‘I have to go,’ she said.
‘I understand.’ He placed a chaste kiss on her lips. ‘You should’ve got stitches on that nose. You’ll have a scar.’
He traced one final line on her cheek, caressing the bruise beneath her eye, and she felt the softness of his sigh on her hair before he turned his key in the lock, let himself in and closed the door.
She knew he was standing in there, behind the door.
Waiting for her to put her finger on the bell.
She could easily do it. Ring the bell.
But she didn’t.
She pulled her hood up and walked home, her face upturned, catching the gentle flakes.
Forty-Six
The town was so quiet as he drove home that he was surprised to see a woman walking alone through the snow. He almost stopped to offer a lift when she raised her head and her face was highlighted under the streetlight. Detective Inspector Lottie Parker.
He kept driving for a few minutes before pulling in at a closed garage. He hadn’t had too much to drink but all the same, if a patrol car was cruising around, he was sure he was over the drink drive limit. Looking in his rear-view mirror he saw her turn up a secluded avenue. So that’s where you live, he thought.
‘Good to know these things. Never know when I might have to pay you a visit,’ he said and then realised he was talking aloud. What was happening to him? Go home and have a proper drink, he told himself. And think about the beautiful specimen of a boy he had seen that morning.
Switching on the engine, he put the car in gear and pulled out on to the snow-covered road, wondering how long just thinking would suffice before he needed to do something.
Forty-Seven
‘Is she the one?’
Melanie Rickard was drunk. She kicked off her high heels. Tom Rickard watched them slide across the marble kitchen floor.
‘What one?’ he asked.
‘The bitch you’re fucking.’
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, quietly. You did not shout when Melanie was shouting.
‘Don’t act innocent with me,’ she mocked. ‘Is she the one you fuck and then come home smelling of wild berries and jasmine? Jo . . . fucking . . . Malone . . . perfume. I’m not stupid, you prick.’
‘You’re drunk,’ he said. Which was the wrong thing to say to a drunk and incensed Melanie.
She screamed, and banged her fists on the counter before returning to a dangerous calm.
‘I’m not blind,’ she said. ‘Your eyes were buried down her dress, almost at her navel!’
He said nothing. He could not deny that he had ogled the beautiful blonde sitting across the table from him; wanted to reach out and run his hands along her neck, to push his lips against hers. Like he had done last night. He had cursed himself for allowing Melanie to browbeat him into attending the Golf Ball. He knew she was going to be there. With her mousey husband. Perhaps, subconsciously, he really did want to be there. To compare her exquisiteness to Melanie’s rapidly disappearing attractiveness. But having to sit next to Superintendent Corrigan made for an awkward evening, so he’d plied him with brandy. Bunch of drunks, the lot of them, he thought, and Melanie was the worst of all. He had escaped with her, as early as he could.
‘I wouldn’t touch her with a barge-pole,’ he said.
‘So that’s what was trying to break out of your trousers. Well, fuck you Tom and the horse you rode in on!’ She grabbed a bottle of cabernet.
He thought she was going to throw it at him. But she uncorked it, quicker than she would have if sober, pulled a glass from the cabinet and strode in her bare feet out of the kitchen to the sitting room, where she promptly fell asleep in an oversized armchair.
He stood in the middle of the frigid room and wondered where it all had gone wrong.
He hated her.
In that instant he could strangle her.
Forty-Eight
Facebook. Lottie logged in.
She listened to the hum of the refrigerator and the murmur of the television show Sean and Chloe were watching in the sitting room. Katie was out, again. Probably with Jason Rickard.
As she sipped a glass of water, sitting in her kitchen armchair, a friend request popped up. She idly tapped the icon. Father Joe’s picture appeared. She put down the glass and uncurled her legs. Hit the accept tab. The chat box sprang up. He was online.
hi.
where are you?
rome.
what are you doing there? you’re a murder suspect?
very funny.
superintendent corrigan will have a fit. your bishop will have a fit.
i hope to be back before either misses me.
how do you propose to manage that?
i said my mother was ill and had to visit her in wexford.
what are you doing in rome, anyway?
being an amateur detective.
you’re funny. do you know we found another body?
i heard it on the news.
do you know who it is?
no. who?
father angelotti.
There was no reply for some time. But the application showed he was active. Then he replied.
that’s terrible. i don’t understand.
neither do i. can you see if anyone in rome knows why he was here?
i’ll ask around. lottie?
what?
remember you asked if i could find out anything about st angela’s records?
yes.
i looked up our archive but there was nothing online. the records are in hard copy.
where?
normally records like this are archived by each diocese. but I cross-checked, thinking st angela’s might have been forwarded to the dublin archdiocese which is normal procedure.
and?
i talked to the archivist there. they had the records at one time. but he said that st angela’s records were transferred to rome.
by who? why? that’s not normal, is it?
not normal, no. I don’t know who requested the transfer and i’ve never come across this before but i’m going to find out what i can.
when were they moved?
don’t know that either. i’ll check.
i hope you don’t get in trouble.
i won’t. i hope i find something interesting.
thank you.
And i’ll try to find out if anyone knows anything about father angelotti.
thank you, father joe.
joe.
okay. joe. goodnight.
ciao, as the italians say.
They both signed off.
Rome. Lottie wondered what was going on. Why move St Angela’s records if that wasn’t normal procedure? She took an A4 notepad from Sean’s school bag and a pen. At the kitchen table she wrote down all she knew so far. None of it made sense. She looked at the names wondering if they were connected or if it were all a random mess.
The front door opened and shut.
‘Where are you coming from at this hour of the night?’ Lottie asked as Katie sauntered into the kitchen, taking off her damp jacket.
‘What’s that?’ Katie asked, looking at the pages strewn on the table.
‘Work,’ Lottie said.
‘I figured that. Why have you Jason’s dad’s name written there?’
‘So, now I do know him?’ Lottie studied her eldest daughter. Her eyes, though rounded with thick black eyeliner, were clear.
‘Jason told me you called to his house this morning.’