He averted his eyes, glanced longingly at the door, then lowered his head.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
He looked up slowly from under sticky eyelids and she realised his trembles were not only fuelled by alcohol – he was terrified of authority.
‘No, ma’am, Inspector,’ O’Malley said at last, his voice low and cracked. ‘I’ll be grand.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You had a bit of a rough night?’
‘Yeah, I did,’ he said, furtively looking around the small room.
‘Had a few of them myself, recently,’ Lottie said.
O’Malley laughed hoarsely.
Lottie decided he was now reasonably relaxed for her to find out what he’d been roaring about in the holding cell.
‘You mentioned to my colleagues that you knew Susan Sullivan. Is there something you want to tell me?’
‘You could say that,’ he said. ‘Then again, you might not.’
Lottie swallowed a sigh, hoping this wasn't going to be one of those cryptic interviews, resulting from the ramblings of a drunken mind. She might puke all over him before they finished. She wondered how Boyd was coping, but dared not look at him.
‘Wasn’t I only lying in the doorway of Carey’s Electrical Shop, trying to keep warm, mind. It’s hard in this weather with only this old coat and a few bits of cardboard. But I suppose you wouldn't have to think about that, Inspector, would you?’
Lottie shook her head.
‘Didn't think so. Fine woman like yourself. I’m sure you have a man to keep you warm at night.’ O’Malley chuckled, immediately curling up in a coughing fit. Yellow phlegm coated his lips.
‘Are you all right?’ Lottie looked around for tissues, found a box behind her and offered it to him. He pulled out a bunch and stuffed them deep into his pocket, without cleaning his mouth.
‘I’ll get you water,’ Boyd said and escaped to fetch it.
‘I’ve this cold, you see. Can't get rid of it.’ He paused while his lungs rattled loudly in his chest.
Boyd returned with two plastic cups and handed one to O’Malley. He drank it in one thirsty gulp.
‘Here, have mine,’ Boyd said, sliding it over.
‘Thank you, sir,’ O’Malley said and lowered his head.
‘Go ahead, Mr O’Malley,’ Lottie said. ‘You have something to tell me.’
‘What was I saying?’
He looked from Lottie to Boyd as if he were trying to remember where he was. Not only where he was in the conversation, but where he actually was in reality. Lottie fought to control her impatience.
‘You were outside Carey’s,’ she coaxed.
‘Having a drop of wine, before your lot hauled me in here. Minding me own business, I was. I wasn’t always a drunk or homeless, you know, like. Then again, maybe I was.’ He puckered up his face.
Jesus, he’s going to cry. Lottie stole a glance at Boyd, but he was staring at a point on the wall above the man’s head.
‘You must be very busy with all these murders, Inspector. Don’t want to be wasting your time.’ He paused, allowing another fit of coughing to pass.
I’ll choke him myself, thought Lottie, but she smiled warmly, easing the way for him to speak up.
‘I saw the news on the television in the shop window. The other night, you know, like. Couldn’t hear it, only saw the pictures. Her photograph was on it.’
‘Whose photograph?’ Lottie prompted.
‘I knew her.’
‘Who?’
‘Sally used to bring the soup round at night, to all of us sleeping rough. She was one of the few people who was nice to me.’
He stopped talking, closed his eyes and lowered his head, his chin resting on his chest.
Sally? Did he mean Susan? If so, delivering soup to the homeless was new information. Lottie wrote it down.
‘This soup kitchen? Tell me about it.’
O’Malley choked up with a cough. After a moment, he said, ‘That’s all there’s to tell. She came with the old woman. Every night.’ Tears glistened at the corners of his yellowing eyes.
‘Who was this old woman?’
O’Malley shrugged without a word.
‘So this Sally you’re talking about was Susan Sullivan,’ Lottie said.
‘Used to be called Sally, before she was Susan,’ O’Malley said. ‘I remembered her from back then, you see. The first night she brought me the soup, I looked up into her eyes. I saw that look in them.’ He scratched at the table with a dirty nail. ‘The fear. We all had it. When we were kids, not more than twelve years old. In St Angela’s.’
Lottie locked eyes with Boyd. St Angela’s!
2nd January 1975
That evening he saw the girl at tea.
The refectory was loud and smelly. She was sitting at a table with Sister Immaculata and two other boys. Patrick wanted to find out more about her so he bounded down between two rows of chairs and slid to a stop behind them.
‘Sit, Patrick. You make me nervous,’ said Sister Immaculata.
He sat in noisily beside them.
‘This is Sally. She is staying here with us for a while. I want you to make her feel at home.’
‘I hate fucking home,’ Sally said, tears streaked dry on her cheeks.
‘Dear God in heaven, we do not allow such profanity. You will be punished. But first you must eat,’ said Sister Immaculata, picking up her fork with a bony hand.
Patrick looked at his plate of scrambled eggs and the slice of bread with a hard, two-inch crust. Grabbing for his glass, he knocked it and the milk spilled out across his plate. It saturated the bread and watered the eggs into a runny soup.
Sister Immaculata drew back her arm and hit him hard across the top of his head.
Sally jumped.
‘You can have mine,’ she said. ‘I don’t like eggs.’ She pushed her plate towards him.
‘You stupid boy,’ the nun screamed.
He smirked, insolence plastered on his face, his eyes twinkling devilment. He turned and smiled at Sally. She stared at him wide-eyed, open-mouthed.
The nun hit him again.
Sister Teresa hurried down between the tables. She took Patrick by the hand and dragged him away from Sister Immaculata’s tyranny.
He kept looking behind him on the hurried trek from the crowded room, his eyes locked on Sally’s the whole way.
‘No one ever showed me much kindness before Sally arrived,’ O’Malley said. ‘She didn’t mix with the others, so me and her became friends. And then, all these years later, when she was giving out the soup, she used to have little chats with me.’ He tightened his cracked lips into a line. ‘I should say nothing.’
‘You can tell me,’ Lottie urged. ‘Please go on.’
‘I suppose I can. It won’t make much difference now the two of them are dead.’
‘What two? Who are you talking about?’
‘She told me she worked with James Brown. And now he’s dead too.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘Yeah. He used to be in St Angela’s with us.’
Lottie stared at him, then turned to Boyd, who had quickly straightened up. This was good. The link between Susan and James that she’d been hankering after.
‘James Brown was in St Angela’s?’ she asked, incredulously.