‘Can you point me in the direction of any files in particular? We’ve very few leads and anything you tell me, no matter how insignificant you think it is, might help. I’m not saying their deaths are related to their work, but at the moment it’s all I have.’
At last, the little bird-like woman opened her mouth.
‘That’s the reason I asked to speak with you. I didn’t know what to do. My job is covered by confidentiality but in these circumstances I feel I have a duty to tell you.’ She paused and, teary-eyed, continued. ‘There’s a file missing. Ms Sullivan dealt with it and Mr Brown also. It’s on the database as being processed, awaiting signature. The decision is due in a few days. The thing is, I can’t find the file anywhere.’ The little woman sat back, exhausted.
‘Was it a contentious file?’ Lottie asked.
‘I think so. But my job is to check the database, make sure reports are on time and, if not, to follow up with the appropriate people. I track the files. I don’t read them. But I overheard that the property was bought for a song and it was subject to development plan controversy some months back.’
‘What file is it?’
‘I feel I can’t say it. Now that I’m here I feel foolish.’
Lottie rooted in her bag and pulled out a pen and notepad. She pushed them over to Bea. ‘Will you write the details down for me?’
Bea hesitated once again.
‘Please,’ Lottie said.
‘It may be nothing at all.’ Bea began to write.
It must be something, Lottie thought, otherwise Bea Walsh wouldn’t have gone out of her way to report it.
She read the woman’s words. At last. Something to dig into.
She looked up at Bea, questioning her silently.
The woman nodded her head in affirmation.
The property – St Angela’s. The developer – Tom Rickard.
Forty-Four
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ Boyd said.
Lottie sat at her computer and grinned.
‘Go on, tell me,’ he coaxed.
‘Brown and Sullivan dealt with a planning application for St Angela’s. Guess who is the owner?’
‘Not Tom Rickard?’
‘Yes Tom Rickard.’ Lottie quickly logged on to her computer.
‘So these murders are probably linked to current-day matters and not the past,’ Boyd said.
‘I don’t know yet,’ she said. ‘Kirby, when you were checking the council planning files, did anything turn up in relation to St Angela’s property?’ She looked over at Kirby’s desk and rolled her eyes at his mess.
He hastily stuffed a Happy Meal box down at his feet, a guilty slant on his lips.
‘I hadn’t time yet.’ He quickly added, ‘What am I looking for?’
‘If I knew that I wouldn’t be asking you to look, would I?’
‘A hint maybe?’
‘You’re a detective, start detecting.’
Under his breath, Kirby cursed every woman he ever knew.
‘Okay,’ Lottie relented. ‘Find all you can on Tom Rickard’s involvement with St Angela’s.’
She spent another two hours checking all their reports to date. Came up with nothing. It didn’t dampen her high spirits. She sensed she might be near the kernel of the case.
She googled St Angela’s. A photograph in last February’s Midland Examiner caught her attention. Bishop Terence Connor handing over the keys to Tom Rickard, of Rickard Construction. The by-line informed her the property was to be developed as a hotel and golf course, subject to planning permission.
Jumping up, she went looking for Boyd and found him in the coffee cupboard, boiling the kettle.
‘Do you fancy a drive?’ she asked.
‘Where to?’
‘You ask too many questions. Come on.’
The day had been long and now the moon curved a shimmering light through the sky. Boyd drove. Lottie was bone weary. She directed him on to the old road out of town.
‘I hope you don’t expect me to visit the cemetery in the dark,’ Boyd said.
‘Coward. Turn left here.’
He swung up a narrow tree-lined road and stopped at a gated entrance to St Angela’s.
‘Intimidating-looking place,’ Boyd said, switching off the engine.
Lottie exited the car. The gate was open but she wanted to walk.
The yellow neon from the road lamps provided a dim light. A four-storey building, silhouetted under the moon, stood two hundred yards at the end of the winding tree-lined avenue. Lottie looked up. A cold streak shimmied down her spine. She’d seen this place in the distance many times before. It was visible from the cemetery. But now she couldn’t halt the disquiet it was causing her. Trying to calm her brain, she began counting the windows. Sixteen along the top floor.
Boyd stood beside her.
‘Why are we staring at this building in the dark?’
‘We now know St Angela’s is the subject of a Tom Rickard planning application,’ Lottie said, shielding herself behind Boyd, deflecting the sharp breeze wrestling with the branches above their heads.
‘So?’
‘James Brown phoned Tom Rickard on the evening he was murdered. Rickard hasn’t provided us with a solid alibi.’ She paused and considered what Rickard could gain from murder. ‘According to Bea Walsh, Brown and Sullivan were dealing with the planning file which appears to be missing. Rickard bought St Angela’s from Bishop Connor, who now has a murdered priest. And this is the place, the institution, where the young Susan, known then as Sally, was abandoned, along with her newborn baby.’
Boyd remained silent.
‘Well?’ Lottie asked.
‘I don’t like that Tom Rickard fellow,’ he said, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets.
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘At the moment, yes. And I’m freezing. Come on, mad woman.’ He headed to the car.
She stepped forward a few paces. A gust of wind echoed around her, causing another shiver to scuttle up her spine. She tried to shrug it away, along with the feeling of the old dark memory stirring within her. Her whole body trembled. She walked after Boyd.
‘What’s up?’ Boyd asked, looking back over his shoulder.
‘It’s nothing. Go start the car.’
Once more, she stared up at the building as Boyd jumped into the car and switched on the engine. Fixing her gaze, she wondered if St Angela’s had in fact anything to do with two, possibly three, murders. She noticed an alcove in the centre of the roof; a round construction housing a concrete statue. She squinted but the night was too dark to figure it out. She’d have to see it in daylight. She strolled back to the car, away from St Angela’s shielding its ghosts behind shadows.
‘Tomorrow, let’s haul in Tom Rickard’s arse,’ she said, sitting in beside Boyd. ‘And turn up the heater.’
Forty-Five
‘Fancy a bite to eat?’ Boyd asked, idling the engine outside the station.
‘No thanks,’ Lottie said.
‘Come on. It’s after nine o’clock and I haven’t eaten since I don’t know when. I’d love an Indian.’ He did a U-turn and drove down Main Street. The town was deserted.
‘Jesus, Boyd, if Corrigan saw what you just did.’
‘Not a chance of him seeing me.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s at a charity dance in the Park Hotel. The Golf Ball.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘He has a nerve.’
‘Why?’