‘We’re in the middle of three major investigations and he’s putting himself out there at some fancy gig. The media will have a field day.’
Boyd parked the car on double yellow lines outside Sagaar’s Indian Restaurant as snow started to fall.
‘I should go home and feed my children or at least bring them a takeaway,’ Lottie protested.
‘They’re not kittens. They can feed themselves. They haven’t died of starvation so far,’ Boyd said.
He had a point, she surmised. They got out of the car and climbed the stairs to the first-floor restaurant.
They were the only customers. Soft music, the single sound shaking the stillness. Dull wall lights muted the scarlet décor. To some it might be considered romantic, but it reminded Lottie of a room dressed for Halloween.
She selected a table by the window where she could look out over the street below while avoiding Boyd’s eyes. For a moment she idly watched the snowflakes melting against the windowpane.
‘I need to use the bathroom,’ she said, standing up. ‘You can order for me.’
She peed, washed her hands and hurriedly swiped Katie’s lipstick over her pout. Katie. Tackling the source of her weed habit was still on her to-do list; a list which was growing by the day. She checked to see if her T-shirt was clean enough to remove her jacket. It would have to do.
‘I ordered,’ said Boyd, as she sat down again.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘You know. Ringing you when I was drunk the other night.’
‘I don’t mind.’ He busied himself with the wine menu.
‘I know you don’t. That’s the problem,’ said Lottie.
‘Wasn’t a problem for me,’ said Boyd. ‘But . . .’
‘But what?’
‘I would like a call some night when you’re sober.’
The waiter brought over a bottle of sparkling water and poured it into tumblers.
‘Order wine for yourself,’ said Lottie. ‘I’ll drive your car home for you.’
‘You sure?’
‘I wouldn’t say it otherwise.’
Boyd indicated a bottle of the house red to the waiter.
‘That didn’t take much persuading,’ Lottie said and they lapsed into another silence, both looking out the window.
Abandoning the outside view, she studied him. He was intent on the traffic below. She had to admit he was awkwardly handsome. His severe jaw line accentuated his brown eyes and, when they caught the light, they shimmered. A little piece of her yearned to delve beneath the surface of what made Mark Boyd tick, but another part of her was afraid of what she might discover about herself if she grew too close to him.
Their starter arrived.
‘I hope it’s not too spicy,’ said Boyd.
‘I could do with a little spice in my life,’ said Lottie, sniffing the aroma.
‘I offered.’
‘I know.’
‘You declined.’
‘I know,’ repeated Lottie, ladling mint chutney on to a chapati.
They ate in silence.
‘Do you want to talk about the case or will we enjoy the silence?’ Boyd asked, as the waiter cleared the plates away.
‘Tom Rickard is in this up to his neck.’
‘The only evidence to support that theory is one phone call from James Brown. Which, I might add, he denies having received.’
‘We can prove he received it.’
‘Agreed, but we’ll never know what they talked about.’
‘Brown could’ve been telling him Susan Sullivan was dead,’ said Lottie. ‘Rickard had to have known them from the council. He probably dealt with them over the planning application.’
‘Okay,’ Boyd said. ‘In theory, we can infer he knew Brown and Sullivan. But why kill them?’
‘I don’t know, but he’s a multi-millionaire. He owns at least four cars. It could’ve been his money popping in and out of the victims’ accounts.’ She looked at Boyd. ‘Why, though?’
‘Might not have been him. Granted, he had an application in for developing St Angela’s, but he must have dozens of applications all over the country. Is this one any different? Is there something there to murder for?’
‘Let’s recap,’ Lottie said. ‘The first two victims we discovered had secrets. James Brown was having it off with a younger man and Susan Sullivan was dying of cancer and, aged eleven or twelve, she’d had a baby and was incarcerated in St Angela’s. Plus she changed her name. Was she trying to exorcise her past? The property, bought by Tom Rickard from Bishop Connor, is now subject to a planning application to build a multi-million-euro hotel, golf course or whatever.’ Lottie sipped her water. ‘Two of the victims who worked on that file have a similar tattoo on their legs, not to mention the two grand in Susan’s freezer and hundreds of newspapers stacked to high heaven in her sitting room. That’s what we have so far.’ Lottie took a breath. She’d been talking too fast. Boyd knew all of this.
‘And the dead priest in Brown’s back garden. Don’t forget him,’ he said.
‘We have bodies, a load of questions and feck all answers,’ Lottie said. She pulled at the cuff of her T-shirt, picked a stray thread and watched it unravel. ‘I’m beginning to feel like the proverbial broken record.’
The waiter arrived and placed their main course in silver bowls on the table. Chicken korma aroma infused the air with coconut.
‘Eat and enjoy,’ Lottie said.
She relaxed as they ate. With their plates cleared away, she ordered a green tea. Boyd poured the last of his wine and looked outside.
‘Drink up,’ Lottie said. ‘We have a six a.m. case conference with Superintendent Corrigan.’
‘He’ll have some head on him.’
‘Pot and kettle spring to mind,’ said Lottie, with a smile.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Your face lights up when you decide to curve those fascinating lips upwards.’
She laughed, feeling light-headed.
He finished his wine.
They split the bill and left.
Lottie drove Boyd to his apartment, parked the car, handed him the keys and walked him to the door. The heavy snow had turned to light flakes.
‘Thanks for the meal. I think I needed the time out,’ Lottie said.
‘Come in for a coffee?’
‘Coffee keeps me awake all night.’
‘Good,’ Boyd smirked.
‘I better get home.’
She lingered a moment. He caressed her cheek, tracing an imaginary line from her eye to her mouth.
‘Don’t,’ Lottie said.
‘Why not? You liked it the other night. Remember?’
‘I don’t like being reminded of things I don’t remember doing while in a state of unremembrance.’ Lottie turned her head away.
‘That’s not a word.’
‘I don’t care any more.’
‘That’s what you said the other night too.’
‘You’re a sadistic bastard, Mark Boyd.’ She was laughing.
‘I want you,’ he said, moving his hand behind her neck, up into her hair.
‘I know you do.’
His finger drew little circles at the base of her hairline. He bent his head to hers and kissed her on the lips.
She tasted wine and spices, felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach and, her hands still in her pockets, allowed herself a moment of pleasure.
Then she stopped him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, dropping her head.
‘Don’t be. Dear God, Lottie, don’t be sorry.’ He lifted her chin with a finger.