. Crying. When she noticed me, she looked embarrassed. I asked if I could do anything to help. She said she was past the stage of help. Things are out of control. That’s what she said. Things are out of control.’ Bea closed her eyes.
‘Have you any idea what she meant?’
‘I asked her but she just wiped her eyes and told me to forget about it,’ Bea said and delicately sipped her drink. The smell of cloves wafted towards Lottie. ‘Ms Sullivan was under tremendous pressure at work.’
‘Anything in particular that I should know about?’
Bea hesitated, opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut.
‘What?’ pressured Lottie.
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you sure? I thought you were going to add something there.’
‘No, Inspector, I’ve nothing to add.’
Lottie decided to let it pass. For now.
‘Did Susan have a laptop?’
‘No. She said she didn’t need one.’
‘Had she a modern phone? With internet?’ Lottie wondered why she hadn’t asked this question on day one.
‘Yes. An iPhone, I think.’
‘Would you know where it is?’ Lottie crossed her fingers, hoping.
‘No, sorry.’
Lottie slumped. Susan’s phone remained elusive. But at this stage they should have the call logs from the service provider. Note to self: follow it up.
‘I noticed documents relating to “Ghost Estates” on her computer files. What was her role with them?’
Bea drank again, her pale cheeks now flushed from the warmth of the whiskey.
‘Mr Brown was more involved with those. It’s a crime the way those estates were left unfinished by developers. The staff were trying to get a handle on how to get them finished, rather than leave them half built and empty.’
Lottie liked this woman; she was well spoken despite appearing timid.
Bea continued, ‘What makes all this worse, Inspector, is these developers can walk away from their morgue-like developments and have the nerve to continue doing more of the same.’
‘Who’s responsible?’ Lottie asked, wishing she had been more diligent in following current affairs.
‘No one wants to take responsibility. It’s said planning permission should never have been granted in the first instance. I call it greed.’
Lottie thought for a moment. ‘Do you think there was any wrongdoing in relation to planning in Ragmullin?’
Bea hesitated, as if weighing up her reply. ‘After what happened to Ms Sullivan and Mr Brown, I’m not sure any more. Before this, I would have said everything was above board. Now? I wonder.’ Her voice trailed off like a starling escaping the winter.